Tag Archives: Children

Mar 06 2019
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Dusty People

Preached at Cathedral of St. Philip’s “family service” on Ash Wednesday

Today we are remembering that we are dust, and in a little bit we’ll put a dusty reminder on each person’s forehead.  What does it mean to remember that we are dust?

I remember the first time I put ashes on neighbors’ heads and said the words, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”  I was a student in New York, and it was an absolutely frigid day.  I spent part of the day inside a sanctuary putting ashes on peoples’ heads, and I spent part of the day outside doing the same from the sidewalk.  I wore black gloves with the thumb cut off, and after an hour outside my thumb was completely numb with cold.

I put ashes on all kinds of people.  Tall people, short people, busy people, calm people, people speaking different languages, old people and young people.  But the face I remember the most was that of a little baby, just a month or two old, sleeping in the arms of his mother.  “Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.”  Though I had no children of my own at the time, I was immediately struck by the truth that as much as we belong to each other, we belong especially to God.  That none of us can really hang onto another forever, for everyone is dust.  It was and is a reminder that while we are free to make decisions, some better than others, there’s very little we can control.  We are not in control.

So kids I want you to turn to each other, find a partner, look them in the eye, and say “Remember that you are dust.”  And adults, when you look into the faces of those around you tonight and all through Lent, I want you to think to yourself, “Remember that you are dust.”  Parents, when you tuck your children in at night, you can make the sign of the cross on their foreheads, reminding them they are blessed.  And as you do so, I want you to remember that they too are dust.  Because it’s a reminder that we belong first to God. That God creates life from dust, and that God is with us when we return to dust.

As important as it is to remember that we ourselves are dust, I think it can be pretty life changing to remember that the person sitting next to you, the stranger driving past you, the parent or sibling living hundreds of miles away, the child you tuck in at night—they are dust too.

And as dusty people we remember that even before we belong to each other, we first belong to God.  That we belong to God in our birth, in our death, and in every moment in between.  We belong to God and God is always with us.

Amen.

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Feb 06 2018
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Lungs and other miracles

This morning I opened the door to my son’s room at 6:33am to find him fast asleep.  I know by now that if he doesn’t wake up on his own, we’re in for a morning of tantrums–and that will only make us late.  So I snuggled in next to him and put my arm around him, leaving my hand on his sweet toddler chest.  Listening to his breath go in… and out.  Feeling his chest rise… and fall.  In and out.  Rise and fall.

I often do this when he’s sleeping.  I know he can sense my presence and that will start to wake him a little.  But for the first minute or three, he is fast asleep.  In these moments, I am always reminded of his lungs.  His precious miracle lungs.  It may seem an odd thought, but Charlie was born three weeks early, and I remember thinking that his lungs may not be ready.  I remember learning at some point in my pregnancy that lungs are one of the last things to develop–and babies born early often have respiratory problems.  So to me, the lungs in his chest feel like the icing on the cake.  The final detail.  The last little miracle before the miracle of his birth.

The chapter of pregnancies and births is over for me–and I imagine I will always mourn that a little.  But in the quiet couple of minutes before my son starts to rouse, when only the sound of his sweet breath fills my ears, I am awestruck by this miracle of life that is my child.  And though he grows bigger and taller and smarter every day–with my hand on his chest, rising and falling, he is always and forever my miracle baby.

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Feb 04 2018
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A tiny piece of paper

I’m watching my 10 month old play independently while my 2.5 year old naps (a rare thing on the weekend.)  It is one of my favorite things to do–to sit back and watch her engage the world.  I remember reading about the importance of independent play when Charlie was a baby.  It was tempting to get all up in his face and be the one he was playing with.  But sitting back–watching my kids play on their own–it has taught me so much about their personalities.  Just now, Lucy Rae was playing with a small piece of red paper–a remnant from a craft her brother and I were working on yesterday.  She kept hiding the small piece of red paper in the crevice between the cushions and the arm of the couch.  She’s in that fun–but frustrating at meal-times–stage of dropping things to see what will happen.  Amazed by gravity.  And she loves peek-a-boo, and the idea of things going away, then coming back.  But this hiding of a small piece of red paper in the crevice of the couch cushions–this feels different.  There’s something about the deliberateness of her actions–a thoughtfulness and intentionality of sorts–it tells me to pay attention.  I can see this moment, this tiny action I might have missed, as being an early hallmark clue to just who Lucy Rae might be as a person.  And so I file it away in my mind, tucking it into a tiny space, deliberately and intentionally, for safe-keeping.

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May 15 2017
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Hard Ass Mama

A few years ago, one of my higher-ups insinuated that I would be less qualified for my job once I gave birth.  This person seemed to believe that being a mother would make me less fit to do the work I enjoyed so much.  It broke my heart and made me question my identity.  I spoke with one of my sister clergy, a mother too, and I remember her telling me that I would be a better priest for being a mom.  And not because I’d become more nurturing or motherly–not because I’d offer better pastoral care–but because I’d be a better administrator, better leader, and stronger voice.

I thought back to that conversation last night as I held my inconsolable 7-week old daughter.  She is not a colicky baby.  But she does have the occasional night when she will do nothing but cry for an hour or two.  She won’t take a pacifier or bottle, she won’t nurse, she won’t be rocked or bounced–she’ll just scream in my ear.  All I can do is walk back and forth in her darkened room, sush-ing and patting, walking and walking until there’s a worn path on the rug.  Back and forth, back and forth.  Knowing that she will at some point tire of crying and fall asleep, but I can never tire of loving her.  I may not like it.  I may feel like she’s yelling at me and wearing me down.  But I can wait her out.  I can be stubborn and unrelenting.  I find new strength I didn’t know I had.

And then I remember my colleague’s encouragement, and realize I am indeed becoming a better priest by being a mother.  That these few hours of pacing are teaching me the persistence I need in my profession.  That being a mom has taught me I can carry more than I thought I could.  That I can put up with more than I ever imagined–and what I won’t put up with.  That intuition is a leadership skill that can only be realized or discovered–not taught.

I know a lot of moms who feel like their career–one aspect of their vocation–has to take a back seat while their children are young.  I feel that sometimes too.  And it’s hard because I’ve always been driven and I love my work.  But every once in a while I can see the “professional development” that my children bring me.  It may not be notable on a resume, but it’s meaningful and true.

If in the years to come I am a more persistent prophet, a more valiant lover, a more courageous and thoughtful leader, a wiser authority and a more savvy administrator–you can thank my children.  Because moms aren’t all softness and kisses.  We are hard asses.  And we will do the work.

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May 11 2017
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Teach us to Pray

This morning as I was helping Charlie get dressed for school, the brightly colored rosary hanging on his closet door caught my eye.  It was a gift at his baptism from my professor and friend, who is now in hospital.  Mo. Mitties had a knack for showing up at Holy Spirit events–so many ordinations (often as a presenter or preacher), installations and baptisms.  She showed up at Ground Zero as a chaplain to first responders when she was supposed to be on sabbatical.  The woman shows up.

And she showed up this morning in Charlie’s room, even from ICU.

Jay and I pray with Charlie every night before bed, and have since he was born.  As soon as we start praying, he crawls off our lap and puts his head down to sleep.  It has become his signal that peace has come and it’s time to rest.  Because Jay usually does bedtime, I don’t get to pray with Charlie as often.

I realized the other day that we had not been praying at meals–ever.  The start of supper is such a fluid thing now, with no real pause to signal prayer.  Sometimes Charlie starts eating before us, sometimes one of us is calming the Lucy while the others eat, and in the midst of the chaos we don’t even notice that we’ve forgotten to ask God’s blessing.

So we’ve started this week, remembering only ever-other-day, trying to re-create a meaningful and formational habit.  Jay prays the Catholic prayer he was taught as a child, I’ve introduced “Johnny Appleseed” (which has to be sung several times at Charlie’s request), and I imagine Charlie will come up with his own brand of blessing as his vocabulary increases.

Sitting there with the rosary this morning, I tried to *explain* prayer for the first time.  We talked about how the different colored and shaped beads can remind us of things to talk to God about.  We talked about how the cross reminds us of Jesus’ love for us.  We prayed for our friend Mitties, that she would know comfort and that God would make her whole.  And then we walked to school thinking of more people to pray for and pointing at things we thank God for.

The glory in all this is how God is teaching me to pray in new ways.  There’s a different kind of sacredness I am discovering in praying with my child who is beginning to understand conversation more and more, because of course prayer is conversation.  I feel as if I’m entering a new season of spiritual formation as I grow alongside Charlie.

Lord, teach us to pray.

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