What It Means to Be a Loser...

Another glorious March morning, another 5K down.

This is my second year as a participant of Quinte's Biggest Loser, a weigh-loss contest and fundraising initiative for our local hospital.

Last year, I slogged my way along the Waterfront Trail for the first time. It was both incredible and awful, especially for this overweight mama.

This year, I worried that I wouldn't slog at all, as my hip has been giving me a lot of trouble. Still, I laced up my shoes and stretched out anyways, preparing to walk the 5 kilometres, instead.

I am down, weight-wise, but not as much as I'd like to be...
I am eating better, but not as much as I should be...
I am getting enough sleep, but not as often as I should be...

These thoughts plagued me as I gathered with dozens of other walkers/runners/sloggers.

And so it was with a bit of dejection that I set a brisk walking pace before I forcing myself to  focus instead on the trail and the sunlight bouncing off the Bay.

Pretty day for a walk, I told myself.

I walked and walked and walked and soon I was high-fiving other participants already on their way back to the start, as the trail loops around. I could see the half-way point and walked a little bit faster...not long now....

And then a weird thing happened...

As I rounded the curve that would take me back to where I'd come from, it's like my legs just naturally picked up the pace and before I knew it, I was running.

I slogged around the hill, back into the trees, over the bridge.

Slogged past the St. John's Ambulance people, on-site especially for us.

Along the way, I cheered on other Losers and assured passers-by that I was indeed about to die shortly. Slowed to a walk only once, to navigate an especially icy patch and to explain "Run two lamp-posts, walk two lamp-posts" to some fellow Losers. It's a technique another Loser passed along to me during last year's race and it makes everything easier.

I slogged past the 4KM marker, grinning. Lengthened my stride and pushed myself to go a little faster: my friends (and blessed coffee) were waiting.

Me, Matt (Biggest Loser 2012) and Jenn: enjoying some post-slog sunshine!
Photo: Aidan Connolly

At the end, there was clapping and treats and more high-fives as one-by-one or in clusters of happy, sweaty glory, Quinte's Biggest Losers crossed the finish line.

 And when the final slogger made her triumphant way across, everyone cheered, loud and long.

This, more than anything, is the true success of this contest, this community: that we cheer and bolster one another up, encourage and push one another to  give a little bit more, to move forward and keep on moving.

 I am so blessed by and grateful for everyone who shared this moment, this place and this journey with me.

You know who you are.




Fellow loser winner, Jenn and me, post-slog.
Photo: Aidan Connolly

By God's Grace...

Grace is 8 and is one of the sweetest kids I know. Recently, she wrote a letter to Jesus and drew Him some pictures.

Janet, Gracie's mum, asked me to write back, as Gracie would recognize her parents' handwriting. I agreed happily, despite the weirdness of "playing God"....

Dear Jesus,

Hi! It's me, Grace and right now I am anywere. I could be at my home, at the grocery store. And I just need to tell you somthing. I just wanna go to church to listen to Father Whalen and to go downstairs and to see Father Whalen and to to say hi to him and Im sooooooooooooooooooooo sorry about that. Please forgive me.

 Please write back soon and that is all I ask from you in return.

And thank you for everything.

Oh and can you say Hi to Papa M., Uncle John, Great Grandma and Great Grandpa.

And my tooth is out and it's a top one.

You are the Best ever.

Love,
Grace M.

Dear Grace,

I love receiving letters - thank you, Grace, for yours.

 It pleases me very much that you enjoy going to church and listening to Father Whalen. I like listening to him as well. I also like listening in on your lessons at the Good Shepherd program during Mass - it makes My heart happy, hearing children learn about My love.

I'll tell you a secret, shall I, Grace? For as long as you live, I will always love you. I will forgive you anything, as long as you're really and truly feeling bad about it. So don't worry about making mistakes - they help us all to learn, don't they?

I have passed your "Hello!" to Papa M, Uncle John and your Great-Grandparents. They send their love back to you and want to tell you that you are often in their loving thoughts. Papa M wanted me to tell you that he loves your singing best of all and hearing it makes him smile.

A tooth out is very exciting, indeed! It's another sign of growing up, isn't it? What a pleasure it will be to continue to watch you grow into yourself and discover the incredible beauty of the world.

Who do you think you'll be, when you've grown? I have an idea, but I'll keep it to Myself for now. It's such fun, watching people figure it all out for themselves!

Would you like to know another secret? Of all the people in the world, you are My favourite. When you're feeling hurt or doubtful or you just need a happy thought, you remember that, OK?

I love you, sweet Grace. Please write again, soon.

Love,
Jesus

And you, dear reader?

What would you like God to know?

What would you like to hear from Him?

To Jack, With Love

Last Monday, I had the pleasure of meeting a man named Jack.

He was nearing 80 and though his eyes were still a vivid blue against thinning hair of white, the spark in them was fading.

Though his mind could still process how to walk and talk, sometimes his limbs would not obey and sometimes the words formed by his mouth were garbled and confusing.

Jack had an intellectual disability - the specifics of which I do not know, but don't think matter.

Jack's face, though clearly aged, was free of the lines that often adorn the faces of those who've lived and loved well. There is a kind of beauty to an old face belonging to someone who's beloved, don't you think?

But in Jack's face, though I spied beauty, I saw no love. In fact, all I could see clearly was that Jack had lived a long, long life of being unloved.

Unlovedness is state of being, a place of longing, a wary gaze, a blank look where knowing should be.

Unlovedness is not just the loss of love, it is never having known it.

Unlovedness is what you see before you avert your eyes from the huddled form on a snowy street, homemade sign propped against a crumpled coffee cup. Unlovedness is a plea written in shaky block letters which reads: I am homeless. I am hungry. Please help.

Shelter me. Feed me. Love me.

Unlovedness is what you read about in your local paper, where the headline screams: "Townsfolk Fear For Safety, Call For Tougher Laws!" and the piece goes on to describe some boys who wreaked havoc on the houses that border their "home" - a residential facility where they have lived since "graduating" from the foster care system six months ago.

Want me. Know me. Love me.

Unlovedness is what you see when you tiptoe into a nursing home that smells like loneliness and regret, where residents sit listlessly in the chairs on either side of  the entrance way, waiting.

Remember me. Miss me. Love me. 

Unlovedness reads like this, when I tried to capture the essence of Jack's life, in a journal entry this past Monday, a mere seven days after meeting him:

After he left here last Thursday, he was trundled over to a local nursing home, because the people

he was home-cared by felt that his needs (dementia, wandering, forgetfulness, rages) were beyond their comfort and care abilities.

Jack spent Thursday and Friday night(s) in the nursing home, locked in his room.

On Saturday, nurses reported that he was lethargic and difficult to engage.

On Sunday, Jack refused breakfast.

And then he refused lunch.

That afternoon, Jack curled up in his strange new bed...and died.

Most here believe that he died of a heart attack.

I think he died of a broken heart.

 Unloved.

Today is Valentine's Day, Jack.

 I can only hope that today, now that your entire lifetime has passed, you will know love.

This one's for you:

"John Doe #24" by Mary Chapin Carpenter

 

 

 

The Nature of Grief

I thought I was ready. This year, the fourth one marking my brother's death, I thought I had this whole Grief thing sussed out.

*Snort*

Nope.

Grief is stealthy. He has lurked around the corners of my heart for so long, I suppose I imagined he might stay there, in the shadows of my memories. Instead, Grief has been stalking me, waiting for the exact right wrong moment to leap out, grab me by the throat and shove me to my knees, right there in hallway outside the bathroom.

Sometimes, Grief doesn't even wait for me to stumble into the room and shut out the rest of my world, for just one. blessed. moment. He just swoops in from nowhere  and if I'm not fast enough, he'll pull me into his strangely seductive embrace before I've even taken my next breath.

That's how Grief rolls. Grief sucks ass. Grief colours the edges of every happy moment, whether I realize it then or later, remembering.

Grief is like that relative who comes to every family event, invited or not, and who sits so quietly in the corner you forget he's there, until you go to pour a drink and realize he's been helping himself and now your favourite beverage is all but gone.

Oddly, I've discovered that I  can't even get really, really mad at Grief, not like I did a few years ago - PHEW, that was unexpected and uncomfortable for everyone -  because that's just his nature and he's been a part of things for so long, it would actually be weird if he stopped showing up.

I have managed to  mostly ignore Grief this year, instead of letting him simply take over at the beginning of January.

This year, I tried to stand up to Grief. I got all huffy and puffy and wagged my finger in his face: "You know what, Grief? I have things to do and people to love and I refuse to let you drag me through your mire. I have a LIFE to live here, Grief and it's a busy one. I'd appreciate a little bit of breathing room this year, if you don't mind."

Photo courtesy of helpforthehurting.net

For awhile there, it seemed that Grief was listening. I marvelled at my sense of well-being, took occasional stock of my heart, found it strong and full - nary a glimpse of Grief.

Around the end of January though, I began to fret. Grief would be here soon and I needed to be ready, needed to get my house and my heart in order. So, I called him out, late one night. (It's the best time to let Grief in, he's usually eager to visit once the children are sleeping and it's dark and I'm feeling sentimental.)

I decided on a direct, no-nonsense approach: " Listen Grief, I know I'll be seeing you in February - do you know yet whether you're arriving early or will you show up on the 10th exactly?"

Grief didn't answer, which I decided was a good thing. Grief, I thought, was allowing me to set the terms for our relationship, letting me form the boundaries to guard my own heart and giving me a chance to start the new year unbent, whole, not hollow.

And I suppose, in his way, he DID allow me to move through the first 9 days of the shortest month without being too clingy. Oh sure, he accompanied me on a few more car rides than I'd prefer, but he only stuck around through the playing of the songs that remind me of Andrew and I LOVE those songs, so I didn't mind so much.

And he's popped up in unexpected places, too: My parents pinned a photo-button of Uncle Andrew playing hocked onto Luke's lunch pack and though surprised, I was delighted to see it.  For a moment Nostalgia swirled about as I let my fingers move across that button, remarkinghow MUCH Luke reminds me of Andrew, before Grief swooped in stomped out all the happy.

Sigh.

Grief crept into my heart's house yesterday morning. Early, while I slept, defenseless and pliant.  I felt him whisper through my dreams but chased him off - I thought - with a celebration for  two of my favourite mamas, carrying boys in their bellies and dreams in their eyes.

 Ignored Grief peering round the corner as I dressed for a night out with my Across-The-Road-Neighbours and then pretty much slammed the door on Grief's face as we crossed the threshold of a home filled with laughter and friendship and delicious beverages...

Grief - that fucker - snagged me as I wrapped a warm and sleepy Luke in a blanket for the walk across the road to his own waiting bed. I leaned in to kiss his flushed cheek and was struck -  again - by his eerie resemblance to Andrew and suddenly, like a freight train, Grief thundered in.

In fact, Grief draped himself so heavily on my heart, I had to sit on the stairs awhile, cradling my sleeping son, just so I could breath. Grief followed me into sleep, taunting, dancing through my dreams and filling my throat with lumps so huge I could barely swallow.

When I awoke this morning, Grief waved from across the room, eager to greet the day: "It's February 10th! Here I am, despite your best efforts to avoid me. You didn't really think I'd let this date pass without a visit, did you?"

Sigh.

I hate today.

I miss my brother.

Bless me, Father...

Matthew will make his First Communion this year. For non-Catholics out there, this means that, following a ceremony in the Spring, he will be able to take the communion wafer and drink the communion wine.

I did not make the Parent Meeting about this important event, though I had intended to. I can't remember why, but for brevity's sake, I'll blame Mark.

Thankfully, I have a very good friend called Janet who is a MUCH better Catholic than I am (read: she attends Mass more than six times a year) and who has been feeding me information via Facebook.

Today, she informed me that there will be a special ceremony next month, involving baptismal candles (which I cannot find) and school photos (which I know are around here somewhere...) and a first visit to the Confessional Box for our children, which is meant to be preceded by MY visit to the Confessional Box.

MEEP!

To prepare myself, I googled "How to Confess Properly" and found a neat  little website which lists important questions to ask myself whilst holed up in a darkened box, listening to someone else waiting to pass judgement on my...well, life.

This is how I imagine things will go, assuming Fr. W. calls me back following the guilt-ridden, apologetic, rambling message I just left on his voice mail:

Photo courtesy of "Catholic Home and Garden"

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been approximately 30 years since my last confession.

When was my last good Confession?

Alright fine, it was 32 years ago. It's been so long, I lost count. Happy now? It's even worse than previously thought.

 Did I receive Communion or other sacraments in the state of mortal sin?

 

Nope. God will have noticed that I didn't take communion for many, many years. He knows why. I'm good with keeping that between me and Him, if it's all the same to you.

 

Did I intentionally fail to confess some mortal sin in my previous Confession?

 

Nope. My last confession was around the age of 9. Pretty sure the worst of my sins were wishing my brother harm and thinking grouchy things about having to do chores. Ah, simple, magical times.

Did I seriously doubt my faith or put myself in danger of losing my faith through readings hostile to Catholic teachings or involvement in non-Catholic sects?

 

Absolutely. In fact, during a clearly troubled period, I converted to another religion, which I swiftly decided was a cult, but who am I to judge? I steered clear of the church for so long, my parents despaired. And then my first child was born and when I held him for the first time, I knew that I was touching God. Since that moment, I have been on a long, slow journey back to the church of my childhood and to a quiet, but strengthening faith.

 

(Except for when my brother died. Then I pretty much raged against everything and everyone, especially God. He waited me out. We're good now.)

 

Did I engage in superstitious practices: palm-reading, fortune telling, etc.?

Yes. And while I'm here, I may as well confess that I really, really, really want to visit a local shaman. I've heard wonderful things about her and am looking for all the help I can get, letting go of old stuff and embracing challenges yet to come. I feel sort of compelled to see her, actually. I'm pretty sure God knows that. I'm pretty sure He'd steer me away, if He felt threatened or that she might do me harm. I mean, she's His child too, right?

Did I take the name of God in vain?

Is this even a real question? Oh my GOD, yes. I know. I suck. I'm working on it, I swear to G...never mind.

 

Did I curse, or take a false oath? 

EFF. Please see previous response.

 

Did I miss Mass on Sundays or holy days of obligation through my own fault, without any serious reason?

Yes. Sometimes for no reason at all. Mostly laziness. Followed by guilt. And then guilt about the lazy and then guilt about the guilt....sigh....it's never-ending, this guilt. Can we talk about that sometime?

 

Did I keep fast and abstinence on the prescribed days?

Clearly not. Have you SEEN the size of my bum?

Did I disobey my parents and lawful superiors in important matters?

 

Yes. But my parents, much like our Father, are loving and forgiving. They forgive me because they love me and they know that I am working hard to become a better person, even when I fail miserably. Does speeding on the 401 or rolling through stop signs count? 'Cause if so, I think you oughta know that I'll do it all again, so confessing is sort of...wrong. Right?

Did I hate or quarrel with anyone, or desire revenge?

 Yes. I still do.

 

 Did I refuse to forgive?

Yes. Mostly myself.

 

Did I hurt or cause to kill someone?

God, I hope not. I'll pay more attention at stop signs, though.

 

Did I get drunk? 

Yes. There were shooters, you see. And I like shooters. Especially the ones called Butter Shooters...

 

Did I take illicit drugs?

No. That's weird, right? You can thank my dad for that. When I was a teenager, I promised him four things:

 

1. I wouldn't smoke.

2. I wouldn't do drugs.

3. I wouldn't drink alcohol before the legal age.

4. I wouldn't have sex before I got married.

 

I had to keep at least ONE of those promises. By default, it was #2.

 

Did I consent to, recommend, advise or actively take part in an abortion?

 

Yes. I'm pro-choice. God knows it. I know it. I will always support a woman's right to choose, yes, even now that I am a mother. ESPECIALLY since I've become a mother. My feelings about this topic have not changed.  Is this where things are gonna get awkward?

Did I willfully look at indecent pictures or watch immoral movies?

 

Does Magic Mike count? I haven't seen it. But I've seen lots of shots of Channing Tatum  half-naked and will admit to thinking that he is one of God's finest creations. Ditto Angelina Jolie when she was Lara Croft: Tomb Raider.

 

And God said, "Let there be perfection..."

 

 

 Did I read immoral books or magazines?

 

50 Shades of Grey. I read all three books in the series, hoping it got better. It didn't. Frankly, I think reading that drivel was punishment enough. Um, also...I read "Flowers in the Attic" in 7th grade. Please don't tell my mum.

 

Did I engage in impure jokes or conversations?

 

Yeah.

Did I willfully entertain impure thoughts or feelings?

 

Yes. I only feel guilty about that sometimes. Can I get half a Hail Mary for half-confessing? As cheeky as that might sound, it's kind of a serious question. What happens when only someone/thing else believes that what you're doing/thinking is wrong, but YOU don't? Confessing to it would be lying. Sort of. Can we talk about this sometime, too?

 

Did I commit impure acts, alone or with others?

 

Yes. Some of my favourite memories involve impure acts. Some of my favourite memories involve some of my favourite people. I kind of don't want to forget those people or those memories. Remembering's OK, right? I mean, it's not like I'm gonna do those impure things with those people again or anything. Outside of my head, I mean...

 

Did I take contraceptive or abortifacient pills or use other artificial means in order to prevent contraception?

 

Take, no. Use presently, yes. I have Matthew, Mark and Luke. I'm gonna name my dog John. I should get bonus points.

Did I steal or damage another's property?

 

I stole my Across-the-Road Neighbour's fur-lined hat last night. Mostly, is was due to the Butter Shooter consumption, but she's going to a warm country for a few months and won't be needing it. I'm pretty sure she's OK with that.

 

How much?

It's fur-lined. Probably $50? I'll have to ask...

 

Have I made reparation for the damages done?

No. I have no intention of giving it back. I DID give her a bottle of wine, though. That's  PRE-reparation. Sort of.

 

Have I been honest in my business relations?

 

 Mostly. There may have been some creative number-crunching on my tax form from 1997, but I'm also hopeless at math so it's hard to know for sure.

Did I tell lies?

Yes. Hell, yes. I can say that, right?

 

Did I sin by calumny, or detraction telling the unknown grave faults of others without necessity, even if they are true? 

 

 Do you mean "did I gossip?" Yes. Have you met me? Sometimes, a LOT of the time, my mouth engages before my brain does. That said, I am MUCH better at keeping secrets since I spilled one of my Dolphin's and there was that weird, dreadful silence at the table. That sucked, even though, technically, I didn't KNOW it was a secret...wait, what was the question, again? 

 

Did I judge others rashly in serious matters?

 

Before I became a mother? You bet. Before Karma handed me my own shit back, you mean? You bet. Now? I try not to. And frankly, I am pretty clear about my own shit, Father. I know when I've been mean or spiteful or wrong. I don't LIKE to admit it when I am, but I do. Mostly, I do so on my blog. Or on Facebook. Some people might refer to it as "oversharing." but others might see it as "unofficially" confessing. I'm just saying.

 

Surely the fact that I am here, in this box, this moment, this LIFE - imperfect, hopeful but a little bit afraid - should mean something. Something good, I mean. 'Cause the thing is, Father, even though I'm terrible at attending Mass and I holler at my kids FAR too often and I curse my husband to Hell...God has forgiven me for everything. He loves me.

 

This is how I know:

 

Me: Matthew, I love you. Thank you for choosing me to be your mummy.

Matthew: I love you, too, Mummy. And I didn't choose you all by myself, you know.

Me: What do you mean?

Matthew: God helped me choose you.