Choose One Word

The year of 2014 dwindles to a close. Only two more days and we will bring in the New Year with music, dancing and staying up way too late! And then the day after, I will celebrate my birthday, which means it’s DOUBLY a new year for me. But before these events happen, I want to share something with you – it’s my word for 2015 – and then I encourage you to find your own word. Or, as my sister-in-law says, let the word choose you. It could be a word summing up your hopes for the New Year or your attitude for the New Year, or any word that paves the path for the year ahead.

Last year, a friend suggested my word be ROOTED, which was her wish for me. This was very appropriate because of how unsettled I felt at that juncture of my life. From an external point of view, however, it didn’t appear that the word “rooted” worked any magic in my life in 2014 – in fact, just the opposite. I made two extensive road trips over the summer, including a drastic move across the country. “Uprooted” would seem more accurate for what happened, yet internally, something did change in me. I have become more rooted in self-knowledge, rooted in knowing who I am and what I want and what I will give for it, and more rooted in God, who I know is with me wherever I go.

And so I have found myself in Washington, feeling called like Abram to go out to a place that God would show me. The transition hasn’t been easy. Let’s just say there have been a few tumbles down the mountainside, but the Lord has caught me each time. And this Advent, I found myself on a spiritual journey to the hill country with Mary to visit her cousin Elizabeth, who was with child. 

Certainly Mary was also in a state of uncertainty and questions as she pondered what would become of her life. Would Joseph divorce her for conceiving this child from God? What would it mean to be the mother of the Messiah? But even so, her heart beat a little faster and flooded with love when she thought about the babe growing inside her. When Elizabeth saw Mary’s faith, she exclaimed, “Blessed are you who believed that what was spoken to you by the Lord would be fulfilled” (Luke 1:45).  

My word for 2015 is PROMISE. I have to believe, even in the face of uncertainties, that God will keep his promises and make good come out of all things. Time and time again throughout salvation history, we see God making promises to His people that are fulfilled despite our sinful human ways and blunderings. He never gives up on us, but rather “remembers his covenant forever” (Psalm 105:8).

“She will bear a son and you are to name him Jesus, because he will save his people from their sins." All this took place to fulfill what the Lord had said through the prophet: “Behold, the virgin shall be with child and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel," which means "God is with us.” (Matt. 1:21-23). 

“Destroy this temple and in three days I will raise it up.” (John 2:19)

“I am with you always, until the end of the age.” (Matt. 28:20b) 

The Scripture readings at Mass this Sunday recalled God's covenant with Abram, sending him into the promised land and promising him descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky. Abram responded in faith, "for he thought that the one who had made the promise was trustworthy."

“By faith Abraham obeyed when he was called to go out to a place that he was to receive as an inheritance; he went out, not knowing where he was to go. ... By faith he received power to generate, even though he was past the normal age – and Sarah herself was sterile – for he thought that the one who had made the promise was trustworthy. So it was that there came forth from one man, himself as good as dead, descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky and as countless as the sands on the seashore” (Heb. 11:8, 11-12). 

It is true that Abraham's faith was put to the test. Later he was asked to sacrifice his only son, yet "He reasoned that God was able to raise even from the dead..." (Heb. 11:19).

As I head into the New Year, I seek like Abram and Mary to put my trust in God's promises. Why shed such big tears over such small problems that come our way? We who believe in the promises don't have to sweat the small stuff or doubt the scope of God’s great big plan. There is no reason to give up hope with so great a promise of salvation waiting for us.

Yes, my word is PROMISE. It is a strong word because it is both a noun and a verb. It is something kept but it is also something given. And the question is, when the Lord asks for my faithfulness, my worship and my service to others in return, will I be able to give it all, and keep my word to Him?

Six Little Ducklings Take a Leap of Faith

When I was visiting friends this weekend, Maggie wanted to show me the ducklings that had hatched on their roof a few weeks ago. Earlier this spring, a mother duck had made her way from the river into the neighborhood and found a nice puddle on top of their flat roof and had built her nest up there, nestled into the corner of the house. Beats me why a duck would choose a place so high up, but I think she must have been proud of herself.

Maggie took me upstairs to look out the window to see the ducklings. Sure enough, as soon as we peered out, six little ducklings scuttled their way out of a pile of leaves in the corner and waddled across the roof to their mother, who was calling them over.

"Oh, look! Look at them! Eeeehh! They are so cute! Oh, I want to hold one!" ....such were the feminine exclamations issuing from our mouths.

We squealed with delight about how cute they were, all clustered around mom, finding shade under her shadow and waddling across the roof staying close to her body. The seven of them were making their way across the roof slowly, as if out for a little stroll or to get some exercise. Then the mother duck began heading for the edge of the roof, and we said, "Uh oh! No mother duck! Don't get too close to the edge!"

Well, that was exactly where she was intending to go. She began testing some spots and peering down. When she'd found a good spot in her estimation, she hobbled over the ledge and flopped down to the ground. A feeling of dread overtook us at the sudden realization that instead of witnessing a cute little scene we might be in for a horror story. Were we to watch six ducklings now break their tiny necks, jumping 10 feet off the roof into the rock garden below? For they were so tiny yet with downy feathers and wobbly legs!

"What is she thinking?!" we exclaimed. "No, don't let the ducklings jump off!" we cried, feeling helpless.

Then sure enough, as we started to worry, one duckling scampered up on the ledge and took a dive. We gasped and ran downstairs and out the back door to see if it had survived the fall into the rock garden. It had! And the mother duck was exhorting them all to come down with a "Quack, quack, quack."

One by one, all the ducklings dropped down. Two of them landed on their backs, kicking their little legs, and we were worried they were hurt or perhaps couldn't roll over on their own. All the while, the mother duck just kept calling them. When at last even the two on their backs had flipped themselves over and were all on their feet, Maggie and I stopped our flailing and breathed sighs of relief and rejoiced! We said our goodbyes to the family that had started out on their roof: Mother Mary Bridget and her flock-lings, named Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, Mary and Martha.

I was so thankful we had been there just at the right moment to observe this exodus from the roof and to wish farewell to the brave little ducklings who are headed for the water where they belong. I couldn't help think about the times when my faith is tested like that and I am tempted to respond in fear and flailing. "This can't be the right time! I'm not ready! What do you expect of me?" The jump seems impossible and frightening, yet the Lord, like a mother bird, keeps calling us, until I muster the nerve to finally let go, fall and trust. I couldn't do it without my brothers and sisters. I couldn't do it without the reassurance of faith that "mother knows best," that ultimately, we are meant for so much more, and the One who calls us is trustworthy.

"For I know well the plans I have in mind for you, says the Lord, plans for your welfare, not for woe! plans to give you a future full of hope." (Jeremiah 29:11)

Fair thee well, ducklings!

"All My Life’s a Circle"

With the car windows rolled down and the volume cranked up on the tape player, my mom, sister and I would sing our hearts out down the highway: 

“All my life’s a circle, sunrise and sundown. / The moon rose through the nighttime / till the daybreak comes around. / All my life’s a circle, but I can’t tell you why. / The seasons spinning round again. The years keep rolling by.” ("All My Life's a Circle" by Harry Chapin)

It’s fitting that this rousing song should go round and round in my head this month, as our family recalls Dad’s passing away on April 27, 1990. Harry Chapin was one of Dad’s favorite songwriters, and listening to his music during our long, summer road trips up north to see Dad's side of the family, I always felt there was a special message to me from Dad in his lyrics.

At 27 years of age and having just endured one of the coldest, harshest winters in Wisconsin, I have come to realize yet again that all my life’s a circle. The coming of spring couldn't be more welcome and more miraculous. There was a point in February and March where I just didn't think spring was possible. I thought we’d be stuck in winter forever. But then surprise, surprise, spring returns!

Saturday a friend and I took a six-and-a-half-mile hike through the village where I live and out along a trail that runs beside a certain Fox River, underneath a canopy of trees. How wonderful to my ears to hear the rushing of water, running, spilling, gurgling over the rocks, foaming at the dam, rising high up on the banks of the creek-ways and river-ways everywhere in the village! Truly, this is the miracle of spring, this power to set free what once was solid ice, immoveable. Dad would love to be here, underneath the canopy of trees, where green shoots are springing out of the ground, and yellow daffodils, yellow tulips and purple wildflowers have just begun to soften the world with their color.

A rabbit hops into my view, a few feet in front of me on the path, and then a second later is gone, suddenly lost in the camouflage of woody undergrowth. It’s a phenomenon of nature that Annie Dillard in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek defines as “now you see me, now you don’t.”

“I found you a thousand times / I guess you’ve done the same. / But then we lose each other / It’s just like a children’s game / And as I find you here again / The thought runs through my mind / Our love is like a circle / Let’s go around one more time.” (Harry Chapin)

This song always reminds me how we weave in and out of different places and people's lives at different times. We wave goodbye to one opportunity to embrace a new one and then return to it one day. A recently re-discovered newspaper article I forgot I wrote four years ago reveals I was writing about the parish that I now attend, never dreaming I’d be in this city one day!

And this month, I find myself at familiar crossroads as I'm given the opportunity to move back to the city from whence I came and into a house that I had first hoped to live in a year and a half ago. I find myself, thus, caught "in the middle of a move.” While my place here goes up for rent, waiting for the right person to come along and find it, on the other side, a room awaits me and old friends eagerly anticipate for me to return and move in with them in another city. Like so many things in life, I am in the middle of a guessing game. I am ready to pick up and go at any moment, but when? Is this it, now?

 

I can't help thinking that maybe this will be heaven: to find ourselves come full circle, and to know for the first time the reason why.

Today I Am Like a Phoenix Rising

Early this morning, I was awakened by what sounded like a gunshot right outside my bedroom window. I sat bolt upright in bed, my heart pounding. It was about 2:30 a.m. Just moments before, I had been dimly aware of sirens bleating from various directions and now the roar of them became louder. Were they coming to whatever emergency this was? Had someone summoned the fire department? I got up and walked across the room to look out my window, which was pulled open to let in the cool night air. I saw across from me a narrow parking lot and another apartment building, from which quickly emerged a man and woman. They came out onto their front porch, looking to see, like me, what was the matter. Then they came down the stairs and started walking around the building. The woman got on her motorcycle and left; then came back a few minutes later to report to her husband, a big guy wearing a bold-lettered “SECURITY” t-shirt. By then, a third neighbor had joined them out-of-doors. He was bare-chested, wearing just some gym shorts, obviously hijacked out of sleep like I was, too, from the explosive sound.

I was racked with fear, having been startled awake so suddenly in the dark, and the sound of the explosion echoed in my ears like a menacing horror. I didn’t know what had caused it. Had someone shot a gun? Police often encircled the area neighborhood. I hoped it wasn't criminal activity. But what was it? 

All my senses were alert now. There was no going back to sleep. I pulled on some blue jean capris, feeling the urgency to prepare myself for flight or to protect myself. Grabbing my cherished rosary beads from the bedpost – the ones from Medjugorie that are such a comfort to me in times of distress - I walked around the house a bit, feeling unsettled. When I returned to the bedroom window, watching my three neighbors down below (and wishing to join them but too afraid to actually go down), I noticed, rising over the tops of the huge tree line just opposite, beyond the apartments, dense clouds of white smoke, larger than the heads of trees. I could not see the flames, but I watched with horror as the thick smoke puffed upward in billowy clouds, visible from the glow of street lights. I breathlessly prayed..."Our Father, who art in heaven...Hail Mary, full of grace...", beseeching divine protection for all with increasing fervor. All the while, an icon of Our Lady of Perpetual Help gazed calmly back at me from atop my dresser. I felt assured that Mother and Child were there, aware of the plight. 

Through my open window came the sound of glass smashing to pieces and a building falling apart. I never realized house fires would sound like that, but I kept hearing more glass breaking and smashing. 

In the next room over, my roommate was sound asleep, as it seemed the majority of my neighbors were also, oblivious to the danger in our own neighborhood – literally, in our own neck of the woods. It was almost 4:00 a.m. before my neighbors retired to their respective apartments, and I settled back in bed, still clinging to the rosary like to a mother’s hand.

As I began to drift asleep, it wasn't long before another sound pierced the silence and filled my ears - this time the cheerful chitter-chatter and chirping of birds. Before even the first rays of light had broken over the horizon, these little creatures of habit were anticipating a new day with innocent squeaks and chirps of glee, undaunted by the recent terror of the night. They let out their chant-like praise, thanking the Lord, in their birdish way, to be alive at the turn of a new day.

I felt more like a phoenix, slowly rising from the ashes, as I arose earlier than usual this weekday morning to attend Mass - the first time in a long time since I’ve gone to daily Mass. I drove by the burned house, which was located just one street down, its roof caved in and charred black. Perhaps, the fire burned away something in me during the night as well. I'd surrendered my walls to a force much greater. I'd been purified through tears, while the vice lurking to distract me from my God went up in the smoke.

A verse from today's Responsorial Psalm 17 struck my ears, "Though you test my heart, searching it in the night, though you try me with fire, you shall find no malice in me."

Later, I learned the gunshot sound I heard was an oxygen explosion that occurred during the fire. The female owner of the house was rescued and safe.

Brushstroke of the Comforter

“Oh Comforter, To Thee We Cry…”

In the aftermath of recent heartache, loss and an impending move to a new city, this is a scary time of not knowing what lies before me. When hopes and expectations are suddenly dashed, when friends move away, when hard things happen to us, and we don’t have a clue where we’re going or why we’re going there…then every act of kindness received becomes a life raft.

Surely, you've been there before. We've all been. You’re choking for breath. You’re vision is blurry with tears. You can’t walk without feeling like a great burden is pinning your feet down to one place. And you're scared of being alone. It goes on like this until you feel you want to give up; you can’t handle this. You don’t know what to do, or where to go, and you don’t even want to. You want to curl up and sleep for an indefinite amount of time.

And then IT happens. 

You taste it as you bite into a slice of ripe, juicy golden muskmelon. You taste it in the fresh sweetness of a blueberry popping in your mouth.

You feel it in the wind blowing through your window and stirring your hair.

But you fight it, 'cause you don't wanna let go.

You encounter it again in the surprise reunion with an old friend who you haven't talked to in years.

You sense it in a friend's invitation to go out for lunch.

You find it in the form of a chocolate treat left purposefully for you by someone who cares.

You know it in the consoling conversation about how God is at work in your life.

It brushes you softly like a feather on your cheek. It whispers quietly to your soul. It penetrates to your bones.

Eventually, you give in. You give in entirely and embrace the hope of a future. You begin to feel the rush of life again. The mad colors on the canvas begin to take shape under a hand bigger than your own - that of the Mighty Comforter. 

"It may be that when we no longer know what to do
we have come to our real work,
and that when we no longer know which way to go
we have come to our real journey.
The mind that is not baffled is not employed.
The impeded stream is the one that sings."
~"The Real Work" by Wendell Berry

Witness to a Marriage

What a happy weekend the marriage of my mom and Dan was! I couldn’t sleep for four nights leading up to it; I was so full of anticipation! It was special to share some quiet time with mom on Friday in her home and to cherish for one last time our past “solitude” together – the 22 years we'd spent in that home while she was a single mother, and I was being homeschooled and nurtured under her wing. Now there would be no more solitude for her, but companionship in a loving, marriage relationship.

Two deer ran across the road in front of Dan’s car as the four of us (my mom, Dan, my oldest sister and I) drove home after Friday's rehearsal. It was April 27th, the anniversary of my father’s death 22 years ago. I immediately said it was a sign from Dad. He and Dan’s wife were gazing on from heaven in joy for this marriage to take place and were close to us in spirit. The next day, my other sister, who was not with us at the time, saw two deer run across the road in front of her car and thought of Gene.

Saturday dawned, and my sister, mom and I went to church to get dressed. I walked down the aisle with Ben, my new step-brother. Mom was a gorgeous, happy bride beside Dan, both of them so in love. As I had witnessed their love story unfold, so now I stood to witness their marriage vows.

 ***

“It’s not often that one gets to choose one’s sister or one’s father. In this case, Dan’s daughter Rebekah and I chose each other to be best friends and sisters since we were little girls – hardly dreaming that one day we really would be!” …so began my wedding speech at the reception dinner.

“Rebekah was my neighbor, three years younger than I, who lived just two houses down the road. When her mother died and Bekah was four years old, my mom started taking care of Bekah in our home while Dan was teaching. I was so happy to have her for a playmate, and since I was homeschooled, it was fun to have her over during the day.

“I’m not sure when the idea first occurred to us both, but we thought it would be perfect if our parents got married, because then we’d be sisters, and I always wanted my mom to get married so I would have a living father. It was very simple in our heads. What we didn’t know is that Dan promised his wife he wouldn’t marry until the kids were grown up. Dan is faithful, a man true to his word. Coincidentally, it happened the year Rebekah graduated from college that he fell in love with my mom.

“I remember the day when the phone rang in December 2010. I was working in the dining room writing and after my mom hung up the phone, she turned around and said, ‘Dan asked me if he can come over so I can teach him how to ballroom dance for his niece’s wedding!’ We looked at each other in surprise! She was excited and a little nervous. Little did Dan know that after only a few lessons he would be hooked - not only on ballroom dancing but on my mom!

“It’s been a pleasure and pure joy to witness your love story, Mom and Dan. Since I was living at home at the time, you had to put up with me being around during dance classes in the dining room and then when those dance classes turned into dates, sometimes I was a handy chaperone. I really enjoyed hearing your laughter, seeing you grow closer and falling in love. Dan never seemed like an outsider. With Dan in our home, life seemed whole again.

“Dan has been the closest father-figure I’ve had growing up. Dan had me over for dinner more times than I can count, taught me how to bat a baseball, how to throw a football (though I still haven’t mastered that one!) and took Bekah and I on many fun car trips to Holy Hill and the Milwaukee Zoo. Some of you might be wondering why it took this long. I guess Bekah and I wondered the same thing… Welcome to our family, Dan. I’m so proud to have you for a dad.”

***

I turned to hug mom and Dan. After I was through, my brother stood up and said, “No one can follow that!” And so he gave a short congratulatory toast. Throughout the rest of the afternoon, family and friends told me how they wanted to cry during my speech, how they didn’t know all that, and how touching it was. I felt, in carrying out that action, to be fulfilling part of my mission in life, that which gives my life meaning: to inspire others, especially through writing and my words...

Strangely, I had envisioned this years ago. I had imagined somehow at my wedding speaking up in front of others to say how grateful I was for all the father-figures in my life, including Dan. Later, I thought how overly sentimental and superfluous that would be. Well, lo and behold, I had the opportunity here at Dan’s own wedding to say how much he’s been a father to me being our neighbor, and to thank him.

Dancing filled the afternoon hours, and mom’s ballroom dance partners swept me away for dances, raving about how special my mom was. Then last of all, Dan took me in his arms and swept me across the floor in a waltz when the afternoon was almost over. It was a moment I’ll remember forever. 

The wedding day was filled with so much love and happiness; I can hardly find words to do it justice. I was aware of the love of mom and Dan for each other, the love of all guests gathered there for them two, my love for God and His love for all of us poured out at Mass, the love of my boyfriend, the love for my brothers and sisters as well as my new family. The night closed with just our "two" families having supper together and leftover cake.

“So much love!” I exclaimed to my boyfriend on the ride home. And I went to bed fully quenched in love.

House for Sale

Last weekend, I was sitting inside my mother’s house, where outside on the front lawn an “Adashun Jones” real estate sign is pounded into the ground. Looking around me and soaking it all in, I internalized how this was likely one of the last times in this house.

Down the road, the neighbor man also has his house marked for sale. Being best friends with his daughter growing up, both homes are where I remember spending my childhood. Back and forth between these two, I used to pass, going to his home for grill outs and car trips, and back to my house to play with our American girl dolls and frolic in the yard with our kittens and cats. Summers were spent biking around the block, running and screaming in our swimsuits through the water sprinkler, swinging on the swing sets, batting baseballs in the yard, going for treasure hunts inside the houses where my neighbor friend and I had mapped out the land, choreographing dances and performing them while her dad taped us on video. In the winters, we'd sled down the snow mounds. In the fall, I'd rake leaves and work in the yard. In the spring, my mom and I would plant flowers and vegetables in the garden, which we'd weed all summer long.

Funny, how the memories seem as rich outside as inside. Maybe that's why they say, "these are our roots."

Twenty-five years worth of memories are tucked into the corners of my mother’s home and the neighborhood. I have a fondness for the trees that shaded me on hot summer days, their leafy branches rustling in the breeze. The trees are the witnesses of my childhood pretenses, my milestone graduations, my first loves, and my college returns home. They have stood over me, sheltering me, and beside me, comforting me, through the thick and thin of becoming an adult.

This spring, romance is blossoming everywhere. My mother who's been widowed for 22 years is getting married. What a story it is! She is marrying the neighbor man, the father of my best neighborhood friend and the man who is probably the closest father-figure I have ever known in my life. They've lived two houses apart from each other for longer than I've been alive, and love sprung last year. We celebrate their wedding at the end of this month, April 28! It happens to be one day following my dad's death in 1990. Like the miracle of Easter Sunday, sorrow turns to joy as we roll away the stone of grief and loss, seeing dark nights fade into sunrises.  As we sell the old, we make room for the new. The two shall become one. These houses of memories shall be stored in our hearts and every goodbye beckons a hello.

I Think I Can!

What a rough week! Oh, what a dark night of the soul! While I could complain in this blog about the trials and disappointments of this past week and month–which would be utterly boring and pointless for you to read–I shall instead focus on hope.

Hope? After this dark week? Yeah, that’s how I felt, until my friend surprised me by saying that I was the most hope-filled person she knows! And I began to wonder…why? Why do others say I am a person of hope? What makes a person of hope?

I was three years old, alone, in darkness, my head throbbing with pain, strange smells, strange bed, and foreign voices. Where was my mom? Where was Dad?

The car crash had instantly killed my father and injured my mother. Choking and deprived of oxygen, I was within moments of death when they found me and began doing CPR on me. With a cracked skull, concussion, a ruptured eardrum, bruises and a black eye, I was sent to Children’s Hospital in Milwaukee. Alone and far away from my mom, who was in the hospital in another city, my prognosis was not good. My two aunts visited me regularly to sit and hold me in their arms, but I refused to eat anything and turned to sleep. When it became obvious that there was no physical reason why I couldn't survive, my male nurse worried that I was giving up on life, that the darkness and pain was too much to bear. Life without hope is no life at all.

At the nurse's bidding, my mom recorded a tape and sent it to me. It was her voice singing songs to me, telling me stories, and saying how much she loved me. I can still hear those soft words in my mind to this day. She was a mother in one hospital bed calling out to her child alone in another hospital: “Live! Choose to live! I love you!”

Thanks, Mom.

And on that tape, my mother read me the story The Little Engine That Could. Do you remember a favorite book from your childhood? This one is mine. The little blue engine said yes to help pull the train loaded with toys and good gifts for children to the other side of the mountain. Pulling with all her might, that little blue engine chugged up the hill, repeating, “I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.”

This children’s story still quickens my heart today and stirs up emotions inside me. It has become the mantra of my life.

I decided then and there to live. After listening to the entire tape with my eyes open, I decided that I was not going to give up on life. I began the fight to live. And when my aunt offered me a mashed banana after the recording was over, I ate it. Something stirred in my breast and made me believe that no matter how awful the darkness was that I was going through, life would still be worth living. Wow! I healed!

The next few years of life would be hard and mournful. Losing my father was the foremost reason for my clinging to hope. Growing up without my dad is a loss that only feels itself deepen, not fade, with time. Therefore, I know that it is our various trials in life that influence us and teach us the reality of hope. We choose to be hope-filled.

Hope is courage. Hope is endurance. Since my childhood, I have chosen to live by the motto “I think I can!” and “I thought I could!” And onward through this vale of tears and over mountains, this little engine keeps chugging along, hopeful, optimistic, and smiling!

I know I can!