The other day at preschool drop off, my-four-year old George introduced me to his friend and her dad, and told them, “This is my mom. She’s really grouchy!”
No name. Just, “She’s really grouchy.” Apparently my defining characteristic.
My life is constant interruptions. How am I supposed to let my real self shine when my real self is constantly interrupted, sent in a different direction, shut up for a while because little people need to eat, need to figure out how to argue with each other without fighting, need reminding that they are definitely not done with their homework and they have not touched their chore list? How can I live into my deepest real self when, just as I get on a roll writing something, the puppy rips an ornament off the tree and proceeds to destroy it all over the rug I just vacuumed? And then George wants to be my teacher and follow his directions for how to draw a map. And I need to move the laundry over and finish the pancakes and try to make progress on another of the Christmas decoration boxes (6 days before Christmas) and try to sneak a glance at my husband to make a connection there before he’s off for the day, helping my parents build their house even though he has a cold.
But I just reread that and I involuntarily smiled and half-laughed, because I remember that all that is a way that I AM real.
Past-me, younger me, was real in a different way: real in the loneliness of feeling like I had no one, so I bonded with myself and with God. That loneliness was so hard and absolutely invaluable. It took shape in Spain when I realized I didn’t love a party lifestyle, so I went running and stayed in and drank tea; it took shape in wandering alone in Scottish moors when the boy I loved started dating someone else while I was abroad; it took shape in a lot of time alone in my 1940s bungalow as a new bride in a new town, far away from everyone I knew and loved. It’s why I deeply love a little river in southern Spain, the fog and damp of the Scottish Highlands, and that little house that my soul will always know as home. Those places and times shaped me, and I MISS the me they shaped.
I know she is still here, with me all the time, and I catch glimpses of her. But much of the time I am moving fast, trying to land a moment that is “pretty good” in regards to feeling like me. Right now, as I write this, George is listening to a recording of Rudolph the Red Nosed reindeer, Sesame Street is on in the background, and the dog is chewing something up and I’m not even going to check what it is. I have my earbuds in that are sort of noise canceling, so I’m listening to Vance Joy and Rudolph and Bert and Ernie and the dog all at once.. I am also trying to hear HER, that voice of myself that I know is still there, and the other HER, the voice of the Holy Spirit that I catch fleetingly these days.
Back in the lonely days, when I yearned for the life I have now, I heard those voices all the time. I walked in them every day. They filled my heart, my head, my steps, my songs, my conversations, my silences. I find myself grasping for them these days. And I find myself irritated.
Irritated that my husband and I cannot have an uninterrupted conversation. Irritated that I cannot have an uninterrupted workout. Irritated that I cannot cook an uninterrupted meal and I will apparently never read another book.
But then we watched It’s a Wonderful Life last night, and Mary said, “This is what I wished for.” And my eyes tear up a little remembering it, while Sesame Street chatters in the background, because I realize three things: ever since that boy I loved loved me back and then became my husband, I have not felt the deep loneliness. Ever since I had that first Jack Barry baby, I have not felt the deep emptiness. And I am MORE myself because of that. I am MORE myself with the interruptions than I ever was without. And that chokes me up with tears and laughter, because, as I was just getting ready to cry some sweet tears, George ran over here, and told me how “Grouch” in Sesame Street was yelling at Maria for not listening. He gave a high-pitched giggle and ran away. So my moment of deepening in the old way was gone…and I deepened into myself in a new way instead. And I turn up the volume on the Lumineers, throw the dog in the backyard for a while, literally breathe a little deeper and notice that “anywhere I go, there you are”, as Vance Joy melodies to me. The real me is here, growing BECAUSE of the interruptions, not despite them. The real Pat Barry, that boy I loved and lost and married, is becoming more himself amid the interruptions as well.
When these kids grow up and move out, and the dog stops chewing things up, and I can flip pancakes again without getting distracted and burning them, then, who will I discover I have become? What revelation awaits me when I realize that the interruptions were IMPORTANT, not distractions at all? Who am I becoming in the middle of all this chaos?
I think God takes my desires and dreams and actualizes them in ways that I could never have seen. To me, it seems necessary that I need quiet and alone time to become more me. And I have such a deep desire for that—-becoming as ME as I can be. As real as possible. I have told that desire to God and asked for his help. In fact, I have given him that desire—-asked him to take me and help me become. And then I got this husband and these pets and these kids….and God is growing me into ME through this life he has cultivated.
In his desolation, in It’s a Wonderful Life, George Bailey says to his wife, “You call this a happy family; why do we have to have all of these kids?!” Pat and I laugh about that and quote it to each other pretty dang often, because that is how it feels. But of course, the happy family comes from the kids. Comes from the life that roars around us. Comes from the interruptions.
So I will finish this up, get the dog, sit with George and watch “Sesame Street”, and see what God grows in me while I do so.
Reflection Questions for Your Life: (Maybe write on 1 or 2 of the questions that resonate with you. Writing gets into things deeper.)
- Where are you interrupted? How do you feel about that? Can you tell the difference between the interruptions that are just annoying and the ones that might be important?
- St. Ignatius talks about God putting “deep desires” on our hearts, and that there is a difference between regular old desires and the deep desires in our souls that call us to who we are meant to be. We can know more about ourselves and our callings by paying attention to our “deep desires”.
- What “deep desires” do you have in your heart? Do you talk to God about them? What does God say about these deep desires?
- Have you experienced deep loneliness? Have you experienced deep emptiness? Can you take those places of hurt to God, lay them out for him to see, and let him begin to heal them? Can you sense any comfort or solace in these places of hurt as you acknowledge them and lay them out for God to heal?
Songs for Reflection (These really fit this reflection well. Listen to the words.):
- “What Would I Do Without You”, sung by Drew Holcomb and the Neighbors
- “Fire and the Flood”, sung by Vance Joy
- “Dead Sea”, sung by the Lumineers
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