Kathleen M. Basi's Blog, page 34

By The Creek

Photo by Bob White, via Flickr

Blogging has been hard lately.

There are times when I have more to say than days in which to say them. Other times, I grudge every moment devoted to keeping up a blog. Lately, I’ve been getting far more response out of re-posting things I wrote two and three years ago than anything I have to say now. And the most important things I say, hardly anyone reads. It’s hard to feel motivated when I have no confidence that I’m going to make a difference when it matters most.

So I self-edit. I tell myself, “I can’t write about that, because no one will read it.”

I’m sitting in a creek bottom on a mid-December morning, typing these thoughts as I perch on a flat rock in a creek bed strewn with them, following the slow procession of the whispering wind from one bare treetop to the next. To be sitting here in December, able to type (i.e. not needing gloves) is both a wonderful gift and wince-worthy reminder that the earth is changing around me and I apparently have no influence to convince anyone to do anything about it.

As always, such thoughts swing around and point back at me. Who am I to be browbeating anyone about their choices and attitudes? I know mine leave as much to be desired as anyone else’s. How can I tell my kids half a dozen times a day, “You take care of you,” and still think I have any right to suggest to anyone else that something might be amiss?

And equally compelling, but tugging me the other direction, is the Facebook meme pops up with a quote that starts, “First they came for the Jews and I said nothing because I wasn’t a Jew…”

I can’t abdicate my responsibility to try to make the world a better place.

How do I balance those two contradictory truths?

Here, at the foot of the bluffs, where the layers of rock are laid down like slices of bread and the shadows of dormant trees fall fuzzy on the red-brown carpet of fallen oak and elm and sycamore leaves and stark on the gray rock face, I sit for half an hour in enforced silence and inactivity. It’s a gift I rarely give myself. When I saw the weather forecast this week, I knew I couldn’t squander the chance to come out, because it probably won’t come again for several months.

It’s impossible to sit in stillness for half an hour, or an hour, without becoming aware of the conflicts within. I come here with my heart in turmoil, and in the whisper of the wind and the trickle of water over rock, and especially in the focused pursuit of soul stillness, the coolness of a peaceful spirit returns. At least, a bit. I still don’t have answers, and I still don’t feel motivated to blog, but at least helplessness feels less irksome. And I’m sure the spiritual exercise will bear fruit in the hours and days to come. I’m sure, because it always does.

The Power Of Laughter

Last night, while I was singing at church, my husband caught my eye from the pew where he was sitting and cracked a silent joke. Without ever saying a word, with nothing more than a look and a simple gesture, he made me laugh.

I really love being married to someone who can make me laugh. Because I am, by nature, a little too serious and a little too artistic-moody for my own good. Sometimes I try not to laugh. Sometimes, just like a little kid, I cling to a bad mood. Other times I am living too much in my head. But I’m always happier when I give in and let myself laugh.

I’ve been thinking about this quite a bit lately, because the feature story I’m working on at present is about infertility, and more than one of my sources talked about how they’d approached this exceptionally painful subject from a much more pragmatic, accepting standpoint—one that had a lot less angst and was a lot less debilitating to ordinary life. They talked about enjoying their time together, and not letting grief ruin their entire existence.

I’m pretty sure I let infertility ruin my entire existence for those three years.

But if I go farther back, to the days when both Christian and I were “freaking out,” I remember a night when we both started laughing about something. I can’t remember what, but I remember it was a really good, hearty laugh, and it relaxed the hard, hot spot in my chest. For just a moment, it banished the fear and the second (and third, and fourth) guessing. And I remember saying to him, “As long as we can laugh together, we’ll be all right.”

I think we might just have to adopt that as our family motto.

Nativity Action Hero

On the docket for today: More fodder for the “boys are just different” grist mill.

The other day I heard Nicholas playing with the nativity set. Someone was talking to “Dad.” This is what we found long past bedtime that night:

Why yes, in fact Mary and Joseph are entertaining “a car, a boat, a guy and a gun.”

Not just any guy, either. An angry guy.

Happy Monday.

A Good Day

Some days are just really good days. Or good evenings, anyway.

And they don’t always start off on the most promising foot, either. Like when you glance down at the gas gauge on the way to carpool and go, “Oh, #$%#, I’m sitting on empty!” And then you have to go 1) to school, 2) bring the first wave of kids home, 3) catch the second wave coming off the bus, 4) go back and pick up the third wave. And now, you have to add a trip to the gas station. And that’s on top of having to do dishes and make the kids clean the bathrooms so we can bake and decorate the gingerbread and chocolate cutout cookies, like the Advent calendar promised.

But things started to change on the way home from the third wave, when the three youngest kids started singing Christmas carols. Michael couldn’t figure out all the words to “Santa Claus is Coming To Town.” He was very creative with his exploration of the topic. After fifteen minutes he settled on this:

“OHHHHH YOU BETTER WATCH OUT, YOU BETTER NOT CRY, BETTER NOT POUT I’M TELLING YOU WHY, SANTA CLAUS IS COMING TO TOWN! He sees you when…He sees you when you’re awake! He sees you when you’re….eating! He sees you when you….he gets mad at you, for goodness sake! OHHHHHHH YOU BETTER WATCH OUT!….”

In the front seat, Alex’s need to snort and giggle overcame his everything-in-my-life-is-boring attitude.

And then we got home, and something amazing happened while I did dishes and baked cookies.

My kids cleaned the bathrooms.

And they didn’t fight.

I mean, this was certainly not the world’s most stellar cleaning job. But every one of them did their job. And I didn’t have to yell at anyone. And they didn’t fight.

They all ate their dinner, too.

And then we had a visit from a student who’s been “shadowing” our family all semester, and they decorated the cookies without a single instance of fighting or of me having to come over and supervise. I can’t tell you how much I a) loathe cookies with icing on them, and for that reason b) loathe decorating cookies. So it was lovely to have them entertain themselves—without fighting—while I got the dishes done. (Did I mention they WEREN’T FIGHTING?)

“I’m gonna eat anuvver cookie,” Michael said, turning his sweet little face to his daddy.

“I told you ONE cookie, Michael,” I said. Or rather, I opened my mouth to say it. Because Michael didn’t stop talking.

“I get two cookies now, because I am four,” he said seriously.

Christian turned away and looked at me, laughing…and Michael ate his second cookie.

To crown the night, as our guest left, she gave us a lovely compliment about what a great family we were to shadow. After she left, Christian and I looked at each other. “Well,” he said, “we could make ourselves one of the worst families there is to shadow. We could yell at the kids all the time.”

“We do yell at the kids all the time,” I said.

He laughed and started stomping up the stairs. “Fee, fi, fo, fum!” he said in a deep voice. “I’m gonna EAT anyone who’s not in bed!”

And upstairs, there was an outpouring of giggles and squeals.

Yup. Some days are just good days.

Merchants In The Temple

When I was offered a copy of Merchants in the Temple: Inside Pope Francis’ Secret Battle Against Corruption In The Vatican, I was hesitant to accept it. But I decided that if there was something about my Church I ought to know, then I shouldn’t bury my head in the sand.

It is no stretch for me to believe that the administrative arm of my Church needs reform. My whole life I have wondered why administrative posts are filled by ordained men when the local parishes are so short of priests. It’s always seemed to me that it would make far more sense to have lay people run the administrative business of the Church and let the ordained focus on passing on the faith. (Although a priest friend of ours recently argued that in order to make sure money is handled both wisely and from a Christian world view, you need both perspectives.)

I am naturally suspicious of sensational language like battles between good and evil, but I was willing to keep an open mind and process the information in the book slowly and thoughtfully.

Unfortunately, for large portions of the book, I couldn’t follow the information presented well enough to understand what the author was trying to communicate, much less summon any outrage.

In part, that is because the cast of characters and organizations is so sprawling that I simply couldn’t keep track. On the other hand, Nuzzi artificially inflates that cast of characters. For instance, on page 47, in the middle of several paragraphs addressing the size of apartments inhabited by cardinals, there is this sentence: “The former archbishop of Lubljana, he” (Slovenian Cardinal Frank Rode) “had been a personal friend of Marcial Maciel, the disgraced founder of the Legionnaires of Christ, who had been suspended from the ministry for pedophilia.” I waited for that aside to be shown as relevant to the discussion at hand, but I waited in vain.

In places, like the first part of the real estate chapter, the threads were well unified and the implications clear. In another chapter, Nuzzi does a good job of showing the discrepancy between stockpiles of goods sold in Vatican gift shops versus what is claimed on balance sheets. (To me, this suggests inept management, but not evil.)

But a great deal of the time, I felt like I was reading numbers upon numbers without the necessary context for analysis. For example, he talks about a farm that falls under the Holy See’s domain, but I never saw anything in the text that indicated mismanagement. Eventually there was something about a money transfer to a diocese, but I read the section four times without ever understanding what was problematic about it.

In the end, then, my impression was this: yes, there are problems within the Curia. Yes, there is great resistance to change, and a fairly appalling amount of un-Christlike behavior. But change is happening, albeit slowly. It’s been a mere 2 1/2 years since Francis was elected. How much revolutionary change can reasonably be expected in such a short period of time? A big ship turns slowly. It would be nice if it was otherwise, but that’s reality.

Disclosure: I was given a free review copy of Merchants in the Temple by the publisher, for purposes of review. When I accepted it I was very clear that my opinion would be honest and given through the lens of my Catholic faith.

The big f-o-u-r

Today it is all about this guy:

…because it’s a big day in his world. Michael is a big four-year-old!

It’s a big day in our world, too. You see, age four means we finally, finally are legal to leave behind those stupid five-point harnesses. That’s a milestone we’ve been looking forward to for a long time. It means, to us, that getting in and out of the car will be a whole lot easier. They’ll all be able to buckle and unbuckle themselves. It means there are now two front seats available, so everyone gets more turns up front. To him, it means the opposite: that he gets to sit in the back.

Every so often, something miraculous happens. Like all the kids dressing themselves for church, and three of them choosing the same color, with the fourth coordinating. What are the chances???? *

He’s such a sweet, good-tempered boy. Except when he’s not, of course. We’re having to crack down on the “the world is ending” cry. You know, the tone of voice that brings parents running, because clearly something devastating and hospital-worthy is going on? Michael has perfected the art of crying wolf on that account. Like, you know. My brother took, or had first (I’m never sure which), the toy I want.

These are the things I want to remember:

“Rice Christmas treats.” Oh, my heart. Can there be anything more adorable?
His “bad guy voice,” which is always accompanied by a particular face, attempting to be fierce but looking all the more chewable.
The fact that he’s already off his training wheels. Freakishly advanced on a physical level, I’m telling you.
The fact that he loves Mommy so absolutely. He asked this weekend for seconds on dessert, and I told him no. Christian told him to give me puppy dog eyes. Michael stared at him for a while and then scowled. “No!” he said.

(You won my heart there, sweetheart.)

Happy birthday, punkin-head.

* Photos taken with an iPhone, not a real camera. Hence the blur and the poor exposure. I’m getting just good enough with a DSLR that I must disavow mediocre photos on my blog!

Gratitude, Sadness, and the Call To Look Outward

Photo by godutchbaby, via Flickr

It’s the day before Thanksgiving, and the thing to do on such a day is to make a list of everything I’m thankful for, like some proof text to show that my heart is in the right place.

But I can’t make myself do it.

It seems strange for gratitude and sadness to occupy the same space. And yet I think they are inextricably intertwined. How can I pause to exist in the moment in my own, beautiful, privileged world, and not feel a moment’s pain for all those whose world is so much more stark, and painful, and frightening?

I’ve never been big on writing public “I’m thankful for” lists. It’s always felt a little self-aware, a little complacent, even. Everybody’s lists look the same. I’m thankful for my family, my home, my job…all good things, and I could keep a running tab of my blessings from now until eternity and never reach the end of it. And yet the more I think about what I’ve been given, the more I realize how much of what I’m thankful for is denied to an overwhelming number of others no less deserving. To make a public list feels like rubbing it in the face of those who’ve been dealt a crappy hand by life and an “accident” of birth.

The line between those of us who have and the multitudes who do not seems so clear. For the next five weeks or so, while we consume unhealthy amounts of food and add to our need for storage space, we’ll also be giving to various charities, both at home and abroad. But once that donation is sent, do we think about those people anymore? Or do we consider our duty done until next Christmas?

Reflections like these make me uncomfortable.

I know we’re not all called to give away everything in order to live in solidarity with the poor. But it’s so easy to get my blinders on and wander through my life focused on me, my family, my concerns. I can’t give to every organization that sends me “begging letters,” as my grandmother used to call them. But if all I do is send a hundred bucks at Christmas, and then wait twelve months to do it again—or at least, until a natural disaster or a refugee crisis looms—that feels wrong. Not enough.

I’ve never been a fan of pledging a monthly donation, but maybe the pain of having to make space for others, month after month, is exactly the point. Maybe I need to be afflicted every few weeks. Maybe I need to make room for that sadness, in order to truly live in a space that can be called…thankful.

Syrian refugees: A Christian’s Responsibility

Friday afternoon, Nicholas sulked and glowered and procrastinated and found a dozen ways to avoid having to–gasp–clean the bathroom sinks.

Image by CAFOD Photo Library, via Flickr

At last I snapped at him to think about the children who were crossing the sea in an inner tube in November and sleeping in the woods because it was too dangerous for them to stay in their homes, and then think about whether he really had any reason to be feeling put-upon.

I never heard another complaint.

In the past week, there has been an awful lot of hysteria around the topic of Syrian refugees, and I decided that my #smallthingsgreatlove act for today would be to take a stand.

To begin with, there’s this graphic:

With a thoughtful article accompanying it from the Washington Post.

And another, addressing the accusation that the whole line of argument is a non-sequitur.

No matter what we do, we will never…never…never be totally secure. It doesn’t exist, people. It just doesn’t. We can’t live in fear. Nor can we close our eyes and pretend we don’t have a responsibility as the Body of Christ, to the body of Christ.

Because THIS is what we are ignoring.

It seems to me, from my limited grasp of the world and its history, that we in the United States have always been insulated from the problems of our fellow human beings by virtue of those two ponds separating us from Europe, Asia, and Africa. It’s too easy for us to view things as “Not My Problem.” That as long as Those People and the terrorists who must surely be hiding within their ranks aren’t within the borders of the U.S., nothing bad will ever happen to us, and as for everyone else? Well, it’s a shame, but again, Not My Problem.

I get it–I really do. The fear of having our safe corner rendered as unsettled the rest of the world is understandable. But safety is too easy to elevate to the status of idol, and for those who profess to follow Christ, that is, as I frequently tell my kids: NOT OKAY.

Now, I’m well aware that my little blog post is unlikely to change anyone’s mind on whether refugees should or shouldn’t be allowed into our spacious, but insular, corner of the globe. But look, we have very little say on that issue, anyway. That decision is made at the federal level. The entire discussion is a distraction from the real issue, which is this:

If we claim to be Christians, we have a responsibility to act.

This is Thanksgiving week–a time for us to stop and look around and recognize the incredible bounty that surrounds us. That bounty is not ours by some divine, inalienable right. Our very blessing involves a responsibility to use wisely what have been given to help ease the suffering of others. (Remember that parable about the talents?)

So here are just a handful of the ways I’ve seen posted by which ordinary people can make a difference.

This week I learned of Samaritan’s Purse, an international aid organization, through this video shared on Facebook:

Samaritan’s Purse is here.

Travel community Trekaroo says:

Start your all your Amazon shopping from Trekaroo’s Amazon Affiliate Link. Regardless of what you buy on Amazon and Trekaroo will donating 50% of all our Amazon commissions to Syrian Refugee Relief  with World Vision through Dec 31, 2015

If you’d rather skip the middleman, here’s the link to WorldVision (our family has donated through WorldVision before, which means it passed my husband’s rigorous criteria for charities).

Travel-with-kids writer Amy Whitley lays out the reasons why she won’t let fear govern her life.

This woman started a campaign to provide baby carriers to refugees. And to piggyback on that, they now do more than just baby carriers.

And I will close with this: The World is Scary As Hell. Love Anyway.

Small Things, Great Love (Reblog)

The past two weeks.  It has almost been too much to bear, all the heartache.  All the hatred and the hurting and brokenness everywhere we turn.  It is too much.  I am tempted to shut it out: turn off the news, avoid the rapid-fire of social media politicking.  Sink into my own comfortable life, where my biggest inconveniences of the day revolve around the fact that we have too many clothes to wash in our HE washer in our house with electricity and running water.  Continue about my day to day life, free from stigma of skin color, free from fear of opression and violence.  

What can I do about all that is wrong in this world?  I am often paralyzed by insignificance.  I don’t work in a job where I make or carry out policy.  I know nothing about medicine.  I am not educated about how to approach issues of race in this country.  I don’t have the means to travel abroad or adopt an orphan.  I don’t know any refugees.  

When God allows our hearts to be broken, what is it for?  It can’t just be so that we feel sad for a few minutes or days until we forget. ….

My good friend Kelley has written a beautiful reflection on what we as individuals can do in the face of so much brokenness. Please click through to read the rest.

Changing My Heart

Image by Axel Naud, via Flickr

Lately, it seems that everything–in the news, in my Facebook feed, and in my small corner of the world—has been nudging me in a single direction, a simple phrase that whispers in the back of my head:

Stop judging.

I asked my spiritual director last week, “How can I interact with the world without judging? How can I recognize the brokenness all around me without passing judgment on it?”

She said: You can’t.

Making sound judgments is part of human life. We have to make decisions at every turn, from the routes we take on the way to the gym to the way we deal with ethical dilemmas at work and in the family. To abdicate that responsibility is to turn our back on our conscience.

But there’s a difference between recognizing that things are not as they should be, and getting angry with people for their participation in what’s broken in the world. Even if I never say anything about it outside the confines of my family—or even if I only ever say it in my head—the anger, and more importantly the accompanying self-righteousness, is where judgment goes wrong.

I’ve known for a long time I needed to work on this. But it really crystallized for me last week when I took to task those who get upset about the mythological “war on Christmas.” I told them to quit looking for things to get angry about. And then I thought, Kate, you’re talking to yourself.

Nor was that the first time. The week before that I took on foul language, and how it is a deliberate pursuit of negativity. I thought, Huh. You do that too, Kate.

These last two weeks, I’ve realized it’s time for me to learn not to take everything that is wrong with the world so personally. In many ways, I’ve been groomed to it; activism and fiercely-held opinions run deep in my family. But I’m finding that in my own heart it’s a short distance between being grieved by what grieves the heart of God and simply getting angry and dwelling in negativity. For my own spiritual and emotional health, and for that of my soul, it is time for me to make that distance bigger. To take a step back and recognize that everyone’s choices are their own business and their own responsibility, and that my anger and self-righteousness change nothing except my own heart—and that the change in my heart takes me farther from serenity, peace, and holiness—not closer.

Change my heart, this time.