Sometimes It’s Just Good to Breathe

I had a couple of funny things the boys had done recently that I thought would make good blog posts. Once I sat down to write them today, not one of them came to me. I know I say it every other post, but we are in a busy phase of life right now. Sometimes my brain feels like a messy tangle of noodles. Today, I just can’t sort it out. Lately, the big picture is on my mind, rather than the details.

 

This weekend, I had the chance to visit my grandmother—my beautiful, ninety-six-year-old grandmother. Time and again she reminded John and me how blessed we are to have children, how important it is that we have our boys. We are still young, but more and more I worry about our generation and our “prolonged adolescence.” How many of our contemporaries will be grandparents, never mind great-grandparents? How many of them are seriously considering that as they look for happiness in what they do? How many of us (myself included) are really looking for peace in who we are—in growing ourselves in love, in virtue, and most importantly, in the way we serve others? Or am I wrong, and enough of us are finding true joy without looking to grow our own families or otherwise give our time and love away?

 
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On Sunday, I listened to a homily about how all we do in our faith lives must be done out love, not obligation. The reason Jesus’s new commandment—“Love one another as I have loved you”—was such a big deal was because before, living a faithful life meant following the rules. Now it meant freely choosing to think about others, to pray for others, to take care of others, and to give oneself to others. We are not to expect a fuzzy feeling for ourselves or others in return. In fact, we are not to expect anything in return. That’s what love is.

 

I hope that if I live to ninety-six, I will be as surrounded by family and friends as my grandma is. She doesn’t have any big professional accomplishments to show for herself, though those are not all bad. What she does have is people who spend time with her and care for her out of love, not obligation. She has stories to tell and a laugh that shows how young she still is inside. She has faith, she has hope, and she has a whole lot of love.

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Reflections

There are a couple of things I love about blogging. One is that it gets me writing on a regular basis. Another is the positive feedback I get from readers that makes posting feel worthwhile. One of the greatest is that it gives me a chance to thoughtfully consider the direction my life is taking each day and to see something greater at work in it.

 

I haven’t been posting as much lately, because there hasn’t been as much time for reflecting in the good kind of busyness in which we’re entrenched. Last week, though, kind of forced me into it.

 

I went to Boston College, which is right along the marathon route at Heartbreak Hill. John proposed during the Boston Marathon. A lot of people I love very much still live there.

 

After Monday, I texted a friend, “It’s hard to believe from so far away.”

 

She wrote back, “It’s hard to believe from six miles away.”

 

On Thursday, another friend who lives in Cambridge came to visit. Thank goodness she did, or she would have been stuck in her apartment alone all day Friday. We spent the day in disbelief. How had two men shut down a whole city?

 

My friend and I went to church together in the morning, and I thought about how, if we were in Boston, we wouldn’t have been able to do that. In the afternoon, I saw our mail carrier deliver our mail. In Boston, that wasn’t happening (as far as I know).

 

We went out for a run later—who am I?!—and honestly, I was kind of scared to go outside, to run around a big park in a major city. We didn’t know the bombers’ motives. What if there were more?

 
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I told myself I was overreacting. New York City had not posted any orders to stay inside; who was I to impose them on us? The bombers had taken enough away from enough people already—their lives, their freedom, their feelings of safety. I didn’t want to give in to the fear growing in me.

 

So out we went, instantly struck by people being outside here in Brooklyn.  We’d seen photos of Inman Square and other usually densely populated places in Boston. Brooklyn held a stark contrast.

 

We got to the park and started our run, my friend, a more confident runner, pushing the stroller carrying Henry and Jacob. Every time I go out, I push myself a little farther. This time without the stroller, I pushed myself a whole lot farther—all the way around the park. With Alex by my side—“I’ll keep going as long as you keep going”—I inadvertently achieved one of my goals for the year. I ran a 5K . . . and then some.

 

It wasn’t at an official race. I only have three witnesses, including the kids, but I conquered something that day. And it felt like it stretched a good deal farther than the three miles around Prospect Park.

 

Love and Fear

 

There are only two feelings. Love and fear.
There are only two languages. Love and fear.
There are only two activities. Love and fear.
There are only two motives, two procedures, two frameworks,
two results. Love and fear.
Love and fear.

 

—from “A Common Prayer” by Leunig

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Maybe I Should Have Told You

Last week, I not-so-gracefully sprang the news that we are moving to New Jersey this summer, into John’s parents’ house. Moving is a tough business to talk about, not because we’re not ready for it, but because we almost moved to London three times last year. This time, we’re much more certain of it. It just took a while to find time for a conversation with our landlord. Though she doesn’t read my blog, as far as I know, it didn’t seem right to make it public without telling her first.

 

Now the cat is out of the proverbial bag. John’s older brother is getting married this summer (yay!) and will be moving out of the house. He has been a tremendous help to their parents for many years, and it is time for him to go start his own family.

 

After Henry was born, John and I had independently started to think that it was about time for us to move to the suburbs, as we’d always planned. We talked about Karl’s moving out for something like two and a half minutes before we were committed to moving in.
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Leaving Brooklyn will be hard, because we love our friends, our neighborhood, and the fact that we can walk so many places. John’s commute will be longer from NJ, but we’ll also be around all of our parents, which means our boys will grow up with a lot more grandparent time. And I’ll have more time to write and freelance, if I want it.

 

Life really isn’t slowing down these days, and I am trying to find a moment every day to be thankful for my husband, my kids, our family, and our home, wherever it is. There is a big transition ahead, but one that we feel is the right next step—and one that we’re excited to take together.

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