Faith of a Child

Today three of my kids asked me a series of questions about Jesus. Why He died, how it happened, what it means that He's alive, is He on the cross still? Man oh man these kids are wild. All of this started because I put on some YouTube videos of Nichole Nordeman songs. The video for "Why" (seriously, go look it up) features images from The Passion of the Christ. They're used to seeing Jesus on the Cross. We're Catholic so we have some crucifixes in our house. I think what caught their attention was that the still images of Jesus were bloody, and looked painful. My first instinct was to turn off the video as quickly as I could, but before I had a moment to turn off the screen the questions started. The song moved on to another but the questions didn't last.

For some of the morning and all of the afternoon (after a nap which clearly reinvigorated their minds) I answered question after question. Some were repeated, a clear request for clarification. I pondered briefly just asking them to drop it, putting on some Sesame Street, and hoping that I wouldn't have to deal with the weight of the task. I have no problem with the kids knowing about Jesus. I delight in their innocent desire to know as much as possible about this man who they already loved, even without understanding the story of Salvation. I was just scared that I wasn't up to the task, that the words I used wouldn't be good enough, that I would confuse them, that they wouldn't understand. For all my fears, I felt a push to tell them everything I could, in whatever way I could, to help them know how much God loved them.

I won't bore you with all the details, but for the sake of clarity, I ended up telling the story of the life of Christ, from the Annunciation, to the Nativity, to the Sermon on the Mount (or at least the important details of God's love in the preaching of Christ), to the Crucifixion, Death and Resurrection of Christ. They sat with rapt attention, peppering me with question, teasing out more details than I had planned to tell them. Their active little minds, taking turns pushing the story a little further, trying to make sense of why a good man would be punished for the wrongs of all.

In the end, I don't know how much they understood, but I know that we have built a bit more of a foundation for their faith. The most incredible thing about any child is that when you tell them something, they'll believe you. Because you are their parent and they love you, they have no concept that you'd lie to them. As they get older I know they'll ask more tough questions, and I hope that I'll be able, by the grace of God, to rise to the task. I would hate to betray their trust by giving them anything less than the absolute Truth. Whatever they didn't understand today they will understand better as they older. They are happy to take the rest on Faith. And it renews my Faith to see what Jesus meant when He said we should have Faith like a child.

Can't Say It Enough

Sometimes I think I get so wrapped up in parenting, I can't see the forest for the trees. There are days when every time I open my mouth, it's only to tell someone to stop standing on something, stop fighting, stop whining, or to do something like clean up, eat, or sit. Time after time there are only corrections and instructions. With four kids, I find myself talking at them pretty much all day. I know that because they're toddlers this is part of the deal. They need boundaries. They need guidance. Still, there are times when I sit back and go over my day and I can't help but wonder what makes me so different from a daycare or a babysitter. Nothing about what I've done all day is so much different from what we could pay a stranger to do instead.

It's in those times of reflection that I realise I need to make time for more cuddles, more laughter, and I need to remember to say more than the "do"s and "don't"s to my kids. Over the past week I've tried to make a conscious effort to interrupt my own constant stream of instructions to pause, take each child aside, and to simply say "I love you" and "I'm so glad you're my child". I'm sure this seems obvious to everyone, but it's something I struggle with. I do love my kids. If anything ever happened to one of them, part of my life would end there and then. Everything I do every day is for them. I gave up my chance to have a career outside the home to be able to be with them, to give them everything they needed.

All my instructions and guidance comes from that place of deep love, and wanting to help them be safe and also to learn and grow, but I know feeling this love for them isn't enough to let them know I feel it. I'm sure when they're older they'll be able to look back and see that all of this is coming from a place of love, but until then I need to say it, as often as I can, when they're being good and when they're being bad. I want them to know that I love them no matter what, and always have. I can't stop setting limits for their safety, but I never want to set a limit on my love for them.

After about a week of spontaneous "I love you"s, I'm still finding the kids crazy, wonderful, a little out of control, and hilarious. They haven't changed much, although my oldest son has started spontaneously saying "I love you" too every once in a while. I really wasn't looking for a change in them, I was looking for a change in me. I know I needed to do this so I could appreciate again my special role in this family, that I'm more than a housekeeper or babysitter. Whether we're at home or working, I think every parent teaches one great lesson to their children: that no matter what, there is someone who loves them unconditionally, deeply and constantly.

St. Joseph's Day

While much of the English speaking world is recovering from the green haze that is St. Patrick's Day (and God Bless that blue wearing Welshman, who was dragged in chains as a slave to Ireland, escaped back to Wales to return later as a Roman Catholic Bishop), we are celebrating the feast of St. Joseph, a favourite patron in our family for so many reasons. First of all, we have a son named Joseph. Secondly, my husband is a cabinetmaker and of course a father. St. Joseph is the patron of woodworkers and fathers. For many years my husband has felt a growing closeness to St. Joseph. With that in mind, I thought I'd share a few reflections on this Saint who is a daily example for our lives.

How can you not feel some love and affinity for this man? He was a hard-working man, the breadwinner for his small family. Carpentry is no easy trade. It can be back-breaking, and requires attention to both the big and the small picture. I love the idea of Joseph leaning over his work with the child Jesus watching on, probably playing amongst the curls of wood falling to the floor as Joseph's well-worn plane glides across the wood. A small act of creation and re-creation, patiently achieved under the watchful eyes of the Creator. I wonder too at what beautiful work Joseph and Jesus made together as the father taught his adopted son his trade. Something so ordinary in those days, but so extraordinary in the light of the Incarnation, the Creator putting a hand to shaping things anew.
God chose Mary for His Mother, and created her, immaculate and without sin. Her 'yes' allowed God to do His saving work from her womb, to the manger, to the Cross. She is there in the background of so many stories in the bible. Meanwhile Joseph is only prominently featured in the story of the Nativity. He is Mary's betrothed. Despite the fact that he could have cast Mary off and had her stoned, Joseph trusts the message of the Angel and joins her with a second 'yes', a 'yes' which protected her and the Child who would be born King of Kings, but brought public shame on himself. After carrying Mary and Christ child off to Egypt to protect them from Herod's murder of innocent children, Joseph fades from view, taking a backseat to his adopted son. The childhood of Christ is known more or less in the few moments shared in the Gospels. Joseph is there, like any father, supporting, loving and teaching, but asking no credit. I believe that just as He chose Mary, God chose Joseph as part of his plan for Salvation. Not every man could take on faith that Mary was carrying the Son of God, and ignore the appearance of scandal Mary's pregnancy brought to their lives. God chose a man who would trust in Him, and then after one great 'yes', spend the rest of his life saying a daily 'yes' to the duties of being a father to his adopted Son.

I'm sure it was no easy task raising Jesus, hearing Him declare He was in His Father's temple, after Joseph and Mary had spent several frantic hours racing around Jerusalem, trying to find Him. I'm sure, like any adoptive parent who hears "you're not my REAL father!", this simple phrase must have been hard for Joseph to hear. Still, he stood by his little family, and continued with devotion to raise up the Son entrusted to him. I think there's a lesson for all of us parents in the works of St. Joseph. Every child, be they are our own flesh and blood or adopted, are a precious gift to be cherished, nurtured, and protected. Be they the Christ child, or our own child, God has asked us to say 'yes' to being parents every day. I hope, like St. Joseph, I can do it quietly, knowing that my true reward at the end of my days will be seeing the wonderful people my children will hopefully become, and that they too will choose to love and serve the God who gave them to us.

St. Joseph, pray for us!

Long Way Home

This weekend we finally did it. We went for the "big" road trip down to the country to see my grandfather's house. My Grampie passed away 6 months ago, and I haven't set foot in his house for several years. He and I had what I can only call a complex relationship. I was his only granddaughter, and despite the fact that he had two daughters of his own he often seemed unsure as to how to deal with me. My Grammie would take me to the kitchen and bake with me for hours, finding little tasks for me to "help". I find myself doing the same with my kids these days. While I was in their old home I found the toddler sized apron I used to wear while I helped her still tied up in the same spot in her kitchen where I left it when I outgrew 20 years ago. Through all my turbulent times with the family, I have a core of sweet memories with my Grammie I can turn to.

My Grampie and I, on the other hand, had a more complex relationship. I remember as a child I wanted so badly to be his shadow. I tried rabbit trapping (horrifying memory here involving a not quite dead rabbit being skinned. We had it for supper that night. Ew.), fishing (my fish were often thrown back, in retrospect probably because he did a lot of catch and release), woodworking (this turned into me splitting wood unattended for their fire place at the age of... 9???) and water sports on the lake (I was just lousy at this. Hands down spazz). I felt so often that I wasn't of much interest to him. My brothers and cousins were more exciting, interesting, and at the very least far less squeamish about all his favourite activities. They had no problem baiting their own hook, understood sports, and had no qualms with hunting and trapping.

As the years went on and we didn't visit their house as often, my memories turn to he and my Grammie dropping by our house when they came to town, usually with small gifts and some sweets. I would do my best to be polite, but would do my best to flee the scene. After my Grammie passed away it was even worse. He would come to town with his new wife, a very sweet lady, and want to talk to me for as long as he could grab my attention. Part of me felt guilty. I knew I should treasure my time with him. I'd already lost 3 three grandparents, never having time to really ask all the questions and hear all the stories I know they had to tell. The other part of me saw him as a sort of anachronism. There he was, exactly the same as I remembered him as a kid (he aged very well), but not in his familiar setting. He hadn't changed, but I had changed immensely. We were worlds apart.

On the long drive (with 4 kids, ninety minutes in a confined space is a long time) to the old family home, I sat in the passenger seat trying to cobble together my memories to make some sense of the man. At his funeral, droves of people had sang, cried and laughed, soaking in their memories of this man. He was a prankster, a father figure, a dedicated volunteer in his community, and the life of any party. Stories of his various mishaps and stunts made the rounds, both during the eulogy and around the over-full tables at the reception. Family and friends co-mingled, impossible to distinguish at his funeral just as they had been in his life. His funeral had been a glimpse at the man I wanted to know, but had found unreachable. The mistakes he'd made with me, and other members of my family, clouded my desire to take the steps to peel away his rough exterior to find this diamond of a man everyone else saw.

As we came in sight of the old house I'd spent every summer at for over a dozen years, the backdrop of so many memories, I felt a lump in my throat when I realised Grammie wasn't spying us from the kitchen, yelling for Grampie to come help us bring in our bags. We weren't coming to stay, we were coming to take one last look. As we walked through their oddly empty house, littered with the legacy of their lives, I stumbled over memories and possibilities. Here were the measuring cups my Grammie used to let me fill for our little baking projects. There was Grampie's collection of tools old and new, still as he left them the last time he'd been healthy enough to go in his shop. As we glanced through the old upstairs bedrooms, we found a stack of letters, tied together with a faded yellow bow. After noting that they were addressed to my Grammie (by her maiden name), I absently tucked them in our bag, along with my old childhood apron and a few oddments we collected from around the house.

When we got home and got the kids to bed, exhausted from their long drive and overfull of snacks provided by my Mum, their Grammie, I settled down to take a look at the thick stack of faded letters, mostly written on White Rose Oil Company stationary. Glancing through it became clear very quickly these were the love letters my Grampie wrote to my Grammie over 60 years ago, before they were married. They were living in different towns because of his work, and would get together every weekend. These letters, from about a 6 month period, were written once and sometimes twice a day. I feel a little guilty reading them, but then I can't resist. He wrote exactly the same way he talked, with all the funny little tics and expressions I can hear slipping off his tongue in his old, familiar voice. In these letters I hear the man, while reading the words of his love, devotion, and humour mixed together seamlessly. Old stories I would have loved to hear, I get to read in his familiar style.

When I thought I no longer had time, I at last have found him. Here in this carefully saved stack of letters I am reading the soul of the man. His hopes for the future, his devotion to the woman he loved until death parted them (and beyond), all mixed in with the kind of humourous banalities he was know to ramble on about in his later life. For example, more than one mentions getting his pants hemmed or his hair cut (less of a concern as he got older and swiftly lost all his hair).  Somehow, after all these years of struggling to find a sweet memory to focus on, I have in my hands a way to keep the best parts of him, the parts I loved and mourned at his funeral. Any time that I miss him, I can take out one of his letters and hear his voice in my mind, wooing his sweetheart and dreaming of a life well lived.

East Coast Home

Today as I was checking out my social media feed, I couldn't help but notice that all the big Canadian magazines and blog sites are based out of Ontario (with a more or less particular bent for the Toronto crowd). I find it fun to read about the adventures of my Ontario counterparts. They get all the best concerts (without all the controversy we seem to attract here in the east), amazing museums, arts coming out of their ears, not to mention the fact that there is ample entertainment for kids that doesn't quite bother making a tour spot anywhere near my city. That's the benefit of living in a bigger city, I suppose. We've talked about moving out west (yes, Ontario is out west to us!) several times, but I can't imagine transplanting our lives for the sake of being able to see something like Disney's Stars on Ice with the kids. (Although really, if that were here, I'd be waiting in line for tickets or whatnot).

I suppose it's more than convenience that keeps us here, or even our family. Despite the fact that we are lacking some of the really upper crust cultural things here, I feel like there's so much to see and experience in our beautiful province that makes up for the lack of worldly culture. Everywhere you look in our small city there's some history to behold or a song to be sung. We may not get U2 to rock the commons, but we're the home of Joel Plaskett (how many times can you mention Clayton Park?), Chris from Sloan (I used to sing in a choir with his lovely Mom!), Sarah McLachlan, Matt Mays, Anne Murray, and many other musicians of the past, present and future. Our pub scene is crawling with future stars, all singing music on the cutting edge of their style.

Even ignoring the music, an obvious favourite of mine, we also have several world class universities, including NSCAD, which is churning out a new generation of artists as unique as they are numerous. While we may not have the unarguably amazing Art Gallery of Nova Scotia, we're lucky enough to have a city teeming with new art from up and coming talent that has come to study here from all over the world.  There's also our museums, which tell the tale of our rich and fascinating history. How many museums can boast an extensive collection of Titanic memorabilia? Some adorably nerdy folks from one of our local museums live tweeted the morse code messages between the Titanic and surrounding ships at the exact time, 99 years later, of the night she found her resting place on the ocean floor. I don't need to see Titanic in 3D this year (although I might anyway, classic), because I can go to the Fairview Cemetary to see the graves of her victims arranged in the shape of the bow of the ship. Our whole province, and those surrounding us, are littered with history houses turned museums. One of them is even the old family home of my grandmother's family. In PEI, there is the home made famous by L.M. Montgomery in her Anne books, Green Gables, beautifully preserved. We have forts, grand houses, churches built in a day, and so much history we endeavour to share, while maintaining the thriving life of a young and vibrant downtown core.

I think that's what I really enjoy about province and our city. We have the best of both worlds, though obviously on a smaller scale than our counterparts in central Canada. We have history mixed seamlessly with modernity. History meets social media through our innovative museum staff. All the benefits of culture on the backdrop of a truly beautiful landscape. While I would love to be able to experience some of the world-class events places like Toronto can attract, I wouldn't trade our beautiful harbour, friendly faces, and local flavour for them. So while I may seem a little green some days as I read of all the activities I can't share with my kids, I'm thankful to call the East Coast my home.

Faith to Grow With

In case it wasn't obvious by the former nun and former monk getting hitched business that is our life, and our 4 kids in 5 years, we are Catholic. Because our faith is so important to us, we are trying our best to teach our children about the faith they are inheriting from us. Our TV stand has an earthen tone Nativity (it doesn't look Christmas-y as it is in muted colours, so I don't feel ridiculous having it out year round. Plus, I loves me my baby Jesus!), a statue of St. Francis with a deer (a gift from the Franciscans for our baby girl's baptism. A nice replacement for our old statue we bought on our honeymoon that got knocked over and decapitated by oldest boy), and a small statue of Our Lady of Guadaloupe (bought when I was preggers with baby girl. She was with us in the delivery room and was a great focal point). Our house is also littered with a few pictures of our favourite saints (St. Mary, St. Joseph, St. Monica and St. Augustine, St. Padre Pio, and Blessed JPII) and a cross-stitch of the Prayer of St. Francis made by hubby's Mom. Thanks to both sets of grandparents and our friends, the kids also have a large collection of books related to the life of Christ and various Saints. When he was about 20 months old, our oldest son started to ask if he could take a rosary to bed with him, so he could have "his" Jesus with him. I'm not here to give you an inventory of our home, or trying to look holy or whatnot. I'm just trying to give a sense of the daily normalcy of our Catholicism.

To some people who don't share our values or our particular faith, this may look like brainwashing. You might see our statues, relics, rosaries and stash of Christian books, and think that we're forcing our beliefs on their young minds on a consistent basis. From the perspect of faith, of any faith mind you, not just Christian, a faith worth believing in is a gift that is worth sharing. Belief in a benevolent Creator, who has knows us in every way, is a great comfort as we go through our lives.

As those of you with small children know, everything they do feels like life or death to them, including whether or not they get to have another cookie. Given the fact that we as parents are not perfect, I find it important to be able to point them to a holy Mother and perfect Father to give comfort to them in their darkest hour, even if that darkness seems a little, well, melodramatic to us. We need to realise God made them, knowing that they'd be children, and then even in their littleness He knows them and wants to comfort them in all their struggles. Having the presence of God be real to them from birth can be a true gift that can help them in their frustrations and fears. God's Fatherhood can stand alongside our parenthood without getting in the way. His Fatherhood supports us, and makes good of our parenting when our children are small and we're still learning what it means to be a parent.

By the time they are teenagers it may already be too late to start introducing them to God in the authentic way we can introduce Him to a child who is still full of awe and wonder. In my experience with teenagers, their ability to have perspective on their lives is arrested by the thick fog of hormones, peer pressure, and the isolated life of junior high and high school. How many of us spent our teen years filled with anxiety and writing dramatic poetry about what we would consider now to be small problems? While I felt like I was being swallowed up by the drama in my life, I felt I couldn't talk to my parents because they simply didn't, wouldn't, or couldn't understand. I can see now that wasn't true, but as a teenager that's how I felt. It was in those times that my faith grew from the firm foundation of my childhood into something more personal. I was able to take the lessons of my childhood and use them in my own life. It was about this time that I started reading the Psalms. Nobody does drama quite like King David. I joined him in crying out to God in the depths of my despair, wanting so badly to trust that He would carry me through. And carry me He did. If my parents hadn't taught me about our faith, or spoke of God's love and faithfulness, I'm not sure where I would have turned.

I'm not saying that teaching our children about our faith is going to automatically help them face every problem with great fortitude and grace. I just know that some day, one of them will have a problem they are struggling with, a problem they think is bigger than them and than us. When they're faced with that problem I want to know that we've given them every resource we can to get them through it. The first time they need to utter a prayer not of thanksgiving, but of despair and hopelessness, I hope that praying to the God who they already know loves them, cherishes them, and protects them, will make it a little easier for them. If they know and trust in God, perhaps those troubles that come to them won't seem so great. I want to teach my children about God, because I want them to know they are never forgotten. There is a plan for them even greater than they can imagine. They are always loved. If that faith can start as a child, and stay with them through their teenage years and then into adulthood, I will be able to face them knowing that if I failed in all else, I can be sure I gave them one great gift that will be a testament of my love for them.

Ladies Night Out

I should preface this by saying that I don't get out often. Pretty close to never in fact. I'm lucky enough to have a lady friend who knows the value of time as a woman, instead of just as Mommy, and this lovely lady has been so kind as to encourage me to get out. She adds kindness upon kindness by organizing outings and even coming to get me to make it as easy as possible for me to take a night for myself. I even blogged about the sweet freedom of getting out with her before. She is a true blessing, and a saint in disguise (though barely disguised, her holiness emanates like the rays of the sun!).

Before she and I became good friends I literally never got out without the kids. I'm definitely an emotionally attached mother. I find it incredibly hard to leave the house, even when they're all asleep. The world can get really insulated when you let your kids become your everything and don't allow yourself the freedom to take time for yourself. For the past four or so years I've been that woman, the one who's %100 Mom. I thank God for bringing a friend into my life who could lead me by her fine example to become more than a Mom. If not, I can only imagine where I'd be now. Probably a lonely, burnt-out Mama without any energy to give to my children, let alone my sweet husband, anymore. I was nearly there when my dear friend started dragging me out of the house. Now, I'm actually attracting compliments for how easy I make it look to have four kids, which is thanks in no small part to the fact that I've re-discovered the woman who is the foundation of the wife and mother with the help and encouragement of my friend.

As little as an hour at night doing something for myself reminds me that under the spit-up, cooking splatter, and possibly funky smell, there is a woman worth fighting for. If I can show my children that I value myself enough to take care of myself, then hopefully they'll follow that example and remember to pursue their passions and interests even in the middle of life's important duties. I don't want my kids to look at me in 10 years and think that I gave up my entire life for them. I want them to look and see that getting married and having my children enriched my life, gave me purpose, but didn't swallow up all my dreams and potential. If I lose myself in my desire to be everything for my children, I'm afraid when they leave to live their own lives, I won't know how to define myself outside of them. I'm afraid I'll be grasping after the little birds as they try to fly, rather than lifting them up and teaching them to soar. The knowledge that I have a future without them makes me want to make the most of this time with them, because it truly is fleeting, even with four children to enjoy. While I nuture my little blessings, I plan to continue to follow the good example of my friend and I will nuture myself too so I can continue to grow into the woman God intends me to become.