Before you go #3: Say Your Prayers

Before you go, say your prayers.   Like most of my advice, I expect this to make you roll your eyes, but I'm going to say it anyway.  I feel like I've said it ten thousand times over the years, but maybe I haven't been as insistent in the last few (when you, arguably, probably need more prayers than ever!)

I remember sometime in my later years of high school, my parents writing me letters, possibly at graduation or for a religious retreat of some sort.  Anyway, I remember my dad telling me to stay close to God.  It’s funny, isn’t it?  You would have thought that would have been grandma, and she probably said it too, but I remember it most from my dad, because he wasn’t as outwardly religious as my mom.  Still, they took me to Mass every weekend, and made sure that I had all my sacraments and knew all my prayers.  They sent me to Catholic school and we prayed together before meals.  I’ve done the same for you.  I’ve grown closer and further away from God season by season throughout my adult life, but I was perhaps never closer than when you and Grace were tiny.  There was just something so miraculous about the two of you; motherhood had reset everything I thought I knew about life and the world.  I was devastatingly devoted to you both, adored almost everything about being your mom, could barely contain my joy and terror at having the two of you completely at the mercy of my barely competent care.

And we went to church.  Every weekend, rain, shine, or snow.  I dressed you both to the nines, often in matching colors.  And I prayed for you and with you every day (notably, during the months leading up to your only brother’s birth when you prayed day after day “for everybody on the whole planet and that the baby is a BOY!”).  A lot about that time is a blur.  You came just 18 months after your big sister, your next sister just 2 and a half years later, the last two within 4 years of her.  I didn’t sleep through the night for almost 10 years.  But we got up for Mass every single week.  I can count on one hand the number of times we missed as it has been a priority for your dad and I from the very beginning.

I always worry about you two biggest kids in those years.  Certainly, you got the most (ok, second most) of my perfectionist and deeply diligent parenting.  You got lots of daily baths and tummy time and reading aloud.  I still went to story hours at the library and enrichment days at local zoos and museums (unlike the younger kids who mostly got to go to your sporting events and the grocery store).  But one thing I have almost never missed, through all those long and exhausting seasons of mothering was weekly Mass.  I always liked to go as a family, as far as that usually was from a prayerful and meditative experience.  Your dad, however, didn’t have as much patience as I and often got up for early Mass so I didn’t have to drag all you littles along.  On one notable occasion, you and I got up for early Mass instead of your dad.  You were probably up anyway, and woke me, and we decided to sneak out and let the others sleep.  Those were the days when you preferred to be with me wherever I was going, even if it was church, than to be separated from me.  You were a curly haired, big blue eyed toddler and we sat in the back as we usually did.  At one point, you decided you were thirsty, and started nagging me that you needed a drink RIGHT NOW.  I told you no, and you became increasingly agitated, eventually whisper yelling your demand.  I said no, tried to return my attention to the priest, only to be interrupted shortly thereafter by an usher holding a small dixie cup of water.  I can still see your big eyes twinkling at me over the rim of that cup as I thanked the usher profusely and glared down at your innocent little head.  You had a way of getting what you wanted.

The thing is, Sam, God will always give you what you need if you ask Him in prayer.  You might not always get what you want--most of us learn that the hard way eventually--but a loving and personal God like ours will nourish and care for you throughout your life if you let Him.  Faith is such a fundamental cornerstone of life.  I can’t imagine living without it.  You know weekly Mass is non-negotiable—it’s the bare minimum of what we need to maintain a relationship with God.  Before you go, I hope I’ve instilled that love in you.  I hope you realize how necessary, how beautiful, how glorious life in Jesus can be.  I was a senior in high school when I came across these words in John, “my dear people, let us love one another because GOD IS LOVE.”  Now you see those words on bumper stickers, but back then I remember being utterly flabbergasted.  Our God IS LOVE?  I’m no theologian, and I won’t push this much further, but think about that, Sam, when you set out into this world without me.  I know it will be easy to sleep in on Sunday mornings, but the rhythm of that habit, the return to quiet moments of reflection on a God who calls Himself love, will never be wasted.

We sat behind a large family last weekend at Mass.  You had joined us—oftentimes you go to later Masses than our typical family time of 8:30—and sat rather empty eyed and likely a bit bored.  I doubt you even noticed them, but I did.  They are all collectively much younger than us, and I often think they look like we must have 10 years ago.  They also have 5 children, the oldest two a quiet and calm girl and boy.  As I watched this family last week, it was as though they were reenacting a hundred Sundays of ours.  The younger children clung to the mom, rubbing her shoulders and back, lifting their arms to be held, toying with her jewelry and clothes.  The dad shot stern glances and reached briefly to hold his wife’s hand.  The oldest sister tended the younger ones her mom couldn’t reach.  She opened story books and retrieved dropped toys and alternated between indulgent smiles and irritated sighs at the antics of the small ones.  It wasn’t until almost the end of church that I noticed the oldest boy.  He was self-contained and unperturbed by the chaos around him.  He made the motions of the Mass without much fanfare or enthusiasm and no one paid much attention to him.  I watched him quietly for awhile and thought of you, my own quiet and unassuming little boy.  By the time you had reached that age—probably 8 or 9—you, too, were big brother to 3 littles.  You, too, were slightly overshadowed by a responsible big sister whose actions you could never quite match for helpfulness.  You, too, sat quietly beside us at Mass after Mass, sometimes pestering your little brother (let’s not paint this too sweetly, after all) sometimes resting your face rather dramatically in your hands, elbows on knees, in a gesture of mute exasperation and exhaustion.  Next year, I won’t be around to make you go, but I hope you still do.  I hope that our faith, the backdrop of your whole life to this point, has filtered into the core of your being as it had mine at your age. 

Before you go, say your prayers.  Go to church.  Know Jesus.  Our God is Love, and you should keep him by your side for now and always.

Before you go #2...on stardust and geometry

Dear Sam,

Before you go, you should know how much your family adores you.  As I type this, I am sitting on a couch overlooking the lake. Your two younger sisters are learning a new dance for TikTok.  Your dad and brother are on their way back out here, having spent the morning learning how to hunt with your uncle.  Your big sister is at college, of course, at a volleyball tournament (of course) and in an hour I’ll log back onto the livestream to watch her play.  You are at home.  You are probably alone in the basement, watching movies or football, texting or snap chatting your friends, napping.  I miss you.  I always miss you on these weekends.

Our rule is that you need to check in every four hours and leave your location turned on in your phone so I can see where you are.  You typically make the rounds between our house, your closest friend’s houses (most often the one with the pool), and various fast food restaurants.  You usually forget to check in very often.  You join us at the lake even less frequently. 

I know if you were here you would be bored and missing your buddies.  You would likely be making a brief visit, before driving back home to spend the evening with your friends.  This is my second go around with a high school senior, and I’m four kids into parenting middle and high schoolers.  I get it, now, how completely you all start to pull away.  What begins with those first, daunting steps staggering into my waiting arms, becomes the steps into the first day of kindergarten, when we both feel our separation so viscerally and painfully, and ends with the first steps into college is punctuated in the middle with endless and longer separations.  It is like two points that start off touching, at first literally sharing one body, later nearly physically inseparable, but eventually beginning an inexorable trajectory separated by just a single degree or two.  After 18 years, this geometry has left us quite far apart indeed. 

Before you go, I want you to know that my heart longs for your presence every day.  I once read that mothers carry cells of their children’s bodies inside of them for their entire lives.  You are never gone from me, not completely.  I also read that we carry remnants of the stars in the cells of our body.  There is some kind of truth of motherhood in those two facts.  You are inside of me for always, we both carry stardust inside of us. You are inside of me, you might drift as far away as the stars.  You will leave me soon, but you have been leaving me, incrementally, for almost two decades.

But I think (at least I pray) that you can sense the deep mother-love that is your birthright.  I think you know how completely you are my heart.  I remember thinking once when you were miserable in middle school and profoundly embarrassed any time I showed up for anything (as my friend at work put it, “It is so embarrassing that I have a mom and that she LOVES me!”) that the most loving thing I could do was walk away.  So I did, often and well.  I’m a busy woman after all, and I always had a pile of kids and a demanding job to attend to.

What I want to make sure you realize, however, is that this whole family loves you.  I know that our rhythms are different than yours—we are, collectively, louder and more active than you.  You like naps and long afternoons in front of the TV.  You enjoy sarcastic, philosophical conversations that meander.  We rarely sit still for that, we like to run around and excessively do. We are also a fiercely competitive crowd. I wish I could make the pace of our family become slower and kinder so you felt more welcome.  But I can’t, and you have framed yourself in the role of the outsider for a long time.  But we are always better when you are with us.  You bring so much color and richness to our family tapestry and you belong with us and to us.  We want you around—we all do.

Before you go, know that we love you.  We ALL love you.  Your younger siblings admire you and come alive when you pay attention to them.  Your older sister enjoys your company and very quietly keeps an eye on your heart and your wellbeing through your texts and phone calls.  

I’m leaving you with this photo from a recent lake weekend without you.  I deliberately photographed the girls videotaping your youngest brother to illustrate for you the love and admiration you could have if you joined us more often.  We are all cheering you on and loving you dearly.

You are our Sammy, you belong to us, and before you go, know that you are so very, very loved.

Before you go

Dear Sam,

I can hardly believe it, but here I am again on the precipice of another senior year--on the brink of another goodbye.  I knew when you were little that when my little ducks started flying the nest it would happen rapidly, one after the other, until my nest was truly empty.  So even though my heart hasn’t fully adjusted to having your sister gone, you seem bound and determined to leave me, too. 

I know you aren’t a huge fan of dramatic displays of emotion, or frankly any displays of emotion or affection.  I can’t imagine many 17 year old boys are.  But as these growing up years wind down, I’m worried that I haven’t covered it all yet.  There are lessons yet to teach, wisdom (or practical experience at a minimum) that I have yet to bestow upon you.  And you are gone so much—busy with friends and school and sports—how will I ever get it all through to you?  

With your sister, I allowed myself to wax a bit more poetic and sentimental.  She was my first and a girl and, frankly, a little more indulgent of my wistfulness as she rocketed through her senior year and bittersweet lasts.  You aren’t sentimental in the least (not that she really was, but she tolerated me), and you’ll likely be deeply annoyed if I get too squishy sweet.  I can't promise I won’t drift there—I’m your mom, after all, and you’ll always be my baby. For her, I wrote a series of essays under the tongue in cheek theme of “Not Crying” (the obvious subtext being of course I was crying.  I cried over all of it and probably will again).  For you, however, I am planning to be a bit more pragmatic.  Your blog series will be focused around the message, “Before you go…” and I’ll use it to document all the things I hope you’ll remember as you head into the world and become a man. 

Perhaps it will land for you now.  Maybe you will read it and think, “Man, my mom is brilliant.  She’s really got it all together.”  If you ever utter, or even think these words, please make sure that I am aware.  I will buy a lottery ticket and also go to confession immediately because either everything in the world is coming together for me, or the end is near and I had best get my affairs in order.  Most likely, you won’t have time to even read them.  Or if you do, you’ll skim it and roll your eyes, groan and walk away.  

My hope for this series of essays is this:  someday something resonates for you.  I hope I can help you avoid some hurt and mistakes.  I hope that you recognize this effort for what it is—a labor of love as intense and, at times (if my go around with Grace is any indication), annoying and inconvenient as the labor I went through to bring you into this world. 

I have been writing stories and poems and observations about the world for as long as I can remember.  Reading and writing are what help me make sense of the world.  I can think of no better way to attempt to articulate our lives to this point and our journey through the coming year, than to craft a few observations and comments in these pages over the next few months.  I am doing it out of the deepest possible love for you, even though right now I’m sure it will annoy you to no end.  Almost everything I do annoys you to no end.  It’s sort of how we relate right now.

I want to leave you with a quote from a book (you'll find a lot of these in the coming posts).  I think of this often, because it took me awhile to realize that almost all people are messy and stupid—me most of all.  I know I wasn’t a perfect mom to you--in the early days, through all the middle years, and especially now.  But I never failed you for lack of trying, or for lack of love.  I gave you love in the way I like to receive it, in the way that made most sense to me.  And then I gave it to you in the way you seemed to prefer it--at a distance and often in the form of cash or a favor. 

I was probably a little overwhelming at times; I often am.  As a baby and toddler you were one of my most affectionate children.  I once read that being the mother of a 2 year old boy is like being a rock star in a world without critics.  That is certainly how you made me feel.  And you weren’t one of those indiscriminate, happy babies who cheerfully tolerated any and all affection and attention.  You were very discriminating.  I used to say, “Sammy only likes me, and he only likes me some of the time.”  (Really, you did like me most of the time).

As you grew, ever further away from me, the way I showed you love wasn’t always perfect.  In the book I am about to quote, a young woman visits a former teacher who is dying.  He tells her about a man who hated and disapproved of him for most of his life, but when he was diagnosed with terminal illness, he showed up every Sunday to bring him a milkshake.  It wasn’t enough to make up for all the unkindness over the years, but the man was trying.  He wanted to show his former coworker love.  The dying man didn’t necessarily want a milkshake, but he graciously accepted it every weekend.  His advice was this, “I’ll give you what I learned from all this…Accept what people offer.  Drink their milkshakes.  Take their love.”*

People love imperfectly.  I know I do.  But I remind myself regularly to recognize it for the gift that it is, in whatever clunky way it is offered.

Before you go, remember to drink the milkshakes.  Take the love. 

*From She's Come Undone by Wally Lamb