Remembering

I do not want to remember. I would rather forget. Forget that a few minutes after eight on that Tuesday morning as I was readying to head out the door for my walk to work, a female reporter interrupted NPR's morning program and in a voice echoing confusion and disbelief announced that a plane had just flown into one of the Twin Towers. I would rather deny that after dashing to the phone to call my mother, I pressed the power button on our television to find out what horrific thing had just happened in NYC. I would rather squish my eyes tightly shut and replace the image that is indelibly tattooed upon my memory, the image of a plane shattering into the second tower, with blackness. I would rather stuff my ears full with my fingers and scream at the top of my lungs until I became mute in order to forever silence words and phrases familiar to that day and the days which followed: "the Pentagon has been hit," "a plane crashed in Pennsylvania," "the second tower fell," "terrorist attacks," "war."

But I cannot forget and should not forget.

"Take trouble to pray," Mother Teresa once wrote. And so today, as we individually and collectively remember and mourn the devastation of that terrible, terrible day eight years ago, I offer up St. Francis of Assisi's prayer for peace.

Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace,
that where there is hatred, I may bring love;
that where there is wrong, I may bring the spirit of forgiveness;
that where there is discord, I may bring harmony;
that where there is error, I may bring truth;
that where there is doubt, I may bring faith;
that where there is despair, I may bring hope;
that where there are shadows, I may bring light;
that where there is sadness, I may bring joy.

Lord, grant that I may rather seek to comfort than to be comforted;
to understand than to be understood;
to love than to be loved.

For it is in giving that we receive.
It is in forgiving that we are forgiven.
It is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

Memory Eternal the servant of God Paul and all those who departed this life on September 11, 2001. May the Lord God remember you in His kingdom always now and ever and unto the ages of ages. Amen.

Labor of Love

Five years ago, thanks to the gracious offer to use their cottage from our dear friends, Greg and Marian, Jared and I headed up north to Wisconsin for our last hurrah as a couple without children. Nestled amongst trees and snuggled close to a lake, the cottage was a haven offering us a place away from the city to relax and spend time together. Throughout our week, Jared and I slept late, drank several cups of uninterrupted hot coffee, took long walks in roads lined with corn, hit a local thrift store more than once, read, took naps, and even ventured out on the Lambert's canoe. In hindsight, we should have stayed for two weeks rather than one.

In recent years, the Lamberts' cottage has metamorphised into a meeting place for those of us who left Chicago to live in smaller, quieter venues. Last year, nine adults and nine children crowded into the two-bedroom cottage over Labor Day weekend and as sleeping bags, games, books, and sand littered up the space I grasped the beauty of casting aside thoughts of yesterday and tomorrow and truly living in the moment. In the presence of pure mayhem, I treasured the laughter which often resulted in tears, the stories told and retold, and the bond of friendship which exists between these precious people in my life.

For various reasons, our family was the only one able to return to the cottage with Greg and Marian this Labor Day weekend. Besides the homemade Cubs birthday cake awaiting Thomas upon our arrival, the Lambert's insistence that Jared and I go out while they baby-sat the children, and Marian and I's Saturday garage sale excursion which resulted in some new treasures, when I think back to this particular vacation I will most remember Elliot's and Russell's cries for "MiMi." I will recall the way Thomas, who tends to be reticent in demonstrating his affection, enthusiastically offered generous hugs and kisses to both Greg and Marian. I will remember the sight of Greg and Thomas huddled together, thick as thieves, playing Star Wars guys per Thomas' instruction (trust me, this is no small feat). I will recollect Russell and Elliot snuggled on Marian's lap as she read them stories. But more than any of these memories, I will never forget the sacrifices made on our behalf and the abundance of unconditional love these warmhearted people have for my zany family. Greg and Marian, thank you so much; we love you too!

Hey Kind Friend

It was one of those weeks when each day seemed worse than the one before; a week in which morning prayers were anything but peace-filled moments for me and my children, but rather the setting for fisticuffs, unholy looks, and whines which caused me to grit my teeth and mutter under my breath; a week when little boys clamored onto the kitchen table, joyously knocking over precious coffee; a week when after the fourth dirty diaper in three hours, I questioned anew why I exactly insisted upon using cloth diapers; a week when underwear was intentionally stuffed into and flushed down the toilet; a week when meals became occasions for demonstrating my youngest children's throwing arms. It was a week where despite my intense love for my children, I wanted to bury my head in my arms with my ears stuffed with cotton balls to diminish the seemingly incessant cry of, "Mommy" and cry myself. It was a week in which I was less like the iconic June Cleaver and more like the nasty step-mother depicted in fairy tales; a week where sleep deprivation manifested itself in ugly, embarrassing ways - an uncontrolled temper and an uncontrolled tongue - so that my meager apology of, "I am sorry," became a permanent fixture on my lips. It was a week I hope not to repeat, though I probably will.

With hope I clung to the fact that no matter how horrible each day was, I was leaving for Indiana with my eldest child on Friday to visit precious friends who accept me in spite of myself. I knew that despite the distance that now separates these beautiful women from me, I would find solace and comfort within their homes. I knew that as reunited children laughed and played in the background, and as we drank coffee, diet Coke, and wine, we would truly be open about the endless challenges confronting each of us and that by speaking about our struggles they would become less cumbersome and heavy. So thank you kind friends for listening, empathizing, offering your love, and helping me remember who I am. No matter how many miles separate us, you are always close to my heart.

Kind and Generous

Over the course of the last few months, the boys and I have launched into reading a Bible story at the conclusion of our breakfast. The vintage Arch books of my childhood whose clever rhymes have quickly enamored my children and even stilled the usually restless Russell and Elliot are hands down our favorites. There is one story in particular that each of the boys are inclined to choose when their turn comes around, despite the ripped out pages carefully tucked inside (thank you Elliot). Entitled The Boy Who Gave His Lunch Away, it chronicles the story of the feeding of the five thousand from the perspective of a fictional character named Joel.

Hoping to catch sight of a king and a bit disappointed when he finds a rather poor looking man named Jesus, Joel is presented as the young boy who offered up the five loaves of bread and two fish his mother had packed for him in order to quell the hunger of the masses who had congregated to hear Christ's teachings and witness His miraculous healings. What has increasingly struck me each time is the beauty of how one person's willingness to cheerfully deny himself and generously give something away - something as sparse as a couple loaves of bread and fish - resulted in such lavishness and unveiled the kingdom of love which Christ's coming inaugurated; a kingdom which we catch glimpses of each time someone reaches out and selflessly comes to the assistance of another.

Last weekend all the planning, collecting, pricing, and arranging for our fundraiser garage sale finally materialized. As dark clouds threatening rain filled the sky early Thursday morning, we dragged countless tables overflowing with items donated to our cause out onto the driveway, the front lawn, and in the garage itself. Despite the abundance, my parents' basement, living room, hallway, and back patio testified to the overwhelming kindness of the fifty plus donors. Over the course of our three day sale, items remained scattered in these various locations as we attempted to get out everything we had received. While there were some larger items which fetched a few more dollars, most of the things sold were small - books and VHS tapes for a quarter, knicknacks which were rarely priced over fifty cents, hundreds of records for a dime each. The nickels, dimes, and quarters, however, added up and by the end of the sale on Saturday, we had raised $1,815. Moreover, we received several monetary donations, $1,270 to be exact, so that we surpassed our goal of $3,000 (the amount needed for our upcoming dossier fee).

With the exception of a few stray bags of clothes which never made it out to the sale, my parents' living room, bedrooms, and hallway have more or less returned to their normal state. The basement is a collection of leftover items jammed into boxes which we will attempt to sell next month. Thank God and thank you all, friends and strangers, for your kindness and generosity. Truly, we never would have come this far without you.

"...let us not love in word or in tongue, but in deed and in truth." I John 3:18

A special thank you to my parents', Ray and Charlene Swanson, my mother-in-law, Linda Johnson, and our dear friends, Doug and Kim Nimrick, who stored all our donations (Paige noted that the Nimrick living room does not look the same without 3,000 records stacked against the wall); to Susan Curry and Kim Nimrick who graciously offered their time that first frenzied day (we never would have survived without your help); to my oldest friend, Julie DeBruyckere who helped us pack everything back up; to Sue Swanson, not only for your help but for knowing how I "flavor" my coffee and buying me a big cup; to Mike and Kathy Johnson for the much needed tables; and to Cathe Otto and Sharon Tyrrell for helping out with my sweet boys.