Month: March 2012

Short-Circuited

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Two hours ago, I was at a funeral for Martha, a 92-year-old Secular Franciscan and mother of 7.  Her son, a Franciscan priest, spoke in his homily about how his mother had dedicated her life to raising her children–so much so that when they were grown, she was at a little bit of a loss as to what to do.  He remembered that although there wasn’t much money, he and his siblings were always well-taken-care-of.  And I know that she became a kind of surrogate mother to many of the priests from his community, especially those whose mothers had passed away or lived very far away.  But Father B’s memories of his mother were deeply rooted in her motherly care.  She loved her children very much and did her best for them always.

One hour ago, I was speeding driving from the funeral to an imaging center, where I was scheduled to have an MRI at 1:00.  It took a long time to get that appointment.  I was two minutes away when my cell phone rang.  It was the school nurse; Little Brother wasn’t feeling well, and school nurses don’t tend to take chances when kids report bellyaches when there’s a Nasty Stomach Virus going around.  I explained where I was and that I would try to reach someone to pick him up.

No one answered the house phone, although Big Brother is home for spring break this week.  He didn’t answer his cell phone either.  And my neighbor, my emergency back-up plan, didn’t answer her home phone. TheDad works 50 miles away.  So I walked into the reception area at the imaging center and explained my situation.  I asked if there was any way this appointment could be rescheduled.  They were able to accommodate my request, so now I have to wait almost another week to have this test done.  And I’ll miss my volunteer time at the school library because of it.

For Martha, family came first.  Around here, it’s got to be the same way.  I left Little Brother’s birthday celebration last night for a little while so I could attend a prayer service that the Secular Franciscans have at the wake.  But the rest of the family was home, friends were visiting,  and he was having fun.  Because we’re all alone in this part of the state, I don’t have family close by on whom I can impose with a sick child when I’ve got something else to do.  Sometimes the back-up plan doesn’t work out.

A week or so ago, someone wrote about patient endurance.  Of course, I can’t find it now that I’m looking for it.  But that’s exactly what I’m called to have right now.

Instead, I spent the entire 15-minute drive (yes, I was speeding) from the imaging center to the school vacillating between two thoughts:  “I hope Little Brother’s OK” and “He’d better really be sick after all this.”  He doesn’t seem too sick, for which I am thankful and irritated all at the same time.  After all, it’s not like I was heading out to yoga class or lunch with a friend.  I need to get answers about this health issue, and that’s just been put off for another week.

It’s frustrating to be short-circuited, especially when you’re on your way to an MRI.  (And even more especially when you get home to find that Big Brother had been there all along, but he didn’t bother picking up the house phone and his phone was set to “alarm only.”)

Father B said today that he will pray to his mother, asking her to go to bat for him in prayer just as she always had done.  I think I will do the same.  After all, she’s a mother too (and one with a wonderful sense of humor).

UPDATE:  Finally remembered where I saw the essay on patient endurance.  I need to reread it, especially since it appears more and more that I have raised The Boy Who Cried Wolf.

By Weight, and not by Volume

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Remember the fine print on boxes or bags of snacks?  You don’t see it so much anymore–I guess we’re used to seeing half a package of air when we open something.  But it would read something like:

This product is sold by weight and not by volume.  Some settling of the contents may occur during shipping and handling.

Even as a kid, I realized that this was a lame attempt at heading off at the pass some disgruntled consumer who wanted a package full of snacks, not air.  The disclaimer was never a good thing.

I was reminded of that bit of fine print this morning when I heard the Gospel.

Jesus said to his disciples, “Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful.  Stop judging and you will not be judged.  Stop condemning and you will not be condemned.  Forgive and you will be forgiven.  Give and gifts will be given to you; a good measure, packed together, shaken down, and overflowing, will be poured into your lap.  For the measure with which you measure will in return be measured out to you.”  (Luke 6: 36-38)

There’s no disclaimer in that Gospel, because God’s love and God’s gifts don’t come with a disclaimer.  He doesn’t work that way.

If you bake, you know that weight and volume are not the same in terms of quantity.  In fact, they can be very different.  Depending on how much you “shake down” the cup of flour, you can get about another 1/4 cup in there.  The same is true with brown sugar–“pack” it down and you can really increase the quantity.  Too much (or too little) flour or brown sugar or any other ingredient can really mess up the finished product.  That’s why expert bakers insist on measuring by weight rather than by volume.

It’s a good thing that God is not a baker, though, because Jesus tells us in today’s Gospel that God is not concerned by volume when it comes to love, mercy, forgiveness.  He’s going to pack in as much as our cups can hold–and then some, until they are overflowing.

And all that is expected in return is that we try to do the same for the others we encounter.

 

Stuck in the Middle with You

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It’s the Sandwich Generation Blues.  We are, quite literally, right in the middle of it.

Two out of three of our kids can’t drive yet, and one’s not old enough to be left at home alone while I run to Shop-Rite.  So I’m still in the middle of the Mom’s Taxi Years.  Between the hours of 3 and 9 PM, it’s hit or miss whether you’d be able to find me at home.  You’re more likely to find me in the jughandle at the intersection with Route 130 on my way to or from the high school.  And that’s OK.  It’s where I expected to be at this point in my life.

But now, my husband is grappling with the dilemmas his family faces; his mom, a widow, is no longer able to drive due to deteriorating health.  Her ability to live alone is quickly waning–more quickly than she or other family members are willing to admit.  And we live 75 miles away.

It’s frustrating and difficult.  I’m juggling kid-transportation, attempting not to think about some unresolved health issues of my own, and generally trying to keep all the wheels spinning here at home while he works hard, manages his mom’s finances, and runs a 50-boy Cub Scout pack.  Oftentimes, his head is not in the game when he’s here, because he’s worrying about other things–important things.

There’s a lot of “woulda, coulda, shoulda” going on, a lot of conflict with family members who aren’t on the same page.  He keeps most of it to himself; he almost never wants to talk about work, but today he did unload some of the burden of what’s been going on within his family.  We had breakfast at the diner, which we’ll have to stop doing soon, because this is about to affect our budget in a big way, so we could get out of the house and talk through some of this.

Sometimes I get that guilty feeling because I think I should do more, but I don’t want to.  And I don’t think it would work out well if I did.  I know he’s hurt, though, that I don’t.

Meanwhile, I try to keep those wheels spinning here at home.  I try to be flexible (whenever possible) about his extremely erratic arrivals for dinner and sudden changes of plans, though I often fail to be gracious about them.  That’s a part of his burden that I should be willing, as well as able, to shoulder.

We’re stuck in the middle right now, and he’s going to need to be able to lean on me.  I have failed in so many ways.  Now, I pray for the strength he will need, and that I will be strong enough and generous enough to be his support.