I’ve never been one for malls, even when malls were a thing. The florescent lights and the muzak make me twitchy after a time. I get weary of window shopping for things I cannot afford. And retailers know that you only think that blouse looks cute because the way it is placed next to their other less cute things, so you take it home, never wear it, maybe hate it because it just doesn’t vibe the same in your bedroom as it did in the dressing room. I have had good times in malls, but that was only because of the company of my friends and/or daughters and we are trying on ridiculous things and come home with a scarf and new hand cream.
Recently sitting around a tea table with my parish friends we found ourselves bemoaning the disappearance of malls. Oh, not because we particularly miss HotTopic and Mervins, but because it was a third space. It was a place we went to a lot when we were younger without an agenda for no specified length of time. People could wander, eat a pretzel, bump into friends, flirt with the guy at the pagoda selling knockoff sunglasses and call your parents from the payphone asking if you could stay a little later. During the holidays you’d go to the mall just to take in the Christmas decorations, listen to Christmas music, watch the train and visit Santa’s village. There in the all-American mall we accidentally found the proverbial village and the third space we needed to develop social skills and to combat the loneliness.
Online shopping has made us terribly efficient at the price of human connection. We no longer have to go buy school supplies or try on new jeans. There is no pimply faced boy with whom to awkwardly flirt as you try on sunglasses. We just hop on Amazon and in a few clicks have everything we need delivered to our door. As a mom of many, I admit that I love the appeal of online shopping, of placing my order at Sam’s Club and having a stranger put it in my car, and then rushing right home. One could honestly go days and even weeks without intentional or meaningful human connection. Shopping, dating, medical consultation, education, and even worship can all be done in the most efficient way and never requires you put on pants. Kids these days don’t ask to hang out with their friends because even that is accomplished online.
To what end have we become this painfully efficient? It’s not so we have more time for leisure, because everyone is busier and more frazzled than ever. No, we saved all this time doing errands so that we could fill our days with more servile labor.
I was recently sitting at a party attended by mostly homeschooling moms and their children–a delightful and smart group of women who talked about everything from the best pedagogy to teach children ancient languages to politics and the economy. Most in the group, like myself, own older homes in rural Maine, which means the list of things that need tending is long. And that list constantly gets reevaluated and shuffled because what was priority yesterday (say, a new dishwasher) gets quickly usurped by a new concern (say, getting enough firewood stored before what is expected to be an extra cold winter). And so it goes with putting the garden to bed for the winter, mending broken screens, fixing the loose door hinge (because old homes shift a lot), putting up new bookshelves, maintaining the septic. This doesn’t even include the regular housekeeping duties of sweeping up, washing dishes, making meals, and keeping the 352 pairs of shoes from overtaking the mudroom. Seasonally, snowsuits and boots need to come out and bikes and swimsuits need to be put away. As I write this, sipping my cuppa by the fireplace, I’m surrounded by storage bins full of winter coats and snow pants that need sorting and trying on before the rest are stored back in the up-up.
It never ends and for the homemaker that can feel daunting….except….it’s not. It’s rhythmic and life-affirming. I imagine this old house is a living entity and we the inhabitants have made our nests in her extremities. The fireplace is her heart and the kitchen her soul. Yes, the home needs a lot of maintaining, “but so do I..” I think as I put on my skin serum after my shower and take my supplements before bed. I need an extra sweater in the winter and the house needs some extra firewood stacked by the stove awaiting its chance to impart cozy heat.
Have you ever had a dream where you were in your house and suddenly you find yourself in a room you didn’t know was there? Or you’re walking down a staircase or a corridor and you think, “Has this always been a part of my home? Why did I never explore this?” Although my physical home is small, I think there must be aspects yet unexplored. There are histories and stories deep in the old wood that hold secrets only the ghosts know. My privilege is to look after this current iteration of this house. Never before has this 200 year old place seen bright blue walls and orange trim and icons in every room. The old place is settling into her woodland nerd era with old books and old music finding new nooks and crannies to fill. Certainly it is the first time in her two centuries she has housed a dog, three cats, 2 turtles, 2 bearded dragons, and a hedgehog. I imagine that my home loves the life in this place–sometimes messy and unruly–but so is my curly hair, which never does exactly as it is told.
When we moved here a decade ago I named this place Kylo. Oh, it was before that name was popularized by Star Wars, which I have never watched anyway. Kylo stands for Keep Your Love On. It’s my personal motto, my mantra, the goal of my life. And so, it is the name of this place. It may seem that old wood beams hold up these walls, but it’s actually love that does all the heavy lifting. It is love that fills these walls with laughter and provides a safe place to cry. It is love that keeps us warm in the winter and semi-cool in the summer (we have no air conditioning). It is love that welcomes always one more, that makes space at the table (schooch down will you, I want to sit next to you) and finds an ever increasing capacity for healing. We are not perfect who live within Kylo’s extremities. But we try. We try to love, to walk toward wholeness, to have the humility to return home after failures, to give and forgive and to keep working out our salvation with fear and trembling, keeping our love always on.
Keeping Kylo alive and thriving, and keeping this family alive and thriving, and keeping my middle-aged chronically ill body alive and thriving are not such different things. Love, intention, rituals, and starting over apply to all.
I’ve been leaning hard into rhythms lately. Autumn seems to have that way about her, doesn’t she?
I am not good at routine at the same time somehow in love with ritual. The ones that come most naturally are the ones that bookend my days: grinding my coffee in the morning, drinking it with my husband, his arms around me while he says our morning prayers. In the evening, sitting in our twin rocking chairs chatting about the day, reading, and sipping something relaxing, his arms back around me as he says our night prayers. These are the rituals that never feel monotonous but are near identical every day.
I was pondering this, delighting in the sameness, while thinking back to my days before becoming Catholic. In those days it seems that newness was the thing most prized. I was in a community that was always looking for the newest revelation, the brightest insight, the novelty of what was termed “revival.” Reading Scripture was always with the goal of what was going to jump out of the pages, what was going to blow my mind, or dazzle my senses. When preparing a talk or sermon I craved something new and enlightening to say to the listeners.
Over a decade of being a Catholic, now I read old books–sometimes over and over. I say the same prayers every day. I don’t want to hear what the new preacher or author on the scene has to say. I’d rather find out what the stylite in the desert would say. What did the ancient hermit who never conceived of the internet say was the meaning of things? I feel intuitively that it would be far more applicable than any self-help book or self-appointed guru would have to say. I think, perhaps, the fascination with newness will be what ends us all, but the acceptance of the sacred sameness of the truth will comfort us and lead us to peace.
Below is something I wrote four years ago. Consistent to its theme, it still holds true.
Written April 29, 2021:
We live in a world where innovation is highly valued, disruptive technologies sought after, fresh ideas praised. It is as if what is current is interchangeable with what is important and the only relevant ideas are those which can be captured in a sound bite in the 24 hour news cycle.
There is always the temptation to be on to the next best thing.
This temptation draws us away from the romance of daily life, from rhythms and rituals, and practices as old as the world itself.
The world is old—at least in terms of humanity. (The world is young in terms of the eternal God who made and sustains it.) And the sun rises each day the same way. We can count on the seasons, the ebb and flow of the tides, the days of the week slipping in and out book ended with liturgies and weekend chores.
Adoration at the Blessed Sacrament Chapel
There is this sameness about the world—despite cars that drive themselves and phones that listen to my conversations in order to advertise to me things I neither need nor want. The sameness of things can either feel stifling or grounding, depending on my perspective and how much I let the monotony speak to me of things eternal.
I have a little book club of Catholic women, mostly moms, and we take turns choosing the books. The taking turns was a concession, because let’s be real. I started the book club so all my friends would read my favorite books and then we could yap about them over wine. I’m a simple girl. But having a monopoly on the choices was simple vanity because I was just so unsure what kind of books the other women liked and I trust mostly my own taste. That is my confession. (Absolution may not be possible, because I am not sure about true contrition.)
However, the ladies in the club have chosen some very fine books that I have thoroughly enjoyed! It has been a pleasure to expand my library, with the exception of one book which we read a year ago. This book has 4.8 stars on Amazon. Five stars on Tan. I keep seeing Catholic women (and men!) online singing its praises. And yet, the issues I have with this book could be a whole new book.
The book is The Anti-Mary Exposed by Carrie Gress.
“Sometimes, at the dinner table, a man might get up
and go outside and walk and walk,
simply because there’s somewhere in the East a church.”
(Rilke’s Book of Pilgrimage)
My fourth child is a junior at Hillsdale majoring in politics. First of all, what? How am I old enough that my fourth born is a junior in college? Secondly, what a brave thing to major in, especially in this age of political violence. I’m proud. Maybe sometimes a little trepidatious, but always proud.
He has the courage of his convictions if anyone ever did. He spends his summer pro-life canvassing with Susan B. Anthony. He’s had his life threatened, been called every name in the book, and yet keeps smiling, being respectful, and operating from his strength. He’s an active member of his fraternity, Delta Tau Delta (ΔΤΔ) and the Knights of Columbus, Hillsdale Chapter.
Is this a Caesar appreciation post? Well, yes. Of course it is! Also, he is going on Pilgrimage. He’s going to walk the Camino during his winter break. In his own words, he will be “…praying and offering penance daily and finally laying prayer requests in the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela at the tomb of St. James the Greater.”
This is a dream come true….for me. I have wanted to walk the Camino for more than a decade. It may not be in my future, but my joy is no less supporting one of my children doing it! I feel like I am going on pilgrimage! Because I am going to send him with my prayer intentions and he is going to offer them on my behalf. (Isn’t Catholicism neat?!)
Would you be interested in sending your intentions with him? Would you pray and see if God is leading you to help him in his pilgrimage? He has a fundraising account here: Support Caesar’s Pilgrimage.
God bless you if you financially support this venture, say prayers for him, or even just think fondly of me, his mother, who likes to brag from time-to-time about her kids and their adventures.
Hello Friends!
As many of you know I am a junior at Hillsdale College in Michigan. I am majoring in politics and getting ready to venture out into the commotion of the working world. What you don’t know is I have been blessed with an opportunity to go on pilgrimage on El Camino De Santiago in the Galicia Region of Northern Spain.
This is an amazing opportunity to momentarily leave behind the ever increasing noise of the world to listen to and discern the plan that God has for my life.
The trip will entail a nearly two week pilgrimage throughout Spain that holy men and women have been taking for over 1000 years. The trip will be during my winter break, from December 29th-January 7th.
I have applied for and received scholarships for the trip but still require some additional funding. The amount I need in order to pay for the remainder of the trip is $2,050. I am looking for partners. If you feel led to donate, I will carry your prayer requests and intentions with me, praying and offering penance daily and finally laying your requests in the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela at the tomb of St. James the Greater.
I realize that this is a hefty sum of money and I pray that with your gifts and prayers that this trip could be possible. Be assured your intentions and prayer requests will remain confidential.
(This post inspired by Christina Elisha, with much gratitude for asking the tough questions and wrestling with the answers.)
This week (this month? this year?) has been rough. The heaviness is in the air, even if, like me, you don’t own a TV and refuse to watch the news. The news still reaches you–violence everywhere. Violence on public transportation, violence in churches, schools, and college campuses, violence in the houses of government, violence in the womb.
It is as if we have collectively forgotten what it means to be human.
Just this morning I got several messages in my Instagram. The first had the tone of “you shouldn’t be sad about X unless you expressed equal amounts of emotion about X, Y, and Z.”
My dears, empathy, like suffering, is not a competition.You are allowed to show imperfect compassion. We are not built to carry all the weight of the world equally and there is no limit to atrocities over which to mourn. If I hold back my empathy from X because I was unaware or didn’t have bandwidth Y and Z, then I become calloused to pain and thereby impervious to love.
The season is changing. This most golden of summers is relinquishing it’s mesmerizing hold and giving way to Autumn. It’s time.
This Autumn I will hurry less and putter more. Tidying up here, washing up there, setting late blooms in vases, and diffusing bergamot and clove. The to-do list can die its long slow death. I shall do a little bit of this and a little bit of that.
March is a weird month for me every year and I always forget that until I am midway through March and wondering what the hell is going on. It’s like getting little whiffs of something that you can’t quite put your finger on.
Yesterday, with the month nearly over, it occurred to me why I was feeling a little…off. Yesterday was exactly 6 years to the day that my ex-husband walked out the door for the last and final time.
I’ve never told this story publicly, partly because it is no one’s business, but also because I always want to be fair in my telling of things and when things are fresh sometimes the emotions cloud the objectivity. But now, six years, intense therapy, a divorce, an annulment, falling in love, and an engagement later, I have loads of perspective. So, I will tell this now if for no other reason than maybe there is a woman (or man) stuck in a terribly abusive cycle who needs to be reminded that other realities are possible.
During March of Lent of 2019 I stood in the very back of the Confession line. When it was finally my turn I sat in front of the priest and said, “Father, I am not looking for absolution today. I don’t even know what to confess. But, I need prayer and I need to tell someone. Tomorrow I am giving my husband an ultimatum to get sober and get help or I have to leave. And I’m scared. I believe my life is in danger.” He listened. He prayed. He gave me a pastoral blessing. I cried.
The next day I sent my children to a friend’s house and had my husband alone. I made him a hearty meal. While he was eating I sat on the rug in the living room and I gave him the ultimatum. I had 911 already dialed in case I needed to hit call. Instead of lashing out he just sat in silence chewing. After a while he said he wanted to stay.
For a week he was a dry drunk. Not drinking, but angry as hell. The tension and the violence increased. And I prayed. I prayed so hard every day, every moment. I drenched my pillow in tears. The kids and I would gather in the dark in my room and whisper the Rosary. We had to whisper because if we prayed out loud he would become enraged.
Then on March 30 I noticed signs he had been drinking again. So I confronted him and he did not deny it. He was deviant even.
I remember it as if it was yesterday. He was on a ladder and I was standing in the doorway. And time stood still.
I have never been a brave person. I’ve been a people pleaser, a fearful worrier, and timid rule follower. I was raised to never be an inconvenience and to never question authority. In that moment, I just stood there looking at him. The kids looked at me. Were we going to do this song and dance again? How many times? Was this just my lot in life?
Somewhere within me there flickered a tiny spark of divine grace. I heard myself saying, “That’s enough. You can go now.” I didn’t shout it. In fact, I think I said it rather meekly. But there was a new conviction that had never been there before.
“You know, sometimes all you need is twenty seconds of insane courage. Just literally twenty seconds of just embarrassing bravery. And I promise you, something great will come of it.”(Benjamin Mee)
He looked at me with disbelief. Perhaps he thought I didn’t mean it. But I did. Somehow in that moment I found my voice. I found I had a spine. I found a sure footing. I knew one thing and that was that this was enough.
He grabbed a duffle bag, shoved a random collection of clothes in it and as he walked out the door he said, “Just so you know, you’re going to be alone always. You think your fancy church friends are going to care for you? I promise you they won’t. You’ll be alone forever and no one will care for you.” He threw his duffle bag into the back of his truck and squealed out the driveway.
I gathered up my kids and some hastily made PB&Js and took them on a day hike with one of my “fancy church friends.” I don’t recall that we even spoke about my husband leaving. We just breathed the fresh spring air of freedom. Then I came home and slept so hard.
Taken on that very day we got our freedom
My life is completely different than that day. I grieved hard and for a long time. It was a tough letting go of a 19 year marriage and all the expectations that come with that. I did not want to be a divorced woman. I had to learn to embrace being misunderstood and being the villain in others’ stories. I’ve been on the brink of losing myself only to find myself in Christ. I wanted God to save my marriage, but instead God chose to get glory from my brokenness. And isn’t that the way? The way we think we can best serve God and fulfill out purpose is not always the way God has mapped out for our sanctification.
“I don’t have to paint myself a different color. Happiness isn’t holier than grief. God has created space for both. We can be both. We can be all of it.” (Nightbirde)
Looking back at all the things the kids and I have done that I thought were impossible. Supporting ourselves, working on the house, sending kids to college, taking road trips, embracing the Faith, building a life. We learned to operate outside of survival mode and to really embrace joy.
That one tiny moment of just embarrassing bravery.
That one little moment of cooperating with grace.
That little spark of grace was fanned into a flame of a passion for life and for my family.
If you are stuck in a situation you think impossible to change, might I suggest standing in the back of the Confession line and then telling the priest how scared you are. I promise something good (who knows what) will come of that. Maybe the seed of courage will be planted in your heart.
Today is my birthday. I slept in and as my awareness slowly returned to me around 9am, there were tears in my eyes. I’m so grateful to be 46. I’m still here. Not only that, I’m happy. I like my life. That is the craziness thing I’ve ever heard, honestly and I never would have believed it. That’s not because I have ever had the idea that youth was a thing to be held onto. I don’t believe any anti-aging-propaganda. It’s because 1) I honestly struggled so hard to find an inner happiness and contentment and 2) I’ve always had an idea in the back of my mind that I would die young. Maybe that is because I’ve been chronically sick for so long and maybe it is because secretly I wished to be released from this life.
But here I am. Forty-six years old and so profoundly grateful.
Here are 46 little life lessons you can take or leave. I don’t want to be anyone’s guru in any way whatsoever. But I would like to be someone’s woodland godmother who dispenses little sprinkles of grace to the day like sugar sprinkled on oatmeal. These are in no particular order of importance.
Chatting recently with my book club, someone dropped the name of a prominent Catholic teacher/writer/celebrity. I won’t mentioned his name here, because I don’t need that smoke. This name carries a lot of weight in most Catholic circles. For me, he’s…..meh. When I read his books I feel like I’m reading any twentieth century Protestant theologian. I said, “Well, he’s basically a Protestant who believes in the Eucharist.” A hot take that not everyone agrees with and that’s fine.
Nevertheless, our culture is so saturated with Protestantism that most do not recognize it. American Catholicism is dang hard to live, because everywhere we look for the Gospel there’s a Protestantized version–sadly, even in the Church a lot of the time. A protestantized Jesus makes for an antsy and angsty Catholic.
You’ve seen the symptoms, I’m sure. These can include:
Losing sleep over whether or not the Pope is likeable
Caring who had a personal audience with the Pope
Going to a different parish because your new parish priest is not like the old one
Coming back to your old parish when the priest you didn’t like gets reassigned
Following celebrities simply because they are Catholic
Getting too invested in Catholic X (formerly Twitter)
Expecting something groundbreaking, revelatory, or innovative in a homily and being disappointed when you don’t get it
When Barron/Hahn/Marshall/Gordon/Schmitz/Sri/Kelly are more recognizable and quotable to you than St. John Chrysostom or St. Ephrem the Syrian or St. Augustine
If after Mass you think “what did I get out of church today?” rather than “what did I offer the church today?”
reconciling things 