Granted, coming from my husband who is more taciturn than I, I am not offended.  Coming from his mother Lillian, who at the time she made this observation was fighting lung cancer and grieving over the recent death of her husband, no offense was taken.  In fact, two years later, I still chuckle when I remember that day. The two of us were sitting at her kitchen table, sorting through piles of correspondence she had collected over the years, and I was keeping up a steady stream of conversation about Alex, her first great-grandchild and my first grandchild.  She stopped sorting, poured us both another glass of wine, looked me in the eye and said with complete sincerity – “you love to talk don’t you dear?”

Mind you, Mom and I have known each other since I was 15 years old and I have been married to her son for 32 years.  Over this span of time we had spent countless hours together in this same kitchen, drinking coffee, tea…and other adult beverages… discussing a range of issues.   So, when she made this observation I burst out laughing because it is true – I do love to talk. It was the way I was raised, and, since Cliff’s mom was a great listener, it was a win-win for both of us.

Now of course it has become a family joke.  My brother-in-law will stop in the middle of a phone conversation and say “wow, Mom was right.  You do love to talk”.  Or I will do the “you know how much I hate to talk, but since you asked” routine, and everyone chuckles.  Yet, when all is said and done, even my husband has told me more than once he wishes his family had been more vocal.

Growing up with five siblings as I did, you had to speak up or risk getting left behind… which did happen a few times.   You had to make a quick grab for that last hot roll in the bread basket, run fast to get a window seat in the station wagon, and be first out the screen door before Mom could yell  “wait, you need to do this”.  Cliff on the other hand grew up in a family with only two siblings.  Where mine was loud, his was quiet.  Where mine was active, his was sedate.  Where mine would routinely interrupt another’s conversation to make a point, his would very politely wait their turn.  And where my siblings loved to do things together and talk constantly to one another, his rarely took the initiative to communicate.

After we married, our own family dynamics mirrored more closely the type of family I grew up with, although there were times during our children’s teen years when I could truly appreciate why Lillian preferred not to speak her mind.    Many fights could have been avoided if I had just kept quiet and not mentioned to a daughter that her choice of friends left much to be desired.  Or not voiced my opinion about my son’s choice of music which to this day I still think is inappropriate.   Or if I had not complained when laundry was left on the floor, dishes were left in the family room, and bedrooms were left in chaos. Our home could have been more peaceful if I had done what Lillian did – she kept quiet about her opinions and did the chores herself.

But that is not me.  I believe verbally expressing oneself is never wrong if done correctly…something I am still trying to perfect after all these years.  But communication is the key to understanding others and having   others understand you.  Without communication there is no chance of dialogue; there can be no sense of family without person to person contact.   Luckily for us, our children all speak their minds and have no problem with communication.

Although they are separated by hundreds of miles, our children talk regularly to one another…truly talking to one another.   When my husband and I were out of the country recently, Derek, our youngest at 22 years old, said the four of them became quite good at “playing Mom”   When I asked what he meant by that comment he laughed and said they would call one another at odd times of the day or night and start off the conversation by asking the typical Mom question – “Are you still alive”?

Their sense of humor comes from their father.

As a mother though  I am proud we raised a family that knows the importance of verbal communication, especially in today’s technological world where the impersonal form of communication is becoming more and more the norm.  I also consider ourselves lucky to have raised our family before this juggernaut of technological advances became available because today’s parents are faced with unprecedented challenges.    In just one generation the landscape upon which a family is built has been altered; most notably, the means by which they keep in contact with one another.

Email has made the art of letter writing almost extinct.  Birthday cards and thank you notes no longer require a trip out to the mailbox…they are being sent out electronically more and more. Texting is usurping real conversations, not to mention rewriting the English language.  IMHO (in my humble opinion), r u 4 real (are you for real), and LOL (not lots of love like I originally thought it meant when my daughter texted me; it means lots of laughs) have become the lexicon by which people communicate today.  Facebook and other social media outlets are giving our youth a false sense of belonging.

This current generation believes they are more plugged into life, but in truth they are becoming increasingly disconnected from humanity.  You cannot understand how a person truly feels when reading a text message.  If your ears are being bombarded with artificial noise from an IPod, you cannot hear the sounds of real life around you…the tears, the laughter, the anxiety, the surprise.  If you spend hours alone, tweeting about your daily activities, you miss out on sharing your life with real people who truly care about you.

And, if you do not spend time with those who love you, talking to them while they sort through the written correspondence collected during a lifetime, you will miss out on truly hearing how much you yourself are treasured.  You miss out on seeing the understanding, the compassion, and the pain in knowing how fleeting time truly can be.  You miss out on God’s gift of Life, His gift of Love.

“You love to talk don’t you dear?”

“As much as you enjoyed listening Lil.  Thank you.  I loved you too…very much!”



Copyright 2010 Carol S. Bannon

Come to think about it – why would an Angel perch on the right shoulder?  Was this some kind of moral subliminal indoctrination into Right versus Wrong?  Right versus Left?   And even in the cartoon shows I watched as a child, the devil angel with a pitchfork was always on the left shoulder, and the Angel with a halo was always on the right shoulder.  Interesting! I do believe I will watch a few more cartoons with my grandson to see if this is still true.

So, I grew up knowing without a doubt there was a God who lived in Heaven, Jesus Christ who died for me, and I would go to Heaven when I died if I was “good”.  And, I believed wholeheartedly my Guardian Angel was watching every move I made.  He was the voice in my head saying “don’t do that” when I was considering shoplifting bubble gum from Mr. Al’s candy counter, or hiding my older sister’s glasses in the apple basket, or throwing my brother’s shoes down the laundry chute so he wouldn’t be the first one out the door.

My Guardian Angel has a very soft voice.  He could have spoken up a tad bit louder back then and kept me from getting grounded so often.  I was not necessarily a very good listener at seven years old.  As I grew older though, I discovered a greater ability to hear my Guardian Angel’s subtle suggestions.  Some would say it is the maturation of the conscience and part of the development of our brains.  I prefer knowing someone has my back.

In addition to having a Guardian Angel, God also gave me many other gifts to help in this journey called Life.  Not only was I raised in a large loving family, I have been blessed with both a wonderful husband whose love for me is unquestionably God’s greatest blessing and four lovely unique children…who are now quite well into what they consider their adult years. …but who are still my “kids”.   Nothing puts life in perspective more than being a Mom…especially when those darling babies , who want nothing more than to be held and sung to, morph into secretive teenagers who don’t want to be around you anymore, and then  grow into young adults who once again want to hang out with Mom.

Many times I’d find myself repeating my mom’s favorite words of wisdom, “Don’t sweat the small stuff.  Save your energy for the big stuff. The big problems will come whether you are ready for them or not.”  Truer words were never spoken. Even though my children are grown, I still find myself categorizing my worries/problems into big ones versus small.  It helps.

My siblings, three brothers and two sisters, are also an integral part of my life; each and every one has been there for support and counsel, laughter and fun.    All of them are a blessing from God, put here in our family for a specific purpose.   In our own way, we are like God’s gift of a Guardian Angel …we watch out for each other, we worry about each other, and  we have each other’s back.

There were times though, when I pictured our various Guardian Angels standing around with their hands over their ears, shaking their heads, and moaning at all the bickering we used to do.  Or the times I would imagine my Guardian Angel saying “Your brother is not being very nice. Go tell your mother.”   I would hurry off to tattle on him, feeling very holy and self-righteous.  I guess I may have deserved the family title of Snitch.

One sibling in particular is younger, though not by much, and she has helped me weather many storms.  She is the one I can turn to when I need to let off steam about my husband, children, politics, and associates.  She is the one I turn to when I find myself completely frustrated with other family members or consumed with doubts about a decision I have made.  When I get an idea in the middle of the day, she is the one I bounce it by knowing she won’t spare my feelings.  Some people may feel the need to be diplomatic when asked to give an opinion; Jeannie is not one of those.

All in our family have experienced Jeannie’s gift of telling it like it is…no sugar coating, thank you very much.  I still remember when she and her family drove 24 hours straight to celebrate Thanksgiving in my new home.  She is the spatial designer, but I thought I would surprise her and have it all done before she came, even though decorating is not one of my strong points. The first thing she did was laugh and say, “Oh my gosh, I am so glad I came!” And then she did what she does best…she took what was in our house and transformed it into a home.

She may live far away in distance, but she is the closest to me in faith and temperament. Over the years we have shared many adventures and dreams.  Before she began her job working at their Parish school and office, we would talk every day for hours as we cleaned our respective homes.  Many times we would be thinking about the same thing or working on a similar problem.  She is the one I turn to when I need to have another pair of eyes to pour over something I have written.  We even wrote a Christmas book, together with our older brother, about a Christmas tradition begun by our father.

I love my husband dearly, but there is no substitute for having a sister who thinks like you do, shares similar dreams, and is there for you unconditionally. She is the one who remembers who you were before you were grown.  She is the one who backs you up when you claim your grandparents kept ducks in the basement for Duck Soup.  No idea is too crazy to share with each other.  No worry is too big that cannot be sliced and diced into manageable pieces with each other.  No complaint is too petty not to share with each other.

When you have a sister to laugh with you, not at you, life is so much fun.  When you have a sister you can call at any hour for help, life is more secure.  And, when you have a sister to share your faith with, life is a complete blessing.

Please, let me introduce my “younger” sister Jeannie.  I know you will enjoy getting to know her.

Good Morning Catholic Moms,

For many months now, my sister Carol has been asking (or more to the point – pestering me) to write a few words to all of you.  She is a columnist with Catholic Mom and author of A Handshake From Heaven and Our Family’s Christmas Elf. Since I offer my assistance and edit some of her writings, she believes I should be writing as well.

It has been a long time since I penned, or I should say, typed any personal piece.  I keep telling Carol (and my husband) that I don’t write because I haven’t “found my voice” yet… whatever that means.   I’m not sure either, but it sounds good – doesn’t it?  (Please take my side on this one!)  But, to keep my sister quiet (ok, off my back because she is extremely persistent), I thought I better say at least a short hello to all of you.  It has to be short, since I leave for work in thirty minutes.   So, Carol – here it is:

First of all, I assume you would like to know my name.  That is easier said than done. I have many names I answer to and it depends on who you were with or where we met that determines the name you call me.  Since it is Carol requesting this piece, I will use the name she calls me by…Jeannie. So, hello! I am Jeannie, the reluctant writer who has a sister who can be a pest.

I am married to this great guy who only has one name, no nickname; he is just called Hank.  Truthfully though, I guess you can say he does have another name – that would be Dad.  The Lord blessed me with this wonderful man.  Do you know the song (I am awful with titles) that has a line in it that goes, “God blessed the broken road that led me straight to you”?  If you don’t, go to ITunes or wherever on the web and search for it.  This is our song.  I still sit back some days and am amazed at God’s plan.  If we both had not made so many wrong choices we never would have found each other.

Is it not amazing how God works?  Hank uses the word unfathomable in a prayer he recites every day as he drives to work.  We just do what God wants because to us His Plan is unfathomable.  I really need to use that word more myself.   Try it sometime when you are overwhelmed or overjoyed at something in your life.  You will be surprised how it puts things in perspective.

How the heck are we to know what He wants?  We don’t. We really don’t. We just need to “Let Go and Let God”.

The other members of my small family consist of two daughters and a son.  I say this is a small family because Hank and I both come from the 1950/60 typical large-sized Catholic family.  He grew up with six siblings and I grew up with five.  If we had met earlier in life we might have mimicked our parent’s family size considering we were expecting our first child by our first anniversary.

So, there we are – your typical Catholic Christian family of five who try to make it through the day with the Grace of God.  It’s a very happy life filled with laughter, challenges, and whole lot of love.  I hope and pray your life is just as blessed if not more.

Take care of yourselves and your loved ones.

Peace always,

Jeannie

PS  Carol, so, are you going to stop pestering me now?



Copyright 2010 Carol S. Bannon

In this article, he wants to know where civility went.  Well, having grown up in a middle class Catholic family of eight, during the sixties mind you, I have some answers for him.

First and foremost, when society deems one’s feeling of self-worth  more important than following God’s Commandments, civility takes a beating.

I cannot tell you how many times our parents would admonish us not to argue, hit, shout, or be mean to one another  because it was wrong, or in Catholic-speak, a sin.  I do not think I ever heard my mother sweetly suggest “Honey, why don’t you stop doing that? You are not being very nice”.   No, my mother would sternly state, “Stop that right now!   Stay in your room until you can behave”.    Big difference!

And, if my parents heard any of us making fun of someone else because of their appearances or because they sounded different, not only were we dragged away by our elbows and forced to stay inside the house, they would instantly remind us how people often abused and laughed at Jesus.  By their words and  actions our parents taught us to live as Jesus did, and to try to avoid doing anything that Jesus would frown upon.  Not only would these types of acts make Him sad (read – Catholic guilt), we would need to keep track of it for our next visit to the confessional and Father Kenny (read – Catholic fear).  Incentives abounded for us to act right.

Secondly, when society deems it unacceptable to talk about God and His Word in civil discourse, civility becomes a nicety, not a necessity.    Communication is reduced to sound bites, slogans, shouts, and vulgarity.

Did we ever hear our father use vulgarity when we were young?  Of course!  We grew up knowing two languages existed… Dad’s language, usually reserved for the garage and workroom, although there were a “few” instances of his peppery language during long road trips, and then there was the “proper way” to talk.  Were we allowed to use Dad’s language?  Never, and if one of his words accidently slipped out, our parents did not think it was cute. Rather, dad’s language being used by one of us always resulted in the use of the ever handy Ivory Soap, which by the way does not taste very good.

In addition, our grandfather repeatedly told us the way to sound intelligent was to never use vulgarity. He firmly believed the use of vulgar words was a sign of illiteracy.   We grew up knowing every vulgar word had at least ten acceptable synonyms; if we wanted to be perceived as being intelligent, we used these words.  But, at some point in our society,   vulgar and rude language became the norm; it is even seen as being funny!    Children and teens hear their sports idols, their Hollywood idols, and their favorite musicians using this type of language in interviews, movies, and songs.  These “American Idols” give tacit approval to our youth that this type of language is acceptable.  And a Catholic parent’s job is made even more difficult.

Finally, when society no longer allows prayer to be said on school campuses, ridicules politicians who publicly state faith is the center of their being, and passively accepts bad behavior, “as long as it doesn’t hurt anyone”, civility is replaced with narcissism.

Civility, public and private, is the direct outcome of living by God’s Commandments.  When these Commandments are no longer the center of the family, there can be no family. When God is no longer the center of one’s community, there is no real community.  And when God and His Commandments are not the center of our country, public civility is lost.

For Catholic families the job is made more difficult by today’s lack of focus on God and His teachings.  Mr. Pitts Jr. and all other public figures in the media, entertainment world, and political arena could make our job so much easier if they would once again begin to draw negative attention to those who abuse God’s Laws instead of making heroes out of them.  Or, as the First Commandment commands:

“‘I am the LORD your God… You shall have no other gods before Me.‘

You want to know what happened to civility Mr. Pitts Jr.?  I would advise you it is still out there.  There are many families in America who still live by the Ten Commandments and the Golden Rule.  These are not relics; they are our way of life.   Furthermore, our country did not “lose” its civility; we threw it away in the name of entertainment, fame, and the desire to feel good about ourselves.

Maybe it is time those in positions that influence our youth remember and live by God’s Words once again.  Maybe it is time for everyone to remember there is a difference between our “rights as Americans” and doing the “right” thing.  Maybe it is time for all of us to stop, turn our eyes toward Heaven, and say in one voice “God help us, for we know not what we do”.

Copyright 2010 Carol S. Bannon

Tossing and turning, glancing at the clock every hour on the hour, becoming frustrated with oneself because of the never ending list circulating in your mind….insomnia is not fun.   You name it, and I have lost sleep over it; worries about money and bills, upcoming travel plans, worries about my children…even when my “children” are grown with children of their own.  Why else would there be aisles in CVS and Walgreens filled with teas, tonics, and pills created solely to ensure a good night’s rest?  I have wandered those aisles, and purchased many of the promised aids, frequently over the years.

This time though, my sleeplessness has nothing to do with any of the above.  It has everything to do with my inability to say no.

Do not misunderstand me.  I can say no to most “things” such as when a certain someone asks if we could use a larger television set, or do I want to go out to dinner instead of cooking, or  do   I mind if he replaces his golf clubs.   Those are all simple questions and as such do not warrant a lengthy inner debate about the pros and cons.

“No, our current television set is working just fine thank you very much.”

“No, I really don’t feel like getting dressed up to go out to dinner”.

“No, I do not mind if you want to replace those 20 year old clubs with a newer set.”

The golf club request was by far the easiest one in recent years, and it is not because he has perfected the art of framing a question to his benefit.  He works very hard and has delayed purchasing a new set for a variety of  plausible reasons…college education for four children, orthodontist bills for three of them, and of course a beautiful home with two functioning automobiles.  Plus, it doesn’t hurt that I am actually beginning to enjoy playing golf myself.

In fact, saying no to those closest to me is easy.  Saying no to acquaintances who ask for my help is not so easy.

My husband, who sleeps like a baby most nights and has tried to help me with my “problem” ,  will tell  me to just drop whatever is causing me to become agitated and go on to something else.  Most times I get angry at him for what I consider his cavalier attitude about my responsibilities, which leads to him becoming frustrated with me for allowing situations to grow out of control.  In hindsight, most of our arguments over the years have centered on this Ring-Around-the-Rosy Roulette.  I’ll complain about a situation, he’ll tell me to walk away from it, I’ll get frustrated because he doesn’t “understand” why his solution is ill-advised,   he’ll  retort  “so don’t ask me what I think”, and I will walk away angry that he didn’t listen to my problems.  Ah the joys of married life.

Commiserating to my mother didn’t help either.  In fact, concerning this matter they are both in complete agreement.   I need to drop my current project if I want to once again enjoy a good night’s sleep.  It is taking time away from my family and from the things I truly enjoy doing.

Sitting in my darkened family room at 3:00 A.M, sipping my “Sleepy-Time” tea, I finally acknowledge that both of them are right.  I do have problem.

I agree to do something I thought I wanted to do, and when it becomes apparent I am being taken advantage of,  or it starts interfering in my family’s life, or it becomes a distraction from what I truly enjoy doing,  it is hard for me to say “Enough”!  And then I become angry – subconsciously at first, until it finally snowballs into my consciousness sometime around 3 A.M.   And then I’m wide awake.

I need to remember true joy comes from having balance in life.   All of us will sometimes have something, someone, or some cause that will begin to overwhelm our days.  And, there will be periods when we need to place our family off to one side so as to finish a project, help a friend, or learn something new.  But as my mother reminded me, we need to return our families back to the center sooner rather than later.  Finish that project, give your friend the benefit of your counsel, and bring your new skill into play to help your family.

Most important of all, remember God and family comes first; everything and everyone else needs to wait their turn.

Thanks to my mom’s gentle reminder, sleeping is so much sweeter these days.



Copyright 2010 Carol S. Bannon

As adults we are conditioned to take control of our destiny, plot the course, make the lists…and follow through.  To do otherwise would be anathema to many of our natures.   And yet, that is precisely what all of us must practice at some time in our lives.  Illnesses arise or economic recessions may change our financial stability and through no fault of our own, the fabric of our daily lives is changed.  When bad things happen to us, or our loved ones, it never feels right.

I remember very clearly when my own family’s life was not only turned upside down, but cemented into a new place…and I was not happy.  In fact, I spent a long time ignoring the situation.  When I was forced to accept the new direction my family was headed, I became angry and then depressed.  The recriminations, the tears, the “why us” pleas, and even the childish expression of hate…I did it all.  Through no fault of mine, life changed and instead of being able to fix the situation, I had to accept it.

I believe one of the greatest fallacies of getting older is that life will become easier.  How many new parents believe once their children learn to walk and talk, their life will become less complicated?  In truth, once children learn how to walk, they inevitable love to run and you are left chasing them from morning to night.  Once they know how to talk, you find yourself telling them to be quiet more often than not.  The fairy tale repeated most often is when your children leave for college, or became married, or have children of their own, you can stop worrying about them.

The truth of the matter is most of us will never be able to stop worrying.  Even when we know in our hearts the outcome cannot be changed, we continue to try to “fix” the situation.  It is what many of us are programmed to do.  When a doctor gives a diagnosis we don’t like, we head to our computers to google other treatments.  When our children do not get accepted into their school of choice, we write letters and plead with administrators. When faced with absolutes, many of us need to know we have options. When faced without any options, we feel lost and out of control.

That is why growing older is not easy.  Aging forces us to acknowledge our options are limited. The certainty of youth to change situations is gradually replaced with the knowledge that certain situations cannot be changed.   I’ll never forget my father in law, a proud man who started his own company, sharing a glass of wine with me on the night he discovered he had stomach cancer.  My mother in law was in the hospital suffering from lung cancer, and I asked him if I could get anything for him.  He chuckled and told me that at this stage of his life all he needed was a little more wine and a lot more faith.

We all have a bit of Pilate in us.  It is the part of our character that goes in search of other options, the part that says to the world “don’t you know I have the power to ….”  At the end of the day, though, all of us must accept that which Our Father gives us to hold, to experience, to live through…good and bad.   As Christ said to Pilate “you have no power but that which My Father gave you”.   Thankfully He gave us the power to have faith in Him, to trust in Him, when all other options are gone.



Copyright 2010 Carol S. Bannon

Compare those days with today’s modern family car trips. When meeting our daughter at the rendezvous point to pick up Alex, we were given the all important car seat with the manicure destroying harness and a 25 pound diaper bag filled with medicines, emergency numbers, a smorgasbord of his favorite prepackaged snack foods, and his day and nighttime diapers – not to be confused with the swimmie diapers. Once my husband had safely stowed the essentials in the back seat, she proceeded to strap on the most important car trip item for the modern family– the portable DVD player. Of course she had to teach us how to turn on this player, and which buttons to push to fast forward past the credits, but she assured us this would keep him entertained for most of the car trip. She was not wrong!

There was no separation anxiety on his behalf, although his mom looked a bit worse for wear. He had his favorite stuffed animal snug between his arms, his Papa driving, and a sippy cup filled with his favorite juice – he was ready to be entertained. As a surprise, our daughter had purchased a collection of old cartoons for him to watch. There was Felix the Cat, Popeye the Sailor Man, Baby Huey, Tom and Jerry, and even Little LuLu…I would be lying if I didn’t say all three of us enjoyed the trip home. Alex laughed to the antics of Felix dancing on a wooden fence pole, and my husband and I enjoyed both his laughter and our memories of watching these same cartoons with our own children. About four hours into the trip, when Alex finally dozed off, I glanced over at my husband and the sense of déjà vu was very strong. We had done before, and to me it didn’t seem all that many years ago.

This feeling of time passing too quickly is one I experience every Lent too. No matter how committed I am to following through each year with the intentions I set forward, somehow time gets away from me. As the end of Lent approaches, I always seem to feel as if I have not done my best. Oh I had many good reasons for this – in grade school it was because I gave up something “too hard”. In college I was always “too” busy, and as a young mother – well that speaks for itself. Only a mother can tell you how short the forty days of Lent truly are. Before you can say “forgive me Father, for I have sinned”, Holy Thursday has arrived and the children are beside themselves with Easter Fever. I was lucky to do the Stations of the Cross on Friday evenings and find ten minutes of solitude to pray every day.

This Ash Wednesday I chose two goals. One was based on the lofty guiding principal of why Catholics love this season of denial – to lose twenty pounds by giving up my favorite snacks. My second goal was to become closer to Christ. Ironically, upon reading my newest diet book I came across this Chinese Proverb:

“If you are in a hurry, you will never get there”.

I have not come close to accomplishing my first goal, but this proverb rang true for my second. If I rush through Lent I may never get to where I want to be, which is in a deeper relationship with Christ. Time will escape – that is an unavoidable casualty of living. Details, schedules, and people will continue to band together in a concerted effort to derail my best laid plans. Only now do I understand this is part of everyone’s life.

Meditating on my shortcomings, which I find myself doing quite often, I have come to one conclusion…God is willing to let me take as long as I need. He knows I can do better, and more importantly, He knows I will try to do better. Maybe this Lent wasn’t perfect, but I am not perfect. I do know that I need Him near me when I become lonely, to talk to me when I feel frustrated, to listen to me when no one else seems to even hear me, and to forgive me for the thousand ways I hurt Him every day. Lent is a beautiful season where we come to a closer understanding of our relationship with God, but it is the beginning.

I understand Lent, like preparing for family car trips, are just the beginning of a long journey. Every year the details of how I plan to prepare for Easter may change, but my goal to know God better has remained constant. I may never complete the journey the way I envision on Ash Wednesday, but I will always try, because I do want to be with Christ! I want to be able to gaze on His face when I die, and feel that same sense of déjà vu – knowing that He was always right beside me on my many Lenten journeys, waiting for me to know Him, an

d welcoming me home.

For example, one question aggravated me during those hectic days of December and it concerned my bathroom scale.  Why did it persist in displaying increasingly larger numbers  when I consciously reduced my baked goods?  Granted, I reduced the number of cookies, bars, candies, and candied nuts not because I was trying to be healthy or calorie conscious.  As Christmas Eve drew closer, I realized I just didn’t feel like baking…which brings me right back to my original complaint.  If the calorie laden goods weren’t available in record setting quantities, why did standing on my scale, even with heels hanging off the backside, still raise those darn numbers?

My sons, who felt my pain, actually talked about marketing a Holiday Scale for Mothers.  This scale would take a hiatus during the Christmas season.   Since scales do not contribute to feelings of good cheer, especially their mother’s,  they are going to design one that reads “You are doing great!  Have a cookie” every day beginning December 15th.

I am very lucky to have ingenious and caring sons.

Not to be left out, my daughters took control of the kitchen and carried off a beautiful feast, complete with china dinnerware, glistening crystal goblets, and  newly polished silver.  After Christmas dinner, I was ordered to a “just sit down Mom, we’ll do the dishes” directive.   Raising my empty wine glass to my husband, signaling for a refill mind you, I felt so blessed.  An hour later, as their brothers kept trooping in with more dishes to be handwashed , we heard our daughters plotting in the kitchen … “what the heck… next year we’re using paper plates”.

Needless to say, dessert was served on my everyday dishwasher safe dinnerware.

My main regret, and I seem to regret this every year without fail, is the lack of foresight in planning quiet time for myself.

I tried to ignore my text messages, cell phone, and the email pings signaling I have new mail…but I never quite managed not to read , answer , or open them.  Thoughts kept buzzing in my ears late into the night…this needs to be done, bought, wrapped, cooked, ironed, or polished.  As hard as I tried to keep  the reason why we celebrate Christmas in the forefront,  I never quite reached that part of the Christmas journey where I could just be.

And that, I have come to realize, is why I love January.

The quiet I never manage to hear during the December rush descends. Sitting in the Christmas tree-less family room, after the last of the decorations are back in the attic and most of the pine needles swept away, I count the many blessings God has bestowed on me.  I can just be.

Be with the wonderful memories made during the past holiday season.  Be at peace with where I am on my life’s journey. Most importantly, be with the best friend I will ever have, Jesus Christ.

May everyone have a truly blessed new year.

Copyright 2010 Carol S. Bannon

Christmas 2009 can be the year your family restocks Christ’s manager… literally.  Sheep, cows, and other animals were good enough to surround our Lord on his birth; today, they can be the best gifts we give to others.  This year let your family give Christ a birthday present reminiscent of His birthplace.

All children look forward to writing their annual Christmas list, both the gifts they want, and the ones they need to buy. Hopefully, they have learned the value and joy of giving presents to loved ones.  Being realists though we know Christmas, in today’s society, has gotten out of hand; it has become all about wants.  Do children truly understand the concept of need anymore?

As parents we are all concerned about children not understanding the true meaning of Christmas and we are weary of trying to recreate a picture perfect, made for T.V. Christmas season.  The endless commercial hype for Christmas begins earlier each year in the hopes of “getting people in the mood”.     Our Lord’s birthday celebration has been trivialized, marginalized, and exploited under the auspices of love, family, and tradition.

Holiday traditions such as gift giving are fun and therefore hard to change; but it is possible to restore the real meaning of Christmas while still exchanging presents. This December, implement something new in your home…Nativity Gifts instead of Christmas Gifts.  Explain how Our Lord’s Nativity had only the bare necessities, and then show your children how to give these to others.

Last January, after adding up the total cost spent on holiday gift giving, my brothers and sisters decided to look for alternatives. After all, Christ was born in a simple manger with few material possessions.  Mary and Joseph did not spend the days leading up to Jesus’ birth shopping.  We wanted to find ways our children could celebrate Christmas in a way more evocative of that First Christmas.

We started to research organizations offering opportunities to buy the simple necessities for people truly in need.  The gifts had to be easy to purchase and at the same time highlight the differences between wants and needs.

The Christian Children’s Fund Organization Gift Catalog (www.christianchildrensfund.org) will let you purchase a pair of goats for a family in Ethiopia, or some pigs for three families in Uganda. Both of these gifts give families food and a chance for real income. In Brazil $36.00 will purchase one family an orchard, and $31.00 will buy a water analysis kit so children don’t get sick from drinking dirty water.

Another organization, World Vision, (www.worldvision.org) offers four chickens to a family for only 50.00; $30.00 will buy them five ducks. $40.00 will purchase a fishing set so families in places like the Philippines and Angola can put food on the table. They also can provide safe drinking water through treatment tablets.  One year of these treatments only cost $50.00 and will benefit 250 children.

Heifer Internationals’ catalog (www.heifer.org) sells small animals like bees, geese, ducks, chickens, and llamas for gift giving; many cost as little as $20.00. In addition to livestock they offer farming implements, wells, and other gift baskets of love. Barbara Bush, our former First Lady, is quoted on their website as saying,

“For sixty years Heifer International has  brought dignity and self-reliance to families in need all over the world with its brilliantly simple solution — livestock and training for food and income.”

Your family can buy a piece of the manger this year. These three organization’s catalogs alone illustrate the enormous call for just the basic necessities in many parts of the world today.   Teach them how easily they can make a difference in the lives of others this holiday season.

Go online and view the gift catalogs from these organizations, or find an organization of your choice.  Use the catalogs as a starting point for discussing the differences between wants and needs. Our family may want to have a new game table, but do we really need it? Can we get by with only three new gifts instead of seven? Maybe the monies spent on other gifts for our family would be better spent fulfilling the needs of others. Then choose a country or a group and decide which gift to give them…which Nativity Gift you want someone to have.

Just as Our Savior’s birth gave hope to us, May this Christmas season bring hope to others.   As it is written in Matthew 25,

“For I was hungry and you gave Me food, I was thirsty and

You gave Me drink …whatever you did for one of these

least brothers of Mine, you did for Me.”

Teach your family how to best say “Happy Birthday Lord”.

Copyright 2009 Carol S. Bannon

Born out of need, and a desire to prove a point, the concept of these gifts began over twenty one years ago.  I was pregnant with my fourth child, exhausted, and extremely ornery.  Christmas was one week away, money was short, and I still needed to find something for my siblings – no mean feat with three brothers and two sisters.  Tired of my tears and martyred demeanor, my husband announced with authority he would take on the responsibility of choosing their presents if I promised not to recriminate him, or exchange, the gifts he chose.

My promise was given gleefully.  Now he would finally understand why his wife wasn’t exhibiting holiday spirit! Christmas doesn’t just magically appear one day in December.   It occurs due to hard work, careful planning, and budgeting.  Presents need to be kept within spending limits, but choosing the perfect gift involves recalling the personal likes and dislikes of each family member.  One of my sisters loves the scent of lavender but sneezes every time she smells vanilla; the other sister despises frilly fancy clothes and prefers flannel shirts and fuzzy slippers. True Christmas gifts are specifically bought for each and every loved one.

Hugging him tightly and thanking him profusely, I sent him out the door with the Christmas cash I had budgeted in hand and specific suggestions for each one of my siblings.  I knew in my heart my husband would not return for many hours. I was prepared to listen with a sympathetic ear to his frustration with both the crowds and the costs, knowing that after this shopping trip he would return a better man.

It turned out my preparations, and hopes, were in vain.  One hour later he walked in our side door whistling Jingle Bells.  Holding one paper bag in his arms, he smugly stated that Christmas shopping was a breeze and assured me everyone would love their presents.  Dropping a quick kiss on my forehead, and refusing me a peek inside the bag, he even proceeded upstairs to wrap them. I would have to wait until Christmas just like everyone else.

Gathered around my parent’s tree that year, our children proudly passed out our presents to their aunts and uncles. The moment of reckoning was at hand and I was already making excuses for possible wrong sizes, colors, and offering to exchange any present if they didn’t like it. We have a tradition of watching one person at a time as they open their gifts, and before my husband could suggest opening our presents to them at the same time, my then 19-year-old brother ripped open his gift…upside down.  Out fell a two-pocket cloth work apron stuffed with a carpenter’s pencil and 50’ tape measure.  Kindly thanking us, another brother opened his present and out fell the exact same items.  That is when the mystery of the one-paper-bag-shopping trip began to be revealed.

My younger sister proceeded to open her gift, and someone yelled out “ bet you can’t guess what your gift is”, and amid the laughter and good natured teasing, sure enough – out came a two-pocket cloth apron, carpenter’s pencil, and a 50’ tape measure. My oldest brother began laughing so hard he could barely ask if our local Home Building Center had any aprons left in their open end-of-the-aisle container storage bins.  By the time my last sibling went to open her gift there wasn’t a dry eye in the room.  We were all bent over, holding our stomachs; loud raucous uninhibited laughter filled the room. Our family Christmas “bin” gift had been born.

Throughout the next eleven months my family had no qualms teasing us about their Christmas gift. At Easter, one brother filled his two-pocket cloth apron with chocolate eggs and re-gifted it to my husband in an Easter basket.  During our summer vacation at my parent’s beach home another brother tied his apron over his bathing suit and used it to recycle bottle caps. Even my sisters teased us by using their Home Building Center aprons while cooking, measuring spoons and hot pads filling the pockets.

Over Thanksgiving dinner the following year, the men in my family decided to create the Annual End-of-the-Aisle-Container-Bin-Gift Shopping Contest.  The rules of engagement were simple.  No more than $10.00 could be spent on each person, less was best of course, and the gift had to be something every member could use.  Most importantly, based on past experience, when it was time to open the gifts everyone had to open them up at the same time.

Over the last eighteen years our family Christmas gifts have ranged from the hilarious to the sentimental.  One year a brother made six trips to Home Depot because they were giving away free fluorescent garage lights.   Another time everyone received a bottle of chipolte sauce and a package of cream cheese.  Homemade brownie mixes, cleaning products, needlepoint wine bags and plastic cheese holders are just a few of the many wonderful gifts we have received from each other.

Even though some families have relocated to other parts of the country, and we are all older, the one-size-fits-all container bin gift still continues to lighten our holiday load. Phone calls begin in early December as we tease one another about winning this years “Bin Gift of the Year Award”.  Conference calls are now the norm on Christmas morning for those in different time zones as we laugh and share with each other where we found that special gift, how to use the gift, and even why in the world we thought they all needed  this gift.

Simple and easy, long on laughter and short on cost – these are our true gifts to each other. They have never been indexed for inflation because our goal has always been to emphasize the fun of gift giving.  Our children, most of whom are now adults, have become active participants in our family gift shopping experience as well. They have seen firsthand how this family tradition has kept all six of us close to one another.

My husband was right twenty one years ago and his insight is even more important today.  Christmas shopping doesn’t have to fray nerves, cause stomach upset, bloat credit cards, and empty wallets. It can be accomplished with true holiday spirit while whistling Jingle Bells and shopping at your favorite store.  He taught everyone that simplicity, laughter, and staying in touch with each other is truly the best Christmas present anyone can receive.

Copyright 2009 Carol S. Bannon

I will be the first to admit I never expected to feel this way.   Not me, the mother of four who bemoaned the start of every school year because I loved being with them all summer long.  The mom constantly at the beck and call of her children, regardless of the hour. I will admit I cried every time I had to move a newly graduated high school senior into a college dorm.  I would even spend hours wondering, and worrying, if a completely silent home would drive me insane.

Originally, when my last child graduated from high school, I felt as if I had been fired from a job I loved; most mothers in fact will experience this same feeling.  When the last child receives his or her High School diploma, we really do receive our pink slips. That feeling of loss is real: short-lived, but real.

Now, upon deep reflection, it’s not so much about being let go from your job; it is more like being granted probation, without the probation officer.  No strings attached.  I can go wherever I want, whenever I want, for however long I want.  Let freedom ring!

Getting from the “I-feel-so-displaced” phase to my current mind set was relatively easy too.  Oh, I missed my college children.  Every time I wandered into unfamiliar territory, such as their now-clean rooms, I thought of them.  Deciding which side of my daughters’ room was better suited for the eternally standing ironing board was tough.  Should it be over on the side where she used to sit on the floor and put on makeup, as evidenced by the multi-colored eye shadow stains scattered within a 3-foot radius?  Or maybe it should go by the now-I’m-able-to-open-them closet-doors.  Tough decisions, but I made them.  And before I knew it, September was gone and October had arrived.

When my children were young I was a Halloween maniac.  I loved October.  I would decorate with ghosts and cobwebs, witches and demons.  We’d blow up white balloons, paint on scary skull faces, and strategically place them bobbing in our front yard pond – our very own floating ghoulish graveyard. I’d bake Halloweenies, special hotdogs coated with crushed chips, and spider stew.  For 21 years we had so much fun!

This year my husband dared to suggest the possibility of forgoing Halloween.  Why buy and carve a pumpkin?  Why bake a pumpkin pie?  Why not spend money earmarked for the yearly begging ritual and put it towards a quiet dinner and movie?  Heresy!  Lunacy!  “Be those people,” I quickly retorted. “The ones with the dark windows and empty candy bowls?”  Was he crazy?  What would the neighbors say?

As it turned out, our neighbors were jealous of our new status and applauded our decision to depart from tradition. I also discovered, in case you are wondering, I am one of those people who can easily turn out the lights, forgo the candy bowl, and leave.  My steak, salad, and two-olive martini were delicious!

And if Halloween was the beginning of my change, Christmas vacation brought my morphing to completion.   Once again, with them home, I was just Mom.  Not the Mom who decorated seventeen types of Christmas cookies with her children while singing Christmas carols. Nor was I the Mom of Christmas past, gently hanging precious ornaments on the family tree, conversing quietly with my family.

Instead, I was the mom of the “Once Clean, but now Littered” family car. The “Can-You-Get-This-Out” stain-removing Mom.   The “Can-I-Borrow” ATM Machine Mom, and the “Do-You-Know-Where-My…..” Mom.

I was forced to use arm muscles dormant for three months to carry in endless grocery bags.   I discovered I had forgotten how to do the two-step-hopscotch-jump over shoes haphazardly placed in front of the backdoor.  I needed to relearn how to body-bump open bedroom doors jammed shut with discarded clothes and how to use my right hip to close closet doors while juggling half-filled water glasses and damp towels.

On the bright side, my neighbors did not need to fear the dark, since my returning loved ones sincerely believe Edison intended his light bulbs to be used 24/7.  And, because in my children’s eyes electric dog fences are inhumane, these same neighbors were reacquainted with our fearless protecting dog, Lilly.  Our home may not have been electronically protected, since the house alarm was never turned on, but Lilly was able to visit every yard in the neighborhood during Christmas break.

I found myself humming Ford Company’s theme song…“this is Ford country” as I tried to maintain order, but I was mentally thinking, “this used to be my country.”  Experienced counterparts who have traversed this way before already gave k me advanced warning.  Christmas vacation is only a trial period for newly morphed moms.  The winter semester, although longer, will feel so much shorter than the fall semester and then they will return – with everything!  TVs, couches, lamps, computers, and their full contingent of clothing; these long-forgotten occupants of a previous existence will once again make themselves at home.

When I first said goodbye to my youngest at college I left in tears.  Holding my hand during that drive my husband quietly asked, “Are you crying because they are all gone, or are you crying because you’re stuck with me?”  Holding my hand while waving goodbye to them after Christmas break, he quietly asked how I was doing this time.  In reply I said, “When we can’t see their taillights, let’s lock the door and turn on the fireplace.  I’ll grab the crackers and cheese.  You get the glasses and open the wine. And, honey, don’t forget to turn on our alarm.”

Copyright 2009 Carol S. Bannon

If you have ever woken up to a blue computer screen, or watched words scroll across your screen reporting “an error has occurred and the computer needs to shut down”…chances are you will understand exactly how I felt last month.  My initial reaction was total disbelief and shock in what was happening to the most important piece of equipment in my home.  Both my son and husband heard me repeating over and over again “no, no, you can’t do this to me”.  Since they were used to my vocal outbursts in response to emails and cyber-news, neither of them was too concerned.

Slowly, cold fear began to course through my body.  I could not breathe, and my fingers began to tense up over the keyboard.  I tried unplugging the computer quickly, hoping that whatever was occurring would stop.  I pushed those keys on the top of the keyboard, the ones marked F1-F12, without even knowing what they stood for, jabbing them fiercely and without discretion.  At one point, my son even heard me pleading with the computer screen to please stop doing what it was doing, and promising this inanimate piece of machinery whatever it wanted if it would only return to my main screen.

No longer able to ignore what was occurring, my son walked in and told me to vacate the chair.  Taking my arm he steered me out of the room and reminded me of my yoga class.  In tears, I kept repeating over and over to him that I didn’t understand why this was happening to me.  I had virus protection, I ran daily scans, I even disconnected from the wireless servers every time I left the computer on.  I did everything the experts said to do; I had been a faithful practitioner of computer maintenance. Speaking very calmly and slowly, Derek assured me it was not my fault, I probably did not do anything wrong.  Sometimes, he said, these things just happened.

Knowing his knowledge of computers far surpassed my own, I took his advice.  I went to class and practiced deep breathing and thought calm thoughts.  I focused on my yoga poses and almost succeeded in pushing my computer problem to the back of my mind.  Derek would fix this minor problem, and in the great scheme of things I reasoned, a morning without a computer is not that important.   I was sure when I returned home my familiar screen saver would greet me and Derek would pat my head saying all was well.   Deep down, I believed we would laugh about my outburst over lunch.

I was not so lucky.  Instead he informed me that my hard drive was fried.  Although he had tried reinstalling the original factory settings, nothing was working.   Ninety minutes of calming yoga went out the window and I began to yell out words a Catholic mom should never even know, let alone vocalize.  For thirty minutes I begged him to try something else.  When he tried to convince me to take it to an expert, I began a full throttle temper tantrum.   I threw papers to the floor, repeatedly banged computer programs on the desk, and eventually stomped out of the room verbally cursing all things electronic.  It was not pretty, but this was nothing compared to how I reacted when my husband called to see how my day was going.

Basically ordering me to calm down, he tried to convince me a new hard drive was not that big of a deal because we could reload information from my backups.  Hearing me wail louder he guessed correctly… I had never performed a backup.  In my defense, every time I tried to do this task I received an error message saying “the path chosen was not supported”.  Instead of trying to figure out a solution to this error message, I chose to ignore it. I always pushed the “postpone this task” button.  It was at this point my anger turned to both men in the family who could have done a backup for me.  Didn’t they know how hard I worked, yoga classes aside of course.  I had asked many times over the past few months for one of them to do it for me. It was now their fault!

During this heated telephone exchange, Derek gingerly placed the now defunct computer into my briefcase and informed me he would take it to our local computer repair service.  They confirmed his diagnosis.  The hard drive was dead, but the computer itself was fine.   I could reinstall the operating system, but as Derek had discovered, this would require me to buy a copy from the manufacturer because my backup discs were compromised.  That’s a nice way of saying that the backup copies I had made were useless.    The computer repair service would try to retrieve information from my ruined hard drive, but nothing could be promised.  Derek on the other hand promised to install a new hard drive and more RAM.

While I waited for my computer to be fixed, I felt as if I was going through withdrawal.  I worried about how I was going to pay my monthly bills since I always received my bills through emails and paid through online banking.   I was used to checking my bank balances on a daily basis and now I could not even do that simple task.  I became mildly depressed to discover the extent to which I had allowed myself to become dependent on accessing the internet.   I would enter my office and find another task not being accomplished because my computer was dead.

Slowly though, as the days passed, I found myself thinking less about what I couldn’t do, and more about what I could do.  I had plenty of projects requiring my attention.  Boxes needed to be unpacked from our move six months ago, summer clothes needed to be sorted and either put away or donated, and the weeds in our gardens were soaring to new heights.  In addition, Derek was returning to college in a few days.  Since he had worked so hard on my computer, I had promised I would help him install our new electric dog fence.

More importantly, I found time to reflect on my truly irrational behavior.  In this instance, the parent had become the child, and my child had become the adult.  He acted intelligently, calmly, and rational.  I on the other hand did not.  Instead of putting my problem in perspective, I chose to get angry and blame everyone except myself. At first it was the computer’s fault, then my antivirus program’s fault.  Ultimately, my son and husband were responsible for my predicament because they had not backed up my files, pictures, or emails. I discovered I am truly great at deflecting blame.

It was not a pleasant insight, but one I will remember.  I guess it doesn’t matter how old we become, there will always be room for improvement…and the need for forgiveness.  Derek graciously accepted my apology, although he admitted the story of mom’s meltdown will find its way into family lore.  His only regret now is his lack of foresight in not turning on his cell phone video camera during my tirade.  His siblings are still complaining about not being able to view it on Facebook.   My husband also graciously accepted my apology, albeit with the caveat that I will, from this moment on, use a web-based download service daily.    I do believe he may be right.

Copyright 2009 Carol S. Bannon

It wasn’t pretty either.  No party heralding my achievements, which by the way were many.  Accolades?  Forget it.  A farewell gift was totally out of the question.  I was lucky if someone came up and patted me on the back.

I am not alone mind you.  Women across the country are finding themselves in similar situations.  Suddenly, we are told it’s not necessary to report to work; our services, our talents, are no longer needed.  Lately I’ve even been receiving patronizing advice from the I’m-still-working crowd to “Sleep in late. Travel!  Do something for yourself”.  Hello!  Would I have invested 26 years into this job if I didn’t love it?

Don’t get me wrong.  There were many days I didn’t want to report to work and times I just wanted to shout, “Okay, that’s it.  I’m out of here.”  In fact, I probably did say those exact same words at least once a month over the years, but no one took me seriously.  ”She’s just tired,” they’d say.  Or they would whisper, “It must be that time again.  Stay away from her”.  My all time favorite though was the “Hey, what did I do?” emoting from an innocent face. But no matter what happened the day before, the following morning I’d be reporting for duty.

I had no snow days.  Sick days?  Get real.  Sabbaticals?  Only in my dreams.  No one ever wrote me up, I was never knowingly negligent, and I did my job in and day out..  The pay was lousy, but the fringe benefits were great.  I could pretty much set my own schedule without anyone complaining. I did have vacation time, but preparing for them always involved more work.

In hindsight, I should have listened to my mother.  She had warned me this day would come my first day on the job.  In my youthful fog of naivety I scoffed at her.  But like every other mother out there, I learned the cruel but true aspect of our job description.  If done correctly, we all work ourselves toward that dreaded pink slip.  It may look like a diploma, but do not be fooled.  When your last son or daughter is handed that well-earned piece of paper, we are fazed out of a job.

And that is a good thing.  We want to raise independent thinkers.  We celebrate their successes and are proud of their achievements.  Raising children to become responsible young adults was part of our job description.  Success for them means we did okay. I can live with that.

But, getting that pink slip does hurt. I will feel it most acutely when the yellow school bus comes rambling past this fall.  For the first time in 22 years I will not be receiving a bus list.  I will not be buying back to school clothes, new book bags, and supplies.  I will not be asked to be a room mother, a chaperone, or the book fair volunteer. To be fair, there are some perks.  I also don’t have to worry about day care, scheduling conflicts, and missing deadlines for soccer, football, or baseball signups.

I know my four children will come home to visit; some will even live at home periodically.  When this happens, my refrigerator will cool the room, as someone shouting, “What’s good to eat” holds the door wide open.  Laundry will be heaped on the dryer during vacations and strewn on the floor during summer breaks.  Dirty dishes will pile up next to an empty dishwasher while glasses multiply under beds.   Cupboard doors will be left open and shoes will be dropped off in front of, but never in, the hall closet.  At times my children will even look at me and whisper to each other “Don’t go in there.  She must be going through menopause”.

Yes, my days of mothering have been pink slipped; being Mom, on the other hand, is a lifetime vocation.

Copyright 2009 Carol S. Bannon

This was not always the case.  When I was younger, and with the aid of the Children’s Picture Bible which was always displayed when I was growing up, I loved to read about Jesus and the Story on the Mount.  He fed all those people with just a few fish and loaves of bread!  I loved to imagine myself on the mountain, sharing in that miracle and hearing Him speak.   I also enjoyed reading about Jesus’ Forty Days in the desert and His resistance to Satan.  To this day I can recall with clarity the picture of Satan and Jesus standing high on the cliff overlooking Jerusalem.  Satan is telling Jesus everything will be His if He’d just worship him.  I’d read those two events over and over again.  They are still two of my favorites.

As I’ve gotten older though, I’ve begun to wish I could be more like the young Christ in the temple.  Can you imagine doing something you love to do and not being bothered by time? Jesus was missing from his parent’s sight for three days, which in today’s world would have activated an Amber Alert, and yet when found He seemed to be surprised  they were even upset.  He wasn’t bothered a bit those three days had gone by.  He was doing what He loved doing, teaching others about His Father, and time had no meaning.  Wow!   In today’s age, not running your life by time would be unthinkable.

For families with young children, schedules are a necessary way of life.  Breakfast, lunch, dinner – all need to be planned, scheduled, purchased, and/or prepared.  Laundry needs to be done, no questions asked.  Beds made… most of the time… and the house in order.  My mother taught me to make sure the house was always company ready!  This meant the bare minimum of cleaning included shoes put away, dishes in the washer, floors swept, doors shut, and bathrooms cleaned…everyday!  The older my children became, I naively thought, the sooner I’d graduate past company-ready cleaning.  Boy was I wrong.

Life in my house became an Excel spreadsheet.  Columns were filled with appointments, chores, schooling, and all the other bits of daily minutia.  Keeping track of everyone’s scheduled activities was exhausting enough, and then there was still the need to maintain the house, the lawn, and other family responsibilities.  Even now I’d be lost without a wristwatch and my day planner.  After all this time, time management has become second nature. That’s why I have this fascination with Jesus in the temple.

He wasn’t on anyone’s schedule but God’s.  He wasn’t looking at a clock, trying to gauge the fastest way to deliver a lecture before starting another one. He wasn’t zipping through the temple’s hallways looking for shortcuts.  He wasn’t even trying to make everyone happy at the same time. He, in my mind’s eye, was slowly navigating His way through the temple corridors, teaching about God to whomever would listen, and loving every minute of it. If someone didn’t want to listen, I’m positive He didn’t sweat it.  He just kept right on doing what He needed to do.  No watch, no clock, no time frame to operate in; He didn’t even worry about things other men deemed important.  God the Father wanted Him to preach, so He did.

Many times I’ve thought on this event in Christ’s young life, knowing how wonderful it must be to do what you love without worrying about time.  As a young mother I would have loved to read a book to completion without thinking about cleaning or cooking, much less having children interrupt every few minutes.  Or, to be able to walk in silence on a wooded path until I tired, rather than because my allotted forty five minutes exercise time was over.   Even on vacation, agendas are created and days filled with planned activities so we can make the most out of our free time together.

Imagine being able to talk with God, and about God, with no worries about the chores to be completed in the next hour.   Imagine being Christ-like in our conversations with others, teaching one another and learning from one another. As a good friend once commented, too many times we worry tomorrow away. I want to become more like the twelve-year-old Christ in the Temple. I don’t want to be remembered as a punctual, list keeping, company-ready Mom.  I want to do what God wants me to do on His schedule and love every minute of it.

Copyright 2009 Carol S. Bannon

“Did everyone pack all their shoes?  Don’t forget to check under the beds. Grab the wet towels.  Strip those sheets before you come downstairs and throw them in the washer.  Has anyone seen the tapes we rented from the video store?  No! You cannot go for one last swim.  Do not pack those crab shells; they’ll stink up the car.  Leave them for next time.  Mom, whatever we forget just put in the spare bedroom and we’ll get it in two weeks.  Okay guys, one last hug – see you soon Dad.  Come on kids, give Manya and Papa Bill a kiss goodbye. Hey, where’s our dog?  Everyone in the car NOW!”  Amid this cacophony of various voices and edicts, we’d finally manage to pull out of their driveway, honking the horn two times with arms waving from all car windows.

My family spent at least two weekends a month on Cape Cod, happily driving the three hours from Connecticut.  Many times we’d leave for the weekend late Thursday night just to beat the Friday traffic.  To this day I can close my eyes and recall both the complete relaxation and utter exhaustion I would feel upon buckling my seat belt Sunday night for the drive home.  Most times I would be fast asleep with the kids, waking only as my husband turned off at our exit.  We’d carry the children up to their beds, unpack the car, and make that late night call to Mom and Dad.

“We had a great time. It was absolutely wonderful.  Thanks for everything.  We’ll see you soon.”

Fast-forward twenty years.  I am no longer in those halcyon days of young parenthood, gliding along the highway of preplanned destinations and hopeful expectations, sharing each new development of my children’s growth with my parents.  Nor am I in the fast lane; I no longer call to bemoan all the teenage turbulence and overcharged hormones my children are experiencing and which I seem to have no control.  As my children aged, so did everyone I love; as such, I have now entered the next phase of adulthood, the “good-bye” years.

We enter this phase when we begin to gather up the memories and mementos of our loved ones.  For me, it began with a linen tablecloth and 12 matching lap-sized cloth napkins. This was the same one my Mom would use every Thanksgiving and Christmas and which still bears the faint stains of red wine and gravy spills. Since she no longer has large dinner parties, she gifted it to me.

This is not just a tablecloth with matching napkins, it is a canvas filled with happy memories from my past.  Every time I lay this cloth on my own family’s table, I recall the many times I saw my mother ironing it when I was a child, newspapers spread on the floor so our dog’s hair would not get on it.  As I iron and place each napkin upon a plate, I remember being taught by her, as I teach my daughters and sons, the exact placement of the spoons, forks and knives.

Another time, I became the proud owner of the family’s faded crocheted afghan, knitted by my father’s mother.  This afghan, with its varied colors of red, green, orange, and white was my source of comfort during both real, and feigned, sick days.  During one trip home Mom gave it to me, for my own children to use, safely wrapped in a plastic bag. She had no more use for it, and needed the space in her closet.  Every time I open my linen closet door and see “my” afghan, I am reminded of all the times my siblings and I made it into a tent, fought over who was “hogging it”, and the times my mother gently placed it over me as I dozed.

We all enter these goodbye years at some point in our lives.  One day you are sharing kitchen duties with your mom and before you know it, she is directing, and correcting, your cooking skills from the kitchen table because it hurts her to stand for any length of time.  One holiday everyone is laughing as your father carves into the turkey, making silly gobbling sounds; too soon, he is passing the carving knife to someone else to use because he can no longer hold the knife steady.  One summer weekend you’re arriving at your parent’s seaside home, children rushing out of the car, scrambling to beat the tide, toys and fishing poles in hand; when you turn around, you are standing beside your parents as they lock the door for the last time. They have sold the home and are beginning another phase of their lives. Time is fleeting, and before it is washed completely away, memories and mementos must be carefully given and lovingly received.

My mother taught me to accept these gifts with a smile and a promise; a smile for the gift itself regardless of it’s monetary value and a promise to recall those moments spent with each other. A beaten up Chinese checker set is priceless to my daughter. She still recalls the exact moment she beat her grandmother for the first time, after trying for 3 years. The glazed and slightly chipped bowl, which my father filled with popcorn on many Saturday nights, sits proudly on my shelf, still in service as my family’s popcorn bowl.  We receive items no longer needed by our parents; items they want us to have. Accepting them holds the unspoken promise that we will recall the happy moments, the fleeting seconds that were the building blocks of our life.

My parents try to choose carefully the items they want each one of their six children to receive.  These mementos, when held or viewed in years to come, will allow all of us to remember.  We may laugh together, seated around a Thanksgiving table, recalling the time Grandpa Joe spilled gravy in the creamed cucumbers and Granma Mae laughed so hard she spilled her wine.  We will smile at the memory of popcorn being popped on a stove, not in a microwave, using hot oil and real butter.  We will even shed a few tears when passing a cherished photo hanging on the wall. That’s the way it should be.

My great grandmother once told me we all die three times; once, when our hearts stop beating and we are laid to rest.  Our second death occurs when people no longer share stories about us, stories about our life.  Our final death occurs when there is no one left to even remember we existed. Receiving and cherishing gifts from our loved ones, packing memories away to share with each other, helps to guarantee we will not forget them. It is their way of saying,

“We had a great time.  It was absolutely wonderful.  Thanks for everything.  We’ll see you soon.”

Copyright 2009 Carol S. Bannon

After a week of spring-cleaning I was tired of dusting and organizing all the items displayed on shelves, stuffed in drawers, and thrown in closets. Plus, I know better than to begin a question with “Do you think I really need…” That’s just asking for it, but I was frustrated with all the things lying around the house. I expected his standard retort of “If you don’t want it, get rid of it,” or maybe “What are you waiting for?” or even his usual “Why are you even asking me? You know better than I do”

Instead, he peered over the top of the Saturday newspaper, stared at me for a few seconds (he does so like dramatic pauses), then quietly asked “Tell me again, how big is your casket going to be?” Ouch!

And yet, if you think about it, he was so right! The size of a standard casket is about seven feet by two feet, and even if you take out the satin padded lining and pillow top, there is not a lot of room inside. Once you account for normal body mass, and shoes of course – although I don’t know if I have ever seen the feet of a deceased family member; maybe everyone is buried barefooted – there is not a lot of room for all the items we try so hard to accumulate in a lifetime.

Great Grandma’s cocoa pot, five cups, and four saucers come to my mind, probably because I have just completed their annual cleaning and returned them to their shelf. Great Grandma brought them over from Poland when her family immigrated to Northern Michigan in the late 1800’s, making them about a hundred years old. My mother inherited them, and then gave the set to me – straight from her attic in the same box her mother had given them to her, because they were too “good” to use. I at least have them on display in a glass cabinet, but I’m not too sure they can withstand the pressure of being buried next to me in my casket.

Even if they could, I would need to decide whether or not there was room to also take the sterling silverware and tea set my mother-in-law gave me, or the crystal chandelier, or maybe the antique set of smoking pipes hanging in the study. Come to
think of it, maybe they can fold my arms around the oil painting my husband’s aunt painted sixty years ago. If it were lying on top of my chest there would still be room for the silver and china. Then, if they wrap me up in my mother’s fur coat, I could take that with me too.

Silly? Of course it is, and that is the point my husband so eloquently illustrated with his simple-minded, sarcastic retort. We can’t take anything with us. Regardless of our age when we leave this world, we will depart with the exact same number of items we had when we arrived. I can only speak for myself, but I came into this world with nothing, and I will not be taking anything with me. Neither will my husband, our parents, or even the neighbor down the street who leases a new Jaguar every other year.

Visiting my mom and dad last month we began talking about how humans spend the first half of their lives accumulating, or trying to accumulate, the trappings of success and the second half of their lives trying to give it away. Mentioning my husband’s insightful comment to them, they not only agreed, they have since appropriated it for themselves. If one of them wants to give away something, or use an item that by today’s standard would be considered valuable, they justify it by saying, “Well, it won’t fit in my casket anyway.” They find it liberating, and wish they had started thinking this way years earlier.

Maybe the desire to have “things” is what makes us human, gives us our identity. We are instilled at an early age to strive for success, and success today, whether we like it or not, is measured by the amount of material possessions we own, or will own after the debt is paid off. The problem occurs, I am coming to believe, is when we allow the process of owning to override the process of enjoying. God said “Thy shall not covet thy neighbors goods”. He didn’t say “Thy shall not enjoy the fruits of your labor.”

So, the next time you are in a quandary about whether or not to keep something just for the sake of keeping it, or feel the need to purchase something just for the sake of owning it, stop and think. Will it fit inside your casket? You will be surprised how quickly you will learn to simplify, and enjoy, the things that mean the most to you today. Who knows, you may even find yourself sipping homemade cocoa out of a hundred year old china cocoa cup.

Copyright 2009 Carol S. Bannon

For many families, it is important to continue this custom of having their Easter food blessed on Holy Saturday.  They carefully assemble the food to be eaten Easter Sunday, cover it with a linen cloth, and present it to their priest to be blessed.  They understand that after a season where we are offering up sacrifices to Jesus, trying hard to improve our bodies and minds, it is important the foods we break our fast with be blessed.  Sitting around the table on Easter, and sharing the blessed bread, eggs, meats, sweets and other wonderful foods we give thanks to the Lord for the gift of new life.  Jesus made Himself known to the Apostles after His Resurrection by breaking bread with them.  Our families, by celebrating Easter with blessed food, are just doing the same.

Although the name given to these food baskets differ according to nationality, they all contain specific foods symbolizing God’s gifts to all:

• The Lamb, recalling our Paschal Lamb, Jesus Christ, is carved out of butter in many Slovak Easter baskets and given a place of honor on the Easter table.  (In the middle Ages it was a lucky omen to meet a lamb.  Superstition said the Devil, who could take the form of animals, is never allowed to appear as a lamb because of its religious symbolism)

• Easter eggs represent our new life in Jesus Christ.  Many nationalities, such as the Ukrainians, spend hours during Lent decorating their “Pysanki’s”. (It was believed by many that for every “pisanki” (egg) made the chain that holds evil monsters below the Earth will be reinforced.)

• Horseradish and herbs:  these recall the bitterness of Christ’s suffering

• Salt:  Sign of hospitality in the Polish tradition and considered the herb of life

• Ham:  in many cultures, this meat symbolizes good luck.

• Sausages and other meats are also blessed, symbolizing the sacrificial animals of the Old Testament, and foreshadowing the true sacrifice of Jesus Christ on the cross

• Wine:  Fruit of the vine

• Special Easter breads symbolize the true Bread of Life.

We spend Lent preparing for Our Lord’s Resurrection and triumph over death.  We ask for forgiveness for our sins during our Lenten Confession, and on Easter Sunday we receive Holy Communion.  As you break-fast Easter Sunday morning, share the blessed food from your basket with family and friends, giving thanks to God for the gift of His Son, and with faith that the coming year will be filled with God’s blessings and goodness.  This is a custom to be treasured and handed down to your children and grandchildren.  As Sirah 10:6 states “do not reject the traditions of our elders, which they have learned from their fathers”.  It is our time to be the teachers of tradition.  Happy Easter!

They asked, and we answered.  They believed and were content.  Then one day, before we are truly ready, the questions became harder.

“Why is it so important to learn about all this religious stuff?” my oldest daughter asked one day as I was struggling to stuff her squirming baby brother and  sister into their respective snow suits, mittens, and boots.  Catechism classes started in 10 minutes, we were 15 minutes from our Church, and Heather had been complaining for the last hour about all the homework she needed to have done, without beginning any of it.  “None of my other friend’s mothers make them go. Why do I have go?”

Kneeling on the floor and looking up at her 13-year-old mutinous face and combative stance I was tempted to forget the whole thing.  Why indeed?

I will admit I was not in my “mother-knows-best” mode.  I was tired, frustrated and dreading the next few hours.  Although Heather may not believe me, I did not relish the idea of waiting for her in the Church basement, entertaining two over-active and cranky preschoolers.  Classes began at 6:30 pm. Afterwards, I had to pick up her other brother from his Cub Scout meeting and then return home with all four of my lovely children to do the bath-story-bedtime routine.  Dinner dishes would not get clean by themselves, homework still needed to be started, finished, and checked and I had given up any hope of a quiet soak in the tub about four hours ago.   Since their father was traveling and out of screeching range, her question tempted me to cry “Uncle! You’re right! Your friend’s mothers’ are right! Let’s forget the whole thing.”   But, I didn’t.

Instead, I sat back on my heels and looked up this beautiful daughter of mine. I did not want to argue with her; I needed to make her understand with the minimum amount of words because at that moment, time was of the essence. “Get in the car.  You’ll go because of the Oops Factor.  It is easy for me to believe because I know about the Oops Factor. It’s as simple as that.  Now, help me with your brother and sister. You are old enough now to understand.  I’ll explain all about this Oops Factor once we are in the car.”

She just looked at me for a moment, bewildered, and then shoved her sister’s feet into her boots. Picking up her catechism books and the diaper bag, she quietly followed me out to the car. Once we were all buckled in our seat belts, she looked at me and grinned. “OK Mom, I give up. What’s the Oops Factor?”  Glancing at her, I realized she was willing to listen and learn.

“When I was about your age, Honey,” I began, “your grandmother told me about The Oops Factor, and I have never forgotten it.  Think about this for a minute.  Do you really want to die and then find out I was right about how important it is to know about God? Imagine standing before Our Lord in Heaven, and saying ‘Oops!  Mom really was right?’ That’s the Oops Factor.”

“There are no second chances in life.  We are all given this gift of life and when you are an adult you will have the freedom to choose whether or not to practice your faith.  Whether or not you choose wisely is up to you and you alone.   As your mother, I really do believe learning about our faith is important.   It is so easy to believe in God when you know Him, and it is my job to teach you.  And you should know that I plan on entering Heaven.  Jesus promised Heaven to everyone who believes in Him, and I do believe in Him.   I also plan on spending eternity with all of my family, not just a few.  I want you to be there.   So, Honey, just believe and it’ll be so much easier to get there!”

A bit heavy on the guilt?  Maybe, but she never asked again why I believed our faith was so important.

Jesus exhorted all of us to enter “as a child into the Kingdom of God.” Believing in God with a childlike acceptance, without questioning, is what I think Jesus meant when He told us the secret to entering Heaven.  When children are little, they simply accept our answers.  We are all children in the Lord’s eyes, regardless if we are four years old, fifty-four years old, or ninety-four years old.  Intellectually, I know my four children are now adults, but I continue to worry about them, miss them, and yes, at times, I still try to correct them.  Just as my own children will always be children in my eyes, we will always be children in His eyes. To understand this universal truth about parenthood is to understand how we are all Children of God.

Heather is now 29 years old, married, and the mother of a one-year-old.  My son-in-law had been baptized Catholic as an infant but was not raised in the Catholic faith.  Before their wedding day two years ago, he mentioned he was studying to receive the Sacraments of Communion and Confirmation.  I was thrilled and asked him if this new found desire was due to my daughter’s deep convictions and church-going example.  Imagine my surprise when he admitted he was becoming a full member in the Church because Heather had explained to him the “Oops Factor”.  She loves him, and wants him to be with her forever in Heaven. That was the reason he began the journey to become a full member in the Church and on his wedding day, Carlos received both Sacraments:  Holy Communion and Matrimony.

As parents we never truly know if any of our teachings will take hold.  We teach by example, as Our Lord did, and we teach by stories.  I know that the many years of structured Faith Formation classes gave all of my children the basic tenets of our Catholic faith. Attending weekly Masses gave them discipline and an understanding of the Eucharistic Feast.  But, it is only through prayer that we begin to know Christ.  Knowing Him is loving Him, and loving Him makes one want to spend eternity with Him.  He gave us the keys to enter Heaven; we only need to believe as a child believes, even if that belief begins with an explanation of the “Oops Factor.”

Copyright 2009 Carol S. Bannon