Garden of Weedin'

by Joanie Butman

When we moved to Connecticut from Manhattan thinking we were doing it for the kids, they wouldn’t get out of the car because ‘there were bugs out there.’ They hated the feel of grass on their feet, and my son toddled aimlessly in this sprawling house voicing what I too was feeling, ‘miss the city.’ I remember waking up that first morning to the cacophony of a gaggle of geese on our lawn and my husband chasing them with a broom. I thought to myself, “What have we done?” It felt like a scene out of Green Acres.

Faced with the momentous task of maintaining a property that far exceeded anything I had ever seen, I would have paved as much of it as possible if permitted and am still tempted to do just that. It remains a daunting responsibility if viewed in its entirety and luckily we have the resources to farm out lawn care. I carved out little spots that I can cultivate, but leave the general caretaking to the professionals. I choose to focus on my little plot and leave the big picture to those better equipped to handle it. Having spent a large part of my life in the city, gardening did not come easily or without costly mistakes. Mirrors my life too.

We are now deep into the gardening season. My fingernails are stained and my hands rough from happily digging in the earth. Blooming perennials are at their finest, robust and fresh from the spring rains as opposed to the wilted aridity of August. It is now warm enough to plant colorful annuals to add a rainbow of color that compliments and enhances a garden heavily weighted with perennials whose blooms, though beautiful, are usually short-lived.

Unlike my Connecticut yard, my garden in Massachusetts is the perfect size—a postage-size rock garden that is easily maintained. Even so, it still takes a lot of time and TLC to coax it back to life and keep it watered and well fed during the summer. Without a doubt, the most tedious part of gardening has got to be weeding. It is a never-ending task. There is some bizarre rule of nature that causes undesirable weeds to grow and spread faster than the plants so lovingly sown. Sounds like gossip. In this age of technology, the information that goes viral is usually of the toxic variety not the type you want proliferating.

My daughter worked one day with a gardener recently. When she came home I inquired, “Was it fun?” Her look spoke volumes, but she simply said, “I just spent seven hours weeding. I wouldn’t describe it as fun.” I had to agree, weeding’s no fun. It can be grueling, tedious, exhausting work.

We are all gardeners of some sort and do our own fair share of weeding. We weed out our clothes, our junk, our in-boxes, our memories, our thoughts, our commitments, our diets, even people in our lives. It is often hard work but comes with a certain satisfaction, a lightness of being that is the result of ridding yourself of excess baggage that is weighing you down. As a Christian, that is the way I choose to view the constant struggle to correct certain behavioral patterns. Without a doubt, there are areas in my life where I am a chronic recidivist.

Disappointingly, even though my faith has grown over the years to a level I never dreamed possible, I still commit the same sins I did before I embraced Christianity. My father told me once to think of my sins like a gardener. You can’t just weed once. It is an on-going process. The same weeds keep coming back, and our job is to keep pulling them out because if we ignore them, they will take over the garden choking out the plants which produce the most beauty. Faith doesn’t produce a weed-free garden. It just gives us the impetus to keep digging.

Let’s face it—you can’t be a good gardener without getting dirty. In the same way, you can’t be a good Christian (if there is such a thing) without choosing to recognize just how much muck you have under your nails or that there will be times when you will find yourself knee deep in fertilizer. Part of becoming a proficient gardener is learning the difference between a flower and a weed. Learning to recognize the weeds in your life is also the secret to personal and spiritual growth regardless of your beliefs.

I sincerely believe this type of self-assessment is what Socrates meant by his statement, "The unexamined life is not worth living." It was his belief that “we are unable to grow toward greater understanding of our true nature unless we take the time to examine and reflect upon our life.” *

Did I ever become a proficient gardener? No, just an avid one. I do not have a green thumb, but I can now identify the undesirables in my garden – and not all of them are necessarily weeds. I particularly dislike plants which require high maintenance. Over the years, if I plant something that becomes too troublesome, I just choose to dig it up and replace it with a heartier, healthier one. By now I know the ones that work and the ones to avoid. I wish I could say I’ve been just as successful with my bothersome habits. Hence, the need for on-going weeding which, not surprisingly, is best done on your knees.

My closing observation is that those who choose to dedicate lots of time digging in the dirt tend to be the best gardeners. They’ve earned their wisdom through trial and error and lots and lots of weeding. Similarly, the wisest people I know in life are those that choose to dig deeper for meaning and enlightenment in their own backyards and also spend lots of time on their knees weeding.

I will leave you with one last thought to ponder this week, "Choosing to criticize another's garden doesn't keep the weeds out of your own. " ~ Author Unknown

*http://www.consciousearth.us/socrates-unexamined-life.html

Choosing to Be An Ambassador

by Joanie Butman

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”  Charles Dickens wasn’t describing children’s sports, but he certainly could have been. Some of my fondest memories were born over a decade of standing on the sidelines. I’ve also witnessed a fair share of moments I will be glad to leave behind now that my tenure is nearing completion. You know the kind. When an otherwise normal individual sets aside all manner of civility for the duration of the game thinking it is acceptable in that forum.

We all have spectator personas, and there must be some unspoken rule of engagement that transforms ordinarily affable people into raving lunatics and those who already suffer from that malady the leeway to step it up a notch. Without a doubt, sideline behavior is a study in psychology. Whenever I’m tempted to think I’ve seen it all, something else happens on the sidelines to trigger a jaw-dropping response. This week was no exception.

A parent known for his loud and often coarse comments took it to a new level by directing a particularly offensive remark to a mother from the opposing team. Our team mom, a woman I’ve known and admired for years, approached the victim of the verbal assault, acknowledged the man’s shameful behavior and offered her sincere apology on behalf of the school. “That’s not who we are,” was her message, and I couldn’t have been more proud.

I didn’t hear the man make the remark, only her apology. It made me wonder, though, if I had witnessed the exchange, would I have chosen to speak up as a representative of our school. I would have been just as horrified, but would I recognize the need for intervention? Would I choose to act with the grace of this woman to protect the dignity and reputation of our school? Sadly, I don’t think so. At least I haven’t in the past, but I will now because she taught me a valuable lesson. We have no control over how others choose to behave, but we can choose to be louder in soft-spoken kindness and poise. Too often it is the boisterous behavior of the minority that tarnishes the reputation of the group as a whole in any venue, from athletics to politics to religion.

This episode reminded me of the importance of being an ambassador. We’re all ambassadors of something – our family, our school, our church, the organization for which we work. Like it or not, our behavior (for better or worse) reflects our beliefs, values and those of the groups with whom we align ourselves. It is not a responsibility to be taken lightly. For that reason our choice of school, organization, business, or church is important in that you want to ensure that you share core principles.

In sports, every team definitely has a personality – usually fostered by the coach. Some are known for their physicality, some are just thugs, some show class while others a lack thereof. Maintaining the integrity of any team is an important role of fellowship. When a member chooses to behave in a way that doesn’t reflect the proper character, it is important for the coaches and teammates to hold him or her accountable. This principle is true within any association, and I learned it at a young age.

“We don’t do that in our family,” was an admonition frequently heard in our house growing up. Whenever I got in trouble as a child, it was always a double whammy. First, because of the offense; second, because I had failed miserably as a representative of our family. I was an embarrassment. It wasn’t a ‘maintaining appearances’ issue. It was the fact that my behavior did not reflect the values and beliefs my parents thought they had instilled. Now that I am a parent, I have a better understanding and appreciation of that concept. I can’t deny a certain element of the ‘maintaining appearances’ though, as I have often expressed my parenting goal of simply getting my kids through high school without any of us appearing in the police blotter. Only one more year to go.

There is no denying that good kids as well as good parents make bad choices sometimes. How we choose to handle them, however, speaks volumes about our character. My friend had no control over that man’s choice of words, but her decision to be a caring, dignified ambassador for our school probably conveyed a more lasting image of  ‘who we are’ as an institution than his crass behavior. The choice to refuse to allow the conduct of one to speak for the majority is a universal concept that can be applied across the board.

Christianity is no exception. Being an ambassador for Christ is an integral part of a choosing to become a Christian. It involves learning and identifying what being part of God’s family entails. Hence my years of bible study. It means choosing to behave in a way that pleases Him—not to earn His love, but because you have His love. Choosing to be an emissary of Christ doesn’t necessarily require eloquence. In fact, I’ve learned more about Christianity watching the quiet grace of fellow Christians (like the woman noted above) than any sermon I’ve ever heard. Choosing to conduct yourself in a way that attracts others to Christ is something we can all accomplish regardless of our oratorical skills. Our lives are meant to be “reflectors of God’s light to a darkened world.”* Without having to say anything, we can choose to reflect His joy, peace, kindness, goodness, gentleness, and self-control. A tall order yes, and one where we will frequently fail. Nevertheless, our failures can be used to glorify God, maybe even more so. Without failures, I’d have nothing to write about. Therein lies the truth behind the adage, “your mess becomes your message.”

As shocking as sideline behavior sometimes is, it carries over into every aspect of life. Eventually, we will all find ourselves in situations where we are faced with a similar choice as to how we conduct ourselves and how we hold others in our families and associations accountable for reflecting our shared morals. Regardless of your beliefs, we can all choose to be ambassadors of light and goodness in this world because as Ken Nerburn points out in his book Letters to My Son, “We have the power to create joy and happiness by our simple acts of caring and compassion...the power to unlock the goodness in other people’s hearts by sharing the goodness in ours.”

I’d rather see a sermon than hear one any day,

I’d rather one should walk with me than merely show the way.

The eye’s a better pupil and more willing than the ear;

Fine counsel is confusing, but example’s always clear;

And the best of all the preachers are the men who live their creeds,

For to see the good in action is what everybody needs.

I can soon learn how to do it if you’ll let me see it done.

I can watch your hands in action, but your tongue too fast may run.

And the lectures you deliver may be very wise and true;

But I’d rather get my lessons by observing what you do.

For I may misunderstand you and the high advice you give,

But there’s no misunderstanding how you act and how you live.

Edgar A. Guest

*To See the Sky, Judith Hugg, pg. 64.

Choose to Remember

by Joanie Butman

Memorial Day is about so much more than a three-day weekend, picnics, barbecues and fireworks marking the official start of the summer. Unfortunately, its true meaning has been diluted by retail sales and festivities that do little to commemorate the men and women who have died in service to our country. Originally called Decoration Day, the observance of Memorial Day began as a tribute to those who died in the Civil War. “Memorial Day was officially proclaimed on May 5th, 1868 by General John Logan and was first observed on May 30th, 1868 when flowers were placed on the graves of Union and Confederate soldiers at Arlington National Cemetery.”*

In a broader sense, the importance of remembering can’t be confined to just one day. It is imperative for growth whether it is on a global, national or personal level. Obviously, our national holiday of Memorial Day pays homage to those who died valiantly in the process of protecting our country and preserving the freedoms we are so blessed to enjoy. Maintaining the memory of those that have gone before us is a large part of Memorial Day but so is recalling the lessons we learned through the wars in which they perished.

Recording and retaining the past prevents history from repeating itself – or at least that’s what one would hope. Last year I was having lunch with a friend when someone she knew stopped by our table to say hello. I can’t tell you how the subject came up, but this man began telling me stories of his adolescence spent in Auschwitz. I was spellbound. I asked if he would allow me to write his story, but he replied mournfully that some things are just too horrible to talk about. He spoke of his recurring nightmares and of his sister’s life-long dedication to visiting schools to share her story. Though he found it impossible to verbalize the atrocities he witnessed as openly as his sister, the few he chose to reveal provided a glimpse of the horror buried in his psyche. As he turned to leave, he offered this last haunting comment, “As hard as it is, it is essential to remember, because it can and will happen again in your lifetime.”

As I mentioned, hopefully, as a nation and individually we learn from our past. Remembering doesn’t mean dwelling on past mistakes or resting on our laurels. You can’t move forward if you’re always looking in the rear-view mirror. However, you need to be aware of what’s behind you and keep it at a healthy distance with respect for the lessons you learned.

There are periods of my life I’d prefer to forget, but I have a girlfriend that remembers every detail and is more than happy to enlighten me. Even though I might be tempted to choose selective memory, those forgettable (or regrettable) experiences are an integral piece of the person I am today. They wouldn’t be if I denied them or refused to derive any meaning from them. The truth is, for reasons I can’t explain; I choose to learn things the hard way, and it’s not a strategy I would recommend. I’ve always envied people who can just learn from other people’s mistakes instead of being the one others learn from.

Remembering was the reason I began writing. It started when my children were born. I kept ongoing notes about cute or funny things they did. I’m glad I did because even though you think you’ll never forget, you do. It’s fun to go back and read my annotations – the memories vivid only because they were chronicled. When my kids became teenagers, my notes got sketchier as there weren’t a lot of ‘cute’ moments to document any longer, and many will only be funny years from now with time as a buffer. I’d say the teenage years are best forgotten, but critical and often painful teaching moments reside in those tumultuous years (I’ve recorded those too). Remembering those lessons will serve my kids well in life and in future therapy sessions. I’ve often claimed my notes will save them lots of money in therapy someday!

My books are just extensions of those anecdotes I kept for my children – only I’m the child writing about what God has done for me. Again, you wouldn’t think you’d forget a divine intervention, but you’d be amazed at how quickly a “What have you done for me lately?” attitude creeps into your subconscious. Unless you make a deliberate choice to recognize and remember God’s providence and provisions, they tend to fade under whatever new crisis you find yourself in. So I write and write and write….

Studying history of any kind is a fascinating effort whether it is a book on the Civil War or the Bible. Both are all about remembering. On a more personal level, by choosing to look back and remember what God has brought me through strengthens and encourages me when facing any new challenge. It is often only in hindsight that His handiwork becomes obvious. It might take years before you recognize that your worst nightmare was actually a blessing in many ways – sometimes even a saving grace. Our life experiences are building blocks with which we develop an intimate knowledge of God’s character and sovereignty, which builds trust and faith.

Like my new acquaintance instructed, “remembering the past is vital to our future.” It certainly is. It defines who we are and how we got there. Tomorrow we honor the heroes who willingly died fighting to protect our country. I think it is also an excellent opportunity to choose to remember, honor, preserve and protect our National motto: IN GOD WE TRUST

After all, He is the One who provides His care and protection everyday. How better to define who we are and how we got here? That motto is the foundation on which our founding fathers built this country. I know there are many who may find it politically incorrect. I respect their right to that belief and am grateful to live in a country where they are free to express it. Nevertheless, you can’t rewrite history. It speaks for itself.

*http://www.usmemorialday.org/backgrnd.html

I'm F.I.N.E.

by Joanie Butman

This week I took a trip to Massachusetts to finish the opening of our small beach cottage. A labor intensive but fun chore as the promise of summer stretches open before you. I love the first whiff of ocean air when I arrive and the peacefulness of once again falling asleep and waking to the rhythmic sound of the waves.

The community in which we reside during the summer and our town in Connecticut couldn’t be more polar opposites, which is what makes our vacations so enjoyable. Maybe it’s the hypnotic rhythm of the ocean, but the people on Long Beach are slow and easy versus the manic Type A constituents of Fairfield County – and I include my own family in the mix.

The sure sign that you have arrived on Long Beach is the appearance of the clothesline on the back deck. Everyone up there understands that there is nothing more luxurious than falling asleep on a pillowcase that has dried in the ocean breeze, but they don’t use the clothesline just for sheets. Everything goes on the line. I am constantly picking up boxers that have blown onto the street or other people’s cars.

Residents have no problem airing their laundry – in more ways than one. The houses are small (most without insulation) and very close together – just two rows of rustic cottages sharing a beach. Because of the proximity and the feeble construction, you can’t hide much. In fact, you can’t hide anything. Everyone knows each other’s business. Neighbors can tell you what you ate and drank last night and what time you got up this morning. You need to use the “How are you?” greeting judiciously because they will answer honestly and some in excruciating detail. There is no such thing as a simple “I’m fine.” No, it is always followed by some sort of clarification or further inquiry – usually involving a beverage. The relaxed pace leaves people eager for conversation. Sometimes it takes me a half hour or more to walk to or from my in-laws’ cottage, and it’s only five doors down. That’s the beauty of summer. With no pressing obligations, you can enjoy the luxury of unencumbered time. How better to invest it than in the lives of others?

As I dragged the clothesline out of the shed, I chuckled to myself thinking of doing this in Connecticut. Surely, there must be some kind of zoning regulation prohibiting such an aesthetically offensive but utilitarian object. Our town will gladly add a few sizes to their carbon footprint to maintain appearances. I’ve often wanted to install a clothesline in my yard just to see how long it would take before the first 911 call. No doubt it would prompt a flurry of complaints and attract a lot of attention in the police notes of the local paper. “She did wha-a-a-t?!”

Aside from the clothesline, authenticity is what I like most about our summer community. There is no pretense. Being in a bathing suit is a great equalizer. As I mentioned, there’s no hiding anything, and it wouldn’t occur to anyone there even if it were possible.

Conversely, in Connecticut authenticity is as rare a commodity as a clothesline – or so I originally thought. Over the years, however, I’ve discovered when you choose to be authentic, people respond in kind no matter where you find yourself. Honesty begets honesty. Choosing to be authentic in our relationships provides a safe haven for others to come for comfort, encouragement and support. There is no greater connector than shared suffering. Pain respects no boundaries. It is an equal opportunity business.

I consider it an honor and a privilege when someone feels comfortable enough to choose to reveal their pain. It is such a vulnerable position, which is probably why so many of us choose to be silent sufferers – something I’ve never mastered. With Joan of Arc as my patron saint, I can’t deny a predisposition to martyrdom. Or maybe it’s just my Catholic upbringing. I think all Catholics have a bit of the martyr in them because, as children, they were our idols. For many though, I think not being stoic might be considered a sign of weakness – especially if you’ve been taught to buck up all your life. For those people, it might even feel self-indulgent.

Despite my natural instinct towards martyrdom, I’ve fallen victim to the “I’m fine” syndrome more times than I care to remember. The problem is then I‘m trapped in a prison of my own making. Since I claim that I’m fine, people will treat me as if that’s true, but it’s not. Here’s the kicker, then I get mad at them because they can’t see my pain. How convoluted is that??? Hence, the “N” in the F.I.N.E. acronym: Nutso!

I recently sponsored a table at a Lenten lunch with a Christian speaker who shared the story of her mother’s murder and subsequently learning of her brother’s involvement. There must have been over 200 women in attendance. I had no idea what the speaker was going to discuss and assumed it was going to be a well-timed Jesus pep rally. It certainly was as this woman walked us through her pain and her ultimate reconciliation with a God she had abandoned in anger over the injustice of it all. The following morning one of my guests shared the following comments: 

1. WOW… what a lot of women showed up for a religious lunch!
2. WOW… many of these fancy schmancy women actually have an inner life!!

It was her closing comment though that captured the essence of the luncheon. She concluded, “The speaker had a story to tell, but oddly her story was no more or less  ‘shocking’ to me than anyone's story…we all love, we all lose, we all suffer, we all grieve…hers was a story of the human condition. Maybe a tad more dramatic than some, but really just a story of having faith, losing faith, and regaining faith. And that story is one we all benefit from hearing. It doesn't have to be that 'dramatic' to be powerful.”

Pleased that she enjoyed herself and in total agreement with her insights, I thanked her in return for providing such wonderful ‘bloggage.’ I also pointed out that despite their polished images, I’d bet most of the women in attendance were just as desperate as we were to get home and remove the Spanx that had been smoothing out our shared imperfections! Authenticity only goes so far.

My guest’s observations brought to mind a number of conversations I’ve had recently prompted by a sincere “How are you?” The overwhelming response was something along these lines, “I’ve no right to complain. There are so many people worse off.” While I understand and applaud their awareness and empathy for others, sadly it doesn’t diminish their pain. If only we could lessen another’s suffering by minimizing our own. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way. There will always be someone worse off then you, true. BUT your pain is just as real. You don’t need to choose to heap guilt on top of it. Telling everyone you’re fine doesn’t make it true. When you choose to suffer in silence, it isolates you and exacerbates the situation. Burdens are so much lighter when shared.

I think one of the biblical messages that has helped me most in life is “You are not alone.” You don’t have to necessarily join a support group, start a blog or wear your heart on your sleeve, though I’ve been known to do all three. If that’s not your style, you can always choose to be authentic with God. He doesn’t have a compassion quotient that can be exceeded. He is not bound by human limitations. He doesn’t rate the depth of your pain in relation to another’s. He isn’t fooled by appearances or self-denial. He’s never too busy. He knows what you’re going through. He wants to heal the broken-hearted and bandage wounds of every kind, but it’s our choice to humbly seek His assistance.

Much as the New Englanders in our tiny beach community feel free to air their laundry, we can all choose to do the same with select individuals or at least with the One who can and will refresh us with His healing Spirit and breathe His calming presence into our troubled souls. The One who knows exactly what is behind every “I’m F.I.N.E.” Here is just a sampling. Feel free to share your own. Mine change daily. 

Freeked Out, Insecure, Neurotic and Emotional (Italian Job movie)

Feelings Inside Not Expressed

Feeling Insecure, Numb, Empty

Frantic, Insane, Nuts, Egotistical

Frustrated, Insecure, Neurotic, Emotional

Feeling Inadequate, Needing Encouragement

Fouled Up, Insecure, Neurotic and Emotional (Aerosmith; polite form)

Foggy, Insecure, Neurotic, Emotional

Fanatical, Insecure, Neurotic, Emotional

Fat, Irritated, Nauseous, Exhausted (pregnant version)

A Mother's Heart

by Joanie Butman

Whoever chose the date for Mother’s Day must have been Catholic since May is the month the Catholic Church honors Mary – the mother of all mothers. At mass last Sunday, they held a May Day procession culminating with her floral coronation. As a mom no one has ever offered me a crown of flowers. My true crown that I cherish above all else is the collection of Mother’s Day cards from my children where they claim I am the greatest mother in the world. At least for this one day I am, and I’ll gladly take it because the rest of the year my ratings fluctuate wildly.

While I was watching the May Day festivities, I began to think about Mary and how hard her life must have been. She didn’t have disposable diapers or the benefit of the What To Expect series or any other of the glut of parenting books available today. And no one has ever written a manual about parenting the son of God though I know plenty of parents who treat their offspring as such. Then they unleash them into the world where they expect the rest of us to do the same!

I’m sure Mary must have felt just as tired and bedraggled as the rest of us. She probably even lost her temper on occasion. Above all else though, more than any other mother in history, she knew the intense pain of watching her child suffer. Any mom (or dad) knows, “You are only as happy as your least happy child.” I don’t know a parent alive who wouldn’t gladly take on their child’s pain if they could. But we can’t, so like Mary we simply limp alongside them in their pain, our love and support being the only solace we can offer – and our prayers.

This week was Sharing Day for my Bible Study group where women have the opportunity to voice anything they have learned during the year and how it affected their life. The most common emotion expressed is gratitude for our support and prayers on behalf of their children. We’ve prayed for health issues, psychological issues, school issues, addiction issues, social issues, marriage issues, job issues. We’ve prayed for children serving in the armed forces and the ultimate pain – the loss of a child. Within this group of 100+ women, life (and motherhood) unfolds with all its challenges, joys and sorrows. It is a place where we are fed so that we, in turn, can return to our roles strengthened and encouraged to face another day knowing we have an army of prayer warriors praying behind the scenes, especially at times when we can’t even find the words.

My Bible Study group is about so much more than just learning scripture. It is a support group of women – mostly mothers with children and grandchildren spanning generations. Even if they didn’t give birth, all women have mothering roles in some capacity – it’s in our nature. The fellowship of these women has made me a better person and a better mother. Any parenting wisdom I’ve accumulated didn’t come from all those childrearing books, which my mother sagely counseled me to toss in the garbage.  No, it came from other mothers (including my own) and, much to my children’s dismay, through lots of trial and error. Most of our prayers for each other concern our children, spouses and parents regardless of their ages. You never outgrow praying for your children or your loved ones.

We may not have been given the overwhelming task of mothering God’s son, but we all take our jobs just as seriously. Women have a daunting role in the family as the ‘go-to’ person for everything from a lost sock to a lost love. In my house when there is an emergency, the immediate reaction is a resounding, “MOM!” It’s not because I have any medical training or formal referee experience, but in a crisis everyone wants someone who will take control, not panic, and ‘fix’ things. For many families, this is the role of the mom.

Even if the sight of a limb dangling at an odd angle is threatening to make you vomit, here’s my mantra: “Stay calm. I’m here, don’t worry. It’s going to be okay. I'll take care of you.” It's what God tells me and then I repeat it to them. What seems like a lifetime ago, I saw my family racing across the yard. My husband, all color drained from his face, holding my son with blood gushing from his head while Hannah (who had accidentally hit him in the head with a golf club) was running along screaming, “I see his brain! I see his brain!” Then in unison, “HELP! MOM!” That was just the first of a long series of visits to the local emergency room.

My key to parenting: NEVER let them see how grossed out or panicky you feel, or that you have NO IDEA what you’re doing.  ALWAYS act as if you have everything under control. That’s all they want or need whether it is a skinned knee, a broken bone, a bad grade, a cut from the team, or a rejection from college. It is a common belief that Mom will know how to make you feel better. Even ET knew enough to “phone home.” My mom is still one of the first people I call with good and bad news. And who hasn’t experienced one of those panicky calls whether you are the mom talking your child off the ledge or whether it is your own mom talking you off yours!

I was driving in the car yesterday and a song came on with the lyrics, “I guess we're all one phone call from our knees.” The women with whom I spend every Thursday are painfully aware of this reality, which is why we choose to start there just as Mary did when she first learned of Jesus' impending birth. When you choose to begin on your knees, your mothering becomes a “sacred partnership with God.”

To my own mother who has never ceased praying for me and for all the other women in my life with whom I travel this road, “Have a blessed Mother’s Day!”

I will share the closing song from my Bible Study on Thursday. It is called The Servants Song, and I pass it alongin honor of all the women I’ve been blessed to have in my life and to those who came before us leaving their own wisdom to guide us.

Sister, let me be your servant

Let me be as Christ to you

Pray that I might have the grace

To let you be my servant too

We are pilgrims on a journey

We are sisters on the road

We are here to help each other

Walk the mile and bear the load

I will hold the Christ-light for you

In the night time of your fear

I will hold my hand out to you

Speak the peace you long to hear

I will weep when you are weeping

When you laugh I’ll laugh with you

I will share your joy and sorrow

Till we’ve seen this journey through….

Amen to that sisters!!!

A light-hearted look at motherhood: