Receiving Mode ~ Jen

Shea and I have a big decision to make. For three weeks we have been talking it around and around, with no success. Finally, at 11 pm the other night, when we had covered all the options and their pros and cons for the third time without coming to any kind of clarity, I told him that I couldn’t go in circles anymore.

“I know” he said. “We have to pray.”

I took a moment to bask in the warmth of that.

But then I reminded him it took me a year to hear the answer about having another baby. And that was all my fault. I wasn’t in receiving mode. I was praying, but not listening. I let all my own thoughts and worries fill my head and heart and drown out everything else. Finally, I got bored of myself, and stopped. And into that quiet space came my answer.

“So we have to go into receiving mode” I told him. “We can’t talk about it. We can’t think about it. Not chew on it. Not worry about it. Trust that the answer will come.”

Shea thought for a moment and then said “I like that analogy. Just wait for God to throw the bomb.”

I stared at him. What?

Then I started to laugh.

Because when I think receiving mode, I see this in my head:

And when he thinks receiving mode, he sees this in his head:

I know that God will meet us where we are, but I hope he has a spaceship. Because it’s roughly 75,000,000 miles from Venus to Mars.

God Blessed the Seventh Day ~ Jen

The Catholic Church is celebrating the Year of Faith. So I signed up for a daily dose of catechism. This one popped up a few weeks ago.

If Sunday is disregarded or abolished, only workdays are left in the week. Man, who was created for joy, degenerates into a workhorse and a mindless consumer. We must learn on earth how to celebrate properly, or else we will not know what to do in heaven. Heaven is an endless Sunday.

It’s referring to the Third (or Fourth, if you are a Protestant) Commandment. The biblical text is as follows:

Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy.
Six days you shall labor, and do all your work;
but the seventh day is a sabbath to the LORD your God;
in it you shall not do any work, you, or your son,
or your daughter, your manservant,
or your maidservant or your cattle,
or the sojourner who is within your gates;
for in six days the LORD made heaven and earth,
the sea, and all that is in them,
and rested the seventh day;
therefore the Lord blessed the sabbath day and hallowed it.

The verse from Exodus references Genesis and the creation story:

And on the seventh day God finished the work that he had done, and he rested on the seventh day from all the work that he had done. ³So God blessed the seventh day and hallowed it, because on it God rested from all the work that he had done in creation.

Oh man, I have so many thoughts on how this is (not) working in my life. The last two weeks since this posted I have been chewing on it, with a side of my mom’s recent comment that we’re a pretty busy family, and my months long obsession with finding the exact right trailer for my family, which ate up a fair amount of weekends.

On Sundays, we go to church. We’re home by 10:30. And then it’s play time. Or shop time. Or clean the house because folks are coming for dinner time. It is rarely ever rest time.

And am I joy-full on Sundays? As I’m playing or shopping or cleaning and cooking, am I mindful of God and His day?

Sometimes, like when we head straight down to the beach after Mass, and have a lovely day playing in God’s ocean. On those days there is always a time when I utter a prayer of thanksgiving for the weather and the sun and the salty sea water.

Sometimes, like last Sunday, when I sit next to my dad and watch my kids play with their grandma in the pool. On those days I am filled with the joy of loving family and memory-making.

And sometimes, when I have managed to get every single chore done by Saturday so that Shea can lay on the couch and watch his Bills in peace and quiet while I write or read or watch a movie with the kids, I am joyfully grateful for the rest.

But those Sabbaths happen far too infrequently. Too many Sundays are spent at the mall, where I can score $100 worth of clothes for $60. I feel victory and satisfaction, but not joy. And I am certainly not mindful of God while I am bargain hunting.

Then I realized this: every car we have bought as a couple has been purchased on a Sunday, which means we have haggled and hassled and played good cop-bad cop on the Sabbath. I’m trying to screw you before you can screw me mode is neither joyful nor restful, and it’s impossible at those times to be mindful of anyone but your own self.

So the truth is, too many of our Sabbaths have been rushed and crammed and cranky and mindless.

My spirit is itchy, which means we are out of Alignment and need a change.

I want to be better at honoring this Commandment. What can we do in our family to both honor the Commandment and instill in our kids the wonderful knowledge that God, in His wisdom and love, has commanded us to rest and be joyful.

I want Heaven to be an endless day on the beach at Coronado. Not endless hours of haggling with a used car salesman.

So if you’ve got thoughts, I’ve got ears. How do you keep and bless this day in your homes?

Moments of Grace ~ Dana

My dad was this great basketball coach. For many years he ran a city league team called The Cherokee that boasted some former pro players, some former college players, and just some crazy-good scrappers. He also coached a CIF championship team and a state championship team at Eisenhower High School in 2003-2005. When we walked into a gym anywhere in the Inland Empire, chances were that someone would recognize him. And he loved that.

When my nephew JD, his grandson, began to show some real talent and skill, my dad was thrilled. He trained him and watched every game that he could. Last year, JD, a sophomore, made varsity. Then Dad got sick.

As the basketball season wore on, Dad wore down. Down to the tune of about 125 lbs. And then he decided that he would go out to a game. It was a big deal. He hadn’t been anywhere except the hospital in months. He wouldn’t be able to walk from the parking lot to the gym. So we arranged for closer parking on campus. He was immuno-compromised. So we decided that he would arrive during the game to hopefully avoid being close to too many people.

The day of the game, I was a wreck. It really was a dangerous thing that he was doing. I was nervous that he would fall. I was nervous someone would sneeze on him. I was nervous he would freeze to death. None of those things happened.

Instead, as I walked into the gym, there was a familiar face. One of the refs was a Cherokee. Cameron stands at a foreboding 6’8” and weighs about 260. I don’t think he’s ever had an ounce of fat on him. Last summer I had seen Cameron again with my dad. I had recognized him immediately and introduced myself. “I remember when you were a player,” I had told him. “You were really great. And I knew great when I saw it.” He smiled.

And as I walked in the gym and saw Cameron reffing that night, something stilled inside my heart. This was all meant to be. During varsity warm-ups, before my dad arrived, I found Cameron mid-court. I explained how sick dad was, and at center court in the Riverside Poly gym with my nephew warming up behind me, I cried. And cried. And cried. And I felt Cameron’s arms around me, buried my head in his chest, but the tears wouldn’t stop.

I asked him if he would go up and talk to my dad again. He wouldn’t recognize Dad because of the drastic physical changes he had undergone, but I would point him out when he arrived. Of course he would, of course.

My parents ended up arriving before the game. Dad was so thin, so frail. He shuffled across the gym floor, what a contrast to the man who normally strutted into the gym. A wool fedora covered his bald head; his leather jacket and scarf bundled him against the cold January wind. He sat in a padded chair that my brother had found him, away from the bleachers.

I flagged Cameron down and pointed in Dad’s direction. I watched from my seat in the bleachers, holding my 2-month-old little girl, as Cameron walked over and shook Dad’s hand. He knelt so Dad wouldn’t have to stand. They talked for a few minutes and my dad was beaming. Cameron slowly walked away and took a seat on the players’ bench on the opposite side of the gym, put his head in his hands, and wept. His shoulders shook. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his eyes as the game clock sounded.

It was a moment of grace.

And the grace came in the knowledge that Dad truly had touched someone else’s life. He poured everything he had into basketball. And here in this man, I saw that it was all worth it. The late nights, the tournaments, the weeknight games, the traveling, they were all worth it because Dad was important to these men.

The grace came in the knowledge that this loss, as afraid as I was of it, would not be mine alone. And in that moment, I was not the only one crying for my father.

As I sat up there in those bleachers, there was also the stark realization that dad truly was sick. Cameron’s reaction somehow confirmed the dark whispers that I didn’t want to listen to. He would be gone soon. And how does life go on without him?

But the grace came in the knowledge that my dad would not be forgotten.

Though that realization grew over the next few months, so did the love in my heart. I drank up every opportunity to see his eyes, to hear his voice, to hold his hand, to sit with him, even in silence. I saw his love for me and for my girls fill his heart, and spill out in his smile.

Throughout Dad’s illness God gave us many of these moments: there was the moment when my dad came to our new house for the first (and only) time, ate at our table, relaxed in our back yard. There was the moment he felt good enough and strong enough to stand in the kitchen and hold my baby, just as he had held me. There was the moment my 2-year-old refused to leave his side, and napped beside him as he lay in his hospice bed. And yea, though we were walking through the valley of the shadow of death, these moments sustained us, and him, and sweet grace smoothed the way.

Life Will Out ~ Jen

I don’t like to be hot. I have never liked to be hot. God knows this about me and gave me parents who lived near the ocean and who listened to their children when we begged them to buy a house with a pool. Many a day growing up, I washed the sand from the beach out of my hair and bathing suit by jumping into the pool.

It was a lovely way to grow up.

Shea and I got all big in our britches after we married and decided that one thing married folks do is buy a house. The only place we could afford one without moving out of state—and without moving to the desert—was the Inland Empire. The average temperature out here during July and August is 100 degrees. We are an hour’s drive either way to the beach.

And since we bought a brand new house, the only thing in the backyard was dirt.

“We’ll get as pool in a few years when we have some equity in the house”, we said. Two years later we were $200,000 upside down. And even though I said I wanted a house sideways to the sun, we ended up with one that faces the sun. Which means we take the heat on the front of the house in the morning (like this morning when it was 89 degrees at 9:30) and the back of the house in the afternoon.

The back of the house was more of an issue, since all the living space is in the back of the house. We decided to plant some trees. We bought three, a non-fruit bearing pear tree and two hybrid cottonwoods that were supposed to grow 5-6 feet a year. We planted them strategically to grow and meet in the middle and block the sun from the back of the house.

We nailed it. By the second summer we had them, they were almost 20 feet tall and cast shade over the backyard grass by 3 pm. By the fifth summer, they had touched and my kitchen and family room were shaded by 3 pm. This Spring I noticed that our bedroom windows were in shadow by 5 pm, protected by a solid wall of 35 foot tall trees. They had done exactly what we needed them to do. They sheltered the house.

They also blocked the garage light of the neighbor behind us who works nights and whose wife only feels safe if her driveway is lit up like noon. They brought an extended family of wrens into our backyard who woke us up with happy chirps in the morning. For two summers, they were covered in hundreds of thousands of lady bugs for three weeks. They housed all kinds of bugs and spiders, and the geckos that came to eat them. When the wind blew, they rustled with the most peaceful, restful sound.

And every Fall, the leaves turned bright yellow and fell to the ground in heaps and heaps of glorious color.

The morning after we got back from Disney World in June, I went out to get the paper and noticed that one of the tree roots had sprouted next to the roses.

In the front yard.

The roots had been a problem for a while. We’d dug them up once and they’d grown back. The dirt is hard out here and the tree could not grow down, so it grew out. But never in a million years did we think the roots would reach under the house to the front yard. It was a good 40 feet from the trunk and under at least 25 feet of concrete.

Shea did an inspection around the house and found something even worse. There was a four foot sprout under the fence in the neighbor’s yard. And the neighbors, God bless them, have a pool. The sprout was very close to the edge of the pool.

The trees had to come down.

Maybe you think that would be an easy decision, but it’s not. We picked those trees and grew those trees. We have pictures of them when they were $35 saplings and now they were giants. It was painful to end something so grand and proud. I almost felt like I had tricked them into life and now at my convenience, they had to go.

It took 20 minutes to cut down seven years of life. The kids and I watched from the window and I felt every moment of it.

Then last weekend we went camping. Our gardener is on vacation, so we’ve missed a cut. When we came home Sunday, this is what we saw in the backyard.

Life will out.

We cut down two trees. And forty sprouted up in their place. It’s worth thinking about, huh?

PS: I know that Shea has to get out there and take those sprouts down, but in my heart, I am rooting for the sprouts.

Nightclub Lighting ~ Jen

There’s no better lighting in the world than in a nightclub: shadowy, mysterious, forgiving. It is no mistake that nightclub lighting is a thing, because everyone looks good in nightclub lighting.

But then there’s this: you hit the darkened ladies room at the club, where you see that your hair and make-up look great after hours of dancing. Woohoo, I look like a rock star!

An hour later you get a good look at yourself in the bathroom mirror at home. In bright light, your smoky eyes look raccoonish, you’re wearing your friend’s orangey shade of lipstick by mistake and half your hair fell out of your ‘doo. Dang, why didn’t anyone tell me I looked like a mess?

Life can be like this too.

I lived my entire 20s in nightclub lighting, both real and figurative, so I know. I wanted to be shadowy and mysterious. No one really knew me. Including me. Lots of unanswered questions.

Eventually I realized two things: no one wants to marry a mystery and God wanted me to be my best real self. And yes, it was in that order. But whatever—I got there, is the point. I knew Nightclub lighting was not doing it for me if I wanted the things I wanted. I needed real, honest to goodness light. No shadows, no mystery.

I was 28 when I stepped out into the light. It wasn’t pretty. Tired eyes, wrinkles and extra pounds, both physical and spiritual. For a while, the light I stood in was harsh and unrelenting. Plenty of times, I wanted to look down or cover my eyes. But I knew that if I was going to be real, I had to face it. All of it. Not “my truth”. The Truth.

If I had tried to do this without God, I don’t know what would have happened. I guess I could have been a boat bobbing on the sea of self-help, searching for a philosophical port of call. I get why people do this. It’s the Wizard of Oz syndrome: If I make a lot of noise over here—on my social media, to my colleagues, in my relationships—then perhaps no will pay any attention to the real me behind the curtain. Including me.

But I was raised with God, so I went home to God, like the prodigal daughter that I was. I knew that God wanted me to be happy. I knew God wanted me to be married and a mom. It hadn’t happened because I wasn’t ready yet, and God is wise.

I stood in that bright light and looked at what parts needed work. I was rough, angry, loud. I was a big fish at work and it was making me cocky and disrespectful. I drank too much. I ate too much. I was complacent.

So I went back to Church. I started keeping a journal. I stopped drinking as much and started exercising more.

I changed jobs, which was humbling and knocked me out of my comfort zone. I needed that. It was a challenge.

I started a master’s program.

I tried to be more well-rounded. I stopped living at work, said no to unnecessary projects and didn’t feel guilty about it. I traveled more. I got a 403b and life insurance.

I acted like a grown up child of God. And slowly, the harsh light turned warm.

It didn’t happen overnight. I did my part. I worked hard. I didn’t become a perfect person—I still have sharp edges and motherhood has made me loud once again. But I know it now. I don’t run for the shadows to hide who and what I am. No matter how hard it is, I know what to do.

Stay with God. Stay with the Truth. Stand in the light.

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