First, an admission: I am—and have always been—prone to drama.
This is a shocking revelation, I know. You had no idea.
And yet, even knowing as he does my off-Broadway tendencies, my husband was startled when he read my latest post. “Sheesh,” he said, and I’m quoting him verbatim. “Sheesh.” Because even for me, that post was dramatic.
John went on to joke that I should just tell everyone that I am dying. “You could write, ‘In lieu of flowers, please send cash donations to my husband. Better yet, send eight round-trip tickets to Hawaii.’”
“No way,” I responded.
Though those tickets to Hawaii sure would be sweet.
The truth is: I’m not dying. My husband didn’t have an affair nor is he leaving me for another man; my sons didn’t get caught sneaking out to a Katy Perry concert; my daughters have not become members of the Charlie Sheen* fan club, and my 3-year-old hasn’t run off to join the circus.
Not that he’d need to around here.
All kidding aside, I will say this: what happened in my life…happened, and I really cannot talk about it. The truly beautiful thing is that God can—and will—use our human frailty to redeem us. I referred to this catastrophic event as a “Spiritual September 11th,” which is strong language but fairly accurate. It shook me to my core and I am grateful for that—grateful for this slap in the face of my complacency. I had grown lukewarm and preoccupied, and God—in His mercy—brought me back.
Simcha Fisher, who is one of the best Catholic writers in Church today, puts it another way:
Because we can forget. We’re distractible creatures — yanked around by trivialities and worthy causes alike, all of which help us forget that our lives are an arc, a story line, with a beginning, a middle — and yes, an end. Monks used to keep a human skull on their desks to remind them to get something done while they still have time.
Read more here.
To put it yet another way…
Last night our 3-year-old was goofing around during prayer. He didn’t feel like kneeling at the side of the bed, so he decided to crawl on top of it. He wiggled, he rolled, and eventually he had squirmed around so much that his body slipped down between our bed frame and mattress.
“I ‘tuck,” he told me. “I tan’t det up.”
I pulled him out, thinking how cute he was, and then I thought, “That is just like God and me.
“He thinks I am little and cute. He absolutely loves to pull me up.”
I would like to thank you all for your assurance of prayers. That you are willing to pray for our family (a bunch of strangers! a group of loons from Minnesota!) is a humbling testament to your generosity. Thank you. Your kindness and encouragement are very sustaining, and I intend to pass it on.
Oh, and I offered up my holy hour last Sunday for your intentions!
Did you feel it?
I’d like to close with one last photo—a goofy shot of the drama girl and her ever-growing, ever-blessed, can-You-really-be-sending-me-another-child-at-my-age? belly.
I titled it “A Boy, a Baby Bump, and a Trunkful of Groceries.”
Because I am just that clever.
With love & gratitude for every good gift,