An Rud A Lionas An Tsuil Lionann Se An Croi

There's a beautiful picture I've seen posted on social media several times over the last few days. In between the screenshots from the video of George Floyd's horrific death and the photos of rioters interrupting otherwise peaceful protests is this snapshot of a toddler George, fast asleep, and snuggled up against his mother.  It's an image I'm very much familiar with, especially these days as I spend most of my time feeding my one-month-old. So often she falls asleep while eating and I get the joy of gazing down on her peaceful face, perhaps with a big smile similar to Larcenia Floyd's. It's also an image that I see time again in the myriad of depictions of the Virgin Mary and Christ child. In my home, in my church, in my son's school, I see it everywhere. Statues, paintings, refrigerator magnets, artwork from my nieces and nephews. Sometimes Mary is smiling, a small, gentle smile; other times she is gazing wistfully at her son, who is often sleeping...

Last night, as I got up to go to the bathroom for the third time (#pregnancyproblems), I found myself thinking back to each time I found out I was expecting. Four of the five times in that very bathroom. My reaction each time has been slightly different - fear, surprise, immense gratitude, tears of joy. What must Mary have felt when the angel appeared to her? From the Gospel of Luke we know she was told to not be afraid, that she was greeted as only a handful of women in history had been greeted, that she wondered at the words Gabriel spoke. And we know she said yes. A young, betrothed woman from Nazareth said yes and the the world was forever changed. What did she feel in that moment? Joy? Terror? But still she said yes. These are, for many, scary times we find ourselves living in. There is fear of the virus itself - of getting sick, of losing loved ones - and of the fallout - joblessness, increases in abuse and suicide. Every day we're faced with a choice, to say yes or no ...

Years ago I was required to read a book for a psychology class I was taking. I couldn't tell you the title of the book or the name of the author, but it was the story of her struggle with undiagnosed mental illness. The book chronicled her life, the highs and the many lows, as she fought through what she later found out to be bipolar disorder. Prior to diagnosis she had several failed romantic relationships. One, she recalled, was especially passionate in the way many fantasize love to be like, or ought to be like. Romantic gestures, amazing intimate encounters, grandiose proclamations & poetic compliments. Like something from the movies. But in between those moments were periods of violence, anger, jealousy, bitterness. Neither party was mentally healthy & it was abundantly clear by how they treated one another, how they viewed & valued one another & themselves. By the time I was sixteen & reading this book I had learned a few things about love, mostly abou...

As soon as the doctor walked through the door I knew I was in for bad news. He made that face, the aggressive teeth-showing frown that people usually wear when witnessing something revolting. The face that is generally followed by the sound of breath being sharply inhaled through the bared teeth. Then, the final nail in the coffin, the slow head shake. "Is it bad, doc?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. My palms were sweating like crazy, my fingers twisted together like they did when I was a kid and I was trying to work out how my uncle did that thing where it looked like he had one, long continuous finger wriggling through the palms of his hands. "Yeah," the doctor finally exhaled, his eyes lowered towards the chart resting on top of his tablet. I tried to sneak a look at it, but the numbers and acronyms, the results of my blood test, meant nothing to me. "It's ok," I assured him. "Just tell me." He nodded very slowly for se...

My husband & a couple others dug the hole. Not the standard six feet. Only three or so. Wide & long enough for the small coffin, with plenty of room to spare.  Before our priest came I stood & looked down at the grave, at the stone we had placed at its head. It sits under a tree that was sent to us from Oklahoma by the father of a dear friend of ours. He passed away only a few months after we received the tree. We weren't sure how it would fare in our climate, but it's so far survived two New England winters. It seemed like an appropriate spot for our little one, the child that will never grow under the tree that grows against the odds. As I stared into the hole I felt suddenly self-conscious. Silly, even. All of this for a child who was only the size of a raspberry. But it didn't matter, not to me, how big or little she had been. Or if she had even been a she. I had carried her for more than 12 weeks; the first eight weeks alive, the next several for as ...

I never thought I'd be sad to put my maternity clothes away. Usually, by the time I do, I'm so sick of wearing them that I don't want to even see them for at least another year or so. Usually when I put them away there's a newborn baby keeping me company. Not this time. After three babies my body & muscles just knew what to do; they softened & gave way to my expanding uterus, making room for the tiny life growing inside. The bump appeared much sooner than it had before that I wondered if I might be carrying twins, & hoped that wasn't the case. Just thinking of having two babies gave me anxiety - thinking of how that would stretch my body, what it would mean if I tried to breastfeed both of them, thinking of having to buy another car seat & crib. But that wasn't the case. By the time I had my first appointment to go over my medical history, get weighed, have my urine checked the baby, the single baby, was already gone, unbeknownst to me. Par...

I have this newspaper from college that I've held on to for the last 12 years. Though I haven't looked at it in a long time I know it's there, in a box of mementos from my four years of college. The paper was printed shortly after the Virginia Tech shootings. It wasn't that particular event that made me keep the paper, but the article that it contained, about all of the tragedies my generation had grown up with. At the time the article was written the emphasis was on the most recent tragedy, the shooting at Virginia Tech that resulted in 33 deaths; September 11th; & Columbine. I was ten, almost eleven, when Columbine happened. Before that there were a few events I remember seeing on the news or hearing about while catching snippets of adult conversation. The LA riots, the OJ Simpson case, the invasion of Kuwait. I was so young when these things happened that of course, at the time, I didn't understand them, but I do remember the images - the car chase, the bro...