tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-355518732024-03-06T23:43:29.574-08:00Close to HomeA Quest for Patience, Peace, and PerseveranceMolly Sabourinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04289593743687415065noreply@blogger.comBlogger156125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35551873.post-74621717677191246032009-07-08T15:03:00.000-07:002009-07-08T16:05:14.939-07:00ANNOUNCEMENT<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;">ANNOUNCEMENT:</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:24px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:24px;">"Close to Home" has moved!! I have consolidated my once divided interests into a single, cohesive, and hopefully more professional package. Please, please come and visit me at my new location:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:24px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:24px;"><a href="http://mollysabourin.typepad.com/">http://mollysabourin.typepad.com</a></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:24px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:24px;"><br /></span></div>Molly Sabourinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04289593743687415065noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35551873.post-38505727982510904942009-06-11T14:22:00.000-07:002009-06-11T20:26:54.386-07:00pardoned<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 20.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">For those of us fortunate enough or, more accurately, crazy enough to stick around after our college graduation and establish roots in the heart of downtown Chicago, the thickening of our skin became a required adaptation for survival. Everywhere one turns, shops or dines they’re boldly confronted by a disorienting dichotomy: excessive wealth meshing with dire poverty. </span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 20.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">To dwell on it, to care </span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">too</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> much, is to dangle ineffectually between feelings of envy and disgust for the monumental chasm separating the haves from the have nots. I, myself, soon grew accustomed to the anonymous outstretched hands begging the hordes of rushing, cappuccino sipping, passersby for leftover change out of their bulging pocketbooks. The first thing I abandoned was eye contact, followed shortly thereafter after by a dropping of my half-hearted, “no, sorry, not this time” response, until finally those fingers, the soiled clothing, their pleading voices were ignored completely, like the white noise of ocean waves or a ceiling fan.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 20.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> I had one friend, however, who never evolved like the rest of us, whose thin and sensitive skin remained, against all odds, translucent and tender. Much to our dismay, and despite our consternation, she kept her ears and eyes wide open, laying dollars and coins in every dirty palm that beckoned from grocery store exits and street corners.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 20.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> “What are you doing?” we’d hiss in frustration, “That newspaper you bought is like three days old. He just picked it up off the ground and sold it to you.” But none of our sound advice could penetrate that dense skull of hers. She stubbornly continued on with her imprudent habits until, finally, after one too many accusations that she was essentially funding drug addictions, my benevolent friend quietly but firmly relayed to us that it wasn’t her place to make judgments on others’ motives or intentions. Someone in need had asked her for help and she gave what she could.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: 20pt; "><span style=" ;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">********* </span></span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 20.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style=" ;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I could tell by the way it was presented on the flannel graph board in my second grade Sunday School class that I was supposed to be happy about the Prodigal Son’s celebratory reunion with his father and disapproving of his older brother’s snotty attitude toward the breaking out of the fatted calf in honor of what? Greediness? Stupidity? Utter failure?</span></span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 20.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> Perhaps it was because I was just a kid, and hadn’t yet experienced true remorse born of foolish and destructive behavior, that the parable left such a sour taste in my mouth - that in fact, to me, the whole story seemed to reek of injustice.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 20.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I could have stomached it, maybe, could have possibly even embraced its significance and symbolism had, as a footnote, the teacher merely added, “Isn’t it ridiculous and amazing that God’s compassion has nothing to do with our worthiness or actions?! Isn’t it crazy that, heavenly speaking, mercy trumps evenhandedness?!” Because who more than children are still open to outlandish possibilities, are pliable enough to snuggle up to, and feel at home with, such backward notions?</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 20.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> Each year we spend here on this earth we are that much more in danger of becoming encased in our “eye for an eye” logic in which charitable acts are only commendable when bestowed upon the innocent and deserving. Giving aid to orphans in Africa? That is good, very good. Exonerating thieves, liars or rapists? Handing out cash to homeless and reckless alcoholics who will surely squander it? Unacceptable.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 20.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Uncomfortable with ambiguity, our default reaction when attempting to wrap our finite minds around salvation and eternity is to try and apply that sensible ethos to matters of faith and redemption. When we are kind and brave and selfless we, albeit often unintentionally, have a tendency to feel at least a tad deserving of God’s grace.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 20.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">When we hate and hurt and doubt and whine, however, we find ourselves fighting off the despair nipping at our ankles, threatening to devour us, if ever we lie down and let it, with the assertion that it makes </span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">zero sense</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> for us to be pardoned over and over and over again, with no strings attached. </span></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We cannot, on our own, bridge the abyss between divine love and fairness and thus we dangle ineffectually from a noose of our own making. “God is disgusted with us,” we assume, “because we are disgusted with ourselves.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 20.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> The only way that the peace producing elements within genuine mercy, as exemplified by the father of the prodigal son, can even begin to puncture our rationalistic worldview, is by us allowing the whispered directives of the Holy Spirit (as opposed to our own human understanding) to become the context out of which all of our thoughts and deeds originate. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 20.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">When we can accept that revelation is a gift, made available through our obedient participation in prayer, communal worship, the sacraments - the rich and abundant Life of the Church, we will transcend the mental imprisonment barring our freedom to both give and receive </span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">unconditional</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> love.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 20.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style=" ;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Jesus forgave his mockers, his torturers, his deniers, his murderers – </span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">every one of us</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, while in the throes of an agonizing crucifixion, and thus it is imperative that we also forgive - forgive others and ourselves. God desires that “all men be saved and come to the knowledge of the Truth,” and thus we must petition Him for that exact same longing, for the wherewithal, the wisdom to see holiness in everyone.</span></span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 20.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Blessed are they who have the audacity to believe in, to be content with, Mystery, tossing aside their temporal and shortsighted suppositions. Blessed are they who rejoice in the compassion so generously showered upon them and in thankfulness respond by spreading out that same mercy like a blanket of impartiality on a world whose fragile inhabitants are in desperate need of some warmth and unreserved kindness.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 20.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Blessed are they who come home again after making a big old fat mess of their lives, and blessed are they who with tears of joy open wide their arms to welcome them. Blessed are you, blessed am I because the infallibility of the Gospel trumps speculation, biased agendas, prejudice, the popular opinions of society. Blessed, oh how very blessed, are we.</span></span><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 20.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style=" ;font-size:13pt;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Molly Sabourinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04289593743687415065noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35551873.post-63498501516966300652009-05-23T13:35:00.000-07:002009-05-25T09:43:50.674-07:00Waiting for Change<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">In general, I was a late bloomer - a late walker, always the shortest in my class, the last to lose my baby teeth, and the last, the very last to ride a two-wheeler. At seven-years-old, most of my peers were already zipping past me on their banana-seated Huffys and I was dying, aching, </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">terrified </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">to keep up with them. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Up until that point, the point of </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">beyond</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> readiness, my fanatical fear of falling had trumped my embarrassment. It took the horrifying prospect of being left behind all summer long and taunted by the neighbor kids to get me out on a Saturday with the intention of mounting, for the very first time, my hand-me-down orange Schwinn, sans training wheels.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> My father agreed readily to help me, his sweet baby girl, overcome my phobia of flying head first over my handlebars and cracking my head open ( Helmets? Car seats? Seat belts? U-m-m, no. In 1981, we still lived dangerously). On a sunny morning in June we took our places ready to act out a touching scene performed daily by parents and kids on sidewalks everywhere. I would pedal and he would run along beside me, holding on for just a minute or two before releasing me and then cheering as I sailed solo around the block, just me and my two wheeled rocket ship. That is what we imagined anyway - he and I both, so excited, so determined, so optimistic.</span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> My first attempt went pretty smoothly. Dad stayed with me, keeping me steady while I got used to the sensation of riding upright instead of teetering back and forth between the round and rusted crutches I’d become dependent on. On our second try, however, I became a little cocky and yelled to my father, mid-sprint, </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Let go! Let go! I think I can do it! </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">He obeyed and immediately I leaned sideways. The bike, with me on it, came down hard.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">What is the matter with you? </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I screamed. </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Are you trying to kill me?!</span></i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">My stunned father looked on dumbfounded at my bloodied knees, shaking fists and accusatory expression on a face red with rage. </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">You told me to let go, </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">he said, which was true but beside the point. And for the next twenty minutes or so I continued being impossible to please, barking orders and getting angrier with each failed stab at mastering a skill, this long overdue skill, instantaneously. Finally, though, he’d had enough and left me to my own dramatic devices. * </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">It seems like yesterday,</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> dad tells me now. </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I can remember so clearly watching you from the window all scabbed and furious banging that old beat up bike against the ground.</span></i></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> My own children are getting older and I am finding that what I’d never imagined possible (while up all night with babies) is totally true: it certainly does get more challenging, more heart wrenching, more everything as their blossoming ideals collide with barriers in the form of financial constraints, our rules, and their own limited capabilities. They get frustrated and then I get frustrated because to be honest, I thought I’d be better at this – managing schedules, meals, consistent discipline techniques and emotions.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Albeit exhausting, it was pretty black and white when the kids were tiny - no swallowing quarters, no running in the street, no sticking your fingers in the electrical socket. Now, oh boy, we are swimming in grey, every day presenting different and unfamiliar challenges. And what I want, you see, is to figure it out NOW. I want to be good, highly proficient, at </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">everything</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">.</span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> Our home parish’s patron saint is the Grand Duchess Elizabeth, who, fortunately, I know quite a bit about due to biographies, numerous photos and historical documents. I love her so dearly because she was a woman for whom piousness, courage and resilience were earned through hardships. I recognize myself in her expressions of fear, grief and disappointment and I am humbled by accounts of her increasing desire to meet the needs of others, stay loyal to the Church and be a beacon of peace in the face of danger. I imagine that if Elizabeth knew as a young bride what she’d be asked to endure later on, it would have paralyzed her. Only gradually, and by God’s grace, did she find within her soul the wherewithal to transform from an earthly princess to a heavenly bride of Christ.</span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> A once greedy Zacchaeus paid back all that he stole and then some. A tongue-tied Moses became a spokesman for the Israelites. Paul went from persecuting Christians to unashamedly preaching the Gospel to Jews and Gentiles alike. Clearly none of us is spiritually limited by our deficiencies or immaturity. Clearly all of us are expected, however, to exert ourselves, in faith and just beyond what we feel we can tolerate, for the sake of salvation. </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I could never keep up with four kids! </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I’ve been told often at parks and grocery stores. I’ve said the same thing myself to those with five, six or more children. I can’t imagine where the energy and resources to nurture, dress or feed for one more son or daughter would possibly come from. I can’t imagine where I’ll find the time to serve a neighbor or clean our church. I can’t imagine being courageous instead of anxious. I can’t imagine, at this just now starting out point, being able to successfully navigate, without continuously second-guessing myself or losing my temper, the murky waters of adolescence where empathy must mingle with firmness and where being a parent must take precedence over being a friend.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> This past weekend, on a rare and romantic date, this is exactly what Troy and I talked about over dinner. We are both feeling the reverberations of a sudden shift within our household. It seems like we just got down the logistics of caring for and transporting helpless infants and squirmy toddlers and now BOOM, our kids are out of that phase and we’re all, </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Hey, slow down here a minute! </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">But nobody’s stopping. There’s no one size fits all formula for protecting your unique and self-willed children physically and spiritually. I can’t imagine having the wisdom to know when to toe the line and when to compromise, when to lecture and when to listen, when to hold them tightly to me and when to liberate them, let them fly. It drives me crazy to have to begin all over again as a mothering novice.</span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> In 1891, St Ambrose of Optina wrote that, </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">A man cannot correct himself all of a sudden, but it is like pulling a barge - pull, pull, and let go, let go! Not all at once, but little by little. Do you know the mast on a ship? There is a pole to which is tied all of the ship’s lines. If you pull on it then everything gradually pulls. But if you take it all at once, you will ruin everything. </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">When I approach a dilemma by asking for help initially only to then research, fret, and speculate my little head off, I fail to align myself with God’s grace, with His will. </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">All the days of my struggle I will wait until my change comes, </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">said Job. It is hard to wait. It is hard to be content with stumbling forward and backward, or to keep on trusting anyways despite the quiet and almost imperceptible measuredness of it all. Slow and steady wins the race, as opposed to zooming forward unprepared, unassisted by choice, feeling out of control and mere seconds away from a catastrophe.</span></o:p></p> <p style="line-height:200%"><span style="line-height:200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">This evening I soaked in the bath while my husband put the kids to bed. I could hear five distinct voices laughing and yelling; it was a tackle dad, tickle the kids kind of night and it was truly a noise sweeter than most anything on earth. I remembered back on how we wondered if life with children would ever seem “normal,” how I mourned my loss of freedom even while passionately loving my family. I looked at my body, saggy and scarred; I thought of all the countless ways I’ve already been stretched by becoming a mom. I like me better now than before because of it. </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">We must pray together</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">, I told Troy when it had finally sunk in for the umpteenth time that I am useless, utterly clueless on my own</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">. I simply can’t think ahead; it’s too overwhelming. So here I am, warts and all, ready to throw myself and my darling, growing, divinely wrought children</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">, </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">at Your feet</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">. </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me today. Be in the words I speak this moment, the limits I set this morning, my reactions this afternoon and in the embraces I offer always, as often as possible. More than answers, I long for patience. Amen.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></p> <p style="line-height:200%"><span style="line-height:200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">*I’d like to take this opportunity to publicly thank my father for only </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">rarely</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> smirking when my own daughters get all irate and over the top flustered by coming of age undertakings requiring persistence and practice to achieve. I am fully aware of how easy and even satisfying it might be to chant liberally and enthusiastically that, </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">What goes around comes around! Ha ha ha! </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Your restraint has been greatly appreciated. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p style="line-height:200%"><span style="line-height:200%;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The above article is from the Spring 2009,</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> The Truth about Heaven and Hell, </span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">issue of The Handmaiden. Click </span></span></span><a href="http://www.conciliarpress.com/magazines/the-handmaiden"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">HERE </span></span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">to order a subscription!</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></span></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Molly Sabourinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04289593743687415065noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35551873.post-90483323126116681882009-05-01T12:08:00.000-07:002009-05-02T05:49:23.157-07:00let-down<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 15.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">When planning our honeymoon, the very first thing that Troy and I did was to lower our expectations. It became obvious pretty quickly that my fiancé’s meager income, as a full-time employee of Barnes and Noble, combined with my miniscule hourly wage as a part-time publicity assistant for a small book publisher, was not going to fund a backpacking tour of Europe or a week long stint in Hawaii at a luxury beach resort. “We have friends willing to rent you their cabin in the Smoky Mountains,” offered my dad. “That’ll be fine,” we decided ready to move on to other more pressing matters regarding silverware patterns and the thread count of our future bed sheets. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 15.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It wasn’t until the big day got closer, however, that Troy and I both became truly excited about our upcoming trek to North Carolina. With all the stress and wedding preparations behind us, it would feel awesome, we thought, to finally relax and soak in the peacefulness of quiet and nature. What I anticipated, throughout the entire twelve hour drive up there, was to find the winding roads, the dense forests, the isolation, dreamy. I envisioned us reading side-by-side on a porch swing, taking long evening walks and eating by candlelight.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 15.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> Hot and exhausted, we finally, around dusk, arrived at the cabin - that picture perfect, cedar scented retreat from all of the hustle and bustle of Chicago. Leaving our luggage and empty diet coke cans in the air-conditionless Honda Civic parked out front, we ran eagerly inside for a self-guided tour. It was lovely - quaintly rustic and obviously well taken care of. Out back was a deck with patio furniture. On the walls were family photographs and framed needlepoint samplers. We were alone, far away from traffic, the sound of sirens, other people. I mean, really…</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">no</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> other people were around - no neighbors, no tourists, not a soul within earshot. It was just Troy and me, Troy and me by ourselves, and the sun was going down rapidly.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 15.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> Wait! Sh-h-h! Did you hear something? Something like a grizzly bear, maybe? Oh how silly! How ridiculous! “Honey, be a dear and go out there in the dark to get our suitcase.” My brand new spouse, bless his heart, took a big deep breath, bolted bravely out the door, grabbed our stuff from the trunk and was back inside in seconds. Should we rent </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Deliverance</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> tonight? He asked facetiously. And then we laughed, but just a little bit because to an urban couple secluded in the woods that sort of a joke is only kind of amusing. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 15.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">In my fantasies about that once-in-a-lifetime vacation, our first get away as husband and wife, we weren’t terrified by all the creepy nocturnal sounds we could hear but not see or interpret, there wasn’t a vicious swarm of bees hovering menacingly around my head on our hike by the waterfall, there wasn’t a three page long check-list of chores to complete in order to get the cabin ready for it’s next renters, we didn’t run out of things to talk about and we certainly didn’t become so stir-crazy and city starved that we drove all the way to Atlanta where my parents were staying for a conference and spend the night with them in their hotel room. It’s remarkable, isn’t it? How efficiently reality can rub the luster off our idealism. What you hope for isn’t always or, let’s face it, isn’t </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">usually</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> what you get. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 15.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">If there is one thing that has dawned on me (slowly but surely) about family life, it’s that everything, every situation and experience, should be swallowed with a big old, sobering grain of salt. And though it sounds pessimistic, I can assure you that such pragmatism has saved me on countless occasions from throwing the proverbial baby out with the whining, moody, spit-up-ey, peed through, “gotta leave early because it’s nap time” bath water. By assuming all will </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">not</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> go smoothly, I am much less often discouraged and much more likely to appreciate the little victories woven into the over all frenzied existence and pace of being a raiser of children. If you make it out of any errand, vacation or excursion alive, for example, and still speaking to one another, without having to write a check for something that got broken, or to publicly apologize to store employees, other parents or (hypothetically speaking of course) a roomful of patrons at a Bob Evans restaurant for a sticky, syrupy mess your kids made or a high pitched outburst, you can consider that outing a grand success and be thoroughly pleased with your accomplishment. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> I believe it is a positive thing that Troy and I have become calloused, by way of multiple blows to our vulnerable agendas, to the biting annoyance of “let-down.” My children, however, …well, they don’t really get it yet. “How could God let this happen!?” My son, Elijah, once wailed when our anticipated outing to a McDonalds Play Land was foiled by a dead car battery.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I can see them writhing internally when unforeseen circumstances bar their pathway to that one item or event they just know will trump all prior gifts, parties, play dates, etc. in terms of coolness and I can empathize with them to a point but tire quickly of the theatrical, sackcloth and ashes reaction we typically see around here when disappointment rears its mean and unjust head. Inevitably, I pull out the old, “Life isn’t fair, get used to it,” speech, which they never take to heart just as I never processed it when my own mother performed it two decades ago. Patience and long-suffering are only learned, are only </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">earned</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">, the hard way. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It’s no secret that I struggled awhile to apply this recently acquired, “You get what you get and you don’t throw a fit" approach to Orthodoxy, specifically in regards to our attendance of services. I had to spend approximately 288 Sunday morning liturgies shushing, rocking, nursing, redirecting, wincing, warning and biting my cheek in frustration before I finally accepted that all of those distractions were, for now, necessary for my long term maturation. I’d been a feel good junkie for as long as I could remember and rearing children in the Church did a bang up job of teaching me to separate emotions from discipleship, that Christ’s commandment to, “Follow me,” meant, “obey,” out of love, not chase relentlessly after soul soothing, heart warming validations. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">In the dryness of just showing up each week, of exposing my family to the ancient prayers and hymnography of Orthodox Christianity without any guarantee that I, myself, would be able to concentrate or reflect on the mystery of the sacraments, I passed through a more shallow and romanticized belief and into the rigors of unconditional and lasting devotion. It wasn’t until I stopped expecting and depending on immediate spiritual gratification that I developed a true and rooted confidence in God’s perfect (and often maddening) mercy. It seemed, initially, like motherhood was going to have a stalemating effect on my faith but in all actuality, it instilled courage, groundedness, flexibility, and an unflappability imperative for staying focused in the midst of life’s turbulent ups and downs, where before there was only skittishness and doubt.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Every once in awhile (BAM! out of nowhere), I get completely bowled over by an overwhelming sense of Christ’s actual presence among us, within us, working through us – like during a pre-sanctified liturgy when I stood tearily in the communion line behind my mother watching her receive the Eucharist or when chills passed down my spine during the Holy Friday reading of the Ezekial passage about the dry bones (“Then you, my people, will know that I am the LORD, when I open your graves and bring you up from them.” Ezekial 37:13). </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I attended our local book club last week made up mostly of women from my parish and right there in my parent’s living room could hardly breath so thick and heavy was the sensation of paradise mingling with earth in the honesty and purity of our discussion about life and death, loss and forgiveness. The fact that these satisfying gems of enlightenment are not always tied to my ascetical efforts or attempts at conjuring up a geyser-like gush of giddiness for all things Orthodox, affirms that God’s grace is not limited by or contingent on my own failures and successes.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Eleven years ago, I envisioned myself being healed by our conversion and by my giving birth to our first child. In my fantasies about those significant milestones, I’d be freed instantaneously from selfishness, jealousy and insecurity, as one held captive by chains has the potential to be liberated by but a turn of a key. Never did I factor in a prolonged period of intensive training designed to build up my endurance. I’ve had to relinquish my skewed presumptions about what piety looks like, sounds like and yes, what it </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">feels</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> like, which is often like passing through a hot and stagnant desert dotted with cool and refreshing streams.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> It is a hard, demanding, sometimes grueling journey, but one we travel hand-in-hand, carrying each other, encouraging one another, motivated always by the footprints of those who walked before us and stayed the course. My salvation is all wrapped up in this conviction that </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">now </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">is when we toil in preparation for the judgment and resurrection to come. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I didn’t get what I hoped for (Hallelujah!); I got what I </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">needed</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">, and how rewarding, fulfilling and nourishing is becoming more Christ-like and durable, through the wisdom and compassion of God and His Church, than you ever in your wildest dreams thought possible. </span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Molly Sabourinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04289593743687415065noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35551873.post-1863097010905859292009-04-21T15:13:00.000-07:002009-04-21T16:30:39.398-07:00MemoriesIt's been eleven years, so many years since I've felt that stretch and strain (that thrill and terror) accompanying our conversion process from Protestantism to Orthodoxy. Just this afternoon, however, it came back to me in an instant - the fear, the hope, the hugeness of it all, by way of an interview conducted by Deacon Michael Hyatt, CEO of <a href="http://www.thomasnelson.com/consumer/">Thomas Nelson Publishing</a> and host of the popular "<a href="http://ancientfaith.com/podcasts/eastwest">At the Intersection of East and West</a>" podcast, with my father, John Maddex, former head of Broadcasting for Moody Radio, founder of <a href="http://ancientfaith.com/">Ancient Faith Radio</a> and now CEO of <a href="http://conciliarmedia.com/">Conciliar Media Ministries. </a>I don't know, to tell you the truth, if I've ever heard in that much detail before my dad's version of the events - the emotionally loaded series of heated conversations, the devoured books on Orthodox Theology, the mind blowing visits to various Orthodox Church services. For obvious reasons, I found his narrative fascinating and was struck suddenly, with the force of a bolt of lightening, by how strategically and divinely his life was engineered. He was born, it seems to me now, to serve Christ, to serve the Church, via broadcasting.<br /><br />So what in the world, many have asked of us, would persuade an entire family of God-fearing evangelicals to step a million miles out of their comfort zone, to start completely from scratch, in order to ultimately find fulfillment and a home in the Orthodox Christian Church? Click <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://audio.ancientfaith.com/eastwest/iew_2009-04-18.mp3">HERE</a><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>to hear our story through the eyes of my father.<br /><br />You cannot imagine, dad, how proud I am of you and how inspired I have been by your courage, and your zeal for spreading the Orthodox Christian Faith. Thank you for your love and your example!Molly Sabourinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04289593743687415065noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35551873.post-70204871396360480092009-04-15T10:05:00.000-07:002009-04-15T10:27:32.253-07:00Understanding the Cross of ChristI don't usually do this here on my Close to Home blog but then again, it's not every day that I am so blown away, I mean really and truly moved to my core, by God's love. For those of you in the midst of Holy Week, I urge you to make a steaming cup of something, sit some place quiet and listen - be encouraged...no, not just encouraged, transformed. For those of you who might be curious about the Orthodox perspective on why Jesus died on the cross, I implore you to do the same! Click <a href="http://audio.ancientfaith.com/specials/hopkolectures/cross/hopko_understandingthecross.mp3">HERE</a> to hear Father Thomas Hopko's warm and outstanding, "Understanding the Cross," lecture. I promise, it will be worth your while!Molly Sabourinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04289593743687415065noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35551873.post-81960798893828377852009-04-13T13:19:00.000-07:002009-04-13T18:23:58.541-07:00promise“Is this the day, mama?” asked Mary recently.<br /><br />“The day for what, sweetheart?”<br /><br />“The day I wear my Costco dress.”<br /><br />I thought back on all I’d purchased over the last several months from that fantastical warehouse stocked with electronics, books, tube socks, oversized portions of food, toiletries, cleaning supplies and coffee – big, big bags of oily Kenyan coffee beans rich in color and aroma and…wait, what was I talking about? Oh yes, the Costco dress. As far as I could remember, I’d never bought one. But she insisted. My three-year-old was adamant and getting closer every second to imploding out of frustration.<br /><br />“Mary, baby, let’s go to your closet,” I tried to reason with my preschooler, calmly. I would show to her, prove to her that no such dress existed but when we got there she squealed and pointed wildly to a clear plastic Lands End bag on the top wire shelf. “There it is mom! I told you! My Costco dress! Can I put it on yet?”<br /><br />And then I laughed; I laughed and picked her up, embraced her. “Oh I get it! Your Pascha dress!” I’d ordered them a little less than a month ago – matching butterfly patterned dresses for my daughters. She’d tried it on and then I hid it, knowing how desperate she’d be to live in it, sleep in it, eat in it, play in it. Out of sight, out of mind, I figured. How silly of me.<br /><br />“It’s almost time, Mary. It’s almost here. I promise”.<br /><br />I need to admit something, publicly, over the internet, because I’m strange, kind of neurotic like that: My Lenten journey got pretty harried there near the end. Oh boy, did I hit a rough patch, feeding my restlessness, the natural restlessness accompanying quiet and introspection, with busyness – just like always, just like I always panic a little when the heat gets too intense and the realities of something deeper than mere surface level living. <br /><br />For the past two weeks, I’ve been running like mad, feeling even more flustered than usual by every petty inconvenience, every news report of senseless violence, every reminder that I was dangerously close to following the letter but hardly the spirit of the law. I was going through the motions, fasting without praying and that, my friends, is a toxic combination I can assure you.<br /><br />I was grateful last Wednesday for Troy’s offer to watch the kids so I could attend a Pre-sanctified Liturgy all by lonesome. By that point, I’d had had more than enough of the skirting and dodging of all things spiritually strenuous, things which called into question my priorities – ascetic disciplines I knew, now, were my only means for rising above the crap and horror of a culture enslaved to greed, voyeurism and the perverse and reckless impulses of its self-obsessed inhabitants.<br /><br />Yes, it’s hard and scary to surrender not half-way, but completely to the unknowable will of Christ. The alternative, however, - avoidance, procrastination, even a fixated disbelief in a Great and Final judgment, in an all powerful Creator, generating a passionate revulsion for those ridiculous enough, impudent enough, to not cave in when branded as “ignorant”, even “evil” for their stubborn pursuit of salvation, is to wade in the mire of envy, anxiety, lust, despair – is to stay thirsty, to stay famished, to forget that authentic peace, mercy and love are even possible.<br /><br />I stood in the choir that night next to the only other alto in attendance – our powerhouse alto, always present, always spot on. She’s a petite woman, blond and jovial, patient with my kids, welcoming to newcomers. After any given coffee hour, when everyone else has headed home for an afternoon nap, you’ll find her scrubbing away at the dirtied dishes and wiping down the counter tops in our parish’s kitchen.<br /><br />Beside her were the sopranos, our priest’s wife and her teenaged daughter linked arm-in-arm. Behind us, I heard my dad singing tenor and Elijah’s godfather singing bass. I saw my daughter’s Sunday school teacher, her husband and grown son near my mother who was following along in a service book. We were a motley crew, ragged from child rearing, nursing the sick, working nights, creating expense reports. “Man, I adore these people,” I thought out of nowhere.<br /><br />The hymnography that evening was just as timely, alive and remarkably insightful as ever:<br /><br />I am rich in passions,<br /><br />and clothed in the deceitful robe of hypocrisy.<br /><br />I rejoice in the sins of self-indulgence.<br /><br />There is no limit to my lack of love.<br /><br />I neglect my spiritual understanding<br /><br />That lies at the gate of repentance.<br /><br />Make me, Lord, like Lazarus, poor in sin,<br /><br />that I may not be tormented in the unquenchable fire,<br /><br />praying in vain for a finger to be dipped in water<br /><br />to relieve my burning tongue.<br /><br />But make me dwell in the bosom of Abraham,<br /><br />as the lover of mankind.<br /><br />Nothing is quite so effective at renewing one’s determination to press on through the fluff, the static laziness, the inclination to keep Christ at a safe and non-threatening distance, like hearing your secret sins described in detail and acknowledged as universal by the Church. “There is nothing new under the sun,” wrote Solomon in Ecclesiastes. None of us is more behind, more in need of forgiveness. We are all equally in need of healing.<br /><br />Our screw-ups should be taken very seriously, their painful consequences should bring us humbly to our knees, should keep us in our place but never, never ever should we allow them to trick us into believing that they are mightier and bigger than God’s grace.<br /><br />I urge you – you, who like me, may have hit some bumps on this Lenten road, to dust yourself off and begin anew as we head into Holy Week. Let us keep in our hearts and in our minds the hope-filled words of St. John Chrysostom’s beautiful, extraordinary, Paschal Homily as we make our way together toward the cross and the empty tomb:<br /><br />"Let all Pious men and all lovers of God rejoice in the splendor of this feast; let the wise servants blissfully enter into the joy of their Lord; let those who have borne the burden of Lent now receive their pay, and those who have toiled since the first hour, let them now receive their due reward; let any who came after the third hour be grateful to join in the feast, and those who may have come after the sixth, let them not be afraid of being too late, for the Lord is gracious and He receives the last even as the first. He gives rest to him who comes on the eleventh hour as well as to him who has toiled since the first: yes, He has pity on the last and He serves the first; He rewards the one and is generous to the other; he repays the deed and praises the effort."<br /><br />It’s almost time, my brothers and sisters! Pascha, the Resurrection, it’s almost here!<br /><br />I promise.Molly Sabourinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04289593743687415065noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35551873.post-91525167070864649242009-03-28T05:58:00.000-07:002009-03-29T13:41:06.715-07:00Naming the ChildMy dearest little one,<br /><br />I am trying to wrap my mind around you, all these years later, and that too brief encounter in which we were present, together, in the same place and at the same time. <em>Name your child, </em>insisted our doctor at that very first appointment, our doctor with the conviction that from the get go you were a person worth acknowledging and claiming; we called you Lucy.<br /><br />Your brother, Elijah, was but a toddler when I discovered, by way of a violently nauseas reaction to the smell of my morning coffee, that you were blooming in my abdomen, wreaking havoc on my hormones. Who else but an expectant mother could take such pleasure in her own discomfort?<br /><br />I was never much of a planner, never one to map out my life from month to month, year to year. I was surprised, pleasantly so, but not shocked by your arrival; I was ready, from the very second I knew of your existence to become a mother all over again. <em>What’s in my tummy? </em>I’d ask your two-year-old brother, who’d jab at my soft but not yet bulging stomach and answer every time, to my delight, the way I’d trained him to: <em>baby, baby, baby.<br /></em><br />It is hard to explain how immediate that bond is. I day dreamed about you. I relished in my awareness of you, of you being with me throughout every menial task I performed, every errand I ran and every chore I completed. It could have easily been argued that we hadn’t the space, the money, the time for another son or daughter but my joy and instinctive devotion superseded any misgivings regarding the logic of bringing yet another child into this world under our current, perhaps less than “ideal,” circumstances.<br /><br />In my head I had already built up a life, a long life, one in which you and I would be forever more inseparable. I jumped ahead of myself because the kind of adoration felt by a woman for the miracle, the individual forming extraordinarily within her body, being fed by her body, taking on, even while the size of her thumb, her characteristics, cannot be tempered. There is no choice but to love hard and with reckless abandon.<br /><br />Pregnancy is a real faith stretcher, because the stakes are always higher when people, or more specifically, our own flesh and blood are involved, are all entwined in the uncertainties too haunting to ponder without one’s breath being taken away by the enormity and apparent permanence of our inescapable mortality. Whenever loss is a possibility, there is a danger of our gladness, our gratitude, or our intrepidity becoming contaminated by doubt and fear.<br /><br />It is precisely this universal vulnerability, this lack of say in who leaves us and when, that prompted Christ to weep for all of humanity when at the tomb of his friend Lazarus before so boldly revealing His omnipotence and then conversely, death’s constraints. He understood then, as He understands now, that it can be awfully distressing and agonizing to have to wait on this side of eternity for a “one day” reunion with our resurrected friends and family members.<br /><br /><em>It’s not your fault</em>, they all assured me after hearing my theory about how the plane ride I’d taken was to blame for your sudden departure, which I had anticipated for several disturbing hours before the actual miscarriage took place because I’d woken up that morning feeling indescribably, inexplicably … I don’t know, just <em>different</em> - a little less alive than before. I was desperate for an answer that could explain such an abrupt emptiness. I was so full of you and then, just like that, you were gone.<br /><br />I like to imagine you as nine-years-old, your freckled arm linked affectionately in the Prophetess Anna’s – my patron saint and my child, united. When we gather as a family to say prayers, attend the Liturgy, stand in the bosom of Christ’s Church where earth and heaven intersect, I like to think that you meet us there, worship with us there the same God, our merciful God who promised, <em>Blessed are those who mourn for they shall be comforted</em>.<br /><br />Sweet Lucy, I haven’t forgotten you and now I’ve that much more incentive to keep on plowing through the distractions, the disillusionment, the despair, to reach that other side of glory where the curtain will part and I will feel you, hold you, stroke your hair, kiss your face. Pray for me, darling.<br /><br />I love you,<br /><br />Mama<br /><br /><br /><br />Several weeks ago, I began this letter to Lucy, the baby I miscarried in 2000, inspired by the stories of grief and hope shared gracefully and candidly in the pages of a brand new book entitled, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Naming-Child-Hope-Filled-Reflections-Miscarriage/dp/1557255857/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1238330514&sr=8-1"><em><strong>Naming the Child - Hope-filled Reflections on Miscarriage, Still-birth and Infant Death</strong></em> </a>by Mat. Jenny Schroedel. It was quite challenging, to be honest, revisiting my own past experience. I procrastinated, I think in part, because I felt guilty about not having made the effort earlier to forge a connection with a soul I knew was thriving and yet was so insulated from my own limited understanding. It was good and healing to finally give myself permission to recognize my miscarriage as a legitimate and significant encounter with the mystery that is God’s incomprehensible wisdom, to reach out and spiritually, emotionally, embrace my child.<br /><br />For both parents who have lost their children so heartbreakingly early in life and for those friends and family who don't know what to say or do - how to just be there for them, Mat. Jenny offers a tangible resource full of tenderness and compassion. With eloquence, warmth and courage, she explores thoroughly and with sensitivity a topic more often than not tip-toed around or spoken about in whispers.<br /><br />For mothers and fathers whose grief remains palpable despite the years that have gone by, the subsequent children born of them, the diminishing support as everyone else, not directly affected, moves on, Jenny has provided a safe community empathetic to the unique struggles of these parents bearing quietly an ache for their babies who have passed on from out of this world and into the next. The chances are pretty good that every one of us will at some point, either personally or through someone we care about, be touched by the tragedy of infant death. I encourage you to visit Jenny’s website, <a href="http://namingthechild.com/"><strong><em>http://namingthechild</em></strong></a><strong><em> .com</em></strong>, where you can find articles, letters, poetry and ideas on how to help, as well as information on how to order her book.<br /><br />During this season of Lent, as we ponder upon Christ’s voluntary sacrifice on the cross, let us remember these hurting families in our prayers and anticipate with expectancy, bravery and longing His (and our) Resurrection.Molly Sabourinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04289593743687415065noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35551873.post-49849888488075477772009-03-27T07:01:00.000-07:002009-03-27T07:11:01.965-07:00InterviewI am very nearly finished with my next <em>Close to Home</em> post/podcast but in the meantime, I wanted to share with you this <a href="http://audio.ancientfaith.com/illuminedheart/ih_2009-03-27_pc.mp3"><strong><em>link to an interview</em></strong> </a>I just did with Kevin Allen, host of the wonderful <a href="http://ancientfaith.com/podcasts/illuminedheart">Illumined Heart </a>program on <a href="http://ancientfaith.com/">Ancient Faith Radio </a>regarding my book!<br /><br />I'll be back soon!Molly Sabourinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04289593743687415065noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35551873.post-4113818777264046102009-03-06T09:01:00.000-08:002009-03-06T10:51:35.735-08:00AriseThere is a reason I don’t write much about homeschooling. It is the same reason I don’t write more about exercising or recycling: I believe in these things but as a bumbling, greenhorn of a disciple propelled in an out of zealousness by an amalgam of uncompromising convictions, idealistic intentions and what I like to refer to as, “spontaneity” but what might also, in some circles, be known as, “a lack of discipline.”<br /><br />On our good days, I am sitting on the couch, under an afghan, sipping coffee while one of my children reads to me from our book of saints. I hear the bus drive by and breath a sigh of relief because this year, Elijah is not being manhandled in the back row of it by peers who are in his grade but are not necessarily his age with their already creaking voices tossing out language foul and crude, not to mention factually inaccurate and demeaning. We marvel together at the resourcefulness of homesteaders, the love and courage of the Grand Duchess Elizabeth surrendering her royal title for the sake of Christ and His Church, the ferociousness of a starving crocodile. On our good days, I am a geyser of warm, erupting satisfaction. I am a proud, fanatical, “never look back,” brand of homeschooler.<br /><br />There are other days, however, many, many other days when if you asked me, would I recommend homeschooling, I would lean in real close like, grab you forcefully by the collar and whisper, <em>Run away! Don’t even think about it! It’s a harebrained idea- teaching your own kids.</em> And then I’d smooth down your shirt, pat you amiably on the shoulder and just smile as benignly as can be, like that whole dangerous exchange never happened.<br /><br />Less than a week ago, Great Lent began. In preparation, I cleaned out the refrigerator, bought a freezer full of hummus, falafel, and veggie burgers from Costo, subscribed to an even wider variety of Orthodox Christian podcasts, printed out Lenten Sunday School lessons, wrote the service schedule on our calendar and then braced myself for the emotional soreness that follows an increase in spiritual activity. It’s true you know that distracted minds are hardly a threat to devilish schemes. A lukewarm anybody is much more likely to be left alone. But cease for just a second with self-absorbed musings or frivolous undertakings in order to turn even slightly more heavenward and WHAM the gloves come off; you’re beaten down.<br /><br /><em>What’s wrong?</em> Asked my husband when he called from work – when I, who am usually all too willing to spew forth haphazard thoughts and anecdotes until he is forced to interrupt my captivating ramblings by reminding me that he does have a job to get back to, reacted to his inquiries with one word answers. Responses like, downtrodden, drowning, suffocating and tragically, woefully behind, seemed a tad heavy, a bit dramatic for a quick, mid-morning, “just checking in” type of chat. So I went with the generic “I’m really tired” excuse, which described as well any other despondent term I might have chosen the malaise strangling my joy and crippling my hopefulness.<br /><br />Suddenly and inexplicably, I had no tolerance, whatsoever, for the bedlam - the same mayhem that for years has hovered around our household like a dense but relatively harmless fog I’d learned over time to pretty effectively grope my way through. The substantial burden of my responsibilities – to handle solely the education of my kids, to feed my family healthfully, to makes our house look a little less like a landfill, to be a loyal friend, a more consistent disciplinarian, etc., etc., (My gosh, the list goes on and on; it’s like I cannot catch a break!) was wearing away at my usual optimism like dripping water slowly but surely eroding a boulder. And now here it was Lent and I was adding to my already gargantuan load a desire for true repentance, for communicating to my children the importance of preparing for Pascha by way of increased prayer and almsgiving and fasting. I had turned off our television, simplified our diet, decreased our access to secular influences and yet my annoyance was steadily increasing. I growled at my loved ones like a cranky, hungry dog instead of speaking to them with kindness, calmness, respect.<br /><br />Church was the last place I wanted to be and for the first twenty minutes or so of Saint Andrew’s Canon, I struggled hard to pay attention. I was a million miles away in “feel sorry for me land” where all you haven’t accomplished whines and complains with cruel persistence in your ears making you deaf to Christ’s invitation to cast all your cares upon Him and find rest. But I sang, I prostrated, heck, I showed up – it took all I had in me to silence the taunting for just a moment and listen, to actually swallow the penitential refrains that up until that point had just been sitting there in my mouth. I strained to stay focused and own the sentiments being offered to me by God through His servant, Andrew, as a means of breaking through a toughened and calloused exterior. Alongside my fellow parishioners I cried out with all the genuineness I could muster:<br /><br /><em>I have adorned the human shape of my flesh with the many-coloured coat of shameful<br />thoughts, and I am condemned.<br /><br />Have mercy on me O God, have mercy on me.<br /><br />I have cared only for the outward adornment, and have neglected what is within - a body<br />bearing the divine likeness.<br /><br />Have mercy on me O God, have mercy on me.<br /><br />Like the harlot I cry to you: “I have sinned, I alone have sinned against you.” Accept my<br />tears also as sweet ointment, O Saviour.<br /></em><br />And then, to my surprise, the tears did come. I’d been pried open and exposed as a wretch and as a betrayer, as a hearer but not a doer of the Word. My regret at having become numb to the sacrifices of God, the Son, became more palpable than my stress. For once His holiness felt less like a soft and fuzzy blanket and more like a scalding, searing, flame engulfing my trite and lackadaisical approach to the Faith - reducing my vanity and perceived competence to ashes. In this state of remorse and pliability, I went to confession. Weeds embedded deeply within my heart had been painfully uprooted and with my priest as a witness I handed them over with every intention of beginning anew by praying incessantly for both the strength and the alertness to nip their efforts to re-implant themselves in the bud. Having been humbled by the realization of my nakedness and then purified, fortified, vitalized by forgiveness, I left for home.<br /><br />Recently, I got a fascinating letter from a friend of mine who lives in Australia in which she relayed to me many details regarding the everyday goings on in her far away country. She wrote about what they eat (lots of Vegemite), what they fear (poisonous spiders) and gave the following description of the Australian Bush, one I found to be rich in symbolism:<br /><br /><em>The Australian bush – except for in the very North of Australia - is very dry and flowers are hard to come by. Australian forests grow very old and don’t really generate new trees until a bushfire destroys it – because only a bushfire is hot enough to crack open the seed pods. So bushfires are an interesting paradox for Australians. Often the National Parks do controlled burning to generate the bushland.<br /><br /></em>Like an unrestrained blaze can become quickly, wildly, unmanageable producing destructive and lethal effects which far outweigh the positive aspects of its life-regenerating potential, so can igniting one’s soul with asceticism cause more damage than good when unsupervised by the Church and Her holy wisdom. To fast on one’s own, without the sacraments, without attending the prescribed services, without the guidance of a spiritual father, is to set oneself up for certain pride or despair. But to participate fully in Great Lent, to cooperate with this Holy Spirit controlled burning, to bear as a community the uncomfortableness of having our own stubborn wills crushed and leveled, is to unearth the fragrant fruit too often encapsulated by worldly cares.<br /><br />Had I not gone that night, had I attempted to self-medicate my infirmities with reason, another organizational plan or an anesthetizing diversion, I would have stalled the healing process only mid-way through and gone on for who knows how long taking random and frantic stabs at trying to pinpoint the origin of my disgruntlement. I have learned that when I am anxious to avoid services, Scripture reading, confession, morning prayers, it is a sure sign that I am in need of them more than ever. The Church has laid out before me the cure to my empty and wholly unfulfilling selfishness and yet so often I respond with a big old “no thanks” by putting my schedule, my priorities, my lust for what is most convenient ahead of everything else, including God. And then I scratch my head and wonder why my life feels so chaotic and disappointing.<br /><br />I’ll tell you what I don’t have and that is any confidence in my ability to make it all the way through Lent without grumbling or forgetting what the point of it is or heeding the nagging and ruthless voices in my head suggesting I’m not pious enough to complete the Fast. What I do have, however, is this one day right here in front of me to offer up as a sacrifice. I have the tools at my disposal to help me stay attentive and vigilant throughout it. I have the awareness that we are all in this together and I have plenty of first-hand experience confirming a half-hearted approach to following Christ is as effective as training for a marathon by simply buying new fancy tennis shoes and a sports bottle – it’s one thing to look like a runner and another to put in the necessary, sweat inducing, muscle stretching, endurance building labor to become one.<br /><br /><em>My soul, my soul, arise! Why are you sleeping? The end is drawing near, and you will be confounded. Awake, then, and, be watchful, that Christ our God may spare you, Who is everywhere present and fills all things. – Kontakion from the Canon of Saint Andrew.<br /></em>Molly Sabourinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04289593743687415065noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35551873.post-27346797763160615832009-03-01T17:22:00.000-08:002009-03-01T17:44:50.427-08:00Quiet<span class="Apple-style-span" style="COLOR: rgb(25,25,25);font-family:Arial;font-size:13;" ><div class="post-body" style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 0.75em; LINE-HEIGHT: 1.6em"><p><em><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,102,102)"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="COLOR: rgb(102,0,0)">Thy grace hath risen, O Lord, the illumination of our souls hath shone forth. Lo, now is the acceptable time; the season of repentance hath come. Let us cast down the works of darkness, and put on the works of light, that we may pass the great tempest of fasting and reach the summit of the third-day Resurrection of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, the Savior of our souls. - The Aposticha for Forgiveness Vespers</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="COLOR: rgb(102,0,0)"><br /></span><br /></span>Imagine,</em> I told Elijah<em>, if I never stopped Mary from gorging on sweets - if, when every time I caught her with her hands in the brown sugar bag, with mouthfuls of sugar dissolving on her tongue and dripping from her lips like syrup, I did nothing but stand by and watch her attempt to feed an insatiable desire for that which, in the long run, will make her sick. Part of loving her is enduring her protests, her disappointment at being separated from passions empty and addictive. I know that it is very difficult to understand, at your age, how a parent saying 'no' and 'not now' is, believe it or not, an act of mercy.<br /><br /></em>This afternoon, after Liturgy, we gathered again as a congregation to bow before one another, to ask forgiveness of one another, to begin, as a community, to take part in Great Lent. We will fast from meat and dairy, we will remove from our daily routines distractions loud and numbing, we will attend services breath-takingly, hauntingly, beautiful in preparation for the Feast of Feasts, for the Resurrection of our Lord and God and Savior, Jesus Christ.<br /><br />If you knew me, how impulsive I am, you'd understand how very trying, how very necessary is this period, this gift from God, this deliberate separation from my greedy, forgetful, self-centered spirit passions empty and addictive. You'd know why pausing, why emptying my mind of frivolous stimuli, my stomach of foods heavy and rich, will inevitably bring me to my knees in frustration in despair over my own lack of discipline. I will be forced to come to terms with my dependence on Christ's compassion, to face head on truths I usually push away: my lust for earthly treasures, my obsession with comfort, my mortality.<br /><br />Yet even in the midst of intensive repentance, we, the Church, anticipate with renewed zeal, the moment when Life will conquer sin and hell - our victory over death through the sacrificial love of the Holy Trinity. We wait and watch for the Bridegroom so as not to be off flitting and fretting about when at last He arrives in all His splendor and glory. By stretching ourselves spiritually, emotionally, physically, we'll find the joy at having arrived at the empty tomb (finally!) that much more satisfying and triumphant.<br /><br />Quiet now, quiet. I ask for <em>your</em> prayers and forgiveness. For my haughtiness, my vanity, my apathy, my laziness, I am truly, truly sorry. May God bless you and keep you in His perfect, His redemptive, His incomparable peace.</p><div><br /></div><div style="CLEAR: both"></div></div><div class="post-footer" style="MARGIN: 0.75em 0px; FONT: 78%/1.4em Arial, sans-serif; TEXT-TRANSFORM: uppercase; COLOR: rgb(17,89,60); LETTER-SPACING: 0.1em"></div></span>Molly Sabourinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04289593743687415065noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35551873.post-70845126846006225982009-02-25T11:03:00.000-08:002009-02-25T19:54:06.704-08:00A House United<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2CnrPfve-S3ZRyZKntKD0xSL6UmkhCqsI_Y0VeAK85mqwafZ-uSkCr7kUC4pbnBsrIYUnLiFJb_rJkqdbzTMM89KfeSb0J77HEjYJX41jNgeld9uwcBJZ_YafIyJlKh4JqAVjXg/s1600-h/house+united.jpg"></a><div><div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>It wasn’t something we’d discussed prior to our engagement. Troy and I got married the summer I graduated from college and I was pregnant within the year. I hadn’t had time to establish a career or create for myself some adult standard of living complete with long- term goals or a hard earned graduate degree before motherhood descended upon me. We both assumed that I’d be the one to stay home and raise our baby.<br /><br />We couldn’t be more traditional in our roles, my husband and I. I cook and clean, wash the clothes and teach our children. Troy mows the lawn, pays the bills and wears a tie and sports coat to his job in the city. I’ve never resented this arrangement because, truth be told, the idea of full-time employment in an office building where the hours are set in stone is very, very unappealing to me. Sure I’ve broken down, more times than I can count, over the rigors and stressors of stay-at-home motherhood but never have I been tempted to seek out an alternative involving me earning our income, carrying the weight of providing for us financially on my shoulders. And I’m pretty darn sure that Troy has no ill-conceived misconceptions regarding the challenges I come up against daily while managing schedules, meals, emotions and toys that seem to multiply and cram themselves under beds and between couch cushions. Over the years, I’ve settled in, taking ownership of my position as the matriarch. To my children, I am comfort, normalcy, security wrapped in skin. Nothing unnerves my three-year-old like the sight of me wearing a jacket and carrying car keys, on my way to somewhere, anywhere, without her.<br /><br />This past October, I had the extraordinary opportunity to reunite with my four best friends from college on a weekend wine tasting excursion to Michigan. I hardly need explain to you why I had looked forward to it for months. But if you happen to be a mother, you might also understand the twinge of secret apprehension that dampened slightly my excitement at leaving my family for a “girls only” adventure. "Are you sure you'll be ok?" I had asked him more than once and each time Troy replied, "yes," using the same expression and tone my son, Benji, might employ if I asked him was he certain the <span style="font-style: italic;">Force </span>was stronger than the <span style="font-style: italic;">dark side</span> or if the Chicago Bears was still his favorite football team. Troy is solid as a rock and not easily intimidated, but this I thought was different - four kids, <span style="font-style: italic;">our</span> four kids, were a whole lot to handle and maybe he was being just a tad bit naive, forgetting how Mary melts down when she's tired and Benjamin wanders off if you turn your back for even a second.<br /><br />As I waved goodbye, I begged God to protect them. I expected little, really - that they'd "get through it," <span style="font-style: italic;">probably</span>, but would be awfully glad to see me upon my return."Have a good time!" Troy told me, which I was so grateful for because all it would have taken to negate my joy was a look of resentment. Mothers, or maybe it’s just me, tend to think of themselves as the glue holding everything and everyone together. My husband could do a fine job, but of course I'd always, in general, do better when it came to nurturing the children and managing our home. Had I taught him all he needed to know to ensure those couple of days without my hovering presence would be a success for them, for me, for everyone?<br /><br />When we pulled up to my house all rested and restored, I found Priscilla, Ben, and Elijah jumping, laughing, and rolling in a leaf pile. Troy sauntered up quite calm-like and hugged me. There were lots of squeals and kisses, partly (or mostly) because of the brightly wrapped packages in a bag I was carrying with the words, <span style="font-style: italic;">Oh My Darling Toy Store</span> printed boldly on the side of it. "Whadjyou bring us? Whaydjyou bring us?" they were dying to know. After a whirlwind half hour of thanking my friends profusely for such a wonderful, wonderful time, handing out souvenirs, and emptying my duffel bag, I finally cornered Troy and started questioning him about how everything had gone in my absence. "Fine," he answered, keeping consistent with his usual minimalist approach to my wifely interrogations. "What did you do?" I pressed on out of curiosity. "Oh, let's see," he tried to remember, "...this morning we got the emissions test done on the car, then we went to the DMV, then Ace Hardware, then out for pizza. After lunch, I put Mary down for a nap, we cleaned up the yard and then did our inside chores."<br /><br />"All of those things?! In one day?!"<br /><br /></div><div>The very idea of it made me exhausted. That kind of errand running required multiple snacks, water bottles, and some extra strength Tylenol, items I was certain Troy had not even thought about packing. "How did they do?" I winced, figuring Mary had most likely screamed, Elijah had pouted out of boredom, Priscilla had complained of hunger and Benjamin...well, who knows what? With Ben anything, literally <em>anything</em> can happen. Priscilla, overhearing our conversation, interrupted me."Mommy!" she beamed, "the lady at the car place told daddy we were good kids!"</div><div></div><div>"Is that true?" I asked. "Yep," My husband answered. "She said she was impressed by how cooperative and quiet my children were, just sitting there reading their books. They did great." I looked around, then, and it dawned on me for the first time that nothing had exploded. No one was bandaged up or clamoring for my attention. When Mary walked by, five seconds later, Troy said, "It's time to get your jammies on, baby." And so - get this- she totally went right upstairs and got dressed in her pajamas...all by HERSELF.<br /><br />Troy, I suddenly realized, assumed they could; I assume they can’t and because of that, I end up, much of time, over-assisting and ultimately feeding their habit of whining, and surrendering when something is difficult. My very competent spouse opened my eyes to a mindset I was stubbornly clinging on to and which was hindering me as a mom. I (gasp!) discovered something helpful and important that I could learn from <span style="font-style: italic;">him </span>in the parenting department: If I insist on aiming low, I shouldn’t be shocked when my kids choose not to surpass my menial expectations.<br /><br />I had gotten myself into a rut, maternally speaking, but busyness and misplaced confidence in my ability to tackle solely all discipline and character issues were preventing me from switching up my tactics, thinking outside of the box. I could have avoided some frustration by noticing sooner that Troy was more than just a wingman; we are co-pilots, both necessary, providing unique but equally valuable influences on Elijah, Priscilla, Benjamin and Mary. It is hard, as a mom, but ultimately beneficial for a marriage and a family to surrender control in exchange for open-mindedness and respect for a partner’s well-intentioned differing point of view or priorities.<br /><br />Even after eleven years, my relationship with Troy is still unfolding. Marriage is such a mystery, so alive with possibilities, so effective at stretching, humbling, improving me as a person when we work hard at staying connected and keeping Christ and His Church as the foundation of our commitment to one another. It requires a lot of tongue biting, apologizing and forgiving but the rewards are both fulfilling and eternal. Take it for granted, and a marriage will slowly but surely begin to unravel, to weaken from starvation and neglect. I am grateful for the like-minded women in my life who have encouraged me to continue trying and loving and learning by their sacrificial efforts to keep their own marriages healthy and their souls attentive to opportunities for continuous growth. Just recently, I read the following on my sister-in-law’s blog site and Paige has generously given me permission to share her honest (and very relatable) reflections with you here:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">This is one of my favorite pictures of Bobby - for several reasons. First, I love that smile. It's really what first attracted me to him - I told him it was his eyes - and they are beautiful - but really it was that smile: a little crooked, full of confidence, just about to emit something unexpectedly hilarious.<br /><br />In college he was usually the center of things - so full of energy, life and witty remarks that people just wanted to be near him.In this picture, my daughters and my husband look like triplets (which makes me chuckle in and of itself) but to see the three of them together like that - so happy, natural, and united - it makes me see the past differently.<br /><br />It's just that I was so hard on Bobby during the "baby stage." I wanted and expected him to have the exact same skill set I did - I, a woman who bore the children, who was the oldest of six kids, who baby-sat nearly every day from age 12 to age 21 and then went on to become an elementary school counselor - I expected him to be right there with me - interpreting our babies' cries and anticipating their every need (in addition to understanding mine). No wonder his transition to parenthood was a little rocky! I never allowed him to transition (or myself, for that matter).<br /><br />I know my husband is a great father, now. I am reminded of this by my two-year-old daughter who says incessantly, "I need my DADA." And by my four year old who reminds us all how big and strong Daddy's calf muscles are (that's a huge compliment in her world, by the way).<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">If only I could have seen ahead a little - maybe I would have been a little kinder; a little more patient. Looking at this picture I see though, how even then - in the midst of baby time - Bobby was an amazing father. My girls look so happy and safe - as though they are in the best place of all, their Daddy's arms.<br /><br /></span>More than a dishwasher loaded perfectly with all the utensils facing the exact same direction, more than my kid’s leaving the house with smooth hair, brushed teeth and in a tastefully coordinated outfit, more than a “do what I want, how I want, when I want it” carbon copy of myself kind of spouse, I want an involved and devoted father whose not afraid to step in and get his hands dirty in the invigorating messiness of family life - even if his methods might diverge from my own.<br /><br />Nothing discourages participation like scrutinization and nit-picky criticisms. Few skills are as valuable or worth the diligence and discipline required to pass them down to our children and grandchildren as the ability to compromise and communicate courteously. <span style="font-style: italic;">A house divided against itself</span>, said Abraham Lincoln in 1858 in reference to the intensifying discord between Southerners and Northerners, <span style="font-style: italic;">cannot stand.</span> This is no less true today or less applicable to the familial unit. And so I pray, like I always do when selflessness is required, for the determination to treat my husband as <em>I </em>would like to be treated for the sake of our intimacy with one another, unification with our children, and above all else for the obtainment of my salvation. Yes, oh yes, Christ is here, <span style="font-style: italic;">here,</span> in our midst, in our marriages, in the ordinary moments and exchanges fusing together to comprise a lifetime, and ever shall be.<br /><br /><em><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);">The above article can be found in the current edition (Winter 2009) of The Handmaiden. Click <a href="http://www.conciliarpress.com/magazines?SID=8e972870ab35783f8d69a48430f25fec">HERE</a> to order a subscription!<br /></span></em></div></div></div>Molly Sabourinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04289593743687415065noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35551873.post-37009741573316860982009-02-09T08:06:00.000-08:002009-02-09T10:56:20.340-08:00Announcement<p><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Wv_bQypNAJQ&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Wv_bQypNAJQ&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></p><p>For a long while, I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. It wasn’t the exhaustion or sudden loss of freedom per se; I was sure that eventually time and experience would remedy (or at least numb) the ill effects of those violent intrusions on my health and emotions. When the claustrophobia and hormonally charged periods of baby blueness came and went and came again those first several months, I knew deep down in my gut that they were not the cause, not the root anyway, of my discontentment either. I <em>wanted</em> to be a mom. I was committed wholeheartedly to this invaluable opportunity to raise and nurture my children. No matter how hard I tried, however, to line up my thought life with my set in stone convictions regarding the sacredness of parenthood, I couldn’t make one consistently reflect the other. In my mind, bouts of resentment, impatience, and insecurity were obviously signs of failure – were simply incompatible with good and prayerful parenting. What was dampening my experience as a mother (aha! I finally figured it out!) was that impossibly wide chasm between my ideals and capabilities. My main objective in life, then, became to cross it.<br /><br />To combat my incompetence I sought voraciously the advice of others. I positive disciplined, sleep trained and chore charted my way to success – success that would last a week or so before I’d lose steam and give up, and then agonize over my laziness? my selfishness? my flightiness? To be honest, I didn’t know what exactly was wrong with me! Somewhere there was a key that could unlock that mystical secret of maternal satisfaction and until I found it, I would dart all over the place testing theories and hypotheses claiming posession of precisely what I was longing for. Out <em>there </em>lay my happiness, perfection and fulfillment. I was always but an article or surefire tip away from arriving at that mommy plateau from which everything runs smoothly and where everyone, parents and kids alike, respond pleasantly and appropriately from that point forward to life’s challenges.<br /><br />In the midst of a never ending voyage toward an ambiguous and elusive finish line, I began to open up, out of frustration, to my fellow mom friends. What I discovered repeatedly, surprisingly enough, was that each of us was struggling with our own unique self-doubts. Each of us was worn out from trying to live up to our impeccable standards. Each of us was concerned that our children were abnormally something – shy, aggressive, willful, behind in development, you name it. It also began to dawn on me, however, that those conversations so honest and yet seemingly unproductive in which I vented to a supportive and empathetic peer provided comfort unlike any how-to manual I had ever combed through for answers. Feeling part of something bigger than the little lonely world I was dwelling in and worrying in and yet would sacrifice anything to stay in, brought me real and sustained peace. In apartments, houses and condos around the globe were women and men just like me – parents who adored their kids, parents whose families were flawed, parents inching their way toward enlightenment two steps forward and one step backward at a time.<br /><br />Several years ago I got an idea in my head. I wanted to chronicle my experience as a new mom coming to terms with the actualities of her role. I wanted to state clearly and candidly the misconceptions holding me back from taking ownership of my position as the mother of <em>these distinct children</em> placed divinely in my care. I desired to scream from the pages of a book not, “Here is how you do it!” but rather, “You, my friend, are not alone!” I am abundantly thankful for <a href="http://conciliarpress.com/">Conciliar Press </a>and for their willingness to take a chance on me. With Conciliar, I was able to freely and thoroughly examine motherhood in light of the Orthodox Christianity I had converted to. It was rigorous work, writing with four small children on my lap and at my feet, staying up later than I should to finish just one more thought, one more paragraph. It was (and still is) scary, I’ll admit it, to become so vulnerable through the sharing of my faults and fears. But bigger than the challenges were the revelations! I was floored to find out how applicable and transforming are the teachings of the ancient Church to modern day men and women in the throes of disciplining, praying for, and doting on their children.<br /><br />It is finished; I can scarcely believe it! <em>Close to Home: One Orthodox Mother’s Quest for Patience, Peace and Perseverance</em> is now available to <a href="http://www.conciliarpress.com/close-to-home-the-book.html"><strong>pre-order at Conciliar’s website</strong></a><strong>.</strong> I am honored for this chance to reveal how my numerous mistakes and disappointments, a sense of community, and the teachings of Jesus as revealed through the mysteries of His Church, are enabling me to focus less on what I <em>can’t </em>be or do and more on what God can. I want to take this opportunity to thank you, all of you who have listened to these podcasts and read my blogs and who have inspired me to wake up each morning and try all over again to be a little more like Christ than the day before. Let us continue pursuing the unearthly gratification that comes from serving one another, uplifting one another – from loving sacrificially in the name of the Holy Trinity our spouses, sons and daughters, siblings, parents and neighbors.<br /><br /></p>Molly Sabourinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04289593743687415065noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35551873.post-13944623444752047782009-01-21T12:15:00.000-08:002009-01-21T17:39:30.931-08:00Community<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSTIythO15L_bJAIxS0xrNpKJu8Z-_ctjkgaquhpRyUaSe1B3xAtsfS7k6wATCRQTLfZmSIETu3bd8XlX4_heNfoYEy2tanp0m8ocyZXVFo81-MXFz7g4QQ3Okgke0e_BU4ZAWuw/s1600-h/community.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293868472466039474" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 275px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSTIythO15L_bJAIxS0xrNpKJu8Z-_ctjkgaquhpRyUaSe1B3xAtsfS7k6wATCRQTLfZmSIETu3bd8XlX4_heNfoYEy2tanp0m8ocyZXVFo81-MXFz7g4QQ3Okgke0e_BU4ZAWuw/s400/community.jpg" border="0" /></a> <div><br /><div>What’s fun for Mary, is abhorrent to her siblings. Several times a day I call out like the Little Red Hen, <em>Who will help me sweep the floors, fold the clothes, stir the batter?<br /></em><br /><em>Not I</em>, says Elijah.<br /><br /><em>Not I</em>, says Priscilla<br /><br /><em>Not I</em>, says Benjamin, <em>I’m much too busy</em>.<br /><br />But my youngest, Miss <em>“I will”</em> Mary, still oddly fascinated by mops, bed making and lint traps, answers back almost every time in the affirmative. Soon enough, however, judging by my family’s track record, she will also bend over backwards to avoid anything chore related. Familiarity can all too efficiently suck the marrow out of intrigue, leaving what once was full of novelty as flat and dull as a week old birthday balloon drained of helium.</div><div></div><br /><div>Admittedly, I’ve been active myself lately, evading work that when ignored gnaws steadily, tortuously, at my thoughts and emotions. The fact that I have the luxury to withdrawal at will from the gravity of life and death contemplations reveals a lot about the odds stacked deep and wide against me, against anyone pursuing belief alongside freedom and material prosperity.<br /><br />Ten years ago, I was enamored with faith, <em>The</em> Faith - with access, through the sacraments, to Christ and His Kingdom previously unknown to me. A decade ago, I viewed asceticism, in the form of prayer, confession, Eucharist and fasting, as a luminous privilege. I felt what I should have at that early stage of my conversion, a pleasant buzz confirming the nearness of God and His saints. <em>Who will deny himself, pick up his cross and follow me?</em> asked Jesus.<br /><br /><em>I will!</em> I answered eagerly, and I meant it.<br /><br />I meant it also when, at the age of twenty-two, I told my future husband, Troy, that, Yes! Of course! I’d like nothing more in this world than to grow old with him! I meant it two years later when, while cradling my suckling newborn, I declared emphatically that I was thrilled beyond words about becoming a mother. Infatuation, warmth electrified, is the sugary candy coating disguising, initially, the necessary bitterness within our soul healing medicine. Easy is pleasurable but also shallow, static and stupefying. Untested love is whitewashed lust demanding, <em>Please me! Fulfill me! Make me Happy</em>!<br /><br />I’ve grown accustomed to the smell of incense and the lilting sound of prayers, Scripture, and hymns being chanted. What was exotic, impossibly foreign, now seems like home. I’ve settled reflexively into the rhythm of fasts and feasts, Vespers and Liturgy, inspired to keep at it out of a fervent desire for Christ one minute and plain old habit the next. True conviction needs neither euphoria nor pangs of tingling adoration to be authentic.</div><div></div><br /><div>What it does require, however, is my consistent participation in tangible rituals intended by a most merciful God to override our fluctuating passion for the Gospel message. By becoming integrated, through communal worship and a shared partaking of the Holy Mysteries, into the larger Body of Christ, I am often times called upon to carry on my shoulders those who are struggling, and just as often to accept my need to <em>be</em> carried, when I, myself, am dry as bone and have nothing to give.<br /><br />In her captivating biography of Princess Ileana of Romania (later to be known as Mother Alexandra) entitled, <em><a href="http://www.conciliarpress.com/royal-monastic-princess-ileana-of-romania.html">Royal Monastic</a></em>, the author, Bev Cooke, describes a moment when Ileana, exhausted from a lifetime of enduring one excruciating tragedy after the next, comes to terms with her powerlessness to evoke within her heart any tenderness at all for the faith of her youth. I’d like to share with you below that extraordinary passage:<br /><br /><em>Ileana stands in her icon corner, eyes fixed on the mother of God, who holds the somber faced infant on her knee. She begins the prayers. “Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever and unto ages of ages, amen. O Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner. O Lord, have mercy on me…”<br /><br />The words continue, but they’re just words. They come from her mind, out of her mouth, empty of the love, the dedication, the joy she’d always felt when praying before. Once the formal prayers are said, she stands, unable to open her heart as she has in the past and pour out her feelings and thoughts. There are no words to express what she feels, for most of the time she feels nothing at all. All is dead inside.<br /><br />She considers the emptiness and tests it again. What if her children were taken from her? She shrugs. It would be awful, and she would miss them, their voices, their hugs, their laughter and tears, but she can summon none of the sorrow, the panic, and the devastation such thoughts caused even as little as two years ago.<br /><br />She should finish and leave – there’s so much to be done, but something holds her in place, and she shifts her gaze to the icon of the Lord Himself – His eyes as compassionate and sorrowful as always.<br /><br />As she stands, she feels a pressure around here – not physical, exactly, but what it is she cannot say. It holds her gently in place, saying the things she cannot say for herself.<br /><br />As she gazes at the icon of the Lord, she realizes that this is the Church – the prayers of the faithful, of the monastics who stand for hours and days before their icons. They are saying for her the words she cannot think, expressing the feelings she cannot feel, keeping her standing, her heart open, empty and waiting. She nods, not content, exactly, and not feeling anything more than she has since the night her family left Romania, but not yet ready to leave the corner and God’s and the Church’s embrace. If she cannot pray, then she will let the Church pray for her, until the words come back.<br /></em><br />When I am discouraged, or restless, or excited, or…let's just face it, it is <em>always</em> very tempting to disengage myself from that arduous struggle to choose salvation over self-appeasement or self-pity. The longer I hem and haw, weigh the pros and cons of pausing <em>today </em>to exert myself by attending a Church service (or cracking open my prayer book, or checking in on the acquaintance I know is hurting), versus tomorrow, when its more convenient, the more in danger I become of albeit unintentionally still ostracizing myself from the only Source on earth able to rescue me from death, disillusionment, and despair.</div><br /><div>God’s grace cannot be earned but it can, and certainly should, be extolled and never squandered. Out of love, tested love, unconditional love immune to whims and changing moods, I imperfectly offer my labor as a sacrifice of praise. I must work to become like Christ, which sounds so daunting and sometimes more than I think I can bear, but through that work, we are bound together for eternity.<br /><br /><em>Who will help me develop patience, serve my neighbor and desire meekness over honor and recognition?<br /></em><br />My friends, my brothers and sisters, by striving for such things yourselves, you already have. </div></div>Molly Sabourinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04289593743687415065noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35551873.post-18911970123643852232008-12-31T07:21:00.000-08:002008-12-31T15:17:47.233-08:00Absorption<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqCN_TSNgLY13JMViI0E1KFsX_J74t0bEfWdAYtrQmkyTnRP_FjkDjI526_E62qN79kuX2rL5TEuTsOaigQfNboINuGScwJkMjQFYaY8UuMyhe6KbQHXndqJoem5FHNHcs6fTuxw/s1600-h/absorption.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285985425899734050" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqCN_TSNgLY13JMViI0E1KFsX_J74t0bEfWdAYtrQmkyTnRP_FjkDjI526_E62qN79kuX2rL5TEuTsOaigQfNboINuGScwJkMjQFYaY8UuMyhe6KbQHXndqJoem5FHNHcs6fTuxw/s400/absorption.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal">For three nights in a row, we watched the children and ourselves age at the speed of light on our television screen. First birthdays, second birthdays, third then fourth, crawling then walking, squeaking then speaking, babies then toddlers, then small boys and girls – it was dizzying and a bit gut wrenching to witness such large chunks of time being whittled down into highlights and snippets, reduced to slivers. “Wouldn’t it be awesome,” asked Elijah, after our marathon viewing of old family videos, “to be able to see <i>every</i> part of our lives all over again?” And immediately I thought of my teenage years, my early twenties, how I reacted last week to a string of certainly aggravating but hardly earth-shattering disappointments and I shuddered at the idea of being forced to observe repeatedly my past foolishness and folly. Thank goodness for fresh starts and new beginnings.</p><p class="MsoNormal">We have mornings, Sundays, apologies and the 1<sup>st</sup> of January: all shiny, un-scuffed, perfectly promising opportunities to dust oneself off and begin anew. It is best, in my humble opinion, to go ahead and try your darndest to seize all of them. What could be wiser or more productive than grasping at these lifelines, these dependable and consistent breaks in our harried and hectic schedules fraught with potential?<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Why not revel in the mercifulness of free-will and forgiveness by choosing active, eager faith over immobility - over wallowing in self-pity or determined ignorance?<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal">Now resolutions of any kind require forethought and a game plan; two things I, in general, have great difficulty conjuring up from out of a mind whose default setting is stuck on “ramble.” Perhaps by sharing publicly, officially with you all my 2009 aspirations, I’ll become more focused. So drum roll please, and hold onto your hats; what I’m proposing here is especially grand. For the next twelve months and (Lord-willing) beyond, I would like to fully dedicate myself to the process, the sacred, mental and emotional art, of absorption.</p><p class="MsoNormal">H-m-m? What’s that you say? You need more clarification? O.K. then, let me try here to explain. You see quite often when life gets challenging, as is its very nature to do so, I respond by tensing up, gritting my teeth, closing my ears and my eyes in protest to the injustice, the sheer terror of it all. When you’ve worked so hard and diligently at manipulating…I mean, <i>maneuvering</i> your every situation until they all line up neatly with possibly fine, probably decent, but nevertheless <i>your own</i> ideals, only to watch on dumbfounded as tragedy or inconvenience bowl them over, it is instinctive to stomp your feet and declare authoritatively that that is<i> NOT FAIR! </i>It is tempting at that point to see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing but the blackness, the silence, the painful sting of your grave disenchantment. </p><p class="MsoNormal">I know this because I do this, sometimes out of bitterness and sometimes out of straight-up fear. It is scary – let me say that again, SCARY, to uncurl your vulnerable soul from its hard as metal ball of self-protection. I don’t <i>want</i> to learn from this! I don’t <i>want</i> to be stretched any further! And yet…and <i>yet</i> (Lord have mercy!), I kind of do. It is that exact tension, that violent back and forth between a desire for eternal and then earthly and then eternal again treasures, that wears me thin and leaves me spiritually discombobulated. I can’t straddle this and that, here and there, now and later, and honestly expect to make any progress, to move ahead. It is all or nothing, backwards or forwards. It is totally up to me to either keep my eyes locked in on Jesus or to gape open-mouthed at the waves licking my shins and dousing my plans. I can either take God at His word or panic.</p><p class="MsoNormal">I am realizing as I get older and as my love spreads wider and thicker, grows deep as tree roots in individuals whose mortality lies outside of my control and jurisdiction, that the risks of staying engaged in the lives of those you absolutely and unequivocally adore, are breath-takingly great. I’ve found that jobs get lost, pregnancies miscarry, health is fragile and that death eludes no one. My face is becoming wrinkled from so much wincing. So rather than construct a paper castle for myself only to then spend my energy on dreading the rain, the wind, or the bullies who could so easily knock it down, I’d like to stop for awhile the ambitious scheming, the “I can almost taste it” day dreaming that keeps me distracted from my salvation and the gifts right in front of me. I’d like to quiet my thoughts and phobias, simply “Be” in the presence of my Savior, and replace my impermeableness with a responsive and porous spirit prepared to soak in <i>all</i> of the encounters, whether joyful or taxing, satisfying or sorrowful, divinely designed to rescue each one of us from the lulling effects, the numbing effects, of the tepidness inherent in comfort and material satiation.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><i>When tested by some trial</i>, wrote St. Mark the Ascetic in the Philokalia<i>, you should try to find out not why or through whom it came, but only how to endure it gratefully, without distress or rancor. </i>That right there, my friends, is enough of a challenge to keep me prayerfully occupied <i>for a good long time. </i>That right there is a New Year goal, an every morning goal, a minute-to-minute goal, far superior and far, far more fulfilling than objectives too thin and shallow for supporting the unrealistic expectations we tend to want to heap upon them in lieu of surrendering our most intimate of longings to Christ. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><i>Be anxious for nothing</i>, wrote Saint Paul to the Philippians, <i>but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all comprehension, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus</i>. Yes, it is incomprehensible and harder than anything to stomach much less believe unwaveringly, that it is suffering and trials which bring about illogical peace, peace immune to whatever crazy circumstances life may throw at us. I am trusting here that dogged vigilance will be the key to achieving temperance and an outlook viewing adversity as a tool rather than a hindrance. I am trusting that this year, this day, this minute, there will be <i>plenty</i> of chances for strengthening my resolve to bristle less and comply more -to shift my knee-jerk response to irritation from one of, <i>Come on! You have got to be kidding me!</i> to: <b><i>Thy</i></b><i> Will – Thy <b>Perfect</b> Will Be Done.</i><span style="font-size:0;"> </span><i><?xml:namespace prefix = o /><o:p></o:p></i></p>Molly Sabourinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04289593743687415065noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35551873.post-54255909072905328092008-12-16T11:21:00.000-08:002008-12-17T04:55:04.940-08:00Silent<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7f69wIjTtDFomZtUWnINdt9q8kkNH8XosxJjj2CteAmqLpSKODJve4LycV_ePFkAVUgdH2HozW5XXaF0j-xK-tei924u3q3IMyxVljCYHyccTRBBHmxtWSbzedtHNuhAS6zMbrw/s1600-h/Xmas+2004+159.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280470506680082002" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7f69wIjTtDFomZtUWnINdt9q8kkNH8XosxJjj2CteAmqLpSKODJve4LycV_ePFkAVUgdH2HozW5XXaF0j-xK-tei924u3q3IMyxVljCYHyccTRBBHmxtWSbzedtHNuhAS6zMbrw/s400/Xmas+2004+159.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Mary and Joseph were outfitted first, in head coverings and bed sheets altered to look like robes worn in Biblical times – pretty standard fare for a Nativity reenactment, starring children. The smaller kids then gathered to claim their costumes from a pile of random sheep tails, camel ears, wire halos and sparkling wings. “Here you are, sweetheart,” said a preoccupied volunteer to my four-year-old daughter, Priscilla, who recoiled at the armful of matted brown fur being thrust in her general direction.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>And though she would never protest openly, the tears in her eyes spoke volumes about her longing to be anything, and I mean anything at all, but a stinky old donkey and so I quickly intervened. I grabbed everything white I could find from the diminishing mound of remnants. Three minutes later, she was beaming, smiling, <i>not</i> crying - relieved as all get out to be an angel.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Priscilla had been anxious the entire week prior to participate in the annual Christmas Pageant being held at Holy Trinity Cathedral. She’d wanted all of her friends and family to watch her perform upon a stage; we made sure before we left there was film in our camera. She was excited when she woke up, excited after liturgy, excited in the church basement getting ready with her fellow miniature thespians. She was excited, excited, excited until the director began with the shushing and the lining up of actors, in order of their appearance, in the hallway. All at once, then, her face contorted into a frozen expression of fear and she couldn’t, simply wouldn’t, get in place.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>“You can do it,” we coaxed, “It will be fine,” we promised, until it was clear that verbal encouragement was, in this case, not going to cut it. “Come with me daddy,” she begged, after everyone else had already taken their places by the manger and baby Jesus. Photos from that day depict a silent night, holy night, crammed with pint-sized wise men, bleating animals, heavenly hosts, and a 32-year-old man, my man, in a button-up dress shirt holding protectively in his arms a timid cherub. </p><p class="MsoNormal">I am sitting at my computer, fingers poised above the keyboard waiting impatiently for my molten thoughts to cool-off - become touchable, examinable, solid.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>As a child, I’d wake from a nightmare, grab paper and a pen and try to chase away the demons using misspelled words I’d impulsively string together to form something like an appeal, or perhaps more like a mantra describing evil being conquered by light and kindness. I wrote to name, to try and define that which was frightening, ambiguous, unfamiliar. The stack of journals in my basement, I am often tempted to burn, reveal my three-decades-old dependence on run-on sentences that smother doubt, low self-esteem with their stifling and dramatic weightiness. My attention span was short when it came to math, science, sports, music lessons, but consistently I penned my stories, my made-up songs, my angst-ridden poetry. This, this writing, was all I was ever kind of good at, or at least the only hobby that for a lifetime retained my interest. </p><p class="MsoNormal">I tried in my early twenties to imagine possible scenarios involving me pumping out brilliance O’Connor, Welty, L’Engle style, but I was <i>so</i> far out of their league and that distance between my own feeble skills and their timeless, breath taking capabilities, shut me down – muted me. Compared to others’ contributions mine felt flimsy and amateurish. Why create at all if I could never keep up with the best? I honestly wasn’t pouting, just merely leaving it up to the “experts” to challenge the status quo with their wit and poignancy. It wasn’t until I had nothing, nothing at all to prove, that I was drawn again to write for the therapeutic effects of it.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>After carrying and birthing four children, after eight years of marriage, after converting from Protestantism to Orthodoxy, I had two tons worth of emotions that needed desperately to be sorted through. I used my God-given survival tactic to find clarity and resolve within the mayhem that is motherhood. I began to pray daily via Microsoft Word.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal">Now, behold, here I tremble, like Priscilla, at the thought of playing a role in spreading the news of my Savior’s incarnation. News with the potential to be a balm for the broken hearted while inciting the raging fury of those opposed to Truth and its boundaries standing firm against an “anything goes” philosophy.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>We’re asked to offer whatever we have, guaranteeing a wide and colorful array of gifts and unique treasures to lay before the feet of Christ and His most pure Mother. By presenting my foremost passion as a sacrifice to God, I risk the disapproval of those who find my message irrelevant, redundant, predictable, offensive.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I wrestle endlessly with my motives, my insecurities. What could I possibly say that hasn’t been said before by individuals far more versed in the theology of the Church? I am easily discouraged from sharing the peace and redemption I’ve encountered within the Mysteries of the Faith by remembrances of my frailty, naiveté, self-centeredness. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Shepherds, lowly shepherds – unlearned, un-obvious, unable to fall back on fancy pedigrees and solid, sterling reputations to bring legitimacy to their claim that Immanuel had indeed come down to earth as an infant, were chosen, specifically, to hear first the amazing announcement and then to worship for themselves the King of Kings. Had it been scholars, Pharisees, pillars of the community whom were visited that evening by an angelic choir singing triumphantly of a God-man come to save us, I might be justified in stifling my urges to imperfectly express my thankfulness for freedom from the oppression of sin and death.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>But as it stands, excuses for keeping quiet, for doing nothing, centered on my ignorance and unworthiness, are pretty groundless. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Am I less than fit to represent the love of Christ in a fallen world? Oh mercy, yes – believe me! Am I exempt from trying anyway because of the probability that I’ll be ridiculed, disrespected and ultimately exposed as the fumbling, rambling novice that I am? Were the forgiven prostitutes, the tax collectors, beggars and lepers who spoke openly of their healing to anyone who would listen, <i>more</i> qualified than you or me to be living, dynamic witnesses of the Gospel? Maybe so, if the criteria is hope, and the acceptance that we are nothing, powerless at producing anything entirely noble, <i>outside</i> of God’s grace and salvific intervention.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I’ve been going about this backwards, trying to fortify within myself that which should ultimately be leveled and keeping contained that which should flash, boil and spontaneously overflow with gratitude and expectation. There is <i>much</i> to be learned this season about humility, priorities and righteous fervor. Much to contemplate when at last we can declare:</p><p class="MsoNormal">Christ is Born! Glorify Him!</p>Molly Sabourinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04289593743687415065noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35551873.post-79039662316139926852008-12-09T10:34:00.001-08:002008-12-09T16:03:30.583-08:00Beautiful<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1nhtQ5kVLGzKhTv6pM_DNpi9gV3YByJfl96kMRbwpFXpy3w8ixizyESpbQEhuErTgSUZaxKHNldhbIJt5BL83JwFhXyFBPD4vsdOKTxjrZFp3j2wgCRijZ9GiaBIsAjZWYcIovQ/s1600-h/beautiful.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5277913197994985538" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 307px; height: 400px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1nhtQ5kVLGzKhTv6pM_DNpi9gV3YByJfl96kMRbwpFXpy3w8ixizyESpbQEhuErTgSUZaxKHNldhbIJt5BL83JwFhXyFBPD4vsdOKTxjrZFp3j2wgCRijZ9GiaBIsAjZWYcIovQ/s400/beautiful.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>My brother was getting married in less than a week and I had nothing to wear. Mom watched on patiently as I covered a fitting room floor with pants and blouses and long, short, floral, black, rayon, and linen dresses. I was twenty-years-old, a junior in college, and uncomfortable in my own skin. Within a year, I had cut my hair short - super short - tattooed my shoulder, and began favoring dark nails, dark lips, and dark eyeliner. The clothing I chose and how it hung on my 5’3 frame was crucial – I mean, so very indicative of the identity I was trying to craft like an interior designer using color, patterns, and textures to define a living space.<br /></div><div> </div><br /><div>On that particular day, it was my thighs and their stubborn refusal to elongate and smoothen under the light and airy fabrics revealing cellulite and bulk that were causing me great angst and frustration. My reality and ideals were colliding in a suburban shopping mall and I was resentful of the limitations an inherited figure had placed upon me. I was cursing under my breath a perfectly healthy body until, that is, my mother, holding armloads of hangers and forty some years worth of life experience, had had enough. “I had no idea,” she told me - firmly, calmly, honestly, “that you were so vain.”<br /></div><div> </div><br /><div>When three-year-old Mary gets angry, she’s like an automobile without breaks. Her temper picks up speed if just the slightest amount of pressure is applied to set ideas about how she’ll pass the time or what will go into her mouth as a snack before dinner. “No,” I say, “Not now” or “ Put that away, please,” and off she goes, down a road too twisted and slick for a preschooler to rationally navigate without crashing. Although she twists and turns away from me, I hold her forcibly until she melts into my shoulder with relief. You see she wants to regain control but feels powerless to do so thus, ultimately, she is grateful for an intervention. </div><div> </div><br /><div>On that fateful afternoon, fourteen years ago, in front of a cruel and unforgiving three-way-mirror, I, too, underneath it all, was thankful for being confronted on a self-deprecating obsession which had warped my view of beauty and fulfillment. I admire my mom for risking a daughter’s wrath by not catering to an emotionally, physically, and spiritually destructive tendency to judge my worth in terms of inches, pounds, and good or horrid hair days. Reassuring me that I was perfect (cute, thin, attractive) might have temporarily softened the sting of being flawed, but in the long run would have validated a debilitating assumption that losing sleep over one’s appearance is just par for the course, if you’re a girl.<br /><br />During the next five years, I would struggle to strike a balance between succumbing to my vanity and denying categorically an inherent desire to be feminine. Due to Scripture verses such as Proverbs 31:30 (Charm is deceitful and beauty is vain, But a woman who fears the LORD, she shall be praised.) and a faction of pious Christian women refreshingly at ease in their simple wardrobes and unmade-up faces, I’d learned to embrace the notion that there should certainly be a disconnect between myself and the materialistic fetishes of our current culture. What I assumed that meant, however, was an immediate and total annihilation of any residual cravings I might be storing in my subconscious to look “pretty.”</div><div> </div><br /><div>And so I devoted myself, throughout the end of my twenties, to not caring (or at least acting like I wasn’t concerned) about something so banal as split ends, dark under-eye circles, or the cut of my skirts. I wore no cosmetics whatsoever and denied myself the luxuriousness of high-heeled shoes or perfume, and then internally I waged a war against jealousy and condemnation of those girls, those Christians, who went right on looking exquisite and put together while I, meanwhile, was near constantly swatting away impulses to follow suit. “This is what You want from me, right?” I prayed earnestly, “Than why am I more focused on my looks (and the looks of others) than ever?”<br /><br />In 2002, I became a mother for the third time in a matter of four years and my body, which I’d spent the previous decade shaping, ogling, comparing, and then ignoring altogether, broke down from the stress of breastfeeding, sleepless nights, and a lack of solid nutrition. I was feverish, exhausted, and in a good deal of pain from a throat infection I couldn’t shake using Tylenol and lozenges. My doctor lectured me on the merits of taking better care of myself and then wrote me out a prescription for some hefty antibiotics. Seven days later, I was weak but incredibly relieved to be out of bed and able to swallow without grimacing. “Never again,” I promised myself, ”would I let things get this dire.” Vitamins, exercise, and better food choices, I realized, made a marked difference in the quality of my everyday life. </div><div> </div><br /><div>I slowly but surely began processing that separating so starkly my “flesh” from my “spirit” might not be as beneficial as I’d imagined. By first condemning the shape of my legs, my hips, and my ankles, and then alternatively reproaching myself for such pettiness I had, essentially, exchanged one form of blinding negativity for another, losing sight altogether of true meekness. … <em>Inner and real humility</em>, wrote Elder Joseph the Hesychast, <em>is for one to feel, that whatever he has, life, health, wealth, wisdom all are foreign, are gifts of God. </em></div><div> </div><br /><div>These blessings of blood vessels, organs, and bones housing my soul were to be honored with joy and thanksgiving for their potential to help me represent Christ’s love to a fallen world. Good stewardship of my health and hygiene were just as important as Scripture reading and Church attendance when it came to physically ministering to others. The energy I felt from taking time to nurture my brain, my heart, and my muscles with activity, supplements and whole grains, fresh produce, and lean proteins, not only increased my stamina for playing with the children or listening attentively to my husband at the end of a busy day, but also regulated my emotions which were often out of whack due to fluctuating hormones and exhaustion. After wasting countless hours and much mental duress on attempting to standout, as either an exceptional beauty or a virtuous saint, I was more than ready to fill my thoughts with something, anything, other than myself.<br /><br />These days, I keep my hair trimmed, my eyebrows plucked, and my weight in check. I found a resale shop in my neighborhood selling gently used clothing in styles and colors I feel great in, for next to nothing. I am thirty-four years old now and satisfied with the likeness of myself reflecting back at me in the mirrored closet door. This body of mine has birthed four infants, has held the hands of hurting friends, has rubbed my spouse’s feet and braided pigtails for my daughter. </div><div> </div><br />This nose inhales the incense in our Church on Sunday mornings; this mouth sings hymns of praise and receives the Eucharist. I respect the expert craftsmanship that went into my creation and do my best to treat this miracle of a unique “ME” as a temple of the living God. I’ve noticed, as I’ve aged, that the women I admire glow even brighter the more you get to know their personalities, and that emulating the godly traits that make them so lovely and striking is a far superior way to grow more Christ-like than trying to <em>become</em> them. God created every one of us for a specific purpose, with distinctive features and distinguishing characteristics. This nation, however, is breeding generations of little girls who disdain their inimitability, wishing only to become clones of one another.<br /><div><br />I want for my daughters, Priscilla and Mary, to delight in being female – to make modest choices based on personal preference rather than societal trends. Toys, now, commercials, backpacks, t-shirts, and lunchboxes advertising “role models” I think many parents are uncomfortable with, compete against us for a higher percentage of influence over our families. We are careful in our home to regulate as much as possible the amount of aggressive marketing techniques our kids are exposed to, knowing full well (unless we shut ourselves off completely from the world at large) that, eventually, they’ll have to maneuver around the tricks of the trade themselves and combat what I imagine will be an even more intensive campaign for both their loyalty and money.<br /></div><div> </div><br /><div>It will take prayer, much prayer, and discretion to instill within my daughters a healthy, productive, and Christ-centered sense of confidence that can transcend both conceit and insecurity in order to break through the barriers that “keeping-up” with others can place upon one’s time, witness, and contentment. I must not minimize the pressures placed upon them to fit in, nor compromise our standards centered on being “in this world but not of it.” I will look for signs of struggle, watch for cues to intervene. I will seek out as many opportunities as possible for discussion. Let us offer up to God all of our children, granddaughters, nieces, sisters, and even ourselves that He might save and protect us from faulty thinking and then together, as women precious in His sight, let us praise Him for the love and generosity he bestows upon each of us who were sculpted, with forethought and precision, in His image. </div><div> </div><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);"><strong><em>This article is featured in the Fall 2008 issue of <span style="font-size:130%;">The Handmaiden</span>. Click </em></strong><a href="http://www.conciliarpress.com/magazines/the-handmaiden"><strong><em>HERE</em></strong></a><strong><em> to order a subscription!</em></strong></span></div>Molly Sabourinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04289593743687415065noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35551873.post-19458871333497697622008-11-22T17:55:00.000-08:002008-11-23T11:32:13.279-08:00Thankful<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA8wPznuXGlS2_fItiNmSKd6SBg2f_HVRzRMbrhg83toAb3Hoafw0vZO_p7MEmb9ZXEKfIdpV-kL-YWTYKX2Fk_Jtq9E_fD8xiFsZNwJh6gI6eKi6V6vcksMO2omZo7q-TsnFUyA/s1600-h/Copy+of+Handful.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271666421216873570" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 364px; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA8wPznuXGlS2_fItiNmSKd6SBg2f_HVRzRMbrhg83toAb3Hoafw0vZO_p7MEmb9ZXEKfIdpV-kL-YWTYKX2Fk_Jtq9E_fD8xiFsZNwJh6gI6eKi6V6vcksMO2omZo7q-TsnFUyA/s400/Copy+of+Handful.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>It was this time of year in 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th and 5th grade, that I would make turkeys at school from out of handprints, or Popsicle sticks, or paper bags, even. I would also list on autumn themed worksheets, which we would tack onto bulletin boards designed to look like giant cornucopias, what exactly I was thankful for. Though I can’t say for certain this is true, I would bet that if you compared those lists side-by-side, they would be nearly identical. “I am thankful for my family,” they would undoubtedly have included, “and God, and having food to eat.” In the latter grades, I may have mentioned “freedom” or possibly our mangy Shi-tsu dog, but all in all, it is pretty safe to say, I covered the basics, the expected, and was done with it.<br /><br />In but a few short days, I will gather around a festively set table with my in-laws where everyone present will take turns sharing why it is they are grateful. In the past, I’ve mentioned pregnancies, employment for my husband, a new home, and yes, God, food and family. There’s nothing wrong with stating the obvious. Counting frequently my overt blessings is an excellent way to dispel the myth that we are somehow missing out on that greener grass up yonder. But I am thinking of mixing things up, just for kicks, perhaps taking my cue from Metropolitan Philaret’s morning prayer: <em>In unforeseen events let me not forget that <strong>all </strong>are sent by You. </em><em>This </em>Thanksgiving, I’d like to try and redefine what constitutes, as Martha Stewart might say, “a good thing” by digging around a bit in the dirt, examining closer what appears on the surface to be nothing but plain old yuckiness, in search of meaning, enlightenment - gold. So here is it, a rather unconventional, 2008 version of my thankful list displayed here for your viewing pleasure in no particular order:<br /><br /><strong>Bronchitis:<br /></strong>Last winter at this time, I became ill with a nasty sinus infection, which moved swiftly to my lungs and rendered me agonizingly unproductive for nearly two months. I couldn’t sleep at night, couldn’t function during the day. Our house reeked of sick and sadness and claustrophobia. Remembering back on how my steady diet of sugar and caffeine mixed with zero aerobic activity, had (surprise, surprise) not really fortified my immune system, I determined a few weeks ago to make some serious changes in preparation for the upcoming flu season. Out of sheer terror, I began exercising regularly, watching what I stuck absentmindedly in my mouth, taking my vitamins consistently, and going to bed before 11:00 pm. Although it’s completely possible that I will still get sick despite these extra precautions, the side effects of my wellness inspired vigilance have been remarkable. I am awake, wide awake. I have fewer cravings for empty calories. By hitting bottom, I became desperate enough to better myself physically and ultimately emotionally as well.<br /><br /><br /><strong>The Demanding Threes:<br /></strong>Oh, I know what they say about the terrible twos, how that period from 18 to 36 months is the most trying for parents, the most frustrating. But having lived through that stage four times over, I beg to differ. For me, it was (is) the threes - the “demanding three’s” I like to call them. At three-years-old, each of my children turned a corner developmentally and they used all those burgeoning verbal and reasoning skills to strip me of patience, with the speed and utter thoroughness of piranhas ripping flesh from a floating carcass.<br /><br />My daughter, Mary, for instance, was a mild mannered baby. She’d play quietly with her toes, smile readily, and drift off in her crib peacefully without me rocking her or pacing the floors back and forth swinging her steadily in my arms. In August, however, she left toddlerhood behind and crossed over the threshold into preschooler territory. Ever since then, pouty lips, nonsensical requirements (such as socks that are neither too tight, too stretchy, too purple nor too bulky, for example) and clinginess have replaced her previous ability to independently entertain herself. She’s also stopped taking naps unless I lie down <em>right</em> beside her until eventually she falls asleep, at which point I can sneak, with ninja-like stealth, out of her bedroom.<br /><br />At first this new cramp in my afternoon schedule made me fume inside with annoyance, thinking of all I wasn’t accomplishing just lying there for half an hour, staring at the walls. After several days of this, however, I surrendered to the present situation at hand, the one that wasn’t changing no matter how stern I got or how many bribes I offered. Mary’s dainty little body inhaling and exhaling, her warm and delicate breath on my face, began to lull me into a state of relaxation. I now look forward to our naptime, or at least I don’t resent it and that is <em>kind</em> of like being thankful, so it counts.<br /><br /><strong>My Husband’s Long Work Commute:<br /></strong><em>Oh boy, this is going to be challenging.</em><br />I knew that when <em>we</em> left the city and yet Troy’s job didn’t, a major downside to our otherwise lovely life in small town America would be the twelve-and-a-half hour work days Troy would have to put in due to a <em>really</em> long train ride in and out of Chicago. What this has meant for me is that at 5:30 pm, when I naturally start shutting down, he isn’t there the way he used to be to tend to the kids while I finish making dinner. He isn’t there at 6:30 pm to start the bedtime routine while I clean up. He can’t come home if I feel sick, can’t go in a little later if I’m particularly exhausted and unfortunately, there’s very little “us” time in the evenings. And now I need to interject a moment to tell all of you single mothers or mothers with husbands in the military gone for weeks and months at a time, that in my eyes you’re akin to cape sporting, high-flying, super heroes and just knowing you’re out there raising your children all on your own makes me actually feel very sheepish about my bellyaching.<br /><br />But thankfulness, back to thankfulness. I am thankful for the minutes that come <em>after</em> my declaration of: <em>I simply cannot do this anymore!</em> Because it turns out that when you <em>have</em> to go on, despite the fear, loneliness and weariness, despite what looks and tastes and smells like insurmountable obstacles in your path, by God’s grace, you somehow do. And though our methods for staying afloat may not be pretty or ideal (i.e. Elmo or pancakes –again- for dinner), the fact that you made it through to other side of those baths, that tantrum, that never ending, teeth- clenching afternoon means that you and I are more resilient than we ever imagined we could be. It means that yes, <em>yes</em> we can do all things through Jesus Christ who strengthens us (Phil. 4:13).<br /><br /><strong>The High Price of Food, Clothing and Technological Gadgets:<br /></strong>So I was standing in the middle of Aldi not too long ago holding a calculator and a shopping list. Things were tight, the refrigerator was empty, and payday was another week away. I’d brought cash so as not to overspend, as is easy to do with credit cards. What I had was what I had. Period. I began with my staples– milk, eggs, cheese, fruit and vegetables. From there I had to separate my actual needs from my perceived ones, which, it turns out, were merely “wants” masquerading as things we absolutely, positively, cannot live without. I pared down that original list, more than once, by the time I got to the check-out line. I left the store with a dollar in change and an unexpected sense of fulfillment at having successfully avoided the costly trappings of impulse buys and convenience foods. By thinking twice, I had beaten a system based on knee-jerk decision-making and an “enjoy it now, pay for it later” mentality.<br /><br />See, here is the thing (the thing I’m trying to explain to our kids who swear backwards and forwards to me that if they only had <em>that one special item</em>, they’d be satisfied forever): having stuff is addicting. I know this because, say, I get a dress – automatically, I want shoes to go with it. New pillows for my couch – I’ll want a throw rug. What’s cable without a DVR? What good’s a cell phone without Internet access? A new winter hat? What about gloves, a scarf – heck, a better quality coat? A-h-h-h! Somebody stop me! Oh wait…I can’t afford <em>any</em> of those things, not when my children need to eat and stay warm and become educated. By not having the minimal funds necessary to even begin competing in the game, I am totally disqualified from playing. So, once again, I am oddly thankful, thankful for the financial limitations that, for now, are protecting me from getting caught up in a rat race I’m not yet disciplined enough to simply stroll through without getting trampled.<br /><br />And then there’s the engine light that’s gone on in our minivan and the mysterious leak in our attic. What about $3.00 ATM fees or all that spam in my e-mail inbox? Maybe next year, I’ll have matured enough to find <em>their</em> silver lining. After all, it is a process, the changing of one’s mindset from superficial to eternal, one I’ll struggle to undergo throughout the rest of my life. But here’s the good news: God is patient. He understands how hard it is to stay spiritually alert what with all that distracting noise and, what the younger generations like to refer to as, “bling” up in our faces. Thus His gifts of the holy Church, the holy sacraments and the Holy Spirit, to help us stay focused. ‘Tis the season, as they say, for remembering our great fortune at having access to Christ’s goodness and mercy in even the most difficult and trying of circumstances. I wish for you and for me, an extended spirit of gratitude made more palpable by our hope and acts of kindness. </div>Molly Sabourinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04289593743687415065noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35551873.post-25018338632571966132008-11-05T15:35:00.000-08:002008-11-05T17:38:31.268-08:00Tenacity<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxmhdpaDoB3xlNKVZgEpJYlRjI-_onRCYplgVBTzxx3eqZruRg9Iu631QXmbgX30X6u86Bl3zFt5YleNRpbVxzMAz2-8gXJpAPHzEcGC5bensXb0vjQZCfbcJvL-LgmoZl6rCCVg/s1600-h/tenacity.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265321400890434130" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxmhdpaDoB3xlNKVZgEpJYlRjI-_onRCYplgVBTzxx3eqZruRg9Iu631QXmbgX30X6u86Bl3zFt5YleNRpbVxzMAz2-8gXJpAPHzEcGC5bensXb0vjQZCfbcJvL-LgmoZl6rCCVg/s400/tenacity.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal">It was a hard call. On the one hand there were article deadlines looming, but then again, the boys were all out of underwear. Dinner? Oh, please; that wasn’t even on my radar screen and, oh yeah, I just remembered, I also volunteered to lead a book club for 4-7 year olds this Thursday centered around the riveting theme of “Apples.”<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>What to tackle first? With <i>so</i> much on my plate, it was important to proceed wisely, making the most of what little time I had available to devote to each task. With so much at stake, I sat myself down and chose… avoidance. I caved in to my impulses.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I wasted an hour researching digital cameras and reading articles while the mess got messier and my mood, grumpier. It’s tiring, stressful, frustrating to fall behind. </p><p class="MsoNormal">I grew up immersed in order, watching my mother fight clutter like her life, our lives, depended on it. My job was to clear the table and clean the bathrooms; my brother emptied the garbage and mowed the lawn. Sure, I resented it. I couldn’t <i>fathom</i> why my mom would get so testy about our lack of concern over smudged windows or a sink-full of dishes. I went to college and rebelled by throwing everything, including clothes, folders, and textbooks, on my dorm room floor. </p><p class="MsoNormal">I wish I could blame it solely on my environment - on cell phones, on the Internet. I’ve tried to hide behind a conviction stating women need no longer be held captive by domesticity. It would be convenient to claim for myself a free-spirited, unconventional identity and be done with it already but the truth is, I’ve wrestled for years and years and years now with feelings of guilt and anxiety due to my living by the seat of my pants and just barely getting away with it – because I’ve been permanently stuck in crisis mode. I’ve overspent, overeaten, overreacted and under appreciated my many, many blessings in response to that terrifying sensation of feeling out of control.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>For years and years and years, I chastised myself for a myriad of reasons including what I assumed was a lack of empathy and a limited amount of patience. I agonized over character flaws I was sure were deeply rooted in my soul.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Two weeks ago, my husband, Troy, went to town on our garage, installing hand-me-down cabinets and putting away bikes, tools and beach toys. Inspired, I rolled up my sleeves and got busy myself, tackling one room at a time while washing load after load of laundry. For eight hours, <i>eight literal hours, </i>I scrubbed, swept and sorted, pausing only to prepare meals for my kids. By that evening, I was sore and sweaty, and giddy with satisfaction. I’d given my all to a difficult task and the outcome was unbelievable fulfillment. For in the arduous process of bringing beauty and rhythm to our home, I forgot to check my e-mail, to long for stuff we can’t afford, or to dull my mind with stimuli neither relevant nor affirming. All those pesky “what-ifs” that often leave me shaking in my boots were effectively muted by nothing more than simple elbow grease and the thrill of accomplishing something I had started. </p><p class="MsoNormal">What my mother embodied while raising us, which as an adult I struggled for so long to emulate, was not superhuman talent or energy, but rather a solid sense of purpose uncomplicated by the lure of rampant escapism effectively stripping <i>our</i> generation of a respect for moderation, stick-to-itiveness and frugality. She was, and is, an excellent steward of the gifts bestowed upon her and has long understood that the quality of her life hinges solely on her willingness to make the most of her present circumstances. Whether she’s ironing, filing papers, entertaining guests or baking scones, she commits to that specific undertaking wholeheartedly and thus enjoys the many fruits of her labor, including relief from the nagging self-doubts that often accompany idleness and taunt a mind all wrapped up in itself. “Wow," my sister-in-law, Paige, once told me, “When my house is clean, I remember how much I like it.” And isn’t that true of anything we care for including jobs made more enjoyable by a tidy workspace, dinners more scrumptious because of a table set neatly, feverish babies finally resting on the shoulder of a parent willing to temporarily set aside their heavy workload for the sake of their child.</p><p class="MsoNormal">The more we separate ourselves from reality by way of living beyond our means, having an unhealthy preoccupation with instant access to stuff, entertainment, and information via our computers, Blackberries and DVR’s, and withdrawing from our communities in favor of keeping to ourselves and our self-absorbed addictions, the faster numbness and unbridled restlessness will set in until we forget, altogether, what it means to be truly, <i>thoroughly</i>, joyful. For the past fourteen days, I’ve endured a sort of technological detox, praying through the urges to flee the mundaneness of my responsibilities and surrender to the lure of on-line videos, healthy eating tips, and homeschool chat rooms. I exchanged irritability, seclusion and shame for a vested interest in the people and objects pertinent to my role as a mother, wife and neighbor. I tasted of achievement and it was far more delicious and nourishing than the unsubstantial, muscle-zapping sugariness of evasion. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Twice last week, opportunities to meet a need presented themselves – opportunities I would have never considered or even noticed had I been drowning in my usual ocean of chaos. I <i>could</i> be hospitable, volunteer to bring dinner or watch a child because for once I was being proactive, rather than passive. Just a bit of organization went such a very long way in allowing me the enormous pleasure of participating in Christ’s mission to sacrificially love others.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>There is no shortcut, no substitute for a strong work ethic when it comes to squeezing the most you possibly can from out these brief years spent on earth. I ask for your prayers as I continue to battle, every minute, for victory over my laziness and weak resolve. The faith of a mustard seed is what I’m aiming for, here, and confidence that God will pick me up and dust me off - will forgive me when I stumble. It’s <i>not</i> painless, my friends, all that unplugging and sustained exertion but nothing can compare with the elation that comes with freedom from enslavement to our barren whims. There is no time like the present to choose depth over shallowness and excellence over cheap and easy. Enough procrastination … let’s begin!</p>Molly Sabourinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04289593743687415065noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35551873.post-40973535904547578772008-10-23T13:39:00.000-07:002008-10-23T18:01:26.017-07:00Rest<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1JhezLKm8MUkq9edcUZ59tQRDW2uJJu9FcivYzWanPS1MDc8JV3g9QI5Lw67_r9S3iZ8R4j_-f-pGIXC4k2P4yPPYuCq2qY5xW0ChRGGQXnCi8M85d73am01eXn_NTMFvcWB80w/s1600-h/sisters.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260452065956216610" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 305px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1JhezLKm8MUkq9edcUZ59tQRDW2uJJu9FcivYzWanPS1MDc8JV3g9QI5Lw67_r9S3iZ8R4j_-f-pGIXC4k2P4yPPYuCq2qY5xW0ChRGGQXnCi8M85d73am01eXn_NTMFvcWB80w/s400/sisters.jpg" border="0" /></a>If I stir, if I twitch, if I cough or clear my throat, if the phone rings, if the birds outside our window start up again with all that maddening, infuriating, cruel and incessant chirping, he will open his eyes and I will vomit on the floor. It’s been eight days since I’ve slept for more than an hour or two consecutively, eight days since I delivered that crimson bundle of skin and hair now swaddled and lying still at my side, save for his frail and spastic breathing heightening the tension like ominous music foreshadowing danger and doom; he scares me. <p class="MsoNormal">Why, oh mercy, can’t I shut out the noise of my half-baked thoughts and lose consciousness? Stand me up, sit me down and I’ll drift off like a narcoleptic but here, in my bed, all reclined and covered with blankets, there’s too much pressure to take advantage of <i>this </i>fleeting opportunity to achieve sanity via quiescence, to make up for those nights void of any relief from exhaustion - my exhaustion putting a strangle hold on the normalcy I took for granted <i>before </i>my life imploded. I am suffocating. </p><p class="MsoNormal">You don’t ease yourself into motherhood, pausing between each new responsibility to catch your breath, slowly adjust to the changes, become acclimated. It’s more a jump off a cliff into the ocean then sink or swim sort of deal. A fair amount of flailing and panic, those first few months, are to be expected. The sleep issue (or more specifically, how new moms don’t get any) was a big one for me. I’d hear women complaining about their surly, sometimes lazy adolescents and I’d find myself pining for the season when I’d be frustrated by a son who’d moan and groan when told repeatedly to “wake up and get a move on!” I swore to myself that if I somehow survived his infancy, I would revel and rejoice in Elijah’s addiction to his pillow and blue cotton sheets. In fact, I’d crawl in right beside him and he and I would snore, drool, dream away the mornings. The two of us would finally, after all those trying years, refuel and refuse to greet the day until we were good and darn ready to. I’ve made many such vows as a mom too ridiculous, too impractical to keep.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Of course, I have to shake him now and turn the lights on and announce LOUDLY a dozen times over that it is, “time, young man, to get down here for breakfast!” I made it through, somehow, to that next stage of parenting where the nights are uneventful and the days are but a blur of classes and clubs, errands and meal preparing. Rarely, anymore, am I jolted from out of a deep and heavy slumber by crying or the urgent needs of fitful little ones. When I retire for the evening, I can expect, for the most part, to make it all the way through to dawn without interruption. And yet, silly me, I’ve been fighting a fog of fatigue, lately - one I’ve managed to stumble into all on my own, by way of dawdling.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I’m beat, I’m telling you, and it’s nobody’s fault but mine.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal">We read a lot in home school, which is lovely but sometimes painful in a “I was up until 3:00 am studying and now this 8:00 am Western Civilization class is practically forcing my eyelids to close” kind of way. The subject matter is interesting but also quiet and scholarly, and nothing at all like a cold shower. “Break time,” I declare every fifteen minutes or so to stretch my legs, refill my mug and keep from passing out cold on the couch. “But too much coffee,” I once complained to my brother, “makes me jittery and even more tired later on.” To which he replied,</p><p class="MsoNormal">“You know what the cure for that is, don’t you? More coffee.”</p><p class="MsoNormal">I had an epiphany last week while sitting back down to continue on with that day’s assignment: More than half of my current frustrations, including my sluggishness, lack of productivity and my irritability, would decrease dramatically if I…brace yourselves for this…went to bed <i>earlier</i>. I wasn’t helpless. I could decide <i>not</i> to send out yet another e-mail or put down my novel. It’s just so much more convenient to pour some Espresso on the problem than to organize my life and make room for the actual solution. It takes discipline to set boundaries, to pry your attention away from the task or distraction at hand and make surrendering to the source for true refreshment and well-being a priority. </p><p class="MsoNormal">“He promised to send the Holy Spirit,” I read to my children, between yawns, from Barbara Pappas’s excellent book, <i>God’s Bubbly, Gurgly, Overwhelming, Overflowing Love, </i>“The Holy Spirit would be with them always! The Holy Spirit would give them power to do everything God wanted them to do. The Holy Spirit would fill their hearts with as much of God’s Bubbly, Gurgly, Overwhelming, Overflowing Love <i>as they would let in</i>.” And then I paused, I read that final sentence again, struck even in my sleepy state by the significance of those last five words. How many of us still picture in our heads a God that comes and goes, depending on our worthiness? How awesome would it be to help our kids absorb early on that His promises are constant, consistent, and unbreakable? It is tempting to make things more complicated than they need be when we cannot wrap our minds around a Love that’s not dependent on our actions or intentions or ability to reciprocate with the same degree of steadiness and deified perfection. It requires restraint to ignore our doubts and take Christ at His word. </p><p class="MsoNormal">If I wander, if I forget, if I concentrate on only the warning signs or spend all of my waning energy on treating the symptoms and not the cause of my agitation; if I run in the opposite direction of where calm and rejuvenation originate and perpetually generate in the form Christ and His plan for our Salvation, God will nevertheless keep His arms open wide and I will only be hurting myself by choosing, by <i>preferring</i> the coldness and the darkness of my own egotism to His warmth and brightness. It’s been too long since I last yielded to my cravings for wholeness and rest. It’s up to me to change direction, to slow down, to turn around - to accept the incomprehensible and be satisfied.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></p>Molly Sabourinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04289593743687415065noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35551873.post-79370882476833693312008-10-07T12:58:00.000-07:002008-10-08T15:16:46.743-07:00Checklist<span style="font-size:78%;"></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFKj7GaVKHQ5Sk9aJbrLTLLzUdv37-Owkb5tda2xMr-etGQUexfCmNmc4acH1Lc5TB6kqzeKSPHxDHOkyHL820WENGfdPCLPiO4J7cwSeO3kVlIy386v7Aq86ODHYebvx_ilNJzg/s1600-h/checklist.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254504068747388626" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFKj7GaVKHQ5Sk9aJbrLTLLzUdv37-Owkb5tda2xMr-etGQUexfCmNmc4acH1Lc5TB6kqzeKSPHxDHOkyHL820WENGfdPCLPiO4J7cwSeO3kVlIy386v7Aq86ODHYebvx_ilNJzg/s400/checklist.jpg" border="0" /></a> <?xml:namespace prefix = o /><o:p></o:p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">They’d be arriving in fifteen minutes. I was sweating, literally perspiring from sprinting into rooms and out of rooms shoving clothes into closets and wiping down counter tops. I was desperately hoping the kids would have been settled by then, in their beds, reading quietly but, no, no, they were doing nothing of the sort.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Five minutes. It was only five minutes now until my new neighbor friends came over for dessert and coffee. I had five minutes to construct an environment reflecting harmony and order where there was none. “Do <span style="font-size:0;"></span>NOT <span style="font-size:0;"></span>get <span style="font-size:0;"></span>out <span style="font-size:0;"></span>of <span style="font-size:0;"></span>your <span style="font-size:0;"></span>rooms!” I ordered the children. </p><p class="MsoNormal">“Your home,” they said, “it’s lovely.”<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal">“Oh, thank you,” I answered casually, handing out pie pieces on porcelain plates. “We love it here,” I added, gathering from the looks on their faces that I was succeeding in presenting our family as respectable, delightful, God-fearing people worth getting to know. The evening went well, exactly as I’d hoped it would. Why, then, did I feel just a teensy bit guilty, like I had pulled something over on my guests? It wasn’t the first time or the last that I’d question my motives, my genuineness - my identity.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal">For the past twelve years I’ve been chasing around a shadow, attempting to fuse myself to that which comes and goes with a change in whatever social climate I’m currently trying to adapt to. The vision I have for what I could and probably should be can broaden, shrink, or disappear completely depending on where I stand and what or who is positioned next to me. I used to know what to say, how to act, how to carry myself in such a way that would communicate clearly my commitment to the Christian faith - you know, the updated version of it where you <i>totally</i> believe but also <i>totally</i> relate and try to look like and sound like those who don’t. </p><p class="MsoNormal">I was autonomous back then (no spouse, no kids, no needs to meet besides my own) and thus in a better position to craft a persona and stick with it.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>But you’ve heard what they say about familiarity breeding contempt; knowing thoroughly all of the rules, the proper etiquette and what was expected of me, I felt justified critiquing a system on which I was, obviously, an expert. <span style="font-size:0;"></span>After arrogantly picking it apart, I was ready to move on to something else, anything else, with the capacity to challenge or even surprise me.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Ask me now what I know or how <i>confident</i> I am that my next decision, step, or word spoken will be the right one; ask me how <i>comfortable</i> I feel as an Orthodox Christian, even a decade after converting; ask me today the best way to identify a <i>real</i> follower of Christ. My indefinite answers might make many (myself included) a little uneasy.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I’ve tried, for the longest darn time, to find some sort of formula, to figure out this Eastern Orthodoxy and fall into a spiritual rhythm I could memorize and depend on to feel authentic.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>At first this seemed challenging, yes, but doable. Fasting? Check. Saturday night Vigil? Check. Pre-Communion prayers? Evening Prayers? Morning Prayers? Check. Prayer Rope? Icons? Censer? Check. Check. Check. I went from 0 to 60 mph in one month flat, ascetically speaking, and was pretty sure I was proving myself to be a serious, “in this for the long haul,” type of convert. </p><p class="MsoNormal">I knew better than to think that my zealousness was guaranteeing me God’s approval, but…well, I kind of thought it anyway. In fact, I worried, or more like agonized, when I wasn’t disciplined enough to cut out dairy on a Friday or attend a weekday service, that I was failing to represent a sort of “one size fits all” ideal I’d managed to piece together from observing my fellow parishioners. I couldn’t shake that old habit of measuring my success as a Christian up against the status quo. The natural ebb and flow of faith and doubt, warmth and coldness, restraint and indulgence, I interpreted as signs of ineptness. I reasoned in terms of “good” and “bad”; I <i>reasoned</i> instead of listened. I’ve been attempting to keep up with <i>that</i> mom, so friendly and patient, and that couple over there with the beautiful, sweet, charming children and that fellow with a passion for serving the poor, but it isn’t working.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>God, I thank You that I am not like other men—extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even as this tax collector.</i> Every year, as Great Lent approaches, Orthodox Christians around the world are reminded that a Pharisaic confidence in ourselves and our pious efforts can bar our path towards enlightenment by blinding our eyes and blocking our ears to the wisdom granted only to those whose humility and dependence upon the compassion of the Holy Trinity keep them close enough to the Spirit to hear God’s will for any given situation delivered in whispers. <i>God be merciful to me, a sinner, </i>prayed the cheating, lying tax collector, having no leverage whatsoever with which to “earn” such a reward. It is this publican, Jesus tells us, who left forgiven. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Of all the astute things my priest has shared with us, the most helpful as of late has been about mystery - the Mystery of the Church and its inherent ambiguity when it comes to salvation.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>There is a necessary vagueness in the miracle of the sacraments lest we focus too much on the gifts ( how <i>exactly</i> they work and who <em>most</em> deserves them) and not the giver. When I act, using the tools provided by the Church, out of love and a longing for more and more of Christ, they effectively strip me of the biases and assumptions interfering with Divine Illumination and the Peace transcending all understanding. When I view them as a mandatory checklist for attaining the grace of God, however, those exact same tools break me down and remind me that I am nothing, capable of nothing pure or selfless on my own. I can’t, I am realizing, assess the Faith, define it, or try and crack it like a code if I want to tap into its soul transforming, life changing capabilities. No, it’s only through living it, clinging to it on a daily, moment-to-moment basis that I find any relief from the treadmill effect of feeling full of pride one minute and in despair over my sinfulness the next.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal">Just last week, my wonderful Matushka, our priest’s wife, stopped by the house. It was a wreck; the kids were loud and disruptive. I was exposed as the frazzled and fallible gal I am and it was humbling, very humbling, to say the least.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Without batting an eye at the chaos, she kept on making small talk and then proceeded to help me clean the kitchen, sweeping floors and washing dishes while I dried them. I had nothing of value to give in return for her kindness and generosity – no flowers, no zucchini bread, no bottle of wine, only a flimsy but heartfelt thank you which I offered again and again. She left and I teared up because it’s healing but also painful to have to accept for yourself and reveal to others your weaknesses. I was pondering this fact when I walked down to the basement to get my laundry and found a basket full of clean but rumpled clothing belonging to my sister-in-law whose been borrowing our dryer till theirs gets repaired. Having been blessed so undeservedly, I wanted to show my appreciation and pass on a mere portion of the thoughtfulness <em>I’d</em> experienced and so I folded those clothes, Paige’s clothes, because that’s what was right in front of me.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal">And so it goes, I inch my way from one lesson and revelation to the next, never peering too far ahead and praying continually for the fortitude and the confidence to not look back. <i>From <b>this</b> day, from <b>this </b>hour, from <b>this</b> minute,</i> said St. Herman of Alaska, <i>let us strive to love GOD above all. </i>There is clarity for those who seek it out of a yearning for true communion with the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It’s crazy illogical and totally maddening, intellectually, that God has chosen the foolish things of the world to shame the wise and the weak to shame the strong (I Cor. 1:27), but there it is, plain as day, as hard as anything to accept but so freeing and fulfilling for those brave enough to get over themselves, let go of their misguided preconceptions and follow willingly the Truth of Christ as revealed through His Holy Church, wherever it leads them.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></p>Molly Sabourinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04289593743687415065noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35551873.post-26381646003187810952008-09-17T21:10:00.000-07:002008-09-19T07:03:09.635-07:00Aflame<a href="http://flickr.com/search/?q=orthodox++Church+candle&page=7"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247444021453111586" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisbIr2rM3aChTIG3krHMVYDt9E-X1vYBUWvzzTgZ0QIXz_oo6hXyyk-tNOk1szDPrfK6p02oN5j_VmTfsl1VYg6AVdSRHLaA9igKGOMFj3YpESG6-l_fAaokaAgJ_G6OCaCwI1Fw/s400/holy+light.jpg" border="0" /></a> <div><br /><div>They were both on my lap, each elbowing the other. I wanted my coffee but it was too far out of reach and lukewarm now. “Can you stop that, please?” I asked, scarcely masking my growing impatience by speaking slower and a tad more loudly than I normally would, if I hadn’t been trying my hardest to keep from snapping. Last year I decided I wouldn’t send our children back to their public school when August rolled around. I ordered my own curriculum, rather, and joined a homeschool group in my neighborhood, and now I am shooing away those nagging insecurities with their unproductive assumptions. As if I wasn’t certain enough that I have patience issues and some serious organizational deficiencies.<br /><br />We have breakfast first, followed by readings from Scriptures and then a story, an Orthodox story involving saints or important feast days. There is so very much to learn about our Faith, and they are old enough, I believe, to start moving past the “hows” and onto the “whys.” For it’s the reasons behind the actions that fill empty gestures with meaning. It’s Her past, Her heroes, Her Tradition and theology that make the Church such a strong and sturdy refuge from the wily entrapments of sin and distorted “truths.”<br /><br />Ideally, before I embarked each morning on this monumental task of ingraining within my children a love for the teachings of Christ, the house would be in order; I’d sit in our living room rocking chair with the four of them at my feet, listening attentively and interrupting only every so often to ask a clarifying and completely applicable question. We’d end in prayer, of course. I’d have no need to bite my lip in order to keep from speaking harshly. And the kids would be enthralled, so utterly moved by the sacrifices and bravery of the martyrs who spilled their blood for the sake of the cross. But ideals, it turns out, can be the bane of my existence as a mom.<br /><br />There is something about bored expressions, a screaming preschooler, and piles of unwashed dishes in the kitchen sink that can dampen a mother’s mood and negate the significance of a family devotional. As hard as I try to muffle all of the paralyzing and negative self-conjecturing, suggesting I’m not spiritually mature or disciplined enough to make these concepts penetrate through our thick and impermeable obsession with ourselves, I can’t help but think repeatedly, “Why, why, why, why bother?”<br /><br />We had moved into the living room, where I cleared a spot on the love seat and grumbled at the kids about the mess, their bickering, and their antsy-ness, before opening to Chapter 6 in the book, <em>Grandmother’s Spiritual Stories: An Orthodox Treasury of Stories for Young and Old</em>, written by Georgia Hronas. “The Miraculous Light of the Tomb of Christ,” I began. “Benjamin, are you listening? Keep your hands away from your sister, please!” And I went on, with a downcast and tired demeanor, to share with my sons and daughters about the Church of the Resurrection in Jerusalem where every Holy Saturday a miracle occurs drawing thousands of pilgrims annually who wish to witness for themselves, “The Sacred Light.”<br /><br />Also known as the Holy Sepulchre, The Church of the Resurrection has a courtyard, the Golgotha, which is the area where the Holy Cross and tomb of Christ were found by Saint Helen, the mother of the Emperor Constantine. <em>The Patriarch arrives at the tomb at 11:00 am,</em> I read<em>. He performs a Litany around the Tomb chanting special prayers and Psalms. And then he pauses before the entrance of the Holy Tomb. There, in the presence of the pilgrims, the Patriarch is searched to insure that he has nothing with which to start a fire.<br /></em><br />I had heard of this event. I know someone who traveled many, many miles to take part in that holiest of celebrations. But on this day, just an ordinary Tuesday with a long and tedious week ahead of me, <em>this </em>detailed account describing how at midnight, while the Patriarch prays with earnestness in pitch blackness, a bluish colored light appears suddenly, turning white, then into a red flame before igniting the Patriarch’s candles and the vigil lamp on the Holy Tomb, gave me chills and even piqued my children’s interest. It’s shocking, isn’t it? Especially if what you’re used to is complete and total access to a domesticated version of God, whom this nation has no qualms about mocking or defining or limiting the role of to but a mild mannered wish granter who is ours for the reconfiguring when the changing tastes of society demand it. A true display of sacredness, in all of its terrifying glory, rarely leaves one feeling comfortable or unchallenged.<br /><br />What I personally experienced was an overwhelming sense of unworthiness. I imagined the fasting, the waiting for hours upon hours, all the sacrificing of time, convenience and personal space made by the Christ-hungry parishioners packed shoulder to shoulder in nervous anticipation of something bigger and so much brighter than their day-to-day disappointments and frustrations. I saw my own distracted soul, so easily put out by the mundane-ness of my chores, by children being children, and by the intensity of the life I was created to live but so often water down because it’s hard, good gracious is it hard, to deny yourself.<br /><br />I looked over at Elijah, Priscilla, Ben and Mary; I took in the sight of my cluttered and un-swept home; I remembered how often I forget to put salvation at the forefront of my goals, thoughts, and decisions; I questioned my capabilities as an Orthodox Christian parent called to pass on my convictions and exemplify a Trinitarian inspired love of God and my neighbors. It became obvious that I was failing, that I was flailing and drowning because I’d ceased depending on Christ and was now swimming upstream on my own. “We’re almost finished,” I assured them, “after this page we’ll take a break. I promise.” When they were quiet again, I continued, picking up near the end of the chapter with a testimony from a middle-aged man who had journeyed from Greece to Jerusalem to take part in the Paschal Divine Liturgy and receive for himself a small portion of the extraordinary and Spirit-filled fire spread from candle to candle among the faithful.<br /><br /><em>I went to church early,</em> he explained<em>, so I could get a good seat close to the tomb of Christ. As people began to arrive, the church was filled with thousands of people and I couldn’t breathe. I had to leave and went to the courtyard where I sat on a bench. When the light came and everybody was rejoicing, I cried, praying and saying, ‘O Lord, I traveled so far to see your Holy Light, and because of my sins and weakness I was unable to see it</em>.' Oh how I felt for that man! It was as if I were seated next to him, also looking back from a distance on the obedience and steadfastness of my spiritual brothers and sisters whom I’d unsuccessfully tried to emulate only to be left feeling isolated by and quite ashamed of my limitations. We were together there, on the bench outside the church, asking God for mercy and coming to terms with our own inadequacies. <em>As I was praying</em>, he continued (and I continued, vicariously through him), <em>I held my thirty-three candles with both hands on my knees. Suddenly, out of nowhere, came a flicker of light like a small lightening bolt and lit my candles. My eyes were filled with tears, and my heart with great joy. My joy was so great that I stood up and shouted as loud as I could with the others, ‘I have seen your Holy Light, Oh Lord, Glory be to You!!!”<br /></em><br />Although nothing changed outwardly; although my life was no less stressful; although we had not one more penny in the bank or one less bill to pay; although my kids were still feisty and my house still a wreck, I took comfort, an enormous amount of comfort in being treasured undeservedly by a God who is bigger and so much brighter than my own day-to-day trials and let downs. “I can’t do this!” I cried, and He blessed my newfound wisdom not with material prosperity or by releasing me from my obligations and the weight of my uncertainties, but rather by revealing to me that He is more than enough. I carry this hope like a divinely lit candle and the closer I remain to the Source of that illumination, the less I stumble around in confusion, tripping over the same old hindrances to my peace of mind.<br /><br />What good are my words if my heart isn’t in them? How can I speak to my family about serenity and meekness and forgiveness, about the completeness of a life lived for Christ, while still enslaved to my fears and aggravations? What greater gift can I give to my children and husband, to you, or to myself than moving nearer, and nearer still, towards God through prayer, almsgiving, and the sacraments of His Church? What else, I daresay, even matters?<br /><br /><em><span style="COLOR: rgb(102,0,0);font-size:85%;" >Photo by <strong><a href="http://flickr.com/search/?q=orthodox++Church+candle&page=7">Tanjica Perovic </a></strong>on Flickr. </span></em></div></div>Molly Sabourinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04289593743687415065noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35551873.post-82886619674543367492008-08-26T06:33:00.000-07:002008-09-04T11:55:04.743-07:00Honorable<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-riLNHB92dopD-ZXSukSCf0RE2wFAOxDIKZJRMPUovNI66ngV6JW0ou83oV-bvxVvWNs6BiceRsHHS0hVns4vvFigpa_xKeO87FnlZb6pE1feEugK8lGzBHUYhD6_QzVNCnwNZg/s1600-h/honorable.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5238819540788714786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-riLNHB92dopD-ZXSukSCf0RE2wFAOxDIKZJRMPUovNI66ngV6JW0ou83oV-bvxVvWNs6BiceRsHHS0hVns4vvFigpa_xKeO87FnlZb6pE1feEugK8lGzBHUYhD6_QzVNCnwNZg/s400/honorable.jpg" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal">Last May, I received a phone call from my nine-year-old son, Elijah, but I couldn’t understand him due to his intermittent sobbing between just about every other sentence, “I’m in trouble,” he was whispering (at least I think that’s what he said), “but I’m not sure why.”</p><p class="MsoNormal">I am forever on a quest to make the abstract more accessible, particularly in areas of faith where miracles lose their significance, their capacity to wow and woo, over time. But maybe that’s just me, which is all the more reason to spend my years fighting, praying for the discipline to understand and absorb what is holy but hidden from the loud, the extravagant, the rational. <b>In giving birth you preserved your virginity, in falling asleep you did not forsake the world O Theotokos</b>, we were singing as a family a couple of weeks ago in preparation for the Feast of the Dormition, when the Orthodox Church commemorates the bodily ascent of Mary into heaven at the end of a fruitful yet often excruciating life. I chanted the Troparian slowly, so my children could make out clearly the words, which, as usual, I believed in but had a difficult time making penetrate my present circumstances. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Mary, <b>Theotokos</b>: there is so much I simply cannot comprehend about her multi-faceted identity as the Mother of God. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Elijah’s teacher got on the phone, “Mrs. Sabourin, we’ve had an incident.” </p><p class="MsoNormal">My chest tightened, my heart rate quickened, “What’s going on?”</p><p class="MsoNormal">After Columbine and Virginia Tech - in the aftermath of too many horrific occurrences involving senseless brutality and young people in our public schools, strict rules were set in place and uniformly followed through on. “I really don’t think that your son meant any harm,” purred Mrs. H, “but unfortunately, we didn’t have a choice. It is school policy that if any student makes a threat of <i>any</i> kind, that threat will be taken seriously and the student evaluated by a counselor.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>“Its just protocol,” was the underlying message I was receiving, as in, “Your fears about the darkening of your son’s reputation sound awfully paranoid for the situation at hand.” I was assured that the episode had been investigated and deemed innocuous. But Elijah, still raw with inexperience, was only beginning to come to terms with the shame and confusion accompanying those accusations, accusations of a type of violence he’d never previously been exposed to in either thought or word or deed. “If only you knew him like I did,” I’d briefly contemplated mentioning but just as quickly decided against it lest such a sentiment be interpreted as biased, overly meddlesome, or spitefully ignorant.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">“Can you believe he stayed with her?”</span> they probably asked amongst themselves, maybe whispered in her presence.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">The moment she willingly accepted would mark the dawn of her public demise. From that day forth, her morality, convictions, and pious character would be called into question. She would have been isolated enough, both raising and being raised by God, without the added stigma of having her selflessness couched within nearly impossible to defy innuendos suggesting Mary was but a slave to her own base desires.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span><b>“Let it be to me,”</b> she said, <b>”according to your word,”</b> and the bar was set for all of us who’d dare to swallow the Fire, the passions-searing inferno that is Christ. </p><p class="MsoNormal">“Would you mind if I shared your story?” I asked Elijah, “Because when I think about it, when I remember how agitated I felt as your mother when you were so grossly misunderstood, I can relate just a sliver to the sadness felt most certainly by the Theotokos as she observed helplessly the abuse of her own Son at the hands (and slanderous tongues) of His creation.” </p><p class="MsoNormal">“That’s fine,” he said. “But first let me tell you <i>exactly</i> what happened,” and I listened with rapt attention as before, he’d felt uncomfortable opening up to me. “At recess we’d play tag, boys against girls,” Elijah began. “This one kid, Stephanie (I will call her in this piece for the sake of anonymity) is a really fast runner and we would tease each other about whose team was better, hers or mine. I like Stephanie, she is funny – she is my friend.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I should have been paying attention in music class but I got bored and so, to be silly, I doodled on a handout, <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Destroy</span> <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Stephanie</span>, and showed it to the person next to me who laughed and then passed it down the row. Stephanie giggled too but then my teacher grabbed the paper and then ran and got another teacher and then they both took me out into the hallway and had me sit in a desk for like an hour waiting to talk to a lady about my <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">threatening</span> behavior. I was so confused, mom. I felt yucky and really embarrassed. I cried, but I don’t think the other kids saw me.”</p><p class="MsoNormal">“Is this Mrs. P?” I asked, all anxious-like and edgy, “I am Molly Sabourin, Elijah’s mom.”<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>And I was ready to defend with a vengeance my tender, squirmy, and verbally precocious child until the counselor cut me off with just a hint of irritation in her otherwise calming demeanor:</p><p class="MsoNormal">“Oh my goodness, Mrs. Sabourin, this whole situation is just nothing but ridiculous. I have three boys of my own and they are forever <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">destroying</span> each other and their fictitious enemies. Yes, we have a zero tolerance policy when it comes to threats against the school, but in this case it was obvious that your son had no intentions of hurting anyone. He was horrified, quite frankly, and I did my best to help him realize that the entire affair was just a huge misunderstanding. I’d advise you not to question Elijah unless he brings it up himself. I promised him that it was over and not worth fretting about.”</p><p class="MsoNormal">But what if she hadn’t, hadn’t promised him or appeased me? What if someday Elijah, or his siblings, or even Troy and I are pegged as a threat to peace and democracy - not for a foolish mistake, for crossing a line inadvertently, but rather for purposefully adhering to our Orthodox Christian beliefs at the expense of evolving American values keeping time with dangerous whims born of self-enlightenment. I worry for my kids; this world is changing rapidly, growing increasingly hostile towards Truth. There <i>will </i>come a day when opportunities are lost, freedoms restricted, reputations tainted by a refusal to compromise or espouse what was once viewed as sin but has now been gussied up and repackaged as open mindedness. It is highly possible that when such a day arrives, justice will elude our “bigoted” family. So, what then?</p><p class="MsoNormal">Imagine. Can you imagine being a witness to the torturing and the murder of both your son and supposed savior? The despair would be immeasurable, unfathomable, unbearable. After all she’d already surrendered to play a part in the restoration of man’s communion with the living God, her burning hope, which had kept her focused on the bigger picture, was inexplicably snuffed out with Jesus’ final declaration of <b>“It is finished.” <?xml:namespace prefix = o /><o:p></o:p></b></p><p class="MsoNormal">“So, what now?’ she must have wondered in misery.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Not too long ago, I’d felt justified keeping Mary in her place as but a shell whose flesh was pre-ordained to house temporarily the incarnate God-man who <i>alone</i> was worthy of all my praise and reverence. As far as I knew, there were only two options: either ignore Mary or commit heresy by exalting her to the same level as Jesus and by doing so, deflect from His salvific work on the Cross. Knowing what I know presently, however, what I’ve been privileged to discover through Orthodoxy concerning a <a style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; COLOR: rgb(102,51,0)" href="http://www.orthodoxresearchinstitute.org/articles/dogmatics/dmitri_veneration_mary.htm">third choice</a>, (one so sound and logical and compelling that every other alternative now seems to me to be lacking in fullness and substance when viewed in light of it) it makes perfect theological sense that the continual remembrance of Mary’s faithfulness to her Lord, throughout trials more straining and demanding then any other human being has ever encountered, is absolutely necessary for a <i>complete</i> experience of the Faith as was originally lived out by the apostles. Archbishop Dmitri of Dallas and the South wrote the following concerning the veneration of Mary:</p><p class="MsoNormal"><em>The Orthodox Church honors and venerates the Virgin Mary as "more honourable than the Cherubim and more glorious without compare than the Seraphim.........." Her name is mentioned in every service, and her intercession before the throne of God is asked. She is given the title of "Theotokos" (Greek for "Birth-giver-of-God), as well as "Mother of God". She has a definite role in Orthodox Christianity, and can in no way be considered an instrument which, once used, was laid aside and forgotten. … The Virgin Mary in the Orthodox view is not regarded as a mediatrix or co-redemptress. She is an intercessor for us, and the content of prayer addressed to her is a request for her intercession. The Orthodox concept of the Church is the basic reason for the invocation of the Theotokos and all the saints. The Militant Church on earth and the Victorious Church in heaven are intimately bound together in love. If it is proper for one sinner to ask another sinner to pray for him, how much more fitting it must be to ask the saints already glorified and near the throne of God to pray for us. Surely, they know something of what goes on here, for else how could there be rejoicing in heaven over the conversion of one sinner? (Luke 15:10) The saints in heaven are equals of the angels (Luke 20:36), who are used by God in the accomplishment of His purpose (Acts 12:7).</em></p><p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="FONT-STYLE: normal">There are many lovely hymns in the Orthodox Church; my favorite is sung to Mary during the Paschal Divine Liturgy. For three days she mourned, for the whole of her life she remained obedient in the midst of ridicule, prejudice, and persecution. I get chills when the time comes to travel with the angels to our grieving Theotokos, to share with her the glorious news of our triumph over death through Her Son’s Resurrection:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoBodyText"><em>The Angel cried to the Lady full of grace<br />Rejoice! Rejoice! O pure Virgin!<br />Again, I say rejoice!<br />Thy son is risen from His three days in the tomb!<br />With Himself He has raised all the dead.<br />Rejoice, rejoice, O ye people!<br />Shine! Shine! Shine, O new Jerusalem!<br />The glory of the Lord has shown on thee.<br />Exult now, exult and be glad, O Zion.<br />Be radiant, O pure Theotokos,<br />In the Resurrection, the Resurrection of thy Son</em></p><p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="FONT-STYLE: normal">I am forever on a quest to replace fear with courage, doubt with assuredness, my own agendas, for both myself and for my children, with the exact same pliability and submissiveness the Virgin Mary displayed when stepping up to embrace a role that would open for everyone one of us the door to redemption, eternal life, and freedom from the hell of our own transgressions. I am determined, but awfully impressionable, dependent upon a community of believers both in heaven and on earth to stay the course. As a woman, I am thankful for my newly acquired intimacy with femininity in its purest form, with an example of sacred nobility that in every possible way outshines the dullness inherent in vanity, insecurity, and self-gratification - with the righteous, victorious, and most honorable Mother of Christ Jesus.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="FONT-STYLE: normal">O Holy Theotokos, pray to God for us!<o:p></o:p></span></p>Molly Sabourinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04289593743687415065noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35551873.post-14612429967293489702008-08-17T12:04:00.000-07:002008-08-19T10:48:49.796-07:00Photo Opportunity<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfj3M_7G7jR3UB9npXq7dF6iXFwNNzSu_obyBPvAevOrKv4dUcJ6enHPoN_sakSmz6oke7qW01lVW9pqhmV78L6KJxmLn3Q5OkbPXOoMGH53QDrQdRa0Kz6iVIQPljp0ij47_e8g/s1600-h/photo+opp.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5235564915595014770" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfj3M_7G7jR3UB9npXq7dF6iXFwNNzSu_obyBPvAevOrKv4dUcJ6enHPoN_sakSmz6oke7qW01lVW9pqhmV78L6KJxmLn3Q5OkbPXOoMGH53QDrQdRa0Kz6iVIQPljp0ij47_e8g/s400/photo+opp.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><em><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:85%;">Well, it is time for my quarterly <strong><a href="http://www.conciliarpress.com/pages/handmaiden.html">Handmaiden</a></strong> plug as the Summer 2008 issue, focusing on Miracles and Pilgrimages, is due to arrive in the mailboxes of subscribers any day now. Again, I want to encourage you to find out more about this phenonminal publication containing faith inducing, soul strengthening articles designed to address concerns specific to Orthodox Christian women, if you have not already done so. Below you will find my own latest Handmaiden contribution enititled "Photo Opportunity," which can also be heard as a podcast on </span><a href="http://ancientfaith.com/podcasts/closetohome"><span style="font-size:85%;">Ancient Faith Radio </span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">beginning sometime on 8/19.</span></span></em></div><div></div><br /><br /><div>It began with an invitation from a cyber friend of mine to join an online photo-sharing group called “People with Icons,” which was inspired by a lovely set of photographs entitled, <a href="http://flickr.com/photos/saucylittleone/sets/962768/">“Women with Icons,” </a>created by the photographer Jocelyn Mathews. The idea being we would all take a picture of ourselves with an icon of our patron saint and upload it for others to look at. After viewing some touching contributions from my fellow group members, I was inspired to submit something of my own and so I walked upstairs to our prayer corner to find our image of the holy prophetess Anna. Upon approaching the far wall, however, adorned liberally with heavenly reminders of what truly represents the “one thing needful,” I looked her square in the eyes and then not without shame, retreated. I wasn’t yet ready, I discovered, for such a project.<br /><br />When we were joining the Orthodox Church, my husband and I were told to choose a saint, a patron saint whose name we would take as our own, whose identity we would try our best to emulate. We felt drawn to Saint Simeon and the Prophetess Anna; I liked that they’d met the Christ child simultaneously and it was special to me to have an icon featuring both of them together. These patron saints would pray for us, a concept that was new to me yet intriguing. I was at a loss, however, as to how to form a more intimate relationship with mine in particular. For the past ten years, I had heard St. Anna’s name when I went forward to receive the Eucharist; I closed my nightly prayers with, “through the intercessions of the prophetess Anna” …and all the other patron saints connected with our various family members. I revered her - I believed wholeheartedly in her dedication to all of us on earth trying to work out our salvation with fear and trembling, but at that moment, standing face to face alone in our second story hallway, the idea of posing with her for a photograph such as I would take with my best of friends, my mother or my Aunt, seemed inappropriate. I was long overdue in putting forth a concerted effort to better understand this most pious individual and through that acquired awareness, become more Christ-like. Thus began my mission to both uncover information and then meditate on its relevance to my life. I began to seek a way that I might soften the formality a bit and close the gap between us I had created through a lack of communication. Who are you, Anna? Which of your traits can I imitate and draw strength from? It would be well worth my time to find out.<br /><br /><br />The most obvious place to start were the Scriptures. In the book of Saint Luke I found the following summarization of Anna’s life:<br /><br /><em>And there was one Anna, a prophetess, the daughter of Phanuel of the tribe of Asher. She was of a great age, and had lived with a husband for seven years from her virginity; and this woman was a widow of about eighty-four years, who did not depart from the temple, but served God with fastings and prayers night and day. And coming in at that instant she gave thanks to the Lord, and spoke of Him to all those who looked for redemption in Jerusalem. (Luke 2:36-38).<br /></em><br />When I explain to you what struck me immediately upon combing that passage like a detective searching for clues, you will accurately assess that I am, unfortunately, somewhat pessimistic and in need of a faith infused backbone. At a relatively young age, Saint Anna lost her first and only husband to death. This is beyond significant to me as I waste a lot of energy being afraid of that very scenario, at times to the point of emotional paralysis. “What would I do?” “How would I go on?” I wonder, blinking back tears during a bout of insomnia while watching the chest of my own beloved spouse rise and fall steadily with sleep. Anna was once a wife, as I am a wife. It is probable she loved with the same intensity that I do, the partner whose identity had fused together with her own and whose unexpected absence ripped a throbbing and open wound within her heart. Anna grieved, I am sure, she was most likely nervous about the future but notice that the sorrow was not, by any means, the end of her story.<br /><br /><em>“Oh Holy Prophetess Anna, you endured my greatest of fears, yet through the grace of God were not crushed and beat down ever thereafter. Please pray to Christ that I might take courage in your resilience and trust with all my soul in the wisdom of His plans.”<br /><br /></em>It is hard for me to imagine, with all the breeziness and comfort I’ve grown accustomed to, being married to the Church, spending every waking moment suppressing the urge to forget that I am called upon to be perfect, just as God Himself is. Anna prayed, we are told, and fasted with fervor unknown to me. Her unrestrained commitment is like a mirror revealing the chasm between what I currently am and what I could be. But rather than taunting our weaknesses the Prophetess Anna provides a respite from mediocrity, beaming like a lighthouse that leads away from the dangers of blindness and into safety.<br /><br /><em>“St. Anna, I am tired, so very drained from fighting impulses to lie down and rest, to wallow in self-pity. Teach me, by your example, how to weather the tumultuousness of my passions until at last I find the peace achieved through sacrifice.”<br /><br /></em>My neighbor is depressed about finances, her moody children, and she and her husband’s strained marriage. And what do I have to offer her? A lot more than I actually give, which is usually a nodding head and a sympathetic expression. It’s always sitting there on the tip of my tongue, the conversation about love--Christ’s love specifically--and how it transforms even the grimmest of situations. But what would she think of me if I unleashed that un-neutral bombshell? I suppose it shouldn’t concern me, and in all actuality should probably spill from my lips because my spirit cannot contain it - my gratitude and joy at having found the sacred pearl of great price (Matthew 13:45, 46). How can unashamed convictions and impartiality walk hand-in-hand? Why am I so timid about openly speaking the Truth? The Prophetess Anna, my holy namesake, was defined by her enthusiasm, her message about God and the imperativeness of repentance that never wavered, never fluctuated, never watered itself down to appease the masses.<br /><br /><em>“I need words and motivation, I want to share with others what I’ve experienced through the Church in terms of clarity, mercy, and a sense of purpose. You, O Prophetess Anna, were a mouthpiece until your last days on earth for what was and still is the very crux of all creation… for God. May your zeal get under my skin like a splinter that persistently irritates the normal goings on of my daily routine. May I never settle for “good enough” when before me shines your tirelessly impeccable standards so bright that anything less than a total commitment to the Faith I am trusting to save me feels only dull, cloudy, and unsatisfying.”<br /></em><br />How fortuitous, don’t you think – that I was linked for all eternity to one whose spiritual muscle’s bulge where mine hang soft and limp and in need of some serious weight bearing? Or is nothing coincidental when it comes to salvation? Here’s the honest truth – I need all the help I can get and praise be to God for the tools He’s set before us including Eucharist, confession, and the earnest intercessions of His saints. Can I afford to take for granted any one of these pulsating lifelines through which nourishment is provided like a cord attaching a baby to the sustenance of his mother, before labor and delivery finally free him from the flesh restricting access to his source for all security and satisfaction? Well there’s a no-brainer…I think not. So how do I proceed in my quest for friendship and closeness with someone who’s journeyed onward from out of this life and into another beyond it? I suppose with her Troparion - the hymn sung in Saint Anna’s honor on her day of commemoration, February 3rd:<br /><br /><em>In the Temple thou didst embrace as an infant God the Word Who became flesh,/ O glorious Elder Symeon, who didst hold God in thine arms./ And also as a Prophetess the august Anna ascribed praise to Him./ We acclaim you as divine servants of Christ</em>.<br /><br />I should know this, I should recite it on a regular basis; I should anticipate our Name’s Day instead of scratching my head two days after its passing asking, “H-m-m, now when was that again?” I should maintain an ongoing conversation, sharing my thoughts and insecurities along the way. I should remember that she is watching and witnessing my progression from a spineless observer to what I pray will be a bold and obvious beacon for Christ’s glory. I should remember her utter joy at having met her God incarnate and be stimulated to likewise rejoice. <em>Pray unto God for me, O Holy Saint Anna, well-pleasing to God: for I turn unto thee, who art the speedy helper and intercessor for my soul (antiochian .org).<br /></em><br />I’ll have my mother come over to give me a hand, to hold the camera while I position myself in such a way that will visually, artistically represent my forging of a connection with a reality that binds heaven to earth, sinners to saintliness, me to an ancestor who has completed her race and now stands at the finish line compelling me to press onward. I will feel within my grasp the painted wood, a very touchable representation of that which blows my mind if I think about it too logically, instead of mystically or innocently like a child. I will use this opportunity, this invitation as a springboard to dive ever more deeply into the mysteries of the Church, into Her bosom of magnificence and righteousness. I’m a slow yet willing learner who admits to a habit of feet dragging but is now quite good and anxious to get started.<br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Holy Prophetess Anna, I implore you to bring my burdens, all my baggage and my blunders before the exact same of Son of God that you held with such reverence in your aged arms. Please beseech of Him that my vision be enhanced, that the scales on my eyes be lifted, that I might see you, know you, venerate you, and be wiser, braver, more confident because of it.</span><br /><br />Forgive me for not asking this of you sooner.<br /></div></div>Molly Sabourinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04289593743687415065noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35551873.post-61373376516868219962008-08-06T17:48:00.000-07:002008-08-06T20:00:14.502-07:00Brightness<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj700NZzS65oUf_xuLAXyW6YvvlV1nR37YvwIYUo87FtQ1AXqmHuHbmyZfSuGrH-opF8Y0vI5s9-ViVff7SHpmbY0rmLQw6XPoN6mLccHl2bikGK7hvI4j54NxZ-ruJerTAiV_w1A/s1600-h/karab&w.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5231571556800752658" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj700NZzS65oUf_xuLAXyW6YvvlV1nR37YvwIYUo87FtQ1AXqmHuHbmyZfSuGrH-opF8Y0vI5s9-ViVff7SHpmbY0rmLQw6XPoN6mLccHl2bikGK7hvI4j54NxZ-ruJerTAiV_w1A/s400/karab&w.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal">It is difficult to recreate the relationships made in those late teen/early twenties years, when there was plenty of time and opportunity to pour your energy into developing friendships. The bonds I formed in college were tight and sturdy. My friends and I lived together and affirmed one another no matter what the real truths may have been (“He totally still has feelings for you,” “That haircut is perfect for your face shape,” “Your professor is way too demanding!”). We were loyal and invested and aware of every minute detail in each others’ personal dramas.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Sure, there were squabbles and painful periods of miscommunication but overall, the permanent impact our indelible connection had on each of us was overwhelmingly positive and fortifying. </p><p class="MsoNormal">After graduation, we physically dispersed into marriages, full-time jobs, and various dingy apartment buildings. We spoke often and got together as much as possible. I longed for the security their comforting presence provided me – me, the new wife insecure in her role as an adult. We laughed mostly, at ourselves and the embarrassing debacles we all seemed prone to stumble into.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>They were my safety net beneath a tenuous transformation from a silly and self-indulgent girl into a woman with consequential responsibilities.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I missed them fiercely when, after having a baby, I was sucked into the timeless abyss of motherhood where phone calls, lunch dates, and rented movies are near constantly interrupted and the attention required for keeping up and staying entwined must be conserved for meeting the needs of husbands and children. Although frightening, a break was necessary if I was ever to take ownership of the very isolation that would draw me into the totality of parenthood. I had to reconfigure a self-appraisal that read, “I am actually just like you, all ambitious and culturally relevant…only with a kid” until it accurately represented my irrefutable reality: I was first and foremost (as unromantic as it sounds) a “mom.” </p><p class="MsoNormal">Eventually, I let go - or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that over time, my restlessness was forcibly pried from out of me by way of countless frustrating scenarios involving trantruming toddlers, long and lonely afternoons, an insurmountable amount of chores, and sibling rivalries, all wearing down skewed expectations. Eventually, I accepted my life for what it was and in doing so found purpose and meaning within it.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>All was quiet for a while; we drifted off, my friends and I, into unexplored new challenges we could only take on solo. But in the aftermath, when we finally resurfaced after months and years of diving deeper, and deeper still, under shallow preoccupations, we were able to reconnect on a whole new level. We met again, ready to share and encourage, within the context of our strengthened faith, layered and tested. We knew, of course, the answers lay outside of us and so we pointed one another in the direction of Christ Jesus.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I, who once reserved all of my public references to God for Sunday mornings, found His name in my mouth during most of my conversations, on random weekdays, and in reference to everyone and everything because everyone and everything I now viewed in light of our salvation. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Last Saturday, Kara flew in from Arkansas and Jen drove up from Indianapolis. My sister-in-law, Paige, walked on over from the down the street and Beth, sweet Beth, her hands and her heart filled with three tiny sons, joined us in spirit.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It had been seven years since all of us were last together. We made a pilgrimage to our alma mater where antiseptic hallways, dorm room windows, and the smell of textbooks brought back memories sharp and lucid- unearthed emotions we’d left buried in that urban scholastic hotbed of stress, pie-in-the-sky aspirations, and an intensive sort of camaraderie never again to be duplicated in the bigger world outside. Later that night, we laughed hard like we used to. Time froze on my living room couch. We were nineteen and thirty-four simultaneously, taken aback by the swiftness of a decade-and-a- half passing right under our noses, while we were busy trying to make good on at least a few of the promises we had made to ourselves when we were refreshingly, naively, idealistic. After we hugged and they departed, I began looking critically at my past; feeling pleased with some parts and disappointed by quite a few others. I wrestled with the fragility and temporalness of my existance on this earth. “Why am I so doubtful, so skittish, so pensive? Why did I bypass so many chances to bring hope and encouragement to others? Why had I been vain and selfish and cynical? Why am I still frightened and unnerved by a mysterious future?”</p><p class="MsoNormal">When my priest, known and respected for telling it exactly like it is, started his homily with, “You have to be patient with yourself,” I nearly wept. I had been all bunched up and in a tizzy over my already committed and potential failures and I wanted, oh boy, what I longed for, was rest. I needed to accept for myself what I was more than ready to recognize in my dear and true companions, taking two steps forward, three steps back, then dusting off and starting all over again: that there is grace and redemption to be found in just keeping at it, regardless of our foibles along the way.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span><i>Return O Lord: How long? And be entreated concerning your servants, </i>wrote Moses in the Psalms. <i>We are filled with Your mercy in the morning, and in all our days we greatly rejoiced and were glad; Gladden us in return for the days You humbled us, For the years we saw evil things</i>. <i>And behold Your servants and Your works, And guide their sons; and let the brightness of the Lord our God be upon us, and prosper for us the works of our hands. </i>The notes in my Orthodox Study Bible reveal the following about these verses, so passionate in their entreaty for significance and substance within our transience:</p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>Psalm 89 is a morning prayer designed to keep one focused on the Lord rather than on this temporal life and its hopelessness. For He exists outside of time, and is therefore our only refuge. Every morning is an opportunity to return to Him in repentance, and He is very patient, <b>because a thousand years in His sight are like yesterday, which has passed, and like a watch in the night</b>. He is very patient, because He does not will that anyone should perish. Therefore, when we focus on the Lord every morning, we look for His return at the Second Coming, and for His mercy, joy, enlightenment, and prosperity throughout each day.<?xml:namespace prefix = o /><o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;">You are patient, You are patient, life is fleeting. Be my refuge, my compass, my brightness. Amen.</span> </p>Molly Sabourinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04289593743687415065noreply@blogger.com7