On Sunday, I finished The Ladies Auxiliary by Tova Mirvis.  A beautifully written novel about a newcomer who moves into a small Orthodox Jewish community in Memphis, Tennessee.

For the most part, I grew up Catholic.

I was baptized in Kindergarten, attended Catholic elementary school by third grade, willfully participated in First Communion, Reconciliation, and Confirmation,  wound up earning my undergraduate degree at a Catholic university, and throughout my career have found myself employed by three separate Catholic institutions.

As a kid I’d make Jesus birthday cards to display under our Christmas Trees.  When my parents got divorced, I’d beg my Dad to take my sister and me to mass on his weekends.  I memorized all of the prayers, and many of the saints.  I prayed.  I made regular confession, even though I always sobbed my entire way through the sacrament.  I could never bring myself to tell the whole truth for fear that the priest would deem me unforgivable.  So, I’d double however many Hail Marys, Our Fathers, and Glory Bes the priest would dole out for penance, because I assumed withholding from the priest was the equivalent of hiding from God.  I usually left in knots – feeling like I had only made matters worse.

By college, I recognized that Catholic positions on women’s health and civil rights deeply contradicted my own, and stopped practicing all together.

Though, regardless of all the fear and judgment that sullied my relationship with Catholicism, to this day, whenever I walk into a church there is still a peace that immediately and completely washes over me.

The linger of incense.  The soft candlelight.  The stained glass and welcoming pews.  The books of songs and scripture with their soft pages and colorful covers.  The altar adorned with the plants of the season – and the quiet.  For me, the true gift of church is the permission – the invitation – to be still.  To let go and come back.

It took me weeks to finish The Ladies Auxiliary, because each time I opened it, it felt like going to church.  The story carries the undeniable beauty and peace of being with God, and a part of a community that is so intentional and connected.  And, with it also comes (for me) the unbearable weight of fear and judgement.

Giving myself over to this book and to a culture that I know far too little about, made me realize that (up until now), my entire relationship with religion has been one out of obligation.  I’ve done, and said, and practiced out of expectation and dictation – neither of which have anything to do with devotion.

Devotion is rooted in love, loyalty, and enthusiasm.  So where (and to whom) am I lovingly, loyally, and (authentically) enthusiastically all in?

The first place that came to mind was our family table – so, that’s where my practice and faith begins again.

For my Mom on her birthday – which was yesterday – 58 Little Love Letters:

1. I took more than 24 hours to make my way out of you and into this world. Having never experienced a single labor pain, I can only imagine how that must’ve felt – but I know, even from the way you look at me now, that the pain of that delivery wasn’t the part that lasted.
2. The doctors believed that there was something wrong.  I was too small to have been born right on time.  You told them that I was a perfect fit for the cradle of your arms.
3. I learned to talk too soon, and never stopped.  Even when I wore (and wear) you out, you’ve never told me to shut up.
4. You gave me fathers and sisters, and those relationships have shaped every other connection in my life.
5. You are the most intelligent, generous, beautiful woman in my world.
6. You taught me the weight of, “I love you,” and the resilience of, “I mean it.”
7. You laugh when I’m trying to be funny, which helps me to stop trying so hard.
8. In 3rd Grade, I got an A on my fifth book report, which meant that I was excused from writing them for the rest of the quarter.  You let me know that you were disappointed, because the A didn’t mean anything if I hadn’t actually read the book.
9. You make hard, brave choices.  You were making them on my behalf long before I understood…and the more I understand, the more grateful I become.
10. You let Lindsey and me walk to Butler’s Corner Store and spend our church money on gummy worms and candy cigarettes.
11. You wore that red sweater with the black bows and the rhinestones like an 80’s queen.
12. Same goes for the pink dress at my first communion.
13. In 1st Grade, when I shut the lights off and purposely led Lindsey into the thick, wooden arm of an old chair and gave her a black eye (I didn’t know that would happen) the night before church pictures – you made me look at the deep swelling, painful mark I put on my sister and feel the hurt of causing real damage to someone you love.  The following day you dressed us both in our Sunday best and sat as proud and lovely as could be, with both of us.
14. You took us to the beach – even on school days.
15. From Kindergarten through post-graduate degree, you’ve always come to everything.
16. You let me blame you for the divorce – you took all the anger and hurt and misery I could dish out, without ever throwing it back.
17. Even when I blamed you (and only you) – you’d put on the Fine Young Cannibals, You Drive Me Crazy, and when it was safe, steer the car slowly and dramatically from side to side – just enough to shift the energy and crack some smiles.
18. You tell the truth – even when it’s not what I want to hear.
19. No one on the planet has ever worn a red leather jacket and matching Isotoners better…including Michael Jackson.
20. When I came home upset after the first day of Kindergarten because, “everyone doesn’t like me!” You reminded me, they don’t have to.
21. You have always loved all of your girls as if each of us is your favorite.
22. When you found out that you had breast cancer you called me to help look for doctors – not because you needed my help – but because you knew that I needed to feel like I could help.
23. When I called you that day I was riddled with depression – terrified to walk into work – petrified I’d be revealed for the nobody I was – you didn’t try to fix it.  Instead you told me how you understood, completely, and I believed you – which also made it possible to hear you say that it would be okay.
24. Too many birthday dinners to record – but regardless if the request was Julia Child’s Caesar Salad or Mrs. Bud’s Chicken Pot Pie, you made it special.
25. That time when you were pregnant with Teresa – a high-risk pregnancy following multiple miscarriages – and I was 14 and told you that I was working so hard at school because I didn’t want to be stuck in this small nothing town and this stupid boring house…and all you did was hit me with a couch pillow.
26. For showing me how to dig in and work hard and know what I’m worth.
27. When the doctors had to save my baby and me with an emergency c-section and I asked you to please go with Kenny to the Newborn Intensive Care Unit (NICU) to meet our 2lb boy, and when you did, you brought your camera and brought the pictures to me in recovery and told me again and again to look and see how Briggs was absolutely perfect.
28. When Briggs still wasn’t out of the NICU, and I didn’t really know how to function outside of his hospital room, but I stopped in at the BBQ at the Cooks’ anyway and suffered an all-out panic attack and you came and cried with me outside of my car.  I said, “You don’t know what it’s like to be separated from your baby like this, so soon, for so long.”  And you said, “I know how it feels when you can’t take your baby’s pain away.  You’re still mine and I’m right here feeling all of it.”  And we cried until breathing felt good again, and I found peace in the truth that being a Mom is forever.
29. When you wouldn’t let me buy a bridesmaid’s gown for my wedding dress (I thought I wanted a colored gown, but you knew I deserved to feel like a bride.)
30. Your Chex Party Mix.  The one.  The only.  The original.  It should be a crime for anyone else to even attempt.
31. The way you you treasure, and look at, and hold on to your grandsons.
32. The way you treasure, and look at, and hold on to all of us.
33. Card games – for teaching us so many and knowing when it was time to stop letting us win.
34. For the love of reading and the peace of the library.
35. When you took Lindsey and me to Meme’s funeral – after the divorce – regardless of how awkward it could have been.
36. For teaching me that your in-laws are your parents, and loving them as such is a gift not to be passed up.
37. For being you – and showing me how to be me – even when it cramps someone else’s style.
38. For the baptisms and the house smudging.
39. When that boy not only really broke my heart, but left me broke and scared…and you wanted to destroy him…but didn’t.
40. Taking my husband as your first son.
41. Giving me my own moment with each of my new baby sisters…it was my first introduction to being a Mom.
42. Giving me permission to find my own name and my own way.
43. Hand sewing those trick-or-treat bags that were passed down through the four of us, and then on to our own kiddos.
44. Your Mom missed her chance to be your Mom – but you never let that stop you from being the best Mom to me, Lindsey, Maria, and Teresa.
45. In high school, when I told you that I needed a mental health day, you always granted me one.
46. Oh my goodness – your skin.  Thanks for passing that down to me. 🙂
47. Never giving me any shit about my cheap, questionable tattoo.
48. For being everyone’s rock when it was Papa’s time to go.
49. Always encouraging me to write.
50. Your embrace continues to convince my entire being that all is well.  Regardless.
51. You make me feel smart – even when I do dumb things.
52. I treated your house like my own personal dumping grounds for decades and you still never kicked me out.
53. The Cabbage Patch, Bert and Ernie, My Little Pony, Barney, and every other single cake and pie you’ve ever baked to celebrate the births of your babies.
54. The entire 18 months when you lovingly volunteered your ONLY day off of the entire week to be with Briggs – providing me the chance to return to work, even though Briggs wasn’t yet healthy enough to go to daycare.
55. For coming to my plays and reading my stuff…especially when no one else cares to.
56. That lift in your voice when I call – it reminds me that I’m enough.
57. For being not only my Mom, or our Mom, but a Mom in our world who genuinely loves and cares for every child who comes your way.
58.  Thank you for being you – you’re the only one here who can and we need you.

I’m traveling for business this weekend, and Briggs spiked a fever Thursday night.

I kept him out of school yesterday.  He watched TV.  And drank Gatorade.  Napped.  Then we took a trip to visit Pup and take a bath (our house only has a big shower, which actually works for us, except when one of us has a sudden need to lay all the way down in water).

After Briggs was washed over and dried off, and had his fill of apple juice and Oreos, we headed back home.  At a stop light, I got lost in the rearview.

It was just too much.  This beautiful clean boy, strapped in the backseat with one of his trusty “silks” draped over him.  Silk stopped taking car rides awhile back, but B was sick, and truth: I grabbed it without him even asking.

I smiled – wide – and said, “Oh, Bubba, I’m going to miss you this weekend.”

“I’ll miss you too, Mumma.  But don’t worry, Dad will be here to take care of me.  Someone always will.”

So far, my best Mom moments have come amidst my mess.  Amidst sickness, and stress, and deadlines, and distractions.  They’ve arrived under the most unlikely and unceremonious of circumstances…like the back of a Subaru littered with extra tee-ball uniforms, mostly empty water bottles, and stale abandoned gummy bears.

Our son is certain that he is loved.  That he is love.

All is well.

Today, I attended a leadership workshop with ten people that I had never met until this morning.  At one point in the day we were paired off to complete an exercise called, “River of Life.”

The first part of the exercise afforded each of us some alone time to sketch out our “rivers,” and identify key crossings and choppy waters along the way.  I’m an epic doodler and they had scented markers, so, I was in.

After twenty minutes we paired off for part two: traveling down someone else’s River of Life for 15 minutes, and then taking that same time to bring that same someone else down (up, or through) our own.

The point of the exercise is to strengthen listening and presence.  When you’re the passenger moving along someone else’s river, you’re not allowed to take notes – and aside from the time actually spent drawing, there’s zero prep-time for mapping out your own navigation.

For me, it was a fascinating trip.

I indulged in listening.  Really listening.  Not worrying about my new all-natural deodorant failing, or time passing, or even getting this exercise right…just listening.

And this is what I heard:

We all have the time to get to know each other.  Really, it takes no more than 15 minutes.

We all have stories worth sharing.  Smooth sailing is a myth.

We’re all navigators and passengers.  All lost and all found.

And then, quite literally I heard what was hardest to hear:

Amanda, I’ve just shared more with you in less than twenty minutes, than I have with most people…ever.  You can access your empathy and vulnerability in a way most people can’t.  It’s like you make safe places, (snaps) instantly.  I think you should have a podcast, or a book, or both – I can tell you, I’m already a fan.

I fought every urge to look away.  Compliments – especially when delivered with such sincerity – are difficult for me to accept.  I know how to process critiques and take-in feedback, but graciously hearing, and receiving, and believing such kindness…that still feels awkward.

Hell, having the gall to record this exchange feels awkward.

But, awkward is real – and if the reward for feeling it is to be put in a position to share, and say, and hear more of the good stuff, more often…then, I am fully (and awkwardly) really all in.

(P.S. Full disclosure I did sniff all of the markers)   

A few months ago I came across some journals from high school.

They are painful to read.

In one of the more painful entries I recount an interaction between a boy I had a big crush on, his ex-girlfiend, and me.

I don’t go into detail – but apparently there was some kind of evening event (maybe a game, or dance – who knows, the entry assures that I’ll never forget, but I have) – either way, I apparently found myself standing next to the object of my affection, and he (as reported by me: “in good fun”) used his fist to knock on the top of my head and ask if anyone was home.  Many of the cool kids witnessed the knocking.  Lots of them laughed.

I noted that it kind of hurt, but the whole ordeal actually wanted to make me cry for other reasons.  Later on, when whatever not-so-memorable event was ending, I wound up standing in the school parking lot, next to his ex.  That’s when he suddenly felt the urge to ask if he could talk to “just me.”

He apologized. I told him it was no big deal, and then asked if he had another piece of gum.

He didn’t…but he did take the piece he was already chewing out of his mouth, rip it apart, and give me half…And.  I.  Fucking.  Melted.

It’s the closest I would ever get to swapping spit with him.

Nearly everything about this entry makes me feel bad.  It’s poorly written.  It’s so (so, so, so) obvious…and my expectations couldn’t be lower – I mean, I’m pumped about a piece of ABC Juicy Fruit.

BUT – and I think it may be a big BUT – at least I had the guts to record it.  And the recording may be all I’ve got…but it’s something.

Yesterday, when I picked Briggs up from school there were two things he wanted to talk about:

1. His March Madness picks
2. Oliver’s birthday

“Mom, do we have plans for March 25?” he asked, from the backseat as we pulled into our driveway.

“Ah, yeah,” I said, “you’re doing your comedy routine in the town talent show.”

“I know, but what about after the show?”

“I haven’t gotten that far, why?”

“It’s Oliver’s birthday.  He’s going to be six, just like I’m going to be six on June 29, but he’s having his sixth birthday on March 25.”

He loves numbers so much.

“Okay, Bub,” I say, as I shut off the car and we start to make our way in the house.  “I’ll look at the invitation and see what time the party starts and we’ll go from there.”

“He didn’t give me an invitation.”

“Oh.”

“But, Oliver said I could still come.  I need to get him a present.”

As Briggs takes off his coat and backpack, I start mentally unpacking a zillion different scenarios.

It’s extremely plausible that Oliver is having a family party, with no invitations and no kiddos from school, and Briggs has inserted himself into a private, quiet celebration.  It’s equally as plausible that there are kiddos coming, and Briggs may not be one of them.  Also, so far this year all of the birthday invites have come via email, and I’m a bit panicked that I’ve missed something.

Regardless, Briggs is stuck on getting Oliver a present.

“Mom, even if I can’t make the party, we could just ship Oliver’s present to him.  The box will probably fit in the mail.  I have to get him something.”

I decided to ask Briggs to play back the conversation with Oliver a few more times.  I’m sleuthing.

“Tell me again, where were you when Oliver mentioned his birthday?”

“Morning meeting.”

Okay, that means in front of the teacher and all of the kids – this likely wasn’t an invite, but rather an announcement.  Definitely leaning toward family party.

“Did he have a handful of envelopes?”

“Nope.”

No invites handed out at school – cool – this is a reminder to search my gmail.

“Why do you “have” to get him a present?”

“He’s my friend.”

In the words of Love Actually, “enough, enough know.”

Truth is, I wanted to know why Briggs was so stuck on getting Oliver a present, if Oliver had quite possibly not even invited Briggs to his party. But that’s weak.

Because it’s not about doing unto other as they do unto you.  And, it really can’t be about about compromising your act of love, or friendship, or gratitude based on someone else’s behaviors or conditions.

Strength is accepting the invitation to do right by you – even when that means opening yourself up to feeling uncomfortable, or awkward, or vulnerable, or excluded, or defeated.

And I’m grateful for the reminder, that what I actually want to be, is stronger.

Maybe I’ve shared this before:

Sophomore year of high school, I was in the school play. At the time, I was likely also simultaneously involved with three to five other extracurricular activities.  The only thing that scared me more than not getting into college was not earning enough scholarships to pay for it.  So, I attempted to do everything.  Being over-scheduled, over-stressed, and over-anxious caused me to over sleep the day of our Saturday matinee.

I ended up racing to the theater in a pair of old sweatpants and a tee shirt.  And nothing else.

My character required multiple wardrobe changes and in one scene I had to wear this floor length dress (that was just slightly too big for me) with slits up both sides.  It was during a scene – in that slightly too big, slit up the sides dress – that a fellow co-star innocently pulled a chair out from under me.  I ended up bare bummed on the stage, with my legs, just for a moment looking like a V.

God help the two freshmen boys that were sitting in the front row.

Regardless (over the seemingly never-ending laughter of the entire small town), I delivered my lines.  The show went on.  I desperately wanted to skip school the following Monday, but I was too nervous to even ask my Mom.  To school I went.  The show went on.

This morning, as I watched what happened at the near end of the Oscars, I started thinking that maybe it’s the rigidity of the whole MUST go on thing, that trip us up so badly.

Watch the footage from last night’s live broadcast.  It’s obvious from the moment Warren Beatty opens the red envelope that he’s very, very confused.  But, instead of admitting it – breaking the fourth wall, and saying: I’m confused – he quickly hands the problem off to his co-presenter, Faye Dunaway.  And she immediately jumps into “fix it,” mode.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yXJMvKW8k1g

Let me be clear: I’m not judging Warren or Faye.  Even with only about a decade of live radio and television experience on my CV, I’m quite aware of the intense pressure to make the wheels falling off look like it’s all a part of the plan.  Pros can roll.  It’s what they do…but, maybe (no matter our status, professional or amateur) we shouldn’t lose touch of when it’s okay (perfectly and lovingly okay) to stop.

At 15, if I had enough confidence to just stop freaking out and simply tell the all-mighty Director of the Conant High School presentation of Our Miss Brooks that I absolutely had to get something from home before going on stage, he likely would’ve rolled his eyes…before delaying the curtain by 10-minutes.  Sure that chair still probably would’ve been pulled out from under me…but my private parts, would’ve remained…well, private.

And, my guess is that if Warren had read the contents of that envelope, and instead of just acting confused, actually admitted to being so by saying something like: “I’m confused.  Something’s not right.  We need some help, here.”  Help would’ve come running.  Don’t get me wrong; a scene still would’ve ensued, but maybe not one that included announcing the wrong winner so publicly.

Look, we’re human.

So, we will continue to make mistakes in front of the whole school, and the whole town, and the whole world wide web…and in addition to honing our kindness and forgiveness, maybe we can also learn how to be okay when we break the rules and ask for what we really need to make whatever we have going on – go just a little bit better.

My sister, Lindsey and her husband, Lukasz sauntered into their wedding reception over the hopeful cords of Florence and the Machine’s, Dog Days Are Over.

The same song just popped on the Mumford and Son’s Pandora station as I was waiting for my coffee at Starbucks with my ear buds still in.

Lindsey and Lukasz’s wedding was beautiful.  Their reception was a LOT of fun.  But, their DJ (who is a dear friend to Ken and me) got a bit confused during the introductions, and so that part got pretty messed up.

Nevertheless, we danced.

Cause as the song goes:

Happiness hit her like a bullet in the back / Struck from a great height / By someone who should know better than that.

The dog days are over / The dog days are done / Can you hear the horses / ‘Cause here they come.

I don’t always feel prepared when things hit, and I can rip into myself pretty badly for my lack of preparation and prevention.

When I suddenly accept that I’m carrying 20 pounds that my body hasn’t held on to since I was pregnant…but I’m not pregnant.  When my child is so committed to his protest against teeth brushing that he makes himself puke…and my first thought is, “you can sleep in those pukey pajamas.”  (Disclaimer: I did actually help him into clean PJs, but I wasn’t too lovey about it.)  When I drop a ball or worse, forget to pick one up that I’ve already called dibs on.

When this stuff hits I rip and rage, and have a tendency to hold on to the wreckage by replaying my mistakes and misgivings ad nauseum.

But, it wasn’t until Dog Days came on this morning that I even ever paid a second to thinking about what I do – how I react – when out of nowhere, happiness hits.  When I’m afforded the joy of good memories, and reminders of everlasting connections, and the freedom to move, and change, and laugh, and be.

And, so right here in this Starbucks in Brighton – with no one hearing the music, but me – I danced, and people smiled, and the dog days of lamenting and obsessing were over and the work of finding our joy was back in full motion.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jnY6oz24K8E

Every summer Ken and I talk about buying a snowblower, but we only ever talk about it.

Since 2007, (the year we bought our home) we’ve stayed faithful to our shovels.

We have a horseshoe driveway that’s big enough to hold 10 cars, so a full removal (plus the clearing of two cars) is a good two-person, hour-long workout.

Especially when it’s snowman snow.  The heavy packing kind.

Yesterday, Ken and I got in two workouts.

The first was late in the afternoon – a full family shovel with our son moving Tonka Truckloads of the white stuff from one side of the yard to the other.  The second was closer to bedtime, with Briggs warm and happy on the couch watching America’s Funniest Home Videos, and Ken and I again working our way down separate sides of the cold covered drive.

The temperature was just slightly above freezing, so technically it wasn’t snowing but it was doing more than raining, and I had on too many layers, so I was sweating.

By the time I reached the end (which is in fact the beginning) of my side – where the plows had been driving and pushing piles for hours – I was soaked from the inside out.  My arms were junk.  I looked around and noticed that Ken and I were the only shovelers on the street.

A pickup with a plow passed by and I thought:

Man, wouldn’t it be awesome if he saw me here at the hardest part and just decided to clear it for me?

Then I dug in.  Cleared just one full, heavy shovel load and kept thinking:

Really, if I wanted to, I could knock on either of our neighbors’ doors and they’d let us use their snowblowers.   And, if we really needed someone to come plow us out that could happen, too, but we’re already here…now…with shovels.

Then, I cleared one more full, heavy shovel load.  Then another.  And another.  And I heard Ken doing the same on the other side.

And suddenly, I wasn’t so focused on how to make this job any easier or quicker.  I simply gave in to the gratitude for having everything we needed to get the job done, together.

My Pepe died yesterday.

And, I’m sad and it’s complicated because my father’s father and I didn’t really know each other – and still, it’s undeniable that the gift of me, and my sister, and our sons are forever a part of the gift of him.

About a year and a half ago, on the second floor of our home, I assembled a humble alter.  A sacred everyday place to center and connect, and be reminded of the lasting presence of loved ones who’ve passed.

After putting my son to bed last night, I passed my alter and saw the picture of Meme. Pepe’s mother, Ada.  I cried.  Pepe came into this world as Ada’s boy.  Just as Briggs came in as mine and Kenny’s.

I lit the candle next to her picture and whispered:

For your son.

Then, as Briggs slept and the candle burned, I joined Ken outside to help clear out the near foot of snow that had accumulated in our drive, and on our cars throughout the day.

Twenty minutes into shoveling and scraping, I heard faint beeps.  At first, I ignored them as far of nothingness.  Then, remembering the candle, I ran.

Before even reaching the door, I knew it was our fire alarm.  Over and over, louder and louder.  As soon as I reached the stairs, I could see the smoke, and the flame from this one little candle roaring out of control.

I cracked the window at the top of the stairs and flew into our bedroom (where our son had fallen asleep), fully expecting Briggs to be in a full on panic.

He wasn’t.

The wild winter winds quickly silenced the incessant alarm, and after dolling out a few more kisses to my still peacefully dozing boy,  I suddenly knew exactly how I would honor Pepe.

I will listen to the alarms.  When they are sounding and begging for my attention, I will go.  I will answer.  And I will be grateful for the warning.

Then, I quietly blew out the flame feeling a bit more protected than I had just twenty minutes before.