Crazy Love

I would often see him when I was dropping Caroline off at school.

He would zip in and drop his girls off at school and head off.

He was a great big bear of a man.

His love was palpable.

Crazy love.

I knew it well.

My husband has that same kind of crazy love.

We rarely exchanged words...

maybe an occasional smile.

But because of that crazy love,

I knew I liked him.

I could feel the blanket of love he wrapped around his two girls, myself.

I didn't even know his name.

Oh, but I knew him.

Knew he'd be the kind of guy I could hang out with at a barbeque.

Someone I could dish with...

...because that crazy love was something we had in common.

Now, my chance is gone.

Yesterday, I learned his name.

Mark left us...

bound for a place filled with even crazier love.

Deeper, more mysterious.

Jaw-dropping and wonderful.

It's hard to imagine...

and all of us left behind just want another few days,

well, maybe weeks or years or 

damn it, decades.

*****

I read a book a while ago called The Fault in Our Stars by John Green.

It's about two teenagers who have cancer.

I don't want to give anything away because I want you to read it...

it's really amazing...

but at the end someone has to speak about the terrible torture of a shortened life and uses this quote:

"Some infinities are bigger than other infinities.

There are days, many of them, when I resent the size of my unbounded set. 

I want more numbers than I'm likely to get, and God, I want more numbers for _____. 

But, my love, I cannot tell you how thankful I am for our little infinity. 

I wouldn't trade it for the world.

You gave me a forever within the numbered days, and I'm grateful."

"a forever within the numbered days"

"our little infinity"

That's all any of us get.

Yes, some infinities are bigger than other infinities

and none of it makes any sense.

Why should someone with so much crazy love

go so soon?

Why should someone else who is a rock solid criminal live into old age in prison?

In moments like this I wonder why this love, this life, 

this chance to breathe deep and hold close those we love the most,

why must that end?

But again, I know, that I don't get to know...

not just yet.

On this side, I get to sink into the questions;

try to fight the quicksand of believing we can figure it out.

What I know...all I know...

is that energy doesn't disappear.

I know for sure that Mark's crazy love is cosmic bubble wrap surrounding his girls 

and his wife, Debi, forever.

I know that we are all better for witnessing that kind of love.

I know that his girls have been loved oh so well by their dad.

Isn't that all that matters?

How well did you love?

How deep did you love?

Who did you love?

Mark wasn't stingy.

His crazy love surrounds us all.

*****

"We are travelers on a cosmic journey,

stardust,

swirling and dancing in the eddies and whirlpools of infinity.

Life is eternal.

We have stopped for a moment to encounter each other,

to meet,

to love,

to share.

This is a precious moment.

It is a little parenthesis in eternity."

-- Paul Coelho, The Alchemist

Why YOU Should Write It Down

Yes, that's a real tree...here in Davis...at the Arboretum.


Today I went into Caroline's 4th grade class to share her great grandmother's Native American basket collection.
Normally, those baskets sit on a shelf in our den...
over-looked, dusty, forgotten.
But they tell a tale of weavers and people from long ago...
of a lady who loved to travel...
who collected baskets and carefully recorded the date she bought them, the type of basket and
the place where the basket was from...
that precious information, lost long ago.

I shared what I knew of Mary Compton Goni.
A botanist.
An avid bird-watcher.
An independent woman in a time when there weren't that many of those...
or maybe there were and we just don't know their names.

She created a place of refuge for her family
called Silver Lake.

Today, when I was talking about this amazing lady, I mentioned to the 4th graders that Mary had written a book about her life when she was 91 years old called Mary Remembers.
When Mary approached her 100th birthday, I took the time to read her thoughts and her amazing memories.

What a gift she gave.
Her stories of growing up in rural California and the remembrances of things once so important and now mostly forgotten, gave me a glimpse into a time and place I knew nothing about.
As I was telling the kids, they wanted to check her book out...ready to read her story.

If only Mary Remembers was at the local library.
Or available through Amazon.
Or easy to find on a Kindle.

Mary Remembers was printed privately as a gift for her family.
Mary printed only a hundred copies.

Tonight as I was reading it with Caroline, I turned to the last page...
wondering how she closed such an epic life.

She concludes with this gorgeous poem by Alfred Joyce Kilmer,
explaining that Alfred Joyce Kilmer was an American poet born in 1886 and
killed in the First World War.

I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast
A tree that looks at God all day
And lifts her leafy arms to pray
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair
Upon whose bosom snow has lain
Who intimately lives with rain
Poems are made by fools like me
But only God can make a tree.

This poem, long one of my favorites too, touched me tonight in a hauntingly beautiful way.
I never knew she found solace here too.

Mary's final words to us.
How essential.
Simple and sacred in its truth.

What final words would you choose?

I might have to vote for Mary's.
But that's the fun of writing...
I still have time to tumble a few around, wrestle with a phrase or two...
time to ponder and wonder and enjoy the beauty of words and ideas.
Time to read more poems.
Time to linger in the language.
Time to savor and cherish...
so grateful for this precious time.

*****

I would never know Mary's echo except that she took the care to write it down.
Her experiences, her reflections, her favorite verses shared in print.
A tiny piece of herself.

Why do we hold those so close?

Does your family know your favorite verse?
Your favorite song?
Your favorite poem or book or writer or artist?

Don't you think it's time you shared?

I do.

You Are Awesome! Yes, You!

Yes, I'm talking to you.

So, one of my favorite things to do is to enjoy my local Turkey Trot.

You probably have something like this in your town...it's a race (5K or 10K or kid's race options) and streets are closed off, and port-a-potties are lined up and a big finish line banner is hoisted and it becomes very official: people are running, or walking, or pushing strollers.

I have participated in my town's Turkey Trot one time as a stroller-pusher with Caroline strapped in as a toddler.  She seemed fine with it.  Patrick walked alongside me and it was a good feeling of participating as a group working toward being healthy and a citizen of my town.

But I didn't like it nearly as much as my sideline participation in the Turkey Trot.

You see, the Turkey Trot goes right by house.

And every year I get up, purposely late, walk to the corner and scream to the runners: 

You Are AWESOME!!

I just yell and yell for about 45 minutes.  

Cheering on the runners at the end of the race.  They aren't the elite racers. They aren't the every-day-five-mile-no-matter-what runners.  These are the ones who are trailing behind and bringing up the back.

I pretty much repeat the same phrase over and over and I'm telling you, it's a winner.

The reactions are so honest and so beautiful and some are downright funny.

You have the "super-cool-and-I'm-a-real-runner" reaction...

they don't flinch, they give a head nod and keep running, they keep their pace and stay focused.

They are real runners after all and cannot be distracted by a weirdo yelling You're Awesome.

Let me also reveal for the record that I am most assuredly not a real runner.  

I attempted cross country in 8th grade and had some heart palpitations that sent my mom into her own heart palpitations and the distraction of running became a no no.

Couldn't even entertain the thought...besides...I didn't like it.

I'd much rather be a walker, a bike rider, a dog walking-dancing machine...anything but running.

So it helps that I truly do think these people running -- and that includes everyone -- are awesome for getting out there and doing it.

So back to the runners...

we have the "dang-I-can-barely-take-another-step" runner.  

These people are winded, tuckered out and shame faced when they come upon my cheering.

They mistakenly believe I'm cheering for someone else.

When I call them out and say, "Yes, you!! You are awesome!!" They look up and get that shy smile that is the effort of every cheering section on the planet.

And, for a millisecond they let it sink in...they are awesome.

Sometimes they brush it off but other times it perks them up and you can see the transformation.

You can see their mind calculating: "Wait. I'm not running, I'm breathing hard, I'm struggling, how can I be awesome...but that weirdo over there is yelling it directly to me...and well, I am out here running, and it is a foggy/rainy/cold day...maybe I am awesome."

I love it.

Yes, you are awesome!!

No proving it.

No worthiness needed.

You, right there, hon, you are awesome!!

When I'm doing my cheering, I get in the flow.

I don't care who sees me or how crazy it looks.

I love having the socially acceptable moment to yell "You are awesome!"

 to anyone and everyone on my path.

I highly recommend trying it sometime.

It makes your heart swell.

For a brief moment in time, you can see the awesomeness in all of humanity and it's pretty beautiful.

Of course, there's always the polite runners.

The ones who've been taught manners and thank you notes and reciprocity.

They are the ones that when I yell "You are awesome!" to them they yell right back to me, 

"You're awesome too. Thanks!"

I smile my shy smile because the mother in me wants to high five the mother that shadowed and loved and nurtured those runners...you see, that mother is most definitely running right alongside them.

Heloise would agree...manners matter...even in a Turkey Trot.

Maybe it's the time of year...steeped in gratitude, ginkgo trees and fire ash and oaks showing off, humanity has a halo of goodness built in for me.

But whatever it is, I love the Turkey Trot.

And if you didn't get to hear my cheer, here's one for you, 

You're awesome!!

Girlfriends

Susan Branch font :)


Yesterday I was smiling...all day long.
Magically, it had happened again, the calendars were free, pockets of time were secreted away and I could make my way to have dinner with my girlfriend.

I got the kids handed off and properly freshened myself up from the dust of the day and got in the car...
hooked up Pandora...and drove like the wind.
Singing out loud...LOUD...to MY music...rocking out inappropriately, dancing in the car I could feel the tension of daily annoyances, lists of things to do, and chores that hang over my head just melt away...
an hour in the car all to yourself can be a very good thing.

Along with significant time with your dear friend.

This chick and I have been hanging out, spending hours on the phone since high school.
My dad would just be mystified as I laid on my bed and gabbed the hours away with someone I had already been with for six hours at school.

What did we talk about??

Looking back, I have no idea.
(Note to teens today: keep copious notes and journal like crazy so you can remember these things.)
I'm guessing it was:
Boys.
Drama.
School.
Homework.
Life's injustices.
Dreams.
The good stuff of high school.

I feel sorry for teens today who don't dish on the phone.
They are missing out on some serious fun.

We went to the same college and lived together for part of it, but we weren't joined at the hip.
We joined different sororities.
We had different groups of friends.
Our own interests and dreams.
But like a fantastic score for a movie, she was always in the background, making my world better.

We got our jobs, figured out our paths and saw less and less of each other.
We lived about an hour away from each other and would meet for dinner.

We've been doing it for decades.

There is something so magical about a good friend.
Someone who just gets it.
Who's always on your side.
Who cheers for you.
Who cries with you.
Who does crazy things on your behalf.
Who will pray or pay or play whenever you ask...and many times when you don't even say it out loud...she just seems to know.

I'm blessed to have several good girlfriends.
People who have my back...and whose back I cover whenever I can.
It goes both ways.
It's comfort and care...bravery and honesty...saying the hard stuff out loud.
Owning it...and figuring it out...
or sometimes just recognizing there's no solution to be had and finding a way to make peace with it.

It's righteous anger and hilarious mortification and breath-taking beauty.
It's the wonder and sacredness of getting to be a girl and getting to go deeper
and have those kind of friends.

Leisurely eating dinner last night, sharing salads and delicious taste treats and desserts and secrets and hopes,
I found myself so sentimental...so full of gratefulness  for
this right here...that moment right there...
the good stuff.
So so blessed by friendship...long lasting...
all-the-walls-down kind of friends.

It's easy to gloss over it.
So normal to not make the time
or find an excuse to not be together...
but these people are what life is about.

They are only lent to us...we can't take it for granted.
We need to carve out the pockets on the calendar and say out loud:
you are important...too important to act so casually about.
We must make the time to be together.

Time for laughter and joy and friendship --
 those are the real sparkly gems shining in our cave of life.

So thank you, Tara, for finding the time and making it happen...
today, you're my grace-in-the-ordinary...
have been for decades.






more Susan Branch adorableness!

The Leap

When Patrick was born I was convinced that my world had just grown smaller.
Shrunken to such a small spot that I was certain I would never make another friend.

I cried about that loss.

Sorry for myself and my baby that wouldn't have any friends.

Only one word can claim that moment: irony.

Hey 1999 Beth, I'd like to fill you in on a little secret: you got it all backwards.

The truth is that the connections that have happened because of Patrick are literally in the hundreds.

The friendships we've made are constant and so utterly unlikely that only in the weirdest, most cosmically perfect way does any of it make sense.

It takes a leap of faith...and certainty in the net.

*****

Years ago I heard about an amazing organization called Camp PALS.

Jenni Newbury Ross started the camp at age 15 with a friend.
Her idea: stop having situations where typical people come to "serve" the poor and disadvantaged people with Down Syndrome.
Blow apart the myth that people with Down Syndrome need your pity.
Come as a person willing to make a new friend.
Find fun things to do together, as a group, as teams and in partners so that you get to really know the person and hopefully, in all the fun, the disability falls away and you have the joy of just knowing someone new.

That was eleven years ago.

Today, Camp PALS has six camps offered throughout the summer all across the United States.
Campers come from all over and counselors do too.
Counselors and campers are paired up one to one and share a dorm room on a university campus.
Together they spend a week, having a blast.
Karaoke  is usually a nightly event.  Singing and dancing happen spontaneously.
Fun is a given.

So, in January I signed Patrick up for Camp PALS Chicago and asked my friend who lives in
New Jersey if she would want to have her daughter go too.

Last week, we met in Chicago and traveled to adorable Elmhurst College, and received this welcome.

Their theme: "This is your place."

We had no idea how it would go...it was a leap of faith,
a best guess, a wish and a whole lot of crossed fingers. 

Turns out it was like so many things on this amazing journey of loving someone with Down Syndrome.
It was way better than we ever could have imagined.
Magical.

What are the five things that everyone at Camp PALS values?
They are welcoming, accepting, passionate, genuine and fun.

Pretty great trademark qualities.
Everybody I met had them in spades.

I wanted to hang out there, but I wasn't invited.
And knowing my mom-place, I said good-bye as cheerfully as possible and made my way back to the city of Chicago for a seven day wait.

It goes without saying that Patrick had a blast.

Chandler and Patrick, friends forever.

But more than having fun, Patrick found out what it felt like to be part of a group that is welcoming, accepting, passionate, genuine and fun...wait, he's those things too.
Maybe, Jenni took a look at her brother, Jason, (who has Down Syndrome) when she was looking for important qualities in the people she wanted to represent Camp PALS.
As a sibling, she knew the secret: if the outside world could really know Jason as a friend,
the world would be a better place.

Here's a Camp PALS classic:  one of the days of camp was Camp Day at a  AAA baseball game.  Tons of other camp groups were there besides Camp PALS.  Suddenly, there was a downpour.  Everyone had to take cover.  The other camps were counting off, trying to line up and be orderly.  The Camp PALS group just started dancing in a circle and singing...giving everyone in the group a chance to shine...encouraging them by naming them in the song.  Some kids from other camps came up to the dancing circle and asked what camp this was and when could they sign up. :)

Together we're better.

*****

I want to thank Camp PALS for the extraordinary opportunity of an inclusive camp
filled with amazing people.
Thank you for the long hours of hard work behind the scenes to make everything run so smoothly.
Thank you for the incredible photos, the inspiring videos, the texts during the week to let us know it was all going great.

Thank you for your gracious hospitality.

Thank you for making it really "their place" and for giving a whole bunch of people the chance to come together in friendship and fun....a chance for independence and inspiration...a chance to dream of what the future could be like.

Most importantly, thank you for following your gut and working to make our world more inclusive -- more welcoming, accepting, passionate, genuine and fun...qualities I'm gonna focus on for a while thanks to you.

Thank you for being our net.
You're amazing.

365 More

"525,600 minutes, 525,600 moments so dear.  

525,600 minutes.  

How do you measure? Measure a year? 

In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee. 

In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.

In 525,600 minutes -- how do you measure a year in the life?  How about love?  

How about love?  How about love? Love.  

Measure in love.  Seasons of love." 

-- "Seasons of Love" from Rent (the musical)

I've had her for three hundred and sixty five more days.

An entire extra year.

Hundreds of thousands of minutes, countless moments, dozens of books and a myriad of chances to squeeze tighter, hold closer, give second chances and measure in love.

Today, of all days, it happened to be her First Reconciliation.

The irony of talking about sin and transgressions with someone who still believes in Santa and carefully writes notes to the Tooth Fairy and still sleeps with a multitude of stuffed of animals is not lost on me.

She knows about making good choices.  She knows how to be kind and thoughtful.

She does it pretty much every day.

I'm not too worried about her spiritual health.  

She's closer to God than almost anyone I know.

And yet, this is when our church says she's ready...and on this terrible anniversary of losing 20 six year olds, 

a whole bunch of seven year olds made another step forward.

In the glow of candles, amid family and friends, they spread out among four different priests and went up there and asked for forgiveness.

So much lighter now!

Caroline was worried about this whole process and so her teacher helped her out.  She asked her to hold a book.  Then she piled another one on top, and another, and another -- until she was holding five heavy books.  She told Caroline that when you do something wrong, it feels heavy and weighs you down. Then she swooped in and removed all the books.  She told her that she would feel so much lighter after Reconciliation. 


As we walked up to church, Caroline wondered aloud if she would "feel lighter".  She couldn't wait to find out.
She wasn't fearful.  She wasn't anxious.
She was curious.

Afterward, she sighed and said, "I'm so much lighter!"

I smiled...that lucky smile.
The smile of a momma who had someone else give their child a gift.
Someone else had given her another way to see the world.
I was so so grateful.

Walking home, I tried to hold her hand but she was skipping ahead.
My heart is always lifted when she skips...but then it remembered the twenty who no longer skip...and the many, many heavy hearts surrounding those twenty.
My heart always holds those twenty close.
I can't look at Caroline and not see them.

At her birthday, I thought of the quiet homes with no extra candle to add.
When she lost another tooth; got bolder swimming; started voraciously reading.
All of the days she spent singing, dancing, creating, laughing and telling knock knock jokes.


Six moving to seven -- 525,600 extra minutes.


What did I do with those precious extra?
How did I spend them?
Sadly and beautifully, we just went about our days...taking hikes, trying new things, making new pictures,
learning and wondering and asking and celebrating...
nothing too special...

until it's gone.

So, Newtown, Connecticut and most especially the families who have not had that extra,
I want you to know that your insane, mind-numbing loss is not forgotten.

You are alongside us on our journey now...forever.

We are lighting candles,
remembering
and choosing love every chance we get.

Finding Each Other

"When it is dark enough, you can see the stars." 

-- Ralph Waldo Emerson

America doesn't do grief.  

Americans are downright wimpy when it comes to facing loss head on.  

We want the path to be easy, the bumps to be light and we cringe when we have to go to the bad place of real loss.

When my friend lost her mother in her twenties, her young husband asked, 

"Just how long do you think it will be until you are over it?"

She wanted to punch him.  

But instead she looked him straight in the eye and let him know the truth:

"I'm never going to be over it.  I'm forever going to have this hole.  I am going to be different."

I'm pretty sure he didn't want to hear this because that's how Americans are.

We want a fast food method to grieving.

Let's get this over with.

Let's move on.

Let's pretend it never really happened.

This intent to gloss over the pain of loss is so classically American and so unnerving to deal with that rarely do we discuss it.

We shut it out.

We steel ourselves for the sad moment...the funeral, the hug, the up close shot of grief...and think we're done.

Thank God for the Irish.

My friend, Carolyne, lost her mother a month ago.

She travelled alone to Ireland to say good-bye and to grieve with her family and friends.

Out of necessity, she left her children here.

So it only made sense that Carolyne would observe the Irish tradition of the Month's Mind.

I got an invitation to it and thought to myself, "Alleluia!" 

I knew nothing of what a Month's Mind entailed but I did know enough to understand that it would be a way to share in Carolyne's grief, if even for a moment, and I wanted to be there.

I was grateful for the chance.

I had no idea.

The Month's Mind is basically a mass held in your home one month exactly after the person has passed away.  The fog of shock and the harboring clouds of the initial, deep sadness have had thirty days to clear out...some sense of clarity and a willingness to remember and honor and cherish the person are present.  

In essence, the person grieving can finally take a deep breath.

One month into it, the eyes of the heart have adjusted somewhat to the deep darkness of loss and some stars can be seen.

It's a beautiful time and a real gift.

We gathered for the Month's Mind at Carolyne's home.

All of us knew Carolyne from very disparate parts of her life and it was wonderful to see her house filling up with the people who loved her and wanted to remember with her.

Her children were there.

Her children's friends were there.

Their dining room table was made into an altar.

Their living room into a chapel.

It was intimate and close and a chance to see grief head on.

But it was also a chance to laugh and be light hearted and sing songs that wouldn't normally make it into a traditional mass.
There was darling Father Dan teasing about the supremacy of Kerry versus Carolyne's Galway.

There were You Tube videos of a famous Irish folk singer leading us in song.

There was a rendition from U2.

There was time for grandchildren to speak and Carolyne to speak and an opportunity to see pictures and get to know Carolyne's mom in a way I never did.

We said prayers and received blessings but mostly we were together.
We were together for the official Bailey's toast.
We were together as we rocked out to Hail Holy Queen from Sister Act.
And some were together long into the night singing at the piano with dear Father Bong.

We felt the love of family and friendship and together we knew that grief, although overwhelming, terrible and debilitating in its isolation was being shared right here, right now.

It was palpable and powerful.

At the end, Carolyne read a poem from the book Benedictus, a gift her dear brother Bobby had given her years before with the very page marked with this blessing.  

Beannacht

On the day when

The weight deadens

On your shoulders

 And you stumble,

May the clay dance

To balance you.

And when your eyes

Freeze behind

The grey window

And the ghost of loss

Gets into you,

May a flock of colours,

Indigo, red, green

And azure blue,

Come to awaken in you

A meadow of delight.

When the canvas frays

In the currach of thought

And a stain of ocean

Blackens beneath you,

May there come across the waters

A path of yellow moonlight

To bring you safely home.

May the nourishment of the earth be yours,

May the clarity of light be yours,

May the fluency of the ocean be yours,

May the protection of the ancestors be yours.

And may a slow

wind work these words

Of love around you,

An invisible cloak

To mind your life.
 -- John O'Donohue 

In that moment, cloaked in John O'Donohue's words, our group found each other.

Strangers held hands and prayed.

Tears were shared.

Remembrance was thick.

It was a sacred moment.

A clock stopped.

Later that night, as Carolyne and I and a few others were talking, Carolyne took an astonished breath. 

Her clock on her book shelf had stopped at the exact moment of her mother's passing.

The clock would stay forever at 5:15...reminding and tending and holding us close...time is relational and fleeting...time does stand still...in sacred moments...in holy places...where love is a cloak.

Grief can be beautiful...Carolyne taught me that.

Tonight I'm grateful for friends, for the hard times and for the moments that bind us.

Maybe us Americans can be a little more Irish.

Building A Door

"If opportunity doesn't knock, build a door." -- Milton Berle

Last Saturday night I had a dream come true. 

It isn't often that something that you have been thinking about for years and creating in your mind takes place, but last Saturday night that's what happened.  We had a Dinner Under the Stars in our backyard.  We set out tables of eight and put on white table cloths. We had someone fill vases of flowers with gerbera daisies and sunflowers.  We had a chef create delicious treats and we paused our busy lives and said thanks.

The universe seemed to be in on the action too.  The weather cooperated with a lovely cool night.  The sunset went down with its typical, breath-taking beauty.  The stars came out and danced and decorated the night sky.  

Last Saturday night, I had the joy to formally thank, out loud and in person, two people who helped build a door, 

Father Dan Looney and Mary Kay Bolz.

Do you know why it's blurry?  My hand was shaking...that's what happens when a dream is coming true!

When Patrick was born, one of the very first things that broke my heart was the idea that he wouldn't be able to be a part of Jack and Mary Kate's world at school.  I thought that because he had Down Syndrome he would be automatically excluded from attending the Catholic school that was such a huge part of our lives.  I felt the feeling of isolation and exclusion almost immediately and I cried for Patrick.  I cried for Jack and Mary Kate and I cried for all the others who had been excluded before us.  I could feel the deep sadness of being an outsider and wanted an opportunity to belong.

When Patrick was just days old, we attended mass.  We were reeling from the news that Patrick not only had Down Syndrome but that he would need open heart surgery within just a few weeks.  We were scared and sad.  We tried to go through the motions of our old life but we knew that it was just that...we had crossed a bridge and our life would be forever different.

Guess who met us outside of church?  Guess who held tiny baby Patrick...held him close, looked into his eyes...saw his beauty and acknowledged it?  Guess who gave him a blessing -- simple and from the heart -- right there outside of mass on a sunny, hot July day?  Yes, that dear man in the picture above, Father Dan.  I remember hot tears in my eyes and the beauty of acceptance. I am forever grateful...and let's not even talk about John's love and appreciation of that moment.  I know for him that was a salve and a healing that will be with him forever.

As Patrick grew, the feeling of being excluded from school led me to search online in the hope that maybe others had been included in their local Catholic schools.
Turns out, they had.
I linked up with nationwide groups like the Network of Inclusive Catholic Educators.  I found out about FIRE and REACH and a whole host of other small groups working toward including people with disabilities in the classrooms and in the religious education classes of Catholic churches all over the United States.  There are pockets of inclusion in Sioux Falls, South Dakota; Miami, Florida; Phoenix, Arizona; Minneapolis, Minnesota; Kansas City, Missouri; Charleston, South Carolina and Los Angeles, California.

It was happening all over the country.

So, Father Dan, the pastor of St. James parish, and Mary Kay Bolz, the principal of St. James School,  took a leap of faith.  Together they allowed Patrick the opportunity of becoming a student at St. James.  When I asked Mary Kay if she wanted me to write a note to the parents of the kindergarten class about Patrick I will never forget her words: "No, Beth, that's not necessary.  You see, I want them to come talk to me.  I want them to look me in the eye and tell me how Patrick being in that class will be a problem for their child.  Bring it on."

Turns out that no one ever felt the need to approach Mary Kay.  The parents in Patrick's class have been nothing but supportive, encouraging and welcoming, always.
The Dinner Under the Stars was for them too.

And for the teachers.  God bless the teachers...the ones who actually had to navigate the uncharted territory of full inclusion.  The ones who had to deal with the everyday glitches.  The ones who had to make the phone call and troubleshoot. And it was for Bev, our school secretary, who has been in on more than her fair share of various forms of Patrick illness and Patrick's lovely sense of time and slowing down the journey.  I don't want to total up the number of tardies she has written for my son...but it's plenty.

But the Dinner Under the Stars was also for other parents of children with disabilities.  It was for other teachers at other schools, other administrators and other angels who believe in this mission even if they have nothing to personally gain from it.  They are the cheerleaders and the encouragers.  It was for them too.  It was a chance to look over the road we have travelled and a chance to see the road ahead of us.

The door has been opened for Patrick but that's not the end of the story.  There are other doors to be built.  Other doors to open and other people waiting to cross through the threshold.  It's up to us to widen the entrance.  It's up to us to hold out our hands and welcome them.  It's up to us to let them know that inclusion may be scary and uncomfortable but it is never pointless.  It is never a waste of time to include those on the fringes....isn't that whole point of being Catholic?

So, while I got to stop and say thanks to two amazing trailblazers, we aren't by any means done.  We have many, many more families to include and welcome and plenty of students who wish for the same opportunity.  It's up to us to point the way and keep walking the path.

 And, to the many whose shoulders I have stood on in this journey who could not be at the Dinner Under the Stars, please know you were in my heart.  Angie Quissell, Kevin Baxter, Lilly Rangel Diaz, Cindy May, Dave Perry and countless others -- you were there.  You were sparkling and shining.  You were a part of something that I hope keeps growing and thriving and becomes a full-on paradigm shift within Catholic education.
Keep shining.  Keep building doors.  Keep at it.
We're not done.

The Airport

“Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion's starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don't see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often it's not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it's always there - fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends." -- Love Actually (movie) 

I've been hanging around airports the last couple of days.  I've been traveling alone, in my own little world, and so I got to do a lot of observing...listening to conversations, watching the arrivals, seeing the departures and creating stories in my head.  

One of my favorite movies is called The Terminal with Tom Hanks and Catherine Zeta-Jones.  In that movie, Tom Hanks is stuck indefinitely at an airport and must figure out how to survive (and thrive) in a world where everyone is going someplace and has no time to help.  Tom Hanks makes friends with busy airport employees and yet stays true to himself throughout the movie. 


What I love about that movie is what I love about airports: the connections.  Most of the time, we are busy on our path.  We almost always have blinders on...busy, so busy, insidiously intent on getting to our destination and on maintaining our forward momentum.  It is literally the opposite of what we know brings about happiness...enjoying the journey...and yet still we march forward.  


At the airport, for just a moment, instead of being on our daily straight line, we have circles...circles of connections all around us.  Wherever you look, you have families saying good-bye through tears and bear hugs.  You can spot a romantic couple stealing a kiss or whispering love notes.  There are kids eagerly awaiting the arrival of a parent with a home-made poster or a shy smile.  There are reconnections of several generations and excited whoops and hollers.  Yesterday, as I made my way home there was a very non-descript older lady being pushed in a wheelchair by some airport employee who was also pushing a very obese young twenty-something guy in a separate wheelchair.  Of course, I noticed the guy and barely registered the old lady in pink. However, when I heard "Sis!!!" yelled out from an equally old lady in blue and the ensuing home-coming of love and friendship and family that surrounded those two in a frenetic airport, I took note.  Old lady in pink is important to the old lady in blue.  She's somebody's someone special and it was plain as day.  It made me smile, not just for the two of them and their obvious joy, but also in anticipation of the day I yell "Sis!!!" to my old lady sister in a pretty pink sweater...forcing some random airport employee to get caught up in our homecoming: two old ladies and loads of love.  I can just picture it. :)


Airports are portals of adventure but are also just as importantly a passageway home.  Waiting for Jack at the airport a few days before Thanksgiving I had tears in my eyes.  I had nowhere I'd rather be.  I wanted to just be as close as I could get to the spot where he stepped off the plane and headed back to us.  I had to be satisfied with lurking near the new monorail that our airport has created to carry people back and forth to the new terminal.  Waiting with Caroline, Patrick, Mary Kate and John we had our circle, ready to celebrate a home-coming, waiting to feel complete as a family again. And there he stepped, cool as a newly minted college guy can be when his whole family shows up at the airport to bring him home. We swarmed him, hugged him, tried to play it cool as we laughed and joked and hugged some more.  All around us, the same miracle was repeating itself: regular people pausing for all the world to see and greeting, loving and welcoming home (or sending off) their loved one.  It's OK to reveal your emotions here...at an airport real life happens and the masks we so carefully contrive to take us through our days slip away. 


Airports are busy.  Airports are a weird paradox between all of the boundaries and borders we put up to guard ourselves from our enemies and all of the crazy interconnectedness of the world.  We are ALL somebody's someone special.  We ALL matter.  Someone somewhere is waiting for us, wishing us home or sending us off with good luck and lots of love. The pilots have families that care; the airline attendants do too; the people who work the counter and (God bless them) deal with missed flights, wrong bookings, lost luggage, tired travelers with crabby kids and oversized baggage also have people waiting for them at home ready to love them up.  Those air traffic control heroes who watch mind-numbing radar  and coordinate the flow of flights in a safe calm manner most definitely have people back home cheering them on.  And at the airport we give them our life and our safety and take a leap of faith.  We grant them access to our lives all the while knowing that it is a fragile, breakable, no-guarantee situation. We each hold within us the knowledge that we're taking a risk and it is this reason that allows us the emotional moments of good-bye and welcome home.   


I guess at the airport, with its mandatory security clearance, x-rays, pat downs and baggage checks, we are forced to stop and take note that our world might not be as safe or as free as we lull ourselves into believing. It makes us recognize the incredible gift of traveling without limits or restrictions and the amazing job that the airports and airlines do day in and day out without very much applause or appreciation.  They keep us free and safe and return us home again.  Airports are a treasure and today I say thank you to every single person who works so hard to help it all run deceptively smoothly.  Thank you for your dedication, your professionalism and your kind acceptance of all of us stumbling and bumbling travelers.  Thank you!  Now, bring my husband home safe, OK?