Recently, our Catholic paper published a fantastic issue centered entirely on the Church’s consistent ethic of life. It served as a good reminder to readers that the pro-life issue encompasses more than abortion, for which I am deeply grateful. As I flipped, I was searching for the resource page for families interested in adoption or making themselves available for foster care; and it was not there. 

It simply is not there.

There is a gaping hole in adoption services within the Church’s consistent ethic of life. I have heard this from hopeful adoptive parents for years, and have been personally frustrated that any hope I have entertained of enlarging our family in this way has been thwarted simply by the expense, or red tape of working through state programming.

For hundreds of years, providing care to children without families (for whatever reason) was the work of the Church. Creating opportunities for those children to be placed in loving homes was a vibrant ministry. This is no longer the case and there is a great deal of collateral damage in terms of families who dream of having children, who cannot. And children who dream of having families, who simply will age out of the system while they wait for the bureaucratic wheels to turn.

Echoes of social work classes I took back in the day have been coming to mind with frequency. There was always a tremendous emphasis placed on the baby boomers who would require resources, care, nurses, etc. in our lifetime. The current systems would experience a surge that would likely push past the breaking point of what the care industry would be able to absorb. We needed to be attuned to this, and ready to step up with creativity and awareness. 

In the wake of the recent Dobb’s decision, I cannot help but feel that we are approaching a very different sort of baby boom. In a new way, it is clear that we are not prepared for the surge of needs that are about to come down the pike, but we haven’t had decades to prepare for it in the same sense. Not that the resources aren’t available, but the systems are simply not in place. Which is shameful as the current number of families in the U.S. waiting to adopt is somewhere between one and two million.

‘Good news and bad news. The good news is we have all the money we need for the project. The bad news is, it’s still in your pockets,’ as my favorite tongue-in-cheek fundraiser put it.

I wonder if you have ever considered adoption as an option? Do you know families who are? If so, you’ll likely know that US private adoptions cost somewhere in the ballpark of $40k. In many cases, the adoptive family is required to make a website advertising their eligibility as a candidate and they can wait years (YEARS) to be matched with a child. That’s if they have the resources to shell out tens of thousands of dollars to expand their family (in addition to time off, paperwork, legal fees, agency fees, etc). What about the families with the desire and space for more children in their homes for whom cost prohibits the very idea of adoption?

Mainstream media is looking to the Church as a first responder in the recent turning of the tide when it comes to abortion laws in the US. ‘What is the Church going to do now that Roe has been overturned?’ I heard in one interview. A wise Archbishop responded: ‘The Church will do what it has always done to accompany women in crisis pregnancy situations, but we cannot do it alone.’ 

During the pandemic, while church buildings had closed their doors, there was an important distinction being made while criticism of churches closings cropped up. ‘The Church isn’t closed–we are the Church!’ That is as true today as it was in the early days of Covid.

In other words, this change is going to ask something of all of us. If we haven’t stepped up our game to support individuals in crisis pregnancy situations already (or any crisis situation), it’s time. 

“What we would like to do is change the world–make it a little simpler for people to feed, clothe, and shelter themselves as God intended them to do. And, by fighting for better conditions, by crying out unceasingly for the rights of the workers, the poor, of the destitute–the rights of the worthy and the unworthy poor, in other words–we can, to a certain extent, change the world; we can work for the oasis, the little cell of joy and peace in a harried world. We can throw our pebble in the pond and be confident that its ever widening circle will reach around the world. We repeat, there is nothing we can do but love, and, dear God, please enlarge our hearts to love each other, to love our neighbor, to love our enemy as our friend.” -― Dorothy Day

The Catholic Church holds all life sacred from conception to natural death and will advocate for life in all circumstances. However, without a major overhaul of accessible adoption options, Catholics (or anyone for that matter) are no more likely to avail themselves for the impending baby boom, no matter how pure and deep the desire to do so might be. It will simply remain out of reach. I suspect this is where the creativity of the Body of Believers is needed most urgently.

Instead of go fund me pages and yard sales, what if families could go to their parish and request financial assistance to become certified foster families, or to help fund adoptions? Creativity & awareness.

I think the good Archbishop is right about one thing, it is going to take everyone re-thinking and stepping up to support the women, men, and children most intimately affected by the Dobbs verdict who find themselves in uncharted waters; coincidentally that has a ripple effect. That might mean finding a local pregnancy center to support, accompanying families walking through new parenthood, or the emotional road of placing a child for adoption. At its core, I think living into this new era as the Body of Believers begs the question of each of us: 

Why not us? Could we make room for one more? 

Because at its core, that’s what love does. It makes room where there was none (think Advent). A longer table; more water in the soup. What greater witness could we offer than to open our own homes so that all would know the love of family (and that doesn’t just imply babies)? That instead of laws that are strictly pro-birth, we could embrace the all-encompassing title of pro-life. What if we resembled the shocking community of the early church that found people slack-jawed in its wake, murmuring: ‘Look how they love one another.’

There is no such thing as other people’s children. This is a reality I find myself grappling with in a new way. Maybe you do, too?

(For further inspiration, listen to The Highwomen’s Crowded Table) 

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Back in January, while in motivation mode, I used one of those word generators that would help give some focus to my year, some area of growth to focus on. The generator supplied a word like failure, brokenness, or death– something along those lines. I quickly pulled back from the whole idea and reminded myself that I don’t believe in those word generator things, anyway. Funny because there is some ironic nod to what was coming next. There would be some dying to plans I held onto; some uncovering of things I didn’t want to think could fail; feelings that things have fractured in ways that will be difficult to repair.

Oh, the perspective six months can bring.

Summer plans…

About that same time, looking ahead to summer months, we intended for this to be a ‘quieter summer’ compared to cramming everything in like we did last year.  But like you, we had no idea how true that would become.  In our minds, that was still to include a couple out-of-state visits, pool times, gardening, working our beehives, and a 10^th anniversary celebration. It felt manageable and needed after feeling like we got a bit carried away the previous year.

And here we are, nearly September. Some of those plans manifested. Many did not. Looking at my daughters’ school summer slideshow project, it seems she even enjoyed it. I’ll take it.

The plan for this year/month/week/day

Our kids started school last week in person which is a topic all its own. It’s not a decision we have taken lightly and I’m still not confident that there is a great option for students and teachers– even though I believe our school is doing everything within its power to keep our kids safe and maintain some sense of normalcy—if that can be achieved from behind a mask and without human contact. Although I am grateful for that, it is not a position I feel am emboldened to tell you or anyone else to make.  

Deep discernment

I knew this year would be emotional for me with both kiddos in school all day for the first time, but this dimension has made me question myself constantly. The fact that they have named this need/desire for themselves has required me to dig deep for some willingness to let them have a say in their schoolyear since they’ve had blessed little say in any decision making since last spring. Knowing we can always choose online learning, we let them take this step back to school so they at least have a context for what ‘in-person learning’ means this year.

I’ve got a good, hearty respect for those who have decided to learn from home with their children and all that entails, not to mention the creativity of schools and teachers who are facilitating this work; add to that a new awareness of the serious amount of trust required of me to put in those in charge of our children’s well-being, and theirs of me. This is not limited to school faculty, but the entire school community to discern what is best for their children, when to send them and when to keep them home.  It feels a lot like sending our beloved ones into a living experiment and that is honestly testing my limits. It also smacks of a deeper sense of community where my choices literally can/will affect so very many other people and I hope the gravity of that truth is felt all around.

On a deeper level, this feels like a place worth operating from on the regular.

Signs of life

At school pickup on Friday I walked by two distinct parents donning t-shirts that read: “#Blessed” and “Embrace the suck.” I had to laugh. We’re all doing the best we can with what we’ve been given. That said, I have noticed a couple of signs of life that are making my heart hopeful:

1. Kids are biking to school(!!!)

With all of the rigmarole with morning and afternoon drop-offs and temperature checks, families are figuring out that where possible, it pays to walk/bike.  While this does my hippie, planet-loving heart good, this is also a hopeful sign. While I and so many of my parent peers at drop off fit squarley into the ‘millennial’ category, kids on bikes (without chaperones) tend not to fit into the millennial parent context. The fact that every child is not being shuttled from place to place, but getting to experience the joy and independence, not to mention exercise, that getting from place to place brings, is a move in the right direction.

2. Kids are making new friends like their lives depend upon it—because in some ways they do.

My husband and I have been around and around on this. There are so many things our kids want to do that we say no to for one reason or another, so why are we consenting to their desire to go to school when there are perfectly good reasons not to? No matter that our pediatrician encouraged  us to send them, what matters more is that they have articulated a desire for community and camaraderie that they haven’t experienced outside of their home in nearly six months. If we can’t listen to and honor their request for community and socialization in the school setting, in all seriousness, where can we? They’ve got a read on what their social child hearts need, and it is others.

3. Kids have considerably lowered the bar on their expectations — and heightened their creativity.

In the past, summer has basically meant unstructured play, family visits, camping, and attending any and every free day option from the Science Museum to the Botanic Gardens. Add in some BBQs with friends, and we can pack the days and weeks full.

Having swept most of these options from the table, and upon realizing it wasn’t just our house that was suddenly skipping every event on the calendar, they accepted it. Instead of making grandiose plans at breakfast about what we should do today, only to be disappointed by remembering that that place is no longer open, they settle for playing in the basement, going to the park, running through the sprinkler. Not only did this take the pressure off as the one entertaining the troops, but it feels like a healthy step back for any one of us who seek near constant entertainment. This time is proving to be an introduction of sorts to the enjoyment of simple things.

4. Kids (and lots of other people) are writing letters.

Fitting, as the US Postal Service struggles to keep its head above water, folks have seemingly re-discovered not only the importance of communicating by letter, but the joy in receiving letters. We have had pen pals, chain letters, and post cards, flying in and out of our mailbox as a different mode of communication—and a sneaky way to slip summer school into a creative morning of play.

None of these hopeful signs makes me less lonesome for normal, but they do  point to a possibility that although ‘normal’ may not ever look the way it did, there is reason to believe that we just might be better, not worse, for the wear.

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In case you didn’t get your financial fix from my last piece, stay tuned this week at Blessed Is She where I’ll be sharing a bit more. In related news, we’ve now participated in both the Faith and Money Matters Bible Study as well as the Journey of Generosity  online retreats, and would heartily recommend either (probably the Bible Study first).

Lastly, whether or not you are homeschooling, home-Massing, looking for a way to make Sundays stand out from the rest of the week while you work from home, or are in need of ideas to help explore the Sabbath, the Sunday Fun for Faith-Filled Families is available online for $2.95, or make it available to your entire small group/home school network/parish for $9.95. Humble thanks from me to you. (Click below).

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This month, I get to celebrate a birthday, an anniversary, a funeral, and a Baptism. Four distinct snapshots of a life—my own and others’.

Birthday

It’s no secret that July is my favorite month: watermelon, sweet corn, sunflowers, bees, books, writing, hikes, pools—and very little structure on the calendar. What’s not to love?! In a way I don’t feel I’m able in other months, it’s fair to say I savor the long-lit, days. It also holds the tension of the very fleeting present in which I know these days don’t last and the knowledge that I have to enjoy while it’s here—the academic calendar rolls out, and once again our time feels as though it’s not our own. Not that it ever was, but isn’t it delightful to imagine that we have any effect on time?

I just finished another of Shannan Martin’s books, Falling Free (which was fabulous!). In it, she describes her rocky (and providential?) transition from hobby-farm-mama to industrial city-living neighbor, married to the chaplain of the local jail; where her neighbors often wear their lives on their sleeves and call her to solidarity with them in a way that offers a more beautiful view than she had hoped for. She describes this process in humble detail of the ways that God had seemingly called her down, and simultaneously picked her up.

“Living small is not about having less, but being less– less respected in the eyes of the world, less successful, less wealthy, less esteemed, less you. Less me. And more Jesus. Here, in this abundance of less, where more of us is stripped away, we’ll uncover the person we were made to be, the one created in the image of a God who sank holy feet in to our human mess.”

― Shannan Martin, Falling Free: Rescued from the Life I Always Wanted

Funeral

Last week we attended a funeral for a man who had adopted—and been adopted by–the organization where I used to work. Of all things, one of my kiddos had requested attending a funeral because she had no memory of having ever attended one. The man whose life we celebrated had no family to speak of, only friends and acquaintances from over the years. His funeral was held in the orphanage where he had grown up.

I was struck by the simplicity of the service, and his life all around. He was poor, absolutely. And yet, his life was rich in many ways. His days were often scheduled by meals and Bible studies going on around town. He got around on foot and public transportation. Given the amount of time he spent in churches and Bible studies, he had a love for Jesus and a pretty unfiltered commentary on the services he attended. He held in high esteem the restaurants and organizations that put on holiday meals for those who otherwise wouldn’t be able to afford them. He was a loyal friend and completely himself.

Anniversary

In light of Shannan’s reflections and our friend’s funeral, I cannot help but wonder if the edges of my favorite month are perhaps a bit too, shiny? Where is there room for surprises beyond reveling in what I know? Do I allow God to come along side of me with hidden gems, or am I satisfied with my own, curated life in which I know what to expect and what I deem as lovely?

Maybe that is the challenge for my next trip around the sun, our next year of marriage—to savor each season, even those I’ve written off as mundane, dark, structured, or generally less glossy, so that I might be delighted in ways that I don’t expect.

Baptism

Recently I’ve been reading through the Catholic Spiritual Gifts Inventory, by Sherry Weddell and marveling over her explanation of Baptism—and all Sacraments of initiation– and how we are explicitly given the very particular charisms and gifts of the Holy Spirit that we will most need in our lifetime on these occasions. As I look ahead toward my nephew’s Baptism this weekend, I wonder how God will surprise and delight him with over the years.  Specifically, what charism awaits only him, that he might be equipped to offer his best self to God and to the world?

Whether extraordinary or simple and humble, charisms are graces of the Holy Spirit which directly or indirectly benefit the Church, ordered as they are to her building up, to the good of men, and to the needs of the world.

–CCC, 799

Sneaky Truth

This is phenomenal news and this angle has evaded me until this summer.

These perspectives are enhancing my own right now. I’m grateful for the space to mull them over in my heart and mind this month. I wish the same nourishment for you. Here’s to calling deep upon the particular gifts that we might build up the people of God all who surround us, and that we might be also be rescued from the lives we always wanted.

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As I sit down to write, my husband is refereeing the battle going on upstairs between sisters—it seems an appropriate time to reflect gratefully on the next week we’ll have together with no school.  I don’t have a sister, so this is my first formal taste of the squabbling, and whew! It is fierce and frequent.

Surprisingly, none of my Lenten suggestions seem to inspire their loving attitudes toward one another, or make any impact on the urge to bicker.

Lent is such a difficult concept for kids (let’s be honest, it’s tough for adults, too). The practice of self-denial for Jesus’ sake is a bit ethereal. No meat and desserts on Fridays, ‘because it’s Friday,’ makes for a tough sell on this Liturgical season in our house and an unbearable time of not getting what we want.

Right?

I think we get the concept of Easter, and then again, it’s difficult to grasp the fact that there was a whole long stretch of temptation and suffering that preceded the Passion. And the truth is we repel suffering. In every way—lack of sleep (hello, daylight savings time), hunger (looking at you, Ash Wednesday & Good Friday), generosity  of time, talent, or treasure (when it means I get less). As a country, and maybe as people in general, we suffer from a Theology of scarcity rather than a Theology of abundance—a belief in a system in which we have to fight to have our needs met, instead of one where it is possible for the needs of all to be met.

I think at its core, this is really an instinctual response to survival—I want that last French fry, I want to get the parking spot closest to the exit, the last ticket to the event, the aisle seat, the first place in line, first round for school enrollment…you get the picture.

I can certainly resonate with this lately.

Recently we have been talking about some tasks we’d like to tackle on our home—stemming from our ability to comfortably host folks for birthday parties, Christmas gatherings, etc. I was feeling particularly justified in my desire to make some of these home improvements—”because they’re long overdue,” I made my case—until I did a quick skim through the headlines and recognized my grasping for beauty and comfort to feel a bit like my kids’ shallow squabbling for ‘what they deserved,’ when the item up for grabs was given as a gift. 

(Ouch).

This is not to say we cannot receive good gifts, but maybe a timely reminder that everything I have has been given as gift, and the only appropriate response is to steward that with open hands rather than closed fists. Just maybe, their genuine pursuit of justice bothered me so much this morning because it reminded me sharply of my own feelings of scarcity and what that can look like when my desire to get while the getting is good overpowers my belief in a God who is generous and asks me to be the same. 

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In related news, I’m reflecting on the first feast day of St. Oscar Romero tomorrow at Blessed Is She.

Stay tuned.

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Grateful for the space

I’m finally sitting down to write after nearly a week of making room for a voracious stomach bug in this house. In a series of unfortunate events, my husband and I both woke to this little demon on the same night–hours apart from one another. This novel occurrence hasn’t come up before and I’m leaning hard on the hope that it doesn’t happen again. For as much Lysol as we’ve employed recently, everyone took their turn, and the latest victim is upstairs napping, now.

I’ll spare you the details, and only reflect on the fact that there’s nothing like being (temporarily) incapacitated and doing any kind of thinking when you otherwise ought to be sleeping; no time to contemplate the big and small things in life like that when faced with cold, white porcelain.

And so it is this week that I find myself immensely grateful for my washer and dryer, for Gatorade and the space and time to be sick.

These wheels probably began spinning while our small church community took our first shift at the emergency overnight shelter last week, hosted in a local church basement when the temps dip below 20 degrees. When a frail, sickly, guest arrived, we quickly realized how ill-equipped we were for any of the 37 patrons to be ill. We had access to little more than a bathroom to offset the discomfort of being ill or weakened from the elements.

Thankfully the biggest requirement for our guests that evening was rest. But where can these folks have the good fortune of getting sick? Or put their feet up during the day at 6 months pregnant?

Life-giving rhythm

I had originally planned to write about the beauty of the Zumba community that I’ve joined in the New Year. (Though honestly, I haven’t been up for that kind of gyration again just yet). I was struck one day last week about the way I’ve come to look forward to these hours as the most rhythmic, energizing, and diverse of my week.

Being a spoiled stay-at-home-mom, with an occasional window when my kids are in school, there is really no telling who I’ll find when (and if) I head to the gym: retired folks, people who work night shift, college students, etc. I expected an older crowd and wondered if I’d find camaraderie in that space. I have been so pleasantly surprised by whom I have found on these occasions—mostly women (but not all), older than me (but not all), folks with really great dance moves and people with zero inhibitions, people with differing abilities, and more cultural diversity in one room than in all communities in my life, combined.

So it is giving me life in lots of ways. I love the hugs and the music and my energy when I get to go and have been reflecting on what a gift this time is to me, probably unbeknownst to any of them.

Compelled toward gratitude

One of our go-to pastimes when we’re sick in this house is National Geographic’s: Planet Earth. Somehow I can justify binge-worthy amounts of screen time, when we can simultaneously escape our condition by beholding the wonder and beauty of the world. It’s such a grounding experience to be reminded that the world is so much bigger than what I regularly experience. In an unexpected way, each of these encounters has done that for me recently and I am grateful.

In an ironic, or providential bit of timing, I offered a reflection of the Feast of St. Blaise—on both the blessing of throats and the practice of being called out of ourselves in a way that delights the Creator. Hop on over to read the rest at Blessed Is She.

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***But wait, there’s more! For those of you interested in a Lenten Reflection book to walk you through Lent this season (Ash Wednesday is March 6th this year), the Blessed Is She journal went live last week and you can purchase on pre-order  discount and receive free shipping, here!

The post An ode to Zumba and other things saving me right now appeared first on Unexpected Honey.

The sunflowers are giving up the fight—after being pummeled by wind, squirrels, and finches, they won’t last. Thus, the pile of sorted seeds air-drying on the kitchen floor. (A lovely science experiment that looks a bit like loose-leaf tea arrayed on construction paper). At first glance, it’s an invitation to curious, little fingers. Upon closer examination, the truth of it is piled up there in plain sight:

Death and new life. Hope. Growth. Potential. Self-gift. Reaping & sowing.

Every year I fight the end of summer. It’s just such a sad letting go for me. And yet, every September seems to take me by surprise. The long-stretching shadows, cool mornings and evenings, the explosion of produce from the garden—it’s a subtle, quiet settling in. It woos me, and wins me over without fail.

This week in particular is jam-packed with significance in this household. In one stretch of the calendar, we celebrate another year in our home, the anniversary of our engagement, one of our children’s Baptism anniversary, alongside of the anniversary of my grandfather’s death. Life, death, excitement and change, all mixed together. The richness of it all is almost palpable; like we’re walking knee-deep in calendar days and thick grace.

Of course, this is no different than any other string of days that our memories and wanderings lead us into and out of,  but probably the rapid succession of them that makes me marvel.

Re-membering

This practice of tracing patterns in time is an important one. There’s something sacred about the act of re-membering—placing  oneself physically  into the mind of what a particular day held at one time; allowing the body to re-enter that experience, that feels holy. Anyway, that is how I find myself tonight, playing archivist to these significant days, and seed-collector of next year’s blooms. 

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It’s been a long time since I sat down to write. That’s probably telling; a reminder that I need some quiet time, and a reflection of the pace of the day- to-day.

Sound familiar?

For whatever reason, February is jam-packed for us, annually. As a practice, this is not something I try brag about—actually it’s a bit of a phenomenon because we are pretty intentional about not overdoing the schedule business. However, this February has gotten my attention because of its richness, because of its shortness, because of its paradox:

-Ash Wednesday on Valentine’s Day

-Preparing a talk on (spiritual) blindness, while I have (physical) sight.

-Learning about baby sleep rhythms, while my kiddos sleep through the night

-Watching bees buzz in and out amidst the lingering snow on sunny afternoons

-Preparing for baby chickens, while we maintain our suburban address

-Finding myself captivated by the themes that have been hammered into my consciousness recently by news, or episodes (yes, I’m on the This Is Us, bandwagon), that this life is to be crumpled up, worn out and spent, because ‘we do not know the day or the hour.’

-Visible reminders by Burpee seed displays alongside of snow shovels, that death does indeed give way to new life

Shoots

The seasons are changing, and with them, the Liturgical season. Reminder upon reminder that however tightly we cling to what is, things change… and new shoots arise.

I have been sitting with the image of the shoot of Jesse (Is. 11:1)—an image used particularly during Advent readings, as well as some Lenten traditions. They derive from the once-vibrant kingdom of David, which was demolished and afterward referred to as a ‘stump’; a lifeless reminder of what once was. But what we hear during Advent and Lent is the geneology that led to the brave shoot– that what was prophesied will come to fruition, that even what was once unthinkable, will rise up with life.   

Grace

We have had the privilege of celebrating both Confirmation and Baptism with dear family friends in the past couple of weeks. Each celebration has served as a reminder in different ways that we are ultimately intended to be transformed—both in God/prayer and God through the experiences or our lives. As a rule, these transformations rarely take place as we plan, and never seem to leave us in the place from which we begin. It is in these experiences that we receive the graces for this transformation. In other words, this internal tug-of-war is (I suspect) is an indicator of transformation—pulling between what we are comfortable with and what we are being called to become. 

For more reading on paradox, head on over to Blessed Is She, where I am sharing a bit about St. Josephine Bahkita and the international day of prayer and awareness against human trafficking.

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Recently a paper-clipped envelope headed for the bank on my morning errands, was misplaced. This brought on a bit of a panic into our little abode. Checking diligently in all of the places it might have been, I tore our house apart doing my best to think logically, remain clear-headed, and introduce the St. Anthony prayer to our little ladies (‘Tony, Tony, turn around, something’s lost that must be found’). I did find it, eventually (in our collection of library books). *Cue exasperated sigh of relief/frustration/humor.

Ironically, I remember thinking of the parable of the lost coin–in this season of parables–the man who bought the field, the merchant who sold all he had for the pearl of great price. The only explanation in my book for this eccentric behavior was that the woman must have been crazy. Who throws a party for said lost funds after freaking out in an effort to find them? I don’t know about you, but the last thing I want to do after losing my mind over anything–no matter how trivial–is have a bunch of people over. 

Unless…

Unless the thing that was unearthed was not only the coin, but a new understanding of the lost thing and my attachment to it. Maybe the field owner and the merchant aren’t crazy after all, satisfied with wisdom to see past what meets the eye. Maybe the frantic woman searching for her coin actually found more than she lost. If that’s true, you could make a good case for celebrating with abandon or purchasing the very field where the pearl of great price is secured, retiring from a career as a merchant who has made a life out of watching things come and go.

Ample opportunities

These ordinary pearls are strewn generously throughout our daily encounters–after all, what are pearls but bits of sand and (more often) parasites that have grown so irritating inside the shell of an oyster that the oyster covers and re-covers it until it is smooth:

The near collision at an intersection, the MRI that provided an evaluation of a current health risk, forgiveness between friends, the way parents linger by the bedside of their sleeping children. Seen with this wisdom, we might recognize a second chance rather than a jerk with road rage, a head start on a diagnosis rather than a poor prognosis, reconciliation rather than rift, gratitude in addition to exhaustion…each of these scenarios are pearls of the kind Jesus described as well as the wisdom Solomon was gifted.

That we all might be collectors and wearers of pearls.

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I doubt I’m unique in this–maybe deliriously oblivious to my own aging–but I love birthdays (including my own). Not because of the gifts—actually I sort of dread that part. I think they are important mile-markers at least, opportunities for gratitude at best.   Each year, I do try to sit for a while with what has happened and what is coming. This year is no exception: at 32, I was loved hard.

I am sitting today and thinking through this past year, on the cusp of the next.

In pictures I can see a lot packed into 32. We put some miles on, and have been in touch with more friends and family this year than we have been in a long time. I almost have a year of this stay-at-home-mom business under my belt, I’m writing more than I expected and I am consistently surprised by grace. Much of what makes this list, we planned, and the rest as everyone knows, is how life happens.

Maybe the thing that stands out most in terms of gratitude and defining pieces of the past year is that I have been loved, hard. This nurturing hasn’t come out of any wild writing success, parenting achievement, academic accomplishment or spiritual awakening. Ironically (or obviously enough), this wild, accompanying love has come to me in the moments when my business has drawn absolutely no interest, when I’ve questioned my abilities as a mother, and when I’ve shaken my fists at God.

Being loved hard isn’t bad, though it can be an adjustment to stand there with empty hands, filled. Think of your favorite jeans, the carpet in the room you love best—The Velveteen Rabbit:

Velveteen Principles

“Real isn’t how you are made,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.’

‘Does it hurt?’ asked the Rabbit. 

‘Sometimes,’ said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. ‘When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.’ 

‘Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,’ he asked, ‘or bit by bit?’ 

‘It doesn’t happen all at once,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.” 

― Margery Williams, The Velveteen Rabbit

Being loved hard is quite possibly how we are saved from ourselves and the lurking notion that we can do it on our own.

Thirty-three isn’t any special landmark year—I’m not just entering my thirties, ‘over the hill’ or qualified for anything new. (*Actually, I had to laugh as I listened to the young women in my women’s group joking about what you have to look forward to after they turn 26 and can rent a car—ha!). A quick search online reveals all kinds of significance to the number in various fields and systems of belief. Most significant perhaps, is that Jesus was thirty-three at the age of his active ministry, death and resurrection.

I know some who have physically gone into the desert at this age, in an effort to allow God to speak to them that they might know what it is they are being called to. Though I admire this, I am not planning any solo adventures at this point. I am encouraged to think about needing a foundation of years on which to build before my real gifts, friends, faults and mission might be revealed most clearly.

If that is what I have to look forward to in the year ahead, then it seems thirty-three might be even better than thirty-two.

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