May, 2006: Silence those tounges

This past Sunday, two-year-old Jamie seemed especially calm during Mass. I don’t know if it was the Superman fruit snacks I brought along or her newfound ability to draw circles, but I found myself able to attend to the liturgy in a way I haven’t in awhile. And, very oddly for me, what jumped out was the Psalm response.

            I know I’m not supposed to play favorites with parts of the Mass, but I do. I most look forward to the homily and a good one will stick with me for a week or more. My husband and I still talk about several excellent homilies that are now years in the past. Besides the homily, the Eucharist, the Gospel, the Sign of Peace, the second reading and songs — probably in that order—tend to speak to me the most at Mass.  Too often, I regard the first reading, Psalm response, and various other beautiful prayers as transitional parts of the Mass that propel me toward my more favorite parts. Most Sundays, if you would ask me what the Psalm was, I’d probably stare at you blankly. But this past Sunday, Psalm 137 leapt out at me. “Let my tongue be silent, O Lord my God, if I should ever forget about you.”

            To me, that Psalm is laden with meaning, on so many levels. The first thing that came to mind as I sang the words was the difference between my husband and me. Bill is a quiet person. While not shy, he will never be the one to dominate a conversation or a meeting. I’ve never heard him interrupt someone he was speaking to. He is careful about what he says and what he doesn’t say. “You rarely get in trouble for what you don’t say,” he observed once. “The more you talk, the more likely you’re going to say something you regret.”

            I, on the other hand, am a talker. I will talk anywhere, and with anyone. I hope I am a good listener, too, but I know no one would describe me as quiet. I love the spoken word just as I love the written word. I have yet to meet a form of communication I don’t like. E-mail, phone calls, letters, cards, talking while doing sports or doing dishes, chatting at a bar or at a church potluck. I love it all. And perhaps that is why this Psalm struck me so. “Let my tongue be silent O Lord, my God, if I should ever forget about you.” In those words is an admonition for those of us who have the gift of the gab: be careful what you talk about.

I once read that there are three levels of conversation — the lowest level is having a conversation about things, the middle level is having a conversation about people and the highest form of communication is talking about ideas. The Psalm reminds us that if a spirit of the holy doesn’t underline that which we talk about, we have no business chatting at all. This doesn’t mean that we must always speak of lofty ideas— much of life involves talking about when the brake pads should be changed—but our conversation should not lead us away from what is good.

            The other reason the Psalm struck me was because of something I’ve been saying to my boys lately. I have little patience for them being critical of each other, tattling on each other or complaining about what I made for dinner. My catch phrase as of late has been, “If it’s not positive or neutral, don’t say it at all.” After explaining what neutral meant to Liam, I’ve had a lot of success with this phrase. I use it to cut off conversations before they even begin. A boy glances at his broccoli with a look of horror. “If it’s not positive or neutral, don’t say it,” I will tell him, taking a bite of my own broccoli. When one of them comes in from outside with a look of rage because of a foul on the basketball court or a bad pass in football, I use the phrase before he can say anything. “If it’s not positive or neutral….”

            The phrase doesn’t always work , but I have found it cuts down on negative comments. Hearing the Psalmist say the same thing to ancient Israel that I say in my 2006 kitchen is reassuring to me as a parent. My advice for my boys is thousands of years old. It is so sage that it is in the Bible. Maybe not the exact words, but the idea.

            Finally, the Psalm strikes me as a perfect beginning to any meeting. Most meetings I go to (other than those at work)  begin with prayer. To say, “Let my tongue be silent O Lord my God, if I should ever forget about you,” is the most powerful way to begin a meeting that I can think of. It is a prayer that invites God to help us speak, and it is a prayer for the courage to be silent.

            As a talker, married to a quiet guy, with two talkers and one quiet guy as children, I’m holding onto this phrase. I think it speaks to all of five of us. The quiet among us understand its wisdom intuitively. We chatters need more reminders. “Let my tongue be silent O Lord, my God, if I should ever forget about you.”

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February, 2006 The Gap

This past weekend, my husband and I went to a party where we knew the hosts but almost no one else. As we mingled and met people at the party, I was asked a few times how many children we had and what their ages were.

            “Two boys and a girl,” I would answer. “Ten, seven and two.”

            The conversations rolled on, but I had a hard time getting past that simple question.

            Sometimes, the five-year age gap between seven-year-old Liam and two-year-old Jamilet looms large. We had two foster children in that gap before Jamilet joined our family. One of the two, who I now refer to in print as simply “T” to protect her privacy, was with us over a year. T is four years old now, and is back with her biological father, who met the necessary conditions to regain custody of his daughter.

            T is four. And part of me thinks she belongs in my gap.

            How old are your children?

Ten, seven, four and two.

It looks neater to me. It makes more sense. One baby every two or three years. Four all together.

I know the five-year gap between Liam and Jamilet probably feels as big as it ever will. Jamilet is still more baby than little girl, and Liam has just entered the big-kid world of soccer practice and chapter books.  Five years might as well be a generation when it’s the difference between Teletubbies and Batman.

And that’s where the four-year-old would come in. Four-year-old T would be able to go up or down. She could kick the soccer ball around with Liam, and also be happy playing blocks with Jamilet. She would bridge that gap. Jamilet is in a car seat. Liam has graduated into the regular seat of the car. T would be in a booster, right in the middle.

I realize that with the ability to play up with Liam, or down, with Jamilet, T would also bring more sibling conflict into the family. Able to play with either, she would get into skirmishes with both. Even in my imagination, while the spacing is perfect, the children are not.

Maybe what also bothers me about that five-year gap is the lack of symmetry I sometimes feel in the family. I have a partner in Bill. Jacob and Liam have each other. And while, of course, Jamilet has all of us, she doesn’t have someone who lines up with her. She’s the only one in our family with her own room. T could share her room.

But T has been gone over a year. There is no reason to think she’s coming back. Yet, still she dances in my mind. Her giggle is what comes between Liam and Jamilet. T left our family, and in her place we have a span of sixty months between our second and third children. To me, that span will always be T’s place. A place she is always welcome to come back to, should she ever need it. A place she could reclaim in a heartbeat.

She lived with us for over a year, and in that time, she made us a better family. She expanded our notion of love — showing us how strangers become family. Her smile was testament to the resiliency of the human spirit, even as her case notes spoke to the fragility of family life. With limited details of her past, and social service’s uncertain plan for her future, T forced us to live in the present. She taught us that family is about who is here right now—not who was here before and who might come later. Maybe most importantly, T taught us that the hurt that comes after loving and then letting go is survivable. She helped us learn that the pushes on the swing and the Frisbee tosses and the fuzzy footed pajamas outweigh that very heavy moment of goodbye.

And because of all these things, her echo remains. Part of T’s echo is a five-year gap that shows that life is not always neat; not always symmetrical.

T’s echo is a gap that makes me pause at a party when I’m asked a very simple question.

How many children do you have?

December, 2005: What would Jesus say about Rudolph

For a story with such humble beginnings — a young couple, a newborn and a stable — we sure have piled on the glitz. Seemingly unsatisfied with the sparkles brought to the Christ child by the angels and kings, we’ve added in Santa, reindeer, presents, elves (indeed the entire North Pole), Christmas trees, stockings, cookies, candy, spectacularly lit houses and streetscapes, carols and hot buttered rum. And new this year, the dispute between “Happy Holidays” and “Merry Christmas.” It’s a lot for one babe’s birthday celebration. How would our Savior comment on the phenomenon we know as modern day Christmas?

Let’s ask Him.

What are Your thoughts on Santa?

            Santa’s got guts. Sneaking into strangers’ houses to give them gifts — what an example of brave Christianity. This Christmas, sneak into someone’s life and leave them a gift without waiting for one in return. Think of what our world would be like if everyone were as sharing as Santa.

What do You have to say about the 12 Days of Christmas?

            Twelve days? The reason I was born, the reason I came into the world, was so that we would have 365 days of Christmas. 365 days of love. Of peace. Of joy. Twelve is not enough. Work for more.

Could You comment on the elves?

            Elves set a great example for the rest of humanity. Work hard. It doesn’t matter if you’re short, or if your ears are too big, or if your feet are too long, or if you live in a location that’s less than desirable. Work hard at everything you do. And while you’re working, sing.

Do you know Frosty? What do you think?

            Frosty is great. He’s not afraid to melt. You can’t live your life in fear of melting. You can’t be afraid of the heat. So get out there, and live the way you are called to live. Find yourself a magic hat and go make friends with all the townspeople you can. It’s worth the risk of melting.

What about the Grinch?

            The Grinch reminds me of a lot of the leaders I knew back in my days of teaching. But the Grinch could not stop Christmas from coming. He took the presents, the decorations, even the roast beast, but it came anyway. Let the Grinch be a reminder to all that nothing can stop Me from entering the world. For I am Love.

Decorations?

            Make sure you spend as much time getting your soul ready for Christmas as you spend getting your house ready. Make sure the Light inside your heart is just as bright as the ones on your bushes.

And what about Rudolph?

            Think of where we would be if Rudolph had decided to change the color of his nose so he would look like all the other reindeer. God gave Rudolph that red nose. How wonderful it is that he is not ashamed of it. He lets it shine. He leads the way. He uses his nose to serve the world. Everyone has the equivalent of Rudolph’s nose somewhere in his or her being. Find what you have. Share it.

Most importantly, “Happy Holidays” or “Merry Christmas”?

            Does it matter? I gave you the jobs to do. I made it clear. Feed the hungry. Give drink to the thirsty. Clothe the naked. Welcome the stranger. Visit the sick and imprisoned. Worry less about what you say and more about what you do. Get so busy doing My work that you don’t have time to get into debates about two-word phrases. Let your life’s work show your beliefs. St. Francis of Assisi said it well: “Preach the Gospel at all times, and if necessary, use words.”

November, 2005: Thanksgiving in the hospital

I had 12 bags of groceries to unload from the car. Thanksgiving was two days away and we were hosting dinner for 22. As I carried the first bags into the house, I looked at the toys everywhere, the laundry to sort, the pile of mail and school papers on the kitchen table. I decided it would take every free hour from that moment until Thanksgiving just to get the house in presentable shape and the food cooked and ready.

            Bag by bag, I brought the groceries in. Two-year-old Jamilet stood next to the car in the driveway and watched me walk through the garage and  into the house making  the trips.

            “Pretzels,” she said, watching me grab a bag. “Yogurt. Bread. Lunchtime?”

            I told her it would be lunchtime right after I brought in all the groceries, and went into the house. One more bag to go.  I left her leaning casually against the car door.

            “Time for lunch,” I said to Jamilet, when I came back to the car.  I looked down at her. She was holding an empty bottle of prescription allergy pills, the cap in one hand, the bottle in the other. Where had she gotten that? I felt alarm rising within me.

            “Where did you get that bottle?”

            “Bottle in car.”

            “Open your mouth.” I swept her mouth with my fingers. There were no pills in her mouth, but just inside her lip was a white powdery substance. I swallowed.

            “Did you eat the pills?”

            “Empty,” she said.

            I wanted to believe her. I grabbed the bottle, carried her in and called Poison Control.

            “How many did she eat?” the woman on the other end asked me.

            “I’m not sure she ate any,” I said. “The bottle might have been empty. I’m not even sure why the bottle was in the car.”

            “Is it possible she ate 10 pills?” the woman asked.

            “It’s possible. I just don’t know. She was alone for about a minute.”

            “For her weight, 10 pills is lethal. You need to take her to the nearest emergency room. I’ll call ahead so they know you’re coming.”

            I looked at Jamilet.

            “Did you eat these?” I asked, again.

            “Empty,” she said.

            Empty. I strapped her into her car seat. She was probably right, but ten pills were lethal and where had the powdery residue in her mouth come from?

            At the emergency room, they took her temperature and pulse. All were normal, but it suddenly became obvious to me just how serious the situation could become. The nurse on duty said the toxic dose for Jamilet’s weight was really more like five pills than ten. I called Bill, and he left work and sped over. Jamilet stuck by her story as Bill, a doctor, then two nurses, came in to ask her if she ate some pills. The final nurse even tried to lead her into saying she ate the pills.

            “This bottle is empty because you ate the pills up, isn’t it?” the nurse said, smiling. “Were they yummy?”

            “Empty,” Jamilet said.

            Still, as a precaution, the E.R. staff said she should be hooked up to an E.K.G. and be observed for six hours — the amount of time it could take the drugs to activate in her system.

            As they put the stickers with wires all over my baby’s chest and back, the nurse said she would bring in some charcoal for Jamilet to drink. Just in case, she said. The charcoal would absorb the medicine.  I blinked back my tears. I was so sorry I had left her alone. Sorry that Bill or I had been careless enough to leave an allergy bottle—even an empty one—in the car. Sorry that I was putting her through six hours of observation when she had trouble sitting still for a ten-minute book. And to be honest, I was a little sorry for myself, too. With no time to spare before Thanksgiving, I would be spending the next six hours in the E.R. with a child who was possibly not sick at all. 

            An hour went by, with Jamilet sitting quietly on my lap, unusually calm, hooked up to the E.K.G. She cooperatively drank the charcoal drink they gave her, flavored, the nurse said, with six tablespoons of chocolate sauce. After an hour and a half with no change, I was even more convinced she had not eaten any pills. She fell asleep on my chest, and I eased my way back into the bed, and pulled my feet up. For two hours, she slept — her usual naptime. Not wanting to wake her with the T.V., I simply lay in bed and listened to her breathing. She was warm against my body, and looked smaller than usual in her tiny hospital gown. Normally, during Jamilet’s nap, I rush to get a hundred things done—phone interviews for articles, writing, editing, cleaning. And now it was naptime and she was asleep on my chest in a hospital. Bill was grading 8^th grade essays on a chair nearby.

As she slept, it occurred to me that she and I had never done this before. I had cradled newborn Jacob and Liam in my arms and held them in wonder as they slept in the hospital after they were born. Jamilet and I had never had that time. She came to us at age 13 months as a foster child, already a good napper and sleeper. There had never been a reason to hold her as she slept. But now there was.

            As she slept, I rubbed her skin, that unbelievably soft baby skin. Trapped in an E.R. room, two days before Thanksgiving, I understood that this was my time to experience newborn Jamilet.

            And so I did. I let go of all the things I had to do, and gave thanks for the emergency that was not. I marveled at my sleeping daughter. I fingered her curls, and gently touched her lips. I watched her heartbeat on the monitor as I felt it against my chest. I prayed for her — thanking God for the gift of her life. Thanking God that our afternoon at the hospital was all for nothing. For nothing at all.