“I don’t like waiting.”
The whining voice I heard came from my young daughter, complaining about having to wait for her next birthday.
“It’s too far away,” she said. “I’ll be old and wrinkly by then.”
I laughed out loud, but truly, that plaintive voice is one that echoes inside each of us, whether we are children or adults, teenagers or grandparents.
I’d like to say that every day in our house is peaceful, that no one ever fights, that we ride out problems prayerfully and lovingly.
But it would be a lie.
Yesterday was particularly challenging, with tired children shirking household duties and worn-out parents losing patience. Throughout the rainy day we had to help solve quarrels, enforce obedience, redirect whining. In the face of all our little problems, we got stuck in the muck of anger and impatience.
My knuckles turned white as I gripped the steering wheel on the way to Urgent Care.
In the rearview mirror, I glanced constantly at my daughter, who rested her head gingerly on a pillow in the backseat.
For days, she’d complained that her head hurt off and on, but this day when I picked her up from school, her face was ashen and her eyes held a fevered look, though there was no fever.
I could tell there was something wrong, and I feared the worst.
Rest has never been something at which I’ve particularly excelled.
Somehow there is always laundry to be folded, children to be fed, dishes to be washed, and stories to be read.
A parent’s job is never done.
And yet, today, I saw just how important rest is.
Amid a busy schedule, somehow my seven-year-old daughter got a full, good night’s rest, uninterrupted by nightmares or early-rising siblings.
In awe, my five-year-old son peered over the pew during the Consecration, the most holy part of the Mass during which the host and the wine become the Body and Blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ.
Normally my youngest can be a bit rambunctious during Mass, but we try to pull him aside and point out the miracle before us at each Consecration.
“The priest, in persona Christi, is asking the Holy Spirit to change the bread and wine into the Body and Blood of Jesus right now,” I whispered into my son’s ear. “Look! He’s holding up Jesus!”
Slowly, slowly, with back hunched over and knees bent up toward the handlebars, my six-year-old daughter trudged on her big-wheeled tricycle toward the grocery store to get popsicles.
So adamant was she about not trying her two-wheeled bicycle that she resorted to a preschooler vehicle to reach her destination.
Swallowing my usual remarks during such displays of tenacity, I patiently walked beside her, giving her a push now and then up the slopes, then gently reminded her that when she masters her two-wheeler, she will not struggle so much.
There is a crackle glass bowl in our living room, a decorative bowl we set out for special occasions. It’s stunning, with hand-painted designs in bright colors.
Running through the entire piece are tiny cracks, hairline fissures in the clear glass that forms the bowl. When light shines through it, however, those cracks make the bowl shine more magnificently than before.
Whether you are one, have one, or are married to one, mothers affect every person in the world.
My eight siblings and I have been blessed with a very gentle mother who simply and genuinely reflects many of the same characteristics of Our Blessed Mother.
My earliest memory of my mom was when I was “helping” her bake a cake by moving the small plastic containers of decorative sprinkles from one side of the kitchen to the other.
“M-o-o-o-m! There’s a hole in my sock!”
It was Sunday morning, 20 minutes before Mass, and our household was a-flutter with our four children scurrying about donning church clothes, brushing teeth, and fixing hair.
My eight-year-old son was in his room, half-dressed, with a sock on one foot and disdainfully holding up the matching holey one. “I can’t wear this holey sock to church!” he cried.
Every Lent — thanks to an idea I found years ago on a Catholic blog listed below — we set up a crown of thorns in our living room. It’s just a small brown vine wreath covered with toothpicks, but it has a very specific purpose.
Each time one of my children performs a small sacrifice, or does something nice for someone else, he or she gets to pull a thorn from the crown of thorns.
One by one, the number of thorns dwindles, leaving the vine wreath bare. On Easter morning, the crown of thorns, now void of toothpicks, is covered with beautiful flowers, a symbol of how God took away our hurtful sins and replaced them with beauty of eternal life.
