A wonderful adventure.

It’s been 12 years and (roughly) 7 months since my husband got off the plane from London and began his service with NET Ministries. I’ve heard stories of people who met him then telling me that he wore a suit to a very casual training experience, his accent so thick that people had a hard time listening to his words instead of his voice. I love that voice, even as it has been altered in its tone and some of its words by my own home country’s botched version of English. I’m British by marriage, don’t @ me. 

10 of the past 12 odd years, Dan has spent caring for NET missionaries in a huge way. I’ve witnessed that care for as long as I’ve known him– all 10 of those years. I was even one of the missionaries he served. We’ve been married for 7 years, and I’ve seen the inner workings of his heart as he’s served. How it has bled for those suffering, been a father to those who were lonely, and an older brother to those who needed it… and now, his time with NET has come to a close. Today is his last day.

Working for a nonprofit is an act of love & service & trust in God. Point blank. Dan had probably thousands of conversations with missionaries, youth, parents and ministry contact people, with his main goal being to genuinely see them + point them towards Christ and conversion in a radical way. 

I’ve had a little window into a side of things not often seen, being his wife as he’s worked in this ministry. As a family, we’ve been on the receiving end of a lot of spiritual attack over the years. Our basement almost always flooded leading up to a time of training. I can’t even tell you how frequently Dan hasn’t slept well all night because he was plagued by nightmares. One time our kids even accidentally set fire to their bed right at the beginning of a time of missionary training (another story altogether lol). We’ve had our share of persecution in the name of Christ & serving His Church. 

It’s also been beautiful to see how much Dan is respected by the missionaries he’s served. He has had dozens of conversations with young men considering marriage who want to hear his advice. He also understands women better than I probably ever will lol. I remember one time Dan called me on his way home from work and asked tentatively how my day had been. I told him the kids had been good, I was feeling fine, etc, and he said “Good– because I’ve had about 10 different women crying in my office today, and just wanted to be prepared if you needed to cry as well.” He’s such a good listener– but I’m glad I could just make him a nice cup of tea and give him some space to decompress at the end of that day lol.

Dan’s entire experience of America has been through the lens of NET. Our whole relationship has been, as well. We have been so richly blessed as a married couple, not to mention as a family, because of our time with NET. For real– how many kids can say that they’re friends with CFR priests? Amazingly blessed.

I guess what I’m trying to say– and admittedly struggling to articulate– is that Dan has poured his whole heart into this ministry, this work, this mission. He has made sacrifices about which few of us will ever know, and has impacted the hearts and souls of countless people because of his service. He has given richly of himself while also returning again and again to the Source of his help. No, he hasn’t served perfectly. No, he’s not a saint yet. And I’m so thankful that there are others willing and able to continue the mission of NET, because it’s important and needed in our Church today. 

But what I want to emphasize –as his ridiculously proud wife– is that my husband Daniel Driver is amazing. He has given of himself with deep generosity. He has changed the lives of countless people because of his work. And this is only the beginning. 

Pray for us in our transition to what the Lord has for us next! St. John Paul II was right when he said “life with Christ is a wonderful adventure.”

rain and rocks and blisters and goals.

About 6 years ago I was in Scotland. I was with a team of incredible humans, most of us American, as well as one Englishman and one Scottish lass. We were there for a month– touring around and putting on retreats for Catholic schools in the dioceses of Paisley and Glasgow. It was incredible. The most sunny spring/early summer Scotland had seen in a while, and they kept apologizing to us that it wasn’t raining. I love the Scottish people.

We had the opportunity to go visit the Highlands for a wee trip before the retreats officially began. My friend Lucy (the Scot) had connections up North, and we could stay at a lovely home while touring for a couple of days. Our team leader (who happened to be my future husband– we weren’t allowed to date at the time but I definitelyyy liked him) wanted us to have the opportunity to go hiking. They’re not called “Highlands” for no reason, and there were several mountain type things close by. These were a far cry from the Rockies or anything, but hey, they looked quite large to me. #midwestgirl

We all piled in our huge 12-seater van (an anomaly for the roads of the UK) and drove out to the trail head at the bottom of the slope. It was an overcast day (quite Scottish, really), and drizzling slightly. There was a discernible foot path, and we joyfully began our ascent. Between the 8 of us, we were all varied in athletic ability. So as we got closer to the middle of the mountainy thing, my borrowed boots began to give me a blister, and I got pretty winded. The terrain was not gentle, but we were often clambering over rocks and jumping over little streams and slipping on wet grass. The drizzly day began to bother me more, and my mind kept drifting to the pub we’d passed at the bottom of the hill that would probably have a roaring fire, delicious beer and hot chips (fries, Americans).

I don’t remember complaining. I remember feeling like I’d definitely come far enough. That my feet were hurting (I mean, I could maybe hurt myself badly if the worst happened, you just never know), and I wanted to turn around and go back down. I’d definitely come further than I’d ever gone before up a mountain. And the view was already good enough. I even remembered to get a few pictures for Instagram.

(See?^)

But I remember Dan (now my husband) looking me in the eyes and asking me to keep going. He said to me “Won’t you regret not making it to the top? Don’t you want to see the view from up there?” His brown eyes pleaded with me. I knew he wanted us to share that experience.

And I said no. (We’re not even allowed to date yet, so stop being so adorable with your big brown eyes.) My feet were sore, you see. I’ll accompany our other friend down. I don’t want her to be alone. I was tired, there was a lot more mountain to climb, and it was NOT an easy climb. It would only get tougher. The view from here was just fine, thank you. I’m a grown up, and I can do what I want. So no, actually, I’m going back down.

And I did.

You guys, I was probably right in all of the reasons I gave. I could justify coming down quite easily. I HAD gotten further than I’d ever come before. But I missed that opportunity to stand on top of a mountain with my life’s companion.

The real reason I came down? I was not used to doing hard things. I was afraid of failure, afraid of things being too hard and me not being able to do them. I was afraid that I’d be found lacking in strength. So to avoid looking weak, I pretended that I didn’t care and I. didn’t. even. try.

Right now, my life looks a lot like that climb up a mountain. It just keeps getting harder in a lot of areas of my life. There are a lot of hard things that keep being thrown my way, and frankly, I’m tired of things being hard. There are also a lot of areas in my life where I could give up on a goal. I’ve already come very far. I’ve come further than I ever have in so many ways. No one would blame me if I stayed put or even if I threw in the towel.

But what I’ve learned to be true again and again is that without big trials you don’t get big wins. Without experiencing hardship, you can’t experience victory. Without grit there is no pearl. If my kids were watching me on that hike, what would they have learned? That mummy gave up when it got too hard.

Now don’t get me wrong, climbing that mountain was not necessarily a big goal I had in life… but what about other goals? Goals that I DO decide are important? Goals that I work towards every day? By giving up (or even coasting) when it gets hard, not only do I let myself down, I teach others who are looking up to me how to do that as well.

So there’s nothing for it, people. If there is a goal you have set your sights on and have decided to work towards– don’t change your mind when it gets difficult. And since anything worth doing will get hard at some point, I guarantee it will get difficult before too long. We’re never going to climb perfectly, but we can keep putting one foot in front of the other. The only way to actually fail is to quit. I, for one, am not going to take that option this time. If the climb is the hardest you’ve ever done, then the joy at the summit will be unlike any other.

Nicholas

a year ago today. one year ago. my memory is so crystal clear. we knew we were newly pregnant… we’d found out December 1st. we were so excited. got to tell Dan’s mum in person because she had been in visiting for Thanksgiving. but we lost that precious baby the evening of December 6th. a year ago today. I remember singing the song “Into the West” to Athers & Mena like I did every night before bed… but this time I wept through the whole song. it was the most bittersweet goodbye. to know that our mission as parents is to get our kids to heaven… and that now we had one precious soul there. but we would never be able to hold that baby this side of heaven.

“and you’ll be here in my arms/ just sleeping.”

I didn’t know how to tell people that we’d miscarried. we had barely told anyone we were pregnant. it turned into some of the hardest months of my whole life. I was the only person on earth who had been able to carry that baby. Nicholas Mary, named for the feast day.

telling our kids that the baby mummy was carrying was now in heaven. walking and crying and grieving with other women (some of whom are my sisters) who have also miscarried. trying hard to be honest about how I was feeling. it was all new.

For whatever reason, this isn’t talked about a lot. I get it to some extent– it’s grief. grief is hard to process and some things don’t need to be shared. people don’t know what to say. but I’m thankful for baby Nicholas. thankful that the Lord used that suffering to show me a whole lot more of His wounded heart. thankful that I have a child praying for me from Heaven. And now just a few weeks out from this sweet baby’s birth– it’s all so surreal. to be blessed with both life and death is so strange. such a paradox. but there is good even here.

the Rookie.

This past weekend we sat behind a friend of ours + her 6mo old gorgeous baby girl in Mass. Our two kids (3.5 & 2) absolutely adored her and spent most of Mass admiring Jesus in this sweet bebe more than Himself in the Eucharist. I think that’s probs fine. They’ll get it someday. Holy distractions, amiright?

As I watched this friend of mine act so naturally as a mama, as her gorgeous girl behaved like a little cherub through all of the liturgy, I couldn’t help but think, “She’s doing so well!! I was a HOT MESS for ages when I became a new mum.” And I had to stop myself from that neverending comparison game before it spiraled out of control… because we all put forth the picture perfect highlight reel as frequently as we can do. I know I do it, too.

Something hit me between the eyes recently and I need to say it: we’re all rookies at this, no matter what stage of life we’re in. I’ve been alive for almost 29 years, and have only been a mama (actively, anyway) for 3.5 years. I might have routine or something, but mostly I have no i d e a what I’m doing.

I’m as extroverted as they come. I used to work for a ministry organization and see fun humans all day every day and I was popular and fun and had great style. I had coffee dates packed into my calendar, and absolutely delighted in sharing hearts + hopes + dreams + revelations from my hour-long prayer time every day.

Now we have one car, and my hubs takes it to work most days. My early mornings to late nights are typically packed with small humans who don’t yet know how to wipe their own precious bums and have an uncanny talent for whining when it’s most aggravating. There is seemingly always laundry to wash or fold or put away, and even though I have learned how to make play dates a part of my weekly life (“Children, you must learn to be besties because I want to hang out with your mom, and you may all play outside NICELY while we have tea, thank you very much,”) I get restless for a desire to be seen + known + loved by grown humans and spend too much time on social media trying (and failing) to fill that void.

A lot of me gets impatient with myself when I lose my temper or when I’m not very productive or when I protest that people need to eat real food EVERY DAY– because almost none of the daily tasks of motherhood (my main gig) are really that “hard”. I feel like I should really be able to suck it up and just do things well dammit, but I somehow still fall apart to my husband or to the Lord or to both at the end of another day of toddler demands.

Yes, it’s worth it. And no, this is not meant to be a post complaining about my kids. They’re the most captivating humans I’ve ever met, and I truly do love spending copious amounts of time with them every day. Wayyy more than I ever thought I would. It’s the biggest privilege in the world to be chosen by them and preferred by them and to receive their precious snuggles and to comfort them in their little difficulties.

But this is a reminder for me + everybody going through a new season (even if the season lasts for years) that we will suck at things before we get good at them. It’s very new. Motherhood is the most new thing I’ve ever done. And no one (for the most part) is good at doing new things right away. And as soon as I get good at one stage, we’ll have another baby, or my toddlers will become Young Children and school will happen and things will shift. I give you all (and myself) permission to struggle through it. To find what works for you + your family, which might look way different than it looks to everyone else in your life.

This past year I’ve gone through a freaking lot of personal growth. I’ve chosen some and had some thrown at me. It’s all been hard. It’s all been blessed. More blessed when I take the time to keep my priorities firm and to communicate very frequently and clearly with my incredible husband and my powerhouse girlfriends. And every.single.time I go through a hard thing, I fight it tooth and nail… and then inevitably receive it as a lesson given in love from Jesus, and I see the beauty when I get through to the other side. I hate growth. And never want to stop growing. I’m a brat about it 80% of the time, but I’m also learning to give thanks for it.

Even if our growth is hidden, it is full of grace. It is worth seeking out, and it is something we need. Don’t give up the struggle because it seems like it’s too much to handle. Remember that you CAN do hard things. You CAN thrive in a new season, even if it doesn’t look like how you used to thrive. It’s okay to be a rookie. You’re doing better than you think you are.

perfect love.

Once upon a time, I studied abroad in Austria. Our home sweet home for an entire 5 odd months was an old Carthusian monastery in the foothills of the Alps. Talk about picturesque—we’d walk out of daily Mass to a huge sky framed by the white and blue majesty of mountains. It happened every day, but its beauty would still catch me off guard and take my breath away. There was an incredible community there in the Kartause (the name of our little borrowed home). 150 of us shared classes, train cars, late night conversations, joy over English speaking countries, nostalgia for a real breakfast (none of this fruit and yogurt nonsense), frustration over stores that actually closed on the weekends (horrors!) and, surprisingly enough—creek jumps.

There was a stream that ran down the mountain and passed under the road right in front of the Kartause. Austria, in general, is fairly cold, especially in the Spring. But for whatever reason, it became a tradition for people to participate in “The Jump”—that is, to jump from the edge of the gully into a rushing river-stream-thing made up of melted snow.

I am a house kitty. I don’t do adventurous things without careful thought and consideration. But everyone was taking their life into their hands (I’m being dramatic—it wasn’t actually very dangerous) and jumping into bitter, icy water, and it was an experience that you had to do during your time in Austria. For whatever reason, it was important. Bonding or something.

My fear of missing out eventually got the better of me. The day came when I had chosen to do The Jump. I scurried down to the creek that morning not sure what would happen, or if I would indeed die in the attempt (did I mention that I majored in Drama?) to do what everyone else was doing. They said it was a rush. They said it wasn’t that bad. Some people did it every single morning and offered it up for various intentions. My friend Austin was one of these people, and he led my little group of Creek Jumping Pilgrims. I was determined to get this over with as quickly as possible. Mainly so that I wouldn’t chicken out and lose face, I volunteered to go first. Shaking. Cold. Terrified. Very uncomfortable. He told us that we had to “aim for the bubbles”, as it was the deepest and safest part of the river, and that there were two points from which we could jump. This was the higher point—

And I jumped. In times like these, it’s ridiculous for me to stop and think. If I was going to do this, I was going to go big or go home—no matter how much I was afraid. I had already decided that I was going to jump. I wanted to experience this. Even if it hurt, even if it froze the blood in my veins (which it did), even if it knocked the breath out of my lungs with its extreme cold (good thing you’re not supposed to breathe underwater), and even if I had no idea how I was going to climb up again after I had done it. I jumped. And I don’t regret it, even to this day.

I’m not really writing this blog to tell you about jumping into creeks. That was a crazy thing I did in college. But I am writing this blog to tell you a little bit about fear.

This world is driven by fear. Fear is a dictator in my life much more frequently than I would like to admit. My fear tells me who to talk to, who to avoid, what to say, how to act, etc., etc.

It says in 1 John that “There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear.” That verse used to make me feel ashamed. I won’t have perfect love if I have fear! But I can’t help but be fearful! How am I supposed to love like God loves?

But I have learned very slowly that “perfect love” is not an action that I try to do—it is a Person that I try to meet. It is only when I welcome the Lord and His power into my life, into my heart, into my weakness, into my fear that I am made courageous. Instead of being mastered by fear, I need to jump blindly into the strength of the Father. There is no need to think it over.

I decided a long time ago that I wanted to follow Jesus. To do what He told me to do, and to live like He wanted me to live. Often times, living that life requires me to get way the heck out of my comfort zone and take a risk. To risk not getting my own way. To risk laying down my own life to serve someone else. To risk looking foolish and to admit that I’m in the wrong. To risk loving.

Sometimes it is a shock to the system (just like that icy river water) to let the Lord into my fear. He points out to me the plethora of ways in which I need to grow. But it is always in love, and it is always with my best in mind. Sometimes I’m surprised how well the Lord knows me. But he created me. He chose me. He will help me when I am afraid, and He will never leave me alone in my fear.

6 things you need to know about budgeting.

I am officially a Grown Up. Though, to tell you the truth, I don’t really know what constitutes becoming a Grown Up. I’m pretty sure I stopped growing (at least in inches) several years ago. But within the past year and a half, I’ve gotten married, had a baby, bought a house, and given out Halloween candy to small children. Therefore, I think I’ve made it. At least somewhat. I still feel like I’m about 14 years old most days.

One of the very important lessons I’ve learned in becoming a Grown Up has been budgeting. Budgeting is wildly important. It was important before becoming a Grown Up, but I didn’t really know that. This is a conglomeration of wee bits of advice that I deem necessary to happiness within budgeting. Take them or leave them. (Side note: I haven’t been paid for any of this info. I think it’s really important, and have found a lot of peace, particularly in our marriage, through applying these principles.)

1. You can’t afford to live without a budget. I’m a bit of a Dave Ramsey fan (don’t stop reading, please), and he has been known to say that if you don’t tell your money where to go, you’ll soon be wondering where it went. We all have things we need to pay for, and we all make a certain income each month. So just arrange that income into categories. Bada bing, bada boom.
2. Don’t spend more $ than you make. It’s just dumb. In Monopoly, you know you’re losing when you have to borrow money from someone. Don’t do it in real life. Because there are major consequences, and a lot of stress/burden that comes with being in debt. Just don’t do it. Please.
3. Make a new, adjusted budget every single month and stick to it. This means that you figure things out as you go—that’s completely normal. You’re not sure what you’ll need in your groceries budget line this month? That’s fine—put a sum there and see what happens. Adjust it for next month if it doesn’t work. (Side note: A way to help curb your spending is to put all of your daily-use budget lines in CA$H. Then if the cash is gone, you’re done. More on that here.)
4. Put every single dollar that you’ll make in a category. There is m a s s i v e security (and oh, how we love security) in planning out a budget and giving every dollar a place. Even if that place is in a budget line for coffee. Or a haircut. Or buying little presents for people whom you love. Give that dollar a name, and tell it where to go. If you have a variable income each month, check this out.

   

   {…because budgeting helps you build wealth!}

5. Save now for future expenses. Mainly, here I’m talking about things you know you’ll need, such as Christmas presents, car repairs, your wedding (even if you’re single), etc. Even if Christmas is several months away, saving a little bit each month can really add up and get super exciting when it comes time to buy peoples’ gifts! It’s delightful when you can splurge on the people you love, and it doesn’t knock out your bank account. Is your car already working fine? Well, sorry to say, it can still break. Or you might (heaven forbid) get in an accident. Plan these savings out in advance, and you’ll be doing yourself a huge favor. (Side note—watch this video about never having a car payment again.)
6. Make sure you’re giving back. It is massively difficult to give up your hard-earned cash, especially when you don’t make much to begin with. But the Lord has given you your gifts, your talents, your job, your money. He only asks that you keep 90%, and to give 10% back to the Church. This is actually more for your benefit than for those who receive your money. If we change our hearts towards money, we are closer to conversion. If you want to listen to a kick-butt homily on tithing (or really, on anything) listen to this podcast by Fr. Brian Park (he’s a boss.)

If you think about it, the days when you get the most done are the days when you plan out what you’ll do. The exact same principle applies to your money.

What about you? What has been helpful/what mistakes have you made and learned from when it comes to money?

social media: the fast.

Oh, you brave, brave, soul. You who clicked on this blog, most likely from a social media website, to read about why I’m (mostly) giving up social media. Don’t worry, though—I’m not trying to convince you that social media is evil, or that everyone should delete every account they’ve ever opened. But I blog about things that are going on in my life, and this is one of them. So. Real-life experience. External processing, even. Here we are.

Almost three weeks ago, my husband Dan told me that he was thinking about giving up all social media for an entire year. This sparked a really, really good conversation between us. In fact, we even documented the conversation on Periscope (oh, the irony). I had been experiencing a conviction to do something similar myself, so we talked it out and made a decision.

One of the things that came up in our conversation about why we would want to do this, etc., was a feeling of anxiety that we both experienced when thinking about giving up the world of Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, etc. That would mean no sharing pictures from our lives with… the world. It would mean that when I had a delightful thought about Fall, or remembered a funny memory from college, or even when a line from a song or a particular Scripture verse stood out to me, I couldn’t document it for the world to notice.

I think that’s what it boils down to—I want to be n o t i c e d. I want the world to look on at my adorable pictures, or clever statuses (stati? statusen?) and to be charmed by me. Somehow, in some strange way, I need to make the world know that I’m important, that I’m fabulous, that I’m loveable. When I’m lonely (because being a stay-at-home-mum is often lonely), I won’t be able to grasp at grown-up interaction in the world of the Interwebs.

I know that social media doesn’t provide these things for everyone. I know that many people are more disciplined, less conceited, and more holy than I am. I know that I should seek my worth from the Lord (and it grates on me how cheesy and cliché it is—but it’s still true), and not from how many likes and comments I get on any given update. I know that when I’m lonely, that I should turn to the Lord and not to an app. But I don’t. I don’t, and it wrecks my peace, feeds into unhealthy comparison, and leaves me all kinds of anxious.

I’m a rule follower. But if rules aren’t there, I won’t follow them. So I couldn’t do something like, “try to go on social media less”—it had to be, “only go on social media on Thursdays and Fridays in order to post a blog and follow up on comments.” That was the goal. That’s the experiment.

And how have these past few weeks been? Good gravy, I have been incredibly surprised how much I would have been on social media. Because I catch myself trying to open an app after using my phone for something else, or when I’m sick of any given task, or when I have to go to the bathroom, or when I’m tired, or when I’m not sure if I can handle Monday. But I don’t. For the most part, I stay away.

And what has been the fruit? I talk to my husband more. To his face. I delight in our son more. I am much more productive in my work day. I go to bed earlier. I’m more focused during the day. I pray more.

Every time I’ve tried to log in to something, I’m reminded that I’m weak. That I’m flawed, that I’m needy (oh, how I loathe being needy). But it’s true—I can’t do this life on my own. I just can’t. I would explode. But now, instead of reaching for my phone to “help” me in any given situation, I am doing my best to reach for the Lord. And oh my goodness, it is difficult to do.

But I need this training because life is only going to get more busy, more stressful, more full than it is now. I need to learn how to unashamedly need the Lord. Hopefully, this is just the beginning.

St. John Paul II

I was going to write about something completely different, but THEN I saw when I prayed Morning Prayer with my husband that it was St. John Paul II’s feast day today! Other idea= out the window. Today’s blog= The Jeweler’s Shop.

I got my degree in Drama from a Catholic university. Before every show, we would pray to offer our work to the Lord, and would specifically ask for the intercession of (now Saint) John Paul II. Because he was an actor. And a playwright. He wrote a lot of plays, actually—most of which take me a lot of confused reading to understand any part of them. That man knew a lot of things, but I have a very hard time understanding Philosophy.

{i love him.}

But I love JPII. Who doesn’t? I had a professor once whose father knew him personally. She (of course, no big deal) had met him several times, and related to us that he would always remember her name when she saw him again. The POPE remembered her name! She said that when you were in his presence, and when he was speaking with you, he really looked at you. He saw you. This man had such a deep love and reverence for the human person. St. JPII makes me want to be holy. To really s e e the people I encounter on a daily basis.

My favorite play of JPII’s is The Jeweler’s Shop. I’ve probably read it about 19 1/2 times, mainly because I understand a little bit more each time I read it (#slowprocessor) and also because it’s a pretty quick read. There is a line in the second act that has become my favorite—mostly because it always takes me off guard:

“Love is not an adventure. It has the taste of the whole man. It has his weight. And the weight of his whole fate. It cannot be a single moment. Man’s eternity passes through it. That is why it is to be found in the dimensions of God, because only He is eternity.” (Act II, Scene IV.)

That first line—“Love is not an adventure”. My initial thought the first time reading it was, “Yes, it is! It must be! I’ve read the fairy tales, seen the movies, experienced the desire!” But what he is saying here is that love is g r e a t e r than an adventure. It has the entire weight of a man. The entire giving of oneself. The entire longing that was placed in our hearts for something outside of ourselves.

I still don’t understand that line completely, let alone the entire play. But I’m learning. In the very beginning of the play, there is a proposal. Andrew asks Teresa to marry him—but he doesn’t use those words. Instead, he asks her, “Do you want to be my life’s companion?” My sweet husband used these very same words to ask for my hand, and how dearly I have cherished them.

{the night he asked me.}

I love that imagery—to journey alongside someone towards Love Himself. Not just to adventure with one another, frolicking through the fields of life, but to be companions. The etymology of the word “companion” is com (with) + panis (bread). Literally, people who share bread. That is the beauty of it: to share our daily bread at our kitchen table, and in the Eucharist at the altar of the Mass.

Today I am asking for the intercession of St. John Paul the Great. This man whose “life’s companion” was, in fact, the Catholic Church. May he continue to inspire us with his reverence for the dignity of the human person—and may we learn to love Christ from his example.

queen or slave

I used to think that I was busy my first year of college. Then I became a Senior and wistfully sighed for the days of old when I could go down to the student center and buy gummy worms and smoothies with my best friends. After college, I served as a missionary with NET Ministries. During that year, I remembered with longing the days of Senior year when we b e g a n parties at 10pm.

{sometimes in college, we’d dress up in LBDs and stilettos to invite people to our parties, in person. that’s me with the side-pony looking especially intimidating. we had w a y too much fun in college.}

But then again, I chose when I slept in those days, even (most of the time) as a missionary. Now, at the ripe old age of 25 ½, I’m the primary human responsible for keeping an infant alive. I feed him at all hours of the night. Soooo, I don’t sleep quite as often as I used to.

The funny thing about sleep—it’s a lot easier to be rational when you get enough. It is all too frequent these days that I don’t get enough sleep, I don’t have the time to nap (#workingfulltimefromhome), and my patience can fly out the window all too frequently.

One day a few months ago, I was praying the Glorious Mysteries of the Rosary (sometimes praying that beautiful repetition while nursing wee Athanasius is one of the only things that keeps me s a n e), and I made it all the way to the last decade—the Coronation of the Blessed Virgin Mary. And I realized—I can be either a queen or a slave in my home. And the choice is entirely up to me.

There are days when the dishes are just begging to be washed, the laundry is pleading with me from it’s over-full pile, there is dinner hoping to be remembered, and butter, sugar and flour simply demanding to be baked into shortbread. But since I work from home, I rarely have time enough to give these things their proper attention (except for the shortbread bit, which somehow always weasels itself into the busiest of days). On the days when Athanasius is teething, the wind is wuthering around the house, the kitchen refuses to resemble anything you’d find on Pinterest, and the bed isn’t even made, I inevitably become the bitterest of scullery maids. I sulk around the house pitying myself and the lack of recognition I get for a l l of the work I do, practically throw the baby in my husband’s arms when he gets home from work, and burst into tears. Even when my husband makes delicious dinner (which is honestly more often than not– that man can c o o k), and cleans the kitchen, and makes the bed, I still find reason to be bitter. Dang it all, I should’ve been able to do that– isn’t it my role or something? But no! I don’t have time, and woe is me!

{this is me in my own mind. thank you, Jean-Baptiste-Simeon Chardin.}

But if I chose to be a queen. What if I chose to be the queen of my home? Every single piece of work I did would be for the good of my little kingdom. The king and the tiny prince have been entrusted to my love, and a lot depends on how well I care for them. If I do seemingly annoying tasks, it is not because I am made to do them—it is because I choose to do so. It is because I have been given jurisdiction over making our house into a home. Pope Pius XI wrote: “For if the man is the head [of the family], the woman is the heart, and as he occupies the chief place in ruling, so she may and ought to claim for herself the chief place in love.”

It is my desire to “claim for myself the chief place in love.” I want that to transform every single thing I do as a wife and mother—as a woman.

the most important thing

This past week, we celebrated the feast of the Archangels—Michael, Gabriel, and Rafael. Because my husband forced me to (such a good husband), I took some intentional “baby’s asleep, don’t do the dishes, put your phone away, sit down with a cuppa, and actually p r a y,” time that evening. It had been a long day, though for no particular reason, and he knew that I needed it.

he really is fantastic.

Because it was the feast day of such intense warriors, the first thing that came to mind was spiritual warfare. I have often been reminded, or reminded others, that when you’re serving the Lord, that will always frustrate the evil one. He’s going to do whatever’s in his power to discourage you in that work, to frustrate your plans, to distract you from the good that is coming about because of your fiat. You’re a threat, and will be treated as such.

When I was pregnant, I remember thinking that motherhood would be the most hidden work I’d ever do—but that it was also (by far) the most i m p o r t a n t.

Sunday best.

I knew that I wanted to be a saint when I was single. I worked really hard to keep my priorities in order, to pray daily, to receive the sacraments whenever I could, to surround myself with a strong community. But when I was single, the stakes were much lower. Yes, my holiness and striving for virtue would affect those around me. But I could do a pretty good job of showing people only the nice sides of my life, and the converted pieces of my heart.

In marriage, and in motherhood, the stakes are much higher. My vocation in marriage is to get my husband to heaven. My vocation as a mother is to teach my son about loving like Christ loves. And of c o u r s e the evil one wants to thwart both of those things.

I’ve probably used more curse words in my five short months as a mum than I have in the rest of my life combined. I have been a downright spoiled brat more times than I care to admit (and yes, while that calls out the need for sanctification in my husband, I’m pretty sure that’s not the ideal way to do it). Blame it on the lack of sleep—but I know that the Lord is asking for my sanctification, and I’m ignoring Him a lot.

Marriage and motherhood is the way the Lord wants me to become a saint. And me becoming a saint is the way He wants to aid the sanctification of my family. So the evil one is trying with all of his might to distract me, to remind me of the never-ending laundry (I’m amazed how much laundry a 5-month-old causes), of the messy kitchen, of the lack of t i m e to do anything fun, of the baby’s annoyingly short naps, of the fact that I don’t see my friends nearly as frequently as I used to. He distracts me from what is important, and feeds my self-pity.

This is why daily prayer has become (and always has been) a non-negotiable. Yes, it’s hard to find the time to do it. Yes, there will always be other things that need to get done. But I c a n n o t live this vocation well without it. I cannot show my little son the face of Christ if I’ve forgotten what He looks like.  I cannot love my husband’s heart without it. I cannot be a sister to my friends (who I do in fact see sometimes) without it. I cannot become a saint without it.

I guess that’s just my encouragement to anyone reading this, and it’s a kick in the pants for myself more than anyone else: You need daily prayer. You need it to combat the lies of the evil one. You need it to live your vocation, no matter where you might be. You need it to thrive.