Beautiful Boys

A glance at my kitchen table reveals numerous Lego stormtroopers, beheaded and dismembered. Meticulously, stormtrooper helmets are laid in a row; to their left, tiny plastic legs. No, my son's play is not revelatory of his own dark side nor indicative of a fundamental flaw in his character or upbringing. He is simply a four-year-old boy. When questioned why these poor souls could not merely be wounded or captured and taken to prison, Thomas wags his head at me, balking at the absurdity of the question. In an effort to enlighten his naive mother, he attempts to clarify that total destruction by light saber wielding Jedi knights is the only plausible destiny for bad guys.

"Look Mom!" Thomas cries out as I attempt to conceal the avocado being mashed into banana and added to yogurt while also keeping an eagle eye on his two younger brothers who are together launching board books, magnets, wooden spoons, and anything else they can discover down the back stairs, all the while eliciting their own demands for my attention. "This is Captain Rex. He has two blasters. And guess who is behind my back? I'll give you a hint. He's young. And Here's Captain Cody, and these two are named Flotsam and Jet-pack. Mom. Mom. Are you looking?"

In the midst of our lunch, Russell tugs on his shirt sleeve, forcing it down so that his left hand disappears within the fabric. He lifts up the hand and anticipates the desired response from me: "Oh, Darth Vader has cut off your hand!" Later that evening as I emerge from the bedroom, I find my youngest son in the hallway. In one hand he clasps a small black arm which is grasping a red lightsaber. While this arm once belonged to Thomas' Darth Tater toy, it now more effectively serves as a blaster. With his other hand, Elliot pushes his palm towards me, a slight hiss escaping his grinning lips. Elliot has transformed into Emperor Palpatine; I have become Luke Skywalker and am being subjected to electricity being shot out of his hands. Ah yes, make no mistake, I am the mother of three boys.

Suppressing a giggle, I knew I could not laugh. In fact, not even a hint of a smile could be evidenced on my face without the possibility of exciting deep indignation within my son. Thomas was dead serious, annoyed, and downright frustrated with his youngest brother, who, inevitably tossed from his crib onto the floor "Thomas' babies" (a cloth honey pot, home to four Winnie-the-Pooh puppets, which I might add is technically Russell's and Elliot's). Eyes lifted, Elliot stared blankly at his brother as Thomas launched his diatribe of disgust. The "exchange" went something like this. "Elliot, that is the second time you have done that. It is not funny." Elliot sits quietly. "No, it isn't." Elliot still sits quietly. "I am very disappointed." Elliot closes one eye and begins snorting. "This is no time for the pirate."

My heart goes out to my eldest son. After all, it is difficult and rather trying at times being an older brother to rather rambunctious twin boys At any given moment Russell and Elliot might saunter up behind him pull his hair, bite his hand, or poke him with whatever is in their hands at the time. Thomas has transitioned beautifully and accepted his role as brother and Mommy's helper. Without fail or complaint, he will drop what he is doing to fetch me some paper towels when we are out of wipes, which occurs more frequently than I like to admit. Dutifully, he will hold his brothers' hands during morning prayers, shushing them and exhorting them in a not-so-quiet voice to "act appropriately." And at his request, he has even helped change less than clean diapers. Often he does lapse into co-parent, offering dire warnings to his brothers: "Russell Matthew Jin-pyo. We do not throw our food. I am telling mommy." "Elliot Andrew Jin-seo. Look at me. Listen to your mother." And there are rare moments when hints of longing for another time are innocently offered to me. "Mommy, remember when you and I just cooked, before Russell and Elliot" or "Mommy, I didn't get to spend much time with you today." And nostalgically I remember the times of being a mother of one, Thomas and I lounging in our pajamas, reading book after book, snuggled close together in the pull-out chair in the play room, losing track of time because we had nothing in particular to do. Those days are gone but lovely and more full ones have emerged with the addition of Russell and Elliot to our lives. And despite the few annoyances caused by them, Thomas adores them. We all do. Who could not?

Elliot: There is something enigmatic about my youngest son. Though seemingly reticent, he may be the most assertive of the boys. Banging my legs, lifting up his arms, demanding to be held, there is usually little doubt what Elliot wants. These days, we are working on him asking a bit more quietly. Elliot loves to play dog and will pant around the kitchen while on all fours. His favorite book is I'm a Little Teapot. He particularily likes the page where the teapot attends the opera and Elliot will sing, "la, la, la." He loves his stuffed dogs and Pooh Bear. He also likes to jump on Russell. Every day when entering the bathroom to brush his teeth, he will pick up the picture of my Grandfather Swanson and plop a big kiss on him.

Russell: Russell is like sunshine. Quick to smile, you just want to pick him up and give him a big squeeze. He is laidback and friendly, waving at those passing by in the grocery store, restaraunts, or in cars. He usually prefers his mother's arms even over Grandma's. Russell likes everything to be in order (though often serves as the instigator of disorder) and will yell, "Mama!" until a cabinet door is shut and latched or a picture he has just dislodged is picked up and rehung. Without fail upon waking from his afternoon nap, he points at the icons hanging in our bedroom and demands to kiss them before leaving the room. His favorite book is The Itsy Bitsy Spider, and "The Hustle Bustle" has now been replaced with a jig. Besides, "button," Russell does attempt to say, "zipper," "Pooh Bear," "Tuh-tuh-tuh" (for Thomas), "brother," and more recently "Elijah."

Thomas: When not busy decimating bad guys, Thomas does demonstrate a more sensitive side. Of late, his favorite baby is a stuffed reindeer whom he has named Frank. Thomas likes to carry Frank in his "bjorn," a belt strapped around his waist, and feed him bottles while rocking him to sleep. He also likes to clean the bathroom sink, always checking to see if we are using the "good chemicals." Thomas has also recently become quite enamored with letters and in particular writing his name, as well as drawing little men who almost always have belly buttons. His most recent creation is a man named Bod.

Redeeming the Time

Inconspicuously the feeling entered. Once noticed, however, this emotion of melancholy was intractable and relentless, entwining itself, it seemed, around the very core of my being and refusing to retreat despite my best efforts to make it relinquish its grasp. I was surprised to be weighed down with such a deep sadness. The previous evening had been a pleasant one, shared by the company of our priest and his family of five. Before sitting down to a dinner rich with genuine conversation and laughter, prayers had been offered on behalf of our family, water sanctified at the Feast of Theophany splashed on the walls of our entire house, and the festal troparion sung as our home was being blessed. Moreover, the external circumstances of my Monday did not seem to warrant any heaviness of heart. I had slept well, awakened before the children, managed to pray and enjoy a cup of coffee before the shouts of, "Mama!" manifested themselves, enjoyed music class with Thomas, experienced no food throwing at lunch, watched all the boys fall asleep almost instantaneously at their afternoon naps, and had no dinner to prepare because leftovers were on the menu. Nonetheless, by mid-afternoon, in my time of solitude, a heaviness took hold of me. I struggled with it but my attempts were in vain. No amount of exercise, songs sung, music listened to, emails checked, or coffee drank was going to be the quick fix I desperately desired.

As I forced myself to continue my normal Monday afternoon routine, a thought emerged from the muck of my Monday blahs and presented itself for consideration. The idea was not new but one which I had again forgotten, stashed away until something within demanded that it be recognized anew. You see, I have become lazy, even slothful in vigilantly standing guard against the barrage of distracting thoughts, which when left unchecked dismantle the place of prayer in my heart. Instead, I have indulged trivialities, and thus willfully hindered myself spiritually by moving further away from God.

In two short weeks, Orthodox Christians throughout the world will together embark upon their spiritual journey into Great Lent. During this forty day period, the hymns of the Church will become more sober, poignant, and unmistakably focused on the essentialness of individual repentance. Warnings will be yielded to not miss the Bridegroom because one's soul has become weighed down with inconsequential rubbish, spiritual lethargy, and sin. Over and over we will sing, "Open to me the doors of repentance, O Life Giver," clinging to the promise of God's mercy and forgiveness to all who return to Him. As the day retreated into the night, my melancholy gradually began to subside, and I began to take pleasure again in reading books and acting silly with our boys. Despite the intense sadness of this day, I am grateful for the gift of melancholy bestowed upon me and its service of goading me to wake me up to the one thing needful. And I am ever thankful for a loving God who, without judgment is always willing to accept a prodigal back.

Thaw

Yesterday, as the spring-like weather of Saturday succumbed to temperatures more typical to a February day, I painted my front door brown. Tired of the blue which previously donned the entrance, I brushed and rolled a rich coffee with a hint of cream colored brown onto the door, and I love everything about it: from the color itself to how it contrasts and sharpens the brilliant white trim in which it is framed. Earthy and subdued, the color, in my opinion, exudes warmth and comfort which will assist, I hope, in creating an atmosphere of welcome and refuge for all who enter into our home.

I cannot pinpoint when exactly I became so enchanted with color and the arranging of colors together in a creative way in order to produce a certain ethos or feeling. Much too anal retentive and detail oriented by nature, I am no visionary. Nor do I possess any true artistic ability. Still I am able to appreciate and marvel at the emotional effects colors have on me. Vibrant reds, blues, greens, and yellows, as found in the majority of works by artist Marc Chagall, elicit within me feelings of deep joy and a profound sense of the goodness of life while muted hues–the golds, grays, browns, olives–create a twinge of melancholy accompanied nonetheless by feelings of peace and well-being. 

Saturday the temperature soared into the lower 50s. The sky was clear blue dotted with wisps of white clouds and the sun shone brightly. Running in from a quick trip to the Farmer's Market, I directed the boys (Jared included) to get ready for a walk. As socks, shoes, and coats were assembled, I flipped off the heat and opened windows throughout the house. Within minutes our motley crew was ready. Thomas, coat unzipped, sunglasses on, pounced onto the seat of his bike while Russell and Elliot discovered their places in the all but forgotten double stroller. "It's summer," Thomas shouted, and we were off to the park. Rolling and splashing through the small rivulets of water which ran down our street and occasionally avoiding large chunks of melting ice and snow, we arrived at our destination, which while barren was at least devoid of winter's remnants. The children were ecstatic, Russell and Elliot especially, to be free from the constraints of the house with its gates and my constant suggestions for redirection. Together we swung, wandered, climbed, slid, and got dirty resurrecting lethargic limbs and muscles until naps could no longer be ignored and reluctantly, but light-heartedly, we headed for home.

Though another "balmy" February day, by mid-afternoon on this Monday, the sun lost its previous brilliance and acquiesced to haziness, gradually darkening until a light rain began to descend. Though I love warm sunny days and the feelings of being full of life and potential which generally accompany them, these warm, cloudy days are my favorite. A glance out my opened front door as I went about my Monday living room dusting and as the children slept revealed a landscape of earth and sky–browns, gray-blues, dull greens–profoundly beautiful because they lacked brilliance. Outside it was still. No one ventured out to walk their dogs, ride their bikes, stroll their children, or take down the final vestiges of the Christmas season. In the distance, I could hear the whistles of trains as they sluggishly passed by the Mississippi carrying unknown cargo to an unknown destination. Within, I too felt still, quiet, thoughtful, at peace. For a time, I mentally cast off the list of things-to-do and was present in the moment.

Journeys

From the basement I heard the phone ring but was unable to retrieve it before the machine launched my droning voice. The voice on the other end was my mother, calling to relate what had transpired during her doctor's appointment that afternoon. Nonchalantly, I climbed the stairs and headed for the kitchen. I pushed the button to the answering machine and began to process her words, "stress test was abnormal. Call me and I will tell you what that means." Almost a week had passed since my mother's upper body was suddenly seized with an intense, furious pain, which hindered her ability to lay down and rest. The results of two previous heart tests had returned negative. We assumed the third would likewise bear such results. Rather than immediately grab the receiver and dial the only phone number I have ever known for my parents' home, I deliberately waited. As the children peacefully slept, I rinsed and loaded dishes into the dishwasher, wiped down the counters, poured myself my afternoon cup of coffee, and finally picked up the phone, bracing myself for what my mother was about to disclose.

Death has not been a stranger in my life. Before I was born, when my mother was just a girl of twelve, her father, who had worked in the coal mines, died of cancer. At a very young age, I lost my paternal grandfather, George Swanson. All that remains of him in my mind is a vague memory of Grandpa sitting on a couch in the two-storey home of my father's childhood, a plastic, green visor encircling his head due to his poor eye sight. His wife, Anna, my grandmother who despite her diabetes consistently kept hard candies of red, green and yellow colors that dazzled my young eyes upon our frequent visits, departed this life a few years later. I remember the phone ringing in the early evening, my father picking it up, and my mother placing her head in her hands and crying once the news was delivered. I was seven and deemed too young to attend the funeral. A few days after the new year of 1986 on a Sunday evening, our family received another phone call relating another death of a loved one. I believed my twenty-three-year-old cousin Sheri, who had been battling a brain tumor for a couple years, had died. I was ill prepared for my father's words, "Grandma Perry is dead. It seems she died in her sleep." A week later my beautiful, vivacious cousin Sheri, in the presence of her mother and my mother and the angels she claimed to see in her final moments on this earth, yielded to the disease which had ravaged her body and stolen her youth. I was fourteen.

When I accepted the position as a Medicare discharge planner/social worker at a Catholic nursing home in Des Plaines, Illinois, I was thrilled. Good-bye to answering phone calls as a customer service representative at a tiny Christian publishing house in Wheaton. Armed with Christ's words concerning the "least of these" as fleshed out by one of my favorite authors and people, Mother Teresa, I was ready to embark into what I believed to be my true vocation, encountering Christ in the "distressing disguise of the poor." Death would not be an issue, I reasoned, since I would be working on a floor specifically designed for men and women receiving therapy and getting better. 

A wiry, white-haired woman named Mae was the first person that died soon after I assumed my new position. Mae always wore pearls, and at her funeral, as an homage to her memory, her daughters, granddaughters, and nieces donned their pearl necklaces. Quickly I discovered that my former thinking had been an illusion. Some men and women did return home after a stay on the third floor, but others, whose bodies and minds had been so decimated by disease and illness needed assistance, my assistance, to determine what would come next. Many others, too numerous for me to even remember, died on that third floor. As I went about my work, I would see family members straggle in and begin the death vigil with their loved one. Together, nurses, therapists, and I would offer meager assistance in order to provide physical and spiritual comfort during these times when death was near–a quiet room, hot coffee, water, words of condolence, silent prayers, gentle touches.

Recently I picked up a book by Henri Nouwen entitled Our Greatest Gift: A Meditation On Dying and Caring which I had purchased and read during this time in my life. Not to be morose, but death, my death and the death of my loved ones, is never too far from my thoughts. Ideally, I would experience a peaceful death; this is what I pray. But I also realize that I might, in the words of a speaker who once deeply impressed me, "die screaming because so did our Lord." Mainly, I want to befriend my death and die well, not with bitterness and anger but with acceptance, hope and trust that I am God's beloved child and that through Christ's resurrection, death has been overthrown and defeated and that life reigns. But will I, in Nouwen's words, "be willing to make that journey" in which "my body will lose its strength, my mind its flexibility;" in which "I will lose family and friends;" in which "I will become less relevant to society and be forgotten by most;" in which "I will have to depend increasingly on the help of others; and, in the end, I will have to let go of everything and be carried into the completely unknown"?  

Today Orthodox Christians celebrate the Feast of the Presentation of Christ in the Temple. For years, the aged prophet Simeon had waited and trusted that God would fulfill the prophecy that he would not taste death before seeing the Messiah. As the holy Theotokos and St. Joseph presented their forty-day-year-old son Jesus in accordance to Mosaic law, Simeon took up this infant in his arms and addressed Him saying:

Lord, lettest now Thy servant depart in peace,

According to Thy word;

For mine eyes have seen Thy salvation

Which Thou hast prepared before the

face of all peoples,

A light to enlighten the Gentiles

And the glory of Thy people Israel.

Just a bit more than ten months earlier, an angel had appeared to the infant's mother-to-be, betrothed at that time but not yet married, and communicated that she would conceive in her womb and bear the Son of God. Dismayed and a bit confused as to how this would happen, Mary, like the prophet Simeon, demonstrated her trust in the Almighty, saying, "Behold, the maidservant of the Lord! Let it be to me according to your word." Each week in Holy Communion, God extends a similar invitation to the Church community–to trust Him anew and receive the salvation He has prepared for all people, not because we are worthy, for indeed we are not, but rather because He is a merciful, compassionate God, and we are His beloved children. 

Last Saturday evening as Thomas and I snuggled into my bed together, ate chocolate chip cookies, and read books, I described to him how when I was little girl, I also loved to have my mother sleep with me. I related how I would hold her hand, naively thinking that if I held her tight enough, she could not slip away once I fell asleep. "Her presence made me feel safe," I told my four-year-old son. My presence makes him "feel comfortable," he told me. My mother will have a procedure called an angiogram on the 11th of this month, on the day my father celebrates his 82nd birthday. It is possible that a stent will need to be placed in her arteries. I think we are all a little scared. I know I am. So, am I willing to put my faith and trust once again in God and believe that "neither death nor life, nor angel or principalities nor powers, nor things present nor things to come, nor height nor depth, nor any created thing, shall be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord"?  I don't know. I pray that with God's help, I will be able.