Today's Quote: "April in Paris, chestnuts in blossom, holiday tables under the trees." E. Y. Harburg
After reveling in a mountaintop experience, it often takes one a couple of days to not only regain altitude and perspective; it takes a little while to fully grasp what—exactly—just happened.
Such was our trip to France.
Escorting thirty-six young musicians to Paris for a three-concert tour proved to be an amazing experience which I cannot fully communicate in this Newsletter. My words will fall short; our pictures will miss most of it; and stories re-told with enthusiasm to eagerly awaiting family members will only reveal a glimpse of the experience. What happens when vision meets strategy, passion meets energy, and divine inspiration meets faith cannot be comprehended by those missing the mountaintop. But because it is now part of who I am, I feel moved to attempt to share it with you.
Paris was, for me anyway, the fruit of nearly fourteen years of musical training in my kids. And it found my heart bursting with joy as I celebrated it. After listening to “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” played mostly with less-than-perfect intonation upwards of ten thousand times; of the foot-stomping, the eyeball-rolling, and the ‘I hate the violin’ when my children were too irritable to practice; of the 90-minute roundtrip weekly drives to Westport for lessons: watching not only my own Ben and Cristina, but the orchestra kids aged twelve to eighteen, perform Beethoven’s “Fifth” and Barber’s “Adagio for Strings” in a medieval cathedral in the center of Paris left me ebullient. Tears stained my cheeks as the music moved and carried my soul to a height previously unimagined. Friendships forged with the most unsuspecting partners, as commonalities were uncovered and shared. Barriers erected by political divisions, theological differences, and ideological disparities collapsed under the international love language of music.
It was an extraordinary experience, and I learned a few lessons along the way:
1) We stand on tall shoulders of the spiritual giants who lived before us. When one visits a city with cathedrals still standing after the frenzy of the Crusades and the numerous battles fought there, one realizes the magnitude of the spiritual convictions of those who came before us. Studying the Chartres Cathedral—and walking the halls of La Trinite and the Magdalena Cathedrals where our children performed—allowed me not only the luxury of admiring stained glass windows depicting prominent Biblical themes; it allowed me to ruminate on the vision, inspiration and dedication with which they were crafted. In earlier times in Paris, religion was not a part of life. It was life.
2) Art, music and literature are necessary components for creating a life worth living. As are good shoes, good mattresses, and good books necessary elements of every childhood; good art, good music, and good literature provide needed nourishment for the soul. Wandering through the rooms of the Louvre—and my favorite museum in Paris, the Musee D’Orsay—gave me even greater appreciation for the importance of fabulous art. They don’t call these guys masters for nothing. I am convinced that the world would be both safer and happier if everyone learned to paint, played a musical instrument or sang in a choir, and read classical literature on a daily basis. Music remains the universal language of the heart; anyone who does not understand this had better start listening to Mozart.
3) Celebrate serendipity. Already a lesson explored in both my book as well as in earlier Newsletters, it is worth repeating here, as I witnessed, embraced and practiced what I preach. Most of you may know by now that I have an inordinate amount of passion for the color lime-green (or illness, depending on your perspective). It was pure serendipity that, while walking down a Parisian street in search of French ceramics and candles, we stumbled upon a lime-green sofa setting against a bricked store wall. I started laughing hysterically. Where but in Paris would I find a lime-green sofa in the middle of the street? I promptly sat down in it, reveled in the experience, and allowed it to be captured in film. (Photos forthcoming)It was serendipity that, while walking around a tony shopping district, I was grabbed from behind, only to find a Parisian lady who spoke no English attempt to communicate to me that her surname was “La Coq” and could I please tell her where she could buy the Vera Bradley backpack I wore which sported roosters and eggs? I happily told her—in English—that it was no longer available but sign-languaged her to get out a paper and pen so I could write down the internet site where she might have some luck. The serendipity of that encounter still makes me smile. Perhaps it was serendipity that our tour guide was darn near perfect; that our flights were uneventful; that our hotel was perfectly situated; and that the Parisian orchestra, which played in a joint concert with us, was well-prepared and delightful. Serendipity or angels watching over us: we celebrated each and every tiny victory.
4) Food plays a huge role in the celebration of life. To be French means to have a passion for all things related to food. They unapologetically indulge in the culinary arts and enjoy all of its inherent stress-relieving side benefits on a thrice-daily basis. They endorse a ‘live to eat’ rather than an ‘eat to live’ M.O. And it shows. “Take-out coffee” is an oxymoron. It simply does not exist in France. (I asked for it everywhere and never found it until I returned to JFK airport.) Coffee is meant to be drunk sitting down, preferably with a friend or two, along with a baguette or a sugar-or-chocolate-filled crepe as well. While French women may not get fat, American women visiting France just might. I embraced the French dining philosophy for eight days and came back with more “wiggle in my waddle,” if you know what I mean. Que sara sara (or is that Spanish?)
5) Charm and charisma still work. They are not overrated. From the hotel staff to Parisian waiters to the clerk at the Ralph Lauren store: all met our needs with grace and charm. When an unsuspecting yet magnificent floral arrangement brought a constant tickle to my throat, the “Polo clerk” ordered up a glass of water for me. It was delivered on a cloth napkin atop a silver tray. (When was the last time that happened to you stateside?) When our orchestra met up with the community orchestra for a joint concert, we were—every one of us—enthralled by its Parisian conductor, Sylvan. Young and vibrant, he exuded charm with his humility and gracious behavior toward us; the hot pink tie against his otherwise all-black “uniform” proved once again, the magic of charisma.
6) “Bonjour” means something. The French refuse to start a conversation without it. Once, when I barged into my explanation of needing several Eiffel Tower charms for bracelets without the mandatory “Bonjour” opening, the store clerk stopped me mid-sentence, interrupting my banter with “Bonjour, Madame, how can I help you?” How wonderful to be reminded at every turn that today is, indeed, a good day!
7) “Bonjoie” means even more. Late on the second night of our trip, bubbling with energy and excitement after traveling to the top of the Eiffel Tower, I accidentally said “Bonjoie” (jwahr) rather than “Bonsoir” (swahr). Sarah, the perfectly-fluent chaperone to which I directed this mis-step, proclaimed: “Happy joy of life to you, too!” Giggling my way up the escalator to my hotel room, I didn’t quite realize the extent of my error. But the next morning on the bus, everyone greeted me with “Bonjoie.” And so it stuck. It became our password for life in April in Paris. I can think of none better.
Our children shone like sugar-coated gumdrops sprinkled around the streets of Paris, dotting major landmarks and sweetening each and every meal. I was thrilled and honored to have been part of an event of such historic significance for our young and tiny youth orchestra. They were goodwill ambassadors for our symphony, our town, and our country. Never have I been more proud as a music lover, a parent, and as an American. Perhaps my experience sheds some insight on how you, too, can celebrate life.
Until we chat again, au revoir!
A Nick Note
Nick began a new round of chemo on Monday. He received two "surgical" procedures: a bone marrow aspiration and a spinal tap. On top of that, he got four chemo drugs, some of which were brand new to him. Yuk! He took it all in stride, like a champ. He looks better than ever and is doing beautifully. As always, we covet your continued prayers for his complete and total healing.
A Quick Note
I will be a guest panelist for the upcoming "What do I want to be now that the kids are growing up?" Seminar at St. Stephen's Church on May 3 between 7:00 and 9:00 PM. Main Street, Ridgefield, CT. Open to the public. Questions? email: emomrx@yahoo.com
Monday, April 25, 2005
Monday, April 11, 2005
4/11/05 RM Newsletter: Joie de vivre
Today's Quote: "The best thing you can do for your children is to love their father." Anonymous
Perhaps it is because we leave for Paris next Sunday. My two middle children and I will be traveling with the Ridgefield Symphony Youth Orchestra on a seven-day tour, performing in medieval cathedrals for Parisians and tourists alike in three concerts throughout the week.
Perhaps it is because I watched the book, French Women Don't Get Fat: The Secret of Eating for Pleasure, catapult to bestseller status on Amazon and to the No. 2 spot on Barnes & Noble. Other bestsellers included Barefoot in Paris and Guy Savoy: Simple French Recipes for the Home Cook by the renowned French chef. Even Julia Child remains on the bestseller lists at most book chains.
I’ve never been to Paris, and I am a self-acknowledged disinterested cook. Truly not “into it.” Not into the gourmet thing, the foie gras thing, or the wine thing, I spend my days not in the kitchen, but in my office or my studio, writing or painting...or in the chemo clinic, hooking primitive rugs while watching medicine drip into my son’s port-a-cath. Not one to either read travelogues or purchase cookbooks—-particularly those re: French food, I find other things to grab both my attention and my time.
But because of this upcoming trip, my radar has been out for most things French. Partly because of my ignorance. Partly because of my inexperience. I desire now to educate myself, not with the hope of becoming a serious Francophile, (I’m still annoyed with them); but with the modest intention of getting up to speed.
And so it was that Ernie and I went to Bernard’s, a French restaurant in our little New England town, for date-night Saturday. It was a rare treat, indeed. Accustomed to regular date-nights, which have, for sure, been interrupted with Nick’s illness, we generally choose reasonably priced restaurants where we can relax over a meal, yet dive in and out within an hour or so. And with my New Year’s resolution to practice “dining” rather than “eating,” dinners out with my hubby-—albeit more infrequent than we would like-—generally fit this bill.
When one eats at a French restaurant, and a five-star one at that, one must plan on making it a whole evening’s affair. And, true to that custom, our dinner lasted three hours. It was splendid! Their bread, freshly baked and warm, was divine with real butter. The bisque soup was like medicine for our souls. The cheeses which Ernie chose for dessert were both rare and the perfect end to a fabulous meal. More important, to us anyway, is that Bernard’s owners are fellow youth symphony parents who have been wildly supportive and extremely generous in lending their facilities, their time, and their talents on behalf of the youth orchestra. So on several fronts, we wanted to “give back” as they have so graciously given to our own.
However wonderful the food—-and it was indeed wonderful-—it was in combination with uninterrupted time out with my husband that proved such a special treat. Not only did we appreciate fabulous food and superb service; we simply enjoyed the beauty of the environment—-the warm glow of candles, the freshly cut and beautifully arranged flowers on our table, the artwork on the walls-—as well as the luxury (and it was pure luxury) of sitting back and relaxing in each other’s company. We were fully aware of its rarity. Fully aware of its perfect timing. Fully aware that kids’ schedules just happened to jibe to make the evening work. We promised each other not to take any of it for granted, but to enjoy it for the pure delight that it was.
Maintaining date-nights with your spouse, once children arrive, can be a daunting task. When your kids are babies, you hesitate to leave them in the care of someone else. Thoughts ranging from “What if the babysitter drops him?” to “How can I wear silk while I’m nursing?” to “What if he screams all night?” can leave the best-intentioned of us defaulting to delivery pizza and a DVD.
It doesn’t get much easier when toddlerhood arrives. What with separation anxiety and the “barnacle syndrome”; tantrums and “time-outs”; and potty-training and all of the other activities junior claims to be able to do on his own—we often throw our hands up in frustration, believing that it’s just not worth the effort.
The teen years hardly bring relief, either. For just when you think it’s safe getting away, you learn all too well that two parents out of the house for a couple of hours is a guaranteed invitation for disaster. Dozens of hormone-impaired, logic-challenged youth will descend on your house like mosquitoes to a poorly-drained swamp. Word travels via cell phones at the speed of thought, and before you realize you’ve been “hit,” your home has become the veritable stomping ground of social science. Once again, your well-intentioned date-night has been relegated to years-—if not decades-—down the road.
Fewer things bring more pleasure than regular, weekly date-nights. Yet fewer things are more difficult to consistently pull off.
Just knowing that the weekend will bring a couple of hours out, alone, with my husband, helps me “keep on keepin’ on” when the mundane realities of the job drive me practically insane. Knowing that a little glamour might transform the make-up-free-workout-clothes-tennis-shoed-uniform that finds it way onto my bones most days keeps me upbeat and optimistic when carpooling and dishwashing get me down.
I cannot advise you as to how-—exactly-—to work romance and date-nights into your own reality. I can only assure you that, like fine French cuisine, its pleasures cannot be denied. They must be experienced as frequently as possible. Embraced for all of their possibilities. Enjoyed to the fullest.
I’ll write you again in two weeks, after Paris. Until then, au revoir!
A Nick Note
Nick's unbearable headache of last week turned out to be from a poorly-received...or inadvertently poorly-delivered...spinal tap. Once healed, he was back to his (almost) usual self again. He endured a week's worth of chemo last week and finished this latest round without requiring a single transfusion and without spiraling into neutropenia. His spirits are fantastic, he looks terrific, and he is exercising as often as his energy level permits. Thank you for your continued prayers. We all feel them and are confident that they are profoundly contributing to his total and complete healing.
Dining at Bernard's
For those of you living in the metropolitan New York City area, I encourage you to visit Bernard's in Ridgefield, Connecticut. For details, go to: www.bernardsridgefield.com. Please tell Sarah that Carolina sent you!
Perhaps it is because we leave for Paris next Sunday. My two middle children and I will be traveling with the Ridgefield Symphony Youth Orchestra on a seven-day tour, performing in medieval cathedrals for Parisians and tourists alike in three concerts throughout the week.
Perhaps it is because I watched the book, French Women Don't Get Fat: The Secret of Eating for Pleasure, catapult to bestseller status on Amazon and to the No. 2 spot on Barnes & Noble. Other bestsellers included Barefoot in Paris and Guy Savoy: Simple French Recipes for the Home Cook by the renowned French chef. Even Julia Child remains on the bestseller lists at most book chains.
I’ve never been to Paris, and I am a self-acknowledged disinterested cook. Truly not “into it.” Not into the gourmet thing, the foie gras thing, or the wine thing, I spend my days not in the kitchen, but in my office or my studio, writing or painting...or in the chemo clinic, hooking primitive rugs while watching medicine drip into my son’s port-a-cath. Not one to either read travelogues or purchase cookbooks—-particularly those re: French food, I find other things to grab both my attention and my time.
But because of this upcoming trip, my radar has been out for most things French. Partly because of my ignorance. Partly because of my inexperience. I desire now to educate myself, not with the hope of becoming a serious Francophile, (I’m still annoyed with them); but with the modest intention of getting up to speed.
And so it was that Ernie and I went to Bernard’s, a French restaurant in our little New England town, for date-night Saturday. It was a rare treat, indeed. Accustomed to regular date-nights, which have, for sure, been interrupted with Nick’s illness, we generally choose reasonably priced restaurants where we can relax over a meal, yet dive in and out within an hour or so. And with my New Year’s resolution to practice “dining” rather than “eating,” dinners out with my hubby-—albeit more infrequent than we would like-—generally fit this bill.
When one eats at a French restaurant, and a five-star one at that, one must plan on making it a whole evening’s affair. And, true to that custom, our dinner lasted three hours. It was splendid! Their bread, freshly baked and warm, was divine with real butter. The bisque soup was like medicine for our souls. The cheeses which Ernie chose for dessert were both rare and the perfect end to a fabulous meal. More important, to us anyway, is that Bernard’s owners are fellow youth symphony parents who have been wildly supportive and extremely generous in lending their facilities, their time, and their talents on behalf of the youth orchestra. So on several fronts, we wanted to “give back” as they have so graciously given to our own.
However wonderful the food—-and it was indeed wonderful-—it was in combination with uninterrupted time out with my husband that proved such a special treat. Not only did we appreciate fabulous food and superb service; we simply enjoyed the beauty of the environment—-the warm glow of candles, the freshly cut and beautifully arranged flowers on our table, the artwork on the walls-—as well as the luxury (and it was pure luxury) of sitting back and relaxing in each other’s company. We were fully aware of its rarity. Fully aware of its perfect timing. Fully aware that kids’ schedules just happened to jibe to make the evening work. We promised each other not to take any of it for granted, but to enjoy it for the pure delight that it was.
Maintaining date-nights with your spouse, once children arrive, can be a daunting task. When your kids are babies, you hesitate to leave them in the care of someone else. Thoughts ranging from “What if the babysitter drops him?” to “How can I wear silk while I’m nursing?” to “What if he screams all night?” can leave the best-intentioned of us defaulting to delivery pizza and a DVD.
It doesn’t get much easier when toddlerhood arrives. What with separation anxiety and the “barnacle syndrome”; tantrums and “time-outs”; and potty-training and all of the other activities junior claims to be able to do on his own—we often throw our hands up in frustration, believing that it’s just not worth the effort.
The teen years hardly bring relief, either. For just when you think it’s safe getting away, you learn all too well that two parents out of the house for a couple of hours is a guaranteed invitation for disaster. Dozens of hormone-impaired, logic-challenged youth will descend on your house like mosquitoes to a poorly-drained swamp. Word travels via cell phones at the speed of thought, and before you realize you’ve been “hit,” your home has become the veritable stomping ground of social science. Once again, your well-intentioned date-night has been relegated to years-—if not decades-—down the road.
Fewer things bring more pleasure than regular, weekly date-nights. Yet fewer things are more difficult to consistently pull off.
Just knowing that the weekend will bring a couple of hours out, alone, with my husband, helps me “keep on keepin’ on” when the mundane realities of the job drive me practically insane. Knowing that a little glamour might transform the make-up-free-workout-clothes-tennis-shoed-uniform that finds it way onto my bones most days keeps me upbeat and optimistic when carpooling and dishwashing get me down.
I cannot advise you as to how-—exactly-—to work romance and date-nights into your own reality. I can only assure you that, like fine French cuisine, its pleasures cannot be denied. They must be experienced as frequently as possible. Embraced for all of their possibilities. Enjoyed to the fullest.
I’ll write you again in two weeks, after Paris. Until then, au revoir!
A Nick Note
Nick's unbearable headache of last week turned out to be from a poorly-received...or inadvertently poorly-delivered...spinal tap. Once healed, he was back to his (almost) usual self again. He endured a week's worth of chemo last week and finished this latest round without requiring a single transfusion and without spiraling into neutropenia. His spirits are fantastic, he looks terrific, and he is exercising as often as his energy level permits. Thank you for your continued prayers. We all feel them and are confident that they are profoundly contributing to his total and complete healing.
Dining at Bernard's
For those of you living in the metropolitan New York City area, I encourage you to visit Bernard's in Ridgefield, Connecticut. For details, go to: www.bernardsridgefield.com. Please tell Sarah that Carolina sent you!
Monday, April 04, 2005
4/4/05 RM Newsletter: A Light Extinguished....A Life Lighting Others
Saturday brought the news of Pope John Paul II's passing. During
a papal reign of twenty-six years, he ministered to not only
millions of Catholics around the globe; he proved a living
testimony to the power of faith to those not even in his flock.
Although I am not Catholic, I appreciate all too well the example
of his life. A life extraordinarily lived-with passion and
purpose-it will have reach in corners not yet measured, and life-
changing influence in hearts and souls not yet fully alive. I
watched with others around the world, the light streaming from
his apartment in St. Peter's Square, and of it being extinguished
at his parting. A life of light..filled with messages and images
of hope and love.
Indeed, his determination to make the world his parish
transcended geological boundaries. Ideologically and
theologically as well, his ministry knew practically no end. He
desired, quite simply, to minister to the deeply troubled. The
disenfranchised. Those living at the fringes of society because
of cultural or economic oppression. Regardless of race. Or
nationality. Or religious background or understanding.
He desired for people to come to grips with their innately
spiritual nature. Unabashedly-through not only his spirit and the
call placed on his life for evangelism-but through his intensely
physical and charismatic nature, his razor-sharp intellect, and
his brilliant command of language, he issued unapologetic
testimonies of man's place in God's creation. He said: "It is not
the church's task to teach unbelievers." Nor did he feel that the
church should "cry over the lamentable state of the world" or
"pretend that it had all the answers to all the problems in it."
(1) He simply provided those in his immense flock with wisdom on
how to lead godly lives in spite of the terrible conditions in
which we so frequently found ourselves.
As did most people on the planet, I had a grasp of the role he
played in the drama of the Catholic church over these past couple
of decades. In fact, as with most of us "boomers," he is the only
pope I ever really "knew." He commanded a sometimes unruly
following, through trials, controversies, and challenges to his
judgment and authority. And certainly, not being Catholic, I
disagreed with some of his mandates. But I always respected the
call on his life, and admired his convictions, regardless of the
controversy they sometimes played out in my own spirit.
Because I was only a casual observer of his life, I had no idea
of his intellectual-and creative-genius. Being extraordinarily
prolific, authoring seven books and over 300 hundred articles and
essays, he was the only sitting pope to have ever written a
commercially successful book. Before "Crossing the Threshold of
Hope" was released in 1994, it was unheard of for a pope to
author a book for the masses. Yet his book went on to become a
best-seller in America for months. One of the defining
characteristics of genius is sheer production. All true geniuses
produce. Period. And Pope John Paul II certainly did just that.
He was also a poet, playwright, philosopher, debater, actor (some
say that the theatre was his first love), and a linguist, with
fluency in seven languages and proficiency in a dozen. It is
believed that it was his ability to converse with people in all
parts of the world in their native language that contributed to
the dramatic strength and scope of his ministry. A Renaissance
man, he was highly creative, and immensely, profoundly moved by
art, literature, music and drama.
He possessed an intensely physical stature. Going against
commonly accepted papal protocol, he hugged, kissed, smiled,
winked, sang, and grabbed people when he spoke to them. He was
truly a people person. He loved to joke around, and had a hearty
laugh, with ruddy cheeks to match. Thomas E. Cook, the director
of Harvard's summer school, remarked in 1976 when he met the pope
that he was "floored by the sheer physical presence of the
man"."He exuded such a combination of power and acceptance. He
had this smile on his face and a look in his eye that said
'You're wonderful. And I'm wonderful, too.'" Late that evening,
after sharing dinner with him, Cook said to himself: "This man
ought to be pope." (2)
An athlete, one apparently knew it when he walked into a room. He
was a strappingly rigorous man. He played soccer in his youth,
and loved the outdoors. Backpacking, camping and boating were
favorite pastimes. He loved swimming laps, and refused to stop
when he entered the papacy, insisting that a pool be built so
that he could continue the vigorous schedule to which he had
become so accustomed. A lap swimmer myself, I thoroughly
understand not only the physical-but the emotional-addiction the
sport affords. It is generally in the pool, when I swim one
monotonous lap after another, that I solve the problems of my own
little world.
It was certainly part of God's eternal drama that this man would
take center stage for so many throughout the world. Gifted beyond
the norm, he clearly recognized that his gifts were God-given,
and he proved to be a wise and generous steward. For those of us
touched and blessed by any one of his gifts, we are the better
for it. I couldn't help but wonder, as I read more intently of
his life, how the world might be shaped differently had he not
had the position of authority, and an international platform with
which to share it.
Many of us have life messages as well. Perhaps not as dramatic.
Or as grandiose. But we may have felt a call to impart an
important message, or have a desire to change a tiny part of the
world. Yet we feel discouraged by our inability to spread it. By
our lack of celebrity or stature. Our lack of depth or breadth.
No international stage. Just a teeny tiny audience. (I feel like
that most days.) Take heart: God never returns His message void.
If He wants the message out there and has chosen you to have some
part in its delivery, the time will come. In His time.
Perhaps you have never felt a call on your life. Never been
touched by an angel. Never felt purpose, not to mention passion.
You muddle along, getting up each morning, putting one foot in
front of the other. The days come and they go. That's okay, too.
Your light is still shining.
The light of a life is a beautiful-and good-thing. Let your own
light shine. Regardless of the magnitude of its illumination.
Live your life such that, even after you're gone, your
light-like Pope John Paul II's-is not fully extinguished. Live
so that your light will live on in the lives of those whom you
touched in one way or another. I mourn with those of you who
mourn this week over the passing of your pope. But I have
experienced joy in the awareness of the impact of his life. Well
done, good and faithful servant!
NOTES:
1.McFadden, Robert D., "Pope John Paul II, Church Shepherd
And a Catalyst for World Change," New York Times, April 3,
2005, p. 43
2. Ibid.
------------------------------------------------------------
A Nick Note
Nick had an unusually rough week. After chemo treatments on Monday and Tuesday, he was thoroughly whipped, despite fantastic counts in his blood and great exams both days. Tuesday brought vomiting and total lethargy. A short visit to school on Wednesday, followed by a quick match of tennis for varsity team tryouts, left us all feeling pretty good about his recovery from the chemo but proved to be a mistake: by that night, he was feeling absolutely miserable, and has not felt much better since. As always, we covet your prayers. If you feel led to join others in the canopy of intercession for Nick's total and complete healing, we thank you. A visit to the doctor Monday morning will hopefully bring some much-needed relief.
a papal reign of twenty-six years, he ministered to not only
millions of Catholics around the globe; he proved a living
testimony to the power of faith to those not even in his flock.
Although I am not Catholic, I appreciate all too well the example
of his life. A life extraordinarily lived-with passion and
purpose-it will have reach in corners not yet measured, and life-
changing influence in hearts and souls not yet fully alive. I
watched with others around the world, the light streaming from
his apartment in St. Peter's Square, and of it being extinguished
at his parting. A life of light..filled with messages and images
of hope and love.
Indeed, his determination to make the world his parish
transcended geological boundaries. Ideologically and
theologically as well, his ministry knew practically no end. He
desired, quite simply, to minister to the deeply troubled. The
disenfranchised. Those living at the fringes of society because
of cultural or economic oppression. Regardless of race. Or
nationality. Or religious background or understanding.
He desired for people to come to grips with their innately
spiritual nature. Unabashedly-through not only his spirit and the
call placed on his life for evangelism-but through his intensely
physical and charismatic nature, his razor-sharp intellect, and
his brilliant command of language, he issued unapologetic
testimonies of man's place in God's creation. He said: "It is not
the church's task to teach unbelievers." Nor did he feel that the
church should "cry over the lamentable state of the world" or
"pretend that it had all the answers to all the problems in it."
(1) He simply provided those in his immense flock with wisdom on
how to lead godly lives in spite of the terrible conditions in
which we so frequently found ourselves.
As did most people on the planet, I had a grasp of the role he
played in the drama of the Catholic church over these past couple
of decades. In fact, as with most of us "boomers," he is the only
pope I ever really "knew." He commanded a sometimes unruly
following, through trials, controversies, and challenges to his
judgment and authority. And certainly, not being Catholic, I
disagreed with some of his mandates. But I always respected the
call on his life, and admired his convictions, regardless of the
controversy they sometimes played out in my own spirit.
Because I was only a casual observer of his life, I had no idea
of his intellectual-and creative-genius. Being extraordinarily
prolific, authoring seven books and over 300 hundred articles and
essays, he was the only sitting pope to have ever written a
commercially successful book. Before "Crossing the Threshold of
Hope" was released in 1994, it was unheard of for a pope to
author a book for the masses. Yet his book went on to become a
best-seller in America for months. One of the defining
characteristics of genius is sheer production. All true geniuses
produce. Period. And Pope John Paul II certainly did just that.
He was also a poet, playwright, philosopher, debater, actor (some
say that the theatre was his first love), and a linguist, with
fluency in seven languages and proficiency in a dozen. It is
believed that it was his ability to converse with people in all
parts of the world in their native language that contributed to
the dramatic strength and scope of his ministry. A Renaissance
man, he was highly creative, and immensely, profoundly moved by
art, literature, music and drama.
He possessed an intensely physical stature. Going against
commonly accepted papal protocol, he hugged, kissed, smiled,
winked, sang, and grabbed people when he spoke to them. He was
truly a people person. He loved to joke around, and had a hearty
laugh, with ruddy cheeks to match. Thomas E. Cook, the director
of Harvard's summer school, remarked in 1976 when he met the pope
that he was "floored by the sheer physical presence of the
man"."He exuded such a combination of power and acceptance. He
had this smile on his face and a look in his eye that said
'You're wonderful. And I'm wonderful, too.'" Late that evening,
after sharing dinner with him, Cook said to himself: "This man
ought to be pope." (2)
An athlete, one apparently knew it when he walked into a room. He
was a strappingly rigorous man. He played soccer in his youth,
and loved the outdoors. Backpacking, camping and boating were
favorite pastimes. He loved swimming laps, and refused to stop
when he entered the papacy, insisting that a pool be built so
that he could continue the vigorous schedule to which he had
become so accustomed. A lap swimmer myself, I thoroughly
understand not only the physical-but the emotional-addiction the
sport affords. It is generally in the pool, when I swim one
monotonous lap after another, that I solve the problems of my own
little world.
It was certainly part of God's eternal drama that this man would
take center stage for so many throughout the world. Gifted beyond
the norm, he clearly recognized that his gifts were God-given,
and he proved to be a wise and generous steward. For those of us
touched and blessed by any one of his gifts, we are the better
for it. I couldn't help but wonder, as I read more intently of
his life, how the world might be shaped differently had he not
had the position of authority, and an international platform with
which to share it.
Many of us have life messages as well. Perhaps not as dramatic.
Or as grandiose. But we may have felt a call to impart an
important message, or have a desire to change a tiny part of the
world. Yet we feel discouraged by our inability to spread it. By
our lack of celebrity or stature. Our lack of depth or breadth.
No international stage. Just a teeny tiny audience. (I feel like
that most days.) Take heart: God never returns His message void.
If He wants the message out there and has chosen you to have some
part in its delivery, the time will come. In His time.
Perhaps you have never felt a call on your life. Never been
touched by an angel. Never felt purpose, not to mention passion.
You muddle along, getting up each morning, putting one foot in
front of the other. The days come and they go. That's okay, too.
Your light is still shining.
The light of a life is a beautiful-and good-thing. Let your own
light shine. Regardless of the magnitude of its illumination.
Live your life such that, even after you're gone, your
light-like Pope John Paul II's-is not fully extinguished. Live
so that your light will live on in the lives of those whom you
touched in one way or another. I mourn with those of you who
mourn this week over the passing of your pope. But I have
experienced joy in the awareness of the impact of his life. Well
done, good and faithful servant!
NOTES:
1.McFadden, Robert D., "Pope John Paul II, Church Shepherd
And a Catalyst for World Change," New York Times, April 3,
2005, p. 43
2. Ibid.
------------------------------------------------------------
A Nick Note
Nick had an unusually rough week. After chemo treatments on Monday and Tuesday, he was thoroughly whipped, despite fantastic counts in his blood and great exams both days. Tuesday brought vomiting and total lethargy. A short visit to school on Wednesday, followed by a quick match of tennis for varsity team tryouts, left us all feeling pretty good about his recovery from the chemo but proved to be a mistake: by that night, he was feeling absolutely miserable, and has not felt much better since. As always, we covet your prayers. If you feel led to join others in the canopy of intercession for Nick's total and complete healing, we thank you. A visit to the doctor Monday morning will hopefully bring some much-needed relief.
Monday, March 28, 2005
3/28/05 RM Newsletter: Shakin' Things Up
Today's Quote: "Without this playing with fantasy no creative work has ever yet come to birth. The debt we own to the play of the imagination is incalculable." Carl Jung
It started a couple months ago. I spotted a chandelier from a dozen feet away at one of my favorite shops downtown. Charmed immediately, my mind raced on how I could possibly talk Ernie into buying it for me—or even worse, how I could sneak it home and surprise (no…shock) him with it later. Made of black rod-iron—with a primitive brass rooster suspended between a couple of curlicued edges, it “spoke to me” and I knew I had to find a place for it in my home. Trouble was: it was non-electrified. Candles only. While this certainly added to its innate charm—for me anyway—I knew that it’d be a hard sell for my husband. That it’d be the deal-breaker. Too impractical. Too unnecessary. Too French.
I kept my eye on it, visiting the shop every week or so to be sure no one had bought “my” chandelier. When it went on “clearance” ten days before my birthday, I practically jumped out of my skin. I knew a New York dealer would snatch it up and re-sell it in the city for more than double, with the lucky buyer still feeling like she found the deal of the century.
When I not-so-subtlety informed Ernie that night—at his own birthday celebration—that I found what I wanted for my birthday, he retorted, with some annoyance, that it was highly inappropriate for me to talk about my materialistic desires while we were celebrating his big day. As (almost) always, he was right. I blew it.
Unbeknownst to me, Nick and Ernie strategized that week, and Nick went to the shop, bought the chandelier, had it wrapped, and hid it in our house until we celebrated my birthday the next week. Needless to say, I couldn’t have been more delighted that this charming new addition was about to be a part of our home.
The chandelier sat on the floor of my dining room for the next four weeks. What with a seminar I had enrolled in taking up my Saturdays, with back-to-back business trips for Ernie, and with taxes due, blah blah blah….we didn’t have a spare minute to get around to hanging it (not to mention the fact that we had no idea where to put it.)
So I started walking around the house, trying to figure out where I would put my way-too-charming, way-too-impractical, way-too-French chandelier in my home. And when I did so, I realized that I needed to shake things up. That we needed to re-arrange furniture, re-distribute decorative accessories, and re-hang our artwork.
The arrival of spring generally has this effect on me. Fresh starts. Puppies. Bursting bulbs. Injections of sunshine and color. So it seemed perfectly reasonable to make sunrise on Easter morning our deadline. Getting my whole family on board, we mentally got psyched up to spend the weekend getting the house all shook up.
We went into attack mode. We sorted and sifted, re-shelved and re-shifted, re-hung and re-made. With drill in one hand and hammer in the other, we walked room to room, with eyes roaming for new arrangements, new furniture and art placements, and new uses for old things.
It took us awhile to figure out where to put the rooster chandelier. Purchased with strong magnetic attraction yet with no idea of where to hang it, we found one only by hoisting it up in several different rooms of the house. With trial and error, by re-doing and un-doing, we not only found a spot that, once hung, made it appear as if the house was practically built for this chandelier; we finished the bulk of the “shakin’ up job” at the same time that our bodies begged for beds. And when the sun rose on Easter morning, we woke up convinced that the shakin’ up was all worth it.
Life is all about shakin’ things up. If we don’t shake ‘em up voluntarily—finding something for the house or the body or the kids or the spouse; or taking the vacation; or bringing home the new pet—that requires re-arranging the status quo—it seems that life shakes things up for us. Whether we’re ready for the shakin’ up or not. Husbands change jobs. Kids go off to college. Toddlers discover the joy of running. Houses burn down. Best friends move. Loved ones get sick. All of these shake things up. Sometimes this leaves you thinking: “I was perfectly happy unshaken, thank you very much!”
And yet sometimes shakin’ things up is exactly what’s needed. Shakin’ up forces you out of your rut. It gets your creative juices flowing. It stretches your imagination and requires you to “get out of your brain” (as I kept repeating to Ernie as we scratched our heads over the chandelier thing).
As spring fever starts grabbing you by the throat, try getting mentally—and physically—prepared for the shakin’ up that life will undoubtedly be bringing your way. Keep your eyes wide open for the infinite creative possibilities that living a “shakin’ up life” affords.
Despite the way that life has shakin’ up our world—what with it turning it upside down and standing on its head—it’s keeping us on our toes. Alert and ever ready. With expectant optimism for God’s best. Each day. All the way.
Praying for blessings on your week! Start shakin’!
Carolina
A Nick Note
Nick gave us another scare this week, with fever, shakes and
chills Tuesday night (after a rigorous session on the tennis
courts for varsity team tryouts) alerting us for the possibility
of infection and a trip to the ER at Yale Children's Hospital. He
wound up having a good night after all, and a trip to the doctor
Wednesday revealed good counts and the "go-ahead" for this
weekend's trip to the Regional Finals in Syracuse. With two of
his best buddies, a tank full of gas, and a couple of dollars in
their pockets, they traveled the four hours to the weekend of
their dreams.
Meanwhile, we have been opening dozens of cards and emails from
well-wishing readers all over the country. We know that you are
praying for his complete and total healing. We feel it! Thank you
so much for your many expressions of support. They have kept his
spirits high and those endorphins racing. As promised, weekly
updates will be forthcoming.
------------------------------------------------------------
A Quick Note
I will be conducting a seminar: "Your Purse is the Clue to Your Personality" at St. Mark's Nursery School in New Canaan, CT on Tuesday, March 29 at 10:00 AM. Using research on the four personalities as developed by Florence Littauer, I will help young moms discern their own personality by taking a humorous look at how the purse one carries provides the clue to personality type. We'll also explore how different personalities impact the family dynamic. If you'd like me to present this seminar to your group or club, please give me a call: 203 438-7164, or send me an email: emomrx@yahoo.com.
It started a couple months ago. I spotted a chandelier from a dozen feet away at one of my favorite shops downtown. Charmed immediately, my mind raced on how I could possibly talk Ernie into buying it for me—or even worse, how I could sneak it home and surprise (no…shock) him with it later. Made of black rod-iron—with a primitive brass rooster suspended between a couple of curlicued edges, it “spoke to me” and I knew I had to find a place for it in my home. Trouble was: it was non-electrified. Candles only. While this certainly added to its innate charm—for me anyway—I knew that it’d be a hard sell for my husband. That it’d be the deal-breaker. Too impractical. Too unnecessary. Too French.
I kept my eye on it, visiting the shop every week or so to be sure no one had bought “my” chandelier. When it went on “clearance” ten days before my birthday, I practically jumped out of my skin. I knew a New York dealer would snatch it up and re-sell it in the city for more than double, with the lucky buyer still feeling like she found the deal of the century.
When I not-so-subtlety informed Ernie that night—at his own birthday celebration—that I found what I wanted for my birthday, he retorted, with some annoyance, that it was highly inappropriate for me to talk about my materialistic desires while we were celebrating his big day. As (almost) always, he was right. I blew it.
Unbeknownst to me, Nick and Ernie strategized that week, and Nick went to the shop, bought the chandelier, had it wrapped, and hid it in our house until we celebrated my birthday the next week. Needless to say, I couldn’t have been more delighted that this charming new addition was about to be a part of our home.
The chandelier sat on the floor of my dining room for the next four weeks. What with a seminar I had enrolled in taking up my Saturdays, with back-to-back business trips for Ernie, and with taxes due, blah blah blah….we didn’t have a spare minute to get around to hanging it (not to mention the fact that we had no idea where to put it.)
So I started walking around the house, trying to figure out where I would put my way-too-charming, way-too-impractical, way-too-French chandelier in my home. And when I did so, I realized that I needed to shake things up. That we needed to re-arrange furniture, re-distribute decorative accessories, and re-hang our artwork.
The arrival of spring generally has this effect on me. Fresh starts. Puppies. Bursting bulbs. Injections of sunshine and color. So it seemed perfectly reasonable to make sunrise on Easter morning our deadline. Getting my whole family on board, we mentally got psyched up to spend the weekend getting the house all shook up.
We went into attack mode. We sorted and sifted, re-shelved and re-shifted, re-hung and re-made. With drill in one hand and hammer in the other, we walked room to room, with eyes roaming for new arrangements, new furniture and art placements, and new uses for old things.
It took us awhile to figure out where to put the rooster chandelier. Purchased with strong magnetic attraction yet with no idea of where to hang it, we found one only by hoisting it up in several different rooms of the house. With trial and error, by re-doing and un-doing, we not only found a spot that, once hung, made it appear as if the house was practically built for this chandelier; we finished the bulk of the “shakin’ up job” at the same time that our bodies begged for beds. And when the sun rose on Easter morning, we woke up convinced that the shakin’ up was all worth it.
Life is all about shakin’ things up. If we don’t shake ‘em up voluntarily—finding something for the house or the body or the kids or the spouse; or taking the vacation; or bringing home the new pet—that requires re-arranging the status quo—it seems that life shakes things up for us. Whether we’re ready for the shakin’ up or not. Husbands change jobs. Kids go off to college. Toddlers discover the joy of running. Houses burn down. Best friends move. Loved ones get sick. All of these shake things up. Sometimes this leaves you thinking: “I was perfectly happy unshaken, thank you very much!”
And yet sometimes shakin’ things up is exactly what’s needed. Shakin’ up forces you out of your rut. It gets your creative juices flowing. It stretches your imagination and requires you to “get out of your brain” (as I kept repeating to Ernie as we scratched our heads over the chandelier thing).
As spring fever starts grabbing you by the throat, try getting mentally—and physically—prepared for the shakin’ up that life will undoubtedly be bringing your way. Keep your eyes wide open for the infinite creative possibilities that living a “shakin’ up life” affords.
Despite the way that life has shakin’ up our world—what with it turning it upside down and standing on its head—it’s keeping us on our toes. Alert and ever ready. With expectant optimism for God’s best. Each day. All the way.
Praying for blessings on your week! Start shakin’!
Carolina
A Nick Note
Nick gave us another scare this week, with fever, shakes and
chills Tuesday night (after a rigorous session on the tennis
courts for varsity team tryouts) alerting us for the possibility
of infection and a trip to the ER at Yale Children's Hospital. He
wound up having a good night after all, and a trip to the doctor
Wednesday revealed good counts and the "go-ahead" for this
weekend's trip to the Regional Finals in Syracuse. With two of
his best buddies, a tank full of gas, and a couple of dollars in
their pockets, they traveled the four hours to the weekend of
their dreams.
Meanwhile, we have been opening dozens of cards and emails from
well-wishing readers all over the country. We know that you are
praying for his complete and total healing. We feel it! Thank you
so much for your many expressions of support. They have kept his
spirits high and those endorphins racing. As promised, weekly
updates will be forthcoming.
------------------------------------------------------------
A Quick Note
I will be conducting a seminar: "Your Purse is the Clue to Your Personality" at St. Mark's Nursery School in New Canaan, CT on Tuesday, March 29 at 10:00 AM. Using research on the four personalities as developed by Florence Littauer, I will help young moms discern their own personality by taking a humorous look at how the purse one carries provides the clue to personality type. We'll also explore how different personalities impact the family dynamic. If you'd like me to present this seminar to your group or club, please give me a call: 203 438-7164, or send me an email: emomrx@yahoo.com.
Monday, March 21, 2005
3/21/05 RM Newsletter: Caught in the Angst
Today's Quote: "But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed." Isaiah 53:5
Welcome, spring! It’s finally here…although you’d hardly know it in my neck of the woods. Freezing cold all day Sunday—with rain drizzles destroying plans for outside recreation and overnight snow flurries prohibiting the much-anticipated meltdown of lingering accumulation—it feels every bit as “winter” as it has for these last long several months. Yet because spring is officially here, I’m caught between the desire for celebrating its freshness and vitality, with the inescapable resignation that shoveling snow is, indeed, still part of our everyday reality.
Such is Holy Week. Caught in the angst between celebrating the Resurrection at Easter, yet feeling overpowered with remembrance of the grief of Good Friday, my internal struggle, as a Christian, is palpable.
Even though nature cannot hide the fact that, despite what the calendar claims, it is not quite ready for spring—bulbs still hide underground, after all—commercial forces ensure that we are fully enlivened with spring’s tokens: jelly beans, fluffy chicks, and furry bunnies abound! Spring’s vibrant-colored linens have replaced winter’s darkly-colored varieties at bed and bath stores; patio furniture has replaced fireplace grills at home improvement centers; and boxes trimmed in flowers and bunnies clad in cellophane have replaced all vestiges of Valentine’s Day chocolates at candy shops across the country.
I had the distinct pleasure of sharing a brief respite from the dreariness of our New England weather with an afternoon stroll through a local garden center on Sunday with a friend. The bunnies were out in full force; they’ve never looked cuter. What, with arms cradling flower-laden baskets, backpacks yielding carrots, and perfectly-held necks fashioning bonnets: they brought festivity to the day in unparalleled style. Standing next to wicker baskets overflowing with fresh hyacinths, pansies, daffodils and tulips, the mood signaled celebration, creation, and joy. Being a sucker for both fresh flowers and adorable bunnies; I couldn’t escape without both tucked securely in my bag. The visual—and olfactory—stimulations were practically intoxicating, and the leisurely stroll was “just what the doctor ordered.”
But it’s not about the bunnies. Even though they’ll take up inordinate amounts of tabletop real estate in my own home during these next few weeks, and as much as they lift me out of the doldrums of winter and into the sublime of spring: the fertility properties of bunnies (which brought them to the forefront of imaginative celebrations of generations before us in the first place) have little to do with the days ahead of us this week.
During Holy Week, we move—day by day—from sadness to enthusiasm. From the valley of darkness to the tunnel of light. We glide past struggle and hold onto hope. We endure suffering only to embrace healing.
Such is the power of the Resurrection. This most important day in the liturgical year for Christians around the world requires that we shift our attention to the supreme act of Jesus, our Christ. After remembering the agony on Good Friday, we celebrate the resurgent power of the Resurrection on Easter.
But it entails conflict.
I’ve been unusually conflicted lately. Perhaps it’s because it’s just that time of year; the Lenten season typically has this effect on me. Perhaps it’s because our son is battling a life-threatening disease; my equilibrium is thrown off, what with long treks to the chemo clinic and my house falling to pieces in my absence. Perhaps it’s because I have too many dangling threads hanging over my head; unanswered questions can, indeed, tangle the synapses.
We’re supposed to be unusually conflicted during Holy Week. We’re supposed to both confront sorrow and celebrate victory. We’re supposed to both share in Christ’s struggle and find joy in His saving grace.
Yet most of us despise conflict, and aggressively seek ways to escape its discomfort.
However tempting it is to focus your energies all week on Easter Sunday: on resurrection, renewal, and celebration; …allow yourself time to sort out the conflict of Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. To focus on the agony. For as you grow more fully aware of the sacrifice that Jesus made on your behalf, you will gain immeasurable joy at the power of the Resurrection. It is the Resurrection which gives us light and power in our lives. It provides us with the ever-present realization of God in our lives, this day as much as that day two thousand years ago. It is the Resurrection which provides the power that drives and the power that saves.
But it came with a price.
So go on decorating with bunnies and splurging on flowers; indulging on marshmallow chicks and dark chocolate eggs. Easter is a time for celebration, to be sure. But allow yourself—this week—to internalize the conflict of the cross. Holy Week is one time of year where your internal struggle should be palpable. When you should be caught in the angst. For we cannot get to Easter, after all, without coming to grips with Good Friday.
Blessings!
Carolina
A Nick Note
Nick endured two days of chemo this week to emerge feeling good, albeit a little bit drained. Never complaining, never fussing: he has been a champion! He'll try out for the varsity tennis team at his high school today, following doctor's orders--as well as his own desire--to get and keep those endorphins swirling throughout his healing body! As always, we covet your prayers for his complete and total healing.
------------------------------------------------------------
A Quick Note
Need a shot in the arm to "keep on keepin' on?" Take Arnold Schwarzenegger's advice (with a Rocket Mom twist) by reading my recent article, "It's All About Reps." Copy and paste the following link in your browser window: http://www.leonieslight.org/view_article.asp?id=246.
Welcome, spring! It’s finally here…although you’d hardly know it in my neck of the woods. Freezing cold all day Sunday—with rain drizzles destroying plans for outside recreation and overnight snow flurries prohibiting the much-anticipated meltdown of lingering accumulation—it feels every bit as “winter” as it has for these last long several months. Yet because spring is officially here, I’m caught between the desire for celebrating its freshness and vitality, with the inescapable resignation that shoveling snow is, indeed, still part of our everyday reality.
Such is Holy Week. Caught in the angst between celebrating the Resurrection at Easter, yet feeling overpowered with remembrance of the grief of Good Friday, my internal struggle, as a Christian, is palpable.
Even though nature cannot hide the fact that, despite what the calendar claims, it is not quite ready for spring—bulbs still hide underground, after all—commercial forces ensure that we are fully enlivened with spring’s tokens: jelly beans, fluffy chicks, and furry bunnies abound! Spring’s vibrant-colored linens have replaced winter’s darkly-colored varieties at bed and bath stores; patio furniture has replaced fireplace grills at home improvement centers; and boxes trimmed in flowers and bunnies clad in cellophane have replaced all vestiges of Valentine’s Day chocolates at candy shops across the country.
I had the distinct pleasure of sharing a brief respite from the dreariness of our New England weather with an afternoon stroll through a local garden center on Sunday with a friend. The bunnies were out in full force; they’ve never looked cuter. What, with arms cradling flower-laden baskets, backpacks yielding carrots, and perfectly-held necks fashioning bonnets: they brought festivity to the day in unparalleled style. Standing next to wicker baskets overflowing with fresh hyacinths, pansies, daffodils and tulips, the mood signaled celebration, creation, and joy. Being a sucker for both fresh flowers and adorable bunnies; I couldn’t escape without both tucked securely in my bag. The visual—and olfactory—stimulations were practically intoxicating, and the leisurely stroll was “just what the doctor ordered.”
But it’s not about the bunnies. Even though they’ll take up inordinate amounts of tabletop real estate in my own home during these next few weeks, and as much as they lift me out of the doldrums of winter and into the sublime of spring: the fertility properties of bunnies (which brought them to the forefront of imaginative celebrations of generations before us in the first place) have little to do with the days ahead of us this week.
During Holy Week, we move—day by day—from sadness to enthusiasm. From the valley of darkness to the tunnel of light. We glide past struggle and hold onto hope. We endure suffering only to embrace healing.
Such is the power of the Resurrection. This most important day in the liturgical year for Christians around the world requires that we shift our attention to the supreme act of Jesus, our Christ. After remembering the agony on Good Friday, we celebrate the resurgent power of the Resurrection on Easter.
But it entails conflict.
I’ve been unusually conflicted lately. Perhaps it’s because it’s just that time of year; the Lenten season typically has this effect on me. Perhaps it’s because our son is battling a life-threatening disease; my equilibrium is thrown off, what with long treks to the chemo clinic and my house falling to pieces in my absence. Perhaps it’s because I have too many dangling threads hanging over my head; unanswered questions can, indeed, tangle the synapses.
We’re supposed to be unusually conflicted during Holy Week. We’re supposed to both confront sorrow and celebrate victory. We’re supposed to both share in Christ’s struggle and find joy in His saving grace.
Yet most of us despise conflict, and aggressively seek ways to escape its discomfort.
However tempting it is to focus your energies all week on Easter Sunday: on resurrection, renewal, and celebration; …allow yourself time to sort out the conflict of Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. To focus on the agony. For as you grow more fully aware of the sacrifice that Jesus made on your behalf, you will gain immeasurable joy at the power of the Resurrection. It is the Resurrection which gives us light and power in our lives. It provides us with the ever-present realization of God in our lives, this day as much as that day two thousand years ago. It is the Resurrection which provides the power that drives and the power that saves.
But it came with a price.
So go on decorating with bunnies and splurging on flowers; indulging on marshmallow chicks and dark chocolate eggs. Easter is a time for celebration, to be sure. But allow yourself—this week—to internalize the conflict of the cross. Holy Week is one time of year where your internal struggle should be palpable. When you should be caught in the angst. For we cannot get to Easter, after all, without coming to grips with Good Friday.
Blessings!
Carolina
A Nick Note
Nick endured two days of chemo this week to emerge feeling good, albeit a little bit drained. Never complaining, never fussing: he has been a champion! He'll try out for the varsity tennis team at his high school today, following doctor's orders--as well as his own desire--to get and keep those endorphins swirling throughout his healing body! As always, we covet your prayers for his complete and total healing.
------------------------------------------------------------
A Quick Note
Need a shot in the arm to "keep on keepin' on?" Take Arnold Schwarzenegger's advice (with a Rocket Mom twist) by reading my recent article, "It's All About Reps." Copy and paste the following link in your browser window: http://www.leonieslight.org/view_article.asp?id=246.
Monday, March 14, 2005
3/14/05 RM Newsletter: Unexpected Turbulence
Today’s Quote: "The purpose of human life is to serve, and to show compassion and the will to help others." Albert Schweitzer
It’s been a tough week. I learned of a dear friend’s melanoma only to find out a couple days later that another friend lost a baby at twenty-three weeks into the pregnancy. Little Katie, the twenty-two month-old darling I’ve fallen in love with at the chemo clinic, found herself back at Yale Children’s Hospital for three days (she’s fine now); and Nick developed fever Friday night that nearly sent us there, too. All day Saturday, my stomach stayed in my throat and my heart hung heavily in my chest, while my mind swung rapidly into overdrive, calculating best and worst case scenarios for those I hold dear.
Unexpected turbulence.
You’ve no doubt been there, too. You find yourself sailing along through life—perhaps pinching yourself that life is being so good to you, with everything seemingly going your way—only to find yourself realizing the very next moment that something is terribly, horribly wrong. Happy and confident one moment, you’re absolutely miserable the next.
And yet we learn, as we age, that this is exactly how life works. That it ebbs and flows. Certainly, some of us seem to endure more suffering than do others. I’ve observed families who appear—on the outside—to live extraordinarily charmed lives. They never appear to suffer. And yet others seem to hit every major bump in the road, unable to enjoy even one full year of smooth cruising without being jostled around by one pothole or another, even though they desperately yearn for an uneventful journey through life.
As we Christians honor this season of Lent and prepare for Passion Palm Sunday, we remember the turbulence that Jesus faced. Riding into town on a donkey to the ebullient chants of the townspeople—they heralded his arrival waving palm branches and singing with excitement and joy: “Hosannah! Hosannah to the Highest!” Little did they know of His impending encounter with turbulence of unparallelled proportion. Only He knew, as it was foretold by prophecy and revealed to Him through His Father.
While attending a seminar yesterday, my colleagues and I played a Lenten game using two eggs: one hard-boiled and one raw. The leader passed both eggs around the room and asked us to figure out which was which. We had the typical reaction: we shook them (raw eggs have an air pocket so supposedly you can feel this once shaken); we spun them (hard-boiled eggs spin more sluggishly); we tried to weigh them as if on a balance. Once we settled on which was which, the instructor took the one we deemed as “raw” and smacked it over a bowl, while we braced ourselves for the mess that was to come.
After a loud smack, it was discovered that the egg was empty.
My initial reaction: “I’ve been bamboozled!!!” I was told it could be hard-boiled or raw. We were not told of a “door number three.” I felt cheated. Denied a fair shot at the correct answer.
Ahhh. Such is suffering. We feel cheated. Denied. We want to level the playing field. And quickly! We set ourselves up for two options but never entertain life’s “door number three’s.”
This is precisely what happened to Mary when she visited the empty tomb of Christ. (But that’s an Easter story and I’m getting ahead of myself….)
I couldn’t help but reflect on “the egg game” as it related to the events that played out in my week. I know you can relate, too: Going through life getting comfortable with doors one and two. And then life hands you “door number three.” Unexpected turbulence. No way to prepare for it. It never entered your radar screen. It just popped onto it one day out of nowhere. When Nick was feeling overly fatigued, we figured he had mononucleosis or Lyme disease. Doors one or two. But life opened door number three: leukemia. Unexpected turbulence, indeed.
When unexpected turbulence hits you—or someone you love—with full force, drop to your knees. Fold up your hands and bow your head and lift up your loved ones in prayer. Even if you do not yet have faith in prayer’s power. It remains the overwhelming response by most people when faced with life’s door number three’s. I have believed in the power of prayer since I was a child. As my faith has grown, I have come to grasp its miraculous power! I confess: we need your prayers. We feel your prayers. We take great comfort knowing that people on five continents pray regularly for Nick, intercessing on his behalf.
Sometimes we believe that since all wounds are healed with time, that in the meantime there is really nothing we can do to help family and friends—or complete strangers!—deal with the surprise behind door number three. But nothing could be further from the truth. When unexpected turbulence hits someone in your circle of concern, you can pray. You can send a handwritten note. Rare treasures that they are in this email universe of ours, I save almost every one I receive. I can assure you: during our crisis with Nick, handwritten notes have elevated days filled with fear to ones full of hope. Flowers and food work, too. Remember, love is a verb! (See my the archived “Love is a Verb” Newsletter). Act on your instinct to tangibly express concern and love. Trust me: your small act of charity will prove exactly the right touch. Nicholas Chamfort wrote: “In great affairs, men show themselves as they wish to be seen; in small things, they show themselves as they are."
I’ll be praying blessings on your week!
Carolina
A Nick Note
Nick enjoyed a relatively comfortable week only to develop fever Friday night. It hovered near the mark that requires an immediate visit to Yale Children’s Hospital for a mandatory 48-hour stay. With close monitoring and much prayer on his behalf, his temperature fell below that level and we were spared a hospital ordeal. He’s taken the weekend easy and is grateful for March Madness to keep his mind occupied. Meanwhile, all three of our other kids are fighting colds, coughs, pink eye, or some combination of those three. Of course, this presents a threat to Nick, as he is extremely immune-compromised. Please keep our family in your prayers.
It’s been a tough week. I learned of a dear friend’s melanoma only to find out a couple days later that another friend lost a baby at twenty-three weeks into the pregnancy. Little Katie, the twenty-two month-old darling I’ve fallen in love with at the chemo clinic, found herself back at Yale Children’s Hospital for three days (she’s fine now); and Nick developed fever Friday night that nearly sent us there, too. All day Saturday, my stomach stayed in my throat and my heart hung heavily in my chest, while my mind swung rapidly into overdrive, calculating best and worst case scenarios for those I hold dear.
Unexpected turbulence.
You’ve no doubt been there, too. You find yourself sailing along through life—perhaps pinching yourself that life is being so good to you, with everything seemingly going your way—only to find yourself realizing the very next moment that something is terribly, horribly wrong. Happy and confident one moment, you’re absolutely miserable the next.
And yet we learn, as we age, that this is exactly how life works. That it ebbs and flows. Certainly, some of us seem to endure more suffering than do others. I’ve observed families who appear—on the outside—to live extraordinarily charmed lives. They never appear to suffer. And yet others seem to hit every major bump in the road, unable to enjoy even one full year of smooth cruising without being jostled around by one pothole or another, even though they desperately yearn for an uneventful journey through life.
As we Christians honor this season of Lent and prepare for Passion Palm Sunday, we remember the turbulence that Jesus faced. Riding into town on a donkey to the ebullient chants of the townspeople—they heralded his arrival waving palm branches and singing with excitement and joy: “Hosannah! Hosannah to the Highest!” Little did they know of His impending encounter with turbulence of unparallelled proportion. Only He knew, as it was foretold by prophecy and revealed to Him through His Father.
While attending a seminar yesterday, my colleagues and I played a Lenten game using two eggs: one hard-boiled and one raw. The leader passed both eggs around the room and asked us to figure out which was which. We had the typical reaction: we shook them (raw eggs have an air pocket so supposedly you can feel this once shaken); we spun them (hard-boiled eggs spin more sluggishly); we tried to weigh them as if on a balance. Once we settled on which was which, the instructor took the one we deemed as “raw” and smacked it over a bowl, while we braced ourselves for the mess that was to come.
After a loud smack, it was discovered that the egg was empty.
My initial reaction: “I’ve been bamboozled!!!” I was told it could be hard-boiled or raw. We were not told of a “door number three.” I felt cheated. Denied a fair shot at the correct answer.
Ahhh. Such is suffering. We feel cheated. Denied. We want to level the playing field. And quickly! We set ourselves up for two options but never entertain life’s “door number three’s.”
This is precisely what happened to Mary when she visited the empty tomb of Christ. (But that’s an Easter story and I’m getting ahead of myself….)
I couldn’t help but reflect on “the egg game” as it related to the events that played out in my week. I know you can relate, too: Going through life getting comfortable with doors one and two. And then life hands you “door number three.” Unexpected turbulence. No way to prepare for it. It never entered your radar screen. It just popped onto it one day out of nowhere. When Nick was feeling overly fatigued, we figured he had mononucleosis or Lyme disease. Doors one or two. But life opened door number three: leukemia. Unexpected turbulence, indeed.
When unexpected turbulence hits you—or someone you love—with full force, drop to your knees. Fold up your hands and bow your head and lift up your loved ones in prayer. Even if you do not yet have faith in prayer’s power. It remains the overwhelming response by most people when faced with life’s door number three’s. I have believed in the power of prayer since I was a child. As my faith has grown, I have come to grasp its miraculous power! I confess: we need your prayers. We feel your prayers. We take great comfort knowing that people on five continents pray regularly for Nick, intercessing on his behalf.
Sometimes we believe that since all wounds are healed with time, that in the meantime there is really nothing we can do to help family and friends—or complete strangers!—deal with the surprise behind door number three. But nothing could be further from the truth. When unexpected turbulence hits someone in your circle of concern, you can pray. You can send a handwritten note. Rare treasures that they are in this email universe of ours, I save almost every one I receive. I can assure you: during our crisis with Nick, handwritten notes have elevated days filled with fear to ones full of hope. Flowers and food work, too. Remember, love is a verb! (See my the archived “Love is a Verb” Newsletter). Act on your instinct to tangibly express concern and love. Trust me: your small act of charity will prove exactly the right touch. Nicholas Chamfort wrote: “In great affairs, men show themselves as they wish to be seen; in small things, they show themselves as they are."
I’ll be praying blessings on your week!
Carolina
A Nick Note
Nick enjoyed a relatively comfortable week only to develop fever Friday night. It hovered near the mark that requires an immediate visit to Yale Children’s Hospital for a mandatory 48-hour stay. With close monitoring and much prayer on his behalf, his temperature fell below that level and we were spared a hospital ordeal. He’s taken the weekend easy and is grateful for March Madness to keep his mind occupied. Meanwhile, all three of our other kids are fighting colds, coughs, pink eye, or some combination of those three. Of course, this presents a threat to Nick, as he is extremely immune-compromised. Please keep our family in your prayers.
Monday, March 07, 2005
3/07/05 RM Newsletter: Own the Net
Today's Quote: "Thank God every day when you get up that you have something to do that day which must be done whether you like it or not. Being forced to work and forced to do your best will breed in you temperance and self-control, diligence and strength of will, cheerfulness and content, and a hundred virtues, which the idle
will never know." Basil Carpenter
When I took up the game of tennis about eight years ago, it required years of private lessons and clinics in order to learn--in my forties--a totally new skill set. Most of my girlfriends, particularly those raised in the south, had picked up this sport in their childhood. And because I felt like I was missing out on a lot of fun (southern social life practically depended on the sport), I decided it was as good a time as any to get in there and give it a "go." Yet as my husband lovingly reminded me during those angst-filled early days: "You're probably the only forty-year-old woman in Kentucky who has never picked up a racket." Thanks, honey. I needed that. Those early days were filled with frustration at my lack of ability to hit the ball with any consistency; at my immature grasp of strategy; and of the fact that I was the lowest common denominator for the sport. To call this beginning period a humbling experience would be understatement.
One of my coaches along the way drilled into my head that when you're at the net, you "own the net." This charming little piece of advice has always stayed with me. Now, as a doubles player most of the time, I find myself silently reciting it--sometimes over and over again--when I take my turn at the net.
Particularly in very competitive games, I remind myself of the importance of owning the net when it's my turn to play it. Being in "ready position" with my racket, my hands, and my knees. Going for poaches when possible (the weakest part of my game);
anticipating where the opponent will return the ball; aiming for obnoxious angles.
Excusing the analogy for those of you who do not play the game (I hate when golfers do this to me!) the application to home life is particularly helpful. As I was cleaning up messes all week long, for some reason, the "own the net" phrase kept popping into my head. And I found myself becoming somewhat reassured by it as I
went through the mundane motions of my days. So I'm hoping that it will help you, too.
For example, when I finally attacked the four stacks of papers on my kitchen desk (a totally separate entity than my work desk, my kitchen desk is the catch-all for school papers, medical bills,invitations, coupons, theater tickets, and kid stuff), I reminded myself to "own the net." This messy area of the house is a physical space that I need to "own" whether I like it or not. Being a free-spirited artsy type, I despise all things administrative. (Seriously, I get chest pains even thinking about
doing paperwork). Spending Friday afternoon going through our son's enormous medical bills--the insurance companies don't understand how to configure bills that make sense to the customer!--was not exactly my cup of tea. But someone had to do it, and
that someone was me. I had to take ownership and deal with it. I had to own the net. And so I turned on my favorite classical music station on the stereo, made myself a great cup of coffee, and spent five hours going through the tedious task of dealing
with, pitching, paying, and filing the awful mess on my desk. (It was really ugly.) Once done, I felt an enormous sense of satisfaction. I owned the net.
Do you ever get the laundry room blues? You know: you walk into the area and it's one stain after another. A pile of whites next to an even larger pile of darks. Add to the mix a "snow day": wet mittens, wet socks, wet towels, and dripping boots are wonderful little accoutrements of northern living. An extra load or two never turns me on, but up here in New England, I need to get used to it. I need to own the net in my laundry room...or it will own me! So rather than rolling my eyeballs and stomping my foot, I remind myself to just own it. To just start doing it before it
gets out of control. To make a game out of separating the pinks from the reds and the jeans from the towels. For tossing the frozen outerwear into the dryer before it's too late. When things get really awful--like they did for me the other night when I walked into my laundry room to see a handwritten note by my thirteen-year-
old daughter, pinned to the brand new polo shirt that she bought with her own money, that read: "EMERGENCY!!! Get this stain out tonight so I can wear it tomorrow!" right next to the chocolate stain that resulted from an enthusiastically-mixed batch of birthday brownies she made for a friend of Nick's--I needed some dark chocolate myself just to get though this newly-discovered crisis. (Never hesitate to pop chocolate into your mouth before any laundry room chores by the way.) Whatever, own the net there, too. I'm sure it's part of your everyday reality whether you want
it to be or not.
Ditto for chauffeuring your kiddies around town. Huge potential for boredom and battle fatigue, huh? Own the net. Put a favorite CD in the stereo, use the time to teach an object lesson, or just let them vent about the problems in their little worlds and put on your listening cap.
Same thing for that nightly bubble bath ritual. Surely you have the drill down pat by now. But sometimes those extra puddles on the floor and the escaping rubber duckies just push you right over the edge. So sing a silly song as you wrap your freshly scrubbed babe in his favorite hooded towel and own the net. I used to sing the "King Farouk" song, bundling my kids into hooded-towels-turned-coronation-robes. I sang a goofy song every time I wrapped them up. The sometimes exhausting ritual (I was usually worn out by bath time) maintained some sense of charm as long as I could keep good cheer...and own the net. Those kiddie bubble baths are long gone now, yet my teens spend more time in the bathroom than I could have ever imagined (or remembered spending myself). And teach your older kids to own the net, too, by showing them how to scrub a sink, wipe down a shower stall, and spritz the mirrors.
Owning the net means everything from getting your kids off to the right start in the morning with a healthy breakfast to ensuring healthy lunchboxes to forcing them to bed on time to disciplining them when they break curfew. It means shopping for new clothes when they need them and removing stains when they make them. It means sweeping crumbs off your kitchen floor and cleaning cobwebs off your front door. It means sewing on the buttons when they fall off and stitching up the seams when they rip apart. It means taking care of the myriad mundane details that can either plague
us or inspire us as we work the front line.
Owning the net also means consciously infusing your rooms with beauty, instead of believing that "beauty happens." It means looking for ways to add color and texture, pattern and symmetry, and flowers and sunshine to the corners of your world. To me, it means stitching needlepoint pillows and reproduction samplers. Hooking folk art rugs and painting in oils. Owning the net at home requires it to not only have all systems up and running smoothly; it means having them oiled with beauty and charm.
As you go through the motions of your day--understanding full well that some of them will be "funner" than others--remind yourself to own the net. It goes with the territory. And, if truth be told, we recognize--be it through battle fatigue or
through unexpected joy--that it's all territory which we feel particularly privileged to claim.
And as you gain proficiency in this thing we call motherhood, you'll be surprised to find that owning the net comes pretty naturally after awhile. Your hands, arms and legs will be in ready position, you'll be on the lookout for oncoming balls, and
you'll even be able to hit obnoxious angles.
Blessings!
Carolina
------------------------------------------------------------
A Nick Note
Nick starts another couple days of chemo today, having a break last week. Monday and Tuesday should hold some pretty brutal treatments. Please keep him in your prayers. We pray daily for his complete and total physical healing. He continues to receive
cards from many readers of this newsletter, many from folks he's never even met! It warms our hearts to know that he is enveloped by a canopy of intercession on his behalf! To those of you who continue to hold him tight, thank you!
will never know." Basil Carpenter
When I took up the game of tennis about eight years ago, it required years of private lessons and clinics in order to learn--in my forties--a totally new skill set. Most of my girlfriends, particularly those raised in the south, had picked up this sport in their childhood. And because I felt like I was missing out on a lot of fun (southern social life practically depended on the sport), I decided it was as good a time as any to get in there and give it a "go." Yet as my husband lovingly reminded me during those angst-filled early days: "You're probably the only forty-year-old woman in Kentucky who has never picked up a racket." Thanks, honey. I needed that. Those early days were filled with frustration at my lack of ability to hit the ball with any consistency; at my immature grasp of strategy; and of the fact that I was the lowest common denominator for the sport. To call this beginning period a humbling experience would be understatement.
One of my coaches along the way drilled into my head that when you're at the net, you "own the net." This charming little piece of advice has always stayed with me. Now, as a doubles player most of the time, I find myself silently reciting it--sometimes over and over again--when I take my turn at the net.
Particularly in very competitive games, I remind myself of the importance of owning the net when it's my turn to play it. Being in "ready position" with my racket, my hands, and my knees. Going for poaches when possible (the weakest part of my game);
anticipating where the opponent will return the ball; aiming for obnoxious angles.
Excusing the analogy for those of you who do not play the game (I hate when golfers do this to me!) the application to home life is particularly helpful. As I was cleaning up messes all week long, for some reason, the "own the net" phrase kept popping into my head. And I found myself becoming somewhat reassured by it as I
went through the mundane motions of my days. So I'm hoping that it will help you, too.
For example, when I finally attacked the four stacks of papers on my kitchen desk (a totally separate entity than my work desk, my kitchen desk is the catch-all for school papers, medical bills,invitations, coupons, theater tickets, and kid stuff), I reminded myself to "own the net." This messy area of the house is a physical space that I need to "own" whether I like it or not. Being a free-spirited artsy type, I despise all things administrative. (Seriously, I get chest pains even thinking about
doing paperwork). Spending Friday afternoon going through our son's enormous medical bills--the insurance companies don't understand how to configure bills that make sense to the customer!--was not exactly my cup of tea. But someone had to do it, and
that someone was me. I had to take ownership and deal with it. I had to own the net. And so I turned on my favorite classical music station on the stereo, made myself a great cup of coffee, and spent five hours going through the tedious task of dealing
with, pitching, paying, and filing the awful mess on my desk. (It was really ugly.) Once done, I felt an enormous sense of satisfaction. I owned the net.
Do you ever get the laundry room blues? You know: you walk into the area and it's one stain after another. A pile of whites next to an even larger pile of darks. Add to the mix a "snow day": wet mittens, wet socks, wet towels, and dripping boots are wonderful little accoutrements of northern living. An extra load or two never turns me on, but up here in New England, I need to get used to it. I need to own the net in my laundry room...or it will own me! So rather than rolling my eyeballs and stomping my foot, I remind myself to just own it. To just start doing it before it
gets out of control. To make a game out of separating the pinks from the reds and the jeans from the towels. For tossing the frozen outerwear into the dryer before it's too late. When things get really awful--like they did for me the other night when I walked into my laundry room to see a handwritten note by my thirteen-year-
old daughter, pinned to the brand new polo shirt that she bought with her own money, that read: "EMERGENCY!!! Get this stain out tonight so I can wear it tomorrow!" right next to the chocolate stain that resulted from an enthusiastically-mixed batch of birthday brownies she made for a friend of Nick's--I needed some dark chocolate myself just to get though this newly-discovered crisis. (Never hesitate to pop chocolate into your mouth before any laundry room chores by the way.) Whatever, own the net there, too. I'm sure it's part of your everyday reality whether you want
it to be or not.
Ditto for chauffeuring your kiddies around town. Huge potential for boredom and battle fatigue, huh? Own the net. Put a favorite CD in the stereo, use the time to teach an object lesson, or just let them vent about the problems in their little worlds and put on your listening cap.
Same thing for that nightly bubble bath ritual. Surely you have the drill down pat by now. But sometimes those extra puddles on the floor and the escaping rubber duckies just push you right over the edge. So sing a silly song as you wrap your freshly scrubbed babe in his favorite hooded towel and own the net. I used to sing the "King Farouk" song, bundling my kids into hooded-towels-turned-coronation-robes. I sang a goofy song every time I wrapped them up. The sometimes exhausting ritual (I was usually worn out by bath time) maintained some sense of charm as long as I could keep good cheer...and own the net. Those kiddie bubble baths are long gone now, yet my teens spend more time in the bathroom than I could have ever imagined (or remembered spending myself). And teach your older kids to own the net, too, by showing them how to scrub a sink, wipe down a shower stall, and spritz the mirrors.
Owning the net means everything from getting your kids off to the right start in the morning with a healthy breakfast to ensuring healthy lunchboxes to forcing them to bed on time to disciplining them when they break curfew. It means shopping for new clothes when they need them and removing stains when they make them. It means sweeping crumbs off your kitchen floor and cleaning cobwebs off your front door. It means sewing on the buttons when they fall off and stitching up the seams when they rip apart. It means taking care of the myriad mundane details that can either plague
us or inspire us as we work the front line.
Owning the net also means consciously infusing your rooms with beauty, instead of believing that "beauty happens." It means looking for ways to add color and texture, pattern and symmetry, and flowers and sunshine to the corners of your world. To me, it means stitching needlepoint pillows and reproduction samplers. Hooking folk art rugs and painting in oils. Owning the net at home requires it to not only have all systems up and running smoothly; it means having them oiled with beauty and charm.
As you go through the motions of your day--understanding full well that some of them will be "funner" than others--remind yourself to own the net. It goes with the territory. And, if truth be told, we recognize--be it through battle fatigue or
through unexpected joy--that it's all territory which we feel particularly privileged to claim.
And as you gain proficiency in this thing we call motherhood, you'll be surprised to find that owning the net comes pretty naturally after awhile. Your hands, arms and legs will be in ready position, you'll be on the lookout for oncoming balls, and
you'll even be able to hit obnoxious angles.
Blessings!
Carolina
------------------------------------------------------------
A Nick Note
Nick starts another couple days of chemo today, having a break last week. Monday and Tuesday should hold some pretty brutal treatments. Please keep him in your prayers. We pray daily for his complete and total physical healing. He continues to receive
cards from many readers of this newsletter, many from folks he's never even met! It warms our hearts to know that he is enveloped by a canopy of intercession on his behalf! To those of you who continue to hold him tight, thank you!
Monday, February 28, 2005
2/28/05 RM Newsletter: Love is a Verb
Today’s Quote: “We don't yet see things clearly. We're squinting in a fog, peering through a mist. But it won't be long before the weather clears and the sun shines bright! We'll see it all then, see it all as clearly as God sees us, knowing him directly just as he knows us! But for right now, until that completeness, we have three things to do to lead us toward that consummation: Trust steadily in God, hope unswervingly, love extravagantly. And the best of the three is love. (1 Corinthians 13:12-13 from THE MESSAGE)
Love reigns supreme. We know it. We feel it. And yet when we read the qualities of real love, we understand that they are impossible for our human nature to meet:
Love never gives up.
Love cares more for others than for self.
Love doesn't want what it doesn't have.
Love doesn't strut,
Doesn't have a swelled head,
Doesn't force itself on others,
Isn't always "me first,"
Doesn't fly off the handle,
Doesn't keep score of the sins of others,
Doesn't revel when others grovel,
Takes pleasure in the flowering of truth,
Puts up with anything,
Trusts God always,
Always looks for the best,
Never looks back,
But keeps going to the end. (I Corinthians 13: 4-7 THE MESSAGE)
We can’t keep our cool under pressure. Can’t put up with anything. Have you ever peeked inside your teenager’s bedroom and felt your blood pressure rise? Or examined your toddler’s toy messes only to feel an immediate wave of nausea? Grace and charm under pressure? Forgetaboutit! Good grief: my kids leave the kitchen a wreck and I practically go into orbit!
Can’t keep from wanting what we don’t have. I’ve wanted to remodel my kitchen ever since we purchased this house a year and half ago, yet I cannot afford to do so. I flip through kitchen decorating magazines, yearning for the time when I can create a room of beauty…secretly desiring what I do not have.
Don’t strut? Ever watched American Idol or The Apprentice? Quintessential strutting. Humility and meekness never even entered those equations.
We live in a culture that is anti-love. We’re told to watch out for #1. Go for the top—at all costs. Compete against our enemies—as well as our friends. We’re fair weather friends and distant relatives. Neighbors in crisis but unavailable otherwise.
Yet we know that love reigns supreme.
Why love? When we find it so impossible to love in our humanness. The King James Version of 1 Corinthians uses the word “charity” for love. Yet when we think of the common usage of the word, we think of giving to the poor. Almsgiving. Tsunami relief efforts. But that is not the meaning of the word in Greek. The Greek word is “agape.” Love for others that stems from a love for God. Love that is impossible to attain without first loving God. Charity without love for God puts too much emphasis on us. It focuses on how good we are. How generous. How thoughtful. Yet that is not the true meaning of this deepest form of love.
Agape love always seeks the highest good in others. It always looks for the best. Wherever. Whenever. In whomever.
It’s something that you do. It’s a verb. Love of humanity is a reflection of the love which we have for our Maker, and is manifested outwardly in positive, uplifting actions to others. Love is a verb. It means being kind to one another with acts of kindness. Tender-hearted with acts of tenderness. When others weep, weeping with them; when others rejoice, rejoicing with them.
Real love is not premeditated; rather, it is spontaneous. It literally burst out of us in extraordinary ways. Neighbors—as well as total strangers alike—have shown our family real love these past four months since Nick was diagnosed with leukemia. A veritable wellspring of love has erupted throughout Ridgefield, our tiny Connecticut town. Generous acts of mercy during this time of uncertainty have been expressed on a near-daily basis. Rather than people saying: “We’re thinking of you,” or even “We’re praying for you,”—both of which are appreciated very, very much—they’re acting on love. They’re bringing dinner after we’ve endured full days of chemotherapy in a town 90 miles away; they’re driving our children to tennis and violin lessons when I’m trapped in traffic on I-95; they’re sitting with Nick when he’s feeling too crummy to get out and about on his own. One family, the Davidson’s, even took our youngest son, Victor, on a week-long ski vacation during our winter break, as we were not able to leave because of Nick’s chemo schedule.
Extraordinary, extravagant love in action.
Love is a verb.
Oswald Chambers perhaps said it best in My Utmost for His Highest: “If human love does not carry a man beyond himself, it is not love. If love is always discreet, always wise, always sensible and calculating, never carried beyond itself, it is not love at all. It may be affection, it may be warmth of feeling, but it has not the true nature of love in it…There are times when it seems as if God watches to see if we will give Him the abandoned tokens of how genuinely we do love Him…We have to get rid of this notion "Am I of any use?" and make up our minds that we are not, and we maybe near the truth. It is never a question of being of use, but of being of value to God Himself. When we are abandoned to God, He works through us all the time.
There are dozens of people out there who desperately need your touch. Shut-ins who could use good cheer. Elderly folks in nursing homes, who never see a strange face, hear a song sung, or pat a fluffy dog. Moms who have suffered miscarriage who desperately need to hear that they will be okay with time. Neighbors who have just lost a parent who need a hot meal. Friends who are confined with the flu who need a pot of chicken-noodle soup.
I pray that you will feel moved to one extraordinary, extravagant act of love this week. Love is a verb. Go in love.
The Love Chapter/Love Psalm: 1 Cor 13 (from THE MESSAGE)
1 If I speak with human eloquence and angelic ecstasy but don't love, I'm nothing but the creaking of a rusty gate.
2 If I speak God's Word with power, revealing all his mysteries and making everything plain as day, and if I have faith that says to a mountain, "Jump," and it jumps, but I don't love, I'm nothing.
3 If I give everything I own to the poor and even go to the stake to be burned as a martyr, but I don't love, I've gotten nowhere. So, no matter what I say, what I believe, and what I do, I'm bankrupt without love.
4 Love never gives up.
Love cares more for others than for self.
Love doesn't want what it doesn't have.
Love doesn't strut,
Doesn't have a swelled head,
5 Doesn't force itself on others,
Isn't always "me first,"
Doesn't fly off the handle,
Doesn't keep score of the sins of others,
6 Doesn't revel when others grovel,
Takes pleasure in the flowering of truth,
7 Puts up with anything,
Trusts God always,
Always looks for the best,
Never looks back,
But keeps going to the end.
8 Love never dies. Inspired speech will be over some day; praying in tongues will end; understanding will reach its limit. 9 We know only a portion of the truth, and what we say about God is always incomplete. 10 But when the Complete arrives, our incompletes will be canceled.
11 When I was an infant at my mother's breast, I gurgled and cooed like any infant. When I grew up, I left those infant ways for good.
12 We don't yet see things clearly. We're squinting in a fog, peering through a mist. But it won't be long before the weather clears and the sun shines bright! We'll see it all then, see it all as clearly as God sees us, knowing him directly just as he knows us!
13 But for right now, until that completeness, we have three things to do to lead us toward that consummation: Trust steadily in God, hope unswervingly, love extravagantly. And the best of the three is love.
A Nick Note
Nick started another round of chemo on Wednesday. He took the two
days of therapy (Wednesday and Thursday) extremely well, only to
crash over the weekend. It's very powerful stuff. Please continue
to keep him in your prayers. He's received several cards and
handwritten letters this past week. What fabulous words of
encouragement...and love in action! Thank you!!!
------------------------------------------------------------
A Quick Note
Today's my birthday and I'll be celebrating all day long. In
addition to celebrating with my family and friends up here, I
want to take this opportunity to tell you that I will be
celebrating our friendship, too. Thank you for being in my
world. You have encouraged me this past year, have helped me
to grow spiritually, and have walked in step with me during a
particularly tumultuous time. Words cannot express the
gratefulness I hold in my heart for your presence. Know that
I will be holding all of my readers deep within me--
especially today.
Love reigns supreme. We know it. We feel it. And yet when we read the qualities of real love, we understand that they are impossible for our human nature to meet:
Love never gives up.
Love cares more for others than for self.
Love doesn't want what it doesn't have.
Love doesn't strut,
Doesn't have a swelled head,
Doesn't force itself on others,
Isn't always "me first,"
Doesn't fly off the handle,
Doesn't keep score of the sins of others,
Doesn't revel when others grovel,
Takes pleasure in the flowering of truth,
Puts up with anything,
Trusts God always,
Always looks for the best,
Never looks back,
But keeps going to the end. (I Corinthians 13: 4-7 THE MESSAGE)
We can’t keep our cool under pressure. Can’t put up with anything. Have you ever peeked inside your teenager’s bedroom and felt your blood pressure rise? Or examined your toddler’s toy messes only to feel an immediate wave of nausea? Grace and charm under pressure? Forgetaboutit! Good grief: my kids leave the kitchen a wreck and I practically go into orbit!
Can’t keep from wanting what we don’t have. I’ve wanted to remodel my kitchen ever since we purchased this house a year and half ago, yet I cannot afford to do so. I flip through kitchen decorating magazines, yearning for the time when I can create a room of beauty…secretly desiring what I do not have.
Don’t strut? Ever watched American Idol or The Apprentice? Quintessential strutting. Humility and meekness never even entered those equations.
We live in a culture that is anti-love. We’re told to watch out for #1. Go for the top—at all costs. Compete against our enemies—as well as our friends. We’re fair weather friends and distant relatives. Neighbors in crisis but unavailable otherwise.
Yet we know that love reigns supreme.
Why love? When we find it so impossible to love in our humanness. The King James Version of 1 Corinthians uses the word “charity” for love. Yet when we think of the common usage of the word, we think of giving to the poor. Almsgiving. Tsunami relief efforts. But that is not the meaning of the word in Greek. The Greek word is “agape.” Love for others that stems from a love for God. Love that is impossible to attain without first loving God. Charity without love for God puts too much emphasis on us. It focuses on how good we are. How generous. How thoughtful. Yet that is not the true meaning of this deepest form of love.
Agape love always seeks the highest good in others. It always looks for the best. Wherever. Whenever. In whomever.
It’s something that you do. It’s a verb. Love of humanity is a reflection of the love which we have for our Maker, and is manifested outwardly in positive, uplifting actions to others. Love is a verb. It means being kind to one another with acts of kindness. Tender-hearted with acts of tenderness. When others weep, weeping with them; when others rejoice, rejoicing with them.
Real love is not premeditated; rather, it is spontaneous. It literally burst out of us in extraordinary ways. Neighbors—as well as total strangers alike—have shown our family real love these past four months since Nick was diagnosed with leukemia. A veritable wellspring of love has erupted throughout Ridgefield, our tiny Connecticut town. Generous acts of mercy during this time of uncertainty have been expressed on a near-daily basis. Rather than people saying: “We’re thinking of you,” or even “We’re praying for you,”—both of which are appreciated very, very much—they’re acting on love. They’re bringing dinner after we’ve endured full days of chemotherapy in a town 90 miles away; they’re driving our children to tennis and violin lessons when I’m trapped in traffic on I-95; they’re sitting with Nick when he’s feeling too crummy to get out and about on his own. One family, the Davidson’s, even took our youngest son, Victor, on a week-long ski vacation during our winter break, as we were not able to leave because of Nick’s chemo schedule.
Extraordinary, extravagant love in action.
Love is a verb.
Oswald Chambers perhaps said it best in My Utmost for His Highest: “If human love does not carry a man beyond himself, it is not love. If love is always discreet, always wise, always sensible and calculating, never carried beyond itself, it is not love at all. It may be affection, it may be warmth of feeling, but it has not the true nature of love in it…There are times when it seems as if God watches to see if we will give Him the abandoned tokens of how genuinely we do love Him…We have to get rid of this notion "Am I of any use?" and make up our minds that we are not, and we maybe near the truth. It is never a question of being of use, but of being of value to God Himself. When we are abandoned to God, He works through us all the time.
There are dozens of people out there who desperately need your touch. Shut-ins who could use good cheer. Elderly folks in nursing homes, who never see a strange face, hear a song sung, or pat a fluffy dog. Moms who have suffered miscarriage who desperately need to hear that they will be okay with time. Neighbors who have just lost a parent who need a hot meal. Friends who are confined with the flu who need a pot of chicken-noodle soup.
I pray that you will feel moved to one extraordinary, extravagant act of love this week. Love is a verb. Go in love.
The Love Chapter/Love Psalm: 1 Cor 13 (from THE MESSAGE)
1 If I speak with human eloquence and angelic ecstasy but don't love, I'm nothing but the creaking of a rusty gate.
2 If I speak God's Word with power, revealing all his mysteries and making everything plain as day, and if I have faith that says to a mountain, "Jump," and it jumps, but I don't love, I'm nothing.
3 If I give everything I own to the poor and even go to the stake to be burned as a martyr, but I don't love, I've gotten nowhere. So, no matter what I say, what I believe, and what I do, I'm bankrupt without love.
4 Love never gives up.
Love cares more for others than for self.
Love doesn't want what it doesn't have.
Love doesn't strut,
Doesn't have a swelled head,
5 Doesn't force itself on others,
Isn't always "me first,"
Doesn't fly off the handle,
Doesn't keep score of the sins of others,
6 Doesn't revel when others grovel,
Takes pleasure in the flowering of truth,
7 Puts up with anything,
Trusts God always,
Always looks for the best,
Never looks back,
But keeps going to the end.
8 Love never dies. Inspired speech will be over some day; praying in tongues will end; understanding will reach its limit. 9 We know only a portion of the truth, and what we say about God is always incomplete. 10 But when the Complete arrives, our incompletes will be canceled.
11 When I was an infant at my mother's breast, I gurgled and cooed like any infant. When I grew up, I left those infant ways for good.
12 We don't yet see things clearly. We're squinting in a fog, peering through a mist. But it won't be long before the weather clears and the sun shines bright! We'll see it all then, see it all as clearly as God sees us, knowing him directly just as he knows us!
13 But for right now, until that completeness, we have three things to do to lead us toward that consummation: Trust steadily in God, hope unswervingly, love extravagantly. And the best of the three is love.
A Nick Note
Nick started another round of chemo on Wednesday. He took the two
days of therapy (Wednesday and Thursday) extremely well, only to
crash over the weekend. It's very powerful stuff. Please continue
to keep him in your prayers. He's received several cards and
handwritten letters this past week. What fabulous words of
encouragement...and love in action! Thank you!!!
------------------------------------------------------------
A Quick Note
Today's my birthday and I'll be celebrating all day long. In
addition to celebrating with my family and friends up here, I
want to take this opportunity to tell you that I will be
celebrating our friendship, too. Thank you for being in my
world. You have encouraged me this past year, have helped me
to grow spiritually, and have walked in step with me during a
particularly tumultuous time. Words cannot express the
gratefulness I hold in my heart for your presence. Know that
I will be holding all of my readers deep within me--
especially today.
Monday, February 21, 2005
2/21/05 RM Newsletter: Childish Folly
Today’s Quote: “Folly is bound up in the heart of a child….” Proverbs 22:15
I threw out my back this weekend. Whether it was on the tennis court or in the weight room, I'll never know. Regardless, it's been a miserable experience. Heating pads. Sofa time. More painand discomfort than I was ready to deal with.Yesterday, gathering impatience with too much HGTV (I think Icould now single-handedly renovate my bathrooms, excavate mykitchen, and re-decorate my son's bedroom on $100); too much news(it's all so depressing); and too much of "the art of doing nothing," I called out in near-desperation to my thirteen-year-old daughter: "Cristina. How much do you love me?""That depends," she shot back. "What do you want?" She knew the drill."Will you please make mommy a cup of coffee? Fill the water to the "3" line on the pot and measure two of those small scoopers inside the coffee canister into the unbleached filter." I have very precise measures for coffee; if I'm treating myself to the experience only once or twice a day, it's got to be just right. Icouldn't let it be blown because I had failed to give proper direction....
About ten minutes later, there was no sign of coffee. No percolating sounds, ringing like Pavlov's bell to my salivating spirit. No fabulous aromas, wafting towards my upwards-tilted nose. No evidence of that last loud noise of air and water mixing through the system signaling that the process has ended successfully.In too much pain to hoist myself off the sofa-but longing too much for that freshly-brewed perfect cup of Heine Brothers coffee-I gradually maneuvered myself towards the kitchen to checkout the situation. Cristina was out of earshot, as repeated attempts at getting her attention met with silence.I saw a very disappointing still-life: A coffee pot sat with water filled to the "3" mark on top of the coffee-maker burner. A quick flip of the filter proved that she had, indeed, filled an unbleached paper filter with coffee. And she had turned the switch to "on."At this point, I had to find my daughter. The conditions for an object lesson were too ripe. Screams from the bottom of our staircase finally made it to her bedroom, where she was particularly pre-occupied with make-up and hair. She bounced down the stairs into the kitchen, where I escorted her over to the coffee machine. "Cristina. Do you notice anything wrong with this picture?"She studied it a moment. "No, Mom. I did everything you asked me to do. I put the water to the "3" mark, measured two scoops of coffee into the filter and turned it to "on."I hovered over the coffee pot, waved my arms as best Icould-enduring back pain while at it-and said "Abracadabra. Turn this water into coffee." No response. "Abracadabra. Pleeeeeease turn this water into coffee." Cristina giggled."OK, Cristina. We don't believe in magic. We believe in prayer. Let's see if God will turn this water into coffee. Dear Lord...."And then she made me stop."But mom, I don't get it. I did everything you told me to do."It took me a minute-or two-to react with an appropriate response. I knew this poor child is not lacking in the brain department; I had her tested for Florida's gifted program-and she got in. I knew her hearing was good; she did listen attentively to my directions-and she did everything exactly as I had instructed. So how could this early-teen, who had seen me make coffee a hundred times in her lifetime, not get that in order for the water to convert into coffee it had to be poured into the machine. That water cannot jump from a pot into a filter. That ground coffee beans, no matter how special, organic, and handpicked with proper labor standards, could not cascade into the pot unless they had been in contact with steaming water! Had I failed as a mom?!?No. I just had a teenage girl with swirling hormones and a brain on space-drive. She was going to an out-of-town mall that afternoon with two of her best friends, and her excitement over the prospect of new clothes, new faces, and new shops simply crowded out brain space for anything as mundane as making a cup of coffee (for her bedridden mom).
Sometimes kids do the stupidest things. We look at them and scratch our heads and think "What in the world were they thinking?" And we know they've been taught and guided and parented well; they've been fed and bathed and have gotten enough sleep; they've been rocked and read to and attended to. And yet they still do the darndest things.We need to be constantly reminded-and our kids doing silly, stupid stuff on a fairly frequent basis will be reminder enough-that they are works in progress. That they have a long way to walk up the learning curve. That things that we take for granted as "common sense," "street smarts," or "having a good head on your shoulders" come in a variety of shapes and sizes. That we should never assume that a three-point plan will get the project to completion. Sometimes, you need that fourth point.
As you move about this whirling, swirling sphere of motherhood, try to remain patient with your young ones underfoot. Some are too hungry or too excited to listen. Two-year-olds have tantrums to get attention. Some are hormone-impaired. They break curfew, sneak out of the house, and assume that all movies playing at the theatre are just fine by you. Some have an "in one ear and out the other" modus operandi. They didn't hear it, didn't see it, didn't do it. "Not me" did it. (Does "Not me" live at your house like he does at mine?)
Be patient. Be calm. Keep parenting. Motherhood can be particularly discouraging. I've been discouraged a lot lately by my own kids failing to do the things they've been taught-over and over again-to do. Laundry lies on bedroom and bathroom floors rather than in the central hamper; dirty dishes stand stagnant on bedroom desks and basement tray tables rather than freshly cleaned in dish drainers; beds display crumpled sheets rather than ones properly tucked in. It's not like my kids don't know how to do this stuff. I've patiently-and repeatedly!!-taught them how to pick up what's dropped, clean what's dirty, and fix what's broken.But kids are still in development mode. And they will move forward one minute only to move backwards the next. And then they'll step sideways for a day before they sprint ahead for a week. I suspect we'll all find-one day-that they'll turn out just fine. Not necessarily because of our efforts in parenting. But in spite of them.
So move onward and upward. Stay the course. Parenting is not for cowards. Be in-your-face when you need to be. And relaxed when that's the right response.
Wishing you patience for the week ahead! Carolina
A Nick Note
Nick's counts were high enough last week to go to school but too low to start the next round of chemo as planned. So he had the week off. He was thrilled to get to school everyday and get up to speed with his workload there. Spending time in class with his friends was especially satisfying; being able to enjoy his normal routine always lifts his spirits. We were all thankful for the break, and used the opportunity to get caught up in all the things which have fallen behind around here. He starts the next round Wednesday. Please keep his endurance and stamina in your prayers, as well as his complete and total physical healing.
I threw out my back this weekend. Whether it was on the tennis court or in the weight room, I'll never know. Regardless, it's been a miserable experience. Heating pads. Sofa time. More painand discomfort than I was ready to deal with.Yesterday, gathering impatience with too much HGTV (I think Icould now single-handedly renovate my bathrooms, excavate mykitchen, and re-decorate my son's bedroom on $100); too much news(it's all so depressing); and too much of "the art of doing nothing," I called out in near-desperation to my thirteen-year-old daughter: "Cristina. How much do you love me?""That depends," she shot back. "What do you want?" She knew the drill."Will you please make mommy a cup of coffee? Fill the water to the "3" line on the pot and measure two of those small scoopers inside the coffee canister into the unbleached filter." I have very precise measures for coffee; if I'm treating myself to the experience only once or twice a day, it's got to be just right. Icouldn't let it be blown because I had failed to give proper direction....
About ten minutes later, there was no sign of coffee. No percolating sounds, ringing like Pavlov's bell to my salivating spirit. No fabulous aromas, wafting towards my upwards-tilted nose. No evidence of that last loud noise of air and water mixing through the system signaling that the process has ended successfully.In too much pain to hoist myself off the sofa-but longing too much for that freshly-brewed perfect cup of Heine Brothers coffee-I gradually maneuvered myself towards the kitchen to checkout the situation. Cristina was out of earshot, as repeated attempts at getting her attention met with silence.I saw a very disappointing still-life: A coffee pot sat with water filled to the "3" mark on top of the coffee-maker burner. A quick flip of the filter proved that she had, indeed, filled an unbleached paper filter with coffee. And she had turned the switch to "on."At this point, I had to find my daughter. The conditions for an object lesson were too ripe. Screams from the bottom of our staircase finally made it to her bedroom, where she was particularly pre-occupied with make-up and hair. She bounced down the stairs into the kitchen, where I escorted her over to the coffee machine. "Cristina. Do you notice anything wrong with this picture?"She studied it a moment. "No, Mom. I did everything you asked me to do. I put the water to the "3" mark, measured two scoops of coffee into the filter and turned it to "on."I hovered over the coffee pot, waved my arms as best Icould-enduring back pain while at it-and said "Abracadabra. Turn this water into coffee." No response. "Abracadabra. Pleeeeeease turn this water into coffee." Cristina giggled."OK, Cristina. We don't believe in magic. We believe in prayer. Let's see if God will turn this water into coffee. Dear Lord...."And then she made me stop."But mom, I don't get it. I did everything you told me to do."It took me a minute-or two-to react with an appropriate response. I knew this poor child is not lacking in the brain department; I had her tested for Florida's gifted program-and she got in. I knew her hearing was good; she did listen attentively to my directions-and she did everything exactly as I had instructed. So how could this early-teen, who had seen me make coffee a hundred times in her lifetime, not get that in order for the water to convert into coffee it had to be poured into the machine. That water cannot jump from a pot into a filter. That ground coffee beans, no matter how special, organic, and handpicked with proper labor standards, could not cascade into the pot unless they had been in contact with steaming water! Had I failed as a mom?!?No. I just had a teenage girl with swirling hormones and a brain on space-drive. She was going to an out-of-town mall that afternoon with two of her best friends, and her excitement over the prospect of new clothes, new faces, and new shops simply crowded out brain space for anything as mundane as making a cup of coffee (for her bedridden mom).
Sometimes kids do the stupidest things. We look at them and scratch our heads and think "What in the world were they thinking?" And we know they've been taught and guided and parented well; they've been fed and bathed and have gotten enough sleep; they've been rocked and read to and attended to. And yet they still do the darndest things.We need to be constantly reminded-and our kids doing silly, stupid stuff on a fairly frequent basis will be reminder enough-that they are works in progress. That they have a long way to walk up the learning curve. That things that we take for granted as "common sense," "street smarts," or "having a good head on your shoulders" come in a variety of shapes and sizes. That we should never assume that a three-point plan will get the project to completion. Sometimes, you need that fourth point.
As you move about this whirling, swirling sphere of motherhood, try to remain patient with your young ones underfoot. Some are too hungry or too excited to listen. Two-year-olds have tantrums to get attention. Some are hormone-impaired. They break curfew, sneak out of the house, and assume that all movies playing at the theatre are just fine by you. Some have an "in one ear and out the other" modus operandi. They didn't hear it, didn't see it, didn't do it. "Not me" did it. (Does "Not me" live at your house like he does at mine?)
Be patient. Be calm. Keep parenting. Motherhood can be particularly discouraging. I've been discouraged a lot lately by my own kids failing to do the things they've been taught-over and over again-to do. Laundry lies on bedroom and bathroom floors rather than in the central hamper; dirty dishes stand stagnant on bedroom desks and basement tray tables rather than freshly cleaned in dish drainers; beds display crumpled sheets rather than ones properly tucked in. It's not like my kids don't know how to do this stuff. I've patiently-and repeatedly!!-taught them how to pick up what's dropped, clean what's dirty, and fix what's broken.But kids are still in development mode. And they will move forward one minute only to move backwards the next. And then they'll step sideways for a day before they sprint ahead for a week. I suspect we'll all find-one day-that they'll turn out just fine. Not necessarily because of our efforts in parenting. But in spite of them.
So move onward and upward. Stay the course. Parenting is not for cowards. Be in-your-face when you need to be. And relaxed when that's the right response.
Wishing you patience for the week ahead! Carolina
A Nick Note
Nick's counts were high enough last week to go to school but too low to start the next round of chemo as planned. So he had the week off. He was thrilled to get to school everyday and get up to speed with his workload there. Spending time in class with his friends was especially satisfying; being able to enjoy his normal routine always lifts his spirits. We were all thankful for the break, and used the opportunity to get caught up in all the things which have fallen behind around here. He starts the next round Wednesday. Please keep his endurance and stamina in your prayers, as well as his complete and total physical healing.
Monday, February 14, 2005
2/14/2005 RM Newsletter: Be My Valentine
Chocolate wrapped up with a big red bow? Hershey’s kisses by the bagful? Roses brought in by the dozen? Valentine’s Day gifts with free shipping popping up all over the internet and landing on your doorstep?
Yeah, yeah. Dark and rich. Lots of it. Red and white. We get it.
Don’t get me wrong. My eternally favorite Valentine’s gift is dark chocolate. As I’ve put myself on a dark-chocolate deprivation diet these past few weeks…and feeling pretty crummy because of it I might add…the presence of chocolate in my house these next few days will be a sight for sore eyes (and for my sore brain and heart, too. No one can argue: dark chocolate is fabulously emotionally therapeutic.) So I’m all for buying your sweetie dark chocolate for Valentine’s Day! And I’ll never turn down flowers of any kind, nor last-minute gifts bought on sale!
But let’s see if we can get a little more creative here. This holiday has existed since Pope Gelasius officially declared it a Christian holiday in 496 A.D. to honor St. Valentine, the patron saint of lovers. But let’s face it: whether it is celebrated with religious significance in your family or not, this holiday comes with certain expectations. Expressions of love may vary from family to family, but we all want to be treated to something sweet, something we might not do for ourselves, and something that reads: “I am thinking of you today my love. Relax. Enjoy it. You’re so worthy of my undying devotion and love.” Be it for the sole enjoyment of your spouse—or for your kids, parents, and friends as well—think about ways that show you are thinking of those you love on this most special of days.
Here goes: ROCKET MOM’S Top 14 Ways to Say “I Love You” on Valentine’s Day:
1) Bring food to your sweetie in bed. Strawberries or raspberries, along with a fresh pastry, French toast (or “freedom toast”), or scrambled eggs, served with piping hot tea or coffee, make for the perfect way to start the day. Ernie surprised me Saturday morning with a cup of Starbuck’s and a freshly baked croissant (I rarely eat bread or pastries so it was especially precious) as I was getting ready to hop into the shower. A wildly romantic way to start the morning (if you know what I mean…)
2) Buy your sweetie fabulous chocolates. Please don’t do the normal, everyday stuff that he or she eats all year long. Expand your “chocolate wardrobe.” Visit your favorite chocolatier or specialty food shop to buy exotic chocolate. And be sure to buy enough to last at least one day. If you’re a man, you probably won’t get this, but it reads: “Buy your sweetie some wonderful stuff by the case!” If you’re a woman, no instructions necessary. If you’re menopausal, I’m sure you’re already one step ahead of me.
3) Bring home at least one long-stemmed rose. Red, pink, and white all work. Rose re-spelled spells “EROS” after all. It’s a sign: roses are meant to be given on Valentine’s Day. No need to splurge on two dozen…unless you want to, of course. This holiday started out with humble intentions by a Catholic pope for crying out loud, and has become wildly commercialized. So don’t feel like you need to buy into all of that; go simple and humble if you prefer low-keying it. But do treat your sweetie to a flower or two.
4) Write handmade love poems. Not just for your honeybee, but for all of the tootsie rolls in your home, too. Place them in envelopes next to their beds, in a pretty china bowl in the dining room, or next to their backpacks. For the language-challenged, rest assured that two lines will do. Fall back on “roses are red and violets are blue” to get you started (if you must). And remember, poems don’t have to rhyme. Keep them simple but stylin’. Encourage older children to write poems for their siblings and for mom and dad, too!
5) Pull out your wedding photos and your wedding video. Re-live the memory of your wedding day. Listen once again to the vows you took. Delight in the way your spouse looked on that most special of days in the history of your family. Affirm to your mate that he or she looks even more beautiful today that on your wedding day.
6) Cook heart-shaped food. Be it pancakes or waffles, muffins or scones: bring out the heart-shaped cookie cutters, waffle irons, and baking sheets. This is the one day of the year to truly use them. Splurge on whipped cream, real butter, and pure maple syrup.
7) Leave love notes in your children’s lunchboxes. Make your own, using simple stationery, or just use index cards and stickers. Write one thing that you love about your child. Tucked safely in with his or her lunch, it’s a surefire way to let him know that your love is secure.
8) Make or buy simple gifts. Nothing extravagant. I bought Ernie some toiletries to complete the set he received at Christmas. A bottle of spearmint-scented body spray and another of bed linen spray are just enough to let him know I didn’t forget him on Valentine’s Day (of course there’s the shower thing…) My kids are each receiving tiny boxes of handmade truffles, along with one small gift, unique to each one of their interests.
9) Wrap simple gifts extravagantly. This is the time to use gorgeous wrapping papers and bows. And display them in full view. One of the best parts about Valentine’s Day is the element of mystery and suspense. The gifts I have bought will be seen by my family for a couple days—wrapped and in view on our dining room table—so that they have some time to wonder what lies underneath all of that hot pink wrap and big white bows.
10) Do something unexpected. Someone in your family may be wishing for some thing—large or small. It might seem trivial to us, but monumental to your toddler. Go ahead and surprise her! Valentine’s Day gives you a great excuse to express your love with a token gift of appreciation. And it doesn’t have to cost a dime, either. Maybe junior wants a play date in the park, just with you. Perhaps your wife has been bugging you to fix the kitchen sink or hang a picture in your foyer; your hubby may be nagging you to sew on a button. Simply organizing your husband’s sock drawer—or tool box—would be a wonderful gesture that reads: “I thought of you today!” Think of similar yet simple loving gestures for your kids: ironing a shirt or cleaning out a messy bathroom drawer shouts: “I love you.” And allowing your teenage daughter to spend thirty extra minutes on the phone today qualifies as an unexpected love gift that she’ll treasure for weeks!
11) Do dinner in. Few things could be easier to make than beef tenderloin, yet it is one of the most satisfying foods on the face of the earth. Encourage the kids to get to bed early, and plan on a thoroughly romantic candlelight dinner in the comfort of your own home. With music softly playing, china perfectly set, and sterling silver shining: the evening can be executed with relative ease, and is guaranteed to bring pleasure to both you and your spouse. The experience of dining—rather than eating—is one I am convicted to bring to my own family. It is physically, emotionally, and spiritually satisfying.
12) Do lunch out. Schedule a mid-day tryst with your spouse. You’ll save a lot of money by dining out at lunch instead of at dinner, and the infrequency with which you probably do this sort of thing will make it even more special. If your husband or wife works a great distance from your place of work or your workplace in the home, this may present some creative challenges. But see if you can sneak it in. Just for today.
13) Give massages. Total body work, back rubs, and foot massages are all perfect Valentine’s Day gifts for all of the members of your family. The gift of touch is a gift that every single person alive today needs…and needs much more than we think, and much more than any one of us probably gets. Be it extra hugs or warm rubs with massage oil (or even Ben-Gay!), commit to using your hands by giving the gift of physical touch on Valentine’s Day.
14) Show up naked. Can’t believe I wrote that. But after asking my husband to help me with this list, this was his sole, shining contribution. Truth be told, it was actually our old pastor, Mike Breaux, who implored us mothers to do just that. Not just on Valentine’s Day, but everyday. He went through a litany of things that men need to do to express romantic love to their wives, with only one thing wives need do to show romantic love for their husbands. And this was it. Funny: of all the sermon points my husband has memorized over these past twentysomething years, he chose this one. Whether this proves that men still do have a one-track mind…or that behind every rocket mom is a rocket man, I’m not quite sure. But I can attest to the fact that, if you’re too exhausted to do the other thirteen; too spent to even think about buying or creating, wrapping or shipping; and too broke to buy out, lunch out, or bake out, this is really all you need to do on Valentine’s Day. See for yourself.
I hope you enjoy a day of love and laughter with you and yours on Valentine’s Day!
Hugsandkisses,
Carolina
Yeah, yeah. Dark and rich. Lots of it. Red and white. We get it.
Don’t get me wrong. My eternally favorite Valentine’s gift is dark chocolate. As I’ve put myself on a dark-chocolate deprivation diet these past few weeks…and feeling pretty crummy because of it I might add…the presence of chocolate in my house these next few days will be a sight for sore eyes (and for my sore brain and heart, too. No one can argue: dark chocolate is fabulously emotionally therapeutic.) So I’m all for buying your sweetie dark chocolate for Valentine’s Day! And I’ll never turn down flowers of any kind, nor last-minute gifts bought on sale!
But let’s see if we can get a little more creative here. This holiday has existed since Pope Gelasius officially declared it a Christian holiday in 496 A.D. to honor St. Valentine, the patron saint of lovers. But let’s face it: whether it is celebrated with religious significance in your family or not, this holiday comes with certain expectations. Expressions of love may vary from family to family, but we all want to be treated to something sweet, something we might not do for ourselves, and something that reads: “I am thinking of you today my love. Relax. Enjoy it. You’re so worthy of my undying devotion and love.” Be it for the sole enjoyment of your spouse—or for your kids, parents, and friends as well—think about ways that show you are thinking of those you love on this most special of days.
Here goes: ROCKET MOM’S Top 14 Ways to Say “I Love You” on Valentine’s Day:
1) Bring food to your sweetie in bed. Strawberries or raspberries, along with a fresh pastry, French toast (or “freedom toast”), or scrambled eggs, served with piping hot tea or coffee, make for the perfect way to start the day. Ernie surprised me Saturday morning with a cup of Starbuck’s and a freshly baked croissant (I rarely eat bread or pastries so it was especially precious) as I was getting ready to hop into the shower. A wildly romantic way to start the morning (if you know what I mean…)
2) Buy your sweetie fabulous chocolates. Please don’t do the normal, everyday stuff that he or she eats all year long. Expand your “chocolate wardrobe.” Visit your favorite chocolatier or specialty food shop to buy exotic chocolate. And be sure to buy enough to last at least one day. If you’re a man, you probably won’t get this, but it reads: “Buy your sweetie some wonderful stuff by the case!” If you’re a woman, no instructions necessary. If you’re menopausal, I’m sure you’re already one step ahead of me.
3) Bring home at least one long-stemmed rose. Red, pink, and white all work. Rose re-spelled spells “EROS” after all. It’s a sign: roses are meant to be given on Valentine’s Day. No need to splurge on two dozen…unless you want to, of course. This holiday started out with humble intentions by a Catholic pope for crying out loud, and has become wildly commercialized. So don’t feel like you need to buy into all of that; go simple and humble if you prefer low-keying it. But do treat your sweetie to a flower or two.
4) Write handmade love poems. Not just for your honeybee, but for all of the tootsie rolls in your home, too. Place them in envelopes next to their beds, in a pretty china bowl in the dining room, or next to their backpacks. For the language-challenged, rest assured that two lines will do. Fall back on “roses are red and violets are blue” to get you started (if you must). And remember, poems don’t have to rhyme. Keep them simple but stylin’. Encourage older children to write poems for their siblings and for mom and dad, too!
5) Pull out your wedding photos and your wedding video. Re-live the memory of your wedding day. Listen once again to the vows you took. Delight in the way your spouse looked on that most special of days in the history of your family. Affirm to your mate that he or she looks even more beautiful today that on your wedding day.
6) Cook heart-shaped food. Be it pancakes or waffles, muffins or scones: bring out the heart-shaped cookie cutters, waffle irons, and baking sheets. This is the one day of the year to truly use them. Splurge on whipped cream, real butter, and pure maple syrup.
7) Leave love notes in your children’s lunchboxes. Make your own, using simple stationery, or just use index cards and stickers. Write one thing that you love about your child. Tucked safely in with his or her lunch, it’s a surefire way to let him know that your love is secure.
8) Make or buy simple gifts. Nothing extravagant. I bought Ernie some toiletries to complete the set he received at Christmas. A bottle of spearmint-scented body spray and another of bed linen spray are just enough to let him know I didn’t forget him on Valentine’s Day (of course there’s the shower thing…) My kids are each receiving tiny boxes of handmade truffles, along with one small gift, unique to each one of their interests.
9) Wrap simple gifts extravagantly. This is the time to use gorgeous wrapping papers and bows. And display them in full view. One of the best parts about Valentine’s Day is the element of mystery and suspense. The gifts I have bought will be seen by my family for a couple days—wrapped and in view on our dining room table—so that they have some time to wonder what lies underneath all of that hot pink wrap and big white bows.
10) Do something unexpected. Someone in your family may be wishing for some thing—large or small. It might seem trivial to us, but monumental to your toddler. Go ahead and surprise her! Valentine’s Day gives you a great excuse to express your love with a token gift of appreciation. And it doesn’t have to cost a dime, either. Maybe junior wants a play date in the park, just with you. Perhaps your wife has been bugging you to fix the kitchen sink or hang a picture in your foyer; your hubby may be nagging you to sew on a button. Simply organizing your husband’s sock drawer—or tool box—would be a wonderful gesture that reads: “I thought of you today!” Think of similar yet simple loving gestures for your kids: ironing a shirt or cleaning out a messy bathroom drawer shouts: “I love you.” And allowing your teenage daughter to spend thirty extra minutes on the phone today qualifies as an unexpected love gift that she’ll treasure for weeks!
11) Do dinner in. Few things could be easier to make than beef tenderloin, yet it is one of the most satisfying foods on the face of the earth. Encourage the kids to get to bed early, and plan on a thoroughly romantic candlelight dinner in the comfort of your own home. With music softly playing, china perfectly set, and sterling silver shining: the evening can be executed with relative ease, and is guaranteed to bring pleasure to both you and your spouse. The experience of dining—rather than eating—is one I am convicted to bring to my own family. It is physically, emotionally, and spiritually satisfying.
12) Do lunch out. Schedule a mid-day tryst with your spouse. You’ll save a lot of money by dining out at lunch instead of at dinner, and the infrequency with which you probably do this sort of thing will make it even more special. If your husband or wife works a great distance from your place of work or your workplace in the home, this may present some creative challenges. But see if you can sneak it in. Just for today.
13) Give massages. Total body work, back rubs, and foot massages are all perfect Valentine’s Day gifts for all of the members of your family. The gift of touch is a gift that every single person alive today needs…and needs much more than we think, and much more than any one of us probably gets. Be it extra hugs or warm rubs with massage oil (or even Ben-Gay!), commit to using your hands by giving the gift of physical touch on Valentine’s Day.
14) Show up naked. Can’t believe I wrote that. But after asking my husband to help me with this list, this was his sole, shining contribution. Truth be told, it was actually our old pastor, Mike Breaux, who implored us mothers to do just that. Not just on Valentine’s Day, but everyday. He went through a litany of things that men need to do to express romantic love to their wives, with only one thing wives need do to show romantic love for their husbands. And this was it. Funny: of all the sermon points my husband has memorized over these past twentysomething years, he chose this one. Whether this proves that men still do have a one-track mind…or that behind every rocket mom is a rocket man, I’m not quite sure. But I can attest to the fact that, if you’re too exhausted to do the other thirteen; too spent to even think about buying or creating, wrapping or shipping; and too broke to buy out, lunch out, or bake out, this is really all you need to do on Valentine’s Day. See for yourself.
I hope you enjoy a day of love and laughter with you and yours on Valentine’s Day!
Hugsandkisses,
Carolina
Monday, February 07, 2005
2/07/05 RM Newsletter: Be There and Be Glad
Today's Quote: "It is impossible to live a pleasant life without
living wisely and well and justly, and it is impossible to live
wisely and well and justly without living pleasantly." Epicurus
(third century B.C.)
Some people have figured out how to thoroughly enjoy life.
It was evident last night when I was able to enjoy a concert by our local symphony orchestra. As my husband felt like he had just caught a touch of the flu, he told me at the eleventh hour that he needed to get to bed early and let me go it alone. My initial “ugh” at a Saturday date night sans my date (several last minute phone calls to friends offering our unused ticket led nowhere; our younger kids were too tired from playing in the snow all day to even think about it; Nick was neutropenic and was staying close to home) almost forced me to stay home, too. I had spent a couple hours earlier in the day disassembling Christmas decorations, but “life got in the way” and I was not able to complete that lovely little ritual (kids to be picked up; errands to be run; much-needed manicure to be enjoyed), so I had the perfect excuse to stay home and finish that project. What with garlands strewn all over my foyer floor, our artificial tree still standing, angels perched on windowsills, and folk art Santas standing watch on every available tabletop: there was certainly plenty of work to do in order to get my house whipped back into post-Holiday shape.
But I knew that the concert would be powerful. Not only was a guest pianist performing, but Beethoven’s Overture to Coriolanus (a favorite) and Mozart’s 40th Symphony were on tap. With freshly-done nails and an urge to not only escape the chaos of my half-disassembled holiday décor; I looked forward to the self-indulgent luxury of enjoying beauty, if just for one night. So I struck out on my own.
Once there, of course, I was thrilled that momentum overcame my initial impulse towards inertia. Settled into my seat, with good friends directly behind me and others scattered throughout the auditorium, I closed my eyes and prepared for the enjoyment which was to come full force. I embraced the infrequent freedom to “be there and be glad.” To allow classical music to soothe the emotional exhaustion which has burdened me quite heavily lately, to relish the solitude, and to be fully grateful for the evening’s aesthetic feast.
Beethoven did not disappoint. (He never does.) Indeed, his overture was conducted with unusually high energy. And then immediately after intermission, we enjoyed the ritual of “the golden baton.” At last spring’s fundraising gala, our symphony president, Sabina, entered the bid which would seal this honor: conducting seventy-plus of the finest musicians in New England for one piece. She had looked forward to the event for almost a year. And it showed. Dressed in a gorgeous black ensemble, she took to the stage with gusto! Tapping the beat of Wagner’s Prelude to Act III of Lohengrin with her right arm, she used her left arm to add nuance. Her own artistic expression. While conducting, she sang.
I wore a smile from the moment she took the stage until the moment she left it. Not only because I enjoyed watching her conduct. But because I knew how much she did. She was clearly enjoying herself. She had a “be there and be glad” attitude. She had a dance in her step and a song in her heart. She knew this was a moment to be treasured for the rest of her life; we knew it, too.
A party afterwards to honor the guest soloist, the event sponsors, and our “guest conductor” upheld my sentiment. Cheerful conversation around an overflowing food table, joyful celebration with uplifted champagne glasses, and intimate catching-up with old and new friends alike, all taking place in the restored barn that our local art guild calls “home,” placed high priority on enjoying life. On living pleasantly. No arguing over dichotomous and divisive politics. No cold shoulders. Only a common love of beautiful music, and of food and wine which nourish both body and soul.
Moments like these might seem superfluous to the outside observer. Casual and common, they could appear repetitive. Redundant. Stuffy. Snobby. But beauty cannot be denied. Our spirits crave it and our emotions run dry without it. We long to feast our eyes on beautiful objects and our ears on beautiful harmonies. We need to forge relationships and to cement friendships. And staying home every night just doesn’t offer that.
Motherhood—especially in its early stages—can be extremely isolating. It is, indeed, difficult—if not downright impossible—to get out when one is nursing a newborn babe or straddled with toddlers trapped in the “barnacle syndrome.” Resources of time, energy, and funds can prevent those of us with the deepest desires to “be there and be glad” from embracing and enjoying evenings like this.
Now more than ever, with the rush of the holidays clearly behind us, yet without the freshness of spring immediately before us, it is easy to get blindsighted by February’s dreariness. By winter’s—and motherhood’s—isolation and loneliness. Lack of sunshine and fresh air can make curmudgeons out of the most cheerful among us. No flowers to brighten our days or bright colors to brighten our wardrobes, nor warm weather to brighten our plans; February presents opportunities to “be there and be glad” but we’ll probably have to look harder for them. So invite a friend to coffee, meet the playgroup moms for lunch, dawdle over a new decorating magazine, enjoy a manicure…or simply turn on your favorite classical music station to imbue beauty into your own home.
Enjoying life, living wisely and well, and infusing it with pleasantness certainly means living with integrity. It means building character. Growing through pain and suffering. But it also means allowing the tiniest, simplest acts of everyday living to be enjoyed with clarity. With gladness. Curling up with a good book has held pleasure for mankind through the centuries. As has breaking bread with friends and family. Or sitting by the fire. Watching a movie with your kids. Walking the dog. Taking a hike. Simple pleasures. Breaks in the routineness of everyday life. Treats of solitude as well as of companionship. All are to be treasured. Embraced. With gladness.
I hope you are able to break the dizzying pace of your week and do something—anything—which allows you, too, to be there and be glad.
Hugs,
Carolina
A Nick Note
Nick just finished the second round of the intensification stage; the hardest two rounds are now behind him! He has sailed through both with flying colors, pleasing both doctors and parents alike. I dare say I could not handle the protocol with the grace with which he has. He has tapped into the deepest reservoirs of strength and faith to endure extremely uncomfortable bouts of chemo-induced nausea, fatigue, and muscle aches and pain. His “grace under fire” has been a powerful testimony to not only Ernie, the kids, and I, but to the doctors, nurses, and fellow patients and parents who see Nick on a near-daily basis. Thank you for your prayers, your phone calls, your emails, your cards, your kind gifts, your dinners, and your transportation of our other three kids. They are all very much appreciated. Please forgive my lack of writing formal thank you notes; I usually relish the gesture. I am hopelessly behind, and beg your patience and understanding. Nick will have the week off from chemo drugs, although he and I will make a few trips into the clinic for blood work and likely transfusions.
A Quick Note
Quite a few readers have emailed me recently asking if I was available to answer questions and dilemmas of one sort or another. Some of these revolve around motherhood; others have little to do with parenting. Purely objective advice is sought. Please know that I consider it a privilege to help you sort out everyday issues, whether they pertain to parenting your newborn, dealing with your teen, or helping you figure out how to publish your book. I am honored that you would ask for my input. Please keep those questions coming. They make my day.
living wisely and well and justly, and it is impossible to live
wisely and well and justly without living pleasantly." Epicurus
(third century B.C.)
Some people have figured out how to thoroughly enjoy life.
It was evident last night when I was able to enjoy a concert by our local symphony orchestra. As my husband felt like he had just caught a touch of the flu, he told me at the eleventh hour that he needed to get to bed early and let me go it alone. My initial “ugh” at a Saturday date night sans my date (several last minute phone calls to friends offering our unused ticket led nowhere; our younger kids were too tired from playing in the snow all day to even think about it; Nick was neutropenic and was staying close to home) almost forced me to stay home, too. I had spent a couple hours earlier in the day disassembling Christmas decorations, but “life got in the way” and I was not able to complete that lovely little ritual (kids to be picked up; errands to be run; much-needed manicure to be enjoyed), so I had the perfect excuse to stay home and finish that project. What with garlands strewn all over my foyer floor, our artificial tree still standing, angels perched on windowsills, and folk art Santas standing watch on every available tabletop: there was certainly plenty of work to do in order to get my house whipped back into post-Holiday shape.
But I knew that the concert would be powerful. Not only was a guest pianist performing, but Beethoven’s Overture to Coriolanus (a favorite) and Mozart’s 40th Symphony were on tap. With freshly-done nails and an urge to not only escape the chaos of my half-disassembled holiday décor; I looked forward to the self-indulgent luxury of enjoying beauty, if just for one night. So I struck out on my own.
Once there, of course, I was thrilled that momentum overcame my initial impulse towards inertia. Settled into my seat, with good friends directly behind me and others scattered throughout the auditorium, I closed my eyes and prepared for the enjoyment which was to come full force. I embraced the infrequent freedom to “be there and be glad.” To allow classical music to soothe the emotional exhaustion which has burdened me quite heavily lately, to relish the solitude, and to be fully grateful for the evening’s aesthetic feast.
Beethoven did not disappoint. (He never does.) Indeed, his overture was conducted with unusually high energy. And then immediately after intermission, we enjoyed the ritual of “the golden baton.” At last spring’s fundraising gala, our symphony president, Sabina, entered the bid which would seal this honor: conducting seventy-plus of the finest musicians in New England for one piece. She had looked forward to the event for almost a year. And it showed. Dressed in a gorgeous black ensemble, she took to the stage with gusto! Tapping the beat of Wagner’s Prelude to Act III of Lohengrin with her right arm, she used her left arm to add nuance. Her own artistic expression. While conducting, she sang.
I wore a smile from the moment she took the stage until the moment she left it. Not only because I enjoyed watching her conduct. But because I knew how much she did. She was clearly enjoying herself. She had a “be there and be glad” attitude. She had a dance in her step and a song in her heart. She knew this was a moment to be treasured for the rest of her life; we knew it, too.
A party afterwards to honor the guest soloist, the event sponsors, and our “guest conductor” upheld my sentiment. Cheerful conversation around an overflowing food table, joyful celebration with uplifted champagne glasses, and intimate catching-up with old and new friends alike, all taking place in the restored barn that our local art guild calls “home,” placed high priority on enjoying life. On living pleasantly. No arguing over dichotomous and divisive politics. No cold shoulders. Only a common love of beautiful music, and of food and wine which nourish both body and soul.
Moments like these might seem superfluous to the outside observer. Casual and common, they could appear repetitive. Redundant. Stuffy. Snobby. But beauty cannot be denied. Our spirits crave it and our emotions run dry without it. We long to feast our eyes on beautiful objects and our ears on beautiful harmonies. We need to forge relationships and to cement friendships. And staying home every night just doesn’t offer that.
Motherhood—especially in its early stages—can be extremely isolating. It is, indeed, difficult—if not downright impossible—to get out when one is nursing a newborn babe or straddled with toddlers trapped in the “barnacle syndrome.” Resources of time, energy, and funds can prevent those of us with the deepest desires to “be there and be glad” from embracing and enjoying evenings like this.
Now more than ever, with the rush of the holidays clearly behind us, yet without the freshness of spring immediately before us, it is easy to get blindsighted by February’s dreariness. By winter’s—and motherhood’s—isolation and loneliness. Lack of sunshine and fresh air can make curmudgeons out of the most cheerful among us. No flowers to brighten our days or bright colors to brighten our wardrobes, nor warm weather to brighten our plans; February presents opportunities to “be there and be glad” but we’ll probably have to look harder for them. So invite a friend to coffee, meet the playgroup moms for lunch, dawdle over a new decorating magazine, enjoy a manicure…or simply turn on your favorite classical music station to imbue beauty into your own home.
Enjoying life, living wisely and well, and infusing it with pleasantness certainly means living with integrity. It means building character. Growing through pain and suffering. But it also means allowing the tiniest, simplest acts of everyday living to be enjoyed with clarity. With gladness. Curling up with a good book has held pleasure for mankind through the centuries. As has breaking bread with friends and family. Or sitting by the fire. Watching a movie with your kids. Walking the dog. Taking a hike. Simple pleasures. Breaks in the routineness of everyday life. Treats of solitude as well as of companionship. All are to be treasured. Embraced. With gladness.
I hope you are able to break the dizzying pace of your week and do something—anything—which allows you, too, to be there and be glad.
Hugs,
Carolina
A Nick Note
Nick just finished the second round of the intensification stage; the hardest two rounds are now behind him! He has sailed through both with flying colors, pleasing both doctors and parents alike. I dare say I could not handle the protocol with the grace with which he has. He has tapped into the deepest reservoirs of strength and faith to endure extremely uncomfortable bouts of chemo-induced nausea, fatigue, and muscle aches and pain. His “grace under fire” has been a powerful testimony to not only Ernie, the kids, and I, but to the doctors, nurses, and fellow patients and parents who see Nick on a near-daily basis. Thank you for your prayers, your phone calls, your emails, your cards, your kind gifts, your dinners, and your transportation of our other three kids. They are all very much appreciated. Please forgive my lack of writing formal thank you notes; I usually relish the gesture. I am hopelessly behind, and beg your patience and understanding. Nick will have the week off from chemo drugs, although he and I will make a few trips into the clinic for blood work and likely transfusions.
A Quick Note
Quite a few readers have emailed me recently asking if I was available to answer questions and dilemmas of one sort or another. Some of these revolve around motherhood; others have little to do with parenting. Purely objective advice is sought. Please know that I consider it a privilege to help you sort out everyday issues, whether they pertain to parenting your newborn, dealing with your teen, or helping you figure out how to publish your book. I am honored that you would ask for my input. Please keep those questions coming. They make my day.
Monday, January 31, 2005
1/31/05 RM Newsletter: Igniting Boldness
It never fails. I cannot seem to attend a meeting, visit the chemo clinic, or make a quick trip without collecting a person—or two—along the way. As if by magnetic force, someone will look at me a certain way, say one word with special force, or laugh infectiously, and I know that fate has been sealed: he or she will become my new friend.
I noticed this tendency of mine as a young child. But over the last decade or so, this pattern has intensified. Moving across the country three times in four years, eventually settling into what is now our eighth house, I’ve been forced out of my comfort zone on more occasions than I can count. Fresh situations, fresh groups of strangers, fresh experiences, and even fresh shopping have all had their collective influence on the necessity of forming new friendships. New babies? Rounded toddlers? The quintessential heart-sealers. Jake and Rachel, the brand new baby and older-brother-toddler-duo of new friend Heather, entered my life after a relocation; years later, they’re still an integral part of my “collection.”
Boldness must be one of the most liberating delights of being fortysomething. For even though I have always been magnetized towards new faces and new friends, it wasn’t until several years ago that I officially allowed boldness to enter the mix. And it’s not like I woke up on my fortieth birthday and proclaimed: “I think I’ll be bold now. I’ve earned it.” No. Something happened between childhood and adulthood which allowed me to claim the freedom to recognize that when good chemistry already existed, I could be bold about the ignition. Somewhere along the way I crept out of myself and started walking into other people’s lives without fear of rejection.
Alyse wears eyeglasses that cover most of her perpetually sun-tanned face. Now eighty years old, she was in her early seventies when I first saw her. Across a crowded convention floor, packed with several hundred fellow attendees, I couldn’t help but notice the smartly-dressed, petite woman with pure white hair, cut in an adorable bob with bangs, highlighted by oversized Carol Channing-esque black eyeglasses. During a coffee break on the last full day of the conference, I walked up to this complete and utter stranger and said: “I have got to know you.” Pretty bold going there. After talking just a few minutes, I knew we were destined to be more than friends. We were destined to be like family. We “adopted” each other. I call her “mom #2” and she calls me “daughter #3.” Good chemistry drew me to her, but boldness propelled me. It ignited an already brewing alchemy of admiration and respect.
Don presented a talk about his trips to North Korea at a conference Ernie and I attended in Marco Island a few years ago. Tears flooded my face as we all listened—spellbound—to stories of his incredible journey in ministry. When we were invited to attend a smaller discussion group over lunch, we felt compelled to go. More talk on North Korea. More tears. When the conference ended the next day, Don came over to where Ernie and I were seated as we were packing up our things before heading home to Miami. Boldly, yet tenderly, he said that he couldn’t help notice how moved we had become by his talks. More tears. Don’s words had pierced us, and he recognized that he and his wife needed to know Ernie and me. He and Molly eventually “adopted” me, too; I hadn’t had an earthly father since mine was taken tragically in a plane crash when I was thirteen years old. Boldness ignited.
Katie has likewise crept into my heart. A mere nineteen months old, I knew I’d love this child the minute I laid eyes on her. Diagnosed with the same type of leukemia as Nick, this spunky toddler took one look at me and I haven’t been the same since. While I can’t claim looking forward to going to the chemo clinic with Nick, I do recognize its inevitability; as such, on any given day that we’re required to be there, I always look forward to the possibility that Katie might be there, too. One day, just before Christmas, with Katie’s mom home with a stomach bug, and Nick, Katie, her dad and I trapped inside the chemo clinic for the day, I was able to ignite boldness. Flying solo with hours of chasing her, calming her, feeding her, and changing her, it was obvious that her dad needed a break. So Katie and I played “dollhouse” for an hour or so. Boldness was ignited and I was able to snatch this babe up in my arms and just love on her that afternoon.
Some people collect things. I collect people. Oh sure: I have a small collection of Staffordshire figurines. Majolica, blue-and-white china, and pewter, too. (Oh yeah…I can’t forget my roosters.) But I could add a rooster to my collection every year of my life and it would never matter for eternity. It would never make a real difference in my life or in the life of another human being. But recognizing that chemistry draws you to certain people—and not to others—is one of those mysteries of life. Certain faces, looks, stares, laughs, movements….they all come into play in this woven fabric of our lives. I cannot explain why we are drawn to one person and not another. Chemistry? God’s plan for our lives?
Of course, we need to be careful with chemistry. It goes without saying that certain people are “off limits.” Married men, no matter how great the chemistry, are off limits to other women. Be extremely careful in igniting boldness for any reason there; this is a highly flammable situation. And it goes almost without saying that we need to make sure that our antennae are pointed skyward before igniting boldness with anyone. But if the little red flag—generally flying high during times of impending danger or contemplated sin—fails to rear its windy head when someone “has you on hello”: ignite boldness. Hug the white-haired saint, weep with the broken-hearted, and sweep up the sick babe into your warm, strong arms.
Start collecting people. Not as objects to be used. Not as tokens of achievement or as status symbols of success. But as thinking, feeling, hurting, loving children of God. Each and every one of them. Chances are: they were brought into your life for a reason.
Hugsandkisses,
Carolina
A Nick Note
Nick had an intense week last week with 12 hour days to the chemo
clinic on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, including transfusions
on each of those days. Yuk. He feels crummy.
His spirits are mostly good, but I think the reality of a 12-
month intense regimen is finally hitting him intellectually
and emotionally. It's hard to see the oasis when you're in
the desert.
If any of you feel guided to send cards with warm wishes, or
notes of good cheer, please feel free. He'd love the pick-me-up.
They can be sent to: Nick Fernandez, c/o FourQ Press, PO Box 569,
Ridgefield, CT 06877
------------------------------------------------------------
A Quick Note
If you missed my radio interview with Agi Lidle, a charming, absolutely delightful host, check it out at: www.achieveradio.com. Click on "Archives" where you can hear it in Real Audio. Grab a hot cup of coffee and curl up in your favorite chair; it's a long interview. We talk about everything from nurturing creativity to adding beauty to your home to dealing with serious bumps in the rocket ride through motherhood.
I noticed this tendency of mine as a young child. But over the last decade or so, this pattern has intensified. Moving across the country three times in four years, eventually settling into what is now our eighth house, I’ve been forced out of my comfort zone on more occasions than I can count. Fresh situations, fresh groups of strangers, fresh experiences, and even fresh shopping have all had their collective influence on the necessity of forming new friendships. New babies? Rounded toddlers? The quintessential heart-sealers. Jake and Rachel, the brand new baby and older-brother-toddler-duo of new friend Heather, entered my life after a relocation; years later, they’re still an integral part of my “collection.”
Boldness must be one of the most liberating delights of being fortysomething. For even though I have always been magnetized towards new faces and new friends, it wasn’t until several years ago that I officially allowed boldness to enter the mix. And it’s not like I woke up on my fortieth birthday and proclaimed: “I think I’ll be bold now. I’ve earned it.” No. Something happened between childhood and adulthood which allowed me to claim the freedom to recognize that when good chemistry already existed, I could be bold about the ignition. Somewhere along the way I crept out of myself and started walking into other people’s lives without fear of rejection.
Alyse wears eyeglasses that cover most of her perpetually sun-tanned face. Now eighty years old, she was in her early seventies when I first saw her. Across a crowded convention floor, packed with several hundred fellow attendees, I couldn’t help but notice the smartly-dressed, petite woman with pure white hair, cut in an adorable bob with bangs, highlighted by oversized Carol Channing-esque black eyeglasses. During a coffee break on the last full day of the conference, I walked up to this complete and utter stranger and said: “I have got to know you.” Pretty bold going there. After talking just a few minutes, I knew we were destined to be more than friends. We were destined to be like family. We “adopted” each other. I call her “mom #2” and she calls me “daughter #3.” Good chemistry drew me to her, but boldness propelled me. It ignited an already brewing alchemy of admiration and respect.
Don presented a talk about his trips to North Korea at a conference Ernie and I attended in Marco Island a few years ago. Tears flooded my face as we all listened—spellbound—to stories of his incredible journey in ministry. When we were invited to attend a smaller discussion group over lunch, we felt compelled to go. More talk on North Korea. More tears. When the conference ended the next day, Don came over to where Ernie and I were seated as we were packing up our things before heading home to Miami. Boldly, yet tenderly, he said that he couldn’t help notice how moved we had become by his talks. More tears. Don’s words had pierced us, and he recognized that he and his wife needed to know Ernie and me. He and Molly eventually “adopted” me, too; I hadn’t had an earthly father since mine was taken tragically in a plane crash when I was thirteen years old. Boldness ignited.
Katie has likewise crept into my heart. A mere nineteen months old, I knew I’d love this child the minute I laid eyes on her. Diagnosed with the same type of leukemia as Nick, this spunky toddler took one look at me and I haven’t been the same since. While I can’t claim looking forward to going to the chemo clinic with Nick, I do recognize its inevitability; as such, on any given day that we’re required to be there, I always look forward to the possibility that Katie might be there, too. One day, just before Christmas, with Katie’s mom home with a stomach bug, and Nick, Katie, her dad and I trapped inside the chemo clinic for the day, I was able to ignite boldness. Flying solo with hours of chasing her, calming her, feeding her, and changing her, it was obvious that her dad needed a break. So Katie and I played “dollhouse” for an hour or so. Boldness was ignited and I was able to snatch this babe up in my arms and just love on her that afternoon.
Some people collect things. I collect people. Oh sure: I have a small collection of Staffordshire figurines. Majolica, blue-and-white china, and pewter, too. (Oh yeah…I can’t forget my roosters.) But I could add a rooster to my collection every year of my life and it would never matter for eternity. It would never make a real difference in my life or in the life of another human being. But recognizing that chemistry draws you to certain people—and not to others—is one of those mysteries of life. Certain faces, looks, stares, laughs, movements….they all come into play in this woven fabric of our lives. I cannot explain why we are drawn to one person and not another. Chemistry? God’s plan for our lives?
Of course, we need to be careful with chemistry. It goes without saying that certain people are “off limits.” Married men, no matter how great the chemistry, are off limits to other women. Be extremely careful in igniting boldness for any reason there; this is a highly flammable situation. And it goes almost without saying that we need to make sure that our antennae are pointed skyward before igniting boldness with anyone. But if the little red flag—generally flying high during times of impending danger or contemplated sin—fails to rear its windy head when someone “has you on hello”: ignite boldness. Hug the white-haired saint, weep with the broken-hearted, and sweep up the sick babe into your warm, strong arms.
Start collecting people. Not as objects to be used. Not as tokens of achievement or as status symbols of success. But as thinking, feeling, hurting, loving children of God. Each and every one of them. Chances are: they were brought into your life for a reason.
Hugsandkisses,
Carolina
A Nick Note
Nick had an intense week last week with 12 hour days to the chemo
clinic on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, including transfusions
on each of those days. Yuk. He feels crummy.
His spirits are mostly good, but I think the reality of a 12-
month intense regimen is finally hitting him intellectually
and emotionally. It's hard to see the oasis when you're in
the desert.
If any of you feel guided to send cards with warm wishes, or
notes of good cheer, please feel free. He'd love the pick-me-up.
They can be sent to: Nick Fernandez, c/o FourQ Press, PO Box 569,
Ridgefield, CT 06877
------------------------------------------------------------
A Quick Note
If you missed my radio interview with Agi Lidle, a charming, absolutely delightful host, check it out at: www.achieveradio.com. Click on "Archives" where you can hear it in Real Audio. Grab a hot cup of coffee and curl up in your favorite chair; it's a long interview. We talk about everything from nurturing creativity to adding beauty to your home to dealing with serious bumps in the rocket ride through motherhood.
Monday, January 24, 2005
1/24/05 RM Newsletter: A Twinkle, A Wink, and A Nod
Today’s Quote: “Life is mostly froth and bubble; Two things stand like stone: Kindness in another’s trouble, Courage in our own.” Adam Lindsay Gordon
I didn’t suspect it. The young Brits—long defined by tradition as dignified, refined, and elegant—have been transformed by pop culture to yield traits much less flattering…or at least that is the way the media have portrayed them. (Monty Python loving fanatics that they are…) So when my mom and I spent last weekend there, I expected to find self-absorption and hedonism running rampant, given the reputation of their pubs, the amount of body-piercings and tattoos carried by its citizens on the plane ride en route, and the pink hair worn by more young adults than I could have fathomed. Yet with the exception of one youth encountered at the “Underground” way past our bedtimes last Saturday night, they surprised my mom and me with kindness, graciousness, and hospitality beyond the boundaries of my imagination.
I had given up all designs on going. My mom won a trip for two to London when the concertmistress pulled her raffle ticket stub from a box holding hopes by hometown youth symphony supporters, out-of-town well-wishers, and family members alike. All had thrown their support for an expensive April trip to Paris by the Ridgefield Symphony Youth Orchestra by purchasing raffle tickets at $25 a pop. In a generous show of support for two of her grandchildren, my mom had bought a bunch. When she found out that she had won the grand prize, she invited me to accompany her; she’s been widowed for over thirty years and had no traveling companion lined up. After I suggested she consider instead her single brother or sister, or one of her other two grown children, she decided that she’d really like to take me. I couldn’t have been more excited; having traveled to Europe on several occasions, I had never traveled there. And as my plans had already been confirmed to chaperone my kids on their symphony orchestra Paris trip, it made for a wonderful 2005 travel schedule.
One week later, Nick was diagnosed with leukemia. And my trip to London was not to be. No way would I fly over the pond during the intensification phase of his chemo protocol to goof around in London for a few days. But, as the story would go, a few weeks later, my dear friend, Newby, from Lexington, Kentucky (our “hometown” of almost twenty years), called me to see if there might be a good time for her to come and relieve me of my caretaking duties. Her own mother had had leukemia, and she understood firsthand the toll—physically, emotionally, and spiritually—that caring for someone with cancer inevitably brings. Long story short: she came so that I might accompany my mom to London.
My mom is not my usual travel companion; my husband and four kids are. Accompanying Ernie brings all the perks associated with business travel: business class airline seats, better meals, and grand hotels or quaint B&B’s. And traveling with our four kids has not only gotten incredibly easier now that three of them are teenagers (surprising even to me); it’s gotten more fun, too. Our trips bring adventure and high energy activities, whether we like it or not. But I have not traveled with my mom—now seventy-five-years-old and plagued by Parkinson’s (among other ailments)—for almost twenty years.
I knew even before we left that this trip would not look like the London trip I might take with hubby or the four kids. I knew well in advance that it would be colored with fatigue, a slower pace, and later morning coffee. I suspected that mom would complain frequently of pain, jet lag, and spells of jerky, fatiguing movements. And I suspected that the Brits would show little mercy: that bus drivers insistent on adhering to schedules might show signs of impatience as mom painfully walked up their stairs; that shoppers racing into Harrods’s for their famous January sale might bump her as she failed to convey similar signs of urgency; and that even businessmen scurrying to their offices might trample us on the “tube.”
Yet we found people lifting up gestures of hospitality everywhere we went. Small gestures. And large ones, too. The reservation clerk at the hotel immediately dismayed us—jetlagged after an uncomfortable night flight without sleep—with the news upon our arrival that our room wouldn’t be ready for a couple hours, only to surprise us moments later with a room that had just become available. He had a twinkle in his eye. A wink. A nod that he understood all too well the limitations that our weekend would hold, and that the ability to once again get horizontal might be the best news of our day. The optician who I wound up needing to visit did, too. My mother accidentally and unknowingly knocked over my eyeglasses, which hung by one earpiece from the pouch in the seat in front of me in the plane. Because we flew during the night, our cabin was dark. No one noticed my missing glasses until daybreak, especially me, and when after reaching for them and not immediately finding them, I panicked. Legally blind without corrective lenses, I felt like someone had just punched me in the gut. Would I visit London for four days—and lead my frail mother through the city—unable to see? My titanium frames, expensive and almost brand new, were found dismembered and bent horribly out of shape ten rows back. They had been run over by the food cart as the flight attendants served morning coffee. So after we took a two hour nap in our newly cleaned room, our first stop was an optician’s shop. He brought me the news I knew I would hear: my glasses were beyond repair. But he delivered it with a twinkle in his eye. A wink and a nod that he knew this would make an otherwise challenging trip practically unbearable. His scrap of tape helped a little bit; his attitude helped enormously.
And so it was. For all four days. The cab driver who picked us up at the airport also came to take us back. He treated my mother so gently, so kindly. He held her arm and balanced her step and soothed her anxieties, too. So did the husband of the tour guide on our ten-hour trip to and from Cambridge. He waited outside the loo while mom and I took our time there, and held up the bus until she arrived at her seat safely and securely. No complaining. No rolling of the eyeballs. The woman sitting next to her at lunch that day—in our tour group of fifty—cut her meat when she struggled; the guide at JFK airport knelt down at mom’s wheelchair and unzipped her boots so she could walk through security; a passenger carried mom’s duffle bags off the airplane so she could walk without being further encumbered; a gentleman at Heathrow stayed with mom patiently while I contacted the Ombudsman about my eyeglasses; another pushed her in her wheelchair all the way to the gate. In and around London people took care of us with twinkles in their eyes. With winks and nods that they knew exactly what we were both going through. Not just my mom as an ailing traveler, but me, too, as her guide, her right arm for balance, and her left brain for navigation through the city.
Traveling to London with a seventy-five-year-old woman with Parkinson’s showed me that we’re all in this together. That everyone suffers in one way or another. That none of us are immune. That we suffer with our kids or we suffer with our parents or we suffer with our own physical or mental limitations. That pain is inescapable and the journey through it is inevitable.
It taught me that there is still so much joy to be found. That people—everywhere—will always surprise us with generosity. With hospitality. That looking out for others is part of who we are. That we’re wired for it. It taught me to keep looking for those surprises. Despite Parkinson’s. Despite leukemia. To keep searching for the twinkle in the eye. The nod and the wink that says “everything’s going to be all right.” To persevere through pain. To seek beauty in people and places everywhere right up until the end.
I hope you are not discouraged by suffering. That pain—physical or emotional—has not gotten the best of you. That loneliness has not kept you inside, as it once did me during an isolating relocation. That you are willing to keep looking for the twinkle, the wink, and the nod. Everywhere.
Blessings,
Carolina
A Nick Note
Nick has finished two weeks of this next round of chemo and is doing beautifully; he has two more weeks to go on this grueling round. The doctors are amazed at his lack of severe physical reactions: he retains his hair (‘tho it is thinner), and has only occasional episodes of vomiting and severe fatigue. I told his doctor this week that we had “Connections,” which he immediately acknowledged. We continue to covet your prayers on Nick’s behalf for his complete and total healing, for minimal side effects from chemo; for zero long-term ill-effects of chemo; and for amazing results to eventually come out in Nick’s life as a result of this experience.
A Quick Note
Many of you have asked me to publish my weekly ROCKET MOM! Newsletters into book form. I am following up with your requests and hope to have a book available within a few months. Details to follow. Questions? 203.438.7164.
I didn’t suspect it. The young Brits—long defined by tradition as dignified, refined, and elegant—have been transformed by pop culture to yield traits much less flattering…or at least that is the way the media have portrayed them. (Monty Python loving fanatics that they are…) So when my mom and I spent last weekend there, I expected to find self-absorption and hedonism running rampant, given the reputation of their pubs, the amount of body-piercings and tattoos carried by its citizens on the plane ride en route, and the pink hair worn by more young adults than I could have fathomed. Yet with the exception of one youth encountered at the “Underground” way past our bedtimes last Saturday night, they surprised my mom and me with kindness, graciousness, and hospitality beyond the boundaries of my imagination.
I had given up all designs on going. My mom won a trip for two to London when the concertmistress pulled her raffle ticket stub from a box holding hopes by hometown youth symphony supporters, out-of-town well-wishers, and family members alike. All had thrown their support for an expensive April trip to Paris by the Ridgefield Symphony Youth Orchestra by purchasing raffle tickets at $25 a pop. In a generous show of support for two of her grandchildren, my mom had bought a bunch. When she found out that she had won the grand prize, she invited me to accompany her; she’s been widowed for over thirty years and had no traveling companion lined up. After I suggested she consider instead her single brother or sister, or one of her other two grown children, she decided that she’d really like to take me. I couldn’t have been more excited; having traveled to Europe on several occasions, I had never traveled there. And as my plans had already been confirmed to chaperone my kids on their symphony orchestra Paris trip, it made for a wonderful 2005 travel schedule.
One week later, Nick was diagnosed with leukemia. And my trip to London was not to be. No way would I fly over the pond during the intensification phase of his chemo protocol to goof around in London for a few days. But, as the story would go, a few weeks later, my dear friend, Newby, from Lexington, Kentucky (our “hometown” of almost twenty years), called me to see if there might be a good time for her to come and relieve me of my caretaking duties. Her own mother had had leukemia, and she understood firsthand the toll—physically, emotionally, and spiritually—that caring for someone with cancer inevitably brings. Long story short: she came so that I might accompany my mom to London.
My mom is not my usual travel companion; my husband and four kids are. Accompanying Ernie brings all the perks associated with business travel: business class airline seats, better meals, and grand hotels or quaint B&B’s. And traveling with our four kids has not only gotten incredibly easier now that three of them are teenagers (surprising even to me); it’s gotten more fun, too. Our trips bring adventure and high energy activities, whether we like it or not. But I have not traveled with my mom—now seventy-five-years-old and plagued by Parkinson’s (among other ailments)—for almost twenty years.
I knew even before we left that this trip would not look like the London trip I might take with hubby or the four kids. I knew well in advance that it would be colored with fatigue, a slower pace, and later morning coffee. I suspected that mom would complain frequently of pain, jet lag, and spells of jerky, fatiguing movements. And I suspected that the Brits would show little mercy: that bus drivers insistent on adhering to schedules might show signs of impatience as mom painfully walked up their stairs; that shoppers racing into Harrods’s for their famous January sale might bump her as she failed to convey similar signs of urgency; and that even businessmen scurrying to their offices might trample us on the “tube.”
Yet we found people lifting up gestures of hospitality everywhere we went. Small gestures. And large ones, too. The reservation clerk at the hotel immediately dismayed us—jetlagged after an uncomfortable night flight without sleep—with the news upon our arrival that our room wouldn’t be ready for a couple hours, only to surprise us moments later with a room that had just become available. He had a twinkle in his eye. A wink. A nod that he understood all too well the limitations that our weekend would hold, and that the ability to once again get horizontal might be the best news of our day. The optician who I wound up needing to visit did, too. My mother accidentally and unknowingly knocked over my eyeglasses, which hung by one earpiece from the pouch in the seat in front of me in the plane. Because we flew during the night, our cabin was dark. No one noticed my missing glasses until daybreak, especially me, and when after reaching for them and not immediately finding them, I panicked. Legally blind without corrective lenses, I felt like someone had just punched me in the gut. Would I visit London for four days—and lead my frail mother through the city—unable to see? My titanium frames, expensive and almost brand new, were found dismembered and bent horribly out of shape ten rows back. They had been run over by the food cart as the flight attendants served morning coffee. So after we took a two hour nap in our newly cleaned room, our first stop was an optician’s shop. He brought me the news I knew I would hear: my glasses were beyond repair. But he delivered it with a twinkle in his eye. A wink and a nod that he knew this would make an otherwise challenging trip practically unbearable. His scrap of tape helped a little bit; his attitude helped enormously.
And so it was. For all four days. The cab driver who picked us up at the airport also came to take us back. He treated my mother so gently, so kindly. He held her arm and balanced her step and soothed her anxieties, too. So did the husband of the tour guide on our ten-hour trip to and from Cambridge. He waited outside the loo while mom and I took our time there, and held up the bus until she arrived at her seat safely and securely. No complaining. No rolling of the eyeballs. The woman sitting next to her at lunch that day—in our tour group of fifty—cut her meat when she struggled; the guide at JFK airport knelt down at mom’s wheelchair and unzipped her boots so she could walk through security; a passenger carried mom’s duffle bags off the airplane so she could walk without being further encumbered; a gentleman at Heathrow stayed with mom patiently while I contacted the Ombudsman about my eyeglasses; another pushed her in her wheelchair all the way to the gate. In and around London people took care of us with twinkles in their eyes. With winks and nods that they knew exactly what we were both going through. Not just my mom as an ailing traveler, but me, too, as her guide, her right arm for balance, and her left brain for navigation through the city.
Traveling to London with a seventy-five-year-old woman with Parkinson’s showed me that we’re all in this together. That everyone suffers in one way or another. That none of us are immune. That we suffer with our kids or we suffer with our parents or we suffer with our own physical or mental limitations. That pain is inescapable and the journey through it is inevitable.
It taught me that there is still so much joy to be found. That people—everywhere—will always surprise us with generosity. With hospitality. That looking out for others is part of who we are. That we’re wired for it. It taught me to keep looking for those surprises. Despite Parkinson’s. Despite leukemia. To keep searching for the twinkle in the eye. The nod and the wink that says “everything’s going to be all right.” To persevere through pain. To seek beauty in people and places everywhere right up until the end.
I hope you are not discouraged by suffering. That pain—physical or emotional—has not gotten the best of you. That loneliness has not kept you inside, as it once did me during an isolating relocation. That you are willing to keep looking for the twinkle, the wink, and the nod. Everywhere.
Blessings,
Carolina
A Nick Note
Nick has finished two weeks of this next round of chemo and is doing beautifully; he has two more weeks to go on this grueling round. The doctors are amazed at his lack of severe physical reactions: he retains his hair (‘tho it is thinner), and has only occasional episodes of vomiting and severe fatigue. I told his doctor this week that we had “Connections,” which he immediately acknowledged. We continue to covet your prayers on Nick’s behalf for his complete and total healing, for minimal side effects from chemo; for zero long-term ill-effects of chemo; and for amazing results to eventually come out in Nick’s life as a result of this experience.
A Quick Note
Many of you have asked me to publish my weekly ROCKET MOM! Newsletters into book form. I am following up with your requests and hope to have a book available within a few months. Details to follow. Questions? 203.438.7164.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
