Our ordinary days

Miracles

By Walt Whitman

Why, who makes much of a miracle?

As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,

Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,

Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,

Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,

Or stand under trees in the woods,

Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night

with any one I love,

Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,

Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,

Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,

Or animals feeding in the fields,

Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,

Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet

and bright,

Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;

These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,

The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,

Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,

Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,

Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.

To me the sea is a continual miracle,

The fishes that swim--the rocks--the motion of the waves--the

ships with men in them,

What stranger miracles are there?

Yes, that is Mary Poppins eating a cupcake.

Yes, big brother Thomas got her dressed.

Yes, Eeyore plays the piano.

And Elliot does too. Stravinsky, I think.

Yes, we did watch Tangled.

And yes, Russell has a baby born in Korea and named Amy. Did you doubt it? And of course, his shirt is on backwards. Would he wear it any other way?

Of course, we love doughnuts.

And we cannot help but dunk them like Grandpa Swanson.

Yes, we are terribly silly.

Absolutely, that is my hat.

Thoughts on a Saturday evening

Inscribed on the inside of the front cover is a note from my mother-in-law, "To Beth, Christmas 1997." Mere days away from my twenty-fifth birthday and only four months married, I picked up Malcolm Muggeridge's relatively small book on Mother Teresa, Something Beautiful for God and read it for the first time. Just three months earlier, I had sat glued to the television in our newlywed apartment in Wheaton College's married housing, and like millions of others across the world, watched as the now dead body of this tiny, withered woman decked in her familiar blue and white sari was carried in procession through the streets of Calcutta. As I picked up Muggeridge's book on that Christmas morning, could I have even considered the impact on my life this work, this woman, this Catholic nun, would have? Doubtfully. And now after countless readings, I pick up the work again, knowing and embracing the power of the words, the life, and on this January evening fifteen years later, while my husband works, and while my children watch a movie, I patiently wait to be changed.

It is, of course, true that the wholly dedicated like Mother Teresa do not have biographies. Biographically speaking nothing happens to them. To live for, and in, others, as she and the Sisters of the Missionaries of Charity do, is to eliminate happenings, which are a factor of the ego and the will. "Yet not I, but Christ liveth in me," is one of her favorite sayings. I once put a few desultory questions to her about herself, her childhood, her parents, her home, when she decided to become a nun. She responded with one of her characteristic smiles, at once quizzical and enchanting; a kind of half smile that she summons up whenever something specifically human is at issue, expressive of her own incorrigible humanity. Her home, she said, had been an exceptionally happy one. So, when her vocation came to her as a schoolgirl, the only impediment was precisely this loving, happy home which she did not wish to leave. Of course the vocation won, and for ever. She gave herself to Christ, and through him to her neighbour. This was the end of her biography and the beginning of her life; in abolishing herself she found herself, by virtue of that unique Christian transformation, manifested in the Crucifixion and the Resurrection, whereby we die in order to live.

-from Something Beautiful for God

Snow days

"Clip from a Winter Diary"

In the middle of the morning, she makes slices of herb bread with melted cheese. When they fuss, all day she cuts small squares and hands them to the complaining mouths. Later, she finds black cheese stuck in the rug, on the couch, but she has given, and that is all they want, although she knows it is not food they desire.

Sometimes she gives out a story, and they huddle next to her and put her arm around them and fight about who has the most of her body next to them. The four of them are a corral, a fence within which she moves. She may run but not too far or fast. She may do whatever she wishes but inside the fence of them. The movement of them and the way they appear draws her toward them. She offers hot chocolate, a bubble bath, and they bound at her, squeeze her, and she turns on the TV and they disappear into its living color.

With snow on the ground, there is hope, and she bundles them and goes out into the pinched whiteness, its scrunch, scrunch. The noise of them dissipates and falls powdery off the branches of evergreens. She tucks the baby in a box with a blanket, so that only his round eyes show, and tugs him around and around, and around the yard, her back hot and her cheeks burning.

Anything that requires her mind can only occur in small, indecent intervals. Her body carries on with sweeping, crying, bursting out in laughter, and bends 100 times a day toward a toy, a child, mechanically, rhythmically. The computer, house building plans, articles to write, lie untended, five minutes here, twenty there.

The snow and the sleigh bring her to life, and the moon comes up over the trees and when she lifts the baby from the box, he is still warm.

PS The snowman's name is Frederic.

PSS Thank you again Leslie for this beautiful piece from Kelly Cunnane. It is amazing how relevant it still is a year later.

Theophany on the Mississippi

The Blessing of the Waters

Today the grace of the Holy Spirit in the form of a dove dwelt upon the waters. Today the Sun that never sets has dawned and the world is made radiant with the light of the Lord. 

Today the Moon with its radiant beams sheds light on the world. Today the stars formed of light make the inhabited world lovely with the brightness of their splendour. Today the clouds rain down from heaven the shower of justice for mankind. 

Today the Uncreated by his own will accepts the laying on of hands by his own creature. Today the Prophet and Forerunner draws near, but stands by with fear seeing God’s condescension towards us. Today the streams of Jordan are changed into healing by the presence of the Lord. Today all creation is watered by mystical streams. 

Today the failings of mankind are being washed away by the waters of Jordan. Today Paradise is opened for mortals and the Sun of justice shines down on us. Today the bitter water as once for Moses’ people is changed to sweetness by the presence of the Lord. 

Today we have been delivered from the ancient grief, and saved as the new Israel. Today we have been redeemed from darkness and are filled with radiance by the light of the knowledge of God. Today the gloomy fog of the world is cleansed by the manifestation of our God. Today all creation shines with light from on high. Today error has been destroyed and the coming of the Master makes for us a way of salvation. 

Today the Master hastens towards baptism, that he may lead humanity to the heights. Today the One who does not bow bows down to his own servant, that he may free us from servitude. Today we have purchased the Kingdom of heaven, for the Kingdom of the Lord will have no end. 

Today earth and sea share the joy of the world, and the world has been filled with gladness. The waters saw you, O God, the waters saw you and were afraid. The Jordan turned back when it saw the fire of the godhead descending in bodily form and entering it. 

The Jordan turned back as it contemplated the Holy Spirit in the form of a dove, descending and flying about you. The Jordan turned back as it saw the Invisible made visible, the Creator made flesh, the Master in the form of a servant. 

The Jordan turned back and the mountains leapt as they saw God in the flesh, and the clouds uttered their voice, marvelling at what had come to pass, seeing Light from Light, true God from true God, the Master’s festival today in Jordan; seeing him drowning the death from disobedience, the goad of error and the bond of Hell in Jordan and granting the Baptism of salvation to the world. 

from a writing by Patriarch Sophronios of Jerusalem

Melkam Gena

Together with friends, many who have also adopted children from Ethiopia, we gathered last Saturday evening to celebrate Ethiopian Christmas. As a mother of children adopted internationally, I always feel such a blessing when we are able to partake in gatherings which not only celebrate the richness and beauty of my children's birth countries, but which also bring together families who have journeyed a similar path in building their families.  A special thank you to Zach and Tesi Klipsch for their hospitality and generosity in hosting Gena, as well as to the many people who worked to make it such a special evening. We love our growing Ethiopian community.

Lucia and her friend Yohanna

The twins loving Jake and Leslie Klipsch's sons, Oliver and Eli.

This picture in particular makes me teary because of the history these two share. My friend Tesi's son, Tomas, and Lucia lived together in Holt's Care Center in Addis Ababa. How amazing that they can grow up together.

The three tinies had such a great time at the Klipsch's and loved their clothes from Ethiopia so much that they simply had to continue the celebration into the following week. Despite the look on Elliot's face, it was totally his idea to wear the clothes.

Our beautiful daughter, Lucia Ethiopia Kebedech

All is grace

From his outstretched hand, the gift is given on Christmas Eve night outside our home. "Merry Christmas," he nonchalantly states as I turn around. The gift is received into my own outstretched hand, an oak leaf, brown and dead, forgotten on the earth. "This is the best gift, my favorite gift," I say, attempting to look into his dark, brown, seven-year-old eyes, still innocent, still unable to overlook the beauty all around us, still with a mind able to be present in the moment, a mind void of empty thoughts and vain ideas. "How delicate it is, how lovely. I will hang it on the refrigerator. Thank you."

From the green couch, faded and worn, the five of us huddle, crocheted blankets warming our bodies, still being jarred awake by the chilly air outside the comfort of our beds. "Look little ones. See the sun as it begins to pour into our living room. See how it moves from the window on the door and illuminates the fall leaves pressed in wax paper still wistfully hanging from a white thread. See how it strikes the ornaments on the tree. How beautiful is the light. Stop reading. Look. Let's not miss it. Good morning dear earth. Good morning dear sun. This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it."

From our front yard on an unseasonably warm January day, I see him running. A small plastic bottle abundant with the water sanctified at church the evening before is clutched in his hand. From their lips pour high-pitched squeals of laughter as their oldest brother sprays holy water onto their thrust-back heads, into their cavernous mouths. From his hands, life-giving water spreads over the cracked ground, the barren trees, the withered plants, dead and dormant. From the doorway, I watch, enamored by their spirited, unfettered play, their lust for life, and I cry out, "Bless it. Bless all of it." From the stillness of my heart, I offer a prayer of thanks for the gift of the incarnation, for His spreading of Himself over all that is dead and dormant and calling it to life and holiness. Truly all of creation rejoices on this day.

Little chefs preparing to make cupcakes for Three Kings Day.

The Joy of the Feast!