I'm just wild about Harry

I am finally embarking on a journey that has taken almost 8 years to begin. I promised myself that I would read the Harry Potter books after Lauren died, because she loved them so much. I wanted to do it before now, I intended to do it before now and I really thought I would do it before now. But I hadn't.

Lauren loved those books and the movies that were out before she died. We decided to continue seeing the movies after she died as a tribute to her, and we have watched every one. I remember how she used to be so immersed in the books. She would read them for hours, and could not put them down. She was very angry that people thought they were occult and anti-Christian. "They are just stories, Mama. Everybody knows this stuff can't happen," Lauren would say.

Last month I asked my daughter-in-law Anna if she had read the books. She said she had and after I explained why I wanted to read them, she willingly lent them to me. I have finished the first one, and am in the midst of the second. 

As crazy as it sounds, they make me feel close to Lauren and surprisingly enough, Anna. I love them. The characters are so lively and fun. The stories are so interesting. I finally understand why everyone is so wild about Harry. 

I plan to finish all of them by the end of the year. 

Time flies even when you're not having fun.

It hit me the other day: it's 2012. It's not like I was sleeping and only woke up at the end of January. I just started thinking about a new year and what it would mean for our family and friends. There will be happy times, of course. This year marks our 30th wedding anniversary, and we are planning a trip to Rome! Two of or godsons will celebrate their first Eucharists, and we will baptize a new godson and a new goddaughter.  Our niece Kimberly will graduate from college. Our son and his wife will celebrate their first anniversary, and Lauren's friend Margaret will be married in March. So there are many reasons to rejoice in this coming year. 

One thing that really struck me when thinking of all of these things, was when I realized this would mark the 8th anniversary of our daughter's death. Eight years! It seems impossible to think of. Sometimes it feels like it was only yesterday, and then it feels like eternity. Where has the time gone? So many things have happened since she left: milestones in people's lives that she has missed. Marriages, births and deaths  that she was not here for. It makes me wonder what she sees and what she is aware of.  I take solace in the Communion of Saints. 

Shortly after we lost her, someone asked me if we knew exactly what happened to cause her car accident. I had to admit that I did not know then, and I still don't. Neither the police chief or the fire chief of our little town could figure it out and tell us. It dawned on me that when I did find out (in heaven) I would not care. That is so true. It won't matter then. Even if I did know, it would not change the outcome, because none of us can turn back the calendar or the clock. 

There have been moments of joy these past few years, as I am sure there will be in the coming years that I am here. For now, I will treasure the moments I have with my husband, son and daughter-in-law (and future grandchildren, hopefully), my family and my friends. I will continue to commune with my brothers and sisters in Christ, and I will look for the day when I meet my Lord. and be reunited with my loved ones. 

Anna's act of kindness

I have a picture somewhere that was taken when my son Aaron was a baby. We are at my brother Maurice's house, and my sister-in-law Debbie is holding Aaron. I am sitting next to her and we are laughing about something. Every time I see that picture it brings me so much joy. It reminds me of our carefree days as a young couple with a new baby.

Our son is now 28 years old. This past August, he married a lovely young woman. Our daughter-in-law Anna is wonderful. It is like God has blessed us with another daughter. She loves our son unconditionally, and that means the world to us.

February 2 marks one year since they were engaged. Shortly after their engagement, Anna came to us and said she wanted to do something at the wedding to remember and honor our daughter Lauren. It was not something she had to do, it was something she wanted to do.  She decided she would have one less bridesmaid than Aaron had groomsmen. She was leaving open the space that Lauren would have filled had she still been here with us. We were overwhelmed at this gesture, but more so at the heart of this young woman who was to become our daughter-in-law.

The day of the wedding came, and Anna surprised us yet again. In the wedding program she had our daughter Lauren listed as "Bridesmaid in Memoriam" along with the other bridesmaids. After I was escorted down the aisle, Lauren's groomsman (my son Aaron's oldest friend Gene) came back to bring me a bridesmaid's bouquet. Attached to the bouquet was a locket with Lauren's picture in it.

Anna did not have to share her special day in this way. I venture to say that not many young women would. But she did. That little act of kindness spoke volumes to what kind of woman our son was fortunate enough to marry. It tells you the kind of family she comes from, and it tells you what kind of heart she has. She has already proven to be a wonderful wife to Aaron and I know that she will be a great mother to our grandchildren one day. I know Lauren would have loved having her as a "sister" as much as we love having her as a "daughter."

DO sweat the small stuff?

Ever known anyone who loves to make a mountain out of a molehill? Sure, we all have. Maybe we still do. Are those little bitty things really that important?

When my daughter died 7 1/2 years ago, my perspective and priorities changed forever. I began to realize that those little things were not that important. My priorities became different.  I was determined to do the things I thought Lauren would expect me to do: take care of her dad and her brother; attend Mass and participate in the parish through our music ministry; continue to be a part of our community; take care of myself... All of that was understandable. I knew she would expect no less. 

What I didn't expect was my reaction to other people when they went on living their daily lives. When others made mountains out of molehills I got restless and angry. I could not fathom how, in the midst of my grief, others could talk about "having a bad day." Once I told someone who said that, "You have no idea what a bad day is." I know now that God did not want me to act that way. 

As time went on, I realized my attitude needed to change. I began to thank God that people did not have to live my grief, and that being able to sweat the small stuff was actually their blessing. They did not have to experience the feeling of things being so out of whack and so surreal that you could hardly make it through the day.  On top of it all I knew in my heart that Lauren would not have wanted me to be bitter and angry. She loved life. She was not that kind of person, and neither, thankfully, am I. 

The "recovering" me knows that sometimes sweating the small stuff is normal. Its ok, to a certain extent. The "Catholic" me knows the truth: God is in control whether we make mountains out of molehills or sweat the small stuff.  No matter what, he is in the driver's seat. He expects us to minister to others, to forgive people of their shortcomings, as he does ours, and to treat all his children with respect, love and care. He expects and longs for us to strive for one thing: to have a heart like his. 

My Universal Family

I resisted the urge to tag this post with something like outer space, extraterrestrial, or aliens, although it would have been funny. On the other hand, it may have brought some traffic I didn't want. When I say I have a universal family I mean it. 

If you look up the word universal, you might get a definition like this: Of, affecting, or done by all people or things in the world or in a particular group. You will also see that one of the synonyms for universal is catholic. That is what I am talking about. I belong to the universal or Catholic Church, and my family includes over a billion people at any given time. 

My exposure to my "family" was for a long time limited to the people I knew in my parish, relatives and maybe a few I might encounter along the way. On a few occasions I would be made aware of our universality: attending Mass at St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York, a retreat at Christian Brothers with our youth, watching the coverage of John Paul II's visit to the U.S.  

About 2 years ago, I discovered a new way to connect with my family: Catholic media. I started listening to the Catholic Channel on XM. I connected with people on Facebook and Twitter though one of the shows on the channel. I joined Facebook prayer groups. All of a sudden, I have a network of people outside of my local parish to share my faith with and it is awesome. They keep me accountable, they make me laugh,  and they share my triumphs and sorrows.

We all come from different places, we are different ages, we have different vocations, and we may even speak different languages, but we have one thing in common: we all belong to that universal church and share Jesus at every Mass. 

American Idol memorial?

In a week or so, the 11th season of American Idol will begin. In a week or so, my husband and I will be watching it. We will watch until the winner is announced.

I have heard people talking about how boring it has become, or maybe how cheesy it has become, but we watch it for a different reason than probably any other viewer in the entire world. We watch it in memory of our Lauren.

Lauren was here for the first season, which ran from June 11-Sept. 4, 2002 as a summer replacement. She saw the 2003 shows, and we were in the midst of the 2004 season when she passed away. She did not see who won that year, although she had her favorites. She really loved the show.

The next year, when AI returned, we decided to watch it for Lauren. And we have watched every season since. In a strange way, it brings us closer to her. It is, of course, only one of the ways we remember her. But we think about her when the show is running, wondering what she might think about the silly antics of the host and judges. Who would she chose as the winner? What would she think now that Simon and Paula are gone? Thinking of that brings us joy.

To some, it might seem silly, but to us, it is just one of the ways we remember our sweet girl.

The Samaritan Towel

Mama loved that towel. It sat in a place of glory along the back dash of her baby blue 61 Ford Fairlane and we were not allowed to touch it. Even on cool summer nights sitting in the back seat when she drove with all four windows down. We better not touch that beach towel.

It was all different shades of blue set in a mosaic pattern. Blue like her eyes and like her car. Her favorite color. For some reason, she thought it dressed up her car.

Mama was a waitress in a small, but popular diner in Spartanburg. In those days, waitresses wore starched white uniforms that made them look like nurses almost. Mama never left the house unless her uniform was bright and clean, her hair was all in place, and her make-up was immaculate. She looked like a million dollars when she left for work every day.

One day as she drove along Hwy 176, she was past Pacolet, and approaching Glendale when she noticed a figure lying on the opposite side of the road. People were passing him by and not stopping. Not being able to stop in time, she turned around and went back to see if he was ok. When she got there she realized why no one was stopping.

There was no blue on the man lying there. Only the brown of his chocolate colored skin and the red from the blood that had soaked through his clothes from the wounds. She knelt down and realized he was still alive. In a flash, she decided what to do. She ran to the car, grabbed the beloved towel and covered him with it. Telling him to hang on, she ran across the road to her cousin's roadside stand and called the police and ambulance. She called her boss and told her she'd be late. Then she went back to wait with the man. Her towel was no longer clean and blue, and her uniform no longer starched white.

Once the ambulance came, she turned back, went home changed clothes and went on back to work. As the months went by, she never worried about her towel anymore. We did wonder what happened to the man.

That could have been the end of this story, but it wasn't. A few months later, there was a knock at the back door. When I went to the door, there was a family standing there. The lady held a beautiful chocolate cake, and the man held a towel with all different shades of blue set in a mosaic pattern. The two kids looked scared to be there. I called for Mama to come.

The man started to thank her, and Mama stopped him short. "Our friends come to the front door," she said. When the man started to protest, she repeated her statement and closed the door. A few minutes later, there was a knock at the front door and there they stood. She invited them in, and made a pot of coffee for the adults to enjoy with their chocolate cake. The kids all had milk and cake.

I never knew the man's name. I never saw him again that I can remember. The only thing I remember is that my mama loved that towel, but not so much that she would not stop to help a stranger, no matter who he was.