Episodi
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The Lord then said to Noah, âGo into the ark, you and your whole family, because I have found you righteous in this generation....
Seven days from now I will send rain on the earth for forty days and forty nights, and I will wipe from the face of the earth every living creature I have made.â
And Noah did all that the Lord commanded him.
Genesis 7:1-5
My toddler is screaming, so it must be Tuesday. His face is scrunched, anger etching hard lines onto his normally round face. His complexion flushes red as he hisses out a frustrated, âNo,â through clenched teeth.
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Reclaiming Motherhood from a Culture Gone MadIt isnât a refusal to acquiesce to my request. Quite the opposite: his is a refusal to accept my refusal.
Except, I havenât said, âNo.â What I said was, âNot right now.â
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âDoes the Lord delight in burnt offerings and sacrifices
as much as in obeying the Lord?
To obey is better than sacrifice,
and to heed is better than the fat of rams.â
â 1 Samuel 15:22
A pile of odds and ends, the leavings of the day, sit at the base of our stairs like a pile of rubble after a domestic avalanche of orphaned shoes, Hot Wheels, and broken pieces of chalk. This is the âgo backâ pile: the pile of items designated to be returned upstairs after I have whisked them off the floor in a speed clean session inspired by the Tasmanian Devil.
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Episodi mancanti?
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In your relationships with one another, have the same mindset as Christ Jesus
who, being in very nature God,
did not consider equality with God something to be
used to his own advantage;
rather, he made himself nothing by taking the very nature of a servant,
being made in human likeness.
And being found in appearance as a man,
he humbled himself
by becoming obedient to deathâ
even death on a cross!â Philippians 2:5-8
If you clicked on this expecting a feel-good piece about Godâs graces overflowing, I apologize for the story youâre about to hear. This story is about as unspiritual as it gets. This is a story about a toilet.
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Reclaiming Motherhood from a Culture Gone Mad -
âAnd how has it happened to me, that the mother of my Lord would come to me? For behold, when the sound of your greeting reached my ears, the baby leaped in my womb for joy.â
â Luke 1:43-45
âThen the dragon was enraged at the woman and went off to wage war against the rest of her offspringâthose who keep Godâs commands and hold fast their testimony about Jesus.â
â Revelations 12:17
âMom, how big am I?â my son bounces on his heels, eagerly awaiting my answer.
âWhat do you mean, honey?â I ask. I am slow to look up from my reading, so I miss his gesture towards the wall.
âI mean, how much do I weigh?â he asks.
âWeâll have to go upstairs and see,â I reply, thinking of the digital scale in my bathroom.
âNO!â he replies with uncharacteristic force for my usually mellow 5-year-old. âYou know,â he says with a meaningful look, and this time I follow where he is pointing.
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People were bringing little children to Jesus for him to place his hands on them, but the disciples rebuked them. When Jesus saw this, he was indignant.
He said to them, âLet the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. Truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.â
And he took the children in his arms, placed his hands on them and blessed them.
â Mark 10:13-16
One of the first blog posts I ever wrote was an earnest, idealistic piece on the importance of bringing our children to Mass. Several years and four kids later, those sentiments are as obsolete as that first blog. My own words pop into my head and my stomach churns â bloated from years of weekly humble pie.
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Reclaiming Motherhood from a Culture Gone Mad -
When Jesus saw him lying there and knew that he had been ill for a long time, he said to him, âDo you want to be well?â
The sick man answered him, âSir, I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up; while I am on my way, someone else gets down there before me.â
Jesus said to him, âRise, take up your mat, and walk.â Immediately the man became well, took up his mat, and walked.
â John 5:6-9
Several months ago, I was enveloped in the deep blackness of my autoimmune disorder. I had lived for several years with minimal symptoms following my diagnosis, but this past fall, it sucked me under.
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Our youngest son was the quietest in the womb. âHave you felt the baby move today?â my nurses would ask at our prenatal appointments. âNo,â Iâd reply, âBut thatâs not unusual for him.â
That stillness did not last.
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Itâs quiet in the dark, except for the screaming. I hold my one-year-old, skin hot from fever, as he writhes against me. âNo, noâ he cries, little hands trying to force me away. He wants neither down nor up. Iâm used to being the touch that soothes - a useless gift when everything hurts.
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I laugh as the line turns pink. Earlier this week, I told my husband that although we had been trying to conceive our second child for a few months, just one week of juggling night school, full-time teaching, and taking care of our 2-year-old daughter had made me reconsider.
I wanted to postpone through this last semester of graduate school. Now, I can only laugh as I unceremoniously hand the test to my husband. His laugh echoes mine as he places his hands on my belly. âAnother baby,â he whispers. We lock eyes and the reality of the life inside me takes hold. My narrow plans evaporate, love already blossoming.
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âMommymommmymommy!â The breathless stringing together of my title is familiar, but the urgency with which my daughter calls is uncharacteristic. Her voice is laced with fear, so I rush into her room. The light of the early morning creeps into her room. Itâs not enough to eliminate the darkness, just enough to cast deep shadows.
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When I open the door and see my mother-in-law standing there, something inside cracks and tears escape down my face. Iâm not dressed. Toys and bits of food litter the floor. Iâve been wracked with piercing pain and illness for days. Merely dressing and feeding the children has been a feat; nothing about this environment speaks to my competency as a mother.
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The heat is creeping towards 100 degrees today, so ice cream sounds like a good idea.
It could have been a good idea if my toddler had gotten her nap. Instead, we are out and about with my aunt, wandering up and down the blocks of quaint Old Town. She offers us this cool treat, and my daughterâs eyes go big and round when she sees its size.
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âWatch me, Mommy!â
This is the single line of the chorus I hear all day long. Whatever task I am occupied by matters little to my daughter who burns to show me her latest accomplishment. From basketfuls of laundry and sinks full of dishes, I avert my gaze to behold new dances, record-breaking leaps, watercolor masterpieces, and puzzles completed. I wrestle with the need to finish what Iâm doing and the desire to be present to her.
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âI hate you. I hate you!â my daughter screams from behind her door. Her words cut me, but this is hardly the first tantrum that weâve weathered. I stand outside, deaf to the sound of kicks and screams. They used to break me inside; familiarity has numbed their sting.
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"Book!" says my toddler as he hobbles along, dragging a board book behind him. I take it from him and gather him onto what's left of my lap, shrinking away as the new baby grows within it. He smiles and bounces excitedly - his way of letting me know that I'm getting it right. This is how he gets my attention, by pressing himself into my hands. He insists.
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Itâs December 27th and the house is as quiet as the snow that silently blankets everything outside of our windows in the predawn blackness.
The only light in the room glows from our Christmas village where it sits merrily on the mantle, high above greedy fingers whose enthusiasm threatens to crack its delightfully delicate rendition of an idyllic Christmas. The sight the villagers look down upon, however, is another story.
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I canât visit her. Iâm taking care of two kids and Iâm pregnant. Itâs too far, I brush the thought away, and she probably wouldnât want the company anyway.
But you did.
You traveled through your morning sickness to Elizabethâs side. Quickly. Did you visit because it was her time of need, or yours?
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My first birth tore me open. For a month, I could barely shift positions, let alone walk and care competently for our colicky newborn. I was still taking heavy painkillers to dull the pain, and the weight of failure hung around me. My daughter wouldnât stop crying and my body was so broken that I could barely hold and walk her through it. That wasnât the worst part though.
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My toddler loves dandelions. He wanders to them, one after the next, gathering their wispy heads close to his lips. Sometimes the seeds stick to his wet lips as he tries to scatter them with his breath, to blow and spread their wild beauty on the breeze. He delights in this simple act: gather and spread, gather and spread.
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My daughterâs skin is all patches of pink. It cracks from dryness, little rivers of red flowing where her fingernails have etched tiny scratches. I feel the pain of her eczema in my own body. I ache to offer her some relief, to apply the salve I know will lessen her discomfort. She cowers behind the toilet in tears, terrified of my touch. To her, it doesnât mean healing. Itâs the unknown. These creams have burned and itched in the past; she isnât going to trust me now.
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