A Risk Worth Taking

“Say you were walking along a boardwalk with your dog, and a stranger fell into the water. Your dog jumps in after him. You only have time to save one. Which would you save?”

My office mate Mike and I sometimes get into these wonderful philosophical or theological discussions; it gives us a welcome break from the regular daily grind. He has a master of divinity and I have a masters in theology, so it can get pretty thick at times, but we both have enough life experience to know that “book smarts” gets you only so far.

In this case, I knew where he was going with this: Because they are made in the image and likeness of God, human beings are intrinsically more valuable than animals. From a moral standpoint, the human must have priority.

Or should it? Stalling a bit, I asked, “What if the man fell into the water while trying to steal your dog? Or what if he tossed your dog into the water – and lost his balance – while your child was watching? Would that matter?”

“Nope,” Mike said with conviction. “The human still wins.”

“So . . . the dog and stranger are both in the water, under conditions dangerous enough that they cannot save themselves, and critical enough that I can save only one. My child is watching. If the ‘human still wins,’ no matter what – wouldn’t it be morally wrong for me to risk my own life, to save either of them? Isn’t my responsibility to my child greater than my responsibility toward a stranger?  And what if he fell while trying to grab your child, and you had to push him into the water to keep your child safe? Would you still jump in to fish him out?” And so it went.

At what point do the risks in life become (or cease to be) risks worth taking? As foster parents, we had to consider this pretty early on. What behaviors were we willing to deal with? Which were too much to handle? Ten years later, new risks emerge.  We were horrified to hear from one psychologist that parents in situations similar to ours frequently “give the child back to the state.”  We couldn’t imagine such a thing . . . but apparently it happens all too often.

What is it that makes us willing to take some risks, but not others? In a word, love.  In Romans 5 we read:

For Christ, while we were still helpless,
died at the appointed time for the ungodly.
Indeed, only with difficulty does one die for a just person,
though perhaps for a good person
one might even find courage to die.
But God proves his love for us
in that while we were still sinners Christ died for us.

Of course, most of us would find it difficult to risk physical death, although martyrdom is a not-uncommon pathway to sainthood. God calls most of us to risk something much less valuable: Our reputation. Creature comforts. Dreams. Eight hours of undisrupted sleep.

As we approach the season of Lent, it’s time for us to consider: What are we willing to risk for God? What is he asking us to relinquish, out of love for him, in order to follow in the footsteps of our Savior just a little more closely?

Are you ready to take the leap?

During Lent, I am reprising my “40 Day Challenge” for all you CatholicMom.com readers who would like to give your marriage a bit of a “faith lift.” Each day has a specific quality or virtue and action step that will help you cultivate a more open and truly loving marriage. I hope to see you there!

Copyright 2013 Heidi Hess Saxton

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun! A Catholic Wife’s Guide to Balanced Living

Have you ever looked yourself in the mirror and wondered why you have four “frown lines” for every laugh line? When was the last time you gut-laughed?

Do you slip into your daughter’s room late at night, and wish you’d spent as much time enjoying her as you did lecturing her? Do you ever wonder why she loves her grouch of a mother, anyway?

Do you ever look over your Facebook or blog posts, and wonder how you ever turned into such a whiny wet-blanket?

In the words of my late, sainted grandmother, “Ja, sure. You betcha.”

On a not-entirely-unrelated-note, this past weekend my husband and I ran away from home. (Don’t worry, we found someone to sit with our daughter and the dog, first.) We drove out of town in a snowstorm, and for two days we slept till noon, explored Colonial Williamsburg (we pretty much had the place to ourselves), consumed mass quantities of mulled cider . . . and had a great time.  For two solid days, we didn’t think about work, or worries, or “issues.” When one of us started down a path the other didn’t care to follow, we’d flip on Garrison Keillor and listen to rambling monologues from his 20^th Anniversary edition of Prairie Home Companion, about Lutheran ministers on a pontoon boat or other classic glimpses of life on Lake Woebegone.

It wasn’t until we got back in the car on Monday morning to make the drive back that the black cloud that we had happily eluded on the way down, caught up with us. Not even the “Tomato Butt” soliloquy could dispel the gray for long. Those leaden clouds sat on my shoulders, and in no time it was “business as usual.”

Almost. I mean, we had those two days. And it was sure fun. And it got me thinking about how long it had been since we’d done something like this. Too long, really. There was always a good reason, of course – money was tight, the kids needed us, the house was a mess, the deadlines were piling up. But the truth was, we all need a break from time to time. We just don’t realize just how much until we get it … and feel ourselves starting to breathe freely again.

Now about now, you’re probably rolling your eyes. “But I couldn’t POSSIBLY do that! There’s no money, and no one to take the kids. Besides, if I got away with my husband, we’d probably wind up with another kid, which I need like another hole in the head right now. . . .”

Maybe. Maybe not. The thing is, girls really DO want to have fun.  You were made for joy. Made to experience happiness not only in the next life, but in this one. As women, we are hardwired to recognize beauty, to create comfort, to “suck the marrow out of life,” to paraphrase Walt Whitman very badly. When was the last time you ditched the schedule, and just had a little mindless fun that didn’t involve electronic gadgets or legal, liquid intoxicants?

Or at least, not just electronic gadgets and legal, liquid intoxicants? Something to get your cheeks rosy and your outlook rosier?

Here are a couple of ideas to get you started . . .

• Go skating. (Roller or ice, whatever will take you back to happier times.)
• Go parking. (Don’t forget the picnic and the blanket.)
• Find “the best of” your favorite category. Can’t afford to go out for dinner every weekend? How about scouring nearby farmer’s markets for the best goat’s cheese, or coffee shops for the best cinnamon roll?
• Scout your local paper for free or low-cost events. Maybe a local high-school production, organ concert, or kite-making demonstration.
• Play local tourist. Check out a shrine, museum or park, or flea market – whatever strikes your fancy – you’ve never seen before. Each person gets $5 to buy a memento or treat for the other person.
• Need a sitter? See if you can swap a Saturday morning or afternoon with another family from your church or community.

Don’t think of it as money down the drain. Think of it as an investment in your “happier ever after.

What’s your favorite way to play?

Copyright 2013 Heidi Hess Saxton

Labor of Love

This week I happened across this YouTube video in which two strapping young Dutch men experience the joy of childbirth … well, two hours of simulated labor pains. That’s almost the same thing, right?

Sure.

In his classic work Life of the Beloved, Henri Nouwen acknowledges that the mystery of suffering will remain just that – leaving us in our brokenness – until we are willing to embrace that brokenness by “befriending” it, and then “putting it under the blessing” (p.75). He continues:

The deep truth is that our human suffering need not be an obstacles to the joy and peace we so desire, but can become, instead, the means to it. The great secret of the spiritual life, the life of the Beloved Sons and Daughters of God, is that everything we live, be it gladness or sadness, joy or pain … can all be part of the journey toward the full realization of our humanity. It is not hard to say to one another, “All that is good and beautiful leads us to the glory of the children of God.” But it is very hard to say, “But didn’t you know that we all have to suffer and thus enter into the glory?” Nonetheless, real care means the willingness to help each other in making our brokenness into the gateway to joy (p.77).

This truth resonated with me as I watched the documentary Babies, and was struck by the similarities of young women bringing new life into the world. Their circumstances were very different – women from Tokyo, San Francisco, Mongolia, and the African bush – yet the similarities of their experiences were also striking. They pushed through the pain . . . and experienced the joy of motherhood.

Which, if you think about it, summarizes very neatly what is also in store, until their children become old enough to make them grandmothers.

It’s something you don’t often hear in pre-Cana classes, that authentic married love expresses itself most tellingly not in sex, but in suffering, in giving of yourself until it hurts. All vocations are like this, I would imagine — but I only know this one. I’ve realized that in marriage there are infinite possibilities for both selfishness and self-sacrifice. Once children enter the picture, those possibilities are infinitely multiplied.

And here’s the thing: Looking back (like Lot’s wife) does not ease that suffering, but increases it. In reality, there is no “back.” Only forward. I used to wonder if the car accident (which made physical maternity highly unlikely for me) was God’s way of saying I wasn’t “mother material.” I’ve since come to see the error of this.

True motherhood is centered not in the womb, but in the heart. A mother’s heart is purified daily as her imperfections – her anxieties and fears, her angry and selfish impulses – brush against the needs of her family. To be thankful for those pains — just as the new mother laughs at the sight of her newborn – as a sign of the new work God wants to do deep in our souls, where we need it most.

Please pray for my husband and me this weekend, as we take some much needed time away together in historic Williamsburg. After months and months of labor, it’s time for joy!

Copyright 2013 Heidi Hess Saxton

The other day I came across an article by MaryEllen Tribby (Founder and CEO of WorkingMoms.com) entitled “The Success Indicator,” in which Steve Wozniack of Apple Computers describes characteristics of “successful” and “unsuccessful” people.[1] Bottom line: the successful ones demonstrate a “transformational” (that is, a temperate) approach to their relationships, especially in the workplace, while the unsuccessful ones take a “transactional” approach (that is, “what’s best for me”).

What does this have to do with temperance? The moral virtue of temperance is a kind of spiritual “plumline” that allows us to assess our relationships with others, to elevate them toward the good, and prevent them from being affected by concupiscence, greed, possessiveness, and pride. This virtue also enables us to find the “middle way” in relationships between men and women, recognizing that “genius” often has a corresponding weakness, which are best remedied when we allow God to use our complementarity as a source of unity rather than division.

The Catechism teaches that the moral virtue of temperance moderates our attraction to pleasure and consumption, enables us to master our desires and instincts, and restores balance to the “sensible appetites” that affect our feelings toward others (CCC 1890-91). Temperance restores the balance by directing these appetites “toward the good.”

Loving God is one thing . . . but how does one show a “temperate” love of other people? How are we to form “temperate” relationships, based not just on what feels good, but what truly is good for ourselves and our community?

The following Scripture passage describes what our relationships are to be like, as brothers and sisters in Christ who want to embrace a “transformative” (temperate) rather than “transactional” lifestyle. From 1 Peter 4:7-11

The end of all things is at hand. Therefore, be serious and sober for prayers. Above all, let your love for one another be intense, because love covers a multitude of sins. Be hospitable to one another without complaining. As each one has received a gift, use it to serve one another as good stewards of God’s varied grace.

So . . . How do we begin to elevate our interpersonal relationships through the practice of temperance?

• Begin by acknowledging that we do have natural personal preferences.  We tend to be drawn toward those who have similar gifts, values, and outlooks.  Ask God if any of these need to be tempered and brought into “balance.”

• Ask God to give you “new eyes” for those with whom you do not share a natural affinity. Be willing to own and change patterns of behavior that are intemperate. Be willing to forgive this same tendency in others, as you would want to be forgiven.

• Optimize your “successful” (transformational) stance and weed out “unsuccessful” (transactional) behaviors. Share information. Seek advice. Share the credit. Do what you can to support the goals of others.

• When conflict emerges, see it as an opportunity to grow in temperance as well as the fruit of the Spirit: But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control; against such things there is no law. And those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires. If we live by the Spirit, let us also walk by the Spirit. (Galatians 5:22-25).

[1] http://www.huffingtonpost.com/maryellen-tribby/the-success-indicator_b_1874431.html

Copyright 2013 Heidi Hess Saxton

“What Does It Mean?” The Pewsitter’s Guide to Parish Renewal

Recently on Facebook, I came across a rather heated discussion about Vacation Bible School (VBS), summertime faith formation programs hosted by many parishes across the United States. These parishes are taking a cue from other Christian communities by offering this kind of special outreach – and at times are even using programs produced by evangelical publishers (rather than Catholic ones).

Some – well, one in particular, a self-proclaimed diocesan ‘expert’ – denounced this practice, arguing that (a) the Church’s primary responsibility is to form adults, not children and (b) VBS is nothing more than free babysitting, without any real catechetical substance. When I disagreed, having organized three such programs in my own parish, things got ugly(er). “I’ll bet you didn’t even teach the four senses of Scripture in your program,” he sniped. (For the record, I did – a little ditty you can sing to the tune of “The Adams Family Theme” that you can find here.)

It’s not the first time I’ve encountered such unpleasantness. For all I love about the Church – the beauty of sacraments and sacramentals; the consistency of Church teachings; the security of submitting myself to the authority of Church leadership – the reality is that the Church is indeed a “hospital for sinners.”  All the flaws and weaknesses in other faith communities are found here as well. The arrogant and self-centered, those prone to foment divisions and create strife, the intellectually lazy and spiritually compromised – all are “gathered in.” And thank God for that – there’s room for even me.

One of the faults I find hardest to deal with charitably, however, is the tendency to nitpick over some aspect of the liturgy (usually in the name of “reverence” and almost always citing some isolated canon law or rubric), forgetting that the purpose of the Mass is to draw us together as one body of Christ in an act of corporate worship, with the priest in persona Christi capitas, in order to give us the graces we need to live in the world.  But how is it possible to receive Christ with a thankful heart, if we focus on the imperfection of the offering? Isn’t that a bit like coming to the family dinner table and leaving in a huff because of a chip in the teacup?

When self-appointed “parish police” denounce priest and bishop alike – not unlike the Judaizers Paul denounces in the book of Galatians – whatever good that might have come from such “constructive criticism” generates more heat than light. To quote canon lawyer Dr. Ed Peters: “Even canon law is dangerous in the hands of amateurs.”

So . . .  what’s the best approach for those who genuinely want to renew their parish, and improve some aspect of their faith community? Three suggestions:

• Start with yourself. Often the things that most disturb our inner peace signal a need to grow in virtue ourselves. Perfect yourself in love and humility, grow in self-knowledge, and ask God what he wants to change in you.
• Pray for the pastor and bishop, and actively support them in their ministry following the principle of “censure in private, praise in public,” and observing the Scriptural mandate for conflict resolution: When someone offends you, go to that person first. Once you’ve done that, offer it up and give the Holy Spirit a chance to work.
• Serve with forbearance and kindness. Hate the music? . . . Join the choir! Can’t stand the “pap” children are being taught in CCD? . . . Offer to organize a catechist training seminar (assuming you are already a catechist yourself). Concerned about the lack of adult faith formation in your parish? Underwrite the cost to host a Scripture study such as “The Great Adventure: Bible Timeline” or the “Pillars” study on the Catechism (for more information about these programs, go to AscensionPress.com).

If you are willing to serve with humility and patience, God can use you to change the world.

Copyright 2013 Heidi Hess Saxton

Where Love Shines: An Epiphany

Love can take many forms.

A gentle hand on a feverish brow.

A knowing smile across a crowded room.

A deep breath that swallows a word best left unsaid.

And once, in all of human history, love took the form of a star.
And behold, the star that they had seen at its rising preceded them,
until it came and stopped over the place where the child was.
They were overjoyed at seeing the star,
and on entering the house
they saw the child with Mary his mother.
They prostrated themselves and did him homage.
Then they opened their treasures
and offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.
From Matthew 2

In the darkness of the world, love shone through even brighter. That, too, is the nature of love – the darker the night, the brighter the star. With that in mind, I would like to invite you to join me in “The Love Project” (http://heidihesssaxton.wordpress.com/the-love-project/), a series of posts, quotes, and stories that showcase the many kinds of human love, and how that love images the love of God in the world. If you have a favorite quote or story that you would like to contribute, please either post a link on the website, or send it to me at Heidi.hess.saxton@gmail.com.

This project will continue every day through Valentine’s Day – and possibly after that, if enough people want to participate. Each day I include a little “Today’s Love in Action” step to help you shine a little brighter in your corner of the world. I hope you find time to join us . . . and maybe leave a comment!

God bless you!

Copyright 2013 Heidi Hess Saxton

For Those Who Suffer at Christmas

For Those Who Suffer at Christmas

As we begin the Christmas season, we contemplate in earnest that manger scene. The One who was all light emerged from the darkness of the womb. He who was perfect Love entered a world in which, in just a few short months, his parents had to flee their home in order to keep him from being slaughtered. The omnipotent, immortal Son of God condescended to become . . . a vulnerable, needy infant.

But it was all part of God’s plan. And as such, nothing had been overlooked. All the humiliation, the hunger, the anxiety, the pain, the fear, and the longing . . . the purpose of all of it would be evident in time.

For every family that gathers this time of year, intent on achieving some Norman Rockwell-like tableau, there is one that is feeling vulnerable, fragile, and lost. To us, the Babe in the manger is a sign of hope, not because he made the angels sing – but because, long after the strains of their music wafted away on the night winds, his cries could still be heard. Night after night, Mary arose to tend to his needs, and Joseph protected and provided for them both.

Are you feeling vulnerable this Christmas? Do you need someone to tend to your needs, if only so you can tend to others? Do you long for the protection and provision of one who is stronger than you, who can guide you through the darkness?

Invite the Holy Family into your home this Christmas.

Mother Mary, I need your sweetness and grace in my life.
Cover me with your mantle, and teach me the ways of gentleness and trust.
St. Joseph, protector of families, grant me courage.
Gather my family close to your heart, and chase every evil away.
Holy Christ Child, come sit on my lap and let me sing to you.
When all the world is darkness, let me see heaven’s light in your eyes.
Holy Family, sign of God’s redeeming love, pray for us.
That every fearful, painful step will lead at last . . . to home.

Copyright 2012 Heidi Hess Saxton

The Visitation

With nothing but the angel’s words as confirmation of her condition, she hastened toward her cousin’s house to see if the impossible had indeed come to pass.

It had. Amazingly, inexplicably, the devout old woman positively glowed as she regarded her much younger kin, at once gratified and awestruck at the hidden miracles that rested, like solitary secrets, beneath their hearts. Solitary, that is, until their eyes met and the blessing poured forth. “Blessed are you among women  . . .”

That moment of happiness was to be short lived. A few months later, a terrified couple and their infant son fled in the dead of night, their ears filled with the screams of bereaved parents whose children had died violently and needlessly at the hands of Herod’s soldiers. Innocence lost. Evil had won . . . almost.

From Hebrews 10.

When Christ came into the world, he said:
“Sacrifice and offering you did not desire,
but a body you prepared for me;
in holocausts and sin offerings you took no delight.
Then I said, ‘As is written of me in the scroll,
behold, I come to do your will, O God.’”

The God who did not desire the “sacrifice and offering” of ritualized slaughter, was willing to relinquish something infinitely more precious out of divine love. Even when evil retaliated, it could not prevail. The darker the sky, the brighter the star. The deeper the longing, the greater the joy.

The spiritual life is not a shining walkway of gossamer and velvet. It’s more like the underside of an intricate cross-stitch, darks interspersed with brights and jewel tones. Tiny lines criss-crossing great swaths of linen replete with tiny holes. As the Master Weaver spins and tugs the strands, we cannot see the final design from our vantage point. The best we can do is undo the snarls, admire flashes of beauty . . . and wait eagerly for the moment when at least we will see the complete design.

Heavenly Father, your children need you,
Huddled all alone in the dark,
longing for the light.
Do not forsake us, do not abandon us.
You are all we need. Oh, how we need you now.

Copyright 2012 Heidi Hess Saxton

After this I had a vision of a great multitude,
which no one could count,
from every nation, race, people, and tongue.
They stood before the throne and before the Lamb,
wearing white robes and holding palm branches in their hands.
They cried out in a loud voice:

“Salvation comes from our God, who is seated on the throne,
and from the Lamb.”

“Oh, I so want to be one of that great multitude, waving one of those palms!” he declared to us. (At the time, I marveled that he so wanted that ancient symbol of martyrdom. Did he know what he was asking?)

Maria Santos Gorrosteita

This week, a Facebook post was making the rounds, announcing that Time magazine had chosen feminist “icon” Sandra Fluke over the recently assassinated former mayor of Mexico, Maria Santos Gorrosteita,[1] as “Person of the Year.” As with so many things on Facebook, this was not entirely accurate – Time will vote December 14.

Even so, the Facebook image inspired me to read more about the beautiful Mexican politician and mother who found the courage to face down the Mexican drug cartel, continuing to fight even after the first and second attempt on her life, despite the fact that she was mother of three young children. (Her husband has since gone missing.)

In many places of the world, the fight against evil is both dangerous and unrelenting. As mothers, we do our best to “stand in the gap” between that evil and our families. We pray. We teach. We protect. And, at times, our mothering efforts will draw fire.

The hardest part about this is facing the fact that, despite our best efforts and intentions, evil does sometimes appear to get the upper hand. Our children grow up and are free to choose – or not to choose – the way we have pointed out to them. When they do, our hearts swell with pride . . . when they do not, the helplessness wounds deeply.

This week, as we approach Rose Sunday, let us remember all those (and in a particular way, those women) who guided us along the path. May those who are farther along the path to heaven watch over us, and strengthen us to shine a little brighter for those who follow in our footsteps.

[1] http://latino.foxnews.com/latino/news/2012/11/28/mexican-mayor-maria-santos-gorrostieta-killed-by-gunmen-was-defiant-to-end/

Copyright 2012 Heidi Hess Saxton

Advent Cake: A Rose Sunday Tradition

As I head out for a weekend in Georgia, to celebrate my parents’ 50^th anniversary, I wanted to leave with you a recipe I usually make for a small group of friends the third weekend of each Advent, for Rose Sunday. For so many of us, Advent is merely a time to get ready for Christmas – we don’t often take time to slow down and enjoy the season. And so, I’d like to share this with you, in hopes that you will find an excuse to invite a few friends over and celebrate!

It takes a bit of time, but totally worth the results! One of the things I like best about this recipe is the fact that it makes 4-5 cupcakes in addition to the cake. That way the family can “taste test” without ruining the picture-perfect company treat! The picture is my special “Advent cake plate” the day after I make my Advent Cake. Enjoy!

You will need …

3 C flour (all-purpose)

1/2 tsp baking powder

1/2 tsp salt

1/2 C unsweetened cocoa

1 tsp cinnamon

1/2 C shortening

1 C butter, soft

3 C white sugar (it’s once a year, so live it up!)

5 egg yolks

5 egg whites, beaten stiff

1-1/2 C milk

1 tsp vanilla

1-1/2 tsp Amaretto (almond flavored liquor)

cinnamon sugar for dusting the pan

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Butter a 10 inch tube pan, and dust it generously with cinnamon sugar. Shake out excess. Line 4-5 muffin/cupcake holes with liners, set aside.

Sift together dry ingredients, and set aside. Add flavorings to measured milk, and set aside.

Cream shortening and butter in an electric mixer on medium speed until fluffy, gradually adding sugar. Add egg yolks one at a time, beating well after each addition. Mixture should be light yellow and light.

Alternate dry ingredients and milk, stirring well to combine. Gently fold in beaten egg whites, mixing just until no streaks remain. Fill bundt pan to 1″ from the top, pour remaining batter into muffin tin.

Bake 1 hour 15 minutes, until toothpick comes out clean. (Cupcakes come out after 30 minutes.) Rest in pan 10 minutes before inverting on to cake plate. Glaze while still warm. Serves 14 or so.

GLAZE:

5 Tbls cocoa

2 Tbls vegetable oil

4 Tbls butter

3 C powdered sugar, sifted

1 Tbls Amaretto

boiling water

In small saucepan over low heat, combine cocoa, oil and butter. Stir until melted and smooth, remove from heat. Stir in powdered sugar and Amaretto, adding water 1 Tbls at a time and beat until smooth and “glazy.” Dip your cupcakes in first, then pour the rest over warm cake. Sets with a nice sheen almost instantly. Now try to resist cleaning out the pan with your finger. I dare you.

Copyright 2012 Heidi Hess Saxton

Barbara told how “seeing my children experience a happy childhood was the next best thing to having one myself.” She wished to “receive that kind of love.… Is it not a miracle that someone who missed an earthly father’s love can be healed to receive the love of the Heavenly Father?”

This woman, who had lost her own father at the age of five, and spent time in foster care, was no doubt shaped by those early experiences of loss.  Those early wounds have the potential to make a person either harder . . . or stronger. Bitter . . . or more compassionate. In Barbara’s case, they widened her heart to include not only the children born from their union, but others who needed them as well.

The Tender Touch of God

Like Barbara, my childhood experiences led me to become the kind of parent I am today.  Thanks to my own father, I had no difficulty experiencing God as a loving Father. On the other hand, I’ve repeatedly found my idea of motherhood clearly (and not always pleasantly) defined by those childhood experiences as well.

To take one small example, Craig and I decided early on to become foster parents because, when I was young, my younger sister and I spent time in the home of various family friends and neighbors while my parents tended to the needs of my sister, who was battling cancer at the time. Not all those “placements” were as kind or patient as we needed them to be. I distinctly recall waking up, crying, one night, missing my parents, and being told to “Dry your eyes and grow up. Your parents have enough to worry about, without worrying about you.” I was ten years old. And I never forgot it.

Now, with my own ten-year-old, the temptation can be strong to tell her to grow up, to stop whining and carrying on about the tiniest scratch (self inflicted) or a cross look.  The outbursts are especially irksome, given how often she subjects us to angry words and disrespectful retorts.

Happily, I’ve found that touch can be a great soothing balm at such times. The slow and gentle massage of a lotioned hand across her arms or calves. Tracing her face with a fingertip, making tiny circular motions all along her hairline and into her scalp. When her words or insomnia lets me know her anxiety level is high, these therapeutic touches do far more than words ever did.

This week’s psalm (25) evokes an image of God as the Father who guides us, taking us by the hand and gently leading us in the right way.

Good and upright is the LORD;
thus he shows sinners the way.
He guides the humble to justice,
and teaches the humble his way.

Significantly, it is not the self-confident or headstrong who are given this kind of fatherly treatment, but those who are humble enough to know they need to be shown the way.

What the psalm does not say – and what we do well to realize as we enter into this season of Advent – is that those who benefit most from the light, or from a gentle touch of guidance, are those most keenly aware of the darkness.

How has God used the darkness of your life to encourage you to shine the light elsewhere?

Copyright 2012 Heidi Hess Saxton

A Feast for Royalty: Thankful All Year Long

Determined to have a real Thanksgiving this year (the thought of cooking a full turkey dinner for three people depressed me), I invited a couple of families to join us. Eagerly I began planning the menu and polishing the silver, and began looking around the home with a critical eye, making mental note of all the cleaning and staging that needed to be done before the “blessed event.” My husband calls it “tornado mode,” and counts his blessings that we don’t entertain more often.

Clearly, he was out of practice. Instead of scurrying for his office at the first sign of “Tornado Heidi” and her dust cloth, Craig wasted precious moments wondering aloud if we were having two kinds of pie this year. He was promptly set to work fixing chairs and hanging pictures (after a year in this place, we figured it was time).

When I came up for air, I took a closer look at my husband’s handiwork, and noticed that he had arranged old family portraits all around the circumference of the dining room: black-and-white or sepia tone, their solemn faces watching over us as we eat.

In the kitchen, a tribute of a different kind is playing out: From my old recipe file, I pull out the recipe cards from four generations of women: My great-grandmother’s rye buns, my grandmother’s pie crust, my favorite aunt’s pistachio fruit salad, my mother’s sweet potato casserole, and my own special corn spoon bread. Sarah launches into her “Rachel Ray” routine, providing a running narrative as a chop, soak, bake, and peel. The aroma of rosemary, sage, and thyme gently competes with the spices for the pumpkin pie. The Christmas morning scene from Little Women, in which the March girls gladly give up their precious sausages for the poor family down the street, completes the tableau.

There is still so much work to do . . . and yet, at that moment I stop and take it all in. So much of our lives has become running from one event to the next. It felt good to hit the “pause” button long enough to drink it all in, and to acknowledge the joy in the preparation.

This week, as we celebrate the final week in the liturgical calendar, Christ the King, we recall that all our lives are similarly ordered toward a great event: the marriage of heaven and earth. This week we remember that the infant “Guest” we welcome every Christmas has become the ultimate Host at the wedding feast of the Lamb.

Behold, he is coming amid the clouds,
and every eye will see him,
even those who pierced him.
All the peoples of the earth will lament him.
Yes. Amen.

As the anticipation of Advent approaches, let’s be sure to “pause” long enough in our preparations for the Infant to behold the King, and revel in his invitation to join in the feast as true daughters and sons of royalty.

What holiday dish or tradition do you make each year, that says “Thanksgiving” to you?

Copyright 2012 Heidi Hess Saxton

Comforting the Emotionally Challenged Child

From the time they were very young, my kids have been drawn to soft fabrics. Christopher wears his footie pajamas on the hottest summer nights. Sarah’s retinue of stuffed animals requires so much space I often find her hanging off the bed at night. (Getting her to sleep under the covers is a chore because, like the Princess and the Pea, she is hypersensitive to anything scratchy or binding.)

If you have a child with special emotional needs, such as autism or trauma or attachment issues, you’ve likely experienced frustration over the many outbursts and unexpected meltdowns brought on by an unexpected trigger (like a goose down feather end poking through some muslin). On an intuitive level, you understand that the comforting sense of touch and closeness is indispensable to the parent-child relationship.

In reality, this kind of connection can feel tenuous, and is frequently a source of frustration and dissatisfaction. This is especially true if, as mothers, our weaknesses and limitations collide with those of our children. It isn’t easy to hold a snot-spewing, red-faced tyrant . . . and it’s even harder when your own “inner tyrant” takes over. Yes, darling child, you WILL mind “She Who Is to Be Obeyed Without Question.” Or you will spend the rest of your natural life in your room.

What I’ve had to learn the hard way is that there comes a time when what the child most needs . . . is what, on a natural level, the opposite of what her behavior indicates. Not an etiquette lesson, but a laugh. Not a wagging finger, but a hug. Not a time-out, but a silly romp together on the rug. I’ve learned that more misbehavior (including inattentiveness and screeching) stems from anxiety and fear than from insolence.

One of the greatest answers to prayer I have ever received came this summer when the wife of a co-worker offered to watch my daughter Sarah. Meghann – a stay-at-home mother of four, including two special-needs children and a baby – became my hero overnight. Over the summer, I watched Sarah grow about two feet (on the inside) because of her role as “mother’s helper.” Under Meghann’s care, she blossomed. And as I watched her mothering style, I realized the reason why: Her primary role was not “keeper of the house” or even “teacher of the classroom.” It was “provider of what each child needs most to feel secure.”

In this week’s Gospel, from Mark 13, Jesus admonishes us to “learn a lesson from the fig tree. When its branch becomes tender and sprouts leaves, you know that summer is near.” Of course, reading the context, you soon realize that the tender shoots and sprouts are harbingers of something far less than warm-and-fuzzy: Saint Michael, poised to assist the Prince of Peace in a final showdown between good and evil.

So it is with us. If we do not do the hard work in the spring of our love, the winter ahead will be hard and cold indeed. In our domestic showdowns, we must always remember that the comfort we provide our children, even when we ourselves are stretched beyond measure, has a purpose: We are fortifying their souls for hard times ahead, and pointing to a love that is “stronger than death” (Song of Songs 8:6).

This kind of comforting presence is not coddling or passive, not indulgent or overly sentimental. It beckons, drawing the heart into an intimate exchange that will point them to an even greater exchange with the One who made us. By providing the comforts they need (often when we are least inclined to give them), we have an opportunity to nurture the unseen bonds of love in our children, both between us and between themselves and their Creator.

If you have a special-needs child (or merely a strong-tempered one), please weigh in: What are some of the techniques you’ve found helpful in re-directing emotional outbursts and tantrums? What are some of the most effective ways you’ve found to help your child feel safe and secure?

Copyright 2012 Heidi Hess Saxton

A Mother’s Second Sight

“You know what I’m most scared of, Mom?” Last week, Christopher snuggled up to me as we savored our all-too-short time together. “The riots. The kids at school said there’s going to be rioting if Obama doesn’t win.”

I considered this a moment. My first instinct was to reassure him, to tell him it was unlikely that any election outcome would cause people to take to the streets. And yet, discounting his concern was not going to address his underlying anxiety.

With Christopher in his treatment program, so much about our lives right now is characterized by uncertainty – something that is very hard on a child with attachment issues. Who sits in the Oval Office affects him much less than, say, the compassionate expertise of his therapist. And yet, focusing on the big picture can sometimes provide a welcome distraction from the more immediate concerns of the here-and-now.

And so, I tried to focus on giving him an alternative “big picture”: hope. Together we dreamed aloud of what our lives were going to be like when he came home, and of the mantle of love and prayer that was wrapped around him every moment until that day. Of the invisible presence of his angel, who awakened me in the night to pray for him whenever he found it hard to sleep. I saw that moment as an opportunity to encourage my son to cultivate his “second sight.”

This kind of spiritual sensibility is vital to the life of every Christian, for it provides a much-needed link between the physical and spiritual worlds. God reveals himself to us through the material world, drawing our attention to unseen realities through our senses. And so it is no surprise that the evil one also seeks to distract us with those same physical cues, distracting us from spiritual realities by tempting us to focus solely on the information we take in through our physical senses.

The first reading this weekend, then, is a timely reminder of God’s desire to reach out to us in the midst of our immediate circumstances, no matter how desperate. It is one of my favorite stories in the Bible, from 1 Kings 17, about a desperate mother who looks at a stranger with eyes of faith . . . and finds unexpected abundance.

Elijah the prophet went to Zarephath.
As he arrived at the entrance of the city,
a widow was gathering sticks there; he called out to her,
“Please bring me a small cupful of water to drink.”
She left to get it, and he called out after her,
“Please bring along a bit of bread.”
She answered, “As the LORD, your God, lives,
I have nothing baked; there is only a handful of flour in my jar
and a little oil in my jug.
Just now I was collecting a couple of sticks,
to go in and prepare something for myself and my son;
when we have eaten it, we shall die.”

You know the rest of the story. With a breathtaking gesture of faith, the widow made a simple meal for the prophet  . . . and her stores miraculously expanded enough to feed them all for the duration of the famine.  This physical abundance must have brought great relief to this isolated family. And yet, it was also a sign of a spiritual reality she had only begun to understand.

This week, how is God challenging you to sharpen your “second sight”?   Look especially carefully at the challenging circumstances of your life, big or small, and ask yourself: “How can I use this as an opportunity to lean just a little harder on Divine Providence?”

Copyright 2012 Heidi Hess Saxton

A Saint in the Making

This week I’ve been reading about the “back stories” of the saints. It can be easy, sometimes, to think of holy people in two-dimensional, sanitized terms. Earthbound angels who floated through life, never contradicting, never offending . . . warm and appealing and endlessly agreeable.

Yet “niceness” is not a theological virtue, and those who march to heaven’s score sometimes end up treading on a few toes – or avoiding it only by escaping into the desert.

The reality is more complex. Years ago, when I was a fledgling editor, I was sent to a local seminary to discuss a manuscript with a Jesuit priest, a prolific writer who was widely regarded a living saint. I brought with me his manuscript, which had been edited by my (male) predecessor. Silently he flipped through the marked-up pages, his frown turning to an outright scowl. Finally he pushed aside the papers and turned to me with barely concealed anger. “You feminists are all alike! Inserting all this gender-inclusive language into my work!” He continued like this for several minutes, while I sat there stunned and not a little defensive. In point of fact, I had not made the changes – I detest gender-inclusive language, and had no part in making the changes.

On the other hand, there was little to be gained by correcting the elderly priest. Instead, I empathized with him, and assured him that I wanted to be sure he was happy with the finished work. “Editing is more of an art than a science, Father. Let’s figure this out together . . . What do you think of the other recommendations?”

It was the beginning of a short but memorable working relationship; the priest died shortly before his book was released. His cause for canonization was opened a few years later.

That experience taught me something about what it takes to be a saint. Friends of God come in all shapes and sizes, temperaments and callings. In the second reading for All Saints day, we find the secret path to sanctity:

Beloved, we are God’s children now;
what we shall be has not yet been revealed.
We do know that when it is revealed we shall be like him,
for we shall see him as he is.

Everyone who has this hope based on him makes himself pure,
as he is pure.

It is this pursuit of a pure heart – this urgent desire to be like our brother, Jesus, and to have a heart like his – that is characteristic of a “saint in the making.” And no time are we more like Christ than when we recognize his image in the world, the “Jesus in distressing disguise,” as Blessed Mother Teresa used to call it. When we love that churlish child, that cantankerous priest, that lonely soul, our own rough edges are sanded by the Divine Carpenter.

This week we remember all those who loved – or inspired us to love – with this kind of courageous abandon. On All Souls Day, we think of “saints in the making,” who have gone before us to start their final approach to heaven. Those who loved God and lived to please him . . . not always perfectly, but with all their hearts.

We didn’t always understand them while they walked among us. But thankfully, they now understand us perfectly, and pray for us in the clear light of heaven even as we continue to pray for them.

Lord Jesus in your mercy, guide us with confident steps to the Kingdom, where we may participate in that city of joy. Keep our loved ones safe, until we are no longer saints in the making, but find true and lasting happiness in your ultimate reality.

Copyright 2012 Heidi Hess Saxton

Sleepless in My A.M., Me.

I’m entering a new phase of my life . . . the “hot” zone.  One minute, minding my own business, typing or reading or just hanging with family — the next, the heater kicks in and my face has little rivulets of sweat. One minute I’m sound asleep, cuddled in my fuzzy armed sleeper, the next wide awake and kicking off the covers.

Then the evening begins in earnest, this interior monologue that keeps yammering in my brain like a tiresome neighbor — yapping and yapping relentlessly on one unwelcome topic after another.

A work-related conundrum.

A frustrating family relationship.

A worrisome and irresolvable issue regarding the kids.

“You okay?” comes the sleepy voice from the other side of the bed. Apparently the silence from my side of the bed was deafening.

“I’m okay. Go back to sleep.” The words are hardly out of my mouth before he resumes his Darth Vader routine. I go back to staring at the ceiling.

In this week’s Gospel, Jesus restores the sight of a man born physically blind.

“… [Bartimaeus] began to cry out and say,
“Jesus, son of David, have pity on me.”
And many rebuked him, telling him to be silent.
But he kept calling out all the more,
“Son of David, have pity on me.” . . .
Jesus said to him in reply, “What do you want me to do for you?”
The blind man replied to him, “Master, I want to see.”

From Mark 10

“I want to see, Lord . . . Show me the way.” There in the dark, my physical eyes take in the faint outline of my sleeping husband, my latest book calling me from the bedside table, the bedside clock flickering the minutes away.

“Are you listening, God? It’s me . . .” Overhead, the ceiling fan makes a little scritchy sound with each rotation. The bathroom sink drips, the dryer rumbles in the next room.

“What do you want me to do for you?”

                  Master, I want to sleep. But it’s sleepless in the a.m., see. Because some kinds of blindness, some kinds of helplessness require more than a simple act of the will to overcome.

“Mama?” the small figure that has materialized by my side of the bed can’t sleep either. She has worries all her own. “Can I sleep with you?”

I take a deep breath, and inhale the fruity scent of her freshly washed head. Sandwiched between my husband and daughter, I will myself to relax and curve my arm to frame her comfortably. Soon I am rewarded by regulated breathing.

It’s three o’clock. It’s not any clearer out — not outside, not in my head. But suddenly the issues gently fall away, reduced to the simplicity of gentle snores and lumps of warmth on either side of me. My mind begins to swirl, then fades slowly to black.

Suddenly the dawn has come.

Copyright 2012 Heidi Hess Saxton

Passing the Mother Test

I first became a mother at the age of 38 when my husband and I became foster parents to three children under the age of five. Three frightened, angry, fragile kids who spent every waking minute – which, between them, constituted pretty much 24/7 that first year – thinking of creative ways to destroy the house and get on my last nerve.

Admittedly, some days were better than others. The days I didn’t get a shower or a square meal – subsisting on goldfish crackers and leftover sips of juice boxes – happened more often than I care to think about, even ten years later. The days I spent scrubbing unmentionable substances off bathroom and even bedroom walls, muttering under my breath about the injustice of it all. Wondering whether I was crazy to think that I had it in me to mother these three rugrats.

If motherhood was graded pass-fail, some days I most certainly did not pass muster. I knew, going in, that I was supposed to be changing these kids’ lives. Only gradually did I wake up to the fact that . . . these kids had been given the herculean task of changing me.

I was going to have to pass the Mother Test.

Now, this test is unlike any other test you will take in your lifetime. It’s not a pass-fail; neither is it based on a 100-point or sliding scale. Rather, it’s a cumulative score accumulated over the course of a lifetime . . . with the final grade revealed only in heaven.

This doesn’t prevent any of us mothers from grading ourselves, sometimes mercilessly. That first year I remember standing in the shower, railing at the ceiling: “Holy Mother, if I don’t get two consecutive hours of sleep sometime in the next 3 days, I’m going to lose my mind. Please HELP me!”

Sometimes I thought I heard a celestial chuckle. And yet, there was always the hope of a promise, too – a promise that we hear echoed in this week’s second reading.

“… Let us hold fast to our confession.
For we do not have a high priest
who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses,
but one who has similarly been tested in every way,
yet without sin.
So let us confidently approach the throne of grace
to receive mercy and to find grace for timely help.”  Hebrews 4:15-16

Ten years later, now when I lie awake at night, it’s because of the quiet – my daughter is sleeping through the night most nights now, and my son … well, let’s just say that his absence keeps me awake at night far more often than his presence ever did. Sometimes I miss him so much, my arms ache for wanting to give him a hug.

The testing continues. What has been the hardest test for you so far?

Copyright 2012 Heidi Hess Saxton

Doubting Thomas

For the past few months, the image followed me. At work, I shuddered as I came across it in one of our study workbooks. This week again at a TOB seminar, there it was in its full, blazing glory: Caravaggio’s depiction of “Doubting Thomas” sticking his probing finger into the glorified wound of the Risen Christ.

For me, it depicted a moment of holy intimacy, no more appropriate for public consumption than a marriage bed: Thomas’ hand guided to probe the gaping hole in the side of his loving, forgiving Lord. The same Lord who had forgiven them all for deserting him, even for denying their association – three times, before the cock crowed. Faced with the horror of the crucifixion, most ran and hid – all but the women, and the “beloved disciple.”

And then, the miracle: He was alive, after all. And they, too, had survived the ordeal … albeit a bit more shame-faced, for having fallen short. For having refused in the moment to follow, to “Come and see.”

This week, as I mentioned, I’ve been holed up at Black Rock Retreat Center, taking a TOB Intensive Course by Christopher West and hearing of the central mystery of the human experience: of God’s image imprinted upon our very bodies, male and female, and of our singular privilege of entering into that divine life of loving, holy communion.

We are also hearing about the effects of sin, how it obscures God’s image both in our physical bodies and in our human interactions. Between sessions I found myself chatting with a spiritual director from another part of the country, who listened to me unload about my home situation, and offered this bit of counsel:  As women, we are designed to nurture, to remain open to cultivating intimate, protected relationships. We were not designed to be fighters – but when called upon to fight, we step up to defend and protect. We do it . . . but at a cost. If we are married, we need to be able to turn to our husbands for that place of comfort and safety.  And when that isn’t possible, we need to another place to receive that comfort in order to be able to have the strength to nurture, open and receptive, again.

In this week’s first reading, from the Book of Wisdom, we read about the “cost” of wisdom.

Beyond health and comeliness I loved her,
and I chose to have her rather than the light,
because the splendor of her never yields to sleep. 

This kind of hard-won wisdom is more rare and precious than the most beautiful pearl or gemstone, more valuable than silver or gold. Indeed it costs something infinitely more valuable: Our very selves, poured out in sleepless nights and tireless days.

It is a warrior’s wisdom, the wisdom of the one who stands, and does not run away.

No wonder “Wisdom” is . . . portrayed as a woman.

Copyright 2012 Heidi Hess Saxton

A Year of Faith . . . for Parents of All Children

In this week’s Gospel, Mark paints a touching portrait that is familiar to most of us, of the Christ who loves all children:

And people were bringing children to him that he might touch them, but the disciples rebuked them. When Jesus saw this he became indignant and said to them, “Let the children come to me; do not prevent them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. Amen, I say to you, whoever does not accept the kingdom of God like a child will not enter it.” Then he embraced them and blessed them, placing his hands on them.

Whether you’re the type of parent who brings even young children to the front of the sanctuary where they can see and be seen . . . or the type that prefers to use the nursery or hunker down in the “cry room,” there is something in this Gospel to encourage all of us.

I’ve often told my children that we will never get closer to heaven on earth than when we receive Jesus in the Eucharist – the place where heaven literally touches earth, filling us with the divine life of Christ. This idea is reflected in an article by Father Dwight Longenecker (“Standing on My Head”), which contains a beautiful message about why the Church uses altar servers. He writes in part:

Our worship on earth reflects the worship in heaven. What we do here at the holy sacrifice of the Mass is a kind of distant echo of what goes on in heaven. There, the Lamb of God is offered in one timeless and eternal sacrifice. There the saints and angels worship around the throne of the Lamb. In that city there is no sun, moon, or stars, for the Lamb Himself is the light of that city. This altar you see here is a reflection of the altar in heaven. This chalice is a sign of the eternal Precious Blood of the Lamb. This host is, on earth, the sign of the Eternal Bread of heaven. The priest is an icon of Christ the Lord – and who are you? You represent and reflect on earth the heavenly host.

That’s right. I want you to represent the saints and angels.

That’s why we have children serve the Mass if we can, because you children remind us adults of what the Lord Jesus said: “Unless you become like a little child, you cannot enter the kingdom of heaven.” So just by being children you remind us what we must be like to become like the saints and angels.

Heady stuff, really . . . something that would likely cause an adolescent to stand a little straighter, sing a little louder, and watch a bit more attentively every time he serves on the alter. On the other hand, nothing in this week’s Gospel indicates that Jesus was speaking only of the well-behaved, attentive cherubs in the crowd. If the apostles were trying to usher their parents hurriedly to the back of the crowd, likely there were a few ankle-biters that were conducting themselves with less-than-stellar deportment. And yet, Jesus welcomed them, too.

The first week we attended Mass together at St. Andrew’s Parish (in Saline, MI), three-year-old Christopher let loose with a roundhouse punch at Father’s vestments when the priest reached out to bless him as we received Eucharist. At two, Sarah (who loves to sing), let loose at a church we were visiting with a particularly enthusiastic rendition of “Amazing Grapes” . . . right in the middle of a homily. (Apparently she thought the pastor was in need of reinforcements.) In time we were able to move into the main sanctuary, but those first few months I’m sure the apostles would have ushered us to the perimeter, too, had we been there.

Even so, this week’s Gospel assures us, we are closer to the kingdom when we are like the children in our midst. As a newcomer to the Catholic faith, I recall feeling distinctly childlike when I first started sneaking into Mass. I didn’t know the prayers or responses by heart (as it appeared everyone else did), didn’t know the hymns, and more than once got caught on the “glory train” of the Our Father. (If you’ve ever prayed the “Our Father” in a room with non-Catholic Christians, you know what I mean: all the Catholics drop out at “deliver us from evil” while their Protestant friends proclaim, “the kingdom and the power and the glory forever.”)

And yet, the memories of those first weeks in a Catholic Church remain with me, nearly twenty years later. I didn’t always understand what was going on, but what I did understand – what I took in with my senses, marveling and wondering – fascinated me. It was at the same time old and new, familiar yet extraordinary. The more I saw, the more I wanted to understand.

My prayer for you this week, my friends, is that in this Year of Faith you will rediscover for yourself a renewed sense of wonder and awe in the treasures of our Catholic Faith.

Are you doing anything special to celebrate the Year of Faith? Starting October 11 and throughout the Year of Faith (November 21, 2013), would you like to receive a free weekly reflection from Ascension Press in your email box, to help you reflect more deeply on how to live your faith with greater intentionality? Participating authors include Danielle Bean, Jeff Cavins, Teresa Tomeo, Greg and Lisa Popcak, Dr. Sean Innerst, and Dr. Edward Sri. Sign up at TheCatholicYearofFaith.com.

Copyright 2012 Heidi Hess Saxton

Mommy Millstones

The Gospel reading this weekend has one verse in particular that always makes me consider very carefully my responsibility as a mother, and assess just how well I’m doing in my vocation.

Jesus said,

“Whoever causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin,

It would be better for him if a great millstone were put around his neck,

And he were thrown into the sea . . . .”  Mark 9:45

Now, I don’t like to think about the possibility that something I’ve said or done might lead a child into temptation.  Like most parents, I spend considerable time trying to educate my children in knowing right from wrong, and urge them toward virtue. The trouble is this: Perhaps especially among the sincere and devout, there can be a kind of willful blindness that makes us reluctant to see the signs of a child going off-track.  Perhaps especially among adoptive parents, we are quick to dismiss a certain amount of sass or resistance to our parental authority out of concern or empathy. “Poor dear,” we think to ourselves. “He is working through his attachment issues,” or, “She is simply trying to find herself.”

What I had to learn through painful experience is that some of our children’s early, traumatic experiences of children have the potential to “build” over time, requiring a higher level of intervention. They do not resolve themselves. Sneaky, little behaviors may breed bigger and more problematic ones. Early intervention with a trained professional is vital.

If I could offer one bit of advice for foster and adoptive parents, it would be this:  Never get lulled into a false sense of security. The baby or toddler you bring home from that agency, that orphanage, or that hospital looks for all the world like a tabula rasa, ready for you to impart your particular brand of wisdom. And yet, remain vigilant. Adoptive and foster parents often experience the painful “labor” of child bonding after the actual delivery (unlike natural parents, who experience labor prior to the birth).

You might have been blessed with a child devoid of any real developmental, emotional, physical, or educational delays. It’s possible. What is more likely, the trauma your child has experienced will need you both to notice it, and to intervene appropriately. Some signs to watch for include . . .

• Does your child have difficulty making friends or responding to social cues?
• Does your child have an unusually high resistance to transitioning between activities?
• Does your child have trouble summarizing or organizing his or her school work?
• Was your child older than three when he or she was removed from the care of his or her birth parents, or subjected to early neglect or abuse?
• Did your child’s parents have a history of alcohol or substance abuse, or other forms of abuse such as domestic violence?
• Does your child seem preoccupied with his or her sexuality, or frequently resort to self-gratification, either in public or private?
• Does your child frequently make comments that he or she is “stupid,” “a loser,” or other negative self-talk?
• Does your child have destructive tendencies, especially at home?
• Does your child go through phases when it appears that he or she is troubled, but unable to articulate what is bothering him or her?

If you observe one or more of these symptoms, it’s important not to ignore them simply because you have observed isolated, similar actions in other children.  Because sometimes the heaviest millstone around a mother’s neck is an invisible one . . . the one we are forced to carry simply because we cannot bear to face the fact that our child needed help.

If you suspect that your child has been affected by post-adoptive or other trauma, talk with your social worker or pediatrician, or contact a mental health organization such as the Pastoral Solutions Institute. Take that “Mommy Millstone” that is weighing you down, and take steps to intervene early on, while there is still time to make a difference.

And as you do, say a prayer for the thousands of children whose parents are still unable to see their child is stumbling and struggling under a load he is too young to carry alone.

Copyright 2012 Heidi Hess Saxton