October, 2002: Oh Yeah, Life goes on....

Little ditty about Jack and Diane. Two American kids growin’ up in the heartland.  John Mellencamp’s popular song makes me uneasy. Whenever it comes on the radio as I’m making the bed or driving the kids to school, I stop and listen. And the refrain that comes shortly after that famous beginning always startles me. Makes me swallow hard. Makes me bite my lip and check to see if it is true for me yet.

            Oh yeah, life goes on,

 Long after the thrill of livin’ is gone.

            Part of me wants to believe there is no truth to the lyric at all — that life gets more exciting the older you get, with the golden years — not the teenage ones — topping out as the best. But another part of me hears the reality in the lines. There is something unequivocally thrilling about being young. I see it in my own children. My son, Liam, 4, actually starts to bounce when he is offered sprinkles on his vanilla ice cream cone, and Jacob, 7, yowls in delight at the announcement of a family walk to the park. Children’s developmental changes between birth and young adulthood mean that every year they’re doing things they’ve never done before, whether it’s riding a two-wheeler or catching a football or kissing someone for the first time.

And even if they’ve had ice cream with sprinkles or walks to the park before, they’ve surely not had them hundreds of times. They’re in their first round of these little treats. And that’s why it’s thrilling.

Parents have the privilege of some vicarious thrills. Listening to Jacob read his first book, beginning to end, would fall into the ‘thrilling’ category for me. And anyone with a toddler knows the oddly victorious feeling that comes from witnessing the first tinkle on the potty.

While experiencing second-hand thrills through my children is undoubtedly one of the sweetest parts of parenting, Mellencamp’s song reminds me I need to be careful not to allow these second-hand thrills to become my only thrills. My husband and I need to have thrills that are ours alone. And in the midst of a house littered with the socks, toys and grubby fingerprints of small boys, it can seem like personal thrills come few and far between.

Oh yeah, life goes on,

Long after the thrill of livin’ is gone.

 One reason that childhood and adolescence are arguably more thrilling than adulthood is that children are not allowed to stay in one place for long. First grade is replaced by second and J.V. becomes varsity. Change is a regular part of the life of a child or teen, and change automatically brings challenge. And thrills.

Adults don’t have the luxury of someone else moving us along. Whether or not we stay in a job that’s comfortable, but too easy, is our own decision. The ruts we often fall into — cooking the same spaghetti recipe every Monday, sticking with the same hobbies or exercise plan, even praying the same way we’ve always prayed — are ours to keep if we choose. While no one would allow a child to remain in kindergarten a few years because she doesn’t want to replace finger painting with reading and math, few question an adult’s choice of comfort over challenge. But the decision not to change or challenge ourselves is what makes the lyric of this song come true.

Oh yeah, life goes on,

Long after the thrill of livin’ is gone.

We have a magic marker sign, made by Jacob, taped to our pantry door. It says, “Holy Spirit, Help us to be brave, strong friends of Jesus.” It’s decorated with three crosses, a couple stars and yellow zigzags.

That sign has become a prayer to me as well as a challenge. It’s also the closest thing I have to a rebuttal to Mellencamp’s refrain. By definition, you can’t be either strong or brave if you’re not doing something difficult. And conquering the difficult is always thrilling.

Jacob’s carefully drawn words of  “Help us to be brave, strong friends of Jesus” remind me that living as a Christian should be thrilling, because Jesus’ way is very different from what is easy and ordinary. The sign tells me that during those times when I wonder if the thrills are fading, I need to delve deeper into what bravery and strength mean in terms of Christianity.

I know a couple who, in their early thirties, left stable jobs and took their two young children to Tanzania, Africa, for a couple years of volunteer work. Another couple I know — with five children — regularly opens their home to poor women and their children who need a hot meal or a temporary place to stay.  No worry about the “thrill of livin’” leaving anytime soon for these two families.

Every thrill starts with fear. The thrilling moment comes when we break through that fear — the moment we decide: “I’m terrified, but I’m going forward anyway.” 

And when this decision to go forward despite fear is applied to following the teachings of Jesus — to loving others, to standing up for justice, to serving the poor — we become both brave and strong. We become people alive with the thrill of Gospel living.

September, 2002: Abduction of Values

This past summer and spring, it seemed that each week, there was news of a new child abduction. From Milwaukee’s little Alexis Patterson to Utah’s Elizabeth Smart, each case left me nauseated and afraid. For awhile, I reacted to the stories as if my responsibility as a mother was to assume an abduction could happen to my two boys — ages 7 and 4 — anywhere, anytime. I hovered on the porch as they played in front of the house. I took note of unfamiliar cars in our neighborhood. My husband and I reviewed the “don’t go with strangers” rule and rehashed our “these body parts are private” discussions.  We amended our talks about being nice to everyone and gave our usually-polite little boys  permission to yell and scream and bite and kick if anyone ever tried to take them. Mostly, we walked the tightrope between not scaring the boys with too much information and giving them enough to offer some protection.

Protection. The more I thought about the role my husband and I have as our children’s protectors (in addition to being their cooks, garbage collectors, chauffeurs and entertainers), the less likely abduction by a stranger seemed and the more likely abduction by society in general became. While strangers snatching children is still so rare and terrible that it makes front page news, the abduction of a child’s value system is so common, many of us don’t see it anymore.

I decided I needed be less worried about some nameless villain lurking in the shadows and more worried about the dominant American culture kidnapping the souls of my sons.

Every generation of parents has had its own enemy to fight in terms of protecting their young. Ages ago, cold winters, starvation and wild animals posed the biggest danger to children. In the more recent past, parents were terrified of polio. Today, the biggest threats to our children are insidious and in disguise. Materialism, consumerism, and a culture that glorifies violence, casual sex and self-centeredness prey on our children on a daily basis.

For the first time in human history, many stand to gain more — at least in the short term — by corrupting children than by caring for them. 

There is money to be made in selling children toys they don’t need and clothes that will go out of style in six months; in convincing them to buy food that corrodes their arteries and entertainment that corrodes their minds. There’s money to be made in taking teens’ natural interest in sex and using it to sell everything from CDs to TV shows to glossy girls’ magazines. Too many stand to make a huge profit if they can convince children that in all things, more is not enough.

I realized, as I watched my little boys play in the front yard, that the Gospel values of living simply, caring little for possessions and reaching out to the marginalized are not only different than the values of society at large, but are actually at odds with those values. And that’s where abduction comes in. Because in order for big corporations to convince my sons that they need to watch a cartoon with rude or violent characters, buy countless plastic action figures or judge people by the brands they’re wearing, they will first need to convince my children that the values they have been taught at home are wrong. They will need to steal our family’s — our faith’s — teachings. And they’re working hard to do it — with clever billboards, slick commercials, and even by using those children whose value systems they’ve already stolen.

But my husband and I, and many parents we know, are working just as hard. Having been given the gift and responsibility of parenthood, we are holding tight to our children, even as our culture strains to pull them from us. We are seeing through the empty promises of commercials and are teaching our children to do the same. We are deciding that driving past is often better than driving “thru.” We are acting as guardians and protectors of our children — making decisions about what music, TV programs and clothes are welcome in our home — and which are not. And most importantly, we are making choices in our own lives that teach our children that we value helping people and protecting the earth over buying more and more stuff. 

And yet, I know no matter what we do, it is still possible that our children’s values may be abducted, for there are no guarantees. We offer them the best protection we know and send them out into the world — and we pray they will not be taken.

August, 2002-- Shopping for my boy in the Girls department

            Three years ago, when my son Liam was just beginning to toddle, all of his clothes were cute. Tiny trains made their way across the front of his overalls. Smiling lions peeked out from pockets. Some of his hats even had ears. A friend of mine has a girl, Tyra, about the same age, and her baby clothes were darling as well. Fuzzy kittens, ladybugs, the whole bit. When Liam turned three, though, something changed. While Tyra's clothes continued to sprout animals with big eyes and goofy grins, Liam's became more subdued. Tyra had bumblebees, elephants and Elmo. Liam had flannel shirts and jeans.

  Shopping for a gift in the little girls' department, I found it bursting whimsical patterns and bright colors. The boys' department, on the other hand, was determined to stay serious, concentrating instead on forest green and all things sports. I was annoyed.

It wasn't that I wanted my son to wear daisies and frills or to be any less masculine. The child exited the womb knowing how to make car sounds, and could hit solid grounders before he was out of diapers. I was fine with that. It was just that when I described him as a little boy, "little" was the operative word, and I wanted his clothing to reflect this. At age three, he had more in common with the drooling baby a few doors down than he did with the preteen boys in their low-riding jeans who skateboarded on our street. And I knew that there was precious little time this would be true.

After looking at one too many rugby shirts one day while folding laundry, I decided to beat the system. Armed with my charge card, I strode into the local department store and headed for the pink sign that said Girls. After flipping through a few racks of shirts that were too flowery, too frilly, or too pink, I found what I was looking for: a striped blue and white sweater, size four. There were no flowers, no bows, no ruffles. On the front though, was sewn an adorable fuzzy brown bear. The ears stuck out, and the bear smiled at me shyly as I looked at it. It was the perfect sweater for a three-year-old boy.

Liam loved the sweater, and so did his buddies on our block. I was hooked. When I wanted a new outfit for him to wear for his first day of pre-school, I did only a cursory check of the boys' department, then went to the girls' section and found a navy sweater vest stitched with primary colored ABC's, crayons and pencils. He wore it with a crisp white t-shirt and khaki pants.

When I told my friends about my exciting discovery, showing them my newest find, a red Winnie-the-Pooh sweatshirt, they seemed confused. They wondered why I cared what he wore. I paused at their questions. Why did I care so much? I’m a woman who doesn’t know the current fashion trend until it makes its way to the clearance rack. In my free time, I read Newsweek, not Vogue. Why was I suddenly so concerned about the wardrobe possibilities for young boys?

            Upon reflection, I discovered my concerns went deeper than the clothes themselves. What bothers me is the message implicit in the difference between boys' and girls' clothes. The fact that my husband could safely wear a larger size of just about anything in the boys' department, but I'd look ridiculous in adult versions of the little girl clothes tells me that it’s okay for girls to be small and cute, but boys are expected to be little men. While strides have been made in the last generation, it's still true that girls can cry when their feelings are hurt, but boys are expected to hold back their tears. Middle school girls take stuffed animals to slumber parties; boys leave theirs in the darkness of their own bedrooms. Studies show that parents tend to hug and touch their little girls more than their boys. And a baby boy might be referred to as a "tough" little guy, but few would use the same adjective for a baby girl. There is something unsettling about these things. All children have the right to be children; to be small and protected, to be vulnerable and un-tough. They need to be able to cry and be held. They need permission to be kids in a world which seems intent on selling adulthood to children.

The flip side of my problem with little boys’ clothes, my friends with girls tell me, is that once their girls outgrow size 7, the stores offer them slinky, midriff-baring, Brittany-inspired outfits that would be more appropriate on a rock stage than a playground. Should these moms visit the boys’ department for some nice solid-colored turtlenecks to wear under those outfits? Yikes.

             As far as four-year-old Liam is concerned, though, Girls 4-7 continues to offer strong possibilities occasionally. While I know that bright colors and ABC's won't change everything, a fuzzy bear on the front Liam's sweater might remind me how young he really is; it might make me bend down and touch his chubby cheeks. Though I may not even be conscious of it, that bear might earn my son an extra hug. And I'll shop for extra hugs in whatever department sells them.

*          *          *

March, 2002 Jacob's first ashes

Jacob, my first grader, received ashes this past Ash Wednesday for the first time. And I wept.

I didn’t expect for it to be such an emotional experience. After all, receiving ashes is not a sacrament, and sometimes children much younger than my son receive them as they stand next to their parents. As a preschooler and kindergartener, though, little Jacob had hid his face behind my leg as I received my ashes, so that the unfamiliar minister could not mark his forehead. This Ash Wednesday, though, Jacob was not with me for Mass. He was with his class, and I was a dozen pews behind him, with the rest of the parents. There would be no leg to hide behind.

            As Jacob approached the sixth grade teacher to receive his ashes, I was one aisle over, in line for my own ashes, watching him.

            Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

            Dust. In moments, the teacher was going to tell my son he was dust, and that he would return to dust someday. The teacher was going to tell Jacob he would someday die. And standing in line to receive my own ashes, I knew she was speaking the truth. But hearing the words repeated over and over as each person before me received his or her ashes, I recognized that I held in my heart the tiniest hope that this phrase wouldn’t be true for my son. That Jacob would somehow beat the system. That he wouldn’t suffer and die like the rest of us. That maybe, if my husband and I could just love him enough, dust to dust would not apply.

            Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

            In his homily, the priest had explained the phrase to the children by saying we are only on Earth a certain amount of time. He had held his hands about three feet apart, emphasizing with each hand the beginning and the end of life. During this life, he said, Jesus wants us to be the very best disciples we can be. The ashes remind us we only have a short time to do this.

            And as I looked at Jacob, now just three children away from receiving his ashes, I suddenly realized that his time to be a disciple had already begun. He was old enough to understand Father’s homily; old enough to understand about life being about 80 years if you’re lucky and possibly much shorter. He was old enough to start being a disciple. 

            And that’s when my tears welled. For there is something wonderful and terrible about watching someone you love become a disciple. Being a follower of Jesus is never easy, if you do it right. And to invite a child to become a disciple is to invite that child to enter into some of the suffering that discipleship requires. Parental love made me want to shield my son from any pain. Christian love called me to help him learn to live his life in a rhythm of continual dying and rising with Christ.

Earlier, on the way to school, Jacob and I had talked about the rice that he and his classmates would have for lunch that day as part of Operation Rice Bowl. The money saved from not buying the regular school menu items would be given to the poor. As I drove, we talked about the circumstances of the children in the world who do not get enough to eat each day. I asked Jacob why he thought we chose to eat just rice, and didn’t simply eat our regular food, and give the same amount of money to the poor. How can your hunger help kids so far away? I asked. Troubled, Jacob thought for a moment, then said that maybe if we were hungry after lunch because of just eating rice, we would understand a little how it must feel to be hungry all the time, and maybe we would help more because of it.

Old enough to understand. Old enough to be a disciple.

And so, my son stepped forward to receive his ashes. And I stood, watching—somehow as both parent and fellow journeyer. Dust to dust, dear Jacob. Life is so short. Live as a disciple. 

January, 2002: Thanks Mom and Dad for Catholic Education

My parents gave me the gift of 16 years of Catholic education and I’m not sure I ever thanked them for it. From first grade on, I went to school in places where we prayed daily, worshiped together at Mass, and learned about our faith just as surely as we learned our math facts and our parts of speech. While my parents knew I was getting a good education and they were happy with my faith formation, they couldn’t know exactly how my Catholic education was forming me. They couldn’t know, in part, because I didn’t know myself. Not at the time. I never came home from school and said, “Mom, I learned something today that will affect my faith development for the rest of my life.”  Instead, I drank in my Catholic education like it was water, breathed it like it was air — and took it for granted just as surely as I take water and air for granted. So today, on the eve of Catholic School’s Week, I have decided it is time I let my parents know just what it was they gave me, and thank them for it. 

Dear Mom and Dad,

            The strangest thing about the gift of a Catholic education is I didn’t realize it was a gift at the time. Even as a kid, I usually recognized gifts. I remember exclaiming over the Weebles Tree House you gave me for my sixth birthday, and gasping over the Barbie camper I received on my ninth. I remember hugging you for the pink running suit (so 80’s) that I ran in all through high school. But I know I never thanked you properly for the sixteen-years-long, thousands-of-dollars-later, skip-that-vacation and wait-on-the-new-furniture gift of a Catholic education.

I didn’t know what it meant at the time, but now, with two kids in Catholic school, and another toddling toward it at breakneck speed, I understand. And so I will thank you for the pieces of my education you could not have known about.

            Thank you for fourth grade at Holy Family with Mrs. Foti. I still remember our class’ role planning the Mass on the last day of school. The Catholic Church may have higher holy days than the last Mass before summer vacation, but as a nine-year-old, I couldn’t think of anything bigger than sending everyone into the summer with a holy bang. Fourth grade was 1978, and guitar Masses were all the rage. We wrote the petitions and chose songs based on the readings. We belted out, “They’ll Know We are Christians by our Love,” keeping beat on our tambourines. I learned that planning a liturgy was not a job reserved for priests or mysterious adult leaders. A fourth grader could do it. A girl could do it. At nine, I learned what “we are the church” really means.

            Thank you for seventh and eighth grade with Mrs. Gallagher. I definitely didn’t tell you what I learned from Mrs. Gallagher, because she taught a human sexuality unit as part of religion class. She would allow us to write our questions on little slips of paper and she’d answer them. Mrs. Gallagher blended frank answers with Church teaching; she provided me with a lens through which I could see a sacredness to sexuality that I may have missed otherwise. Those religion classes, coupled with a marriage and family class I had in high school, shaped decisions I made in dating.

            Throughout high school, I doubt if I ever mentioned Fr. Jerry. Fr. Jerry was not a headline teacher. He was thin, quiet and seemed a little shy. But then again, compared to a shrieking adolescent girl, who doesn’t seem shy? Fr. Jerry taught Justice and Peace at Dominican. He pushed us beyond the boundaries of the upper-middle class North Shore. He made us look at poverty and oppression and ask the question, “Why?” And ask it again. Fr. Jerry started me thinking about injustice, both in the U.S. and across our borders. I would not have read the U.S. Bishops 1986 Pastoral Letter on Catholic Social Teaching if it weren’t for Fr. Jerry. It was a letter that told me that it was okay to rock the boat —  that in fact, rocking the boat was part of our calling as Catholics.

            And then there’s your biggest ticket item. Marquette University. You gave me the choice between Catholic and public; I chose Catholic and never even saw you wince. My experience of Marquette was 10 p.m. Masses at Joan of Arc Chapel, retreats and campus ministry. Marquette was a week doing service work with Brother Booker Ashe in Milwaukee’s inner city and a week in Appalachia, helping repair run-down houses. Marquette built on what Mrs. Foti, Mrs. Gallagher and Fr. Jerry started. Marquette handed me the Catholic baton, told me it was my Church and to take off toward adulthood running hard and strong, with that baton always in hand.

            I’m sorry I didn’t thank you at the time. I was too busy relating stories of sixth grade cliques and explaining exactly why I didn’t like algebra. I remember complaining to you about various teachers throughout the years and about Marquette University’s refusal to divest from South Africa. These Catholic schools were far from perfect, and I made sure you knew exactly why.

            But perfect or not, in most ways, Holy Family, Dominican and Marquette University reinforced what you taught at home. By the time I graduated, prayer and faith were not abstract concepts but living and real parts of my life. Working for justice was not someone else’s responsibility; it was mine. Catholic schools gave me an ownership of my Catholic faith that I’m not sure I could have developed in any other way.

 The Weebles Tree House, the Barbie camper and the pink running suit are all fond memories now. I really can’t say what became of any of them. But I know what became of the Catholic education. Somehow, it became me.

Love, your daughter,

Annemarie