Empty Bed, Full Heart- A Single Mother's Journey

  “Comparison is the thief of joy.” -Teddy Roosevelt My 9 year old son’s eyes lit up like a freshly struck match as he pulled the wrapping paper away from his Christmas gift, the biggest box under the tree.  “Whoa!! I saw this and wanted it!! Remember??” The sleek black box held a LEGO Technic car, a set with over 900 pieces and a working engine that he could drive using an app on my phone. My fiancé had handpicked it for him, knowing how much he loved building and engineering. It was the perfect gift. He was ecstatic and ready to tear the box open, but I told him to wait until he’d opened the rest of his gifts. He set it aside and moved on to his other gifts, still stealing glances at it as he went. Next to him, his sisters began opening their presents, too. My 11 year old was finally old enough for her own phone, so she’d gotten an iPhone; my 14 year old, after YEARS of begging, finally got her own iPad. Suddenly, my son’s face darkened. “Why did they get a phone and an iPad...

On December 18th, 2021, at 9:30 am, I got into my car and drove to a coffee shop in Bismarck. On the way, I called my friend Becky and joked that if I disappeared, she’d know who the prime suspect was and that I’d text her if I needed her to call me and give me an excuse to bail. I’d been a divorced, single parent for going on 9 years at this point and this was a common pre-first date ritual that my best friend and I shared. Unlike my other first dates, however, I was a knot of joyful nerves. This guy checked all my boxes, which was unusual in itself, but he also seemed to get better every time I learned something new about him. He was intelligent, articulate, and a little sarcastic. He was a practicing Catholic from a big family who grew up reading Westerns and loving the prairie. He was a hard-working farm kid who also knew how to build things with his hands and loved to cook. And he was unbelievably attractive. The words “Too good to be true” came to my mind often in my communicatio...

 Instincts are a funny thing. Sometimes, instincts are natural and immediate, the way you jump back if a spider falls out of the sky or the way a mother fiercely protects her child. But sometimes our instincts are developed over time by experience and habit. Pavlov’s dogs began to drool when the bell rang because they learned that the bell was equal to a treat. So what happens when trauma informs our experiences and our instincts have been shaped by that trauma? How do I relearn that relationships are healthy and good, when they’ve so often been toxic and dangerous? How do I relearn that trust is essential and not foolish? How do I relearn that vulnerability isn’t weakness, that watching someone I love leave for the night doesn’t mean they’re leaving forever? How do I relearn that tired doesn’t mean disinterested; away doesn’t mean cheating; space doesn’t mean rejection? How do I relearn that I’m worthy, that I’m enough for another person to love? My instincts, the learned ones, pr...

 Some days, it feels like the world is imploding.  Yet, here we sit, in our whitewashed tombs, thinking only of what the world outside is going to see and not concerned at all that death lies within. This morning, as I read through the Gospel of Matthew (Mat 23:27-32), these hard words struck me as particularly relevant to today's social and political climate: "You are like whitewashed tombs.... on the outside, you appear righteous, but inside you are filled with hypocrisy and evildoing ." Isn't that what Facebook is for? Grandstanding? Being right? Tearing down other human beings in an effort to gain superiority, while our brothers and sisters around us are suffering, hurting, and dying? Beautiful pictures and high ideals sweep the page while the comments ravage any contradiction in belief; and the real world outside the confines of that pretty page continues to break and despair.  "You say, 'If we had lived in the days of our ancestors, we would not have jo...

Amidst the political and social turmoil that assails us nearly everywhere we look, a common theme I often hear echoed is the desire for others to be kind and compassionate. Kind. Compassionate. Such simple words. Let's face it; the mere sound of those words elicits a flood of warm and sometimes deeply emotional sensations and longings. Not only that, but just sharing those words gives us (or at least me and I would suspect many others) the sense that we are good people for wanting those things; that somehow, we are morally just in calling for compassion and kindness; that others are cruel for not espousing such simple ideals. I've reflected sometimes on the ideas of kindness and compassion. Being human, I've had many moments where I've needed and been shown compassion and kindness. But here's the kicker - in none of those instances was compassion or kindness a simple or easy thing. Nor did it come about by words spoken to me in a vacuum. While cruel words can ...

Today, we had a guest pastor at Sunday Mass. The priest who gave the homily is a young, energetic, dynamic speaker whose sermons I almost always enjoy. He was there today for one main reason - to advocate for Catholic Schools. I adore the idea of Catholic schools. I love the idea of my children being taught faith in conjunction with general education; the idea that they get a holy and holistic education. In theory, Catholic schools are wonderful and I will support always those who choose to send their children; I will also monetarily support them through giving any day of the week. I love hearing the homily during Catholic Schools Week because the priests usually focus on the JOY of teaching little ones and how much they appreciate all the amazing people who contribute to the success of their schools. Today, friends, I struggled to sit through that homily. Not just because of the wiggly bodies next to me, which is the usual reason for my distraction. Today I struggled because the p...

Summer is here, which means more time to ruminate on the deep, philosophical truths of the universe. The questions of the cosmos, the meaning of life, the nature of beauty and art, the wickedness of men, and of course, the confounding second child. This may not be a rule with specifically the second child, but all parents with more than one child have that one child  whose personality and mischievous spirit are larger than life, wilder than the woods, and more persistent than an angry wasp. Of course, these are some of the biggest reasons why I love my second child. She'll be the first woman president, an Olympic gymnast, or a crime boss. Go big or go home. Picture something in your head that goes in your house. Maybe it's something you use so seldom that you almost forgot it was there (or have forgotten it). Maybe it's something dangerous, or destructive, or special, or white.*  That object is the object that should not, for whatever reason, be used by your child. H...