A Call For Help

It was, by all accounts, a normal Saturday morning.  With a one year old daughter, our day started early and by the time of the “incident”, we had already logged a few hours of playtime. We lived in a relatively quiet neighborhood on a road that didn’t see much traffic outside of the surrounding residents going about their normal daily business. That said, one might understand, in the midst of this more peaceful setting, how surprised I was when I glanced out the window and saw a police car cruising down the road at a speed that clearly spoke of an emergency somewhere nearby. My surprise turned to shock as I saw the car stop right in front of our house and then make a hard left into our little driveway.  My shock turned to dumbfoundment when no more than three seconds later, this exact scene was repeated with a second police car.  I stood at the window in my bathrobe with my pj-clad husband and children happily playing behind me and flatly gave a play-by-play of what I was witnessing; the pitch of my voice steadily increasing with each moment.

When my mind caught up to my eyes and I realized these guys were getting out of their cruisers and quickly heading for our front door, for some ridiculous reason, all I could think about was that I was in my pj’s.  I ran for the bedroom to throw on sweats while shouting to my husband to answer the door.  As my now totally flustered husband opened the front door, two very different worlds crashed into one.  Joe recalls how the officer, completely unknowing of what would greet him on the other side of the door, reached for his weapon and then quickly retracted his hand and visibly breathed a sigh of relief when he was greeted by my husband’s calm and gentle smile.  By the time I donned what I felt was more appropriate attire for the unexpected raid and made it back down the hallway, we had two very imposing officers standing in our entryway.  At first glance, nothing made sense. These men didn’t belong in our calm little world.  What the heck was going on?

Reading the confusion on our faces, one of the officers quickly explained that a 911 call had been placed from our home.  And in an instant, there was clarity in the chaos.  Joe and I looked at one another and both registered at the same time that our unknowing little one year old had been playing with the phone earlier that morning.  How on earth she managed to dial 911 by total chance remains a mystery.  The officer asked why no one had answered the phone when the dispatcher called back and we sheepishly explained that we assumed a call that early on a Saturday morning was a sales call and had ignored it.  Worried the officers might not be convinced of our plea of innocence, Joe offered them the opportunity to walk through the house and to come and meet our pint-sized culprit. They declined the offer, feeling comfortable with our explanation, and left as quickly as they came.

When the officers first reached our home that morning, they were working with very limited knowledge and had every right to assume they might be met with some sort of criminal scene within the walls of our small grey ranch.  Their understanding of the family behind the door was encased in this mistaken call for help and was, for all intents and purposes, drastically at odds with reality.  Fortunately, it didn’t take long for the misunderstanding to be sorted out or for their keen judge of character to rule out any need to investigate things further.

Reliving the events of that morning has brought me a new understanding of the current chaos that has recently enveloped this country and has everyone wondering if there is hope for stability and peace within our present political environment.  No worries; I realize I said the word political, but I can assure you my words are not an attempt at arguing sides or enforcing any personal agenda.  Quite the opposite, I myself am drowning in the division and negativity and am making a plea, simple in nature and complex in action, to refocus our judgement of character, hone our investigative skills and take our hands off our weapons.

To put it entirely too simply, none of us deserves to be judged, condemned or upheld solely on the basis of what box we filled in on voting day.  Rights and beliefs are a tricky thing.  Alone they mean nothing; they are like a puppet without a puppeteer.  Only when rights and beliefs are attached to a person, do they come alive with meaning.  And it’s at that moment that things get interesting, and entirely complex, for each and every person is made of diverse experiences, hopes, tragedies, successes and privileges.  Thinking in those terms, it starts to become clear that it is impossible and grossly unfair to judge someone without all the information that surrounds their individual understanding of this world.

Perhaps even more confusing is the division the election results has caused between friends and families.  These are people working with all the information and still their reactions are as if they no longer know the person behind the vote-the stance-the grip on whatever right they are holding strong to.  The only winner in the midst of this division is the devil himself.  While there is much yet to be revealed, I remain confident that God has this under control.  Yet, we, His sons and daughters remain His hands and feet, eyes and ears.  If we remain staunch in our resentment, paralyzed in our fear or resolute in our self-righteousness, He can’t work, plain and simple.

It’s a lesson I’m trying to absorb myself and my success in doing so has recently been tested. Several weeks ago I was driving to the store and was astounded to see a large billboard with a pro-life message.  Never have I seen anything like this in New England.  There was a large picture of two hands cradling a beautiful baby and the message read, “Cherish Life”.  I was thrilled to see this positive, gentle message and immediately wondered how long it would last before it was met with some sort of vandalism.  It didn’t take long.  The following week when I drove by I could tell someone had taken dirt and snow and thrown it at the billboard, doing a good job of tarnishing it.  It was only about a week or so later that I drove by and it was covered completely with large, black plastic sheeting. And that is how it now remains.

I’m not mad or resentful of this act of vandalism as much as I am just plain saddened by it. The person, or persons, who destroyed the billboard have no idea who I even am and most likely don’t care about my beliefs or my right to uphold the message written across the board.  They might be interested to know that I have the very same message tattooed across the back of my neck in honor and remembrance of my own three souls lost in miscarriage.  I bet if they were willing to listen to my story, they just might understand why I wish that billboard was still visible.  On the flip side, if I had the opportunity to listen to their story and get a glimpse into their life, their struggles, their fears, I just might understand what drove them to do what they did.

“Love your enemies.  Do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you.  Do to others as you would have them do to you.” Luke 6:27-28, 31

It’s a tall order, for sure, but it’s time we all revisited the truth in these commands and remember the power of the prayer that can take us there.  God created each one of us uniquely for a reason. We aren’t meant to travel this world as robots, all co-existing among one another like nothing really matters.  Rather, we’ve all been given gifts through our own personal experiences that are meant to be shared, meant to be used to calm the fearful heart of a friend, gently whittle away the distrust and resentment that is unjustly attributed to the stranger among us and hopefully, bring us all closer to those sons and daughters God is proud to call His own.

While this country of ours will forever be wrapped in the beauty of the stars and stripes, we would all do good to remember that we are also wrapped in the arms of God.  We are nothing less than privileged to journey this life “under God” and through Him have the strength and wisdom to remain “indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”

That Which Is Unexpected

When Noah let out a scream, he surprised us all.  He was standing in our backyard at the top of a small hill; no one was around him, he hadn’t fallen, all seemed normal in his immediate environment.  “I’ve been shot!”, he shouted.  And the rest of us unknowing loiterers wondered what on earth he was talking about.  I mean, sure, he was standing about fifteen paces away from his grandfather, and his grandfather did happen to be shooting the boys bb gun at the time, but the possibility of those two facts adding up was nil to void…right? I mean, the target at which my father was shooting was a good 30 feet in front of him and Noah was standing behind my father, uphill from him no less.  What are the chances that the bb could have reached Noah?    

I ran over to my little guy (8 at the time) to try to calm him and realized when he lifted his shirt to reveal a perfectly bb-sized red mark on his stomach that he had in fact been shot.  Against all odds, the bb ricocheted off the intended target and made its way uphill and into the stomach of Mr innocent bystander standing off to what he thought was safety.  Myself, his older brother, my mother and my father-turned-assailant, albeit unintentional, were simply shocked.  While trying to process the inevitability of the situation, each one of us was slowly overcome with laughter and spent the next several minutes floundering between comforting this sweet child of mine and allowing the audacity of the scene to take hold.   

Noah Johnson Original

One might call this happenstance unbelievable, crazy or, at the very least, unexpected.  I certainly didn’t wake up that morning considering the possibility that my little guy would be hit with a bb.  For anyone with small children in school, you might have a renewed understanding of the word, “unexpected.”  Among the other trendy, re-purposed vocabulary used these days by teachers and therapists, I find the word unexpected attached to the more unfavorable behavior exhibited by students.  It has replaced more commonly accepted words like, bad, naughty, annoying or just plain not ok.  It limits the word to that which creates a poor or bad outcome.  For example, one day at speech therapy, Mary walked over and turned off the lights.  Her therapist calmly said, “Mary, that was unexpected!”  I didn’t feel like she had the same effect that I did when I ran over to her, grabbed her hand away from the light and shouted, “No!”, but I digress; to each his own.

Amid these meandering ponderings, I do believe I have stumbled upon a point.  When at the start of a new year, I always find myself struggling with the unknown.  My anxiety bubbles up a bit and I become overwhelmed with the immense possibilities that lay before me in the next 365 day period.  What will the year be like?  How can I best prepare for what lies ahead?  Will any of my children be accidentally shot with a bb gun by their loving grandfather?

What I wouldn’t do for a blue print, a detailed memo, a 2017 calendar that clearly outlined each day-anything to help me plan, prepare, be ready for whatever it is I need to be ready for.  If I am to be brutally honest with myself, the truth is, I am frightened of the unexpected.  Further thought leads me to realize that the unexpected is something that lives in the future, so it must be the future that I am fearful of.  And what does God say about the future?  In essence,  He tells me it doesn’t belong to me.  In fact, He tells us that He can’t be with us in the past or the future, only in the here and now, for the present is all that is promised us.  So why is it so hard for me to truly be in the  present?  Again, it brings me back to my fear of the unexpected that could be coming around the corner at any moment.  It’s a bit of a vicious cycle, but the moment I see God in the midst of all of it, life makes sense again.  And that is my quest for 2017; to be present, to pray for comfort in the unexpected, to accept it for what it is and to always find God in the moment.  

Of course the “unexpected” has a big range.  It can be the coffee cup that spills all over the counter or the child that calls from school needing stitches after an accident in science lab.  It can be the child throwing up in the car three minutes into a five-hour ride or news of a serious sickness of a family member.  The unexpected can have personal implications or global implications.  

On the flip side, despite the negativity now associated with the word, the unexpected can also be happy and joyous; a phone call from a friend you haven’t connected with in a while or a beautiful ring your husband hid in what you thought was a simple new coffee mug.  It could be test results showing all is well or the simple compliment that takes you by surprise.  

Good or bad, big or small, the “unexpected” is exactly that.  It is nothing we can plan for, nothing we can control. I often think about my efforts to control life in comparison to the way I pack for a trip.  You’ll find me the week before any trip in the travel-size aisle tossing items into my cart that are sure to solve any and all problems, or “unexpecteds”, that may arise.  Dry skin?  Got the cream.  Upset stomach?  Got the Pepto.  Not near a sink?  Got the Purell.  Hangnail?  A travel pair of nail clippers makes perfect sense.  Of course I don’t normally use any of it, but the peace of mind I feel in being prepared is worth every penny.

While you may not be able to buy it in the travel-size aisle, there is a tried and true remedy for every unexpected that life may bring.  By finding God in all the questions, we can be free to hand all the fear that surrounds the unknown over to the One that has it all under control.  And the beautiful thing is we also open ourselves up to receiving all the good and wonderful “unexpected” that God has planned for us.  Without that trust, without that friendship, we never know what we are missing out on.  With that trust and with that friendship we can be sure the “unexpected” will be defined in His terms and not by our own humanly imperfect reactions.

It’s a lesson I have to learn over and over again.  I give up control and hand over my fear, then slowly find myself trying to regain control and end up wondering why on earth I’m feeling so frightened and anxious.  If I happen to master this goal of mine for even a few days this year, I’ll be happy.  I’m a constant work-in-progress and I’m forever grateful that God remains patient and understanding.

Funny enough, an “unexpected” has been taking place over the past week as I’ve been struggling to finish this post.  My imperfect plan was to be done last Friday.  I thought, for the most part, my writing was complete.  I fully expected to spend a bit more time wrapping things up and be ready to post for Friday morning.  Try as I might however, I just couldn’t seem to bring all my thoughts together into what I felt was an appropriate conclusion.  Something was missing but I couldn’t figure out what so, quite unexpectedly, my own plan fell apart and I resigned myself to the fact that God had more to say and I needed to be patient and listen (never an easy thing for me).

Just yesterday I was listening to one of my new favorite Christian singers by the name of Francesca Battistelli.  I’ve enjoyed her album many times before, but yesterday one song, or more specifically, one phrase stuck out to me.  The song is titled, “Find Rest”.  The particular line that really caught my attention is, “nothing catches Him by surprise”.  “That’s it”, I thought.  That’s what I’ve been missing.  I love it.  Such a simple truth and one that I hope to absorb as the year goes on.  There is nothing “unexpected” in God’s eyes.  He knows it all, plans for it all and has got it all under control.  And in that truth we can all find rest.  I get it God, thank you.  2017, let’s do this…

Angels Among Us

How I would have loved a seat at our neighbor’s house, a window seat that is; the perfect viewing opportunity for the unorthodox scene that played out in our side yard at approximately 5:00 am that morning.  The cast of characters was but a few; a mom and her daughter.  The scene was set upon the early morning sunrise, just light enough for any prying eyes to wonder what on earth was unfolding in their normally conservative neighborhood.  The temperature was a frigid 26 degrees, accompanied by an unforgiving wind.  The ground was perfectly covered by a thin layer of snow, hiding a thick layer of slippery leaves beneath.  

Enter stage left a smiling, jubilant, feisty six-year old little lady.  She is running full speed across the yard, with no particular destination in mind, just the simple goal of remaining out of reach of her mother.  Ah, the mother.  That would be me, the lady clad in pj bottoms, a pink bathrobe and her son’s red soccer flats, thrown on in haste as I realized my pleas to my daughter to come inside were futile.  Once again I found myself in this all-too familiar place, lodged between the horror of what was unfolding in front of me and the hilarity of what was unfolding in front of me.  In one breath I was yelling for her to stop, in the next I was breaking into laughter, unable to deny the humor in the situation.

My day had begun at 3:00 am that morning.  Mary had decided she was done sleeping and promptly launched into her torture routine of singing loudly, jumping on the bed, swating at my face and whatever else she could think of to secure a first-class ticket downstairs to her favorite movie-viewing spot.  Upon making our way to the couch, I glanced out the front door and saw we had our first real snowfall of the season.  I was thankful my sidekick didn’t notice.  As excited as I was for her most ardent wish to have come true, I was in no mood to celebrate at three in the morning.

Fast forward a few hours and I granted my daughter permission to go upstairs to “snuggle with daddy”, as she requested.  I listened to her little feet pitter-patter away and then stop short of the stairs.  “Oh no”, I thought.  “She saw.”  No sooner had the thought run through my mind when her screams of joy rang through the house.  “Mama!  Snow!  Mama, look! Snow!”  And then she was off, running upstairs to spread the news to her dad and brothers.

I managed a few more minutes of rest before my husband made his way downstairs, all the while trying to explain to Mary that it was too early and too cold to go out and enjoy the snow.  Her excitement (and unbelievably stubborn will) prevented any acceptance of reason, and before we knew it, she was headed down to the mud room to get herself ready for some winter fun.  We both knew it would take her some time to dress on her own and decided to benefit from the opportunity to have a few moments to sit and rest our eyes.  Over the next several minutes we heard significant grunting as she talked her way through the donning of her hat and boots, snow pants and mittens.  We heard the door to the garage squeak open and ran downstairs to find this….


While this picture may not do the following statement justice, this girl is so smart.  She knew she couldn’t get her footy-pj’ed feet into her boots, so the pj’s had to come off.  It took some effort, but we finally convinced her to let us get her fully dressed before she headed outside.  I offered what I thought was a fair compromise by telling her she could go out and enjoy the snow but had to stay on the back deck where I could watch her from the kitchen.  It was, after all, dark out, 26 degrees and windy and shortly after 5am in the morning.  One would think this offer would have been sufficient.  It worked for a while and then, sure enough, she migrated slowly over to the top stair and was just about to head down when I opened the door and reminded her she was to stay on the deck.  After a few more minutes of obedience, the same scene repeated again and, much to my surprise, she listened for a second time and chose to honor my request.  It was the third time when things simply became too much for her.  The draw to the rest of the snow just down the stairs of the deck was something she could no longer refuse.  Off she went and off I reluctantly followed.  


Fortunately for me, once I finally caught up to my speedster, she gave in fairly easily and allowed me to escort her inside.  I got her wet clothes off, snuggled her up on the couch and went to pour a second cup of coffee in a desperate attempt to regroup and pull my scattered self together.  The intensity of this child is a continual lesson in both patience and wonderment.  The pure joy she finds in the simplest of pleasures is a perfect reminder that this is how life was always meant to be lived.  She is like a little flashing beacon, demanding we stop, look, and absorb the magnificence of what is around us.  In her own unique way, this little girl is setting our world right as she cherishes the gift of our first snowfall.

Warm coffee cup in hand,  I walked back over to the door looking out onto the deck and thanked God for His gentle reminders of all we have to be grateful for, not the least of which are the angels among us.

img_1135Happy Thanksgiving.

A Cherished Life

I can assure you this was not a rash decision; nor was it a result of intoxication (although in retrospect my nerves would have appreciated a quick stop at the bar).  It was actually a well-thought-out, daily pondered, prayerful, all-angles-considered kind of decision that has now been almost three months in the making.

The idea was triggered by a simple article I read this past summer about a woman who had lost a child to miscarriage.  I found the way she memorialized her baby to be beautiful. The article stuck with me for several days and I soon found myself taken-transfixed-obsessed with the thought of doing the same.

My first hurdle to clear was gaining my husband’s blessing.  I wanted more than his approval; I wanted to feel confident that he thought this was a good idea.  In all honesty, I figured he would laugh and tell me I was crazy.  He didn’t.  Much to my surprise, he actually liked the idea.  I was both excited and suddenly nervous, realizing that this idea I fully expected to be dismissed might actually come to fruition.

After realizing my husband would back me on this decision, I ran the idea by my kids to be sure my going ahead with this wouldn’t change their opinion of me.  Again, the idea was met with surprising approval.  Outside of my husband and children, I didn’t tell other family and friends what I was considering.  That, in itself, is very unusual for me, as I’m typically the one seeking the approval of others.  This decision however, felt more personal than most and if the idea was to be shot down by anyone, I wanted it to be between me and God.  

After weeks of careful research and several more waiting for my appointment, it’s time to reveal one of the very last things anyone who knows me would expect me to do.


I know.  Nutty, huh?  But, if I’ve learned anything in life, it’s that sometimes the most beautiful things are found in that which is unexpected.  Allow me to explain the meaning wrapped in this image.  The three birds represent the three little souls we have lost to miscarriage.  Birds are often viewed as a symbol of freedom, their ability to fly an escape from any earthly boundaries.  Some look at these fragile creatures as a link of sorts between Heaven and earth.  When spoken of in the bible, birds are used as clear examples of God’s protection and providence.  Although the pain was very real during the loss of each one of these precious souls, God was present and His healing abundant.  

To me, the tree is a constant sign of life; that which always holds the promise of rebirth.  It is the representation of God, the very foundation that holds us up when we feel like crumbling under the weight of our sadness.  It is a place of rest for the bird, a place to make their home-much like the heart of God is for us.  The branches symbolize the many twists and turns our lives can take, everything leading back to the main foundation; both influencing the other-the foundation of who we are influencing our reaction to the different paths and the twists and turns influencing and strengthening the foundation of who we are. I wouldn’t be the same person I am today were it not for living through our three miscarriages.

My choice of placement is a reminder that these babies of mine are always behind me; looking over my shoulder as I make my way through life.  The words are a reminder that life is extremely fragile and should-needs-demands to be cherished.

The tattoo isn’t meant to be sad and it’s certainly not intended to invoke any sort of pity. I’m still trying to work out exactly what feelings are behind it.  I guess the best way to describe it is that I’ve been searching for a way to identify with these little beings that I carried and love to this day, but never got to hold-never got to watch grow.  I’m at a point in my life where I’m watching my three earthly children grow at a rate my mind and heart can barely absorb and I’m finding myself stepping back and realizing that, at forty-one years of age, more children are most likely not in God’s plan for us.  We are the family we are meant to be and I love it; I’m more grateful that I have words for.  There is this piece of me however, that simply wants to live the truth that this mama’s heart is made up of six children.

There’s a fascinating study that has found that “the cells from a developing fetus cross the placenta allowing the baby’s DNA to become part of the mother’s body.  These fetal cells persist in a woman’s body into her old age.  This is true even if the baby she carried didn’t live to be born.  The cells of that child stay with her, resonating in ways that mothers have known intuitively throughout time.”  The study goes on to say that “fetal cells a child contributes to the mother may be found in her blood, bone marrow, skin, kidney and liver. These fetal cells appear to “treat” her when she is ill or injured.” (http://lauragraceweldon.com/2012/06/12/mother-child-are-linked-at-the-cellular-level/) How cool is that?  The intricacy and intimacy of God’s design is nothing less than astounding.

I’ve probably given too much thought to this tattoo over the past three months.  I’ve given substantial consideration to how others will interpret the message now imprinted across my neck.  I’ve pictured myself standing in the checkout line at the grocery store with various opinions forming behind me.  

To the young  woman who is pregnant, unprepared and scared, I would tell her there’s a deep message behind the words “cherish life”.  Within those words, there’s memories of sitting beside the birth mother of our daughter as she cried tears of pain in seeing her daughter in the arms of another woman.  I’d also tell her of the healing this hero of ours has found in her choice of adoption and the many times she has looked me in the eyes and told me how happy she is to have this precious little girl in a stable, loving family; realities she just wasn’t equipped to offer at her young age.

To the couple standing behind me who recently learned of their baby’s diagnosis of Down Syndrome-or Muscular Dystrophy-or Trisomy 18, wondering how to cherish a life so fragile with so many unknowns, I’d assure them from my own personal and very privileged experience that the life they carry will bring them more joy than their hearts could imagine and teach them the very definition of life at its greatest.

To the woman or man who made the decision to have an abortion, I’d look them right in the eye and tell them that they. are. cherished.  I’d tell them of one of my dearest friends whose healing from an abortion, and resulting growth in her faith, is a true example of God’s love and mercy.  I’d take their heartbreak home with me and pray for them and for the beautiful soul lost to this earth.  And to those that have lost a child of their own to miscarriage and deeply connect to the message, I would tell them there is hope in God’s perfect plan.

It was quite a sight, me and my husband waiting patiently in the “shop”.  We sat and scanned the many option available for tattoos.  There were pictures of scantily clad women on one wall, demons on another and pictures of Jesus on yet another. We sat side-by-side, perched on the end of the green couch, wondering if people actually used the Ouija board set out on the table in front of us.  If the two of us had to hide to save our lives, this would have been the perfect place.  The question of “what are we doing here?” ran through my head more times than I can count.  I’ll look back on this memory shared with my best friend and laugh.  We’ve been through so much together and I love this man I created this family and life with more and more each day.  It’s a good life; one to cherish for sure.


Lessons From An Empty Stomach

The door had barely closed behind the doctor before my husband had his head between his knees.  We were at the orthopedist’s office to hear the results of our son’s MRI on his injured knee.  The doctor’s suspicions had been confirmed and he gently delivered the news to our fourteen year old son, just days away from starting his freshman year of high school, that he had a complete tear of his ACL, would need reconstructive surgery, and was looking at six to nine months before he would be fully recovered.  His soccer season was over before it started and the summer had just come to a screeching halt.

The doctor was nothing less than thorough; he presented a detailed explanation of the surgery, including the need to use part of our son’s hamstring to rebuild his ACL.  He used a plastic model of a knee to demonstrate how the tear of the ACL left our son’s knee “loose” and unstable.  My son seemed totally unaffected, I was somewhat fascinated with what I was hearing, my six-year-old daughter was just thrilled that she was perched up on the table right next to her big brother and my husband was, unbeknownst to the rest of us in the room, horrified.  With each word doc uttered, his stomach turned and, by the time the doctor left the room, I turned to see a white-faced man holding desperately to the hope that lowering his head below his heart would settle the nausea and light-headedness that threatened a dignified exit from the office.

Truth be told, the ability to be entirely sympathetic and compassionate escaped me and, as I dug in my purse for some crackers, I may have proclaimed, “good Lord babe, I brought you here to help me…”  While fully aware of his more sensitive stomach (is now the appropriate time to share the story of me changing the gauze in his mouth after his wisdom teeth surgery and him passing out and locking his jaw on my finger?) I have to admit I was surprised at the dire-ness of his situation.  It made a lot more sense when he explained that he hadn’t had a chance to eat lunch prior to the appointment and was trying to process everything on an empty stomach.  I’m happy to report that a quick sleeve of Ritz crackers was all he needed to make it out of the office-stomach lining and reputation still in check.

Believe it or not, there’s an analogy to be drawn here and it has to do with the hardship of living life on an empty stomach, or perhaps more appropriately,  an empty heart.  A few days after our son’s injury, I was thinking about where I was the moment he mis-landed his flip on the trampoline.  I had been out shopping with my sister that day and was probably helping her decide on the best choice for wood flooring when he fell.  If someone had run into the store at that exact moment and listed the changes that would immediately take place in our lives as a result of a freak accident, I’d probably have been the one with my head between my knees struggling to pretend it was all going to be ok. All at once, my middle son had lost his most dependable buddy and the little sister of the family couldn’t figure out why her big brother wasn’t able to play with her.  My biggest helper now required more care than he had in many years.  For a family that loves to do things together, it was suddenly impossible to find an activity that would work for everyone.  Everything felt as though it was turned upside-down.

On the drive home from the store that day, I took the quiet time in the car to fuel up, if you will, and prayed for God to speak through the doctors and be clear on what was causing the swelling and pain.  In a sense, it was me reaching for the sleeve of Ritz crackers, doing what I knew would restore my strength and help me sort through the information before me.  The difference was however, that I wasn’t starting out on an entirely empty stomach.  Turning to God in all things is second nature to me.  To me, it’s as logical as reaching for crackers when I’m hungry.  I’ve been blessed from a young age, fed with the knowledge I needed to understand that I’m never alone in this crazy thing called life.  It’s hard not to take something so familiar for granted, but every now and again I am reminded how fortunate I am to have been blessed with my faith and the knowledge that God can and will work through all things; big or small, important or seemingly trivial.  And once again I was reminded that this is a gift that so many live without, yes, sometimes by choice, but too often through no fault of their own.  Far too many people in this world are struggling to get by on an empty stomach; those that don’t think their problems are worthy of prayer and don’t understand that when you hand it all over to God, it all becomes important if for no other reason than the simple fact that He’s crazy about all. of. us.

I liken the whole idea of faith to a beautiful lake surrounded by a peaceful and scenic landscape.  Some are happy and most comfortable to sit back from the water and enjoy the view.  They appreciate the beauty of the landscape for what its worth, but sadly, they’ve never been told they are allowed to jump into the water or informed about the refreshment it could bring them.  There are those that have heard about this thing called faith and are curious enough to stand at the edge of the lake and dip their toes in but are fearful that complete immersion would require too much of a commitment and might send ripples through their lives that they simply aren’t yet prepared for.  There are those that swim with life vests and floaties, craving something more but not entirely certain that they want to be “all in”.  Then there are those that had the benefit of someone sharing the cherished secret with them, those that run unabashedly toward the water and confidently jump in trusting that the refreshment will far outweigh any sacrifice that may be required.

I truly appreciate the many ways that God has intervened in our son’s injury and I hate to think of all I would miss and the pile of undelivered “thank yous” that would result from me not realizing who is really in charge.  I see Him working in our son’s amazingly positive attitude, in the humility of our orthopedist who referred us to a doctor more familiar and skilled with this type of surgery on a child who is still growing, in the moments when my son looks at me and thanks me for taking care of him, in the ability to work with a physical therapist who is truly skilled in her work.  Life is just so much more beautiful when you are able to see it for each little gift that makes up the journey.

This has been declared the “year of Mercy” in the Catholic church.  As a result, I’ve heard many opinions on exactly what mercy is.  I’m privileged to be working with a team of women, my surrogate sisters, to plan a women’s retreat that focuses on mercy, what it means to us and how to live it in our daily lives.  What I’ve come to understand is that the definition of mercy is wide, expansive, flexible and potentially life-changing.  It is both complex and so very simple.

To me, mercy is the example set for us by Pope Francis when he washed the feet of twelve imprisoned men and women; a true and honest declaration that everyone is worthy of being met where they are at.  It is the realization that faith is never meant to be prideful or forced into the face and lives of those not yet ready to jump into the lake.  Rather, it’s waving to those on shore, gently encouraging them to take a dip and knowing when it’s time to come out and quietly sit together on the beach.


One Rockin’ Life

One.  That is the number of times I’ve seen my cousin cry.  And ironically enough, they were not tears of sadness, but tears of joy.  I’ll explain in a bit, but first I need to back up and introduce you to a young woman who has taught me much in her twenty-two years.

I was nineteen when she was born.  She’s the youngest of thirteen cousins, all of whom I spent a great deal of time with growing up.  I remember her baby years well, as missed developmental milestones evolved into concerns and then unknowns and fearful questions surrounding what her future would hold.  For a time, there was a lot of hushed talk among the adults and I remember a concerted effort to keep the doctor’s reports from reaching the ears and heart of my grandmother; fragile from living under the weight of her worried nature for so many years.  The amount of information compiled about the condition of her health seemed to parallel the growing number of prescription bottles that lined the counter during her family’s cherished visits with us.  


Once my cousin’s diagnosis of Muscular Dystrophy was clear, the growing weakness in her muscles was defiantly counteracted by an undeniable and remarkable strength in the will of her family to create the most fulfilling life she could lead.  Both her mom and dad always were, and continue to be, open and direct about her condition and the resulting physical limitations.  However, they have also always been resolute in their determination to provide any opportunity for this amazing cousin of mine to move mountains.  From ballet classes as a toddler to dancing at family weddings in her wheelchair to making Dean’s list in college, this young woman, teamed with the relentless support of her family, is truly one-of-a-kind. From day one of learning of her diagnosis, my aunt and uncle dug deep, they did their research, perfected the skills needed to care for their daughter and set forth on a journey that would show everyone around them exactly what being a parent means.


I know I speak for each member of my family in saying we have deep admiration and respect for the selfless and tireless way my aunt and uncle love and provide for their children.  Her older brother, just as much an amazing force behind her success and smiles, is now studying to be a doctor.  He will bless the field of medicine immensely, not only as a result of his knowledge and dedication, but perhaps even more from his intimate understanding of the challenges set before someone with such significant health concerns.  His compassion has been beautifully refined after years of loving and caring for his sister.

As my cousin grew, her physical strength continued to decline.  She endured major surgeries that had the potential to crush the spirit of the strongest soul out there.  But my cousin persevered and we all sat back and watched this unique force of a girl fight her way back to that smile we have all come to cherish.  Years ago, when it became necessary for my cousin to receive a tracheostomy, there was concern that she may not be able to learn how to “talk around” the tube that would help her breathe.  I remember vividly the moment we received the news that the surgery was a success and shortly after learned that she was talking again. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, that will keep this girl from sharing a good story:)  

Seventeen.  That is the number of Hunter Hayes concerts my cousin has seen.  She loves him, totally and unabashedly loves the guy; his music, his country charm, his cute face, his concerts.  A few years ago, the Make-A-Wish foundation granted my cousin her dream of attending the Grammy Awards.  It was during this fairy tale of an evening that she came face-to-face with her beloved young country star.  And this was the big moment the floodgates opened and this girl started to cry. Tears. Of. Joy.  Just last week, myself and several of our cousins got to share a piece of this joy with her when we all attended a Hunter Hayes concert together.  Front row, close enough to see Hunter sweat and marvel at the dread locks sported by his band mate.  I didn’t know a single word of his songs, it was a steamy 100 degrees in the venue and I was smooshed up against one-too-many sweaty strangers; and I got to watch my cousin smile from ear to ear from start to finish.  It was awesome.  

IMG_1013  IMG_1021

Countless.  That is the number of hearts my cousin has touched in the past twenty-two years.  There are people in this world that stand and shout and teach nothing.  Then there’s my cousin who sits and talks at a whisper and everyone stops and listens because her message is one of remarkable strength and hope and because our hearts are yearning to see God in this way.  There are those who run mile after mile, train for hours in the weight room and take pride in their bulky muscles; all in vain if one’s spirit is weak.  Then there’s my cousin who shows us all that a positive and grateful spirit will bring you further in life than the strongest legs could carry you.  We live in a world in which the definition of a valued life is becoming smaller and more misconstrued every day. Judgments swirl around us with the force and destruction of the fiercest tornado.  Then there’s this young woman with a small frame and the largest of hearts that helps us all see through the storm and realize a cherished life is defined in the way it is lived.

Thank you, my sweet cousin and cherished friend, for your example of resilience and for showing all of us just how to “rock” this gift of life.


To Build It Well

I think the exact wording was, “This step is irreversible!”  It was in bold, appropriately decorated with an exclamation point to signal the importance of the user seeing the statement before moving ahead of themselves and creating a problem that couldn’t be fixed.  Me and my dad were the users.  And we didn’t see it; at least not before it was too late.  We were putting together a new basketball hoop for my boys and were a little too excited to bring our project to completion.  We snapped two of the pieces together and then grabbed the directions, only to realize we had done exactly what they warned us not to do.  Whoops.  

Fortunately, at least in my experience of the last forty years, nothing is entirely irreversible with my dad.  He really is one of those guys that can fix anything, a bit of a superhero with his tools.  He’s messy, unpredictable, and a tad overconfident, but his determination and know-how leave little to be desired.  His style is best described as “MacGyveristic”; aptly named after my dad’s favorite show from the 80’s.  The main character, MacGyver, would get into seemingly impossible situations yet always managed to narrowly escape with the gift of his ingenuity.  My dad would be the first to fix a pair of broken glasses with a paperclip and we salvaged the use of our old tv for years by warming up the tubes in the back with a blow dryer for ten minutes or so before we wanted to watch a show (much thanks to our guardian angels for seeing us through that idea).

Three years ago, my family was blessed to move into a new home.  After spending ten years doing several refurbishing projects in a home built in the late 60’s, it’s been a true gift to concentrate on more creative ideas in a house that is already soundly built.  Me and dad have tackled many a project together; we’ve built a headboard, decorated one of our walls with shiplap, built a set of shelves from plumbing pipes and wood, replaced a window broken by an errant soccer ball and constructed four large flower boxes for our front deck. The results are beautiful and have helped to create a home out of our house.  My favorite part of these projects however, is the part that no one sees; the part that involves time with my dad all to myself, conversations that might not otherwise happen and a finished product that holds special memories.

Several years ago, during a bible study with a group of cherished friends, I was introduced to a woman who is a gifted author and speaker (by introduced I mean on YouTube). Funny enough, this woman’s name is also Nicole Johnson.  She gave a talk titled, “The Invisible Woman”, and in it taught me one of those life lessons that should have come wrapped with a bow.  Each time I am reminded of it, I find myself re-energized in my role as a parent. The lesson applies to both fathers and mothers and is one that deserves revisiting as we prepare to celebrate the men in our lives that serve the role of father.

Nicole constructed this particular lesson through the comparison of parenting to those that spent long, tedious years building the great cathedrals throughout the world. She highlighted the story of one builder in particular that was carving a beautiful and intricate bird in a corner of the ceiling.  The carving rested beneath a beam and would most likely never be seen.  When asked why he was spending so much time on something no one would see, he replied, “because God sees.”

I’m grateful that my children have a father that would have spent just as much time and put just as much effort into that bird.  And I’m blessed to say I grew up under that same kind of selfless, unassuming care.  I love that my boys have the kind of father that plays soccer in his work clothes with an empty stomach because he doesn’t want to miss the opportunity to spend time with his kids. And I’m grateful that I have a father that sees each new project I place before him as a fun opportunity, rather than just another thing to check off his list.  I love that my husband teaches me again and again how to serve, even when no one is watching and no accolades are up for grabs.  I’m thankful that when I look at my father, I see only genuine, non-judgmental love.  

The influence, the inspiration, the impact of our fathers is priceless.  The love and attention our children deserve is as intricate and unique as the bird resting beneath the beam. Nicole Johnson beautifully summarized the love of a parent in the following message from God;

“You are building a great cathedral.  It will not be finished in your lifetime and sadly,  you will never get to live there, but if you build it well, I will.”

Happy Father’s Day to my husband, father and father-in-law; three of the most skilled builders I know.

dad with shelves


A Mother’s Heart

It was a classic Mother’s Day quote and slipped right on out between my sly smile before I had the maturity to rephrase what my heart was feeling.  “It’s ok babe”, I said to my husband, “we both know this Mother’s Day won’t be anything like what it’s supposed to be.”  Snarky, I admit.  One of those stripped down, bare statements that can only be spoken between husband and wife, understood for the humor that surrounds what was simply an undeniable truth.  There was no sleeping in, no breakfast in bed, no bubble bath run for this weary mama.  My partner in crime had been working far more hours than he was sleeping lately and had mercifully gotten up with our 5:00am-er the day before.  It was my turn.  Breakfast demands were made long before anyone else of cooking age was up to fulfill them.  A bubble bath was run, but it was for my five-year-old splash queen.  She got the soak, I got to sit and wash and dress and do hair.

Husband and son were up and out of the house early for a soccer game so I was left on solo duty to entertain our energizer bunny who loses all ability to play on her own come Saturday morning.  Laundry was done, dishes were scrubbed, kids were fed and house was tidied all before 11:00 am mass.  Being that we were late, I hurried in ahead of my crew to grab some seats and enjoyed a whole cycle of breathing before my son caught up with me, leaned over and proclaimed, “Ma, Mary has to poop.”  Of course she does.  Up and out of the pew to meet my little one downstairs, her sneaky smile revealing her desire to check out the bathroom rather than actually use it.  I denied her request, scooped her up and headed back upstairs, all the while feeling a bit of pride over my more “seasoned” intuition.  

That night, after making my own Mother’s Day dinner, I sat across from my three kids and searched my brain for words that would adequately describe how enormously blessed I feel to call them my own.  “You guys made my dream of becoming a mother come true”, I said.  It sounded so trite, even silly, but I hope they got it.  I mean, how often do you get to literally hold your dream in your arms?  I’ll take the cooking, the cleaning and the never-ending laundry if it means I get to love on these strange and fragile creatures day in and day out.

I’ve been thinking lately how incredibly appropriate it is that mother’s are celebrated in the month of May.  It is a month of rebirth after all; the month that springs us forward from the old to the new, the cold to the warmth, the short days and long dark nights to long bright days.  It is the fulfillment of a promise, that which sits void of life becomes full once again and hope seems abundant.  

The moment we found out we were expecting our son, my heart was forever changed.  My life was no longer my own.  I was no longer in control of my sleeping, my eating, my level of energy.  Even more foreign to the life I once knew, all of a sudden I was no longer in control of my emotions.  They were intimately tied to this little person.  He made his entry into this world and my joy was tied to his.  If he was upset, my heart ached.  If he was happy, my heart swelled.  If he wasn’t meeting one of the important milestones at just the right time, my heart was filled with fear and when he finally started sprouting hair on his two-year old cue ball head, my heart felt the beauty of relief.  One of the very definitions of spring is, “to be resilient or elastic”.  I just love that; it describes a mother’s heart perfectly.  I never knew my heart could be stretched to such extremes and still manage to function on a semi-normal basis.  With the addition of our second son and then our daughter, my heart became all the more elastic and stretched to include and absorb all the emotions, needs and love of these new and amazing little beings.

Anyone who knows the inner workings of this Mama’s heart knows I have a deep devotion to Mother Mary (our daughter carries her name after all).  To me, she epitomizes the strength, beauty, grace and selfless commitment to this crazy thing we call mothering.  While I can’t claim to know my bible all that well, what has always stuck with me are the stories directly involving Mary and her relationship with her son Jesus.  If any mother’s heart could have been utterly destroyed by fear and resentment, it was Mary’s.  If any mother could have been entirely justified in wrapping her child in bubble wrap and keeping him locked in the house, it was Mary.  I am both captivated and amazed at the amount of resilience and elasticity found in this mother’s heart.  

One of my favorite bible verses to reflect on is found in Luke 2:19, “But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart“.  In these words, I find the secret to really loving our children, and more times than not, I find it incredibly hard to replicate.   The example of Jesus being lost for three days before finally being found in the temple is enough for me to award Mary five gold stars for her patience after finding him.  After searching for three long, fearful days, she finds her son and essentially asks him how he could have gone off on his own without any concern for them.  What she gets for a reply is comparative to one of the more snide comments we might receive from our teenagers when presenting them with an open (and what should be obvious) invitation to apologize profusely for the torment they caused us.  Once again we are told that “his mother kept all these things in her heart.”  She went through much of her role as a mother understanding very little about her son and what he would be called to do.  She trusted God and the perfect will he had laid for him and she was strong enough not to question but to accept.  Over and over again, she suffered, she feared, yet she trusted, she accepted.  Mary teaches us that the best way she could have protected her son was in her total surrender to and acceptance of God’s will.   

A mother’s heart is a beautiful thing.  The capacity for love, the strength for forgiveness, the courage to trust; every beat worth celebrating.  Next time you are standing in a room full of women living the role of mother, stop and take note of each heart and what is treasured inside, left to ponder in quiet, private moments.  Amazing to think about.  Whether we are living the role as mother to our children, have grown into the role of mothering our aging parents or invoke the role of mother through relationship with special people in our lives, our hearts are full.  We get up day after day.  We cook, we clean, we play taxi-driver; all the while carrying and pondering so much.

One 60 second glimpse into my world on the outside would show me cooking pancakes for my three kids while laughing at the silly things my daughter is doing and answering questions from my sons about the plans for the day.  60 seconds on the inside however reveals my fear that, despite my frequent warnings, my daughter will never understand that touching the stove could really hurt her.  “Why does she do that?”, I wonder.  “Why is she always vying for attention when it seems she is the center of it at all times?  How long will I have to be hyper-vigilant with this little love of mine before she finally understands what can be dangerous? By the way, why is my middle guy so quiet this morning? He seems so moody lately.  Is this what the next eight years of teenagehood are going to be like?  Am I missing something?  I wonder if everything is ok at school?  With his friends?  And why exactly does my big guy’s chest bone stick out so far?  There’s time to Google that before I need to flip the pancakes.  One site tells me this is pretty normal and the next tells me it could signify heart conditions.  Good Lord, time to call the doctor.  I’ll have to do that after breakfast.  What are we going to do today anyway?”

After all is said and done, it’s clear a mother’s heart can hold on to quite a lot.  The beauty is that we can’t hide anything from God even if we wanted to.  So, the “ponderings”, all the messy stuff we carry around in the midst of our more mundane duties, God see it all, He hears it all, and, if we let Him, He’s got it all covered.  And therein lies the beauty of letting go.

 Untitled presentation

Kindness Matters

My sister has been a teacher now for seventeen years.  If you figure an average of twenty kids in each class, that’s well over three hundred lives she has been a part of molding, guiding, and enriching.  That’s amazing stuff.  She doesn’t talk about her work often, but every now and then a funny story about her kids or an event in the classroom gives me a small glimpse into her world and the profession that has made her “that” teacher; the one who parents request when it is their child’s turn to make their way through third grade. One of her more recent lessons was titled, “Kindness Matters”.  She came up with the idea to challenge her class with the question of how and why people’s kindness to one another makes a difference in other’s lives.  

As a beginning, students were set with the task of considering some specific “groups” of people who are affected by the kindness of others.  They identified the elderly, those with physical and mental disabilities, kids living in foster care and even the animals that are sheltered down the road from their school at the SPCA.  The students’ understanding of the world was opened up through discussion of each group, what challenges those in each group may face and how the kindness and care of others can make their lives easier and more joyful.  It’s always a powerful lesson when you take the time to step back from your own life and reflect on those that carry the weight of a heavier cross.  It’s one of those lessons we all have to learn over and over again, as it is all too easy to rationalize the importance of staying focused on ourselves and concentrate on meeting our own personal needs.  We can be quick to look for fault among groups of people who are “different” and choose to remain comfortable in our judgement rather than in mercy and acceptance.

This is nothing new of course, and my sister took advantage of the opportunity to tie this seemingly simple lesson to major historical events, being careful to note how kindness strewn in and among otherwise horrific circumstances made a real difference.  They spoke of the Civil War, for example, and the inhumane treatment of men, women and children who were born with a different colored skin.  Her students were introduced to the Underground Railroad and the kind hearts of those that put their life on the line to save that of another.  

We live in a world where history continues to repeat itself; a constant battle forged between the so-called “norm” and those that fall into the category of “different”.  My hero in all of this is our most holy Pontiff, Pope Francis.  Pontiff comes from a Latin word, meaning, “bridge builder”.  How appropriate I find this title to be for this humble soul that has taught kindness from day one of his papacy and continues to challenge our divided world to come together with mercy and kindness for one another.  After all, that is the true heart of Jesus; a heart of mercy, and I adore Pope Francis for showing that heart to each and every person he encounters.

The reason I know so much about this particular lesson taught by my sister is because I was asked to be a small part of it.  Some of her students wrote up a list of questions for me about what it is like to raise a daughter with Down Syndrome.  Their questions were thought-provoking and forced me to consider specific times when another person’s kind or unkind treatment either helped or hurt our daughter.  I was asked how others look at her overall and if people are quick to accept her and her special needs.  It made me stop and think about the incredibly kind and supportive classmates Mary spends her days with in kindergarten.  The more I thought about the encouragement they consistently show her, the patience they have for her and the genuine desire to see her happy, I realized it was time for me to show a little kindness of my own and say “thank-you” for these little lives well lived.

The students in my sister’s class have moved on to a different lesson, but I have to believe the lesson on “kindness matters” is one that will stick.  I love to think of all the lives that will be positively influenced and all the hearts that will reap the reward of this newly gained wisdom and appreciation for the power of kindness.  A job well done Sis; thank you.

I’ve shared my letter to our daughter’s classmates below.  Each kindergarten class in Mary’s school is named after an animal.  Mary’s class is the Fish class, in case one might wonder why I’m referring to her classmates as “fish friends”.

Dear Fish Class,

Hello!  I’m Mrs. Johnson, Mary-Rose’s mom.  I haven’t had the chance to meet all of you face-to-face, but have caught glimpses of you during my visits to school, have had fun watching you play at your classmates’ birthday parties and have enjoyed stories shared of you from your teachers. I’ve learned something about all of you that makes me a very happy and grateful mother; you are patient and kind to Mary-Rose and I want to say, “thank-you”.

As you all know, Mary-Rose needs extra help to be able to do and learn all of the exciting things that are taught in Kindergarten.  As her mom, I was very nervous about how she would do and worried that she would be frightened by all of the new activities or feel sad because she isn’t able to speak to all of you in long, clear sentences.  It can be scary for parents to send their little girl to school knowing she might not be understood by her classmates and teachers.  

I understand now that I don’t need to worry!  I can see that Mary is surrounded by friends that are patient and kind and work hard to help Mary succeed at school.  I am so thankful for the many ways you all encourage Mary when she is nervous to try something new, the way you are all willing to wait patiently while Mary completes her tasks and the time you give to her when she is trying to speak and play with you.  

Have any of you ever seen a big group of fish swimming together in the water?  I’ve always found it amazing how they stay so close together and all move at the exact same time.  I’ve learned that the fish do this to help protect one another from other bigger fish that may want to munch on them and also to work together to find food to eat.  They work and move as a team, much like all of you do as Mrs. Sullivan’s special group of fish!

Every time you all work together to help Mary and show her kindness, it matters. The way you treat Mary makes all the difference in her enjoyment of school, her confidence to work hard to do all the things she sees her fish friends doing and to feel good about herself and all the success she is achieving in Kindergarten.  You are all a part of that success and each one of you should be celebrated for your friendships with Mary.

As you continue to grow and learn all sorts of new things, always remember that the kindness you show to others is one of the most important things you will do in life.  You are all like little super heroes that have the power to make someone’s day wonderful and happy. I thank you for doing just that for Mary-Rose.

Enjoy the rest of the year fish friends!

Love, Mary-Rose’s family


A few of Mary’s “fish friends” celebrating Mary achieving something she was very nervous to do.

Nine Lives (Minus Five)

Her name was Mittens, appropriately bestowed on her in recognition of her four little white paws that perfectly decorated her otherwise black body.  She was my roommate while I was in graduate school, my furry little companion in what was a large, drafty and often lonely apartment.  Mittens was a bit of a funny little creature and developed some strange habits during our time together.  One of these oddities was her love of jumping into the refrigerator whenever I opened it.  There was plenty of room for her to jump right in, as I was, after all, a graduate student and had little to no time to ever cook a meal.  My fridge was empty, bar a few liquids on the top shelf.  

This particular day, I must have had an unusual amount of time on my hands, as I was embarking on the lofty goal of making mashed potatoes for dinner.  That said, I’m ashamed to admit, I had to make a call home to get a walk through of the recipe(?)  I picked up the phone, dialed home, walked over to the fridge to grab something out, noticed Mittens jump in and then shut the door and proceeded to enjoy a long conversation with my parents. My boyfriend at the time (husband now) was sitting at the kitchen table engrossed in his engineering studies and suddenly wondered why he hadn’t had a visual of Mittens in the last fifteen minutes or so.  He broached the subject of her disappearance with me and I, in horror, ran over to the fridge, opened the door and out she popped.  Cue boyfriend shaking his head and rolling his eyes.  Whoops.  Nine lives, minus one.

The little fur-ball also endured a few falls and her survival of the first is proof positive that cats always land on their feet.  Mittens used to love sitting in an open window.  She would perch herself right on the sill and lean her chubby body against the screen.  I thought it rather funny one afternoon when I noticed the screen missing from one of the second floor windows.  It took me a minute to sort it out, but once I realized what it all meant, I proceeded to run through the house screaming that Mittens had fallen out the window (I never did handle stressful situations well).  Mom and I ran outside to see the screen lying on the ground, but no Mittens.  It wasn’t long before we heard her cries from far up in a tree in which she fled out of fear and shock from her ordeal.  Poor thing.  Nine lives, minus two.

The second fall wasn’t quite as terrifying, but does merit mention.  Mittens was, for the most part, an indoor cat.  I was moving around a lot at that time and was afraid she would get lost with the change in surroundings.  I did take her outside for walks, but kept her on a harness for fear of her running off.  This particular day I was letting her enjoy the fresh air out on the deck.  She had her harness on and was tied to the railing.  (I feel it necessary to mention that her harness was not a leash around her neck, but rather went around her whole body).  Curiosity got the best of her and she decided she just had to see what was on the other side.  She sauntered right off the edge of the deck and was left swinging in the air until I reached over and grabbed her.  Silly cat.   Nine lives, minus three.

The loss of her fourth life was one of those things I just didn’t think I had worry about with a cat.  I had left my water glass out on the table and Mittens jumped up and stuck her head right in.  The glass was tall and slender and her head was, well, not.  I found her flailing her furry head around in an effort to remove the glass that was suctioned around her little face. We got her out and she didn’t seem any worse for the wear.  I however, was.  Nine lives, minus four.

Ok, one last story.  At this point you may be questioning why on earth I ever decided it was a good idea to have children.  Fair enough, however there are two sides to every story and I’m standing firm in my claim that Mittens was unusually curious and not the sharpest tool in the shed.  I can’t be entirely to blame for her more unfortunate experiences.

That said, the last of my stories pairs Mitten’s lack of prudence with her wonderment of the dancing golden light on the kitchen table.  She decided to investigate and, it wasn’t until I questioned the source of the smell of burning plastic in my apartment that I rescued her from searing all of her whiskers right off.  By the time I grabbed her away from the candle, I actually saw one of her whiskers curling right up as the heat snaked its way to her little pink nose.  Seriously Mittens?  Nine lives, minus five.

There have been plenty of times in my life where I’ve failed to land on my feet, so to speak.  And curiosity definitely has its way of snaking into my life and resulting in less than intelligent decisions.  Perhaps you can relate?  There is ample opportunity to fall victim to our more selfish culture and waste away our days perched on the windowsill, content in our chosen ignorance.  It’s so tempting to choose comfort over service, entertainment over quiet time in prayer, indulgence over sacrifice, gossip over truth, opinions over understanding, self over others.  Before we know it, the screen gives way and we are falling from grace.

While we may not have the physical dexterity and finesse to survive a fall to the ground, we do have a ticket to another chance at life.  Jesus bought us that ticket when He laid down His life on the cross.  The gates of Heaven are opened to us and the promise of redemption is ours to keep.  The celebration of Easter is the celebration of new life.  It places before us the ultimate goal and reminds us what this life is all about; the falls, the suffering, the work; Jesus makes sense of all of it for us.  

No matter how many times we fall, no matter how many times we take the wrong path or our curiosity gets the better of us, Jesus is waiting to pull us up and out of whatever trouble we have landed in.  It’s amazing really.  All we have to do is open our hearts to His love, honor the guidance He provides for us and we are promised to be made new again in a life that is better than we can even dream.  

We had some fun adventures together, Mittens and me.  All in all, I humbly submit that five out of nine ain’t so bad.  

He has risen, Alleluia


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