Holy Days

Today is my baby brother's 27th birthday. I can hardly believe it. I was 17 when he was born, so that makes me really old. (Hopefully, you're too tired to do the math.) Piper, whose real name is Anthony though he'll always be Piper to me, is a writer/waiter currently living out in LA with two of our brothers. He'll head back to Cape Cod for the summer, unless we can figure out a way to trap him here in Ohio on the way back. I'm thinking a pretty Catholic girl might do the trick. He's polishing up what he hopes to be the final draft of his latest novel, a beautifully spiritual story called 33 Miracles. I can't wait 'til it is published so I can share it with you. And I would say that even if he weren't my baby brother.

Saturday, the feast of St Joseph, was the tenth anniversary of our first adoption. I can hardly believe that either. I've shared the story here of meeting our little Mariana Clare, formerly Ba Shi Qi...it remains one of the most memorable days of my life. Is it possible that ten years have really passed since then? Mei Mei has grown into a sweet, gentle yet strong girl who feels things deeply and cherishes her relationships above all. She is the first to notice when someone is hurting and and immediately reaches out to comfort the person. She is also the first to answer the phone. She LOVES to cook and bake and would gladly watch the Food Network all day long, if only we had cable. Whenever we are with our homeschooling friends, she can usually be found with a baby on her hip.

Of all of my beautiful children, Mariana is the one who is probably the most like me (except for the cooking part). The immediate bond I experienced that very first day, ten years ago, has deepened and strengthened with time. Mei Mei is very social but still most content right by my side, which nurtures my soul more than I can say. She taught me that my heart really was big enough for this crazy, wonderful thing called adoption, and for that I am forever grateful.

A Bit of Wonderful Normal

I offer you the words of a guest writer today, my gifted younger brother Jonathan. Last summer his beautiful wife Bridget was diagnosed with cancer. Surgery removed what we hope and pray were all of the deadly cells, and during the past several months she has been undergoing exhausting rounds of chemotherapy as a follow-up precaution. She is battling hard and, I believe, beating this disease. But needless to say, this terrifying ordeal has taken its toll on their young family...physically, mentally, and emotionally. They are blessed with a five-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Mary Maeve, who is the sweetest little girl you could ever hope to meet and a tremendous source of light to them during these troubled times.

Yesterday Jon sent the following reflection to me, and I asked him if I could share it here. Even if you do not know my brother and his family, I think you will be touched by his thoughts. It's a message of hope and survival and a powerful reminder to celebrate the precious little moments we are given each day, something we all need to hear during these busy days of preparation for the coming of our Savior. I deeply appreciate your prayers for Bridget, Jonathan, and sweet Mary Maeve. They are such an inspiration to me.

Make today count. In the best of ways.


When I ran the Cleveland Marathon in 2000, it was difficult. And, obviously, with each passing mile the journey got tougher. Every few miles, however, there was a comfort station to bring water and much needed, if brief, comfort.

Today, Mary Maeve and I made 10 rolls of kolache. Sometimes we do it at Easter, but it always happens at Christmas; this year was going to be no different. There is so much joy in the process. Christmas music plays the whole time, I still recall so much about learning the recipe from Marnie [our beloved grandmother] over 10 years ago, and love telling Mary Maeve about what happened those two nights and other things about Marnie.

Mary Maeve helps more each year. This year, she sifted flour, separated egg yolks from whites and mixed the yeast/milk/vanilla/sugar/egg mixture with the flour and butter. Then she got mad when I tried, a second time, to show her how to roll the dough after spreading the filling; apparently, showing her once was enough. I can't remember the exact wording, but when I put my fingers near the edge of the dough again, she pushed them away and said something like, "Daddy, I know how to do it!" Amazingly, our5-year-old does. (It must be that Montessori education.)

We sampled a part of the almond batch and the raspberry batch before Maeve finally went to bed and fell asleep about halfway through prayers. Later, as I wrapped up and labelled each roll, I thanked God for a beautifully normal day. Sure, Bridget still needs to sleep longer than we'd like. And her headwrap is a constant reminder that life is changed forever. But it didn't bother me as much tonight.

God puts comfort stations exactly where we need them.

It Wasn't All Bad

Since I wrote a bit about how difficult Mother's Day was on the inside, I think it's only fair to show you how wonderful it was on the outside. I awoke to find this beautiful display in my kitchen, having been only slightly tipped off by Mei Mei's incessant questioning, "Have you been downstairs yet?"

Here's a close-up of that thoughtful bouquet of Sprees. My sweetheart knows me well. While I always appreciate chocolate, I LOVE Sprees. Odd, I know. Unfortunately, this photo was taken after Elena, Valya, and Jacinta had already been consumed. In my defense, I did share, and at 12 shared Sprees a pop (2X6), the rolls don't last long.

My favorite wildflowers! Aren't they beautiful? After Mass, I asked Jim to take a picture of me with my babies, the ones who give me the honor of being a mom. Yes, Valya is really that tall, and no, Elena is not. :) I have no idea what Mariana thought was so funny, but obviously Charlie and Jacinta did not agree. Elena says they remind her of the couple in American Gothic, minus the pitchfork, of course.

In the middle of the day, I gave myself a gift. I snuck out to a local sewing shop that is going out of business. Gorgeous, gorgeous fabrics, all 30% off. After over an hour of agonizing decision making, I walked out with 30 different patterns, mostly quarters. I bought some I plan to use for Maggie's quilt block; some I hope will work for Chere Mere's square; some yellows, pinks, and greens I want to use to make a quilted runner for my little girls' dresser; a couple of cute Western prints I intend to include in a cowboy quilt for Charlie eventually (sooner rather than later if he has his way...why did I ever tell him my plans for them?); a few florals to make sweet birthday surprises for my quilting gang; and some simply because I thought they were pretty. I even bought a yard and a half of that black and red batik butterfly to sew a skirt for myself this summer. Or some summer. Yes, I am a sucker and a dreamer when it comes to fabric. And an economic peril in a sewing shop that is going out of business.

All in all, an awesome day. Thank you, Jim, Elena, Valya, Nastia, Mariana, Jacinta, and Charlie. You rock my world and make my life so very precious. I am blessed beyond measure.

Thankful Thursday, The Thanksgiving Edition

Yes, I know that it is Advent now and that Thanksgiving is a week old. I'm fairly sure you are aware that I have never been known for my punctuality.

This Thanksgiving I was reminded once again of just how much I have to be thankful for.

For my husband and my children. For dear family and friends. For good food and a warm home. For the security of my husband's job and the ability to afford insurance. For kind police officers. For life itself.

I must be a bit dense, because the Lord seems to use dramatic means to remind me of such blessings. Again and again.

Unlike last November, I was fairly relaxed heading toward Turkey Day. In fact, I was downright relieved. It's been an exhausting semester filled with way too many outside activities, and I relished the thought of five days of relative quiet. Plus, my amazing sister offered to host the dinner this year, and all that she asked of me were pumpkin pies and a sweet potato souffle. How easy is that?

I was feeling so relaxed that I decided to take all six of my gang to a great thrift store on Wednesday afternoon. It's forty-five miles away, way out in the country, but it really is a great thrift store, and on the last Wednesday of the month everything is discounted by fifty percent. Since gas is so cheap these days, I figured, "why not?" Actually, at the last moment, I had second thoughts...I was feeling tired and I did still have to make those pies. But rather than face the horrific reactions of five girls ready to shop, I loaded everyone into the van. I should have listened to those second thoughts.

A few hours later, we were back in the van with a trash bag full of half-price sweaters and corduroys. It was a little past six, already very dark, and the kids started snoozing. I was cruising along, listening to one of my favorite cds*, when BAM...the air bags exploded and the van swerved into the left lane before I was able to regain control and steer us to the shoulder on the right.

We hit a deer. A big one.

Needless to say, it was more than a bit traumatic and chaotic. Steam was rising from the engine through the glow of the hazard lights, and Elena thought we were on fire. As I calmly reassured her that we weren't, my mind frantically wondered if we could be and how quickly I could get all six kids out of the van. The four youngest were terrified and sobbing uncontrollably. Nastia had banged her nose hard against the side window. Thankfully, my cell phone was charged, so I called Jim, my Knightley, who calmly assured me that he would be there in twenty minutes.

Shortly after I called, the most endearing police officer stopped behind us. The kind of police officer who would soothe your nerves with a promise to take care of you in his sweet southern drawl.** The kind of police officer who would ask you for the record how fast you had been driving and you would say, "about 70," and he would say, "about 65?" and you would say, "yes, 65, thank you." The kind of police officer who would drive your husband and two daughters home because you could only fit five in your husband's Scion.*** That kind of police officer, thanks be to God.

We had planned to have Thanksgiving brunch at the home of some close friends and then make the seventy-minute drive to my sister's for dinner. What to do now, since our insurance didn't cover a rental car? Jim decided to drive half of us to my sister's in the morning and then come back to drive the rest of us there. When we called our friends to cancel brunch, they insisted we take one of their cars. That's the kind of thoughtful friends we have. When we left my sister's house on Friday (after a scrumptious Thanksgiving meal, an entertaining game of charades, and a peaceful walk through the woods), she insisted that we trade our car for her van, for as long as we need it. That's the kind of generous sister I have.

I loved that van. It was only five years old, but it had over ninety-five thousand miles on it, miles that took us across America and throughout most of Europe. So many memories locked in that vehicle. Memories of crying babies and laughing children, of beautiful landscapes and desolate highways, of songs sung and rosaries prayed. Trusting our Toyota, we expected to get at least another ninety-five thousand miles out of it. How could I be driving along one minute and then, BAM, the next minute my van is gone?

The instant after I wondered that question, I realized with fear and trembling that it could have been...BAM, the next minute my children are gone. If another car had been traveling behind us (and there had been a fair amount of traffic on that four lane divided highway), it could not have avoided hitting us. If I had seen the deer and braked too suddenly, we could have tipped and rolled. It's going to cost us some inconvenience and a lot of money to replace that minivan...big deal. The precious lives of my children are absolutely irreplaceable. My van may be gone, but my kids are here, with nary a scratch to show for it. What else could possibly matter?

This Thanksgiving I was reminded once again of just how much I have to be thankful for...for life itself and for the lives of those I love.

Thank You, Jesus.


*Sadly, the car battery died before I had the presence of mind to eject my cd. Happily, Elena had previously downloaded it onto the computer. God is good. And so are teenage daughters.

**Elena claims that I slipped into a southern drawl each time I answered that sweet police officer, but I think that she must have hit her head.

***Valya and Nastia were quite excited about their first ride in the back of a police car, especially since every word of their (captivating, I'm sure) conversation was recorded. I told them that their first ride will also be their last ride.

Ohio Will Never Be Known for Its Beaches

But considering who shared our beach blanket yesterday

(my beautiful sister Kiki and her four crazy, lovable kids),

there's nowhere else I'd rather be.

I Taught Them Everything They Know

Um, yeah.

Don't miss this inspiring post by my younger-but-wiser sister, Sarah.

And check out this creative, thoughtful piece by my Lil Bro, brand new to blogging. It's very long but well worth the read.

No, I am not breaking my blog fast. Just doing my job as a big sister, watching over them and all. ;)

Reality Check

Saturday was not exactly one of my better days.

It started out on a good note. In two weeks, Mariana will be receiving the Sacrament of Reconciliation for the first time, so Saturday morning she and I attended the CCD class at our parish to help her get ready for that big moment. I just love the innocence and sweetness of this age, especially as they are preparing to receive the Sacraments. And one-on-one time with one of my babies is always a treat.

On the way home, my day took a turn for the worse, when we ran out of gas on a busy four lane road. I was driving our brand new little Scion hatchback, which Jim usually drives, and it never occurred to me to check the gas gauge. My dear husband had been running late the night before, decided not to stop to fill the tank, and forgot to tell me before we left for the church. These things happen to parents of six children.

When I first realized something was wrong, I noticed a driveway into an industrial parking lot, and for a split second, I contemplated pulling into it. Why I kept going, I'll never know, and believe me, I have asked myself that question a million times since then. The car slowly rolled to a stop as I finally looked down at the dashboard and understood what had happened. There was a curb and no way to get off the road, so I turned on my hazard lights and tried to call Jim.

Cell phone dead. Of course.

Charger in van. Of course.

Think quick, Diane, what to do? We were sitting on an upwards incline, so in between traffic cycles I let the car roll backwards a little, hoping to find a way to maneuver us onto that driveway about fifty yards back. I knew that once I had the car parked safely off the road, Mariana and I could walk to the gas station we had just passed.

The car was stopped. I was looking backwards, waiting for the oncoming traffic to pass us, and suddenly noticed a Cadillac rapidly approaching. It neither slowed nor moved to the left, so I pressed hard on my horn. WHAM! In the blink of an eye, that big black car knocked us right off the road.

Mariana immediately started crying and screaming for her daddy. I made sure that she wasn't hurt and assured her that I would call Jim as soon as I could. Several very kind people stopped to help, which turned out to be a very good thing, because the elderly man driving the Cadillac was confused about what had happened. He hadn't realized my car was stopped. He accused me of braking suddenly in front of him to make a turn and denied that my hazard lights had been on. He became very agitated and defensive. I really don't think he should have been driving in the first place.

I borrowed a cell phone to call Jim and the police. Three police cars, an ambulance, and a fire truck arrived on the scene, which was rather alarming to my poor husband as he drove up the street. Several of the witnesses had stayed to offer their report to the officers, and all expressed concern over the welfare of my child crying in the back seat. Mariana was clearly upset but otherwise not seriously hurt. Eventually the driver of the other car calmed down, realized what he had done, and was sincerely apologetic. Thankfully, he has insurance, which will pay for all of the repairs.

I had a lot of time to sit and wait. Waiting for the police to arrive. Waiting for Jim to arrive. Waiting for the police to complete the report. Waiting for Jim to return with a can of gasoline. A whole lot of time to sit and wait and think.

Of course, everyone's first response in such a situation is to say that the important thing is that no one was hurt. I was grateful that no one was hurt. But once I was past that initial spark of gratitude, it was just too easy to start feeling sorry for myself.

I re-lived the scene a hundred times in my mind. I questioned why. I thought about what I could have done---should have done---differently. I thought about all of the things I would have to do in the coming days, things I hadn't factored into my already way too busy schedule. Calling the insurance companies, getting an appraisal of the damage, picking up a rental car, finding a body shop. I knew our brand new little car would never be the same.

I was bothered. And I wouldn't let it go.

Late last night, my sister remarked how amazing it was that our car hadn't received more damage. The other, much bigger, car had been totalled; our, much smaller, car had a smashed bumper and a slightly bent frame. There is very little space between the rear bumper and the back seat where Mariana had been sitting. We both agreed that our guardian angels must have been protecting us.

Suddenly, my mind flashed to a far different scenario, and I was given a glimpse of what might have been. My beautiful child was wailing, covered in blood, gasping for breath. I saw myself struggling to comfort and save her. I witnessed a funeral and then the impossible, unthinkable task of living my life without her. These horribly painful imaginings flooded my heart.

In an instant, I found myself overwhelmingly grateful for that smashed bumper and all that it had to teach me. The body of my car will easily be rebuilt, but the beauty of my daughter's soul could never be replaced. What an incredible blessing she is, an exquisite gift I should never take for granted. People are more important than things, my mother used to say. Infinitely more important.

Sometimes it takes a bit of inconvenience to remind us.


***Just want to let you know that my blogging will be light during Lent. I'll be writing and reading just one day a week, and giving up reading the beautiful blogs I love to visit is the far greater sacrifice. I don't believe I'm being called to fast completely---my online friends provide too much encouragement and support for that---but I do need to re-focus and re-balance my crazy life. I am, however, not fasting from email. ;)

A Prayer Request

Remember this sweet guy, whose story I told here? He has a couple of meetings and interviews in the next couple of days, and we're all hoping it will lead to a great new job for him. If you could send up a prayer on his behalf, I would really appreciate it. Please pray for his safety too as he is navigating himself in an unfamiliar city---and it is really cold there.

All at the same time, I am nervous and excited and worried about him being so far from home. But this really is a fabulous opportunity for him, so I'm trying to let go of me, be happy for him, and trust the rest to our Lord and His Mother. They know best anyway and can take far better care of him than I ever could.

Thanks for your prayers and for the encouraging words you leave in my comment box. They make my day!

Because It's Never Too Late to Have Fun with Sugar

My sister and her lovable kids visited us for a few days this week. After attending a memorable musical performance about the midnight ride of Paul Revere, we headed to the local rec center for a few hours of ice skating. I'm sure I don't need to tell you just who was the most impressive skater out there, although Charlie did hold his own (his own orange pylon, that is).

The real fun began, however, when we went home and started building. Yes, for the second year in a row, we made gingerbread houses! (I guess I should really call them graham cracker houses ;) I sense a tradition coming on. Charlie has been begging politely asking to make them since the beginning of Advent (he remembered!), but somehow we never quite got around to it during the Christmas season. Well, it's not Candlemas yet...and the best part about procrastinating waiting...the candy was half-price!

Posing with their masterpieces, these happy cousins are wearing the shirts they designed during our Christmas Family Reunion. It is so interesting to see their individual personalities portrayed in all of their creations. We had elaborate houses with chimneys and birdhouses, and we had simple ones with flat roofs and sparse candy (because it had been eaten in the making, of course). We even had a stable created by my favorite horse lover, Nastia. (Poor Valya's kept falling apart, so she crushed and consumed it before the photo could be taken.) So much fun!

Speaking of fun, guess what is sitting by my front door....Yes, the annual family letter we send out in celebration of the Chinese New Year is complete and awaiting its ride to the post office tomorrow, eager to begin the journey to family and friends. For once in my life, I am early. ;)

Graduation Day!

He made it!


And I'm so very proud of him.

My Dancing Skating Queen

On Wednesday, my sister and her kids joined us for an afternoon of roller skating, because her kids can simply never get enough of my kids AND because she will look for any excuse to drive sixty miles to go shopping with me afterwards (wink, wink---she actually abhors shopping, especially with one who cannot make decisions easily). Weeks ago, within seconds of hearing that a home school skating party was planned, Karen called to reserve spots for both of our families without ever consulting me. If she had consulted me, I would have told her that I would be busy washing my hair that day.

After a leisurely gourmet lunch (pb&j's snarfed down in five minutes while the maternal chorus of "EAT! EAT!" shrieked in the background), we headed for Skate World. The rink is less than three miles from my house, a ten minute drive max. In an attempt to shave a tenth of a mile off of the trip, I decided to follow Mapquest directions instead of taking the familiar route I know well. We ended up on a twenty-five minute driving tour of the area, including a three minute stop in a medical park so I could figure out where the doggy dog we were and then still go the wrong way. The highlight of the tour was driving by the middle school where Jenna Bush was visiting. No kidding. Karen said her kids were quite impressed. I don't know what my kids thought because they were eerily silent as I sputtered various (clean) expletives from the driver's seat.

At last we arrived, just as all of the other homeschoolers were arriving, about fifteen minutes late. It took us another fifteen minutes to make it through the entrance. As I walked through those heavy metal doors after we paid, I was immediately transported in my mind to the Cortland Skateland of my youth, flooded by memories of dim lights, blasting music, filthy matted carpet, sweaty teenage strangers, and watching the Couples Skate from the sidelines while my little sister circled each loop with a different boy. I knew that I should have stayed home to wash my hair.

Weeding our way through the happy crowd, Karen and I dragged our kids over to the skate counter to rent roller blades for Charlie and Zachary (because they don't have their own skates yet), Valya (because she's outgrown hers) and me (because Princess Elena has a sneaky way of brainwashing me and had assumed ownership of mine). Elena and Marissa didn't follow us over to the counter but instead sat down with some of Elena's friends to put on their roller blades. Within seconds, Elena ditched her ten-year-old cousin to enter the rink with her friends and left Marissa with nothing but the helpful advice of "Go find your mother." Ah, teenagers.

I am obviously quite inexperienced as a skating mom. After plugging my nose, closing my eyes, counting to ten, and pretending not to notice the stench as I put on the rented blades that have been worn by who knows how many other feet, I soon realized that the other mothers were in the center area of the rink in their street shoes while they tried to hold up their fumbling little skaters. How very wise of them. I quickly abandoned my rented roller blades to squeeze into Elena's funky tennies, since mine were behind the counter holding the place of the stinky skates, lest I decide to steal the stinky skates to become my own forever.

I'm thankful that it was a safe, Christian home schooling environment, because all of my kids except Charlie immediately took off to skate on their own, and honestly I lost track of them from time to time. Elena sauntered the rink casually with her friends, chatting contentedly throughout the afternoon. Valya, who loves all things sparkly and glamorous, was quite enamored by the disco globe hanging from the ceiling, but its beauty didn't detract her too long from chasing some of the teen boys we know. Nastia and Jonah raced each other recklessly both around the skating circle and in the carpeted areas. Marissa, Ethan, and Mariana were much more civilized about it all. Charlie and Zachary hung desperately to their mothers' arms. You know the look...they'd be standing very still, moving across the floor by inches, and then suddenly their feet were wildly scrambling as they tried to keep their balance. Very quickly the two of them were content to sit on the side and watch with a bag of popcorn and a bottle of Gatorade. I didn't mind.

Every once in a while I would notice a blur pass by, and that little blur will now forever be known as our Skating Queen. As skaters twice her size awkwardly struggled to keep from falling, my tiny five-year-old Qiu Qiu whirred confidently around the rink, gracefully weaving in and out, passing those around her. She would come charging full-speed up to Karen, the little boys, and me standing in the center, and just as we braced ourselves for the impending collision, she would skillfully stop exactly where she intended. She was amazing. And she thoroughly enjoyed every minute, a huge smile spanning her sweet face all afternoon. I am convinced that if she had been an only child, with her natural skill and determination, she might have trained for the Olympics someday. But...she got stuck with us, a large homeschooling family that makes visits to Skate World once a year at best. As my sister remarked, rather than the Olympic athlete she might have been, Jacinta gets to become a saint instead.

Life is good. Embrace it. And make this day count. :)

image courtesty of britannica.com

Beautiful News about Another Amazing Young Man

Our Favorite Soldier Is Home!
Our nephew Sean has been serving our country in Iraq for the past fifteen months. Today we received the beautiful news that he is safely back at his duty station in Alaska. Thank you, dear Lord! He'll be arriving in Ohio on Christmas Eve to spend the week with all of my extended family---and that's by far the best gift we'll receive this year.

We were blessed to spend a few days with Sean this summer during his long overdue "mid"-tour leave from Iraq. He was relaxed and happy and very patient with all of the kids...who just could not get enough of him. I suspect the tragedies he has faced overseas have given him a deeper appreciation for the simpler joys of life. Following that visit, my husband wrote the following words to my sister and brother-in-law:

I wanted to tell you how impressed I was with your eldest son. I already knew he had character: his joining the Army during such a difficult time in our history told me that. But I really loved watching him deal with all the kids, especially responding to their constant attacks with squirt guns, water balloons, and buckets. A specific incident will always stick in my mind. Sean was fighting off one of many water attacks armed only with a "super soaker" when Charlie charged after him a with a half-full pitcher of water. "Charged" is probably overly dramatic, since Charlie could barely carry it. Sean, while still firing at his other attackers, dropped down on one knee so that Charlie could pour his pitcher over him.

How do some kids turn out so amazingly well?

I can't think of a finer tribute for this brave and beautiful young soldier. Welcome home, Sean. We love you!

We'll keep praying for you, for all of the men and women who sacrifice and risk so much to defend our nation, and for their families waiting at home with anxious hearts. Jesus, we trust in Thee.

My Amazing Little Brother

In the spring of my senior year of high school, my youngest brother was born. He was my parents' ninth and final child; I was their first. Out of the nine of us, my father only chose the name for two---his oldest son, named after a priest, and his youngest son, named after St. Anthony. He had been praying to this beloved saint for years and had promised to name a son for him, but the previous three babies had been girls. St. Anthony finally sent his boy.

A week after my little brother was born, my mother was rushed to the hospital. Her lungs were filled with fluid, making it very difficult for her to breathe. The doctors discovered that the mitral valve in her heart was leaking, and she was placed on medication. It sustained her. She would sometimes struggle for a breath, and that often led to panic attacks. But for the most part, her life continued on as normal---well, as normal as the life of a mother with nine kids can be.

Within a few months, Anthony was given the nickname of Piper, a name that we continue to call him to this day. I'm absolutely certain that no baby was ever loved more. He had dark hair and big brown eyes, and his charm only grew more endearing with each passing day. It was a difficult time for my family. My father was burdened with financial struggles, my mother's health was frail and uncertain, and we were all squeezed into a small Cape Cod home in a new town. God knew exactly how much we needed that sweet little boy to bring joy and hope to our lives.

My mom was especially close to her baby. I think she had a sense that her life was fragile, and she clung to him, wanting to give him every ounce of love that she could. The feeling was mutual. He adored her. If the two were in a room together, her lap was his chair...for years and years. Theirs was a special bond borne out of suffering.

When Piper was nine years old, and my firstborn was nine weeks old, our mother died of heart failure. As incredibly difficult as it was to lose her, it was even more painful to watch my youngest siblings lose her, knowing they would have to grow up without a mother's love. We all did what we could for them, but of course, it could never be enough.

There was one particularly painful day for us siblings about a year after my mother had died. That night I lay with my ten-year-old brother as he tried to fall asleep. With innocence and sincerity, Piper said to me, "I'm glad that Mom died when she did, because now she is in Heaven and she doesn't have to suffer anymore. It's better for her." And I prayed, "Oh Lord, give me the faith and wisdom of this amazing little boy."

When I learned that the mother of Pope John Paul II had died when he himself was nine years old, it gave me hope for my brother. I asked our Holy Father to watch over and intercede for him, and I prayed that Mary would become a mother for him, as she had for Karol Wojtyla. If God could mold this saintly man out of such tragic loss, surely He could take care of our Anthony.

High school hit Piper hard. Searching for relief from the deep wounds of his childhood, he began to self-destruct and tried to escape from his life. Honestly, I'm not sure the extent of his behavior, but suffice it to say, it was definitely not good. His relationship with our father and stepmother was distant at best and hostile at worst. As he watched each of his siblings leave home to begin a new life, I'm sure it intensified his feelings of abandonment. He was traveling a downward spiral.

We watched and suffered helplessly and prayed with all of our might. Amazingly, throughout it all, he faithfully went to Mass and Confession. He did not give up on God.

And God did not give up on him.

Two days ago my beautiful brother sat at the center of our Thanksgiving table, across from my father and stepmother. He kept the children, all sitting at one end of the table, involved in the conversation with the adults, all sitting at the other end of the table. He was the bridge between generations. My dark haired, brown-eyed baby brother was charming and thoughtful and witty and kind. In two weeks, he will graduate from Ohio State with a bachelor's degree in a double major that he designed himself. For the past five years, he has worked full-time to pay his way through college. Although he is unsure of the specifics of his future, he is hopeful and confident.

So am I. And oh so grateful.

For great is His steadfast love toward us;
and the faithfulness of the LORD endures for ever.
Praise the LORD!
Psalm 117:2

A Canine By Any Other Name Would Still Have Dog Breath

How do normal families name a dog? I'd really like to know.

The drama of naming of our new pup began shortly after his arrival on Saturday. My firstborn, Elena, was certain that she alone would be able to think up the perfect name and assumed that the rest of us would naturally have reached this obvious conclusion. This line of thinking evolved into the inevitable power struggle between Elena and Valya, my second child, who also likes to be top dog, so to speak.

Elena wanted to name him Grady, after a certain baseball player. Valya wanted to name him anything but Grady. Nastia, my animal lover supreme, was just plain happy to have a dog and was willing to call him anything. Mariana, Jacinta, and Charlie were just plain happy to have Nastia as an older sister and were willing to call him anything Nastia called him.

Elena used the morning dog walk after Mass on Sunday (while Valya was stuck inside copying a psalm) to lobby Nastia (and thus M, J, and C) into her corner. She played the rather sinister card of saying that our cousins would LOVE the name. They all came back from the walk calling the dog Grady. This set Valya into a fury, and she started calling the dog everything but Grady. Jim caught wind of it all and told them not to call the dog anything since it didn't have a name yet.

We then sat down to a lovely family brunch of perfectly scrambled eggs, slightly burnt toast, and a somewhat heated discussion of canine names.

Starting at the bottom of the lineup, I asked Charlie what he thought, and he shyly whispered in my ear, "Paddy." (Actually, I'm pretty sure, he meant Patty, but I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt since he is so adorable.) I thought that was a lovely Irish name, quite original for our family, and it got my vote without even hearing any of the others. It seemed right for the baby of the family to have this honor...how could I choose anyone else's? Of course, there was the unpleasant likelihood that outsiders would think the name was Patty and wonder why we gave our male dog a girl's name. It was quickly dismissed by the others.

When asked her opinion, Jacinta announced with naive five-year-old enthusiasm that her choice was King. We all oohed and ahhed appropriately. No idea where Paddy or King came from.

Next was Mariana's turn, and she smilingly said Grady. Nothing more. Valya practically leaped out of her chair but was restrained to wait her turn. Nastia, sensing conflict and wanting to please all involved, admitted that she too liked Grady but that she also thought Chaser (the name that the Humane Society had bestowed on our puppy from the get-go) was a very good name. Valya said her choice was Nibbles, a name she had suggested in the waiting room of the Humane Society, as the dog was nibbling on her.

Elena finally was permitted to plead her case for Grady. Blah, blah, blah, Grady's cute, blah, blah, blah. Then began the inevitable power struggle between the teenage daughter and her father. He did not like naming a dog after a person of whose character he knows nothing. He did not like how Elena had lobbied the others to her side. And he did not like Elena being the one to win and Valya the one to lose. All conveyed in so many words.

Elena declared that we could not leave the table without a decision. Pushed too far, Jim decided that the dog would be named Chaser, since the younger kids had been calling him that Saturday and they all seemed to like the name before the lobbying began. Elena was dead set against it and tried desperately to pull me in to defend her. Honestly, I'm not that fond of the name myself, but I was not about to enter the third power struggle of the day over the name of a dog, especially not with a man who spent all day Saturday painting for me.

I did try to throw out a few other options (actually several other options), and Elena, desperately hoping to avoid Chaser, was uncharacteristically encouraging about all of them. The other kids were enthusiastic too. My favorite was Sam, after Samwise Gamgee.

But Jim had made up his mind. Chaser it would be.

Indignant, Jacinta asked, "What about King?" Since she has her daddy wrapped around her little finger, he agreed that the dog could be formally named King Chaser but that we would call him Chaser.


So, there you go. Family angst, gotta love it. I'm thinking of submitting the story to Oprah. Maybe she'll invite us to appear on her show.

(Next time around, I will drive to the Humane Society myself, choose a dog, and name it on the way home.)

P is for...

Painting!
and Puppy!

and a Petition for Prayers, Please!

Not for us, for him.

The poor little guy doesn't stand a chance.

The Journey of Adoption

It seems that my sister Sarah is doing my writing for me these days. Yesterday she posted a thoughtful reflection on adoption, looking at it honestly from the different perspectives involved.

By God's grace-filled provision, Sarah and her sweet newlywed husband lived very close to us during the three year period when we increased the number of our children from one to six. She experienced adoption up close and personal. It would not be an exaggeration to say that she witnessed some of my ugliest moments, when the transition was so very hard and I was just not that strong. Through it all, she was incredibly supportive and understanding. I don't know how I would have survived those difficult days without her.

She follows her post with the first essay I wrote about adoption, The Journey of a Mother's Heart. (So I guess I'm doing her writing for her as well. ;) It was written during one of the happiest times of my life, just after we had adopted Mariana, and I included it with her adoption announcement. About a year ago, that essay became the inspiration for this blog.

In my comments to Sarah, I wrote, "God's ways are not our ways, and He uses these little crosses to bring about redemption and lead us to salvation. I would not be the person I am today, so much more honest about my utter dependence on Him, if it weren't for my struggles as an adoptive mother. What a blessing. I pray that He will work miracles of healing in the wounded hearts of my daughters and their birth parents. May our bit of suffering become part of His glory."

It's true. Adoption is a journey of the heart. It's a journey of ups and downs, backs and forths, deaths and births, grieving the past and embracing the future, fearing the worst and believing the best. It's trusting that there is One who led you to this journey and who will guide all of you through it, even when you can't really see the path very clearly. It's being overcome with joy and gratitude as you gaze at six children, who never notice that they look nothing alike, sharing not the same blood but the same life, playing and laughing and singing and loving as if they were always meant to be together.

Because, of course, they were.

Goodbye, Grandma

My mother-in-law flew home to the west coast today. Sigh.

For many, I know, this would be a welcome relief. Not for me. Not at all. During the last three autumns, she and my father-in-law came to stay with us for 2-3 months at a time. This year we had her for only two weeks, and my father-in-law didn't come at all. Could it be that Europe had more appeal than Ohio? Huh?

She is an amazing person, gentle and elegant, yet fiercely loyal to her family and her convictions. We, her daughters-in-law, all absolutely adore her. She shows just the right balance of being caring and involved but not invasive or overbearing in any way, completely respectful of our roles as wives to her sons and mothers to her grandchildren. Best of all, she loves our kids. Passionately.

Never minding her age or how tired she feels, she looks for ways to care for us. She cooks and bakes, letting everyone have a cherished turn to help. She cuts out pumpkins from paper and praises drawings of multi-colored horses. She reads picture books to little ears and laughs at the musings shared by older imaginations. She listens with interest to every single thing her son has to say. And she walks late at night with me when she should probably be in bed.

She makes the time to be present to each one of us in the ways we most need it. And when she must return to her own home, she leaves behind a huge hole. It's a hole that reminds us we've been loved.

We couldn't be more grateful.

More Birthday Memories

When my sister and I returned from our lovely, quiet dinner at a favorite local eatery, I received my second surprise of the day...a pretty bench topped with a mosaic of colorful tiles sitting near our front door. (The first surprise being the arrival of my sister.) I had spotted this bench in the clearance aisle of a local store a week ago and asked Jim if he would go and buy it since it was much too heavy for me to carry. When he returned from the store a few days later, he told me that they had already sold out of them. I figured a landscaper must have bought them and gave up the bench as not meant to be. So, my dear husband is not only thoughtful and generous but also a big fat liar.

Upon entering the house, I discovered this beautiful sign hanging in the entry way. This discovery occurred just after I was pelted with a shower of dry navy beans, my third birthday surprise. We have a birthday tradition in our family of my husband placing a cup of candy above a doorway so that the special person of the day receives a "surprise" shower of sweets when he or she enters the room. How such a tradition can actually surprise anyone is beyond me, especially when the special person reminds her father the night before not to forget! But somehow he pulls it off. Every. Single. Time. I have to admit...he got me again. I was completely unsuspecting when those little white pellets started to pour down. And I most definitely did not suspect legumes. Usually the shower consists of M&Ms, jelly beans, or Skittles...how did I end up with dry navy beans? (You don't think he's trying to send me a message about my forty-something figure, do you?)

And finally, my favorite birthday blessings and the absolute best reason for living in Ohio...

In the words of our family theme song,

wherever we go, that's where the party's at!

(Cake props go to my talented husband. In addition to being a sneaky big fat liar, he is also quite handy in the kitchen. I like that in a man.)

Blessed Beyond Measure

I've been trying to think of a way to climb aboard this blog again. I miss it. I'm overwhelmed with life right now, to be sure, so much unpacking and lesson planning and plugging into our new community yet to be done. But I miss the craft, the challenge of transforming thoughts and emotions into words on a screen. I miss the clarity which that creative process seems to provide me. And most of all, I miss the dear friends who join me here.

Every time that I sit down to write, however, I find that I have nothing to say. The words just don't come.

I've been struggling with a deep sense of existential loneliness lately, and I find myself drifting dangerously close to the depths of darkness. I know these overpowering feelings well, feelings of being unloved and unlovable, despite the reality of being surrounded by people who love me. I also know my tendency to retreat and disengage at times like this...and the damage that this inevitably does to my children. I want so much better for them.

Last night I was determined to risk my heart and write about my struggles, in an effort to reconnect and make sense of it somehow. But it was not at all the way I'd intended to jumpstart my blog. Shouldn't I write about the loveliness of our summer vacation instead? Shouldn't I keep this home of my heart warm and inviting and filled with light, happy thoughts so that visitors might feel welcome here? Why risk so much?

I struggled with these thoughts and in the end I couldn't write it. I went to bed. Tired and worn and so very alone.

I awoke this morning to the phone ringing beside my bed. Jim had already left for work. Mariana was sleeping in his place, and she quickly answered it. (Talking on the phone has become her new favorite pastime, apparently even in the early morning hours.) I overheard my sister say through the receiver, "Mariana, come down to the door."

My dear, sweet, lovable sister had loaded her four sleepy children into the van at 6:45am and driven for an hour and a half to surprise me with breakfast in bed for my 41st birthday. (My dear, sweet, lovable husband had forgotten to leave the door unlocked.)

She, my dearest of friends, spent the day and night here, just being with me and making me feel loved. Jim, my dearest of true loves, allowed her to play center stage today, caring for all ten kids so that we sisters could enjoy a peaceful dinner by ourselves. The children showered me with gifts of the heart all day long, from a fancy lunchtime tea to treasures retrieved from their dresser drawers to hugs and kisses tenderly bestowed.

I don't believe that any of them knew the deep heartache of loneliness I had carried the night before.

It was the most blessed of birthdays, the kind of gift that could only be designed in Heaven, granted to me because He did know. Thank You, dear Lord, for showing me just how much I am loved.

We Have Bluebells Too!

For four years, I lived just a few miles from Bull Run and visited there many times...but I never heard anything about the bluebells until I moved to Belgium. What luck.

I almost suffered the same fate twice.

Just last week---exactly five weeks before moving back to the US---I discovered that we have our own bluebell forest, Bois de Hal, right here in the Brussels area. It turns out that bluebells are native to Belgium as well as a few other countries in northern Europe. I was told that they were at the peak of their glorious bloom now. So, this evening after dinner, we packed the kids in the car and headed south for a walk in the woods.

Wow. I have to admit that I never understood the grand excitement over seeing bluebells. I mean, really, how spectacular could a few blue flowers be? Boy, was I in for an awakening.


Spectacular they were...and then some. There is really no adequate way to describe the magical, mystical experience of witnessing the soft carpet of lavendar blue covering the forest as far as the eye can see. It was like entering a fairyland, especially with all of the little sprites and pixies flitting about me. Because of our late arrival, we were practically alone in that peaceful place. I could have walked the paths for hours.

These tiny flowers offered us the perfect ending to a cherished visit with my brother- and sister-in-law and their beautiful children. Tomorrow they fly back to Nebraska...but we will all carry this special evening with us for a long, long time.

The good Lord certainly does know how to put on a show.

His mercy endures forever.