For the past few days I’ve been looking at the numbers on the calendar, growing more and more introspective as we inched closer to August 6. It was 20 years ago today that I learned the baby I was carrying, my second baby, had died 11 weeks into my pregnancy.

With a mother’s intuition, I had known something was wrong during that pregnancy from a couple of weeks before. The day Dennis and I — with Noah in tow — went to the midwife for my regular check up, I didn’t even take the little tape recorder with me to capture the sound of baby’s heartbeat, so convinced was I that I would hear only silence. I went back for the recorder only after Dennis insisted. But somehow I knew. Because when you are a mother sometimes you just know things about your children, even when there is no logical reason you should, even when they are still growing inside you.

When we went for the ultrasound to confirm the miscarriage, we saw the perfect form of our baby up on the screen. I remember Dennis looking so happy, thinking everything was okay after all, and me pointing out that the heart was still. No blinking blip. No more life.

With that same mother’s intuition, no matter how busy or stressed I am, no matter how many other things I seem to forget as I race through my life at breakneck speed, I never forget this anniversary. It is imprinted on my heart. As the date nears, I feel a stillness settling in, a quiet place amid the chaos, a space reserved just for this baby, the one I never to got hold, the one I call Grace.

In the past, I have talked about the ways Grace shaped our family by her absence rather than her presence, and that truth remains with me. I am very much aware of the fact that life would be very different had she lived. She managed to leave her mark on us, even without taking a breath. She lingers here, not only in my heart but around the edges of our lives — especially the lives of our two girls who followed her. I know them because I did not know Grace. What a sorrowful and yet beautiful impact she had on us.

So thank you, baby, for all that you were and all that you have given us without ever setting foot on this earth. The power of one small life.

The post Miscarriage: Love and loss 20 years later appeared first on Not Strictly Spiritual.

For the past few days I’ve been looking at the numbers on the calendar, growing more and more introspective as we inched closer to August 6. It was 19 years ago today that I learned the baby I was carrying, my second baby, had died 11 weeks into my pregnancy.

With a mother’s intuition, I had known something was wrong during that pregnancy from a couple of weeks before. The day Dennis and I — with Noah in tow — went to the midwife for my regular check up, I didn’t even take the little tape recorder with me to capture the sound of baby’s heartbeat, so convinced was I that I would hear only silence. I went back for the recorder only after Dennis insisted. But somehow I knew. Because when you are a mother sometimes you just know things about your children, even when there is no logical reason you should, even when they are still growing inside you.

When we went for the ultrasound to confirm the miscarriage, we saw the perfect form of our baby up on the screen. I remember Dennis looking so happy, thinking everything was okay after all, and me pointing out that the heart was still. No blinking blip. No more life.

With that same mother’s intuition, no matter how busy or stressed I am, no matter how many other things I seem to forget as I race through my life at breakneck speed, I never forget this anniversary. It is imprinted on my heart. As the date nears, I feel a stillness settling in, a quiet place amid the chaos, a space reserved just for this baby, the one I never to got hold, the one I call Grace.

In the past, I have talked about the ways Grace shaped our family by her absence rather than her presence, and that truth remains with me. I am very much aware of the fact that life would be very different had she lived. She managed to leave her mark on us, even without taking a breath. She lingers here, not only in my heart but around the edges of our lives — especially the lives of our two girls who followed her. I know them because I did not know Grace. What a sorrowful and yet beautiful impact she had on us.

So thank you, baby, for all that you were and all that you have given us without ever setting foot on this earth. The power of one small life.

The post Miscarriage: love and loss 19 years later appeared first on Not Strictly Spiritual.

We started making “helpful” suggestions about things Noah could be doing differently in his social life, his work life, his life in general. He listened patiently, reminding us ever so gently at one point that he was doing pretty well (really well, actually) in terms of academics and everything else.

Later that same day, Dennis and I were hiking at a nearby nature preserve, when I had a revelation. There’s something about immersing myself in nature that clears my head. Suddenly, in my mind’s eye, it was 17 years ago, when Noah was only 3 and had just started attending a Montessori pre-school near our home in Austin, Texas. Although we loved everything about the Montessori method, we would get frustrated when, day after day, every time we asked Noah what he had done at school, the answer would be something along the lines of, “I did hand-washing work.”

Dennis and I—fully in first-child parenting mode—would roll our eyes and obsess over what seemed like a total waste of Noah’s time and our money. How much are we paying for him to wash his hands? Why isn’t he taking advantage of the more interesting “work” that was available? We reminded Noah that when we had been at the open house, we saw a really cool farmhouse over in the corner. We suggested he play with that when he returned to school.

When we picked Noah up after his four-hour stint the next day, we asked how things went, waiting hopefully for news of the farmhouse. Looking a little forlorn for a boy of 3, he told us he had tried to play with the farmhouse, but the teacher told him he wasn’t ready for that work yet. That was for the older children. And so, poor Noah took the correction that rightly belonged to his parents.

I recalled all of this out loud to Dennis as we stood on a wooden bridge, the words tumbling from my mouth like the water rushing over the falls below us. “This is just like what we did to Noah with Austin Montessori,” I said, somewhat stunned by my own realization. We think we know better, but sometimes our children really do know what’s best for themselves, whether they are 3 years old or nearing 21. They live in their own world, in their own skin, and if we’ve done our job as parents, they know what they need to do—or not do.

Both Noah and Olivia, 17, are navigating the difficult path of young adulthood quite nicely, not only acing their schoolwork but steering clear of the pitfalls and problems that often plague so many high school and college kids. It’s time for us to start trusting that, while they might need some occasional guidance and figurative hand-holding now and then, they really do know how to handle the day-to-day rhythm of their own life circumstances better than we do at this point.

A few nights later, with our family gathered around the kitchen table again, we explained to the kids (including Chiara, who at 12 has many years of parental instruction ahead) that we recognize our own misguided attempts to try to live their lives for them out of our own fears for their futures.

We can’t prevent the inevitable failures and heartaches—theirs or our own. And that’s OK, because we only succeed by failing now and then. We’ll all get to the farmhouse when the timing is right.

This column originally appeared in the Aug. 3, 2017, issue of Catholic New York.

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Ever since we moved back to New York after almost six years in Texas, we’ve heard the same thing over and over again from friends, relatives, co-workers, and absolute strangers: Are you ready for the loooooong winter? As if we live in Nome, Alaska.

We smile and remind everyone that – in addition to the fact that we’ve already lived through a loooooong winter in upstate New York since arriving here in early January last year – we were born and raised not all that far from here. Our kids may not have seen snow before landing at Newark International Airport, but I have many fond memories of snow days and sleigh riding, cold toes and hot cocoa. Yes, we’re ready for the loooooong winter because it gives us a chance to sloooooow down.

With the holidays behind us and months of cold weather ahead, there is nothing to do but put on an extra sweater and switch into slow gear. (OK, there is the fairly regular need to shovel the driveway, but we have to get exercise somewhere, right?) Winter is a time to sit by the fire and read a chapter book with Noah, to play Chutes and Ladders for the gazillionth time and maybe not even mind so much, to sip a cup of tea in the middle of a Saturday afternoon because it’s too cold to take the kids to the park. Am I ready for this? I can’t wait for it.

As someone who has spent her fair share of years away from the ebb and flow of the seasons, I can assure you that it is a wonderful thing, too wonderful to miss, really. It’s easy to take the beauty of winter for granted until you’ve lived in a place where it’s summer almost year-round.

I was reminded of that one unseasonably warm afternoon early last month when I decided to take the kids on a hike. I almost didn’t suggest it because I knew the trees would be bare, the trails would be lifeless, and the sounds of nature would be muted. As we set out on Beaver Trail, with Olivia in the backpack and Noah leading the way, I was struck by the awesome splendor of the woods around us.

The stark, rigid lines of winter brought everything into focus. We could see things we had never seen before – beyond waterfalls, behind fallen trees, past fields and pine groves. We even surprised a deer. Actually, he surprised us before bounding up a hill.

I felt rejuvenated by the knowledge that winter was coming and with it some much-needed time to refocus our attention on what’s important to our family. Maybe, if we’re lucky, our own vision will become winter-sharp and we’ll see beyond the boundaries we usually set for ourselves.

I wanted to shake off the record-breaking warmth of that day and feel the cold, crisp air of winter catch in my lungs. I wanted a reason to do nothing more than gather the kids in the family room with a big bowl of popcorn, our costume box and a pile of books.

Sure, snow can be a hassle. We have to shovel it. We have to drive in it. We have to get on with the details of our lives and sometimes it slows us down. But that can be a good thing. That’s why God invented toboggans and miniature marshmallows.

Are we ready for the loooooong winter? Let’s just say that for the first time in 30 years I own a pair of snow pants.

This column originally appeared in Catholic New York in January, 2002.

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This is a season that asks us to be patient, to bask in the waiting even as the rest of the world rushes us to deck the halls and play Christmas music. This is a season that asks us to hold things in tension—birth and death, Christ’s arrival in a manger and Christ’s second coming—even as the rest of the world urges us to focus on buying gifts and accumulating things.

The Advent wreath serves as a visible sign of God’s impending arrival, a growing glow and sense of anticipation as we prepare to celebrate again, as if for the first time, God’s willingness to break into our world and live among us as one of us. Light beyond all bounds. Light that never goes out. Light that burns within each one of us.

Each time you light the candles on your Advent wreath this season—day by day, week by week—may it be a reminder to step outside the frenetic pace of the world and set your life to a slower rhythm, a sacred cadence that gives you room to breathe in God’s goodness, to revel in the waiting, to look into the darkness all around you and find the Light that can never be extinguished.

You can get a monthly subscription to Give Us This Day by clicking HERE. Why not get one for a friend or family member this Christmas?

The post Lighting the Advent wreath: just hit pause appeared first on Not Strictly Spiritual.

Yesterday I talked with John Harper of the Morning Air Show on Relevant Radio about celebrating Advent with children, young and old. You can listen to that short conversation at the link below. Just advance to the 31:50-minute mark. I hope your Advent is off to a peaceful start, even if your rituals inspire household riots.

Here’s the link to the interview:

http://relevantradio.streamguys.us/MA%20Archive/MA20161129c.mp3

The post Entering Advent, sometimes kicking and screaming appeared first on Not Strictly Spiritual.

The problems arise when we forget our story or get stuck in a bad chapter or let someone else write the story for us. Have you ever walked into a family gathering happy, confident, carefree, only to find yourself crashing downward when a loved one says something (perhaps unconsciously) meant to fit you into someone else’s characterization of you? Suddenly you are 12 years old again and powerless.

I look at my own childhood and my own children, and it’s easy to see how we can sometimes foist our own definitions upon others – the brain, the social butterfly, the daredevil. But when we take a closer look, we see things that go much deeper than the labels. We are all complex beings. We hear everything, see everything from our own unique perspective. Meanwhile, the people we love, the people who drive us crazy, the people we encounter in even the most fleeting moments of our days respond to us from their own perspectives and stories. It’s fascinating and at times frustrating no matter which side of the equation we are on.

How do we defy the definitions that threaten to contain us to the small world other people want us to live in? How do we throw off the labels and embrace the path God has laid before us? By embracing our true selves, the people we were created to be, not the people we think we should be or the people the world – and sometimes the people we love – tell us to be.

In No Man Is an Island, Thomas Merton wrote: “Why do we have to spend our lives striving to be something that we would never want to be, if we only knew what we wanted? Why do we waste our time doing things which, if we only stopped to think about them, are just the opposite of what we were made for?”

Deep inside I think most of us have a sense of what we were made for, and yet we don’t trust ourselves, don’t trust God. We believe what the world tells us – it’s too difficult, you’re not smart enough, it’s crazy, you don’t have the temperament – and we throw obstacles in our own way.

Recently I arrived early for pick-up at Chiara’s gymnastic class and watched as the girls stepped up to the uneven parallel bars to attempt the aptly named “fly-away,” which requires the gymnast to let go of the bar and sail through the air for a few terrifying seconds.

One after another the girls pulled themselves up to the high bar and kicked into a rhythmic movement, but one by one the girls would reach the moment of truth and stop. Their feet would cling to the bar and they’d hang there like a little cocoon, as the coach tried to convince them to let go.

When Chiara, 10, stepped up, I expected the same. I watched as her muscular arms and legs pulled and pumped until she was moving fast and then, without even a nanosecond of hesitation, she flipped her legs up, released her hands and flew into the air as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It was a moment of pure trust.

We start out trusting, all of us, but somewhere along the way the stories people tell us about ourselves become more real than our own truth. Someone makes fun of us or scolds us, highlights a flaw or plants seeds of doubt, and little by little we begin to hold tighter to the bar, afraid if we let go we’ll hit the ground with a splat.

Own your story. Trust your heart. Let God reveal your true self and then let go and soar.

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My brief reflection from Give Us This Day earlier this week:

Whenever we take our children to Manhattan, we are confronted by the reality of “these least brothers” Jesus talks about in today’s Gospel. On subways and street corners they hold out battered cups in battered hands. Our kids look to us to gauge whether we should be doing something, and if not, why not? We tell them we can’t give to every street person. And even as we explain, we fight our own guilt over ignoring those with the least who live among those with the most.

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When it comes to teenagers, you expect a certain amount of eye rolling and apathy, but put those same kids in a faith formation class for an hour and fifteen minutes at the end of a long school day and right at the dinner hour and you’ll see a level of teenage disinterest that could make you wither on the spot. That’s what my husband and I faced when we stood before the 21 high school sophomores we teach at our upstate New York parish.

The scene was nothing new and nothing unexpected. We taught most of the same kids last year since they’re in a two-year program that will culminate in confirmation this spring. However, I’m willing to wager that their apathy isn’t necessarily related to a surge of teenage surliness but rather to a lack of foundational catechesis, and I say that while having taught many of these kids in fourth and fifth grade. I have used every trick in the book—from group activities to stump-the-teacher sessions to outright bribery through baked ziti and brownies—to get these kids to hear me when I talk about the Mass, about the Gospel, about our beautiful Catholic teachings and traditions. Yet every year, when they reluctantly return to class, I find I’m grateful if even half of them remember the Our Father.

When I look out at these kids—regardless of age, regardless of whether they’ve gone to Catholic or public elementary school—I assume I am seeing 75 percent as future ex-Catholics.

Read more HERE.

The post I look at my students and see our future ex-Catholics appeared first on Not Strictly Spiritual.

For the past few days I’ve been looking at the numbers on the calendar, growing more and more introspective as we inched closer to August 6. It was 17 years ago today that I learned the baby I was carrying, my second baby, had died 11 weeks into my pregnancy.

With a mother’s intuition, I had known something was wrong during that pregnancy from a couple of weeks before. The day Dennis and I — with Noah in tow — went to the midwife for my regular check up, I didn’t even take the little tape recorder with me to capture the sound of baby’s heartbeat, so convinced was I that I would hear only silence. I went back for the recorder only after Dennis insisted. But somehow I knew. Because when you are a mother sometimes you just know things about your children, even when there is no logical reason you should, even when they are still growing inside you.

When we went for the ultrasound to confirm the miscarriage, we saw the perfect form of our baby up on the screen. I remember Dennis looking so happy, thinking everything was okay after all, and me pointing out that the heart was still. No blinking blip. No more life.

With that same mother’s intuition, no matter how busy or stressed I am, no matter how many other things I seem to forget as I drive my other three children to and fro, I never forget this anniversary. It is imprinted on my heart. As the date nears, I feel a stillness settling in, a quiet place amid the chaos, a space reserved just for this baby, the one I never to got hold, the one I call Grace.

In the past, I have talked about the ways Grace shaped our family by her absence rather than her presence, and that truth remains with me. I am very much aware of the fact that life would be very different had she lived. She managed to leave her mark on us, even without taking a breath. She lingers here, not only in my heart but around the edges of our lives — especially the lives of our two girls who followed her. I know them because I did not know Grace. What a sorrowful and yet beautiful impact she had on us.

So thank you, baby, for all that you were and all that you have given us without ever setting foot on this earth. The power of one small life.

The post Miscarriage: Love and loss 17 years later appeared first on Not Strictly Spiritual.