The (Bad) Language of Free Will

My 7-year-old daughter came into my bedroom the other night about an hour after I’d put her to bed.  I knew she was upset because she was sucking her fingers, a habit that she has mostly kicked but sometimes creeps up when she is worried or sad. I put my arm around her little nightgown clad body and asked her what was wrong. “Sometimes I say bad words in my head,” she said as tears rolled down her cheeks, “and I am afraid that God will be mad at me since he knows what I am thinking.” I hugged her close and dried her tears and asked her if she would ever say those bad words out loud. “No way,” she exclaimed, half-laughing/half-crying. I asked her why. She answered, “because I know they’re bad and I can’t choose what I think but I can choose what I do.”

These kids, right?  Sometimes they can take the most difficult topic, in this case free-will, and make us see it in an entirely new dimension. My daughter’s dilemma is all of ours. All day long we have thoughts that drift in and out of our consciousness, some good, some bad and we have to constantly make decisions about which ones to act upon. As a Christian family, I try to make sure we are rooting our decision making in the teachings of our religion. This does not make life easy.

I often consider myself fortunate that I don’t struggle with the concept of religion. If I believe that there really is a God (I do) who imbued humans with an immortal soul (I do) it only makes sense that God might give us a primer on how to protect that gift. But without our immortal soul  – what are we? We are animals with instincts and desires and an inclination to do whatever it is that we want. Our bodies and our minds are these amazingly complicated tools with great capacities for good and evil. God, with his ultimate understanding of the nature of humanity, gave us the owner’s manual for our bodies and for our soul. That means having to sometimes choose the way that is difficult, but as our parish priest once said, “We should not confuse what is easy with what is true.”

Back in my bedroom, I confessed to my daughter that sometimes I say bad words in my head too. She giggled and used her spitty fingers to wipe away her tears. “What?!” she asked, incredulous. “You think bad things too?” I said I did. “Well, I can imagine that you think bad thoughts, but does Daddy?” I told her that, yes, even her beloved Daddy says bad words in his head sometimes. It’s normal. She hugged me and thanked me for talking to her, but if I’m honest she taught me just as much as I have ever taught her.

Listening to the Voices

While I was growing up, my mom used to tell me that God speaks to you, you only have to be quiet and listen. For the most part, this has served me well. I have listened when That Little Voice has suggested, "tell the truth, even if it's hard," and had faith that the Holy Spirit was indeed guiding me. As I've grown older, my internal dialogue hasn't been so absolutely holy. "You're not smart enough," "You don't write well enough," "You're lazy," "Play the Lottery! You'll win," and many other destructive voices have joined the symphony. I have come to distrust That Little Voice, even downright ignore it.

***

Finding out that I was pregnant with John was one of the most defining moments in my life.  If I am to tell the truth, I felt like we were maxed out. We had five bright, beautiful school-aged children and bringing home a new baby never entered into my personal plans. I don't know how far along I was (several weeks) when I sat praying before Mass with my family and my visiting mother, completely unaware of John's life growing within me. "This is My child," the words pounded through me the way a wave forms in the placidity of the ocean to break with the thundering force of the eternities upon the shore. "This is My child!" I couldn't ignore That Little Voice but years of weary, destructive banter in my head had taught me to discredit it. What child? Wait... When was my last period? I instinctively knew what That Little Voice was trying to tell me but I ignored it. I went home and drank wine with my mom trying to push the message of That Little Voice from my mind but my entire being knew better. A home pregnancy test taken the very next morning confirmed that I was pregnant.

***

By anyone's assessment, I have had a super-human recovery to a spinal fusion surgery. After months of pain, I left the hospital in less that 24 hours, went for a walk 2 days after surgery, wrapped all of our Christmas gifts at 4 days post-op, and have otherwise enjoyed every minute of my life, pain-free, since the surgery. I've had all of my family and friends call to check on me and I've been able to give them the happy news, "I feel great." Every single time the response has been, "I am so thankful. I have been praying for you." Last week I met with a doctor who said she had never seen such a seamless recovery. I told my mom about the accolades and she replied, "Well, I prayed for you as if you were dying."

***

Grant lost his keys this morning. After a few frantic moments of searching, I sent him to work in my car with the promise that I would look for them. "Did you check the key basket," I asked. "Yes. Twice."

Later in the morning I got to work looking for the keys. I looked in the key basket again and searched the cupboard where the basket is kept. Nothing. I looked in John's toy box and in the trunk of his toy car where other misplaced items have been found. Nothing. "Pray." It was That Little Voice. "Pray about it." My whole life, I have always felt guilty about praying for the mundane things in life. I've always felt like I can handle the lost keys, God, you just take care of the sick children, ok? But our God is not one to be bargained with. If we are to trust Him with our life, we must also trust him with our... keys? Ok. Ok. I crossed myself and prayed out loud, "In the Name of The Father, The Son and The Holy Spirit. Lord? If it is your will, please let me find Grant's keys. Saint Anthony, please pray for me to find Grant's keys. Amen." I thought no more of it.

I don't know how long it was before I had a very strong urge to check the key basket again. My first instinct was to resist. "Go back to the basket. You will find the keys because I have put them there." It came from a place outside of my own thought processes. What could it hurt? I went to the kitchen and opened the cupboard where the key basket resides. I picked it up. I took out all of the contents of the basket even though it was visibly clear that the keys weren't in there. As I went to put the basket back in the cabinet, Grant's keys were sitting on the shelf where the basket had been.

A Call After Dark

My telephone rang last night at 10:45. As I went in search of the handset, the mechanical voice announced, "Call from Kieffer, Steve." My dad. As a general rule, happy calls don't come after 9 pm. I braced myself. "Hello?" A slight pause on my dad's end, "Hey Maroon. What's doin?"

It was in the beat that he took before he spoke. It was the way my childhood nickname sounded gentle and fatherly. The dark cloud of tragedy has broken on our little family again. My beloved cousin has been issued her fate: Nothing more they can do. Cancer has spread. Go home.

Those words collected into little pools and then overflowed into the realities of loved ones near and far, each of us trying to stop the flooding. How can we bear this storm? How can we reach our arms to shield one another from the pounding force of eternity? There is nothing more we can do. We need to go home.

It seems that all too soon the drops of the storm and the oceans of our grieving will lift up our sister and deliver her to her rightful destination. She will see her own Father - the architect of the storms and the eternities and I hope we will have to courage to wave her on. Go home, dear one. Go home.

And we sure will miss you.

Thanksgiving

Poem

We wake at dawn and rub our eyes and get on with it.

The child in our bed greets us with smiles

            And that is enough for now.

We greet at doors and smile through pain

            Lest a child feel the heavy.

And the child shall not feel the heavy.

Heavy was not part of the vows but we feel it.

And we are doing ok.

Our backs have grown strong from carrying the years

            And we no more must draw from

            The well of eyes that gave us drink at the first.

Oh the first.

            Those blest days

            That built the floor on which this house is laid.

The young walk the floors without the truth.

They walk.  We scrub.

We keep the floor clean and private.

That is our floor.

We built it with row boats and wine and sex

            With planes and rings and moves from norms

            With care and pace our floor took form

            Where wee feet now tread with dirt.

So much dirt.

And we try to keep it like new

But any man can tell that the floor is not new.

(I think I saw a tiny bit of shit on the steps.)

I got a rag and sprayed that shit

And now it looks like it did one day ago.

In those spaces where the shit is clean

The floor shows us a new space to shine.

(in a small way I am glad for the shit)

for socks and toes shall gild the floor.

We walk our floor at the end of our day

And we climb to those pools of eyes

That held us at the first.

The floor is there but we lie above it.

In the light we will go back to our rags

But the soft of thread and skin are just fine for now.

The child falls into the peace of sleep and so do I.

We are ok.

John Steven

Lorde - With Outtakes

we tried "Team" but we don't know it very well and the choreography was a fail. The result is a little funny - - if you're my mom. 

Pictures of Light

Mah Boo Bastille

Because lately I am indulging my fantasies of becoming a professional lip-syncer.

It is fabulous, having one's own blog, isn't it?

George Michael

If you make it through, say, 45 seconds of this video you should be given some kind of reward.

Oh, and it's water in the princess cup. Promise.

Mah Blog

If I were posting on here, I would have made a few more vitriolic statements about my vile disgust for spanking. But I wasn't. I think I did a fairly decent job of gilding my disdain.

Sharon Steele As it seems that this discussion is coming to a close, I will thank you all for a thoughtful discourse. For us, parenthood has been a constant evaluation and reevaluation of what is working and what is broken. This article reinforced my firm resolve that corporal punishment is an outdated form of discipline. Would we spank an Altzheimer's patient for wandering? Never. Why? Because our elderly have an intrinsic right to feel safe. Our children are entitled to the same respect. It seems to me that in an effort to go back to a simpler time (larger families, backyard gardens, bike riding, drinking from the hose, etc. ) we have thrown the baby out with the bathwater, so to speak. We know so much more about the psyche and the dignity of the human person now. Is the objective in parenting solely "obedience?" If so, spank on. I am quite sure that spanking will produce obedient children. If the objective is a deference out of respect and love? There are other ways to achieve that end.

6 minutes ago · Like

What it is to be Ben...

Today my eldest son is 13. Let me profile the things I know about him.


Ben is sophisticated

 Ben is mature

 Ben is serious

and he makes me a better person every day. My boy. He stole my heart, this one. And he's never given it back.

(Secret: I don't want it anyway.)

Linkaroo:
Ben's Defunct Blog
http://bensmag.blogspot.com

Ben's 7 Year-old Birthday Pictures
http://sharonksteele.blogspot.com/2008/05/happy-birthday-darlin.html

Our Busted Punnet Square

Grant has the dreamiest brown eyes. And lots of eyelashes.

(spoiler: he is a major babe.)

When it came to having babies, I thought I would be the sole owner of blue eyes in the family, because recessive traits, and all. So imagine our surprise (or maybe that's a little pride - genetically high-fiving myself right now) when we ended up with only 1 brown eyed child, 3 with eyes the color of the sky, and 1 whose eyes are so lovely and indescribable that words do not suffice.

Check them out:

And it doesn't hurt that she is one of the nicest people I've ever met, either.

Dear Diary,

April 10, 2014

Dear Diary,

Deciding to put the kids in school has seemed to work out well. Everyone is thriving and I have a lot more time to focus on getting things put away in the new house. I know I may have said this before, but this may very well be the happiest time of our lives.

Yesterday started out very promising. I signed up to chaperone a field trip to the Smithsonian Natural History Museum with Michael's class. Lucy was able to come along and I was very much looking forward to seeing the caveman exhibit I heard about on NPR. An artist/anthropologist has rethought how to reconstruct early man beginning at the bones and sculpting from the inside out. I was also pretty excited at the thought that I could put Michael back on the bus and go to the Cherry Blossom Festival with Lucy. I've never been in 15 years of living in DC and with homeschooling in our rear view mirror, this was the perfect time.

We got up early, packed a yummy lunch, put on our best walking shoes and got set to hit the town. That is when our plan unravelled.

First of all, I got separated from the school bus I was following, which if you know DC traffic you will understand that this spells disaster. As the bus sailed through a yellow light at a main thoroughfare and into the city of gridlock and tunnels, I felt like I was waving to the launching space shuttle from terra firma. Farewell. Hope to see you again someday.

I then employed the help of my frenemy (mostly enemy) Siri. I think I said something like this, "Siri, I know we have had our differences in the past but I really need you to get me to the Natural History Museum. The Smithsonian. In Washington DC." Apparently Siri hasn't forgiven me for all the times I have cursed her and wished her dead over the years, because what I heard back was, "Starting route to … Hayden Planetarium" the one in New Flipping York. I then screamed some obscenities at Siri and told her I really did wish her dead. And I do.

I used my very own homing skills to get us to the Natural History Museum and as I turned the corner I saw Michael's bus. Victory. That is when I heard Lucy in the back say, "Mommy, my tummy hurts….. blaaahhhhhhhh!" She vomited all over herself and the seat of the car. Game over. I called one of the moms that I knew on the bus and got the message to Michael that we had to go home. He was fine. He enjoyed the trip but never did get to see the cavemen.

Lucy and I took the long way home. She used one of Grant's old shirts to mop up the vomit and sucked her fingers as we drove the route of the cherry blossoms.

Someday I will make it to that festival, and when I do, I am sure that I will find myself wistful for the days of vomit and field trips. All in, I count myself very fortunate. Very fortunate indeed.

Dairy-Free/Gluten-Free Mac & Cheese - Whaaat?!

This here? This is a pretty big deal. In my constant quest to present suitably edible baked goods to one desperately-allergic daughter of mine, I have engineered what might be the most delicious concoction since Nutella.

(Just kidding. Nothing is better than Nutella.)

Ingredients:

8 oz daiya
     (I combined 4 oz cheddar style and 4 oz mozzarella style. You can do what you want.)

8 oz truRoots ancient grain pasta elbows
     (I imagine that any gluten free pasta will do. Plain rice pasta seems gluey and flavorless. This cooked up al dente.)

1 Cup Rice Milk (or your favorite milk substitute.)
1/2 tsp freshly ground black pepper
1/2 tsp onion salt

1) Preheat oven to 400

2) Prepare the ancient grain pasta according to the directions and drain.

3) As any macaroni and cheese connoisseur knows, the cheese must be made into a sauce in order to achieve the proper silky texture. Therefore, put your daiya into a medium saucepan with the Rice Milk and heat over a medium/low heat stirring constantly. Slowly. Don't burn it.

4) Add onion salt and pepper to taste. Make sure to taste it. I like more pepper to give it that rustic taste, but you might not. 1/2 teaspoon is safe.

5) Once the cheese sauce is appropriately saucy, pour it onto the prepared noodles. Combine well.

6) Pour entire mixture into a small casserole and bake on 400 for 15 minutes or until it gets that brown crust that makes you go, "Mmmmmmm!"

7) cool and enjoy.

Even my non-allergy kids loved this dish. 3 cheers for daiya. Here is a shot of the ingredients for those inclined to look at such:

daiya - it's not plastic!

Apples and Trees

Apparently the aforementioned don't fall far from one another because of this:

An Ode to Jackie Robinson

Football, baseball, cross-country too

Jackie Robinson, which will you choose?

The Brooklyn Dodgers called your name

And you went down in the Hall of  Fame

 By Michael K. Steele

Fanciful wordplay must run in the family because I think Michael "hit a home run" with this little bit of poetic brilliance.

Micro Arranging

I've been completely hooked on micro flower arranging lately. Here is my tip:

Whole Foods spice jars make fantastic little vases when you're done with the spice. Just peel off the label and voila! You have a darling little vase.

Flowers: Ranunculus from Trader Joes

Vase: Bay Leaf spice jar from Whole Foods

Cub Scout Shadow Box

As far as friends go, if an 11 year old boy could be considered one of my friends, then this box is a gift to one of my besties. I am so proud to gift it to him.

Some details:

This is a variation on my original post where I listed out where I got the fabric and the box. This time, because I was afraid that there wouldn't be enough badges to make it look worthy, I got some scrapbooking stickers in camping themes from JoAnn Fabric and Michael's Craft.

Once again - Iron, hot glue, lint roll. I don't like bunchy sloppy shadow boxes. 

 ORIGINAL POST 

My girls

We're a long way from this,

aren't we?

Don't Say I Didn't Warn You...

This is what I know:

It is ill advised to eat an entire bag of dried fruit and then go to a Pilates class.

Until next time.