I know this. I lost a child. The hurt was so huge, and now, so fresh once more. For decades I had not known another young child who had died. Until today. The pain I feel for the parents is immense because I know what they are going through. I know. And because I do know, I won’t say the words, “I know what you’re going through.” No one wants to hear that. It’s a feeling no one should have to bear.

I know that these crushed parents will rally to plan the last event for their child. No more firsts. Just one ending. They’ll be choosing the little clothes to give to the funeral home. They’ll choose a small coffin. They’ll thoughtfully leaf through sample prayer cards, a pamphlet of headstone phrases. It’s morbid. Positively awful. But they’ll do it. And they’ll do it well.

Those shattered parents will accept condolences from countless friends and family who are so sincerely sorry for their loss. But no one knows the extent of their pain. It’s as if these parents are continuously falling. Just falling, free falling off a cliff, on a completely new plane of realism they never knew existed. They feel pain, so their brains tell them they are alive, but their hearts tell them they, too, have died. These fragile parents realize all too clearly why God tore the veil on Good Friday. They think they will never land, forever circling. If they could just hit bottom they may feel some relief. But no, that’s not how the relief comes.

Surrounded by constant reminders of their child, these now childless parents cry buckets, they scream, they ask why. Sometimes they act brave. Most times they just act. They can’t sleep. They don’t want to eat. But something keeps them going. Could be they keep going for another child or for each other, or maybe it’s God Who pulls them out of bed each day. Something does. They wake up day after day, month after month, until one day they comprehend the unfathomable: Life went on. It really did. Life went on without their child in it. And they go on. They learn to smile again and even to laugh. And one day their grief is put aside long enough to thank God for whatever time He had given them with their child, replacing some of the sadness with new feelings. Life goes on whether they want it to or not. Their little one is always with them, just in a different way.

May God keep all such precious parents, and one couple in particular, protected in the palm of His hand throughout their agony until “time” finally arrives to ease their pain.

~ In honor of Bradley

Copyright 2012 Maureen Locher

I made Sunday Mass a priority every week. Children need to realize the importance. Sports have hijacked the sanctity of Sunday. Times were when schools didn’t dare schedule games on the Sabbath. No one would show up. Sunday is supposed to be a day of rest, of reflection, a time when families come together – not when they spend most of their time in the car hopping from one event to the next with a drive-thru food run sandwiched in between. So what does the modern Catholic family choose? To disappoint Billy in the short run or to foster ideals in Billy that will hold him in good stead the rest of his life?

If at all feasible a Catholic education is the way to go. I wish a Catholic education didn’t cost so very much but it does. Much sacrifice is required for the average family but if it can be swung I feel the benefits far outweigh the financial hardship. In a Catholic school teachers and children live together holding Christ’s tenets at the forefront. Crucifixes and commandments adorn the walls; Jesus finds a place where He feels welcome. Dress codes do not violate the little darlings’ civil rights. Children learn respect for authority by following rules. They gain respect for their teachers, parents, and yes, for themselves and each other. This day-in day-out regimen from kindergarten through high school produces something which can’t be seen, but can be felt within the child. Catholic school instills a holy intangible in the child – a strengthening of the soul.

Every choice a parent makes for their children from the length of a daughter’s skirts, to resisting tattoos and piercings, affects the child. The wild ways in which children “express” themselves seem to be a huge cry for help – See me. Hear me. I want to be noticed at any cost. Do we notice our children? Do we notice them enough to say no? Our children won’t believe us until they are in our shoes, but the word “no” can be the truest form of parental love. This Valentine’s week think about that. As any mom or dad knows, it’s much more peaceful in the home when we say yes to kiddies through teenagers. Much more difficult to say no. Much more important to be strong enough to say no.

Know your children’s friends. Be visible. Know their friends’ parents and keep a lengthy list of phone numbers and addresses. Don’t trust that cell phone to tell you where your child is. Know the landline and cell numbers of the friends’ parents. As I mentioned in a previous column, your daughter could be calling you from Mexico on her cell phone. Never allow a child to walk out the door without knowing where they are going and with whom. Be active in your children’s lives but don’t allow their lives to consume yours. Strive to find that balance. It’s not easy. Kids act like they want to be in charge all the time, but they really don’t. They want their parents to be parents. They don’t need more friends. That’s the way Satan tries to sneak into their lives. Don’t play his game. Play God’s game. Be the loving father or mother, not the playmate or buddy.

Pray for your children every day. With each decade of the rosary I meditate on one of my children. His needs and wants, his worries, his future. I fill my mind with each child individually. My mind reminiscently wanders picturing my sons as babies remembering how one son called me Honey instead of Mommy, or watching another dear one run through a field capturing butterflies, a third catching the impossible football pass, and a fourth speeding around the track. Countless memories throughout the years. It’s beneficial to remember those times. Remembering reinforces that our children are not the enemy. It’s easy to forget that in the heat of teenager battles. Just remember that our children are the tangible evidence of our love.

Put simply, God is in heaven, Satan is in hell. And we Catholic parents are right here on this earth living in the same house as our children. Proximity matters. However many children we have, Satan wants them all. He persuades, he coaxes and ensnares. We, as caring, concerned Catholic parents, are the number one best defense against such a formidable opponent. We can thwart the enemy. We can recover inches, then feet of the slipping line. We can’t give Satan our children. We must hold on for dear life, for their dear lives. Whether those children are 5 or 25 we must never allow ourselves to drop that rope. Shore up the slack. Tug hard when circumstances require brute strength. Seek God’s help. Pray, pray, and pray some more seeking God’s help in every situation. We must never give up. We must clutch that rope no matter what happens, no matter if we’re sitting in the principal’s office or posting bail. No matter if we’ve just been told we’re going to be grandparents a little sooner than anticipated or that our child doesn’t have long to live. No matter what, our children need to know without a doubt that we are 100% for them, that we love them unconditionally. We can’t lose this fight. The stakes are too high.

Copyright 2012 Maureen Locher

Internet, cell phones, TV, and movies all have their definite advantages. However the potential for harm multiplies exponentially when put in the hands of unsupervised youngsters. Although, we Catholic parents did have choices. Just as we preached to our children that they had choices, we had choices. Did we choose wisely, Grasshoppers? Did we monitor these devices? Did we enforce time restraints, monitor and block inappropriate content? Did we place the computer in a central location or did we shove our child into their bedroom to surf the Web unsupervised? If we did the latter we not only dropped the rope, we handed it to the enemy. We shoved our young children closer to the seasoned enemy with no credible defense against the infinite immorality easily found with a mere click of the mouse.

The Internet. Chat rooms of perverts waiting to pounce, porn of all varieties stealing innocence and setting unrealistic expectations about life and love, and a wide array of just plain bad stuff easily purchased with a “borrowed” credit card from an absentee parent. Every time a parent looked away, Satan attracted the child’s attention. Tug, tug, tug.

Why does a 10-year-old need a cell phone? To stay in constant communication with their parents? I don’t think so. If a parent believed that excuse chalk it up to misplaced trust. As our children grew into their teenage years, a.k.a party years, a cell phone garnered somewhat of a purpose. Party scenario: Parent allowed 15-year-old daughter to spend the night at the house of a trusted friend. First red flag. Spending the night. That’s a very long expanse of unsupervised time. Did we call the host’s parents? Were they going to be home the entire night? And dear daughter has her own cell phone so mom and dad can call to check on her anytime. Second red flag. A teenager can be anywhere when she answers her own cell phone. One more time – a child can be calling from Mexico on her cell phone. “Sure, Mom, everything’s great. Gotta go now. (My turn to swig the tequila.)” Did you always, and I mean always, tell your teens that they needed to provide you with the cell phone or landline phone number of the hosting parent? If so, your child knew you were smart and that you cared. Your children slid a little closer to God, and He smiled down at you knowing you took your parental responsibility seriously.

Satan must own stock in TV shows and movies. We are ensconced in a dark world where bed-hopping is the order of the day for many of our teens and young adults. “Give a kid a condom and sex is okay,” Satan whispers. “Watch Jersey Shore tonight to see what you’re missing.” He can whisper because he’s gotten so close to our dear ones. He can almost touch our children, and the old fogey Catholic parents seem light years away at that far end of the rope. But sex before marriage is not okay. So many things in this world are just not okay. When did we become afraid of hurting our children’s delicate feelings? Back when they were babies and we urged them away from the hot stove we were good parents. If we saw them headed toward that stove we’d scream our head off to warn them to stay away. A child rushes toward the busy street to retrieve a rolling ball, we stop him. We would physically “tug” them away. We had their best interests at heart. When and why did our children become so stupid as to think that we no longer had their best interests at the heart of our hearts? Did our children think that we didn’t want them to experience the joy of sex? That we were hoarding it all for ourselves?

Hopefully, we Catholic moms and dads realized that our immature children viewed their worlds through tunnel vision. So concerned were they with themselves, their needs and wants, that they ignored the big picture. But to us, potential pitfalls popped off the pages daily in all their 3-D glory. We dodged them when we were younger. We knew what was coming for our adolescents because we lived through adolescence. We mature ones have lived more than double the lives our kiddies have lived. We see the big picture. Yet our children continue to stick their head in the sand and think they are impervious to sexually transmitted diseases and pregnancy. Never mind what it does to their hearts. They want what they want when they want it. They tweet their exploits across the Web. They count their worth by the number of cyber “friends” they have racked up on their walls. And they feel validated because “everyone else is doing it.”

Personally, I am a big proponent of screaming if it necessary to get through the haze of the young adult brain.

Throughout my children’s formative years a Sunday morning ritual emerged:

10:00 – I screamed up the steps, “Wake up. Time for Mass.”

10:10 – No takers. I screamed louder.

10:20 – One or two children descended the stairs if I was lucky.

10:30 – The third sauntered down. Last holdout still up there. I bellowed. Such a sound!

10:40 – Our happy little family was driving to Mass. I was furious. Invariably someone balanced a sloshing cereal bowl on their lap.

10:55 – We marched into Mass. Oh such good boys. What a nice family. It took me most of Mass to simply calm down.

Two decades later I reached my limit. I wasn’t screaming up those steps disrupting our Sundays and my nerves any longer. I would show them all. A year later none of my children regularly attend Mass. For 20 years they rarely missed but now they’re among the ranks of the Christmas/Easter crowd. I thought they were old enough to make their own choices. I dropped my end of the rope. And I don’t see me getting it back anytime soon, if ever. Don’t drop the rope. Ever.

Satan’s arsenal is packed with weapons to lure our children away from us, away from God. Satan manufactures illicit drugs. He entices our children with drink. One drink for an over-21 child is okay. Being wasted every weekend is not okay. Satan tempts. Satan yanks. Satan is a genius. He knows exactly when and how to twist the knife to gain more rope. As our children choose his slippery slope the length of rope in our own raw hands gets longer and longer while Satan has shortened up his side. He’s already close enough to whisper. One more step and he takes a bite out of them. He does his best to destroy the life we’ve nurtured for decades. He fills their emptiness by manufacturing phony ways for them to feel worth. We lock our door against burglars. Our vehicle warns us with a screeching siren if anyone tampers with it. As a most vigilant wanna-be parent, Satan spies on our children ever so closely each day. Remember that both God and Satan are gazing at the same crystal ball of our children’s lives. Both want our children’s souls for eternity. Who wants them more?

Copyright 2012 Maureen Locher

Every day we Catholic parents engage in a high stakes tug-of-war. Seizing one side of the rope, Satan grasps the other and yanks so hard he knocks parents down in his attempt to capture the most precious of all prizes: our children’s souls.

Remember when our kids cuddled and cooed, and the only thing they drank was milk? Remember when our word and our world were good enough for them? What we parents said was gospel. A furrowed brow or raised eyebrow telegraphed a fall from grace. Smart toddlers changed their tune or endured the consequence. A five minute time-out perhaps, then all was good again. A fresh start. Smiling parents. Happy children. Life was simple living among Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Barney.

And then the little darlings did the unthinkable: They grew up, found new playmates, and questioned authority – our authority. Suddenly their peers knew more than we did; the tug-of-war was on. Once our children entered school we Catholic moms and dads struggled against everything that attracted our children like magnets. In place of parents, teachers became the child’s authority for the better part of every day. One teacher to 20 or more kids. One teacher against the forces that work to weaken our children.

We did our best to console, to rationalize, to point out all the wonderful parts of their day, but we began to lose ground. In tug-of-war one finds it much wiser to let out just a bit of rope a little at a time rather than allow the rope to be pulled with one great tug from our hands because once the rope is gone, it’s gone. Pulling firmly and consistently molds the child and eliminates rope burn on both ends.

So we tried. Oh, how we tried. We hung on tight reassuring our young ones, wiping tears, advising against the bully, the snob and that truly horrible child every classroom seemed to contain. We did our best. To Whom did we run when the pressure felt too great? God, always God. And He infused us with His strength to combat that peer pressure our children were battling each day. I wonder how many times Tim Tebow has turned to God in times of despair as the national spotlight shone down on him? Some people watch Tebow hoping he will fail. These disgruntled ones just don’t get it. Success and a deep faith in God are just too much for some people to handle. They’ve lost their own end of the rope which connects them to God. But Tebow hasn’t given in to peer pressure. And he sure hasn’t failed.

Before we knew it our own kids were in middle school. Mario saving the princess made way for Call of Duty soldiers murdering each other in every conceivable horrific manner. “But Mom, everyone plays it. It’s just a game.” No. Tag is a game. Parcheesi is a game. Systematically shooting, stabbing and blowing up people is not a game. This was a violent tug of the rope. Smart parents threw the game away. Smarter parents never bought it. Really dumb ones drove their children to the video store at midnight whenever each newer, more disgusting edition was released. And those silly children who thought they had won a major triumph succeeded in losing more of their innocence as Satan gained a firmer foothold.

Life hurled at us at warp speed. The more children we had the faster life sped by us. Hardly having time to breathe, we clutched valiantly to our children’s lifelines. We read to them. We sang to them. We listened to what our children were saying even when they weren’t saying much. We racked our parental brains to think up wholesome activities. Picnics, playing cards, taking a walk with a child one-on-one all broadcast a most important message: You are special to me and I love you so much that I choose to spend my time with you. On those days Satan lost ground.

During last night’s Broncos’ win Satan also lost ground. Thank God for Tim Tebow and his very public, yet simple expression of gratitude to the One Who got him there and keeps him there. Something of which I am sure, win or lose in Saturday’s upcoming game against the Patriots, Tebow will be thanking God. He’s just that kind of guy – a great example for our children. Good luck in Saturday’s upcoming game, Mr. Tebow. We’ll all be watching.

Copyright 2012 Maureen Locher

Much has been written about the creature that is mom. We remember how our own mothers’ actions and beliefs affected our lives. As we grow older we become our mom. We mimic her mannerisms and catch phrases without realizing what we are doing. We reprimand our children in the same ways we were scolded. We look sideways in the mirror and catch a glimpse of our mom 20, 30, 40 years ago. And we smile.

How did our moms do all that they did? What sent them running for the hills, literally or figuratively? What brought them back to reality on the bad days? We did. When we were kids, we did. We brought our moms back. And now that we are grown who can talk us down off the cliff or smile that smile that makes it all worthwhile when we have less than stellar days? Our own children. Most times the children have driven us to the cliff but as moms we seem to set that aside and feel only gratitude when our child shows us a special kindness. I think that up in baby heaven God deposits a spark in the soul of each unborn sweetie giving them the ability to reach right into Mom’s heart like no other. I know my children have that spark, and I hold the spark for my own mom.

Have you ever noticed how hard it is to stay mad at our children? Tempers may simmer or flare for ages where our spouse is concerned but our kids, not so. I think it goes back to the time when we and our children were one. One person inside another person. We know them inside and out. We watched them grow and all the while they were watching us grow. They know us like no one else does.

On several occasions while I was growing up I remember my mom suggesting that one more commandment be added to the established list: Honor thy children. I thought it sweet of her: in hindsight this was much more than sweet. My mom honored each of her six children. We were all special to her. She never ridiculed, never said, “I told you so.” She lent a listening ear, and helped us whenever she could. My mom always respected her children and treated them as precious gifts from God.

Do we?

Copyright 2011 Maureen Locher

Funny how the mind works, isn’t it? Yesterday I felt positively drawn to visit my mom unexpectedly by the words of a man at church. He related the gift given when his wife was present at the recent death of her mother as her mom breathed her last breaths just as a mom is obviously present when her child breaths her first breaths of life.

Well, that’s all it took. I was driving to see my mom. Upon entering her room she was dozing on her loveseat. She, too, had a dream. And she, too, called it a nightmare. She dreamt she had no home and no furniture which is both her nightmare and her truth. What do I say to that? “This is your new home, Mom,” for the 100^th time sounds so very lame. It’s the truth but what a truth after such a life as my mom has lived. Then I waxed eloquently about the people, the care, the food – all very good. And my mom did agree.

But she is still sitting in one room most of the days of her life. I may have tried to fool myself dancing jigs about her quality of life but at night, in the dark when demons come, they found a listener.

I am so deep down sad yet I shove it inside me in the light of day. After I calmed myself this morning I turned on all the lights in each room I entered and left them on. I turned on my computer to see a forwarded message from a friend which described all the horrible fates which had befallen real people who had mocked God in their lives.

I don’t mock God. But do I do what He wants me to do? Do I share my story of God in my life? Do I reach out to others in cyberspace? Or do I fill my days choosing paint colors for the walls and reassembling my house? What I need to reassemble is my life. Why is it so easy to forget what we, as Catholics, are supposed to do? Because the devil makes it easy. He finds an “in” and burrows in so hard we may not realize he is there. He turned my head. I love choosing colors and curtains and furniture. I’ve waited 28 years to have a house like the one that is now materializing. But whatever happened to loving “talking” to you? Where did that love go? Why do the words seem to be so difficuly to pull out of my head to type?

God wants me to write. The devil doesn’t. God woke me up today. He wants me to tell my story, however humble, to any moms and others who will listen. So what if I have a husband who works from home making it very difficult to find quiet time to write. Who cares that my house needs further attention. When my laptop freezes up and the cursor just disappears I need more patience to wait out the hiccups sent to me by the evil one. I pray. Suddenly my cursor moves and I am typing again. I am a mom of four boys born five years apart. That person hasn’t curled up and died. Maybe she took a hiatus after her children grew up but she knows how to write, and she knows how to work, and she knows how to fit an awfully lot into one day.

I just have to prioritize. That’s the ticket! God doesn’t care what color my kitchen is or whether I ever get that dining room painted. But He does care about the women who yearn for more who click over to CatholicMom to find a kindred spirit. For some of you readers, I hope I can be that kindred spirit.

Remember that the devil loves a dark soul. If you feel darkness in your soul this week turn on some lights, open a window. Call a friend. Write to me. May God bless you in your daily round. I will be thinking of you.

Copyright 2011 Maureen Locher

One cold wintry day a woman approached her favorite department store. She noticed a shivering man near the entrance. Upon closer scrutiny this man’s coat was nearly threadbare held together with safety pins, the buttons long gone. The woman walked past and entered the store.

Twenty minutes later she reemerged with a brand new winter coat for the man. She offered it to him saying that she thought it would he his size. It was. And it was so warm. Then she handed him a scarf, gloves, hat and a pair of new shoes as she had noticed that his were held together with duct tape. The man looked at her with such gratitude in his eyes and asked, “Are you Mrs. God?”

Mrs. God. Could we be mistaken for Mrs. God in our daily travels, fellow Catholic moms? We with our oh-so-busy schedules? Our long lists? Are we living our own lives or are we living the lives God wants us to live? Do we wake up each morning with our own agendas or do we ask God what He has in mind for us before our feet hit the floor? Some of us may be doing our utmost while others of us, me included, may need to up the ante a little bit.

This week whenever we hear our names…Mrs. Locher, Mrs. Harris, Mrs. Owen…let’s ask ourselves if we’ve performed any small or great act which could cause another to mistake us for Mrs. God? Mistake? Or rightful moniker? I guess that’s up to us.

Copyright 2011 Maureen Locher

I’ve missed you. I haven’t written in so long. Where shall I begin? What do you want to know of my life? To me, my life seems small, ordinary. Although no life can be small if God is in it, right? And throughout the ups and downs God has been with me.

Is my dad’s death still affecting me? I don’t know. I really don’t think so. I know he’s where he’s supposed to be. With God. I know he was beginning to suffer at 90. I never wanted him to suffer. I’m happy he’s in heaven. I’m happy that my remarkable mom is handling his absence with the grace she has always handled whatever has come her way.

And my mom is remarkable. I think of my mom sitting in her little room in assisted living making the best of her circumstance and then I think of me wondering what is to become of my life. Why haven’t I been writing if I consider myself a writer? Am I supposed to make a splash in the world of writing or are the small ripples enough? Enough for whom?

I used to want to make it big in writing. I’ve written manuscripts and poetry that few have seen. But why did I want to make it big? For whose glory? If God wants me to write He will give me the words. If He gives me but an audience of one that is enough. I want to share my story. And most recently my story centers around my home.

This diamond in the rough bought 15 years ago was in grave need of an overhaul. I had all but given up thinking that it would ever receive the proper attention it deserved. But then a little thing called money happened upon us. And lo and behold a kitchen with real cherry dovetailed drawers was not only conceived in my mind but actualized. The hideous lone bathroom shared by six adults was ripped out and put back together again – only this time pretty. I like pretty.

I’ve painted every room but one downstairs. And I would never tell my men what color I was choosing for any wall before I painted it. Why? Because they just wouldn’t get it. I’m a girl, a woman, a female. I live with creatures who adore watching Swamp People, Pawn Stars and American Pickers. I didn’t want to be deflated so I wouldn’t reveal one tint, one shade until I rolled it on the walls. Before I painted the first stroke the room was completely finished in my mind. Throughout this entire process I knew one thing: God was with me. I felt Him steadying my hand as the turquoise paint edged nearer the white ceiling. I never use masking tape. I’m REALLY careful. Or, better stated, “We’re” really careful, God and I. Thankfully I never fell off the ladder. That’s a plus! Not even when I was perched on the ladder in the bathtub. There He was watching over me, probably chuckling at the sight.

So maybe I haven’t written much about God in the past several months but that doesn’t mean I haven’t talked to Him, prayed to Him, laughed with Him, begged Him to see me through painting just one more ceiling. When life around me seemed in utter turmoil, when none of us could find anything as nothing was where it belonged, as we hauled more and more of our seemingly useless junk to storage units and back again, I was comforted by the sure knowledge that I was where I was supposed to be, doing what I was supposed to do, cradled in this really strong pair of hands. That much I knew. Will I become a well-known writer? That I do not know. I just know I love to write to you about Him. It’s good to be back.

Copyright 2011 Maureen Locher

I don’t believe in atheism; I don’t believe it exists. I can comprehend agnosticism, doubting. But atheism? No – not in the face of such adversity.

I couldn’t last a moment without God. He wakes me in the morning. He watches over me and mine throughout the day and night. He is my closest confidant, my biggest cheerleader when life runs smoothly, and the broad shoulder onto which I cry when life ends me curves.

One such curvy day the flu kept me flat on my back venturing no further than couch to bed. Extreme tiredness. Of course, all of my dear darlings had also been zapped. Imagine how lovely the mood in the house. Imagine how lovely the house looked! Imagine how if given a one-way ticket to paradise I’d jump aboard. But no golden ticket appeared so I lay there day after day.

The phone rang. It was the nursing home informing me that my mom had fallen, hurting her shoulder. X-rays were being considered. WHAT THE HE##, GOD? And so the very loud, very long rant began straight up to Heaven’s door. On and on and on. Stamping back and forth, slamming doors, kicking any unfortunate obstacles in my warpath. I doubt the eyewitness son knew I had such a colorful vocabulary. I gave it to God with both barrels. And He took it.

As bad as I felt I dressed to visit my mom. She was OK, just a little sore. I related the PG version of my rant to my mom, and at the end of my narrated tirade my mom looked at me and said, “But God didn’t push me.”

91 years old and my mom still knows exactly what to say to put my life into perspective. I am such an idiot! But a very grateful idiot. Grateful to God. Grateful for my mom, grateful for my recovering sickees. Grateful for THIS life – not that other life that I’ll never get – this one with all its warts. Remembering my own father’s advice, things could always get worse. And so they could.

Most of all, I am grateful FOR God – the One who understands me like no other. To whom do atheists show their gratitude? When life blasts them how do they cope without turning to a greater Being to ease their suffering? Despite what he or she may profess, in an atheist’s heart of hearts, there is God.

Copyright 2011 Maureen Locher

Time passes. Saturdays come and go and the bucket and chamois remain in the garage. Occasionally when you want to show off your baby you run her through the car wash – something you swore you’d never do. Small scratches appear on her once lustrous coat but you look the other way. Tires sag, fast food wrappers adorn her floor mats, and oil levels become dangerously low until one day when you turn the key she just won’t turn over. She’s tired. But you keep pushing her. Crank, crank, crank until she gives her all for you. She takes you where you want go.

But when it comes time to go home, all the praying in the world won’t bring a spark. She can’t do it anymore. She would if she could but she just can’t manage one more start. She’s done. She can’t do it anymore. You tow her home, losing interest as years go by until one day you compose the ad.

The phone rings; the new owner shows up, excited, eager and nervous. This guy has always wanted a red ’65 Mustang convertible, and he can’t believe his good fortune. What a gift she is. She’s everything he’s ever wanted. He tows her home, and hand scrubs every inch, lovingly beginning her total restoration. On a whim he inserts his new key, and although he knows the chances are slim, he holds his breath and hopes. She feels the love in her very core and roars to life with another chance to be “the gift.”

~ In my little fable, who are you, Catholic mom – the first owner, the current owner or are you the gift? And what are you going to do about it?

Copyright 2011 Maureen Locher

I am comforted by the fact that Pop died a happy death on the Feast of the Immaculate Conception with his children all around him. I held his hand as he breathed his last breath. That truly does comfort me. But it doesn’t negate the fact that the unthinkable has occurred. And life is going on. Without Pop. The world hasn’t stopped spinning. Somehow I think it should.

When my dad arrived in heaven he must have surveyed the situation down here on earth. He saw his eldest son struggling in the nursing home after having suffered a brain aneurysm in 1998. I picture Pop petitioning God to end the suffering. And God said yes. So as I watched the New Year’s Day Parade, three weeks after my dad died, I got the call: My oldest brother, Pat, was dying.

Agony comes to mind to describe the pain which wracked Pat’s body as I entered his room. Had it been anyone else I may have been repulsed. But this was my brother. A brother who had already suffered far too long here on earth and needed to go where his suffering would cease. I will never forget looking into Pat’s eyes. He was there. Completely and totally there. And he knew he was dying. Once our eyes locked his breathing quieted. As I stroked his arm his agitation lessened. He became calm. I felt God working through me. I was the conduit. It was one of the most profound things I have ever experienced.

The doctor didn’t know how long Pat would live. Eventually I went back home. But I knew it was coming. I could feel it. I went to bed that evening and something awakened me. Something. Or someone. Out of the ordinary. I turned to look at the clock and I knew. The clock read midnight. And I knew Pat had died. He had. I got the call a little later.

So how has all this recent sadness changed me? What have I learned? That there is a huge world out there about which I know so little. That silly little trials on earth are so insignificant in the grand scheme of things. That people are what matter – not things. That if we have the opportunity to do something good for another we should do it. And if the opportunity doesn’t readily present itself, we should make it happen anyway.

I remember George Bailey wearing a black armband in the movie, “It’s a Wonderful Life,” after his father died. A subtle reminder that, Hey, this person is sad – give him a break. Be nice to him. You don’t know what he’s been through. And I thought what a great idea that was. Too bad we don’t do that today. But since progress has taken away such a simple hint as to how our fellow human beings may be feeling, we must use our detective powers to ascertain a person’s mental state these days. People lie. We say we’re fine when we are anything but. We need to be more aware of others’ feelings. Let’s make the effort to look into each other’s eyes when we speak – really look – because eyes speak volumes without uttering a sound. Eyes mirror the soul. They can soak another in love, and are able telegraph emotions from exhaustion to elation. The more deeply we look the more clearly we’ll see. So let’s truly look since I seriously doubt black armbands will make a fashion comeback.

Copyright 2011 Maureen Locher

Well, we’re here. Is it all it was cracked up to be?

Yes on good days, no on bad? Good or bad, that time keeps a-flying. How are we making our time here on earth count? If you are a mom like me with older children you’ve most likely gone through your own identity crises along the way. However those benchmarks of the past have stacked up, they are just that – in the past. Who are you now? Who do you want to be now that the little kiddies are big kiddies? One day at a time has been my philosophy of late. Because that’s about as far as I can reasonably look ahead.

I don’t miss parent-teacher conferences. I don’t squirm in bleachers with my heart in my throat as the child nears the finish line or reaches for that pass. And I don’t need to outfit four boys for the start of each school year. Don’t have to put toys in Kmart Christmas layaway either. This is all good. Life’s stresses have lessened. There’s more time to think, and more time to just “be.”

Hopefully to be what God wants me to be. For once in my life I finally go with the flow. My sons are as formed as they can be. They must live their own lives, and I must live mine. So, no matter how quickly or slowly calendar time passes, I know I’m headed where I am supposed to be if I keep my eyes upward asking, seeking, knocking…and trusting. Really!

Copyright 2010 Maureen Locher

Today at bible study we were told that to live a Christian life we must let others set our agenda. Certainly that has been true for me in the past six months. Life had a definite purpose. But now as I am getting back to “my” life I find the lull a little disconcerting at times. I long for peace, yet when I experience that peace in the house for more than an hour or two I get bored or lonely. When I wake up to work around my home I know my family appreciates the effort I’ve mustered in getting things back to normal, but who dictates what’s normal? I wrestled with similar issues two weeks ago. I asked my friend what I should write about. She suggested writing about the lessons learned having raised four boys and discovering that I now need a new purpose in my life. She also suggested I write about the pockets of joy I uncover in every day – the usually small yet significant cherries on the sundaes of my days.

Everyone has them, you know. Those pockets of joy which sometimes may seem so insignificant you may not comprehend their importance until you avidly begin to search for them. Today my friends and I were told about another friend who needed some cheering up. After that the only thing I could think about was cheering her up, visiting her. Those piles of clothes on my dining room table from yesterday could stay there a little longer. Heck, they were folded, and that’s a whole lot better than dirty! So I called a buddy and we drove to spread some cheer. Someone had asked us to do something for someone in need and we did it; it’s so simple. I let another person plan my agenda. I felt like a Christian today, plain and simple. I didn’t save the world, I didn’t eradicate hunger, but I said “yes” to someone whom God placed directly in my path.

When I was a mom of young ones – four boys five years apart – I knew plenty about giving life to others, about giving so much of your life away that I wondered if there’d ever be enough of me left to have a life once my sons grew up. I have wrestled with those issues for a good ten years now. Bet you didn’t know I was a wrestler until today, did you? Oh, back and forth I’ve fretted both sides of that mom coin. How much is enough? How much is too much? Why do I seem to be evaporating? What do I want out of life?

I’m not much closer to the answers, probably because the key player in my questions is me – and “me” is not what God is all about. God is about giving self away – to all comers. The insistent toddlers who won’t give us a moment’s peace strengthen us for the adolescent and high school woes. And just when we think that there’s light at the end of our tunnel our young adults throw us for loops as they try their wings. Moms always do for others. Hopefully, we Catholic moms keep uppermost in our minds why we do for others – to be like the One who gave His all for all of us.

Have a good week, ladies!

~ Maureen


Copyright 2010 Maureen Locher

How many times on Saturday did I hear family members say, “We finally have our lives back. Life can get back to normal.” But I’m not sure that I really want to go back. Back to what? What is “normal”? I want to go forward. I’m just not too sure where forward is. For the past six months I have known exactly where I needed to be and what I needed to do. First, it was daily visits to the hospital to see my dad while keeping an eye on my mom at home. Next, our entire family pulled together to make our parents’ transition to their new home as painless as possible. Then came the house auction and this past weekend the barn auction. The final step is the sale of the house itself, but that’s cake compared to what my family and I have already been through.

My own five men have certainly endured much with me in the past months. They have listened to my woes, carried seemingly endless loads of “stuff” back and forth; they have done without dinners, gotten used to Mother Hubbard cupboards, and have virtually given up on what used to look like their home as I brought in more and more of my parents’ things. Right now 15 bins sit in our living room filled with photos and treasures to sort for my siblings.

God personally penned my instruction manual since April. He showed me step-by-step just what needed to be done, and infused me with enough energy to accomplish it. So as October comes to an end, and my life’s possibilities are stretched out in front of me, what do I do? What do I choose? How do I choose wisely?

I think it’s time to take life a little more easy, make the atmosphere here calm (or as calm as it can be with five alpha dogs sharing the same space!) The holidays are fast approaching. Summer disappeared into oblivion this year. I want autumn to linger. Time to change the living room motif from musty mementos to black and orange spooky creatures. Time to bake pumpkin pies and roast turkeys. Time to write my Christmas list and check it twice remembering the many sacrifices which my family has made for me so that I could spend time doing whatever needed done for my parents. It’s time to give back.

Homemade apple pie just like Mom used to bake sounds like a fine start to me. Kitchen, here I come!

Copyright 2010 Maureen Locher

As my nostalgic thoughts switched to my dad, I remembered my mom popping Pop’s popcorn every night of her life while I was growing up. The little red pot took its place on the burner next to the big chrome pot on the stove. No microwaves back then. Vigorous and continuous shaking of popcorn in hot oil kept the kernels from burning while the butter melted in the little pot. These days, however, I never pop popcorn without Mr. Redenbacher’s microwave recipe, so I can’t fathom a need for this tiny red pot. But I had to have it. So I do.

The name “Pop” could quite possibly be synonymous with “butter” because my dad doesn’t just like butter, he loves butter. Nowadays my dad continues to eat all his meals with his tablemate of 69 years – his wife, my mom. That hasn’t changed, but what has changed is the locale: the dining room in assisted living. Same spouse, different dining room, but same main ingredient: butter. Pop never runs out of butter because he stealthily steals the individual pats of butter and stashes them in his mini-fridge just in case he needs them at his next meal. He takes a pocketful to every lunch and dinner.

One distant dinner comes to mind: My husband and I had just begun to date, and my parents took us to Red Lobster. After my dad ordered his whole live lobster he whipped out a stick of butter from his suitcoat pocket. I thought I would die! He handed it to the waitress and asked her to melt it for him. Yes, Pop loves his real butter. No margarine for him. And apparently, no cholesterol trouble because Pop’s 90.

Popcorn, butter. Lobster, butter. Everything, butter. I think my dad would be hard-pressed to choose between popcorn or lobster as his favorite butter buddy. I examine my new/old lobster warming dish as I wash it. The paint on the bright red lobster hasn’t faded much at all in 60-some years. On special occasions I remember my mom serving my dad lobster at home. Mom poured boiling water into the bottom dish which melted the butter in the top dish. No one eats a whole lobster as my dad does – no one. It’s a sight of beauty…and repulsion…when he relishes every morsel down to the green guts. I first witnessed my dad’s dissection of dead lobsters when I was a little girl at Iacomini’s and Sanginiti’s in Akron, Ohio – local Italian restaurants. And that is also where I tasted my first lobster. To this day I love lobster dipped in real butter. I have gone so far as to request real butter instead of the oily imitation some restaurants serve – I am my father’s daughter – but I have not yet stashed a stick in my purse. Remembering my big, tall father in his best suit sitting at the fancy table wearing a funny-looking lobster bib almost always brings a smile.

Except for this day, of course, when butter memories form slippery tears.


Copyright 2010 Maureen Locher

20 years ago my house was stuffed with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, trucks and Legoes. Stepping barefoot on a Lego in the dark was akin to stabbing a needle in my eye. A few minutes ago I was awakened by the sound of a crash. I did what any red-blooded American woman would do: I woke up my husband. None-too-pleased, he humored me and searched the house. His search netted a wire record rack which had fallen from one of many piles of clutter around the house, namely, all the treasures belonging to my parents with which I could not part after they moved into assisted living.

My dad adores music. Consequently, he accumulated – I kid you not – 100,000 records. Records of all types and sizes. One summer when I was probably 10, I remember cataloguing the opera records, neatly printing all pertinent information on a little index card and filing it away in the small green metal box. I found those old boxes at the farm and recognized my juvenile penmanship. I wanted to bring them home with me, but I had to draw the line somewhere, right? I left them. But, oh my goodness, what I didn’t leave! What my family has packed into vehicles and brought home truly boggles the mind. We rented a storage unit. And still we are swimming in a sea of junk. Good junk, but junk none-the-less.

So what’s a girl to do? I don’t want to end up one of the sad cases on Hoarders. I want to be able to walk through my hallway on the way to my bedroom without disturbing a wire record rack which tauntingly waits until I settle into bed to crash to the floor. I don’t need any of the stuff I’ve brought from my parents’ house. Why do I want it so badly? Am I Linus clutching my security blanket? I can’t have my parents forever, so I want their stuff – is that it, Sigmund?

Whatever it is, it is beginning to drive me completely nuts. Last weekend I washed all the sparkly glassware I bought from the first house auction, Windexed my china cabinet shelves and lovingly placed each piece. It really looks beautiful. Of course, I had to remove other things that were occupying the space which leaves more boxes in my dining room. My china cabinet has become a microcosm of my wishes for my entire house. The ideal. To have a place for everything, and everything in its place. Ha ha ha! In this lifetime?

When my kids were younger I blamed the messes on them. I still blame most messes on them. I blame this old house with no closets or cupboards or drawers. I blame my husband for not building closets and cupboards and drawers. I blame my parents for making me love them so much that I can’t part with their things. Surely, I am not to blame. It wasn’t my hand at the auction that kept cropping up to bid on every single thing that my little heart desired, was it? And by the time the auction was winding down as we followed the auctioneer through the labyrinth of neat rows of merchandise I didn’t even have to raise my hand; the auctioneer merely looked at me as I nodded acceptance of more and more and MORE boxes of “treasures” which surely I couldn’t let go to a total stranger for a buck or two. Right? I mean that would have been crazy! Right?

Sadly, the evil little twist in this scary tale remains to be unveiled, for in a few weeks we’re having another sale – the contents of the barn. Each day my brothers unearth more really cool stuff. Really cool stuff which I have no recollection of ever having seen. Really cool stuff that surely may follow me home. Anybody have a straight jacket and blindfold I can borrow for the big day?


Copyright 2010 Maureen Locher

During the past few years I have learned some rather hard lessons myself. Appreciation has rarely been on the lips of my sons, ages 20-25. All four creatures live at home while working and attending college. And all four creatures are now grown men. Yes, I’ve admitted it – they are men, not my little boys any longer. Their personalities and habits have long been formed. They want to be self-sufficient, but aren’t. They want to make their own way in the world, but can’t – not yet. Soon two sons may be moving out to be on their own. I’m not holding my breath.

What I am doing is harping an awfully lot. “Take out the trash, wash the dishes, clean up your messes.” It’s the proverbial broken record. Why don’t they listen? Why don’t they understand that I know what is best for the smooth running of our home? Lately, I have spent many hours at my parents’ house. Since Mom and Pop moved into assisted living, my brothers, sisters-in-law, husband and I have put in much time readying the house for auction. Each day I spent at the farm was a day when I could readily see what I’d accomplished. Usually one room took one day. I walked in, looked around, decided what needed to be done, and did it, methodically moving through the house room by room.

And when I cleaned up a room no one followed in my wake to immediately mess it up, unlike here at home. How many dishes have we ladies washed? How many socks have we picked up from the floor? How many cupboards and drawers have we shut? When I shut a cupboard at the farm it stayed shut. Now, it is true that a living, breathing family no longer lives there, but it sure was refreshing to walk into that house each new day and see the previous day’s progress. Guess who else noticed? And guess who else complimented my efforts and made me feel appreciated? My brothers. Each and every one of them. They literally turned my head; I’m not used to such praise. And it felt mighty good.

Auction #1 was held three weeks ago, and a few days passed before my husband and I returned to the farm to grab a second load of furniture we’d bought. Walking into the big, empty kitchen our voices actually echoed. Surveying the vacant room I turned my head and what did my surprised eyes see but the grandfather clock – in the kitchen. The grandfather clock on which my husband and I bid at the auction. However we dropped out of the bidding when the price got a little too steep. We’d bought very many items already and thought we’d better pass on the clock. But there was the clock big as life. With a sign taped to it: “A timely reminder of all the work you’ve done ~ Your brothers.”

Accolades, appreciation, applause. I got all three! Maybe not for being a mom, but for being a sister. I had lost that clock. It was gone. Someone else bought it. But apparently my brothers made the new buyers an offer they couldn’t refuse. For me. To thank me. If I thought that clock was special before, it’s nothing compared to how special it is to me now. (Thanks, guys!) Auction #2 here we come!

Copyright 2010 Maureen Locher

I’ve worked so many hours in the past month getting the place ready for the auction that I hadn’t allowed myself much time to think, to remember. When I sorted through the endless photos I barely paused to glimpse, merely tossing them into boxes; it became a matter of reaching that finish line – being ready for the first auction day. And we were ready. Besides all the family treasures which I unearthed, I discovered another unexpected surprise that doesn’t fit into a box.

Being the youngest of six children with four older brothers, while growing up my closest contact had always been with my lone sister. Throughout the years she included me in her life the most. Several years ago, my sister passed away leaving my brothers with just one sister and me with none. But by that time I was married with my own family of four sons. My time and thoughts revolved around my “new” family, seeing my brothers and their families mostly on holidays.

That is, until my dad fell, forming that tiny snowball which has careened down the Swiss Alps gathering speed and snow. The snowball is now huge. My brothers and I have discovered the wonderful worlds of POAs, DNRs, assisted living and pre-paid funerals. And auctions. With the house auction down we have one more to go – the barn. My brain can’t quite fathom that auction yet, but my brothers have taken the lead and when October comes we will be ready for that one too. I have much faith in us all.

Going from seeing my brothers on only a handful of holidays to being in constant contact with them for the past four months has presented its own unique set of challenges at times. We’ve butt heads. We don’t always agree. Time passes. We forge ahead. We’ve become real family again, not merely polite people visiting on holidays. And with family comes conflict, but we never forget that we love each other. It’s really pretty simple. Mom and Pop would be proud.

I discovered my unexpected gift during a blistering 90 degree day last week: my brother Tim. I realized how well we work together becoming a team without getting in each other’s way. We agreed about how to tackle problems. We took breaks together, Tim emerging from the dungeon of the basement, me descending from the stifling heat upstairs, both seeking the cool air in the living room. We looked forward to the tangible results at the end of every day. The place was looking good.

While sitting on the couch one day before the house auction I shared my idea with Tim of possibly bidding on the very couch on which I was sitting if it went for a cheap price. I’d leave it at the farm. This way we’d all have somewhere inside to sit when we begin working in the barn, and come to seek the cool living room air once more. Tim had already thought of this, and said he’d planned to bid on the chair on which he was sitting. Great minds think alike.

Auction day came and went, thanks to everyone’s efforts, and when auction item # 168 – blue chair – came up for bid, my brother Tim raised his hand winning the chair for five whole dollars! Looking back at him our eyes met. He chuckled as we shared a knowing smile. Unfortunately I let the couch go to another bidder. I couldn’t quite fathom bidding on one more thing; trust me, I’d already bought plenty! So with only one remaining chair in the house, I’d say that Timmy’s in the catbird seat. I may have lost the couch, but I found a 365-day brother.

Copyright 2010 Maureen Locher

Driving into my driveway a few minutes ago I thought my eyes were deceiving me. No cars. No trucks. No sons’ friends’ vehicles. An empty drive. What bliss! I threw off the work clothes and slipped into the evening’s attire, and it’s only 4:05 in the afternoon. But that’s OK by me, more than OK – a necessary building block for my precariously perched sanity.

Last night I couldn’t sleep, catching however many winks fit into a couple hours. I awoke this morning and left bright and early on mental autopilot all the way to the auction site, as I now think of the farm, my parents’ home. The big difference today was that other people were doing the work. And I liked it! An hour later, one misinformed fellow arrived for the auction. There’s just one little problem: He was 25 hours early – the auction isn’t until tomorrow! And this would-be bidder lived two hours away. Sorry, Mister, come back tomorrow.

Tomorrow. Yikes! It’s so close. Oh my, what a day it will be. But tonight is tonight, and I am alone. Alone to watch a marathon of Gilmore Girl reruns, alone to soak in a hot tub, alone to read my book amid peace and quiet before the noise and nerves of tomorrow. Alone to do whatever my little heart desires. Bring on the cupcakes!

Copyright 2010 Maureen Locher

Most every day I unearth more buried treasure. It’s fun and I enjoy it. One of my brothers works in the barn while I work in the house. He shares my love of making such a difference each day as he separates oodles of car parts from thousands of records – 78’s, 45’s, 33 1/3’s, and so many books and old farm machinery and, and, and…! Our father is and always has been a packrat of the first degree. Batteries under hoods manufactured in the 1940s are charged up, flat tires inflated, new tires ordered. One can no longer walk into a Goodyear store and purchase a tire to fit a 1940 Cadillac.

Since our dad fell back in April and the dominoes began their decided descent, my priorities have aligned: Something needs done – I do it. Certainly my brothers must share this newly found philosophy with me as they are working so diligently to ensure that we are ready for both auctions. One auction just won’t handle all the stuff. So we’re having two – one for the house contents and one for the barn. We wake up each day and know where we must be and what we must be doing. Pretty simple. And very satisfying. I’m not wishy-washy in my thinking anymore. God emblazoned the answer to one of my most persistent questions onto an oft-prayed-for, if imaginary, billboard. Even I couldn’t mistake this one! Each day I follow God’s “to do” list.

Checking off the upstairs, I moved my campaign downstairs. Reaching far back into kitchen cupboards I traveled down memory lane. I spied the little egg cups into which my mom placed soft-boiled eggs whenever I was sick. My mom was a master at breaking off the tops of eggs, a trait I did not inherit. I can taste the dippy toast strips which fit perfectly into the opened eggs. My mom’s rolling pin and pie pans have been idle for far too long. How many apple pies did we eight enjoy in the course of our family’s life? I remember the oblong milk glass pedestal bowl overflowing with stuffed peppers. (The tomatoey sauce always overflowed onto the dinner table.) I almost forgot the cake pedestal which cradled the Dobosh Torte – the 18-layer cake my grandma taught my mom to make. The cake I’ve never baked yet. What am I waiting for?

Yesterday my optimistic mood took a turn for the worse. The house auction is in six days, no longer in the future, for the future has arrived. Six short days. In six days the general public will be tramping through my parents’ home touching their treasures, bidding on my memories, hijacking the whole kit and caboodle to their own homes at the last pound of the gavel. On certain items my fellow bidders won’t stand a chance; I WILL be the highest bidder. But so much will be carted away to parts unknown to adorn others’ homes and antique dealers’ walls. My parents are in their 90s; they are antiques themselves! So, like God, I may rest on the seventh day, and may actually exhale a huge sigh of relief. To onlookers I will appear perfectly fine, but when house full becomes house empty an irretrievable part of me will be forever lost.


Copyright 2010 Maureen Locher