Take a deep breath.

Now exhale slowly …

“I have done nothing yet. I have not bought a single gift,” a friend texted me yesterday. I could feel her anxiety through my phone.

“I’ll be glad when Christmas is OVER,” I heard a lady say at the hair salon last week. “It’s all just too much.”

People, we are doing it again. Whether the cookies get baked, the presents get bought, the problems with the in-laws get ironed out, or the tree gets decorated, it is going to be ok. We are going to be ok. Let’s not stress ourselves through a celebration of the nativity of Our Lord …

Read the rest of this week’s Danielle bean newsletter (including my three confessions) here.

UPDATE on the confessions:

1. The new Advent wreath arrived, but I still have not found the old one.
2. The cranberries and popcorn are still not done.
3. I am drinking a *little bit* more water these days. Small steps!

(This is an old column of mine that originally appeared at Inside Catholic. Just like yours, my life is still ridiculous, but some of the details are different from what is described here. The message still applies, though.)

My life is ridiculous. Do I need to tell you this, or can you reach that conclusion all on your own when I tell you that I am a homeschooling mother of eight who also works from home?

Some days, the different roles I play meld seamlessly together.

“Of course I can do this!” I find myself thinking as I take a phone call from the pediatrician while the toddler plays peacefully with poster paints, the 11-year-old memorizes prepositions, the 15-year-old completes her algebra, and the 10-year-old whips up a fresh batch of banana muffins. “Who couldn’t do this?”

But other days? Other days, my seamlessly melding roles collide. They crash, smash, and burn.

I’ll never forget the time I was on the phone with a work colleague – one whom I had just met and hoped to impress with my “professionalism” – when I heard a knock on my bedroom door. One rule I have to keep me sane is that if I am on the phone for work, I can lock my door and that means NO BUGGING MOM.

I knew that the insistent knock meant something important was going on, so mid-conversation, I took a deep breath and opened the door.

There stood my oldest son with one hand over his nose. Blood dripped through his fingers, ran down his arm, and formed a small puddle on the floor at his feet.

“Do you understand what I am saying?” I remember the man on the phone asking me then, “Because I’m not sure at all that you do.”

I mumbled something about a bleeding boy and hung up the phone.

I am not exactly proud to report that the cause of the furiously bleeding face was another one of my sons. An argument over a ball game had turned violent. Younger brother’s fist managed to hit a lucky spot on older brother’s nose where there happened to be a willing vein. To me, the worst part of the whole messy incident was the fact that they were supposed to be working on a geography quiz.

I still talk to the colleague from that interrupted phone call sometimes, and to this day I suspect he believes I am a brainless loon. And he’s probably right about that. But it’s not my fault. It’s the bloody children.

When people on the outside ask what daily life looks like in my home, I think many of them picture me working in a pristine office with a mountain view while my children recite the Pledge of Allegiance and sit in neat rows of desks in our classroom.

We do have a classroom. But like many rooms in houses that belong to men who build, it is unfinished. It has no floor yet, and it is the current home of my washing machine and my husband’s weight bench. It also features a sizable collection of half-empty paint cans. Because we will need them someday.

My husband sometimes has the older children sit in the classroom for math lectures, but they need to kick empty laundry detergent bottles out of the way and brush aside saw dust from the nearby circular saw (did I not mention the saw? The one my husband keeps in there for trimming firewood?) before they can sit down. On the weight bench.

Welcome to our home school. We do and learn all kinds of things all over the house. And the process is not always pretty.

I don’t pretend to be the only person on the planet with a crazy life, though. I know plenty of people who, in my estimation, live even crazier lives than mine. I have nutty friends who have reached double digits in their child count. I know wild women who work outside the home. I know crazy moms who care for aging parents or homeschool children with multiple disabilities.

I think we’re all crazy in some way. Many of us, in our own hidden worlds, are taking on daunting tasks and tremendous responsibilities.

I can’t do all of this, I am sometimes tempted to think – particularly on days where my various roles and responsibilities seem to be in conflict with each other. But what I fail to see at those times is that no one is asking me to “do all of that.” Not all at once, anyway.

I think about this sometimes as I wipe down the tiles in my kitchen. I long ago stopped pulling out a mop to clean this spot that needs cleaning at least once a day. It’s just more efficient to get down on my hands and knees with a damp cloth and wipe the floor by hand. One tile at a time.

Cleaning an entire sticky floor can seem like a daunting job, I always notice, but anyone can wipe one square foot of tile at a time. If I keep working, all those tiles eventually add up to a clean floor.

“Faithfulness in little things is a big thing,” St. John Chrysostom reminds us.

I need to remind myself more often that one small thing at a time is all God ever asks me to do. All the little things – spilled juice, phone calls, grammar lessons, e-mail replies, laundry piles, baseball games and other fun games (learn more about them here), Band-Aids, and sticky tiles – add up to God’s great big will for me every day.

One thing at a time. I think I can do that. And you can, too.

 

When we first got a family dog 14 years ago, I was deep in the throes of mothering many small children, so bonding with our new pet was not high on my list of priorities. Dan handled most of the puppy training, and kids were in charge of cleaning up after him, letting him out, and feeding him. I had nothing against dogs, but I had very little time or energy to spare for nurturing non-human creatures in those days, so that’s just the way it needed to be.

One night while our puppy was still small, though, we had a loud thunderstorm. Because I had not sought out much of a relationship with the dog, I was surprised to discover I was the one he came to, trembling with fear at the sound of thunder and lightning. He scratched at our bedroom door, and insistently and repeatedly came to MY side of the bed, whining and pawing for MY attention in his moment of need.

The scared little dog needed a mom, and he knew where to find one. ME. I was the mom, and he knew it.

I’m sure you’ve had similar experiences of finding yourself playing a motherly role in unexpected ways and places. It’s an awesome privilege and responsibility to be “the mom” wherever we go, isn’t it? I was reminded of this fact recently when I read these words from Edith Stein (aka St. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross):

Finally, woman’s intrinsic value can work in every place and thereby institute grace, completely independent of the profession which she practices and whether it concurs with her singularity or not. Everywhere she meets with a human being, she will find opportunity to sustain, to counsel, to help.

If the factory worker or the office employee would only pay attention to the spirits of the person who work with her in the same room, she would prevail upon trouble-laden hearts to be opened to her through a friendly word, a sympathetic questions; she will find out where the shoe is pinching and will be able to provide relief.

Everywhere the need exists for maternal sympathy and help, and thus we are able to recapitulate in the one word motherliness that which we have developed as the characteristic value of woman. Only, the motherliness must be that which does not remain within the narrow circle of blood relations or of personal friends; but in accordance with the model of the Mother of Mercy, it must have its root in universal divine love for all who are there, belabored and burdened.

We are the moms. Wherever we go, the world knows us and needs us. Where will you bless others with your “momness” today?

Dan and I spent our first Thanksgiving as a married couple at his mother’s bedside in the hospital. She had suffered a stroke and was on her third day in the intensive care unit, incoherent and unresponsive to medication. One of my husband’s aunts arrived and suggested that the two of us should take a break from sitting vigil and head down to the cafeteria for lunch.

And so we did. We sat alone at a chilly metal table and did our best to ingest a hospital cafeteria’s attempt at Thanksgiving dinner, complete with compartmentalized plastic trays and disposable silverware. I poked at a scoop of cold instant mashed potatoes and struggled to stifle a selfish anger that threatened to rise within me.

This was not at all the way this day was supposed to be. It was 1994, I was pregnant with our first baby and had entertained grand ideas about establishing holiday traditions for our young family. Our first Thanksgiving dinner was supposed to be an idyllic feast of family and food. My mother-in-law and I were supposed to be getting on each other’s nerves and stepping on each other’s toes in the kitchen while the men watched football in the other room.

I was a young woman in a young marriage. My mother-in-law’s sudden illness was my first real taste of the reality that things might not always go as I had planned them — that God might indeed allow for suffering and loss in my family life. That afternoon, I watched my mother-in-law labor to breathe through an intubation tube and I struggled to pray, but no words came.

Later, I stood awkwardly at my husband’s side as he hung a brown scapular around his mother’s neck, and still I found no words. I was too angry and confused to talk to God just yet. That Thanksgiving evening, Dan and I returned home to our one-bedroom apartment. When he suggested we pray a Rosary for his mother before going to bed, I flinched. Pregnancy plus the long day had left my body with previously unknown levels of exhaustion. But what kind of wife and daughter-in-law flinches at such a request? I said yes.

Dan handed me my rosary and there, in our tiny living room, sitting on second-hand sofa cushions, we prayed. I thought of my mother-in-law lying in her hospital bed as we prayed. I remembered the smell of hospital disinfectant and the steady beep and hum of life-saving equipment. But there, in the sound of my husband’s voice repeating the familiar words of prayer, I found peace for the first time in days.

The most important Thanksgiving tradition is simply pausing long enough to recognize our blessings. At that first Thanksgiving of our young marriage, I counted among my blessings the security of our marriage and my husband’s leadership. Dan’s steadfast faith in the face of challenges bolstered my own. He gave voice to my prayer when I felt I had none.

I never finished praying the rosary that night. After a couple of decades, my responses slowed and my eyelids grew heavy. When I could no longer fight it, I finally fell asleep. Dan didn’t wake me. He finished praying for both of us.

Just like I knew he would.

 

I like to experiment in the kitchen, but when it comes to Thanksgiving, my secular favorite holiday, I’m all about tradition, and I’ve trained my family to agree with me.

Don’t mess with the traditional recipes!

In case you are looking for some traditional inspiration yourself this year, here are some of the recipes I use:

Sage Stuffing

Pumpkin Bread

Cranberry Orange Bread

Corn Bread

Basic Pie Dough

Best Ever Pumpkin Pie

Kentucky Derby Pie

Pecan Pie

In late November, the air is ripe with motherly anxiety as many of us brace ourselves to “do” Christmas one more time. We ready ourselves for more shopping, more decorating, more entertaining, and more baking. And year after year, despite our best-laid plans and intentions, many of us wind up feeling controlled by materialism, pressured by expectations, and overwhelmed by obligations. As Advent begins, we prepare – not so much for the coming Christ – but for completely depleting ourselves in the name of His coming.

This is no way to prepare for a baby.

Christmas is an undeserved blessing, the joyful celebration of God’s great love – the Word made flesh. It’s ours to anticipate; it isn’t ours to “do.”

This year, I have a different plan for Advent. I plan to prepare for Christmas in some of the ways I have prepared for my own babies in the past. We are waiting for a baby, after all. And, even if you are not a mother, I encourage you to do the same. Here’s how:

1. Clean.

We mothers know how to clean for a baby, and when the hormones of late pregnancy kick in, there’s no stopping us. We know how to scrub out the refrigerator, alphabetize the spice rack, sanitize the light switches, and bleach seven loads of laundry in a single day. We do these things because nature tells us to.

We don’t need to bleach or boil in preparation for Christmas, but we can clear clutter from our homes. We can free ourselves from “stuff” by purging our overflowing closets, garages, and toy boxes in order to throw useless things away and donate good items to charity.

And we can come clean. We can let go of stubborn grudges and lingering resentments. We can free ourselves of selfish pride that fills us with anger and entitlement. We can stop nursing our own tiny wounds and focus instead on the ways that we have hurt others, failed ourselves, and offended God.

We can go to confession. We can examine our consciences, enter into the presence of Christ in the confessional, and acknowledge our own selfishness, omissions, and offenses. We can open our hearts to receive the graces God pours into them through the sacrament. We can humble ourselves in preparation to receive the gift of Christ and to recognize the inestimable debt of gratitude we owe this tiny baby – our Lord and our Savior.

2. Choose.

When I was pregnant for the first time and shopping for a crib, an elderly lady I knew scolded me: “You don’t need a crib! My babies all slept with nothing but a blanket in a dresser drawer!”

I never have tried the dresser drawer thing, but I have come to know that, while it’s nice to have some baby things, new parents don’t truly need to collect all the gear that baby magazines are pushing these days.

And neither do we need many of the things we buy and do in preparation for Christmas. While it is appropriate to buy gifts as a means of expressing affection and recognizing this holy season, we can carefully choose how we spend our time and money.

Will that mountable reindeer head that tells raunchy jokes and makes bodily noises contribute to your family’s celebration? Do you need to impress the neighbors by turning your yard into an animated, glittering display of lights and splendor that rivals Disneyland? Are you shopping your family into debt? Are you tempted to buy junk and useless gizmos for people on your list, just so that you can cross off their names?

In preparation for Christmas, we can choose what things to buy and what things to do thoughtfully. With some thought and discernment, we can be sure that our extra efforts are meaningful. We can ensure that they draw us toward, and not away from, Christ.

3. Savor.

As excited as we get about a new baby’s birth, every mother must admit that there is something special about the waiting. Anticipating a good thing can be a good thing in itself. There is a certain quiet joy in feeling a growing baby’s twists and kicks within us as we imagine what wonders God has in store.

Advent, too, has a certain quiet joy. When we wrap secret presents, open doors on a calendar, light candles on a wreath, and bake goodies that we store away for future celebrations, we anticipate good things. We are waiting for Christ. And God invites us to savor the waiting.

He invites us to savor the glowing lights of the Christmas tree as they flicker in our children’s eyes. He invites us to turn off the television and take a walk in the winter air. He invites us to savor the silence of a cold dark night as we watch and wait for His coming light. He invites us to remember what we have been told and to anticipate the greatness of the One to come:

For a child is born to us, a son is given us; Upon his shoulder dominion rests. They name him Wonder-Counselor, God-Hero, Father-Forever, Prince of Peace (Isaiah 9:5).

Come, Lord Jesus, come!

Here is our Advent calendar! Do you have one like it?

We’re talking about calendars, candles, and Advent preparations and their limitations in the Danielle Bean newsletter this week:

But here’s a funny thing about preparing ahead of time: you can’t actually do it. I know this from years of experience/failure. There were years when I had everything for Advent planned, from shopping, to baking, to wrapping, to hymns, to decades of the Rosary in the car, and then some major thing — like illness or job stress or house repairs — got in the way and ruined everything.

Well, actually, Advent disruptions never did “ruin everything” and that is my point. They ruined my own plans and that was all …

Read the whole thing, and then SUBSCRIBE so you never miss out!

I grew up with a dad who prays the Liturgy of the Hours, and as a result, the Church’s daily pockets of prayer have always held a special attraction for me. Perhaps when I am an older woman, I will live the kind of life conducive to praying the Divine Office, but for now, my own version will have to do.

Morning

Alone on the couch with a prayer book, I prepare for the day that lies ahead. My husband is in the shower, coffee is in my cup, and my children are still in their beds.

But not for long.

“Mama,” Gabby calls from the stairway. “Where are you?”

And so she finds me. And entertains me. With stories of her dreams – of princesses and butterflies. With demonstrations of a dance move she is perfecting – toes pointed and arms moving gracefully through the air. With questions about up-do hairstyles, painted nails, pierced ears, and the magic age she must reach before acquiring these worldly delights.

As I listen, I pray:

Give me your ears, Lord. Help me to hear in this small voice not an interruption, not something that pulls me away from you – but the very purpose for which you put me here on earth. Help me to hear a garrulous girl who is growing up, who needs my guidance, who craves my attention, and who – at least for now – values my opinion above all others. Give me ears to hear the gift that comes in her small, curious, animated, and admiring voice.

Midday

Finally weary of children telling me they are at risk for malnutrition, I pull boxes of pasta from the pantry and make my way to the kitchen to prepare lunch. A pile of school papers tall enough to make the fire marshal twitch awaits me at the counter. Greasy gunk and saucy splashes from last night’s chicken dinner greet me at the stove. I straighten the stack of papers, grab a nearby dishtowel, and wipe half-heartedly at the stove top while waiting for the water to boil.

As I wipe, I pray:

Give me your eyes, Lord. I want to see the blessing of “enough to eat” in my kitchen’s messes. Help me see the privilege of having my children at home in the piles of papers and chaos of the dining room. Show me that messes are temporary things, but the souls we are raising are forever. Help me to know that my own preferences for greater tidiness and order will be met in due time. Right now, I want to see only love.

Afternoon

With two of my smallest children along for the ride, I drop off one child at basketball practice, drive to the next town to drop off a second, stop at the grocery store for just a few items that somehow turn into an overflowing cart that costs $130, and then head back to the gyms to begin the picking up part of my day.

It is already dark by the time we pull into the driveway, and my head is filled with laundry to finish, phone calls to make, e-mails to write, deadlines to meet, and dinner to prepare.

But three-year-old Danny has fallen asleep. Gently, I unbuckle his seat belt, lift him from his car seat, and we make our way through the dark toward the house. The cold air wakes him, though, and he squirms, cries, and kicks.

As I hold him, I pray:

Give me your arms, Lord. I need gentle strength. Help me respond to anger with a gentle touch that soothes. I want to touch all my children in the way they need it most. Give me capable arms to hold them when they need to be held but wise ones, too, that know when to let them go. In my every touch, may others feel your love.

Evening

After dinner, cowboys take over the house. There is gunfire in the living room and a cattle roundup in the hallway.

“Settle down!” I hear myself say. “Time for pajamas!”

But cowboys don’t always listen to their mothers. And big boys sometimes grow deaf, too. Like when they are so close to beating their high score and mom says it’s time to turn that noisy thing off.

As I scold, I pray:

Give me your voice, Lord. Help me to see that the words I choose can build up or tear down. When I grow tired of repeating myself and want to give up or shout, inspire me with a better way to gain my children’s attention. Give me grace to correct fairly and inspire virtue. Help me to say out loud the things that are good and true about my children. I want to encourage them.

Night

“Mama,” someone small speaks to me in the dark. “I need a dwink.”

I will myself from the warmth of my bed and force myself to walk through the door and down the stairs to fill a sippy cup. I return, present the gift of hydration, and lead the thirsty one back to his bed.

“Stay here,” he begs, and so for just a moment I settle down next to him.

As he sleeps, I pray:

Give me your heart, Lord. In the sleeping, breathing bodies that fill the beds of this room and the next, help me to see the preciousness of the souls you have entrusted to me. I want my heart to overflow with grace and love, joy and gratitude. Help me to know that my life in this home and my days with these children are a temporary privilege.

Teach me to see you, to feel you, and to know you in the peace and stillness of this night. Touch my heart and show me where you lie patiently waiting for me – beneath the noise and chaos, in every moment of every day.

Amen.

(This is an old column of mine that originally appeared at Inside Catholic.)