Life happens in the lines

Sometimes life feels like one of those connect-the-dots books.

Like I’m just jumping from check box to check box, dot to dot, hurrying to the next to-do, the next super-important-thing. DOT, line, DOT, line, DOT, line.

Lately, I really like the lines.

The places that don’t pop out at me when I’m looking at the dry erase calendar next to the mudroom, but rather, the footsteps between them. The moments of surprise and the movements of the Spirit. The hilarious conversations with my 5-year-old at bathtime about her imaginary life as a mermaid. My 3-year-old singing Eidelweiss with all the emotion of Captain von Trapp. Sitting on the back patio when Fall decides to visit — bringing with it a rain shower of gold, apricot and crimson leaves.

I too often stress about trying to pick the perfect homeschool curriculum, planning the most creative projects to inspire my children, finding the perfect complements to whatever we’re studying, doing, becoming.

And then I lay with my 8-year-old in his bed at night in the glow of a lamp light. And we talk about the moon. And magnets. And taxidermy. (All sorts of subjects come up before bedtime.) And I make real eye contact and really listen and really answer and I am reminded that life’s greatest lessons are not hard to find if we are still for a moment.

They are the daily routine, the sometimes seeming drudgery, the chores and bores and the lines between the dots. They are the dusty corners of the day and the lazy moments of the evening when we are slower, more present, more able to hear and be heard.

They are the moments of exhale — the places that not many other people see, but that everyone remembers.

I don’t remember many details of my school projects growing up, but I remember my mother brushing my hair.

I remember her reading me Anne of Green Gables before bed at night. I remember my father’s favorite evening snack and the board games we’d play together. And I stood there last night behind my blonde kindergartener (sometimes mermaid) and I brushed her wet hair after bathtime and we both looked at each other in the mirror and grinned. These are the sweet lines of life that become the smile lines on our faces.

And I don’t know about you, but there was a time I wanted to do big things. Now I realize that the biggest things in life often happen with the smallest audience. The butterfly kisses and first steps and the shared afternoon coffees and the slow dances with my husband by the kitchen island.

Between all the important stuff is where life happens.

“Slow down and everything you are chasing will come around and catch you.”

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I want to know her

“This is Kate. She’s almost seven!” I said to the room of 50 young girls looking attentively back at me.

“She loves to sing and dance. She loves cheese pizza — and playing with her brothers and sisters. She gets her long blonde hair from me — and her blue eyes from her Daddy.”

A sweet friend of Kate’s waved to her from the second row. Kate smiled back, but stayed snuggled into my shoulder — a bit shy from all the attention (but also loving it).

“Kate also has something called Down syndrome,” I continued. “It’s not something contagious, or something that someone can catch like a cold. In fact, it’s something she’s had since she was a little tiny baby inside my belly. It’s a condition that has to do with her chromosomes. Chromosomes carry our genes — does anyone know what genes are?”

A hand shot up in the front row from a well-read 9-year-old. “Oh, I know!” she said, looking quite put-together in her American Heritage Girls uniform. Kate and I were speaking at one of the first troop meetings of the year (Kate and her sisters are new to the group.)

“You do?” I asked, impressed.

“Oh yes,” the clever young lady replied, while showing me her thumb. “I’ve read about it in my microbiology book. You see how I can do this?” she asked, popping her thumb back and forth like a cool party trick, “Well, my grandmother can do that, too. I have her genes.”

“That’s awesome!” I said, “Your genes are perfectly unique to you — and they affect how your body looks and works.”

“I can also do this,” the little girl added, showing me a great double tongue curl. “But I’m the only one in my family who can do that.” We all giggled.

“Most people are born with 46 chromosomes,” I shared, “but Kate has 47. So she has one little extra chromosome, but that affects the way she learns.  So while many things come easy to Kate — like playing a great princess, or drawing a fluffy cat, or being a loyal friend and wonderful sister — other things can take longer for Kate to learn than typically-developing kids.”

I paused for a moment and looked at Kate who was now fully engaged with the group, smiling. I held her close, knowing the next point I was about to make was an important one.

“For instance, Kate is still working on her speech,” I explained. “She understands almost everything I say (unless it’s about cleaning her room!), but she’s still learning what words to use to express the fullness of how she feels. Kate loves to talk — and would love for any of you to talk and play with her — but you may have to be extra patient at times. Right, Kate?” Kate nodded with a grin.

“And if you don’t understand what she’s saying sometimes — don’t be embarrassed! You can always ask her to repeat herself — or you can simply tell her gently, ‘I’m sorry, Kate, I don’t understand.’ Or you can just guess and keep playing! If you’re patient with her, Kate will be very patient with you. After all, that’s what friends and families do — we help each other and are patient along the way. And having Down syndrome certainly doesn’t mean that Kate won’t ever learn how to speak very well — it just means it will take a little longer. That’s why we work on how to pronounce words and practice speaking a lot at home.”

Another one of Kate’s friends waved at her from the audience as I finished:

“So remember, people with Down syndrome are just like anybody else in the sense that we all love having friends, playing games, having hobbies, eating good food, going fun places and helping others. We’re all really good at some things and find other things more challenging. And we’re all different! Not one of us is exactly alike, and not all people with Down syndrome are exactly alike. And if you have any questions about Down syndrome or about Kate, please never feel too shy to ask us. We love talking about what we consider to be a very special gift from God for our family.”

The girls clapped eagerly as we finished our talk and Kate wiggled away from my side to go meet her friends who were now crowding around her. “Give me a hug, Kate!” one of them said. Kate leapt into her arms with a smile as wide as the sunset.

The troop coordinator had asked me to talk for the girls’ sake, but I found, in the end, the gift was all ours. What a joy it is to share this message: Do not be afraid of those who are different than you, rather, reach out to them, take a chance to meet them where they are — and you’ll often find a deep well of great connection and joy.

When Kate was just a baby, I read an article in the New York Times that stuck with me. In the article, John Franklin Stephens, a man with Down syndrome who serves as a “global messenger” for the Special Olympics, was quoted. He said:

The hardest thing about having an intellectual disability is the loneliness. We are aware when all the rest of you stop and just look at us. We are aware when you look at us and just say, ‘uh huh,’ and then move on, talking to each other. You mean no harm, but you have no idea how alone we feel even when we are with you.

I never want Kate to feel that way — or any of my children for that matter. I want them to all feel seen, loved, and known. And I carry that with me as a personal challenge — even when meeting those who may not have any sort of disability at all, but who may simply be shy, or new or just different. How good to say: I see you. How great to say: I want to know you.

The day after the talk, one of the mothers in the troop emailed me to say her young daughter couldn’t stop talking about Kate when she got home — “I want to play with her, Mama, I want to know her!” she said.

My heart was full. For what a beautiful girl to know.

The deepest desire of our hearts is to love and be loved. – Fr. Jacques Philipe

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Sanctuary

Let this home be

a sanctuary

where all who enter feel peaceful

and safe.

Let these young souls

be grown

on Mama’s bread, Daddy’s music.

Let their feet grow big

beneath soft, worn quilts.

Let them find me in the morning

in that hand-sewn apron

they made me for Mother’s Day

some years ago.

Let them outgrow their shoes

and grow into their opinions

inside walls that are stained

with their scribbles and scrapes.

Let them know the grooves

of these floors

like they know

the look that I give

when they’re noisy in church.

Let this home be

our sanctuary

that lives within us

as we live within it.

And when they come back

years and years from now

let them find that

same peace

same love

same feeling

that says,

right here —

you always belong.

 

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I can see her there

I can see her there, stirring that pot of something bubbly, just like me, on this summer afternoon. I can see her in her old, worn apron, wrapped tightly around the front of her waist. She is chopping cabbage in the steam of cooking stew with a restless blonde toddler winding around her left calf.

I can feel her gentle hand on mine as I plop spongey bread dough into a ceramic pan. She sings with me softly as I rock my plump baby, his hair sweaty from my hot chest. I can feel her next to me as I dig my hands into the earth, unveiling potatoes as golden as sunshine, wiping dirt from their skin and my brow.

I can hear her whisper as I walk down the road in the evening with five children in tow, the small one on my hip, the oldest running ahead. The dog panting to the rhythm of our footsteps against the gravel.

She was a mother to my mother and her mother’s mother and the one before her.

She is the woman, who hundreds of years ago, still woke to the cry of her baby and put him to her breast. Fell asleep with her hand in the palm of her lover’s. Answered the whine of her young ones, “When is it time to eat?” Cleaned dirt from the floor and the cheeks of her children with her spit and her thumbs and the purpose of her heart. Giggled with her girlfriends as they cleaned up after mealtime. Begged God to protect these precious souls in her home.

I can feel her beside me, pulling me up, cheering me on.

For in all that has changed, nothing has at all.

Coffee with my honey by the sunny window

Coffee with my honey by the sunny window

It’s a standing morning date

My legs draped over him like a familiar, comfy quilt with the worn seam that you don’t want mended

His smiling eyes, they speak to me a language only we know

A language learned slowly, syllable by syllable

starting that first night in December when the air turned cool

Coffee with my honey by the sunny window

Same place, every day by the always-smudged glass

and the toy-spotted rug and

the barstools where children and crumbs like to gather

Ten years we’ve been walking this road hand in hand,

yet I am always in awe

of the way prayers are answered.

I reach over in the night

to touch his shoulder while he is sleeping

to make sure he’s still there, still real, still mine

to say thank you in the darkness for the man

who is my light

Coffee with my honey by the sunny window.