put out the fire

The blaze has died down some. Our streets are lined with the last remnants of autumn, piles of gold and red all earthy scented and muted from the raking and the trampling of sweatshirt-ed children still resisting the confinement of puffy coats and mittens. Gone too, for the most part, are the heated accusations and the scorching debates burning holes in the theories and characters of rivals. The time has come to retire our weapons, cool off, declare a ceasefire - the race is over. Let us be neighbors now, exuding warmth. Let us think in terms of today and peace and respect for the whole of humanity. Nothing's changed this season, for those who recognize the bold and brilliant Brightness glowing lucid amidst uncertainty, but the weather.

Please read the letter...

There is a question whether faith can or is supposed to be emotionally satisfying. I must say that the thought of everyone lolling about in an emotionally satisfying faith is repugnant to me. I believe that we are ultimately directed Godward but that this journey is often impeded by emotion. I don't think you are a jellyfish. But I suspect you of being a Romantic. Which is not such an opprobrious thing as being a fascist. I do hope you will reconsider and relieve me of the burden of being a fascist. The only force I believe in is prayer, and it is a force I apply with more doggedness than attention (pg. 100).

I've been slowly making my way through her numerous letters. She penned hundreds between 1948 and 1964, when she died too young from complications related to Lupus. The book is called The Habit of Being and within it are the humorous, brave, extraordinary and intimate insights of the very talented and witty Miss Flannery O'Connor. I am awestruck by the sheer volume of them and the thoughtfulness that went into each. I am wishing, now, that I could sit with her awhile.

I can't remember when I last constructed a letter. Staccato e-mails have replaced the girly stationary and detailed correspondence about every day events I used to send and long to receive from my high school and then college friends, because I'm old enough to have made it through four years of higher education without help from the Internet. Cursive writing, with actual ink on notebook paper, has become painful and awkward. My penmanship, which I used to agonize over, is now sloppy and illegible. I communicate by typing, using facts - who, what, where, when -instead of offering a piece of myself by way of hand scrawled stories and spit sealed notes addressed from me to the recipients on my mind and in my heart. We hit "delete" and there is nothing left to treasure or hold on to.

I am thinking that I'm not yet ready to throw in the towel, to surrender to this frightening epidemic reducing the beauty and complexity of language to cryptic abbreviations in the form of text messages on cell phones. I am suddenly quite desperate for lengthy paragraphs, complete sentences, floral envelopes and a roll of stamps. It's not my personality, really, to rock the boat, make a fuss, protest, but in this case...I'm too scared not to - for the sake of my children and their future, potentially void of truly meaningful interactions, of literary and historical keepsakes. This week, one letter - I dare you.

forever dreams of a better day

This photo of Mary was taken two Novembers ago and there is no need, I am sure, to rehash the fact that time is flowing forward with the force, speed and steadfastness of a rushing waterfall. You get it, already - I am stupefied by the rapidity with which we all are growing older, and hopefully wiser and less impulsive, more accepting of our limitations when it comes to not knowing everything or having all the perfect answers. The closer I get to the other side, the less I nitpick over the details and stomp my feet in a royal huff shouting, "This is the way things are, I am certain of it!"

"But what of the children?" I used to wonder. How do I mesh for them God's omnipotence with the passion heard here on earth in arguments heated, perhaps noble yet still divisive in their desperation to uncover the truth. Where should I draw for us as a family the line which separates faith and empathy from a no holds barred acceptance of immorality? How is it my place to construct barriers when I am clinging with white knuckled fingers to Grace unlimited, unconfined?" Maybe it's lazy of me to forfeit but I just can't see the point, anymore, of summarizing.

Love is life, wrote Tolstoy, All, everything that I understand, I understand only because I love. Everything is, everything exists, only because I love. Everything is united by it alone. Love is God, and to die means that I, a particle of love, shall return to the general and eternal source.

Peg me as foolish or naive. Say I'm in danger of calling a spade a Queen of Hearts, but I'd rather err on the side of peace, forgiveness, kindness, beauty, hospitality and HOPE, HOPE, HOPE (did I say that already?) than fear and judgment with its weighty assumptions that could be turned back on to me because I, my friends, am a mess - I have plenty to work on.

So here is what we'll do, kids: pray for mercy on our own infirm souls and then love as we've been loved - illogically and with no strings attached.

We'll simplify.

If I should fall behind

I knew that if I started to fall behind, this baby of mine (my Snapshot O' the Day) would inevitably be affected. I love this blog for its therapeutic properties and creative opportunities but, believe it or not, I've got approximately 85 other things of high priority all queued up to be handled and completed by yours truly. That, and something so, so sad happened only days ago involving my beloved digital camera (used recently by my sister-in-law, Carrie, and I to take countless pictures, including the one above, testing the lighting and shadows in my own backyard) and a certain adorable three-year-old who happened to knock it out of my hands and onto the hard and unforgiving kitchen floor. It's broke, is the horrible long and short of it, and my kids keep needing food and heat and stuff, so I can't, in the near foreseeable future, replace it. Thus my plan is to, for now, use the photos I already have in my computer and my trusty old scanner to update this site every third day or so because I like to do it- it brings me joy, helps me remember all I have to be thankful for and to document moments and events I'd surely forget in the hustle and bustle of raising a family. So, dear friends, if you can forgive me the slight time delay between my posts, I'd be thrilled if you stuck around. Your company has been encouraging and enjoyable, to say the least. Now I'm off to bed, before 10:00 pm, like a good girl. I'm trying, really trying, to pace myself.

...if you needed me to

Dear Benjamin,

I'm a sucker for that face (just ask daddy). You were my biggest baby, 9 lb. 6 oz, and your delivery was so long and so excruciating, I thought I'd die. You arrived a scant 15 months after your older sister, Priscilla. "Irish Twins!" people would say to me whenever I dared to go out in public with my three tiny children, age 4 and under. You used to introduce yourself as "the nicest boy in the world." You're snuggly and generous, which to me makes up for the mayhem and the destruction that tends to follow in your wake. "BENJAMIN LEONARD SABOURIN!!" is how I usually call your name - how most people do if they spend more than fifteen minutes with you. Tomorrow, you turn six-years-old. It's hard to believe, really. You can't fathom that there was ever a time in my life without you in it ("But where am I," you wonder when you see our wedding pictures). For six years you've been stretching me, delighting me and keeping me always, always, always on my toes. I'd do anything for you, go anywhere. I'd scale a mountain, wrestle a bear, swim across an ocean, play Rescue Heroes, Star Wars, Matchbox Cars...if you (really) needed me to. I wish for you health, peace and love. And for myself, I wish for but a fraction of your exuberance. Happy Birthday, sweetheart.

Love,

Mama

one safe place

My brother's whimsical front door

Early this morning I stepped outside and for the first time in a long time felt the cold rip through my skin and rattle my bones. We made hot coffee, hot chocolate, wore footed jammies and crowded in close around the book we are reading about Incans, Aztecs and Mayans. Later on, after the sun had warmed our yard enough to play in long sleeved shirts and jackets you gathered sticks, berries and leaves and built houses for the fairies, those poor vagrant Hoosier fairies who have been traveling and never resting but now, thanks to you, have a place to lay their heads. Look, I know I can't protect you from every winter, from every storm but neither am I required to watch on idly, throw my hands up in defeat, declaring exposure to elements cruel, superficial, and wholly distracting from all that is innocent, good, authentically beautiful and righteous as just an unfortunate fact of your life as a kid growing up in this enlightened day and age. They can call me naive, say I'm overprotective, claim you risk ostracization by your ignorance of trends culturally relevant but I don't care. I'll stand guard at the gates of our fortress on the lookout for trojan horses containing dangers concealed in pretty packaging and, God help me, I will not let them in. I'll do whatever it takes, whatever I can, to keep you thinking for yourselves, free from pressure to conform ... safe.

I'll be remembering you

Troy's parents, known affectionately around these parts as Papa and Nana, had this gorgeous bouquet sent to our house yesterday and each time I walk past it, I am reminded of how nice it feels to be loved. Thank you, everyone, for your thoughts and prayers! This afternoon we went to the cemetery and placed flowers at grandma's grave site. Saturday, we will drive to Ohio for a memorial service. There have been many, many questions from my children these past 48 hours regarding death and grandpa's intermittent smiles, laughter, and tears. "We are sad," I explain, "but so very hopeful. Sixty-five years they were married, grandpa misses her." This has been a bittersweet and yet special time for us as a family. We are thankful that we can lean upon one another as we reflect, rejoice in Christ's promises and remember.