The Sacred Heart of Jesus

Tomorrow   Today is one of my favorite feast days. With no time to write, I pulled a few thoughts from the archives.

For those of you who have been praying for our parents, thank you, thank you, thank you and please don't stop.

And let me add two more intentions. In the span of maybe seventy-two hours, two people dear to me have had newborn babies placed in their care for adoption.This is the culmination of years of prayer. One of the adoptions faces some legal hurdles. Please, please pray in gratitude, in joy, and in hope for a smooth transition for Mama, Daddy, and Baby.

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."

The Road Is Long

I will be forever grateful that my children have known all their grandparents.

They'll remember gardening with Papa and fishing with Grandpa. They'll remember Oney the Scrabble champ and Grandma's incomparable baked beans. They'll remember Papa's colorful rendition of Harvey's Hideout and Grandpa quipping "Gifts are appreciated!" every time they made a wrong move in a chess game. They'll reminisce about Grandma who rode the waves at Hilton Head and took them to the video arcade.

I never knew my grandfathers -- one died before I was born, and one died when I was very young. When my Uncle Jack hit 64 or so, he became the oldest living male Regan. The women had longevity; the men died young. We have modern medicine to thank for the fact that my children continue to build memories with these four special people they call grandparents.

The downside is suffering.

Their grandparents are aging -- facing different maladies, loss of function, cognitive and physical, and it's hard, so very, very hard. Hard on us. Hard on the patient. Hard on the caregiver.

I remember being in a support group meeting many years ago and listening to an elderly friend named Fran describe her last drive. Her sight was failing; her reflexes were compromised. It was time to turn in her keys. She spent the afternoon driving up and down her driveway for several hours. She turned off the car and gave the keys to her daughter.

I was healthy and twenty-something and struck by what a life-changing moment that was for Fran. Our neighborhood has lots of terrific qualities, but you can't walk anywhere from here -- not the store, not the church, not the bank. Fran's wings were clipped.

And this is the path our parents are now on.

God is near to the broken-hearted, and not one bit of our suffering is wasted. And so I am praying for grace -- for frail and failing parents and for their more able-bodied caregivers (who sometimes seem to carry an even greater burden).

Spoiling for a Fight

Do your kids fight over things that are not even a remote possibility? Mine do. Constantly spoiling for a fight that ain't never gonna happen.

We pull into the gas station and spy a totally cool car -- gold, sporty, souped-out.

"I call that car," Ainsley shrieks.

"No, it's mine," John interjects, "But you can have a Ferrari."

He kindly tosses her a bone, but she's not having any of it.

"I. don't. want. a. Ferrari," she says, clearly enunciating each syllable.

"You can have a Lamborghini," he generously offers.

No, no. She's having none of it.


This morning it was donuts.

"I get all the donuts," Ainsley declares, not realizing we have precisely zero donuts in our house.

"I get the whole donut store," John counters.

Ainsley's at a loss for words, so John just forges ahead. "I get the donut store plus infinity plus infinity."

Ainsley is flummoxed completely, blue eyes rolling into the back of her head. Though she can count and handle a little rudimentary addition, the concept of infinity plus infinity makes her head spin, and Tim, our resident lover of all things Math, is not here to bail her out.

The look on her face reminds me of the scene in A Christmas Story when a kid jumps immediately from Dare to Triple Dog Dare, a gross and unforgivable violation of playground etiquette.

"Well," she says in halting voice, "I get it, too. Me, too."

In a rare act of compassion, John makes no comment on her lame response
.

Fun and Games

John arrived home from an epic swim meet with a new skill: He's now an expert at Go Fish. 

For perspective, the kids are at the pool nearly six hours. If John swims four events, he spends well under four minutes actually in the water. They need a few diversions. He and his pal, Max, decided to play cards.

We had a down day today, a wonderfully slow-paced, sleep late, don't do much of anything sort of day that gave us lots of time to play cards. And the game went something like this:




Ainsley, drawing a card: Oooooh! I got an "A".

John, seizing the moment: Ainsley, do you have any aces?

Ainsley, frowning: Go! Fish!

Me, knowing where all this is headed: Sweetie, that's not how the game works.

Ainsley, wailing: I want my "A"!



There's nothing new under the sun. From the archives, I offer you this:

Let the Games Begin

I've always loved playing games. I whiled away the summers of my childhood playing endless games of Monopoly with my best friend, Susan. College evenings with Ami, Kate, and Anne were filled with Trivial Pursuit and nachos from Tijuana Bob's. It's a rare board game I don't enjoy. Vacations with my extended family are filled with hours of Scrabble interrupted by rounds of Uno and Euchre.

We just acquired a new game - The Settlers of Catan. The older boys and I sat down to play this morning.

Playing with kids brings a few challenges I don't typically find when it's my mom or my sisters battling it out. My mom doesn't usually cry when she loses, and my sisters can make the dice land in the vicinity of the board.

Not so with young kids.

We have large age gaps, so right from the start finding the right game is tough. I try to find a game not too banal (think: Candyland), but not too competitive (think: Are you Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?), and, most importantly, not too long (think: Risk).

Game chosen, we then have a few behavioral challenges to overcome.

We may or may not have a family member who can not manage to throw dice in such a manner that they actually land anywhere near the board. If the dice do happen upon the board itself, rest assured we are playing a game with dozens of tiny pieces placed in strategic locations. The dice go a flyin' and so do the pieces. Otherwise, the dice go a flyin' and land under the table, typically within Ainsley's grasp.

You know, when the dice skedaddle once or twice, it's no big deal, but, trust me, by the eleventh time, you want to shriek "Settlers of Catan, be gone!" and get a cold compress and a few Advil. We've learned to throw the dice into a plastic tub. No flying dice, no choking hazards, no pain reliever required.

Other troubles are not so easily solved.

We may or may not have a kid who can never ever remember whose turn it is. Like the flying dice, this gets old fast.

There's the kid who can't stand to lose. We have actually rehearsed good sportsmanship lines. Repeat after me: Good game, fill-in-the-blank.

Then, of course, there's edifying conversation such as the exchange between Virtuous and Kindly that took place this morning:

Virtuous: What's that smell?

Kindly: I thinks it's your face.

At such a point I begin hissing comments about kindness and civility and doing unto others. The message gets a bit murky as my patience wanes, my jaw clenches, and each word sounds like a bark.

I remember suffering through identical trials with my oldest nieces and nephews. Candyland, Life, and the mercifully short-lived, Pretty, Pretty Princess. There were tears and fits and clandestine stacking of the deck in favor of the youngest. Today these same folks are some of my favorite opponents and partners at play.

This afternoon we returned from the pool and stumbled upon those serendipitous moments when the dice didn't fly, the youngest didn't get totally creamed, the babies napped simultaneously, and we laughed and played and enjoyed the simple pleasure of each other.

When that happens, all of us are winners.

Blue Ribbons All Around

We are half way through the swim season, and I think awards are in order. The first blue ribbon goes to . . .

Me!

Faithful reader Kris said I'd get this swim meet thing down to a science, and perhaps I have. Last week were just about on time, had no mud-wrestling match with Hal (the device formerly known as Printer), lost no swim trunks, dodged no lightning en route, didn't get lost.

I hope I'm not declaring victory prematurely, but we may have arrived.

I humbly offer the keys to success:

1. Do not engage Hal.

I did not attempt to print two-sided heat sheets. I opened the documents and hit print. Eight sheets and no bad words later, the deal was done.

2. Stuff the kids before the meet.

I have begun serving nutritious frozen dinners an hour before departure. My kids still sound (and look) like they're starving, but let the record reflect that this is mere illusion coupled with rather impressive acting skills methodically honed over many years. It's a lot easier to say no to the junk if you know, for sure and for certain, that they've eaten. (Though I have to say there's something about sitting by a pool that makes you want to snack. I do packs snacks, and, believe me,  it's not all rice cakes and fruit.) Eating ahead of time at least takes the edge off.

3. Enjoy home meets.

Not that I have anything to say about this, but not having to worry about directions and parking makes it all go smoother.

4. Enjoy the second year.

I watched a neophyte Mom trying to decipher the hieroglyphics we write in black Sharpie all over our kids' arms (event, heat, lane, stroke). I realized that it's all easier the second time around. We more or less speak the language.

5. Enjoy watching the kids enjoy themselves.

Meet one from start to finish lasted just under six hours. Ainsley came up to me and said, "This was so much fun." What was "this", I wondered. She doesn't even swim. Ainsley sits around on a beach towel chatting with the other little girls. When they all began to leave, Ainsley moves over to the older girls and practices braiding hair.  And she loves every minute of it.

And now back to the awards . . . The second blue ribbon goes to . . .

Kolbe who is swimming faster and better and has a great attitude about joining this endeavor relatively late in life. He's made lots of friends at the pool. I watched a gang of boys take a swim cap and and move it back and forth so fast and hard it stretched to about two feet in diameter. Their goal was to stretch it so far they could get one of the boys inside the swim cap. Why? I couldn't tell you.  Well, the cap exploded. The boys immediately approached the lifeguard.  "Elliot," I heard them call, in voices sweet and innocent, "is there an extra swim cap anywhere?"  Apparently, they pulled this idea from You Tube which offers no end of interesting diversions while at the pool.

Watching twelve-year-old boys be twelve-year-old boys is entertaining in and of itself and reminded me of the summers we invested hours creating amazing whirlpools.

The third blue ribbon goes to . . .

Me again.

Here's the bad news: Ainsley's been blackballed from the swim team. Kindly, gently, sweetly asked to try again next year. Seems no matter what the coaches asked her to do, she tended to shake her head and politely but firmly decline to participate. She did spend quite a lot of time adjusting her goggles. Apparently that has not been shown to improve swim strokes.

But did I freak? No, I did not. For the simple reason that Ainsley is my fourth and not my first. So blue ribbon for me!

The fourth blue ribbon goes to . . .

John who has actually won four blue ribbons and a couple of other ones as well. The boy is fast. For his parents, it's basketball season all over again. We are shaking are heads wondering how this came to be. My sister has always looked at John's skin color and joked that he was switched at birth. His athletic prowess might be the most convincing evidence yet.

(And can I just admit here that it's really fun to watch your kid excel?)

The fifth and final blue ribbon goes to . . .

Tim who couldn't be  prouder of his youngest brother. "You're a shredder, John," he tells him. "A shredder!"

Shredder, I'm assuming, is a good thing? Right?

Tim is away for this part of the summer, working at a Scout camp nearby. He came home for about a day and a half and was so thrilled to see me, I nearly cried. John was happiest of all to have big brother Tim back in the house. Tim is an amazing big brother -- funny, slightly wild, always encouraging.

We're having a great summer.

Yeah, it's hot (though not as hot as it could be). Yeah, the kids say they're bored. Yeah, I've lost the streaming remote so the edifying television I had fixed in my mind has yet to happen.

It's not perfect, but it's been very, very good.

And I am grateful.

Best Fathers Ever!

Lazy Afternoons And Why Six-Year-Old Boys Rock

My friend and I recently agreed there are few more pleasant things than six-year-old boys.

They have lots of passions -- cars, Legos, money, spy stuff.

They're reasonably independent.

They're blessedly uncomplicated.

They love their Mamas.