Splash!

What would summer blogging be without a few posts detailing the agony, the ecstasy that is swim team?

So here we go . . .

I was reflecting the other day on how so many adjectives are overused. Awesome no longer means awesome because pizza, rather than the Grand Canyon, is awesome. Amazing falls a little flat when we talk about a deal on a pair of shoes rather than a baby's first smile. Epic, in adjective form, is a word I picked up from Tim. We have epic road trips and epic term papers and, oh, so many, many things that apparently rival the Peloponnesian War or the Battle of the Bulge, and, thus, they are
epic.

Hyperbole aside, these swim meets -- oh, these swim meets -- epic, I say, epic.

In truth, the season didn't start out this way. Meet One was forty-five minutes away, but the drive was pleasant, the weather cooperative. The only snafu occurred when I lined up my tiny, tiny girls for their relay . . . and realized that two swimmers in lane five on my end of the pool would never meet up with the other half of the relay waiting in lane 1. That problem solved, the rest of the meet went, well, swimmingly. We were roughly 75% done when my friend -- a swim team rookie -- started commenting on how long it all was running, how her husband had expected her home around nine. I think it was nine o'clock that caught my attention. I realized then that somewhere along the way, I had morphed into a grizzled veteran of swim meets. Nine o'clock end time? Not anywhere on my radar. Not even close. I patted my friend and murmured a few encouraging words.

Then I got completely lost on the way home and the forty-five minute drive turned into ninety minutes. And my phone ran out of juice. And by the time I got home, the not so very epic swim meet was approaching epic status and fast.

The next meet proved fortuitous for my friend, the swim team rookie. We reached the mystical halfway point (the point at which the meet can be cancelled and doesn't need to be rescheduled) and the sky opened up. Thankfully Dave was a tad more observant than I. Start rounding up the gear, he suggested, pointing to an ominous sky. Good move, honey. There's nothing like scrounging for a lost flip flop and a wayward pair of goggles in the middle of a gully-washer.

Meet Three was very nearly my Waterloo. I never got the official temp -- in the range of 100 to 102. I started prepping for the meet at noon because I had agreed to bring coolers of water for the timers. I left for the meet at 4:00. It started at 6:00! I am the shepherd for the little girls, ages five and six. Around 5:00 they started asking, "When do we line up?"

Bless their sweaty little hearts.

I told them, "Not for a long time, girls!"

As meets go, this was a short one, meaning we finished about 9:30. We were all keyed up because John was extremely keyed up because he was swimming his first individual medley, one pool length of each stroke and a big deal when you're seven.

After the meet the coaches announced that the pool was open for free swim. This was not news parents who had been poolside for six hours wanted to hear. No, no, no. I think the parents, one and all, were ready to mutiny. Kolbe and John gleefully jumped into the pool they had just exited and would enter once again at practice which would take place in a mere eleven and a half hours. Ainsley, meanwhile, burst into great, gusty sobs because she didn't have a bathing suit.

God looked on me with great favor and sent a bolt of lightening in the midst of glee and anguish. Pool closed. Parents' mutiny cancelled.

And then there was last night.

We arrived and started getting settled into our corner of the lawn. And then the sky began to darken. The fact that I had washed, dried, and flat-ironed my hair should have been my first clue that a veritable cyclone was in the forecast. Eyeing the clouds, I started repacking what I had just unloaded. And the sky opened up yet again. Ainsley and I fled to the pavilion where we still got positively soaked, so hard was the combination of wind and rain.

Thirty minutes later we started the meet in temps 20 degrees cooler than the previous week.

Worth every last sodden towel I had to haul home!

All would have been well save for John who was not feeling great. He had nailed his first individual medley the previous week, but limped through his second, touched the wall with one hand instead of two, and found himself disqualified.

We finished about 10:15 and then, oh joy, open swim! Dave was a sporting Dad and offered to stay while the boys took a dip. We crashed about midnight and were back at the pool at 9:00.

"Weren't we just here," I asked a few bleary-eyed moms as I trudged up the hill, coffee in hand.

I had noticed John's energy flagging as the weeks have gone on. I asked my friend Rachel about perhaps, just maybe, hinting that we might hold practice a little later the morning after the meets. But the thing of it is, all these young coaches are year-round swimmers. If there's something I've learned in three years of swim team it's this: Summer league is small potatoes. Real swimmers do year-round swimming. And they do it early. Early as in 6:00 a.m. and, as I understand it, this happens six days a week. Most of the older swimmers on our team arrive for our 9:00 a.m. practices having already spent several hours at the nearby aquatics center.

I'm guessing they have precious little sympathy for pathetic summer league swimmers and their wimpy mothers who are a tad worn out.

I kept my mouth shut.

The coaches coax swimmers to morning after practices by offering ribbons, donuts, and water polo. I asked John if he wanted to sleep in, and he said thanks but no thanks.

Division Meet Sunday, All Stars on Monday, and then we're done. And despite all the drama -- the weather, the nerves, the DQ, the ribbons or lack thereof -- I love this sport.

And just look at the picture of my girl Ainsley. Cautious is her middle name, athletically inclined she is not. After prodding and bribing and coaxing and encouraging and offering half the Anna and Elsa loot available in this hemisphere, she said "I'm jumping off the block and swimming."

And she did (with a little help from the rope).

Seven Quick Takes


1.      To everyone who prayed for a simple resolution to my parents' house: The reluctant seller moved out without further legal action, left the house in good repair, and paid for the extra days she had stayed.

Amazing and wonderful and I thank you.


2.      So John informs me that whitey tighties are sooo out and boxers are in. It's all over, folks. Just hand him the car keys and the shaving cream. Before I could pull out the Kleenex and enter full mourning, John came to me and asked that I not ditch all the Batman underwear. Clearly he's not a total slave to fashion and perhaps not quite ready to look for an apartment.


3.      As my Facebook friends know, Ainsley has been hard at work mass-producing fake potholders. I mentioned to Grandma that Ainsley has some fine motor work to do this summer. Grandma mentioned that back in the day, she used to weave potholder after potholder after potholder. As I zipped though Walmart the other day, I spied a potholder kit for five bucks. Sold! Turns out Ainsley is just as enthusiastic as Grandma.

Warning on box: Not intended for use as actual potholders.

4.      Potholders are about the extent of our productive endeavors thus far. Weeks ago I compiled a lengthy list of summer suggestions and strategies gleaned from a meeting of experienced moms. Fun activities, spiritual activities, ideas for personal fitness and personal growth -- it was detailed, it was inspiring.

Then, of course, life intervened, and we were well into summer and virtually nothing on that list was happening around my house and one day I realized I hadn't even set eyes on the kids' summer homework packets.

I always tell my kids the best way to find something is to clean. I'm fairly sure they think this is nothing but a nefarious plot to coax a little industry out of them. But it's a trick that invariably works for me. I cleaned and purged and lo and behold uncovered packets 'o summer work. The kids are thrilled.

I suggested a few books to Kolbe. He offered to read Call of Duty Black Op: Book of Cheats.

So that's about where we are with that.


5.     Tim is gone for a few weeks, and John has practically donned sackcloth and ashes to mark the absence of his favorite brother. I am without my coffee buddy and my go-to technical consultant.

Faithful readers are aware that I recently made the great plunge from Dumb Phone to Smart Phone. Among my many concerns was the fact that everyone I know seems to go over their data usage . Consequently they get smacked with annoying overage charges. Just before his departure, I consulted Techno Man and asked him to check my data usage.

"Mom, you've used one seven-hundreth of your monthly allotment," Tim gravely informed me. "Glad you've embraced the Brave New World of technology."

He's a smart alec, my boy, but I have to admire a seventeen-year-old who can allude to Aldous Huxley while gently insulting his mother.


6.     Kolbe, meanwhile, is thrilled to find a few lawn jobs coming his way. For better or for worse, he's all about money and lots of it. With this hundred degree weather, he's earning his pay. Forty bucks in two days. He's doing the happy dance.


7.     If the potholder enthusiasm should wan, I found a package of vintage jacks on Amazon. Looking forward to a trip down memory lane this afternoon with my girl.

How fun is this?

Fairly sure Seven Quick Takes closed a few days ago, but head over to Kelly's site and be inspired anyway.

More Frum Ainsley

One more translation:

Red Box     (Hint: You have to think outside the box).

In context:

Dear Papa,
     I love you. I like to red box with you. I like yor cats.
Frum,
     Ainsley

Answer: read books.



X or KS -- it's a tough choice. An English book I love notes that, in terms of phonics, the word FISH could reasonably be spelled GHOTI if you took the GH from Enough, the O from Women, and the TI from Notion. Interesting note: Women may be the only word in English with an O that sounds like a short I.  If you like this kind of stuff, head here where language geeks congregate.


It's a wonder anyone learns this crazy and intriguing language of ours.

Frum Ainsley

We have a few academic areas we plan to focus on this summer. One of Ainsley's goals is to practice writing phonetically. Her kindergarten teacher will appreciate these gems. See if you can translate:

• Aelafit           (Hint: It's found in the zoo).
• Gramathr       (This one's easy).
• Kotijg            (Hint: It's found on Pelee Island).

Here are the complete texts:

I went toow the zoo. Thera was a aelafit.

Dear Oney,

     I love you. You are the best gramathr. 

Frum,

Ainsley

Dear Anee Kat,

     I love you. You are the best aunt. You 

have a kotijg.

Frum,

Ainsley

Reverse every last one of the Y's, and you see the charm of Ainsley's correspondence. I love that everyone is the best. We should all think in superlatives a little more often.

Stand

Thanks to everyone for the generous outpouring of prayers and concern over the past weeks.

I returned home to a sea of supportive friends, one appreciative husband, four affectionate children, and one case of head lice.

Yes.

I am not even making that up.

Meanwhile my parents and sister closed on a house three weeks ago, and now it appears that the seller has no plans to vacate the premises.

Could everyone reading this please offer a prayer for my parents right now? A prayer that this would resolve itself immediately without animosity, without legal action. They need this about as much as I need head lice in the house.

Here's the thing I'm slowly realizing about grief. First, it puts everything in perspective. Three weeks ago my biggest complaint was a four hour flight delay. And then: perspective. So part of me is like, "Head lice? Who cares? House seller asserting squatters' rights? Who cares?"

But the other part of grief, I'm finding, is an all-enveloping combination of fog and fatigue that leaves you with a surprising inability to formulate the most elementary of plans. I look at the instructions on a box of macaroni and cheese and find myself flummoxed.

Lice, like any icky infestation, requires a multi-step solution and a jolt of fortitude that I'm struggling to drum up. Just basic care and feeding of the gang is draining at the moment. My friend Rachel ran the swim team carpool on Thursday, and I was all "Whew! Feels like I've been back and forth to the pool everyday for three weeks." In fact, I had driven Tuesday and Wednesday.

Fog and fatigue.

At a meeting the other day, we spent a few minutes in prayer seeking a word of direction from the Holy Spirit. One friend sensed the word stand.

And that's what we're all trying to do right now. We're standing.

Tim, my big boy who no longer looks much like the picture above, is heading out tomorrow to spend two weeks running a summer camp in rural Appalachia. I did this for many, many years, and I could write a book detailing the work this apostolate accomplished in my soul. May Tim's Jenkins experience feed him as well.

Thank you, thank you for your continued prayers. You are keeping us afloat.

Not Better Off Without You

My brother Keith died some time Monday evening. He was 54.

Early, early Tuesday morning the phone rang, and I heard my sister's voice talking to Dave. And I was up and crying and saying no, no, no. It was the call -- the middle of the night call -- we've been expecting for thirty years.

I woke up the next day, and my first thought was that my dad was just getting the news that his oldest child and only son had died. And my mom. She's battles mild dementia --- enough so that she's a little fuzzy on the days of the week and might not be able to name the current president  -- but not nearly enough to mask the stark, crushing reality that her son is gone.

Keith's death was related to alcohol. He did not commit suicide, and for that I will be forever grateful. Because God wouldn't have forgiven him? No. Because we wouldn't have forgiven ourselves.

The demon of addiction sank its tentacles deep into Keith's soul at a young age. They say a parent is only as happy as his unhappiest child. I'm not sure if that's entirely true, but I know my parents have been through the ringer. It's frightening -- it's maddening-- to watch your elderly parents worry, worry, worry about a problem they can't possibly fix. It's frightening -- maddening -- to watch your brother battle addiction and its sobering first cousin, depression.

In the aftermath of Robin Williams' suicide, I was struck by -- I don't know which word to use, exactly, but perhaps lightheartedness captures it -- that I detected as people discussed his death. In an effort, I'm sure, to be comforting and affirming, his suicide seemed to be brushed off. He's in a better place! He's partying with Joan Rivers!

What a lark, I might have thought. But, see, I am the sister of a brother who battled suicidal thoughts. So I read those breezy comments and thought, "Yeah, well, have you talked to his kids? Have you talked to the people he left behind?" At the end of the day, someone finds the body, someone cleans up the mess, and many someones wring their hands -- their hearts -- and lament the actions they took (or didn't take), the calls they made (or didn't make), the words they said (or didn't say). You don't need to judge the families of those who battle addiction. They've already served as judge, jury, and executioner, dutifully tallying their failures for decades.

We loved Keith.

I sat with Keith and told him point blank that suicide wouldn't be better him or for anybody else. It wouldn't be a Clean Break; we wouldn't Be Better Off Without Him.

Keith fought it. Let the record reflect that He. Fought. It. Even on the day of his death, he continued to fight it, making plans to do another stint in rehab.

To those people I love who continue to battle addiction, I say press on. Pick up Keith's baton and take another stab at freedom.When the father of lies sidles up to you in frail moments and whispers those seductive words of hopelessness and despondency -- Better Off Without You! -- Clean Break! -- turn a deaf ear.

Live to fight another day.

Please.

They won't be better off without you. We are not better off without Keith.

We are not.

The Sacred Heart of Jesus

Friends who follow me on Facebook have heard the sad, sad news of my brother's unexpected death Monday night. Keith was 54.

Today begins the novena to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Click here for novena details. This is a special devotion of mine and one I'll offer up for the brother I loved, for my parents who are shattered, for all those who spend too much of their time here on earth broken and bleeding and striving to anesthetize their pain.

Following is an old post that explains the Sacred Heart of Jesus.

The Heart

Dave and I enjoyed our weekend getaway.

Through Dave's savvy use of Priceline, we snatched up a gorgeous hotel room for less than usually pay for a dive off I-77. We are more accustomed to big rigs and bad coffee than waterfalls and sleek furniture. This was very nice.

Now at these nicer hotels there are these really helpful folks called bell-hops who handle your luggage for you. Who knew? The bell-hop and I were putting our smaller bags on a cart as Dave pulled the larger cases out of the trunk.

We had stopped for dinner shortly before our arrival. Ainsley had been getting cold, so I had opened my bag to grab a blanket. I failed to zip the bag shut.

Cue ominous music.

So there's Dave pulling out my suitcase. And there are all my personal effects scattering across the streets of downtown Tampa. I didn't take a close look because, I ask you, did I really want to see my unmentionables lying on the asphalt for all the world to see? Not so much.

Humiliation complete and personal effects retrieved, we tipped the good bell-hop and settled into our comfy room and enjoyed the rest of our trip.

On Sunday we walked a few blocks to a beautiful church for Mass. Friday was the Feast of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, and the parish happened to be the Church of the Sacred Heart. Call it the catechist in me, but things like this make my day.

Devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus dates back to the mid 1600s when a French nun, now known as Saint Margaret Mary, had a series of visions revealing the nature of Christ's heart and His deep love for us. I have a beautiful image of the Sacred Heart of Jesus that hung in my grandmother's house throughout my childhood.

In Catechesis of the Good Shepherd we explore why God presents some of the same lessons over and over again. Why are there two creation accounts in Genesis? Why are there four Gospels? Why did Jesus present parable after parable?

Each one, we learn, reflects a slightly different face of God.

So, too, it is with the saints. Saint Francis presents a vision of simplicity, detachment, and love. Saint Teresa of Avila calls us to the heights of contemplative prayer. Saint Faustina helps us understand the limitless expanse of Christ's mercy.

Saint Margaret Mary came to a unique awareness of the nature of Christ's heart. It is this heart that I pray will reshape what is lacking in my own.

The path to wholeness and holiness is not always a simple one. I've heard the saying "Act as if it all depends on you. Pray as if it all depends on God." Sometimes we ask God to do a work in us that we cannot do for ourselves.

In my early twenties I returned to the church of my early childhood. I embraced with a joyful heart so much of what the Catholic Church teaches. There were, however, a few lingering questions and theological issues that I gnawed on for a few years. I developed a habit of receiving communion and praying, "Jesus, I believe in you; help my unbelief." While there was no 180 degree shift, one day I simply found myself at peace.

Sometimes I am confronted anew with the limits of my heart, with my stunted ability to love. I judge others. I am impatient or dismissive with my children. I avoid certain people.

I don't want to be this way. I want the heart of Jesus.

So as we celebrate the Solemnity of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, I continue to seek His heart. As I pass my grandmother's image of the Sacred Heart that now sits on our prayer table, I pray, "Jesus, meek and mild, make my heart as unto thine own."