My back garden smells great. It’s not so much the flowers, but the smoked peppers and tomatoes Matt is grilling for our early-June-but-still-feels-like-March Saturday chili. When we left for America last summer, we should’ve known Ireland would experience tremendous heatwaves and glorious sunshine. This year, though, while we’re happily home in Dublin for the summer, we’ve got cool breezes and intermittent rain showers. My children still leave the house in jackets, gloves and winter hats. We debate the merits of a morning or evening boost of heat. Our clothing is not yet on the line.

But we’re home - right now, for now - and at rest.

The first year of my MA was challenging, but in a “let’s try not to look like the 40 year old mum on campus” way, or a “let’s see if I still know how to craft a thesis” way. I felt mature, but not old; fresh, but not naive. The truth is, while I’ve missed writing creatively, I haven’t necessarily missed showing up here, or feeling the need to write here. I experienced a sort of trial-by-fire in academic writing, which was more of a struggle - a joyful, stretching struggle - than I thought it would be. So while I jumped into that pool, I waded out of this one. Still here, but walking slowly along the water’s edge, wondering when I’ll dip a toe back in.

Not yet, I don’t think. Maybe not ever.

I don’t know that I have much to say anymore outside of the literary implications of perfectibility, or ecocriticism and pathetic fallacy in the contemporary Irish short story. Or the occasional trolling of a dead PT Barnum on Twitter (can we give up the ghost of The Greatest Showman, yet?) or my deeply held but not at all productive rage against the Dublin housing crisis. Turns out my audience is very niche.

I can’t say for sure when or if I’ll be back here. I’m keeping the site running for now, particularly for keeping y’all up to date on my copywriting and design side hustle. I need to pay for school (for myself, and the kids) after all.

So spread the word. Or drop me a line. Or comment on what’s up with you and where this last season might’ve taken you. It’s okay if it’s been a fallow one. Sometimes the fallow seasons are the life-changers. Sometimes our fallow seasons aren’t so fallow at all.

There’s work under the soil being done all this time.

1. I am now 40. 40 and 12 days. IN MY FORTIES.

2. We survived America. Our waistlines did not.

3. Dublin is home. We sensed this for awhile, but the extended time away only confirmed the rootedness in our hearts. We love KC, love Wisconsin, but we are where we are meant to be, and we are so very thankful. 

4. People are great. Like, everywhere.

5. My sisters and best friend treated me to a weekend in Chicago, wherein I learned I am secretly a daredevil because I walk on grates. Self-confidence boosted significantly. We highly recommend Eataly, the Chicago Cultural Center (pictured above) and the architectural boat tour at sunset.

6. Babies are way more fun when they are not yours. 

7. We now carry an adrenaline auto-injector for Ella's random allergies. She's pretty chuffed by this and enjoys bragging on how she can "stab herself in the leg" really well.

8. I used to hate the long drive across Kansas. Perhaps it was the mild carsickness in the backseat of my mom's chevy nova or the impending doom of podding peas on a western Colorado homestead. Either way, as an adult and under the blue sky of midsummer, it's all beauty to me. The wheat, the barns, the one rain storm on the horizon. What a gift to see with new eyes.

9. "Sometimes I colour so hard." These words, spoken to me by my early-30s cousin with two master's degrees and a penchant for anarchy. So we put his baby boy down for a nap and coloured side by side and talked out some good hard things. Family friendships are where it's at.

10. I register for grad school on Wednesday...

which means...

11. This space will be dormant for awhile, I think. Not that it's been all that lively around here.

12. Yes, I'm excited.

13. But mostly anxious.

14. The sweetest surprise of the summer: so many long lost friends to hug and laugh with in real life. I marvelled at their lives and children and work and dreams and it was all so familiar, so strange. Aren't we all just making it up as we go along? Haven't we all seen a dark day or two(-hundred)? I'm keeping all these snapshots, these microcosms of culture and charity and faith, and holding them close till next time.

15. There's never enough time. 

Two weeks into a whirlwind 10-week home ministry assignment* and we are deep in the trenches of living that back porch life. We knew before we left Ireland for summer in America that we'd take these first two weeks slow and steady, stocking up on family and friends and food, and it's fair to say we've exceeded at that not-so-lofty goal (with enough sunburns and pool hair to last us till 2020).

But tomorrow, the real work begins: we'll head to Colorado for a week-long debrief retreat and then travel around the midwest till the end of August.

So while we pack another suitcase, here's our top 5 favourites from our #HuberHMA2018 so far:

1. Jetlag induced early mornings. This night owl has become a morning person and I'm wondering why I didn't take advantage of those few quiet hours ages ago!

2. Summer! Yes, it's hot, but it's an actual live, long summer. With swimming pools and outdoor musical festivals and iced coffee for daysssss. (featured photo is from Middle of the Map Fest)

3. Our van. We rented a vehicle from Furlough Ministries in Brillion, WI and they stocked us with goodie bags for each kid, enough wet wipes to get us from Chicago to Colorado and back again, and the best water/coffee flasks ever. Still need iced cold water 8 hours later in 100-degree weather? Check!

4. Grandparents (and new babies!). Our kids adore their grandparents and it's so great to have more than just the two of us love on them for weeks on end. We're also spending some quality time with brand new nephews/cousins and basically remembering why we love our families so much. 

5. Did I mention that back porch? Only before 8am is it cool enough to sit out there, but when we do it's like a mini holiday for my brain and body.

*So, What's a "home ministry assignment"?

For many who work in Christian charities overseas, it's a scheduled and structured time (furlough) back in one's passport country. A not uncommon preconceived notion is that it's just a paid vacation back home, and well, yes it can be that. But the main objective is a work one: to report back to our investors, churches and friends what we've been doing with their support lo these many years. It can also involve working on or fulfilling some life support issues: taxes, medical care, drivers license renewals, etc. We've got meetings and power points and sermons scheduled and even a potluck or two. By the end of our time here, we'll have driven nearly 5000 miles in 10 weeks, visited 5 churches and dozens of supporters. And then... we'll go back to our other home, and do the other work.

Crazy? Yes.

Worth it? For sure.

A quarterly update of some recent work. This season seems to be the season of paying attention. I wish I could take credit for that, but those are Joy Smalley's words, in an essay for Velvet Ashes.

"Everyday my children come to me with bids for my attention. They want to tell me stories, they want to sit with me, play with me, experience life alongside me all the while learning what they are worth by my response. Will I pay attention? Will I stop what I am doing and play? Will I choose them over others?"

I'm not one who often chooses to stop, listen, pay attention, make the quieter choice. But perhaps this season of few words is just for that.

To pay attention.

Thankfully, turning these words into a picture of a life overseas gives me a small chance, every day, to do just that.

The above image is from my own essay on sitting in the discord, revelling in the full catastrophe. For me, it feels like the clanging cymbals of life and faith in a messy, fallen world. Or, as a wise man once said, “the human story is dissonance (or worse).” 

Isn’t that comforting? :)

PS. A few people have asked where the images come from. I find almost every image at Unsplash, my favourite site for free (and excellent quality) stock photos. You do get the option of crediting the photographer, which I try to do whenever possible! The fonts are often from Creative Market. You can sign up for a weekly email offering six design goods every week. Most of them come with a standard license, which is perfect if you're working on a particular project or website. And I do nearly all the work using PicMonkey, a free photo editing service.

It's been too long since we've had a Friday Favourites post! This edition is brought to you by our Friday Night Cinema Parties; the one tradition our family keeps, no matter where in the world we happen to be. 

I distinctly remember my early childhood movies: Close Encounters of the Third Kind and ET, introduced to me by my science-fiction-buff father, despite the fact I vomited my very first theatre popcorn in the back of his K-car and was probably a good 5-10 years too young to see them. But since that fateful day (still sorry, Dad!), one of my favourite things is finding that one movie we love as much as our kids do, and vice versa.

These days, a plethora of not-great movies abound. Trolls? No thanks. Smurfs? I'd rather not. Shrek? Jackson still has nightmares. Yet we've become reluctant connoisseurs of the family film, having spent countless hours finding films that appeal to both big and little kids alike. I felt it incumbent on myself to share our hard-earned wisdom with other Disney-fatigued parents.

So here are 20 movies (10 animated/10 live-action) I actually enjoy watching with my kids:

Animated:

• Spider-Man: Into the Spider Verse

• Fantastic Mr Fox

• Lego Movie

• Any Wallace & Gromit film/short

• Tangled

• Despicable Me

• Big Hero 6

• Megamind

• Wall-E

• The Penguins of Madagascar

Live Action:

Age 10+

• Super 8

• Jumanji reboot

• That Thing You Do

• Star Wars (any, but especially The Force Awakens)

• School of Rock

Any age

• Paddington (1 and 2!)

• Nacho Libre

• Goosebumps

• Alexander and the Terrible, No Good, etc etc.

• Gulliver's Travels

Yes, that's a lot of Jack Black. But that's the price you pay with sassy tweens. We also recommend gratuitous amounts of pizza and popcorn.

Next time, I'll cover grown-up movies perfect for growing teen boys. Spoiler alert: Christopher Nolan is the perfect gateway drug for the creative teen.

First, a confession: I’ve been lazy about writing. Since we received our Irish citizenship, I’ve wondered how my written perspective would change, or rather, if it even should change. 

Am I still an expatriate, a foreigner, a blow-in, a transplant, and now an immigrant?

Only time will tell.

But it’s been a curious experiment, to lie low and ruminate on the newness of this identity, not unlike when we first moved to County Meath and spent our days listening, waiting, soaking it all in. Eventually, though, your mind and heart reach saturation levels and you just can’t take much more in.

Maybe that’s where I am now. Saturated. Waiting for the tide to go out, the pores to empty. 

While waiting, I recently turned back to The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. I started this book and the morning pages exercises in 2014, but somewhere along the way I forgot all about it... Until I picked it back up, that is, and remembered: it’s a lot of hard work, this minding and nurturing my inner artist child, naming my advocates and my monsters, writing the affirmations until my knuckles start aching. 

I don’t mind telling you that two weeks of spring break hampered this good work.

But before the break, I took my artist child out on a date. Which one, my friends asked, meaning my own actual children. 

Me, I said, to their looks of mild confusion.

We walked through St Stephen’s Green and sat across from James Joyce in the mist and listened to This American Life and the stories of Five Women (being both equally believable and unsettling). 

Then we sat in on a piano recital at the National Gallery from an excessively talented 17-year-old playing Chopin and Rachmaninov; a practice lesson for the upcoming Dublin International Piano Competition. I thought I’d write notes and remark on the setting, the shiny parquet floor, the revived newness of an old Georgian ballroom with its white columns and alternating busts. But instead I just sat, listened.

His work was wonderful, and he was nervous, and as his brown curls bounced above the grand piano’s keys, all the pent up musical energy within his bones contract and release, I was as proud of him as I would’ve been of my inner artist child at that age, in that place.

(But she never got very far in piano.)

I look forward to more dates, more museums, more walks, more music, more filling of the well (so to speak). Yes, that’s a whole lotta New Age-y talk, but I’ve bought into it. For now.

I have big thoughts on a recent op-ed from The Washington Post entitled, "I would’ve aborted a fetus with Down syndrome. Women need that right."

But first, some context.

Today is Mothering Sunday in Ireland and the UK. I love that this turn of phrase goes beyond the traditional Hallmark greeting of "Mother's Day." This wording, this mothering, is explicitly declaring that mothering is an act, not just a job title. And though we may not all be mothers, many women (and even some men) are persistently intentional in the act of mothering.

Some of my favourite mothers are not my own. Some are my own age, peers who have yet to cross the definitive threshold (or health insurance deductible, or tax bracket) of motherhood. Some are the age of my parents or grandparents, mothering and grand-parenting myself, my husband, and our three third culture kids.

These women are invaluable, and on this day, on this island, I'm called to celebrate them all.

Now this particular Mothering Day falls on my husband's birthday. Today he is 42, and not a strand of grey sits upon his full head of hair. But it's not just his day. Since the day we met, he's been celebrating this day with another family member, 15 years his junior: my cousin, Christina. 

Christina is a riot. Literally. She is the life of the party, and it's a wild one. She gives epic prayers and speeches, and she loves people of all shapes and sizes. She was a wee thing at our wedding, and in the family pictures, it's not Matt and I at the centre; it's her. 

Even saying all this, knowing these precious things about her, I don't know her as well as I should. Time and distance will do that. And yes, lack of proper effort will do that, too. I wish I knew her better, not just because we're family, but because the rest of that lot - my mother's side, still proudly led by my 95 year old grandmother - declare her the very best of us. 

Maybe it's because she is all those things and she also has Down syndrome. Maybe not. But if it is, so what? It's a part of what makes her, her. And we love her for it.

So back to that opinion piece.

I find it hard to fit my views and beliefs (my moral ethos) into neat pro- or anti- categories. I've struggled with the pro-life movement, in that there is much I find lacking (a holistic ethic, for one). I grew up post-Roe v. Wade but sit as a 39-year-old on the cusp of taking part in a referendum, one that may or may not pave the way for the legalisation of abortion in Ireland.

And I'm almost afraid to tell you how terrified I am of it.

How I struggle most days to engage with it, to even know my own thoughts on it.

How I believe the key to being wholly pro-life is so much more than being optimally pro-birth.

How it is healthcare and childcare and mother support and welfare and all the things we so conveniently forget, and how those very things ARE present in this country. For that, I am grateful.

But this op-ed by Ruth Marcus is being lauded on America's pro-choice shores. This female editor, who - for what it's worth - never had an abortion, is being commended on her courage for the willingness to have one.

What a stand!, they say. She didn't abort, but she would've.

And yes, she could've. That was and is her constitutional right, as it is mine.

But courageous is not the word I'd choose for her essay, her quotes, her ethos. Alarming, elitist and stunning are the words that first come to mind.

I'll begin with her first statement (and one in which I don't totally disagree) that proposed state laws barring women from "terminating their pregnancies after the fetus has been determined to have Down syndrome" are "unconstitutional, unenforceable — and wrong."

Yes, they are unconstitutional. Yes, they are unenforceable. And in some circumstances, depending on the situation, may even be dangerous. 

Next, she says that when she had her two children, she was of a certain maternal age for genetic testing; testing, she says, which has the exact purpose of discovering if pregnancies can and should be terminated.

Why? Because health. Mental capabilities. And the ability to make money.

Of course, she writes, she knows many families who birthed, raised and love their children who have Down syndrome.

"But accepting that essential truth is different from compelling a woman to give birth to a child whose intellectual capacity will be impaired, whose life choices will be limited, whose health may be compromised. Most children with Down syndrome have mild to moderate cognitive impairment, meaning an IQ between 55 and 70 (mild) or between 35 and 55 (moderate). This means limited capacity for independent living and financial security; Down syndrome is life-altering for the entire family."

If this is, indeed, her underlying argument, let's dig in. How about any or all learning disabilities, genetic anomalies? Parents with histories of mental illness? Heart defects? Hereditary knee problems? I've got those in spades!

But even just on the basis of mental impairment, if my child is not intelligent, is he or she not worth raising? If my child has a hole in the heart (which is treatable, by the way), is he or she not worth treating, worth saving?

"That was not the child I wanted," Ms Marcus states. "That was not the choice I would have made. You can call me selfish, or worse, but I am in good company. The evidence is clear that most women confronted with the same unhappy alternative would make the same decision."

May we define "unhappy alternatives?" What is that? The only definition Ms Marcus gives is the unhappy alternative of bearing (and financially supporting) a child with Down syndrome. But what part of life allows us a frequent opt-out of unhappy alternatives? And if we are to root out any and all unhappy alternatives set within the DNA of actual humans, who will actually ever fit the bill? If this were The Handmaid's Tale-like atmosphere she believes we're heading towards, the only humans allowed to a right to life would be men with high sperm counts and women with a functioning reproductive system. But that's irony for you.

"Can it be that women have more constitutional freedom to choose to terminate their pregnancies on a whim than for the reason that the fetus has Down syndrome," she asks. Well, yes! That was the exact law fought for, sought out, demanded all those years ago. And it is the same law that is currently on trial in Ireland, the same law being fought over now, the same law that I will one day vote for or against.

But that doesn't make it right, ethical, courageous. It just makes her worldview very, very small.

I think a lot about free will when I think about abortion and "legislating morality." For people of faith, God gave us free will for a reason. He knew we'd get it wrong nine times out of ten, but still He doesn't force any sort of will on us. 

Spoiler alert: He gave us the freedom to choose.

He could've made all humans everywhere love Him, but He didn't. He invites us to, instead. 

He could've made humans perfectly just, but He didn't. He asks us to work it out with fear and trembling, instead. 

He could've made us to be without sin, forever and ever. No pain, no suffering, no evil, no problem. But He didn't.

He forgives us, loves us, saves us, instead.

Ms Marcus cites danger ahead (and a danger I don't altogether dismiss), but her language here goes beyond dangerous. It is inhuman, and the argument she's making denies the humanity not only of a "foetus," but of an entire people group.

There is so much uncertainty in this life, no matter the IQ or APGAR score. And there's no doubt the experiences of my cousin Christina and her family have been hard. BEYOND HARD. But also brighter, freer, lovelier, bolder, stronger, truer... these are the undeniable gifts of knowing and loving a child with Down syndrome. 

May Ms Marcus' world be expanded into this beautiful array of boldness and beyond her limited view of it.

She has the privilege to pursue that. And Christina deserves the right to it.

P.S. Read a statement from Down Syndrome Ireland asking campaigners for or against the legalisation of abortion in Ireland not to use images of or exploit people with Down syndrome, saying in part, "We would also like to remind campaigners on both sides of the debate that people with Down syndrome listen to the news and read media articles, including social media content. We ask that the tone of the debate is respectful towards all people with disabilities."

P.P.S. For more insight into cultures where abortion has nearly eradicated conditions such as Down syndrome, check out my column on the subject for VOX.

Look how bright and beautiful it is up there! That fresh, mild burst of late winter...

Spoiler alert: here and now looks nothing like that.

Here is cold, snowy, blizzardy Dublin. The whole of the country is shut down, a curfew is in place, and we are riding out Storm Emma and The Beast From The East. And now is a few months past due on a family, life and work update. Kids are home, Matt's away, a LOST marathon is on the telly, and soup is on the stove.

So here we go:

READING

Good Morning, Midnight by Lily Brooks-Dalton for your average "is this the end of the world?" fare. The Art of Memoir by Mary Karr for poetic, incisive and hilarious insight into writing (check out her interview for On Being). The Road Back To You by Suzanne Stabile and Ian Morgan Cron (who wrote one of my least favourite books, but has found his niche here) for personality nerds like myself... I'm a 6. I think. 

And as it's that time of year, I'm also trying to remember to do the Lent Project from Biola University (similar to the Advent project, which I've done the last few years and absolutely adore).

Let's be friends on Goodreads.

WATCHING

The eldest (15) is in that perfect place for discovering more mature art and storytelling, and I'm happy to report he is digging Christopher Nolan movies (Interstellar, Inception and Dunkirk).

Matt and I became completely enamoured with The Good Place (woah). After months of curiosity, I finally saw The Lobster (wuh?). And of course, two weeks straight of The Olympics (woot!).

LISTENING TO

NYT's The Daily Podcast, Fresh Air's interview with Kate Bowler, the Sense & Sensibility soundtrack, and my Lent playlist.

WRITING

• Brendan Madden - My Story for VOX
• Oh, the Places He'll Take You at Velvet Ashes
• Finding Love in the Pages of Scripture for Influence Magazine
• Honouring the Full Catastrophe at Velvet Ashes
• Naming, Shaming & Apologising at VOX

LOVING

Having a friend from London come visit, forcing me out for cocktails and to new coffee shops I didn't know existed.... and her loving us and the kids, too.

Seeing young people rise up, speak up, unafraid to confront hypocrisy and demand better from our representatives.

Reliving some The Cranberries memories with the kids after the extraordinarily sad passing of Dolores O'Riordan. It's no exaggeration to say she was my constant companion during some of my more emotionally trying teenage years, her voice a comfort and a snarky, strong, feminist challenge. 

Purple winter sunsets.

Candles in the fireplace.

Five years in ONE PLACE (what?!)

New curtains, finally.

And yes, the initial novelty of snow days. I mean, sure, I wish the kids were in school, but it is so lovely, such a rare experience, and one that the whole country is experiencing together. I love hearing squeals and giggles from the green and the camaraderie between neighbours as they share shovels (or dust pans, as the case may be).

For more things I'm loving, let's be friends on Twitter, Facebook or Instagram. Or subscribe to receive posts via email.

MEDITATION

Again, with Mary Karr... I've sent this poem to several people in the last few months. It's from Advent, but think it suits Lent even better. So much of her description of the "sacred carnality" leaps out at me, striking the match of a memory I'd almost forgotten. This in particular:

then the Lord sailed a soul
like a lit arrow to inhabit me...

Eventually, I lurched out
to kiss the wrong mouths, get stewed,
and sulk around. Christ always stood
to one side with a glass of water.
I swatted the sap away.

- Disgraceland

So that's it from me. What've you been up to?

Make sure to visit Leigh Kramer and her What I'm Into series for more fun and for some great enneagram insight. (Plus, this month she was in the motherland: Kansas City!)

> >  R E L A T E D   P O S T S

Quick Links: Honouring the Full Catastrophe & Oh, the Places He'll Take You

//

Sadly, the grove I've been frequenting doesn't look as spectacular as the one above. Instead of purple flora at great heights, this grove is populated with complicated feelings and unburied, unhurried words.

Every Friday at Velvet Ashes, we host a global gathering exploring a common theme to women living cross-culturally, and the last two weeks have featured my own particular thoughts, lessons and joys. Here's just a glimpse:

As all the moms and dads in the room nodded in recognition (and the young hipsters shook their heads in confusion), Crouch used Ratatouille as the perfect example of a perfect story. The characters, the narrative arc in three acts, the despair, the redemption, the victory. This Pixar classic, said Crouch, had it all… and then he sat at the piano.

As the disgruntled daughter and piano lesson drop-out of a spectacularly gifted pianist, there is but one song I can still play with relative ease, and Crouch played that very song. Now his skills were tenfold what mine will ever be, but once I heard that first measure, I knew exactly where this story was going.

“Prelude 1 in C Major” from the Well-Tempered Clavier by Johann Sebastian Bach is a fairly simple tune, made up mostly of beautifully constructed chords, each note and key played separately, so that you know where the chord will end. The bass note sets the scene, allowing the chord to move freely but patiently. But then, a note sounds off. It’s not wrong, no. It’s exactly as written, and of course Bach knew what he was doing. He was adding complexity to the musical story, taking us “further and further into dissonance,” said Crouch, still playing.

As the melody sped up ever so slightly, and the base notes grew louder, the chord’s end became fraught, confused, melancholy.

Then suddenly, catastrophe. Discord.

One chord clangs so loudly that all hope of a beautiful resolution is lost. Crouch played on, telling us this – this – is the turning point of the story.

Read more about honouring the full catastrophe for what it is: a chance at a better story.

//

Then I got to humble-brag my way through half a lifetime worth of travels. They say it's not the destination, but the journey and all that. But I say it's neither of those things. It's the faces. The stories. The hopes. The heartbreaks. 

No, the wonder of this nomadic life is in the faces God’s brought me, the experiences He’s given me, the glimpse of heaven he’s offered me.

On my knees in heartbroken humility.

Arms raised in hopeful clarity.

Face to face with disparity.

Hands open with possibility.

The places He’s taken me are beyond borders and continents. In all these stamps, plane tickets and travels, God continues to provide a greater understanding not just of this world He created, but of the people He loves, the ways He is working. And even more, the brilliant diversity of His beautiful church. The sons and daughters who worship in mother tongue, serve with overflowing hearts, proclaim freedom and good news on their own inner city streets.

It’s a shame it takes a trip around the world to truly see it. But oh, the places He’s taken me.

You can also read this one at Velvet Ashes. And if you've got a story or two about travel, the link-up is still open. We'd love to hear your stories, too.

Nearly once a week, I turn to Matt and ask, "Remember when we went to Venice?" Yes, of course he does. We all do. And now that we're in the cold damp days of late winter, I look back on those exceptionally hot and humid and brilliant and heavenly 36 hours with more and more frequency, more and more sentimentality, more and more thanksgiving. We went to Venice! A Kansas girl in Venice. Who'd've thought?

Do you remember Asher at the back of the Vaporetto? Watching all the buildings and boats pass us by, eyeing the bridges with wonder. The other two were hot and tired, but he stood at the stern to witness a new and strange world pass him by. He wore an Avengers cap and turned to me, smiling big and red. Not even a word.

Do you remember the pizza, I ask. Eating it on the steps of Basilica di Santa Maria della Salute as pigeons eyed our crusts and the sun slowly moved across the shadows, us moving with it to keep just slightly cooler. We passed the sunset minutes there and counted boats and water busses and pinched ourselves at the brilliance of a summer evening overlooking San Marco.

Do you remember Ella, collapsing on sidewalks and benches from the heat, wearing her "cold-shoulder" shirt I begrudgingly bought her, the one with "America!" in big, motorcycle script. She bought herself watermelon sunglasses and a straw hat from Penny's and looked like the coolest, tiniest hipster. She stood quietly still in the cathedrals, chased Asher down alleys, inhaled the fresh fruit, begged for coffee.

Or do you remember the water fountains - bubblers for you Wisconsiners - peeking out of stucco corners, filling our plastic bottles with fresh lukewarm water, kids dipping their hot heads under its flow? I carried two water bottles my purse, Matt had one in each pocket, and Jack did, too. The kids still rebelled and complained at every turn, but we ignored them. Refilled their bottles. Rationed out gelato like the life-saving medicine it was.

See? Super happy.

Do you remember Jackson? How he stepped off the bus and sullenly said, "I'm being burned alive"? He tried to love it, apart from the heat. And six months later he admits he really did. He grew big and strong on that trip, taller than his dad, a Royals baseball hat bobbing through the crowds, hunting down his next pizza, dreaming of Rome.

And do you remember that cafe, with the old man? The chocolate and alcohol and the final two brioche pastries waiting just for us. We threw back those tiny cappuccinos standing at the counter while the kids watched cartoons back at the Airbnb and I realised we had finally plateaued into big-kid holiday blessings. We could leave them for a bit, walk the streets for a bit, eat watermelon slices out of plastic cups and drink ice cold prosecco on one of a thousand tiny bridges for a bit.

We took our mini dates first thing in the morning and last thing in the evening and our final memory is of another cafe, another brioche, the sun reflecting off the waters of and rooftops of Giudecca. I don't have enough adjectives, not nearly enough vocabulary. It was... otherworldly. A world away. A picture in a photobook, a page of a calendar. A scene in a movie.

And for 36 hours, it was ours.

Nine years ago, a young black American whip-smart by the name of Barak Obama became the 44th President of the United States. As we'd just moved overseas, I didn't vote in that election, but if I had, it's likely I would've cast my vote for the graphic designer who created this masterpiece:

This image was iconic, a post-modern evolution of pop art. It was hard to fault the image of hope cast in shades of red and blue, superimposed on the gorgeous face of the new America. I mean, if we're just talking visuals, this is what he was up against.

No contest.

So when I jokingly say that artist Shepard Fairey won the election for Obama, I'm actually quite serious. Without the HOPE poster, I'm not sure we would've had the first African-American president of the United States. It was simple in its profundity. 

After all, isn't hope itself just like that? Simple, raw emotion and power?

Today, in another country, I'm seeing other political campaigns being fought in Adobe photoshop and illustrator, in street art and coffee shop pamphlets. And I have to tell you: there's a clear winner.

Much like the YesEquality Campaign of the 2015 Irish Marriage Referendum, legalising gay marriage in the republic, the "Repeal the 8th" movement – seeking to repeal and replace the 8th amendment in the Irish constitution that aims to equally value and protect both an unborn child and the life of the mother – has art on its side.

"All art is, in some way or other, indelibly political because it relates to the workings of the society from which it emerges," wrote Cian O'Brien, artistic director of Project Arts Centre, after street artist Maser's mural first appeared in Temple Bar in 2016, both inspiring - and angering - arts patrons. "It is vital for art and artists to be at the centre of our nation’s great debates – as, indeed, they always have been."

Not just art, but sentimentality and nostalgia, reminiscent of bubble print of the 1980s and the preferred vintage apparel of all millennials everywhere. This unofficial mural has become the sign of the revolution, if you will. Maser's art perfectly illustrates the concept that if you want to win the hearts and minds of the masses, create art people will understand, appreciate, love, and most importantly, social media share.

“It was uplifting and it did engage people," Andrea Horan, who originally commissioned Maser's mural, told TotallyDublin. "It wasn’t to force something down someone’s throats like 'This is why you need to do it’. It was to create conversation so you’d see it and either feel supported by it or questioned by it and you’d engage with it.”

In comparison, the Love Both campaign, while just as legitimate a cause, arguably does its beliefs a disservice with their own logo and branding. Breast cancer awareness staked its claim on pink decades ago. By using the exact same colour palette, Love Both muddies the waters of its message with its advertising. And honestly, other than my daughter's primary school classmates, I don't know many people willing to rock the pink on pink look no matter how true or noble the message is.

Of course, there is always the exception. "Make America Great Again" baseball caps were routinely slagged during the 2016 US Presidential Campaign, while "I'm With Her" buttons and t-shirts were all over social media and popular media, college campuses and farmers markets. 

And we all know how that turned out.

So why am I going to all this effort to compare important, life-altering, culture-shaping topics by seemingly trite font and colour choice? Couldn't it be that the younger the demographic of any one cause, the more culturally aware the branding will be?

Well, yes.

Branding matters, way more than we like to admit. Art holds great subversive power. We can identify with the name of a campaign, but if the visuals don't grab us, inspire us, draw us into a greater conversation, the message will irretrievably get lost.

The aesthetic look of any one issue doesn't make it right, but it can make it effective.

Concludes O'Brien, "To me, the power of Maser’s work is not the message it contains, but the legacy it has created. The imprint of the work on the building remains in many people’s minds (and on their social media), and is almost as powerful as the work itself."

After all, who can say no to a giant heart? Who wanted to say no to a bright rainbow (and doves!) declaring "YesEquality"?

Who could say no to HOPE?

Well, many of us did. But not the majority, and in the end, majority rules, showing us that art won't just change culture. Art can – and will – make history. 

PS: You can find my report on Ireland's debate over legalising abortion here.

Quick Link: Naming, Shaming and Apoligising

I’ve been thinking about what it takes to get an apology. It’s not so uncommon to hear the merits of forgiveness, 70x7 and all that. But how often do we exhort one another to ask for forgiveness? How long is too long, to let those words of empathy and sorrow go by? Does there have to be proof of wrongdoing or a public reprimand in order to make amends? And what if we never get it?

//

Last year I did some hard heart work surrounding the act of forgiveness. Turns out I had some things churning within that I hadn't quite dealt with yet. Not just that, but when I uncovered these hidden trenches of not-quite-forgiveness, I was met not with that 70x7 Bible verse, but instead with:

That's okay.

Take your time.

What an amazing, freeing, even forgiving-oneself feeling. I'd been beating myself up over something I'd not yet gotten over, something I hadn't quite forgiven. In fact, forgiveness had never been asked, a sorry never said... an apology, still, may never appear.

Since that time, I've also wondered about the sorries I've never said, the times when I've let contrition pass through my rigid fingers and a firm upper-lip. I don't want to get to the end of another year - or, as the article above entails, another 30 years! - and realise I've let something go that may actually be harming someone else. 

So maybe instead of focusing on forgiving in 2018, maybe we (...ahem, I...) should be honouring - and practicing - the apologising. I don't think it'll hurt as much as we think it will... and in fact, it'll probably be a blessing, for both parties, and an example to a watching and weary world.

Read more about apologising too late, and where a proud culture can go from here.

Revisiting this article from 2018 in light of recent events and arrests regarding this cold case.

Over 30 years ago, An Garda Síochána made a terrible mistake. And then they compounded it. 

They assumed the very worst of a young woman under suspicion of murdering a child, even though medical testing at the time shed plenty of doubt on her guilt. They could not convict her of murder, so they made her pay for it the only way they knew how: through shame. 

They dragged her family through the mud, outed an illicit romance, and made her literally sick on the tribunal stand—a tribunal that had been set up to question their motives, not hers. 

This week, modern technology offered this woman and her family a small measure of justice and proof of what they always claimed to be true. She was not the guilty party. In return, the Gardaí and the government gave her this: a letter, a phone call, and a press conference apology. 

I’ve been thinking about what it takes to get an apology. It’s not so uncommon to hear the merits of forgiveness, 70x7 and all that. But how often do we exhort one another to ask for forgiveness? How long is too long, to let those words of empathy and sorrow go by? Does there have to be proof of wrongdoing or a public reprimand in order to make amends? And what if we never get it?  

In a statement yesterday, Taoiseach Leo Varadkar said the woman falsely accused was “a woman who was very badly treated by her State and by her society in a way that so many other women have been in the past, and that needs to change.” He then offered his own apology on behalf of the government and the country, saying the memories of this tragic story highlight the changes in Irish society from then till now. 

Professor Tom Inglis of UCD’s School of Sociology (and author of a book on the case), agrees, telling the Irish Independent that “she was caught up in this calamitous situation, the guards, the legal system, the media, the forces fighting for the soul of Ireland... You had the deeply patriarchal, conservative Catholic Ireland against the new Ireland that was struggling to emerge.” 

Evangelicals aren’t immune to this kind of cultural stigma, either. Two decades after sexually assaulting a youth in his ministry––and only after she came forward as part of the growing #MeToo movement––a pastor in the States confessed in front of his congregation to the “sexual incident.” In response, he received a standing ovation. 

Ed Stetzer in Christianity Today writes that while the pastor claims he apologized to the victim, her family and the church immediately, the victim was instructed by her church to remain silent. 

“So, not only do we have a questionable standing ovation after a problematic apology, but also accusations that church leadership were and continue to be involved in marginalizing the victim,” says Stetzer. 

“People have become jaded from carefully scripted and insincere apologies from these individuals,” says Dr Nikki Martinez, a professor and counselor. “Often the apologies have been put together by their PR rep, and the individual had nothing to do with the creation of the apology at all. Most importantly, the person only apologies when they have been caught, and when there are going to be serious consequences.”

At some point the “that was a different time” excuse no longer works. We are clearly still in that time, when people apologize only when forced to. Thirty years is too long to wait to make things right, and churches, governments, and the police should be held accountable for their abuses and actions. 

And maybe more importantly, we must be willing to ask ourselves if and how we can make amends for the things we've done, overlooked or contributed to, lest we find ourselves on the wrong side of another 30 years. 

“Ireland was a different place in 1984,” Garda Superintendent Flor Murphy said in a statement on Tuesday. “It was a different society with different societal pressures. We would hope that in the Ireland of 2018 that people will be more prepared to come forward.” 

We would hope the same thing, too.

*originally published at VOX Magazine / photo by Luke Michael on Unsplash

Some years are more prolific than others. 2017 wasn't necessarily one of them (at least, words-wise; plenty of travel, memories, changes, highs and lows were certainly had).

But tis the season for a few favourite essays from the last year, in no particular order:

Abortion, the Citizens Assembly and the Power of Listening for VOX Magazine (which has some very recent, very heated comments, which indicates we are getting very close to an abortion referendum in Ireland).

And a related piece for Religion News Service, and my first-time reporting on religion in Ireland for a news outlet: As Catholic influence in Ireland wanes, some hope abortion will be legalized.

I wrote a half-dozen or so pieces for Influence Magazine, including this one: Pastoring, Parenting and Priorities and a particularly timely piece on corporate Mourning.

And a personal essay on running away, aided and abetted by my policeman father: The Smallest Bite of the Straightest Road.

After a fallow summer, I had a difficult time holding to a regular schedule for my VOX column, but the ones I did get round to are close to the heart, especially No Memories are Contraband.

And finally, more essays and edits for Velvet Ashes than I can count, but I think the last one will remain my favourite: Lay Down Your Arms.

All of this year's work (among others) can be found here.

When I think of where I want to be this time next year, I have only a vague formation of a few open-ended ideas. I’d love to add some new publications to my portfolio, to work on a long-form piece I’ve got brewing (and which feels particularly harrowing), and to dig deeper locally, listening and amplifying the stories of others. I want to be more myself; free, bold and wise. My "one word" for 2018 is yet to be determined...

In the meantime, this year in writing and other freelance work was made possible by the letters V, H, P and F... VOX and Velvet Ashes, who let me write and/or design for them when and how I want; Help-Portrait, which let me blog and edit their social media presence this year; and Full Cycle Marketing, which allowed me to fully enter the contract copywriting game. 

It’s gratifying to see the side hustle grow and doors open. Exhausting, too. (I should probably add "time management" to my quickly-growing 2018 to-do list.)

And, as always, thank you for reading, commenting and sharing, clicking a like here or there, or touching my arm in the aisle at church (or school or coffeeshop) to let me know something I wrote touched you in some way. I'm so grateful for the voices, stories and cultures that gather through all these online spaces.

I'm a better writer and woman for them.

Quick Link: Lay Down Your Arms

//

I've a picture in my mind: two young white men held close to the ground by police in the act of arrest.

They were standing in protest, disrupting traffic on Chicago's Michigan Avenue, declaring Black Lives Matter. Too many boys had been shot, black men killed during "routine" traffic stops. And a growing chorus of religious, political and community advocates had had enough. Keeping the peace would not do. Guarding the peace did not work.

So they disturbed it. 

My cousin was one of those young, white men, and his life was never in danger. He knew if he was arrested, he'd come home alive. And perhaps that was the point: standing between the police, the city, and kids he knew and loved in his westside neighbourhood. He'd spend a cold couple of hours in a holding cell, to spare the chance they'd never make it out of one.

Making room for a new type of peace, by disrupting the old one.

//

As a lifelong people-pleaser, keeping the peace was the price to pay for a conflict-free existence. Perhaps it was my parents’ early divorce or that pleasant Midwestern spirit, but I learned to play nice early on. Seeing things from both sides came easily. And though I often felt torn between two sides and two worlds on any number of issues – and still do! – I couldn’t help but feel that same bit of pride in being able to maintain a somewhat peaceful lifestyle despite difficult circumstances.

But… one time I drew my weapon instead of playing nice. A group of young boys were traumatizing my little sister, assaulting her with cruel words as we played in the park by our community swimming pool. It was summer, so kids like us often went unchecked for hours in our safe neighborhood patrolled by cops who knew me by name. It’s possible I told my sister to ignore it. I could’ve told her to run along, or changed the subject, or maybe I even tried to broker a peace treaty between these messers and my sister.

But I didn’t. Diplomacy with an eight-year-old would get me nowhere.

Instead, I picked out the ring leader, gave him a swift kick in a sensitive spot, threw some of my own indelicate words their way, and ran hand-in-hand with my sister back home to safety.

Immediately a painful anxiety filled my chest and I couldn’t figure out if what I’d done was right or wrong. I knew a knock would come on our door at any moment from an angry parent, and indeed it did, but I was filled with such righteous indignation that an apology would not do.

I did not keep the peace. I’m not even sure I made peace. But what I did do was confirm my status as mighty defender in the eyes of my sister. She could count on me. If I couldn’t keep the peace for her, I would broker it in the only ways I knew how.

You can read the rest here.

Today I googled pictures of Hygge. Never one to be on time for a trend, this Christmas I deemed our house hygge central, with candles and blankets and herbal teas and wooly socks everywhere. It could also be called The Sick House, for our home has been that, too. But hygge sounds so much better. Unpronounceable, but better.

(Does she only write when she's sick, you might ask? I feel you.)

Advent rarely turns out the way I think it will. I imagine cozy nights and cuddles, quiet dinners and simple gift shopping. I think we'll have all this time—to rest, to read, to wait with expectation. And sure, there has been loads of resting. There have been days I haven't gotten out of bed, when I've let the kids sleep till 10am missing the morning roll call at school. We've cancelled plans, but we've also eaten lots of soup and I introduced Ella to While You Were Sleeping, so I guess it's not all bad. But still, it's never what I picture; never what I hope for. I'm looking for peace and for intention, for a spirit of quiet joy. Instead I find sleepless nights, coughing fits, and temper tantrums in public (mostly, from me); three pages of prescriptions and a referral for a chest x-ray.

Hygge hasn't quite lived up to the hype.

A few years ago I read an article about the slow and inefficient work of God. That phrase stuck to me like a shirt I'd try to shrug myself out of when it was just starting to fit. We were in the US, working hard to return to Ireland, and those days never quite turned out the way I thought they would, either. Or maybe I knew it would hard; long and slow, insecure and unsteady. But I suppose I hoped for a surprise, for help to come from the mountains at the drop of a tweed flat cap. It didn't, at least not when I wanted it to. Instead, we rode the rhythm of time, of seasons, and as advent came to a close, on the day after epiphany, we hopped on a plane to start the new year - and a new life - back on Irish shores.

So I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that advent itself is like that: slow and inefficient.

Anna and Simeon were experts in this inefficiency, while an otherworldly actor played his part behind the scenes. They showed up day after day, lines ready, movements blocked. Still, God waited. He had a script held close to his chest. Notes scribbled in the margins, rearranging stage directions and tweaking the cast. No one would be an extra in his story, no plot-line left with unmanageable holes. And though time stood still and 400 years of silence passed, the most inefficient work of all would also be the most miraculous, the most holy, the best surprise in a quiet, lonely moment.

I, too, wait in a quiet, lonely moment. Hushed coughs and tired feet fill the space above me. We are slow. We are inefficient. We're pretty annoyed at being so darn sick, again, year after year. And I feel like an extra today, a small bit part in a story I keep waiting to tell. 

Return to your fortress, you prisoners of hope;
    even now I announce that I will restore twice as much to you.

That, alone, is more than I can hope for.

A prisoner of hope, fit for restoration.

//

Under any ordinary circumstance, the last month should've been pretty fantastic. While sick, we met the President of Ireland, saw a Glen Hansard gig (pictured above at St Patrick's Cathedral), and became citizens. Not too shabby. 

Quick link: No Memories are Contraband

//

Isn't she a beaut? Such a wee thing, but now one of our most prized possessions.

In a miraculous series of crazy-making and divinely-ordered events, exactly one year after applying and some 9.5 years after first moving to Ireland, Matt and I were sworn in as Irish citizens.

Of course, wouldn't you know it, as I queued at our prescribed time, and smiled oh so brightly at the nice lady at the desk with the lists and the packets and the lapel pins, my name wasn't found on the list. Of course it wasn't; I had bowed out of the last ceremony in lieu of hospital duty. When Ophelia intervened and the ceremony postponed, I happily - and somewhat fearfully - let them know I'd make this one. Oh yes. It was happening.

And then... no #36.

A kind woman in a purple pantsuit Hillary would've admired hastily printed off a declaration of fidelity for me to sign, saying, "You'll still take the oath, we'll just have to post your certificate first thing tomorrow. But you can take a picture of this if you want."

Oh yes. Imma need a photo.

She apologized profusely, handed me my Tricolour, and let me through, to take my oath, to pledge loyalty to the Irish State.

"Oh, and congratulations!" she shouted behind me.

And then I cried.

//

Retired High Court Judge Bryan McMahon, who presided over the oath, made it clear that though we are now fully Irish in every way, we need not forget the places we came from.

“When the State honours you today by granting you citizenship, it does not require that you forget the country you come from,” he said. “It does not ask you to erase your memories or your personal and unique history. Do not forget your own country, your own people, your own traditions. Such memories are not contraband."

I won't lie and say that didn't hit me right in the heart. One who leaves his or her passport country to live and work (or serve) in another can't help but feel torn in two. We are not fully part of either; we are both and we are neither. We have become a new thing. 

At times along this journey, all manner of feelings have felt contraband, not to mention the anxieties that rise amid escalating tensions in both America and Europe right now. Love and anger, fear and hope exist right along each other, and the cultural and national securities with which we were raised take on new facets and shapes. Jagged edges are exposed by a different light; hidden gifts revealed from a new perspective. 

“Bring with you your songs, your music, and your stories,” Judge McMahon told us. “Someday your children and your children’s children will ask you about their grandparents and will inquire about the old country. Do not deny them their legacy.”

Our old country is not so old, but our story is now told in American folk legends and Irish poetry, African-American hymns and rebel songs.

//

You can read the rest at VOX. 

PS. My certificate came Wednesday, just as she promised. 

“Maeve, you’re a devil. I’m aware of that kind of thing, ever since I got the shock. That was the weirdest sensation ever, as my arm kind of went like that, went through here, through there, and my arm went up. I didn’t put it up meself. It just went right up, with the shock. It actually went right through me, and me arm went up. And there was a light fittin' on the wall just above the toilet, because the light started to flash. That’s the one and only time I’ve ever had that, the electric shock.

“I’m more conscious now of safety. I check everything, to make sure it’s off. I check the tap, I check the oven, I check the radiators. I check the showers… is there anything else…? I check the television, so.”

And then she was quiet.

Quick Link: Just Another Day in Paradise

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Full-disclosure: I am generally pro-Bono. And as my husband reminded me as I was getting slightly twitchy about this topic, he's a soft target. A rock star who not only sings about justice, he preaches on it from the stage, the pulpit, even the bush, putting himself on the front lines of accountability... and scrutiny. When U2 came under fire over a decade ago for avoiding Irish taxes by having their company based in the Netherlands, the outcry was fierce, but short-lived.

As one friend put it, “I would prefer those who lived out of Kingdom values and know Jesus to have more money, than those who don’t know Him.”

Well, sure. But we’d also expect them to knock down the doors of the Dáil demanding the immediate building of new social housing, homeless accommodation, and long-term relief in the rental sector.

//

Every time some sort of cache of documents is released, a new company, politician or celebrity (or even rockstar!) is revealed to be subverting the system. This time it was Bono, our Patron Saint at Large, whom I genuinely love -- but am also genuinely ticked off at. The richest man on this island, surely paying his taxes in due course (and in full) would significantly impact not just our homeless population, but every other social benefit that relies on Irish citizens paying their taxes.

So I wrote about it. 

My sister says, "Do you feel full-fledged Irish now? You wrote an article publicly slagging Bono!"

Yeah, I kinda do. :)

You can read the rest of it - and weigh in! - here.