Why I love the Jews and the Ancient Greeks

One of the handicaps that I have in my faith is that I grew up hearing things from the Christian religion being confused with really bad theology. I adore the practice of lectio divina which helps me savor small bits of Scripture over and over for wisdom and clarity. (One of my Carmel teachers called lectio divina "chewing over Scripture in your mind.)

I also find comparative religion to be very helpful. Somehow the contrast between Jewish thought and Christian thought make my own faith extra clear to me. I also like reading the thoughts of Ancient Greek philosophers like Plato. I reread Plato's Allegory of the Cave recently and thought "Wow! So this is what St. John of the Cross was talking about!"

By accident, I found this website during morning prayer. I loved this paragraph:

"The Jewish idea of freedom is best summarized by that very famous expression-"Praise the servants of God who are not the servants of the Pharaoh." That is, freedom is seen as a means to an end, not an end in and of itself-True freedom means to be free of outside influences and pressures so that we can be free to pursue ultimate meaning-relationship with God."

I read this well reasoned paragraph and thought "Oh, so THAT is what we are doing in Lent!"

Lent is the movement from slavery to freedom. Lent means we wander in the desert for 40 days. We give up our taste for cucumbers and meat. (Like the complaining Hebrews in the wilderness). We train for spiritual battle, so that we can be more free to embrace the responsibility that accompanies our joy on Easter Day.

I am so thankful for the Jewish faith! My husband's last name and is family are Jewish. We're pretty sure that some direct ancestor was at Mount Sinai listening to Mr. Moses. In this time of fasting, prayer and almsgiving, all of us in the church have Moses and Elijah and St. John the Baptist urging us forward in our faith. Thinking about being a small part of a 5,000 year joint conversation with God, the Father Almighty is amazing. I hope that we all make leaps and bounds in our faith journey this year! May Easter find each one of us closer to becoming truly free!

Here is a quote from Socrates which is perfect for Lent!

A Hard Lent = An Easy Life

It's February! We've had 2 weeks of the flu at our house. Then the Washington DC area got with an Arctic Chill and two blizzards. Last Friday morning, my husband and I woke up to the downstairs thermostat reading 53 Degrees. That number started to feel dangerous to me in a house with 3 kids under age 5. My husband is brave with this kind of hardy suffering stuff while I'm a total chicken.

So I went upstairs, to our warmer bedrooms, and googled "How cold is a safe temperature for the inside of a house?" (Because I'm a writer who solves all her problems with the internet). Oh my goodness. People are crazy! There are artists in Baltimore who live without heat in loft apartments. When the temperature indoors gets below 45 Degrees these guys build a yurt out of blankets in the center of their living room and drag their cats inside with them.

My husband is a super commuter to Washington DC. He leaves me alone in our house filled with kids each morning at 6 AM, while it is still dark outside. "I'm sure the house will warm up when the sun comes up today!" he said with a reassuring smile as he wrapped layer after layer of a winter scarf around his neck. 

"Hmmmm....." I wondered quietly inside my own head.

At 9 AM, I put the baby down for a non-nap in his crib. I crept downstairs to avoid waking up all my other five sleeping kids in my house. The thermostat read 52 Degrees! It had gotten 1 degree colder in my house after the sun had appeared for 2 1/2 hours.

Long story short, I find a wood cutter in my in neighborhood. (I'm still freaked out that as a former City girl I live in a town with professional wood cutters). This angel of a man comes in 0 Degree weather to bring me a half cord of wood in an emergency. He doesn't even charge me a premium for making him work in the cold. A tip and a thank you seemed so inadequate. 

Today, my husband stoked the "only for cold weather emergency" wood stove in our basement during an 8 inch Saturday blizzard. The downstairs thermostat reached a toasty 70 Degrees. Upstairs, in our bedroom, it's 5 degrees warmer. I feel like I'm in Florida. There are no socks on my feet and my nose isn't freezing!

When the temperature got to 68 Degrees a basement pipe burst spilling water all over our cold weather gear. My husband put on his only pair of dry sneakers to go to the hardware store in the middle of a snowstorm. The roads were unplowed and messy. He said the only people in the store were professional plumbers. A kind plumber directed my husband how to get the right supplies to fix the leak. Tonight my husband replaced his first ever copper pipe. I was so proud of him. We went from no water in the house to "no problem" in a matter of minutes. Can you imagine?

Instead of waiting for an emergency plumber visit, we watched "Clash of the Titans" for movie night, and laughed about all our favorite Greek myths. We ate salmon out of a tin can with cream cheese on crackers for dinner. Best of all we are warm. We had water to take showers, wash the dishes and do laundry. When my husband was fixing the broken cooper pipe next to my huge, 8 family member basement laundry pile, I kept telling him "Thank you!" I can handle doing emergency laundry by hand in the summer months, but doing that same task in the middle of winter seems so much harder to me.

It's Lent and Lent means hard work. I hate fasting. I hate the cold. I hate sickness and dark, bleak weather. I hate the emergencies that crop up without warning in a large family. Lent seems so hard for me until suddenly it's over and suddenly I'm grateful for the all small mercies in my life. Tonight I'm grateful to have running water and warm heat. I'm grateful my kids are finally healthy and cheerful again. I'm grateful the hot guy I married for looks alone can handle emergency plumbing work. All the hard work in Lent feels like it moves me somewhere more peaceful and more calm at the end. I'm grateful that in meaningful suffering Christ hands me an express pass to the easy life!

Ash Wednesday

My goal for this Lent is a little abstract. I resolved to stop "auditioning for God." I hope we all bear good fruit this Lent and reach Easter Sunday lighter, calmer, and more free.

Our Valentine's Day Story

Fifteen years ago, my husband and I had our first Valentine's Day Date. We had only met three weeks beforehand at a bar in Madison, Wisconsin. I was in my last semester of Law School. He was working in a Healthcare Lab and had a best friend in my Evidence Class. In February 2000, I wasn't sure yet if we counted as "boyfriend & girlfriend". We had only a handful of dates that the mostly revolved around walking in the woods amid deep snow drifts, sipping coffee at the new Starbucks coffeehouse, and watching weird foreign movies together.

Valentine's Day occurred on a Monday that year. On the Sunday beforehand, I invited "my friend" Jon to church, to hear me preach the sermon at an Episcopal Student Mass. He came to see me in the middle of a snowstorm. After the service, he gave me a manila envelopment marked "Secret Agent." Inside there was an invite to watch a DVD screening of the movie "Mission Impossible" with him at midnight.

I meet Jon on a bridge, in the snow, in between the Art School and the Law School. We walked back to my home at the Episcopal Student Co-op. We watched Mission Impossible in the public TV room I shared with 30 other roommates. Near the end of the movie, Jon and I shared our first real kiss. At that moment, Jon decided he was "in like flynn." We got engaged seven months later.

Yesterday, my husband came home from work to enjoy a three day weekend. The younger half of the Benjamin clan spent all of Friday hurting from a bad virus. When my husband kissed me and said "Happy Valentine's Day!" our 4 month old son started coughing in my arms with the most pathetic little sounds. I thought about our first kiss 15 years ago and started laughing.

"When you gave me an invited to see Mission Impossible that first Valentine's Day, I didn't realize you were inviting me into an actual Impossible Mission!"

My husband laughed easily too. "I didn't know what I was getting into either!"

It seems crazy to think that SIX people now owe their lives to a Valentine's Day kiss fifteen years ago. It's a crazy, messy, sometimes impossible task to lead a family these days. I'm grateful to find a guy who makes all the hard work worthwhile.

Who Ever Said that Motherhood Is Anti-Intellectual?

My seven year old went to the public library, picked up a cookbook called "The Art of French Pastry," and begged me to help her learn how to make croissants. She picked out a two-day seven page recipe. I took a quick glance at her cookbook and thought "This is so beyond us!"

I made a joke about her desires not matching our skill level to my husband at dinner. The man is eating chicken and pasta over a real tablecloth and he suddenly looks at me like he is starving. "You could learn how to make croissants?" He said the word "croissants" with such longing and hope.

This morning, I told my daughter "OK, for homeschooling today we are going to work on your croissant recipe. It's going to be hard. We're probably going to fail a lot. But if we master this task, it's going to be so worth it."

I thought I was sort of bending the "school" thing a little bit this morning. Home Ec is nice, but I sort of put it in the "not a serious academic subject" part of life. Ha! Am I totally wrong!

Here is an actual quote from the start of Maria's new croissant recipe:

"Method. Day 1.

1. Make the poolish with a base temperature of 54 degree Celsius. Take the temperature of the flour and the room (convert to Celsius), and add them together. Then adjust your water temperature (Celsius) so that the sum of the three ingredients is 54 degree Celsius. If you wish, you can now convert the result into Fahrenheit." (Pleiffer, Jacquy. The Art of French Pastry, p. 128)

Are you kidding me? I haven't done Celsius/ Fahrenheit conversions since 10th grade science class! This morning, I'm relearning that task, cheerfully, for love of my kid.

I find that Motherhood makes me more flexible in my thinking and my identity. I've long ago decided that I wasn't a "science girl" or a "math girl" or someone good with tools, exercise, etc. Yet in this role as a Mom, I have to reconnect with skill sets and problem-solving methods that I haven't touched for 25 years.

Motherhood is humbling and hard work. Motherhood is also intellectually challenging!

Failure At Forty

Six weeks ago I turned 40 amid a series of failures. I failed to sell my house. I failed to keep a baby in my body until he was full term. I failed to finish two projects I started as a new business owner. For three weeks, I failed to leave my house because of bed rest.

I failed at teaching. I failed at mothering. I failed at writing. I failed at keeping up my strict Carmelite prayer schedule.

I was so scared to turn 40 because I faced that milestone without any shiny achievements to hang my hat on anymore.

It's so crazy on the opposite side of 40, I feel happier. I don't have anything exciting going on in my life to talk about in shorthand among strangers.

But inside me there is a garden.

I feel good. I feel whole. I'm starting to feel like myself again for the first time since I was five years old.

I am not my house. I am not my bank account. I am not a good mother only when my kids are obedient and intelligent and dressed in clean socks and matching earrings. I am not my "output" as a lawyer, as a writer, as a sexy wife, or as a prayerful Carmelite.

There is a "me" underneath all the changes of my life that act as a constant refrain.

I am little. I am insignificant. I am irreplaceable. I am strong. I am brave.

I love.

I love specific people. I love certain books. I love big ideas. I love classic symphonies and strange indi pop songs. I love the ocean and national parks. I love flowers and kids and small animals. I love surrounding myself with growing things, because I am constantly growing myself.

I am so grateful for a full year of failure. I spent too many hours being tense with anxiety before age 40. The young me spent my time showing off for strangers. Now, I am learning how to show off my talents for one, easy to please person---myself.

Ine Hoem - This Year (Official Video)

What The Heck, Hemingway?

I had a rare moment of quiet on Monday afternoon. All of my kids under age 6 fell asleep in their car seats during our twenty-five mile drive to Swim Team practice.

I dropped off my older kids at the YMCA, and I had a moment of indecision. My next task was to go to Lowe's. It felt ridiculous to wake up three sleeping kids in a matter of seconds to buy stuff at a hardware store.

"Here is a chance for me to take a time-out and nurture myself!" I decided. I pulled into the quiet part of the YMCA parking lot. I put the car into park but left on the heat.

Inside a grocery bag that held all my work-out gear, I had stashed a new library book by Ernest Hemingway. Hemingway had shown up as a character in a movie I'd watched over the weekend. In the movie script, he had great quotes like "Write whatever you want... Only write with courage!"

I didn't cross myself or formally pray before I picked up the new Hemingway book. However, I mentally spoke to an invisible Hemingway before I started reading. "Come on Hemingway! Give me something good! I need you today!"

Before I started reading the open book, I turned my head to check on my kids. Everyone was still sleeping quietly. Each of my kids' skin was still pale and green after battling three weeks of the flu. The landscape of the Allegheny mountains behind their heads was harsh and covered in frost.

Hemingway writes of manly courage among Bull-fighters in Spain or Big Game hunters on the African plains. Yet I didn't know anyone who needed a bigger dose of fortitude than me, a Mother who faced a cold, sick February the year 70% of America's flu shots refused to work.

I started reading an unfamiliar work of Hemingway, "In Our Time." The first chapter called, "Indian Camp" drew me into Hemingway's action oriented world. In the story, a 1910s Northern Michigan doctor and his apprentice son making a house call to help a Native American woman give birth to a baby. I'm overly soaked into the modern viewpoint of obstetrical care because I kept waiting for the heroic doctor to show of some great technique to flip a breech baby after his mother's 48 hours of labor. Yet this is Hemingway's story, where the men are men and the midwifes are fools. The doctor saves the mother and child with an emergency c-section under harsh conditions.

"That's one for the medical journal, George," [the doctor] said. "Doing a Cesarean with a jack-knife and sewing it up with nine-foot, tapered gut leaders."

I winced after reading that bit of dialogue. Hemingway's description of an old fashion c-section is pretty gruesome to think about.

I kept reading. Hemingway doesn't mention the mother's courage to endure a c-section without anesthesia during the slow saw of her inners with a jack-knife. He skips right to worrying about the emotional stress of her surgery the child's father. "Ought to have a look at the proud father. They're usually the worse suffers in these little affairs," the doctor said."

After I read this sentence I nod my head in agreement. "That's true, Hemingway!" I think. I remember my husband's tense face during my c-sections. "It's good to remember the all the fathers in these moments."

Only Hemingway's father is motionless in the top-bunk above his wife and newborn child. He's covered in blood from a knife wound across his throat.

I read this passage in the middle of my seven passenger family minivan. I felt shock and horror. "Who murdered the Dad?" I think. I run through all the past clues from a mere 3 1/2 pages of text in total confusion. "How could someone have sneaked into the house and murdered the Dad? Three doctors were in the same room helping his wife! How could all three of them missed a break-in?"

"Why would someone murder the Dad? What's the motive? Did someone think that the wife was going to die in childbirth? Did the Dad get blamed for contributing to her death?"

I took a break from my thoughts and continued to read Hemingway's book. Then I found the answer in Hemingway's oddly positioned plot-twist.

"Suicide!" No one murdered the Dad. The Dad killed himself rather than bear the uncertainty and pain of waiting during his wife's c-section.

I took a break from reading and looked behind me at my sleeping children. All six of my children were born by c-section.

"What the heck, Hemingway?"

Hemingway's answer to me, on this cold, dreary February day, was "I don't know how you are going to continue to mother six kids, Abigail. Watching you suffer in pain is too much for a man to handle. In my mind's eye, your husband would have committed suicide from despair after your first child's c-section. If you were a character in my novel, you'd now be a widow with a single 11 year old."

I threw the Hemingway book down to my car floor in disgust. "Thanks for nothing, Hemingway!"

I looked up to God in the ceiling and addressed him directly in prayer. "I know that I am not a good writer. This book that I'm writing is going so painfully slow. But I promise, I will never compare myself to Hemingway or Fitzgerald or any of the great minds of the 20th Century. Because it doesn't matter how clean or graceful or action packed the prose is of these great writers. At the bottom of all of these great works, these men have nothing for me!"

Even if I write total junk, I might as well write something for myself. I need courage on a dreary February day in the middle of hands-on motherhood. I'm not going to find inspiration from an author who thinks bull-fighting is brave but c-sections are too hard to handle.

What the heck, Hemingway?

Thoughts On Not Traveling to Paris this Spring

There is a painting of a couple walking in Paris that hangs over my youngest son's crib. It's a sexy, romantic painting. The woman has a flirty swish of a red dress as she walks towards the Eiffel Tower. The man looks like he is holding her hand.

It's not really the type of painting that I'd usually hang over a baby's crib. Yet we've moved our bedroom to the oddly shaped, gabled master bedroom of our Cape Cod home. The flirty painting hangs on the only straight wall in the room. My son's crib is shoved next to the straight wall to maximize space. Hence, the baby sleeps under a flirty painting of Paris, instead of some typical baby motif like marching giraffes.

When I put my son down for a nap yesterday, I saw the painting. I felt a pang of regret. I've never taken my husband to Paris, my favorite city.

Years ago in my 20s, I took a certain viewpoint that traveling Europe should never be done in a rushed Continental Tour. I felt that countries should be explored slowly and fully. For our one year anniversary, I took my husband on a 7 day trip to Ireland, Scotland, and the gloomy town of Manchester. I didn't drive him down to see the Tate Museum in London. I didn't hop the channel to see Paris. As a newlywed at age 27, I thought there would be plenty of time to explore Paris.

Then the babies came. A lot of babies. Now trips to Paris with my husband seem out of reach.

I felt regret that I'd never shown my husband Paris in that brief moment it takes to skillfully transfer a napping baby to his crib. I resolved in those seconds to "Live Paris" in spirit, if not in actual travel plans. In surprise, I realize that we were actually pretty close to the feeling of Paris inside this weirdly shaped bedroom in West Virginia. I buy Anjou Pears from Aldi's which we eat cut up with cheese and cheap white wine. We bake Madelines with real lemon zest. We have time for conversations about Art and stacks of books and a French Coffee press in the tea caddy by our bed.

It's not Paris. Yet it kind of is Paris, non?

Then in the middle of the night, after I woke up to nurse one baby and to sooth the nightmares of toddler, I started reading Travel Writing instead of going back to sleep. I found myself reading about another writer, in Paris, who wished he was in West Virginia as the parent of six sleeping children. (Okay, maybe not six children, since that is excessive marital love to most people--but he did wish that he was the father of one, beautiful, sleeping son). The "I wish I was over there" circle seemed complete.

Here is the passage from Peter LaSalle's "Au Train De Vie" where he describes the loneliness that he felt after his nephew's departure from Paris.

"Which meant that when he left, I drifted into a funk for a few days. I missed his company. The many rooms of the apartment seemed beyond empty, and then the all-too-predictable doubts and the big questions set in. You know, that recurrent self-interrogation that perhaps many writers getting a bit older tend to conduct. And had I spent all too much of my own life sitting in a room alone and conjuring up in my fiction-with the endless flow of words and words and more words still-merely some phantom life, not real in the least and surely as incorporeal as the moonlight on the complicated mansard rooftops sprouting their ancient chimney pots I'd often stare at outside the apartment in Paris on those summer nights? It all brought up memories of past girlfriends I probably should have married along the way, starting a family of my own, that kind of dangerous thinking. (Best American Travel writing, page 68)."

Overheard On March For Life Day

My youngest kid is cute. He gets a lot of "you're adorable comments" from strangers. Yesterday at the grocery store, a cashier next to me started cooing over him. I smiled at her. I told her his age. Then I turned back to my work of punching in my security code for my debit card.

My back was turned to the woman when she said "I'll never have another baby! I got my tubes tied after my second one."

I felt shock.

I looked up at the other cashier who was handling my check-out. She nodded as calmly to her co-workers "I sterilized myself" comment as if we were jointly discussing the low price of Florida oranges this winter. I imagined her saying "Yep. Tying your tubes. That's what you do after your second child!"

I turned to look at the woman. She was making eye contact with  my 14 week old with a look of total adoration. She reached over and gently tickled his flannel shirt. I've seen hundreds of people interact with my new babies over the years. This cashier's interaction with my son seemed usually calm and loving.

I looked at the cashier's face. She was so young. She looked about age 25.

I felt too shaken to talk. I paid for my groceries and left.

I was at Aldi's, the cheap grocery store. I had borrowed the quarter for cart from grocery store and struggled a little with the process of returning the coin after check-out. I was awkwardly holding a car seat with one hand and a two year old's hand in the other. I verbally tried to convince a 4 year old that we now need to go through the "Enter" door instead of the "Exit" door. The cashier who made the tube tied comment rushed out to rescue us. She held out her hand to take my returned quarter to spare me the work of coming further into the store.

"I was watching you," she said.

I felt my heart tear even more.

As a first time Mom of three kids, I used to do my March for Life inside of the streets of Washington D.C. As a second time Mom of three, I do my pro-life marching in ordinary trips to the grocery store.

St. Teresa of Avila, pray for us.

Happy March for Life Day!

On March 11, 2014, my son John measured only 3 centimeters at 6 weeks and 1 day since his conception. He had no discernible heartbeat or a fetal pole. His appearance was simply a smear of black against a light grey in a grainy ultrasound photo. Yet given more time, my son John turned into this handsome guy!

Life is a miracle! Treasure it!

Paddington Opens Tonight

The movie Paddington opens this weekend! Please email me if you enjoyed this movie too. One more night to enter my Paddington stuffed bear giveaway!

Paddington Movie Review

Help your family discover the joys of being British when the movie Paddington opens on Friday, January 16th. Based on the beloved book series about a talking bear discovered in London's Paddington Station, this well-crafted movie is visual story telling at its best. The slapstick plot is quirky and fun. The acting chops of Downton Abbey's Hugh Bonneville and the great Nicole Kidman are on full display.  The character of Paddington himself combines a warmly acted voice-over with beautifully drawn animation.

The standout feature of this movie is the unique cinematography. Moviegoers are treated to a full tour of London. The still shots between scenes are so beautiful, I felt like I was actually turning the pages of a story book. Visual puns are everywhere. Because so many of the movie's jokes are visual, there is a special sense of community when an entire theater of children and adults laugh together in unison.

For example, Paddington is a bear who always wears a marmalade sandwich under his hat "in case of emergencies." Paddington kindly offers to share his marmalade sandwich with a single pigeon, only to become flustered when an entire flock shows up to demand their share. In another scene, Paddington leaves behind his adopted family and lingers alone in front of Buckingham Palace. Paddington takes off his rain soaked hat and starts to mournfully eat a soggy marmalade sandwich. Suddenly, a thick club sandwich with an English royal crest appears in front of him. The Palace Guard has taken pity on poor Paddington. The Palace Guard then removes his tall Bearskin hat to reveal a tall thermos balancing perfectly on his head.

These witty British jokes are what makes Paddington a cut above the normal family movie fare. Paddington drinks tea at "elevenses" and informs us that the British have over 100 words to describe rain. Paddington is a well mannered bear who tips his hat while accidentally stealing a dog in order to ride an escalator for his first time in the London Underground.

The movie Paddington carries some gentle messages inside its jokes. Families should stick together. A bear will increase the likelihood of property damage by 4,000% percent. To welcome a stranger is an act of charity that never goes unrewarded.

Thanks to Allied Faith and Family, I get to share the joy of Paddington with my readers! I have 2 Paddington Bear stuffed animals to giveaway. To enter this giveaway, please click on the raffle entry below before Saturday, January 17, 2015. Enjoy!

(Winners will have an American address only, please).

Paddington Bear Movie Giveaway

Paddington - Behind the Scenes

Tearoom Clip - Paddington - In Cinemas January 16

Je Suis Charlie

Freedom of Speech

My heart is in Paris today. My husband said "It's really bad when the terrorist are going against France and Canada?" It's like we almost expect it to go against America and Great Britain. When poor, peaceful Canada is attacked it feels like the world is extra nutty.

This week my husband and I watched "The Interview" which is the movie from Sony that an internet hacker from either North Korea or a disgruntled domestic employee threatened 9/11 style attacks if it was released in a public movie theater. We bought it for $5.99 off our cable movie options.

It felt like an important act of Protest to buy this movie the first week it became available. I'm not usually a Seth Rogen fan, but I am a fan of Free Speech.  We're already getting journalists beheaded in the Middle East. I don't want Hollywood to fall victim to fear of making comedies about Dictators.

Making Peace With Uncertainty

I don't want to take down the Christmas tree in my living room. My Christmas decorations feel so "hard won" this year. We had not put up any Christmas decorations during Advent because we were supposed to be fully moved out of my house by December 19th. When the deal feel apart on December 18, I defiantly drove out to our favorite Christmas Tree farm and bought a Christmas tree that Saturday. The place had already closed down for the season. We were some of the last stragglers to claim a tree.

Then I went to Target that Saturday and bought a box of glitzy ornaments at 30% off. Every ornament we had was sent to a storage locker in May. I found Christmas Village and three nativity sets. However, the box where the stockings were packed didn't appear until January 3rd.

I can't believe that I am a Mother of six kids under the age of 12 and I almost gave up having Christmas in my house this year in order to sell my home. That decision seems so nutty in retrospect. I was telling myself that I was so foolish all Christmas break.

Then the Arctic Chill hit Washington DC. My husband left for work at 6 AM. At 10:30 AM his co-worker called to say that he never made it into work. I knew that my husband had lost his cellphone the day before so I wasn't immediately panicked that he wasn't returning calls on his cellphone. But we both thought that 4 1/2 hours was too long to be stuck in a traffic jam. We decided to officially panic at 11 AM when his commute would have taken more than 5 hours.

At 10:45 AM my anxiety level was up to an 8. I couldn't even imagine what I was going to do when the 11 AM deadline hit. I knew that getting into my minivan with young kids on an icy road days was really foolish. I also felt like I had to do something. I started calling hospitals to see if my husband was a patient. I called 3 hospitals in three different cities. He wasn't admitted. The worse part was that my husband's 70 mile commute is so long, I worried that I was missing a hospital between our home and his work.

At 11:03, my husband called me from work! He had made it. His commute really took 5 hours. There were endless accidents along I-70. The roads were super icy. For some reason they didn't put out the salt trucks ahead of the storm this year. (Is that because of budget cutbacks?)

I would pretty much do anything I could so that my husband would not have to drive 3+ hours each day to work. It feels strange to know that we can't move into the community that we want to live in because of money--which is pretty much directly tied to my not working. At the same time, I'm hugging this gorgeous newborn son. I know that I couldn't have had this priceless baby if I was still working as an attorney.

So its another day on the cross. I had breakfast with my husband at 5:30 AM this morning. He walked the dog for me because he was already dressed for the extreme cold. We have 2 more days until we hear back from the investor who had a house showing with us on Tuesday.

Go or stay.

I'm prepare for either path, but I still don't know what is happening.

It's hard to follow God sometimes because I often really don't know what is going to happen in my life. "I know the plans that I have for you, plans for good." Whatever happens, 2015 will be a good year.

Update on Turning 40

Anniversary grief. That was the feeling that I couldn't find a name for in my last post. I grew up with an extended family of alcoholics. My birthday is on New Years Eve, a time of year that is often marked by excess drinking, sad Holiday memories, and reflective New Years Resolutions. There was so much inner chaos going within the family that there was little mental space for my caretakers to devote to scheduling a child's birthday party.

I've spent a lot of years feeling neglected and overlooked as a child on my birthday. As an young adult, I've coped with this "anniversary grief" by making elaborate traveling plans on my birthday. I've celebrated my birthday by taking New Years Eve trips to Ireland, South Africa, London and Paris. After I got married, I cut the travel budget to clothe young babies. Then I moved onto making elaborate birthday party plans with friends and family within my own house.

This year 40 caught me poor and naked. I didn't have energy in December. I didn't money or time. I worried that on this anniversary of my birth, my feelings of grief would pull me under.

Instead, my birthday was the best ever! I had a birthday that was calm and peaceful and happy. I cried a little, but it didn't ruin my day. I had a great one hour prayer session with God. I read a great non-fiction book. I had a luxurious silent lunch alone at Appleebees. I read some great emails from blog readers and texts from old friends. Then I came home to a candlelight dinner made by my husband. Afterwards, I got a trio of funny cards from my kids and gifts of chocolates and a Target bracelet that says "Believe in the beauty of your dreams!"

Because I'm a 40 year old who is still nursing at night, I feel asleep in my bed at 9:30 PM. My 11 year old woke me and my husband up at 11:50 PM. We watched the count down at Times Square as a whole family. We had elaborate discussions about music and fashion. We talked about our resolutions for the New Year. It was really, really lovely.

Thank you!

Thoughts About Turning 40

Tomorrow I turn 40. I'm really having bad thoughts about this birthday. It's so small to admit, but I don't want to grow old. For me, it's hard to look at the gap from where I am--which currently feels like no where--compared to where I thought I'd be.

When I was a new mother at age 30 (with a 2 year old daughter and a newborn son) there was a wife of a photographer friend in Madison, Wisconsin who invited me to her huge 40th Birthday party. I had just quit practicing law and I was searching about for new female role models. I looked around at her life as a party guest and decided "This is what I want too!" She and her artist husband had moved away from Chicago into the smaller city of Madison. They had this beautiful old house. They had two kids and were making a life on a small salary from their artistic talents. They had lots of fun friends. They were also Catholics who spoke lovingly about their son's baptism and their uncle who was a priest.

I'm turning 40 tomorrow and I haven't planned a party. I've been in the middle of this house selling trauma and didn't know where I'd be living on my birthday. I didn't know if I'd be in my current house, or five hours away staying at my parents, or moving into a new house without any appliances.

I'm turning 40. Not only is there is no party, but there are very few friends in my life. I have a few, precious friends. I have some interesting acquaintances. The rest feels like this barren loneliness. This year, I went on bed rest for four weeks. I've had more solitude and then more loneliness (which feels to me like empty "by-my-self-ness" without feeling close to God) in 2014 than ever before.

My 30s was rough. I lost a lot of friends. It was hard to become a Catholic in that way. I lost a lot of secular friends because they were really mad that I chose to quit my job, have more kids, and go to church more regularly. Sometimes I chose to end friendships from my 20s that became a negative influence on me. But sometimes people just flipped out.

In my 30s I also ended some intense friendships with fellow Catholic Moms. I went through a period as a Mom of 3 at age 32 when I was lost all these friendships with women from college and law school. That loss of identity as a fellow "career girl" really hit me. In response, I grabbed onto these friendships with other Catholic Moms who looked like me on the outside--stay at home Moms with lots of children. I rushed people into "best friend status" way too quickly. I got burned out. One of the most painful things is to slowly realize over and over again "Wow! I don't have anything in common with you!"

My spirituality as a Catholic is in Carmel. Carmel is chill! I'm a contemplative. I'm still. I'm deep. I'm patient. I'm relaxed. I'm zealous for God--but I wait for him to lead me in small quiet ways.

I'm hopeful that I've healed enough from co-dependency (which I define personally as when I act like a chameleon and become whoever I think people want me to be, instead of who I am honestly as myself) to start making friendships that are based on the unchangeable characteristics of my heart--instead of the surface things like "same college, same job, same Swim Team, same church."

I've had some moments of authentic connection in 2014 that are so beautiful they bring tears to my eyes. I hope 2015 bring me more of those moments.

Another hard thing about turning 40 is that I haven't finished my book. I'm not even close. I realize that I can't blame the new babies or the house move. The real problem is me! I don't place enough priority on doing my own writing work each day. One of the traits of codependency is "Have difficulty getting started, meeting deadlines and completely projects." I have trouble with completing my book task--especially since this is a goal that I set for myself and I'm handling by myself without the structure imposed by outside accountability. In recovery I need to "avoid procrastination by meeting my responsibilities in a timely manner." So that is a goal for me in my 40s. I'd like to avoid procrastination in my writing, in my business projects, in my homeschooling teaching life, and in my house cleaning.

Tomorrow I turn 40. I don't have a big party planned. I don't have a new house. I don't have a book finished or a movie review website or some new business stationary.

I do have a really nice life. I have a measure of inner peace that been really hard won. I have a strong, sexy marriage. I have six unique kids whose company I really enjoy.  On the good days, I feel valuable. I feel like there are not enough people in the world who stop to enjoy pretty sunsets or who like to watch movies or who cheerfully talk to toddlers in the Target checkout line. My current life is not at all the "future valuable social contribution" I talked about making during my Rhodes Scholarship Interview at age 22. Yet wisdom sometimes comes with age. I look forward to becoming more peaceful, more calm and to have more space to easily love myself and others in the future.