to gather a child on your lap

What I hold on my lap defines me.

Part of the day it is a child, whichever one of my boys needs a snuggle or a story or a shoe pulled on his foot.

And part of the day it is a computer, the aptly named laptop which nestles on my knees as I work or write or (let’s be honest) waste time.

Today I’m posting at Catholic Mom about what it means to gather a child on your lap, to make space for someone smaller than you who needs your love and attention:

Holding a child on your lap means bearing the burden, the interruption and even the annoyance of all they will ask of you.

It is bending low, stopping and stooping, being weighted down by what matters most. It is opening yourself up to the love that will be demanded from you.

Parents, grandparents, godparents, teachers, caregivers, relatives and friends—we share the sacred weight of holding these least among us. When we let a child sit with us, we clear space for what matters most. We honor the gift of their presence.

We accept and embrace that they belong to us.

Click here to read the rest…

Some days I’m torn between what I hold on my lap, whether it’s two boys fighting for my attention or the back-and-forth of work-and-kids that parents know all too well.

But some days I’m simply grateful that my life is so full, that God has plopped the proverbial good measure – pressed down, shaken together, running over – into my lap.

What fills your lap these days? What do you learn from what you hold?

the real wise women

The joke regularly circles round the Internet and church bulletins this time of year:

What if the three Wise Men had been women? They would have asked directions, arrived on time, helped deliver the baby, cleaned the stable, made a casserole, and brought practical gifts!

But beyond the silly stereotyping, the harmless joke always rubbed me the wrong way, though I could never put my finger on exactly why.

Until I was musing about what to give for a dear friend expecting a baby, and I realized I didn’t feel like buying her anything practical. I wanted to give her something beautiful, something lasting, something lavish.

Thoughtful folks always offer diapers and wipes when a wee one arrives. Bibs and burp clothes, toys and teething rings flow as freely as advice at baby showers. But the wisest women in my life were the ones who brought me impractical gifts. Handmade blankets. Tiny knitted sweaters. Wee white booties. A shiny silver cup.

Nothing for the day-to-day messes of babyhood. Everything for the wonder of welcoming a new one into the world.

When I look around our home’s endless kid-clutter of ever-changing clothes and once-loved toys, I realize these gifts – the impractical ones, the indulgent ones, the ones never found on a registry – are the lasting treasures.

In my youngest’s room, the rocking chair is draped with a quilt handmade by a dear friend. Propped on the floor by his favorite books is a pillow from my sister, stitched with his name and birth date.

In my oldest’s room, a warm white blanket from my husband’s aunt rests on his trunk. Keeping watch from atop the dresser stands a small statue of a mother cuddling her baby, a present from my sister-in-law. Gifts from mothers wise enough to know that babies deserve to be welcomed with beauty.

And lavish impracticality.

So every time I hear Epiphany’s Gospel of the Magi, and someone snickers about the impracticality of gold, frankincense and myrrh, I think no, the wise men got it just right.

And maybe it was the women they loved – the ones they left behind to journey so long and far, led by a star’s strange stirring – who were the ones that whispered in their ears bring something beautiful, something rich, something lasting. Maybe the women beside the wise men were the ones who knew just what a birth deserved, especially a sacred birth like this one.

Not the practical help that a young couple with a newborn needed. But the lavish gift of honoring a new and noble life in the glint of gold, the scent of frankincense, the perfume of myrrh. All the extravagance they could offer for such a child as this.

The wise men got it right. And wise women would have done the same.

mary of the third trimester

I wonder how she felt in the final weeks.

Whether she was tired of carrying, exhausted from the extra weight and the swollen ankles and the restless nights and the ceaseless kicks. Or whether she loved wondering about the mystery of this babe, watching the strange, sudden stretch of skin across her stomach, limbs pushing out into every corner of their shrinking room, hint of the him they would become.

I wonder if she knew the time was coming. Even if hers wasn’t the customary calendar to count by, could she feel the readying, both the baby’s body and her own preparing for the passage ahead? Or perhaps she was surprised to find the end drawing near, one more shock piled on the growing heap of expectations set aside for another’s plan.

I wonder how she spent the last few days. Whether she sought the wisdom of women who knew, her cherished circle of a trusted few who hadn’t fled when the rumors flew. Whether she drew strength from their stories of passage, their steadying counsel and sage advice. Or whether their tales terrified, her body still so young itself, barely strong enough to survive what was demanded of her. I wonder whether she wanted to be alone or whether she confided in companions. Whether she prayed to her God in the darkest moments, or whether she spoke softly to the stranger-turned-spouse now strong and silent beside her.

I wonder if she loved being pregnant. One of the lucky few who glow as they grow, who glide easy through the months, who marvel at the wonder. Or whether she struggled with the weight and constraint of what was asked of her, to sacrifice so much so young – her plans, her love, her reputation. Maybe she was restless for the end, waiting for what’s next, wanting to be free of the burden of bearing. Maybe she was ready to push.

Or maybe she sensed, deep down, deeper even than dropping baby ready to birth, what was being asked of her. That she would have to give him up, her child, her baby, her precious only baby, give him up to more than the world outside the womb or the darkness outside her door. That she would have to birth him into the beginning of the end, a pain that cut deeper than pangs of birth, a wound that would only grow until the most terrifying transition, the final contraction of her heart and body wrenched in two as she watched what the world would do to him, wailing and weeping for God, screaming as mother-son both suffered – all according to a plan she herself set in motion with a whispered yes.

That redemption itself would rip him from her arms.

And bearing all this along with the baby weight, knowing just enough to hold all these truths, treasure them in her widening heart, now and ever-after beating for two, maybe she wanted to cradle him close, keep him safer than he could ever be again.

For a few weeks more.

the sound of sacrament

I do.

For over a year, our oldest son switched “I” and “you” whenever he spoke. So he sounded like an overly compassionate child, always concerned with what “you” wanted and what “you” needed, constantly volunteering that “I” should help the crying baby and “I” should clean up the mess. His malaprop-kid-ism was cute at the beginning. But after months and months of ignoring our corrections, his habit got grating for those closest to him who were constantly being asked whether they wanted a diaper change.

With help from his teacher and sitter, we recently redoubled our efforts to help him learn. And over the last month, he’s started to switch, slowly. Now we hear a hybrid of “I” and “you,” but trending towards full claiming of self-hood when he speaks. Today when we pose a question, he responds carefully and proudly – “I do!” – the words still new, fresh and powerful in his mouth.

. . .

Last week we were talking after Mass about baptism, about the babies who had been dunked in water and blessed with oil and dressed in white. My boy pondered this thoughtfully, remembering what he had seen when he gathered around the fount with the other children. Then he posed me a question:

“Do you say ‘I do’ at church?”

I paused, surprised. I’d forgotten to talk about the “I-dos,” the vows we all renewed before the babies were baptized. But he remembered.

I started to correct his I/you confusion for the zillionth time, but then I stopped. In fact, we had both said “I do” at the morning’s baptism. And I have spoken these words at church many more times than he has. When the priest asked my husband and me if we were ready to give ourselves to each other in marriage. When our pastor asked if we knew what we were doing when we brought each of our boys to be baptized. We speak these words often at church, whenever we renew baptismal vows or attend a wedding: I do. I do.

. . .

Lately I listen to my son sing-song his new words around the house, talking himself while he plays or responding when I ask him questions. He is learning to claim and assert himself, to stand as a separate and independent entity, one who understands who he is and what he wants. And by recognizing who he is, he better understands who others are as well. The lines become less blurry each time he states clearly, “I do.”

Baptism sounds like this to my ears: I do, I do, I do. It is the sacrament of self-hood, the claiming and christ-ing of each child of God, the initiation into a family and a life of faith. This morning when I watched two more babies plunged into waters of new life, one silent and wondering, one shrieking and wailing, I thought about the sounds of baptism.

Sometimes baptism sounds like a splash, a squeal, a seal. The pour of water, rub of oil, spark of candle. But over time baptism sounds like the long learning of “I do,” growing into identity and understanding, claiming for ourselves what the church and God believe we can become.

It’s a big step, learning to say “I do.” I’m still trying to figure out how to do it every day. But I’m proud of my boy for his awakening, and grateful for journeying on his gradual realization of what it means to be “I” and what it means to “do.”

It takes all of us a long time – maybe a lifetime – to get there.

the sight of grandparents

My in-laws came over for dinner last week. An ordinary meal, nothing special. But when my son swung wide the door to greet them, their eyes lit up bright against the darkness.

His grandma scooped him up, right there on the doorstep, and squeezed him tight; his grandpa grinned and ruffled his hair, waiting his turn for a hug and kiss. For a moment I felt a twinge of envy – what a gift to be greeted with such delight.

Later that night I chatted with my parents on the phone, played to the cheap seats and tossed them a few cute-kid stories: the news from preschool, the baby’s latest milestone. In the telling of one tale, I mentioned offhandedly how my son’s teacher said he seemed shy at school, keeping to himself rather than talking with other kids. No surprise to his parents who know him to be a cautious soul. But my mother interrupted my story, gentle indignation coming through the phone line: No – he’s just fine! What could those other kids really have to say to him anyway?

I burst out laughing. Of course. A grandparent’s eyes see only perfection.

. . .

I’m reading Anne Lamott’s latest, Some Assembly Required: A Journal of My Son’s First Son. She writes about her astonishment at discovering what it means to be a grandmother:

Kids are hard – they drive you crazy and break your heart – whereas grandchildren make you feel great about life, and yourself, and your ability to love someone unconditionally, finally, after all these years. A friend of mine said, “When I return, I am only having grandchildren, not children.” A grandchild is like a fine jewel set in an old ring.

The beauty of his head – how it rests in the crook of my elbow – almost makes me want to flog myself, out of a desperate, unbearable love. All grandparents I’ve mentioned this to have felt this. He’s a Fibonacci spiral, like a nautilus shell – one of those patterns in mathematical expression with a twisting eternal perfection.

. . .

Grandparents can look into a child’s face and see nothing but promise. All the possibility they hold. All the perfection they might become. They don’t see dirty fingernails that need trimming, messy hair that needs washing, torn jeans that need patching, sticky floor that needs scrubbing. Grandparent eyes skip the surface and gaze straight to the heart.

And grandparent-seeing goes beyond biological preference. I’ve caught the same sight in the eyes of older folks at church, the library, the grocery store. Maybe it’s simply the wisdom of age, the perspective we lack before adulthood matures. Or maybe when generations have enough space between them, skipping over the middle where the worry and the busy get stuck, they can connect more freely, immediately, instinctively.

Last Sunday a kindly couple watched as my youngest threw a tantrum in the gathering space. While he hollered and kicked his legs on the carpet, glaring up at the ceiling, they smiled down at him beatifically behind their spectacles. Surprised, he met their gaze from the floor, then flipped over and raised his head to stare wide-eyed. He suddenly smiled, a broad goofy grin. All forgiven, without even a word exchanged. The couple laughed softly to each other, walked away satisfied. My boy turned to watch them go, finally at peace.

I think God must see us the same way: always looking above the dirt and the distraction and the disappointment, gazing into the good, seeing the soul that matters. Like a grandfather, unable to resist ruffling our hair; like a grandmother, stubbornly in our corner.

God the Grandparent who sees straight to the heart.

the smell of God

I am addicted to the back of my son’s neck.

I first noticed it several months ago, long after he’d lost the newborn scent. I must have been rubbing his hair dry after bath, or tickling till he squealed with glee, or wrestling around on the floor as he tried to crawl away. I buried my nose in the back of his head to give him a kiss and breathed in deeply, and I was astonished.

It didn’t smell like shampoo or lotion, like sweat or tears, like food or playdough or paint (or anything worse) that I often find smeared in his hair. Nothing of the normal eau-de-bébé. It simply smelled pure. Fresh. Warm. Holy even.

Right in the curve between the muscles at the nape of his neck, such a small soft space, was buried this primal scent of possibility.

All I can think is it smells like God.

I know it sounds clichéd, comparing baby’s sweetness to perfection of the divine. Too easy a metaphor, too saccharine a simile. Yet every time now I swoop in to nuzzle his neck, trying to find the familiar mysterious scent, hoping to inhale before he chuckles and pushes away, it smells exactly the same. It smells like God.

But I’m only sure of this because I know God doesn’t always smell so sweet.

I remember ripping urine-soaked sheets off Philippe’s bed every morning at L’Arche. God smelled like that, too.

I remember scrubbing burnt food off the bottom of giant steel pots at the soup kitchen. God smelled like that, too.

I remember coughing outside with the women from the shelter as they escaped for a cigarette and conversation. God smelled like that, too.

Whenever I catch a whiff, it’s a surprise, pure recognition in the moment, something primal that hits my senses all at once, a memory too far back to trace, but something I know. The smell of God. Sometimes grimy hands and sweaty limbs and dirty floors and filthy laundry. And sometimes soft hair whisper, baby-neck sweet.

I’m a full-blown addict now, craving my next hit, scheming and plotting to distract the baby so he’ll turn and I can sneak another sniff. I don’t know how much longer he’ll hold on to the scent; how quickly we lose the purity, dirty it up with everyday muck or overclean till it reeks too sweet.

It won’t last forever; this much I know. And I don’t know how long I’ll have to go before I smell God again.

For now I breathe it in everyday, when he’ll let me. A deep breath or a secret sniff and I remember all over how earthly an incarnate God can become. And I wonder what small spaces within my own body – hands, feet, limbs, neck - might still hold some trace of the original.

The mark of the maker.

one year a christian

One whole trip around the sun. That’s how long he’s been a Christian.

A year ago we gathered with old and new friends, family from near and far. My mother and I dressed my six-week old son in the baptismal gown that four generations of my family have worn.

And a young deacon, an-almost priest we met as he journeyed through seminary, rolled up the sleeves of his alb, nervously took the squirmy baby from my arms, and plunged him deep into the waters of new life.

He came up wide-eyed and gave a small yelp. We all smiled.

Everyone likes when the baby cries, my mother whispered. That’s how they know the baptism “took.”

Last weekend we watched a baptism from the back of church while that same boy, now a year old and a thousand times squirmier, crawled around the gathering space. I listened as the pastor asked parents and godparents the old familiar questions we’ve heard a thousand times before.

What name do you give your child? What do you ask of the Church for your child? Do you clearly understand what you are undertaking?

The priest chuckled at the last question, paused and turned to the congregation. “I always laugh when I ask parents that one. As if they have any clue at all what they’re getting into.”

I looked down at our boy. I thought about the letter I wrote him one year ago. Do I clearly understand what I am undertaking? Trying to raise him in this church, trying to raise him in any kind of faith when all the headlines scream that it’s becoming more unpopular by the day?

Not at all. Maybe none of us do.

But I’m trying. Deep in my bones I believe this is the most important thing I’m trying to do as a parent, to awaken my children to the possibilities of faith and a life lived for others.

And isn’t that what most mothers and fathers do – parent towards possibility? No matter our child’s age or ability, no matter their stage or situation, we always dream of the possibilities, what they might do and achieve and become. Baptism’s like that, too. We are welcomed into a community that has great hopes for us, called by God who dreams of all we might become.

But baptism also celebrates the simple fact of being beloved. Of knowing that we need not achieve to be worthy nor succeed to be faithful. My hopes for what he comes to believe about his faith rest between this tension: I hope it will inspire him to do and remind him to be.

When I think on my boy’s baptism anniversary of what it means to have smeared that chrism on his forehead and named him a child of God, I wonder what knowledge his own bones hold from that moment. None of us remember the first year of life. And yet he knows many things, deeply.

He knows he is loved. He knows the people he loves. He knows he has always been cared for. All of that will help him learn how he is beloved by God, no matter where he goes or what he does. I hope the memory of that belovedness is his lasting gift.

That will be how I know the baptism took.

harvesting hope

We go every year. Maybe you do, too.

We pick a perfect fall morning, bright and clear. We drive through rolling country roads, farms and hills and trees ablaze with orange, yellow, red. We grab our bags and head for the rows of trees upon trees.

We pick, pluck, pause and pick another, piling the apples high. We eat them off the branch, munching as we crunch through the leaves. The kids kick the fallen fruit; the adults haul the harvest in heavy paper sacks. We head back to the farm for cool cider and warm donuts. Then we wind our way back home, plans of pies and sauce and crisp and muffins wafting through our weekend.

The annual apple orchard trip.

This year we found a new farm, smaller-scale, family-owned. I laughed with another mom as we circled the gnarly trees, branches heavy with shiny red fruits. “Isn’t it great to beat the crowds here?” she said. I agreed, nodding. A bulky black camera swung from her neck. “We’re yuppies, don’t get me wrong. We’re not really here for the apples. But we just have to come every year, you know?”

I know.

I noticed, for the first time this year. Even in the quieter crowds, every parent had a camera. We clicked as the kids picked. We followed as they wandered round the trees. We snapped as they spun around swings and slides.

Why? I wondered. Yes, the autumn light is bright and crisp in the morning, perfect for photos. And rosy-cheeked children next to nature’s greens and reds are a pretty combination. But maybe it’s more.

These annual trips become touchstones, Kairos moments in the chronos of parenting. We step outside with our kids, away from home and school and work, and realize – suddenly, swiftly, sharply – how much they’ve grown. We scramble to capture a moment that is already fleeting.

Because we need to know, amidst the endless, exhausting and exasperating days, how close the harvest creeps under our very eyes. How quickly the years race by.

I’m guilty of it, too. I snap all day as my babies play. Something deep inside me tugs; I can’t help but try to capture what it means to my mothering soul to see them a little taller, a little bigger each year. All at once I want to wrap my arms around them and keep them this small, sweet age for always, and nudge them on to the next stage, too. Sentiment and melancholy in the same breath, so quintessentially autumn.

I realized this year why parents photograph the picking, not the planting of seeds. Because that work – the slow, tedious, watchful work of tending and waiting – is the work we do every single day. We know sowing and growing, but what we long to see, what we hope will come, what the family rituals and the yearly crop celebrate, is that one day their harvest will be here, too. They’ll be ripe and ready, big and beautiful. We’ll be able to see the fruits of our labors. We hope.

Some day. Still so far.

the jesus of the cry room

Ironically, they’re the easiest scenes in the Gospels for me to skip over.

Yesterday it was an episode from Mark. Arguing disciples, who’s the greatest, elbowing each other on the road to Capernaum like bickering brothers: nuh-uh, I’m the favorite. Exasperated Jesus, here’s the least, plunking down the kid in the middle like an exasperated parent: why can’t you be more like this one?

And every time, deaf and blind me, paying half-attention in the pew with my own squirming least, I miss the message, too. My eyes glaze over; my ears lull to auto-pilot. I’ve heard this one a million times; let the little children come to me; the kingdom of heaven belongs to them; yawn.

Until yesterday, I’d never thought about the shocking fact of Jesus noticing – to say nothing of embracing – a child.

But at Sunday Mass, while my youngest shrieked in my arms, flailing with frustration, lunging for a nap nowhere to be found, and I missed most of the Gospel as I plotted my exit from the pew pre-homily, before the hollering protest drowned out the priest entirely, I had a brief moment of clarity. Irony’s lightning bolt. Here I am, embracing the same child that Christ put his arms around. And I’m planning to whisk him out of the assembly ASAP so he doesn’t disturb the patient prayers around us any further.

(I still left. Amen, amen I say to you - that kid was CRANKY.)

But as we gently paced the gathering space, watching through windows at the quieter crowd within, I tasted the irony. I ignored the homily I couldn’t hear anyway and entered the scene.

I pictured Jesus, sweaty and grimy from the journey, annoyed with his quibbling friends, troubled at their stubborn hearts. I wondered about the child he chose to put his arms around.

Did the baby squirm in his arms, lunging for his mother? Did the toddler leak while she sat on his lap? Did the boy wrinkle up his nose and announce, to his parents’ mortification, that this man smells funny?

Or did the child cuddle in Christ’s arms with delight? Was Jesus like the favorite uncle, the one who never had kids of his own but never hesitated to get down on the floor and wrestle with the little ones, who always knew how to get a grin and a giggle?

I’m embarrassed to admit that for years I’ve slid over these passages like a worn-out children’s Bible: Matthew, Mark, Luke. Did I think they were simply moments when Jesus turned into a sap? That they were Hallmark sentiments or photo-ops for centuries of kitschy artists to paint in fuzzy pastels?

Even after I took graduate courses in Scripture, I still never realized the shattering shock of this scene. I learned lots of theological analysis of what the child means for the reordering of societal and familial structures in the reign of God. But I never thought about the kid on Christ’s lap.

Until I held the one that exasperated me, who smelled of wet diaper and oatmeal-smeared hair, who crawled too fast to contain in a chair, who babbled too loud to pray in a pew.

I tried to hold him with Christ arms instead of my tired own. I saw, for the first time, the shock of a savior scooping up the smallest.

And I realized that this was exactly the upside-down-ness of the Kingdom. He’s in.

uncommon birth day thanks

A first birthday is full of nostalgia, as it should be.

Where is the sleepy curl of a newborn, all milky breath and radiant warmth? Who is this toothy, mop-haired, grinning, babbling, climbing, crawling ball of a boy who took his place?

And was there really a time we lived without him?

My thoughts this birthday week have tended towards the usual thanks to God. Deep gratitude for the gift of life, the chance to parent times two. Blessed thanksgiving that his first year was healthy and fear-free. Extra joy for his happy nature and chipper smile, the icing on his charming cake.

But my thoughts of thanks became more particular as we neared this day. Faces of friends and strangers surfaced: all those who, knowingly or not, accompanied me on the journey of birthing this babe, one year ago this early morning.

Because none of it would have happened without God, of course.

But neither would it have happened without them.

The doctor who suggested new diet and vitamins before we leapt back into drugs. Let’s try this first. I’ve got a good feeling.

The grocery cashier who grinned as she rang up the pregnancy test on that snowy Saturday. Hoping for good news? I’ll cross my fingers.

The family whose loud whoops at our announcement met this baby with as much joy as his brother. Are you guys serious? Best Christmas gift ever, again!

The friends who kept calling, stubborn and faithful, for the dark stretch of months when I was too sick to get off the couch. L, it’s me again. Thinking of you, sending love, call when you can.

The husband who brought me bouquets on the worst days and made me smoothies on the best days and never once complained when I spent months complaining. It’s ok. I know it’s going to get better soon.

The yoga teacher who refused to relent with all those agonizing goddess poses, the squats that strengthened my resolve to birth naturally. You can do it, mama! You are strong. Your baby needs you.

The smiling priest who stopped before giving me communion one Sunday and made the sign of the cross in front of my belly before offering me the host. As if to say, Welcome to the family. We’re already glad you’re here.

The neighbor who greeted me with shrieks of delight every time she saw me waddling through the neighborhood that endless hot summer. Oh, honey. You are so beautiful.

All of you who joined me here as I waited and waited, who laughed along with this cheeky post, and this one. Thinking of you! Be patient – baby’s almost here.

The family and friends who started praying me through labor as soon as we made the calls. We’re with you. All our love.

The mother-in-law who showed up grinning at one in the morning to watch the sleeping sibling. Wow – you’re in hard labor! Am I ever glad I’m not in your place right now!

The nurse who paused on the phone with my husband when she heard me holler through a contraction from the passenger seat. Are you sure there’s no hospital closer? Sir, if the baby starts to come, PULL OVER.

The staff who met us at the emergency room door as my husband squealed the car to a stop, who wheeled me up to the birthing center, flying past the bewildered receptionist with admittance forms in hand. You’re going to make it. Everything’s going to be fine.

The kind-eyed, grey-haired doctor who glanced up at me over her glasses in the final moments, with a smile calm and steady. You’re almost done. Baby’s almost here.

The doula who showed up ten minutes after the baby was born, fast and furious and bigger than any of us expected. I’m so disappointed I missed it! But you did it – you had just the birth you wanted!

And the baby himself, the wee lad who’s now made one trip around the sun.

Thanks to you, sweet One - in the words of a favorite baby book - for trying so hard, for traveling so far, for being so wonderful,

just as you are.