Chapter 14: Faith Like A Child

In the summer of 2016, our family had the opportunity to visit northern France to make a pilgrimage to the birthplace and tomb of Saint Therese of Lisieux. Courtney and I feel a great gratitude to Saint Therese for her intercession in our relationship, and as Ellie’s patron saint (her middle name is Therese), we were eager to bring our children to Lisieux. At the time, Ellie was three and Francis had just turned one. As with all pilgrimages we’ve made with our family, the chaotic realities of the trip are nothing like the peaceful days of prayer and reflection that I imagine they’ll be. No matter how holy the site, the kids are still kids. Every hotel room is a minefield in which any sound has the potential to obliterate any chance of sleep. All it takes is one cough, one car alarm, one noisy neighbor, or one inconsiderate dad who forgot to mute his phone as he watched an NFL playoff game, to wake everybody up.

We arrived at the Basilica of Saint Therese just in time to join a mass in English in the crypt of the church where the remains of Saints Louis and Zélie Martin, Saint Therese’s recently canonized parents, are buried. Courtney was sitting with Ellie while I tried to restrain our now walking one-year-old son, Francis. At least for our kids, the first few months of walking are terrifying. The kids have no balance, very little depth perception, and no tolerance for any prohibition of walking at any moment. For Francis at mass that day, it wasn’t enough to walk on the floor. He insisted on walking on the pew benches, though I did my best to keep him in the row we had chosen for mass.

I had read a few books on Saint Therese prior to this trip, but I felt like I still didn’t quite grasp the “Little Way” that she was so famous for. I prayed earnestly that this pilgrimage would include learning more about Saint Therese and internalizing her message and her unique approach to holiness. But how was I supposed to learn about holiness, and how could I ever find time to pray when my son was acting like a toddler and not giving me a moment’s rest? As mass continued and Francis was still flailing up and down the pew, I felt like I was failing both as a parent and as a pilgrim.

Midway through the mass, Francis decided that he had graduated from walking and was ready to take flight right there in the pew. He started launching himself, as much as a one-year-old can possibly launch anything, over the back of the pew. I caught him immediately and set him back in his seat, only to have him run-walk to the other end of the pew and launch himself again. It was like the kid had no regard for the inherent dangers, no fear of gravity, and no doubt that he’d be fine because he knew I’d catch him.

Cue the angelic music. It finally started to make sense. Saint Therese of Lisieux’s radical trust in the Father consisted in her profound confidence that God would accomplish in her soul what she alone couldn’t possibly achieve. Saint Therese stands out for her expectant trust that she could throw herself into the arms of her loving Father, fully confident that He would catch her. “To remain little is to recognize one’s nothingness, to expect everything from God, as a little child expects everything from his father.” The Lord showed me, through my son’s wildness, what it looks like to truly trust in God the Father. I’m sure that mass isn’t the best place for toddlers to attempt flying, and I can proudly say that I’ve grown in my ability to restrain my children in church, but I know that I needed to see Francis’ fearless confidence to learn what it means to place more trust in God’s love than I do in my fears and my limitations. Toward the end of her autobiography, Saint Therese describes the utter confidence that she had in God’s merciful love: “I feel that even had I on my conscience every crime one could commit, I should lose nothing of my confidence: my heart broken with sorrow, I would throw myself into the Arms of my Savior.” So often I hesitate to even reach out my hand to God asking for help, and yet we are invited to wholeheartedly place our entire lives in His loving arms.

My faith is usually more like an insurance plan than a radical act of trust. Confident in my own selfishness and unsure of God’s provision, I reach for so many lifelines just in case God doesn’t come through for me. I wish I could say that I stopped caring about worldly things when I got serious about following Jesus, but my faith in God the Father falls far short of Francis’ confidence in my ability to catch him. My children wake up expecting us to give them whatever they ask, even if their requests are ridiculous or impossible. Yet I hesitate to ask for much in prayer, either worried that my requests are annoying God the Father or unconvinced that He could still perform miracles today. How different my spiritual life, and my life in general, would be if I had half of my kids’ confidence when I asked God the Father to provide for me.

Living in Europe, we’re blessed with the opportunity to travel frequently as a family. While I come up with locations I’d like to explore and cheap flights to get us there, Courtney excels in the practical planning. I dream of all the exciting foods we’ll get to try, and Courtney remembers to bring diapers and clothes for the kids. We traveled to the Holy Land one winter, arriving in the beginning of January just as the Christmas crowds of tourists and pilgrims had left Jerusalem. I had been there before as part of a group pilgrimage, so for this trip I assured Courtney that me and my GPS were all that our family would need to get around. Other than a few inaccurate directions that left us in a suburban housing development looking for the Mount of the Transfiguration, the trip went pretty well. There was also an afternoon where my refusal to ask for directions led to us arriving in Cana after the churches had closed. Now whenever we think of the story of Christ’s first miracle at the wedding in Cana, Courtney remembers locked doors and her stubborn husband. It sure was a romantic trip.

One advantage of visiting the Holy Land during an off-season for tourism is that there were no lines to get into the churches. We brought along a children’s Christmas storybook to help explain the places we were visiting to Ellie, who was two at the time. One morning we went to the Basilica of the Nativity in Bethlehem, built over the spot where Jesus was born. Because we were the only people in the church, we were able to take our time and we didn’t have to feel guilty for making noise as we explained the significance of the church to Ellie. We read the story to her and still had enough time to sing “Away in a Manger” together before leaving the church.

Later that day we walked through Jerusalem along the Via Dolorosa, the way of the cross. Our walk ended in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which houses both the site of the crucifixion and the empty tomb. This church wasn’t quite as empty as the others we had visited, so we were trying to keep the kids quiet as we walked around inside. We waited for our turn to pray and kiss the spot where tradition holds that the cross of Christ was located. After everyone had kissed the ground, Courtney and I started walking ahead but Ellie wouldn’t budge. She started singing “Away in a Manger” once again and insisted that we join her. In this otherwise silent and solemn church, Ellie was singing full voice while Courtney and I whisper-sang to avoid the possibility of still louder reprimands from our daughter for our halfhearted participation.

Kids are so good at being present to the moment. Ellie wasn’t caught up in what other people would think or the fact that no one else was singing Christmas carols when she decided to sing. So often I’m concerned about what others would think of me, and my children remind me what it looks like to freely be yourself. This freedom is wild at times and needs to be tempered with growth in prudence, but it’s a far cry from our adult preoccupations with fitting in and appearing normal. Other than the random cries for chocolate or other late-night menu requests, our kids don’t spend their nights riddled with anxiety over global instability or the trajectory of their lives relative to their apparently successful friend’s recent social media posts.

Because their days aren’t spent regretting the past or fearing the future, children show us what it looks like to fully invest in today. Their days are full of wonder and awe as they appreciate and take time to enjoy life’s blessings much more than I do. One could argue that kids aren’t anxious about the future because they’re largely clueless about basic economic principles, but we adults should also humbly admit that even with all our knowledge and worries, we are unable to guarantee anything about tomorrow.

My children go to bed at night with no clue how life will come together the next day. Ellie may be thinking of tomorrow’s outfit or Francis may be anticipating building something new with his Legos, but they’re largely unaware of everything their lives depend on. They’re not making shopping lists, arranging transportation, or filling the fireplace with wood at night before they go to bed. As far as the kids are concerned, it all just kind of works out.

I struggle to remain engaged in the present; it feels like I’m constantly distracted by what’s coming up or what’s on my plate for the next day. God knew that I’d need multiple daily, living, loud, messy, and needy reminders to be attentive to today. My kids are constantly all-in; they’re fully and emotionally invested in whatever is going on at that moment, whether Ellie’s playing with her dolls or Francis is protesting the inclusion of vegetables on his dinner plate.

I don’t know exactly when the average person begins to feel the need to filter their speech, but I’m mostly grateful that none of my children have yet to reach this stage of development. I say mostly because occasionally their stream-of-consciousness dialogue leads to strange looks from other people. One Christmas morning, we had miraculously made it halfway through the liturgy with minimal noise and movement from the kids. I was just starting to feel a bit of confidence in our parenting skills when Francis noticed one of his friends sitting a few pews behind us.

At one and a half, Francis could correctly pronounce about seven letters of the alphabet. I promise he was innocently trying to simply say his friend’s name, but Francis’ mispronunciation of the friend’s name just happened to sound exactly like a terrible word. It didn’t help that this word rang out through the church at an otherwise quiet point in the liturgy. Courtney and I looked at each other in shock, instinctively horrified by the word and scrambling to figure out how Francis had possibly learned this obscenity. We finally realized the innocence of his mispronunciation, but unfortunately there’s not really a clear point in the mass at which parents have a chance to explain their children’s speech impediments to the rest of the congregation.

In the kids’ minds, no question is off limits, and there’s never a better or worse time to ask a question. Scars, hairstyles, and possibly pregnant women are all topics of conversation that simply can’t wait until we’re safely in the privacy of our home. Often our attempts to silence the outbursts are met with louder repetitions of the questions or comments. When the kids have a question, they ask it, no matter how uncomfortable the topic or how appropriate the setting. Fortunately for us living in Austria, our kids’ embarrassing comments are always made in English in a predominantly German-speaking country.

Prayer time before we put the kids to bed is the best. They pray for whatever is on their mind, no matter how practical or realistic their requests are. Prayers are regularly offered for family members, for the conversion of cartoon villains, or for the whole of humanity with the exception of the one sibling that happened to offend them within the past few minutes. We continue trying to help develop the kids’ understanding of prayer as they grow, but it is a lot of fun to hear how honest they are when they talk to God.

The way that my kids pray convicts me of how often I waste time trying to filter and find the perfect words as if I could impress God or hide my true feelings from him. The truth is that I’m often more honest with Google than I am with God. When I look online for an answer, I type exactly what I’m thinking into the search bar. When I pray, my tendency is to try to get the words exactly right before I’ll say them. I try to sort through my feelings before offering them to God, forgetting that He already knows every thought, emotion, and movement of my heart.

When Jesus rebuked His disciples for preventing children from approaching Him, He said of the children, “the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these” (Mt. 19:14). It’s no coincidence that this passage immediately follows a scene where some Pharisees tried to trap Jesus with a question about divorce and remarriage. Christ reminds us of our posture before our Heavenly Father; we aren’t as impressive and put-together before God as we pretend to be around each other. In the lives of the saints, we see an incredible variety of personalities and yet a uniform realization that humility is a non-negotiable when it comes to growing in holiness. There’s a visible difference in the ways that children and adults approach others.

The Gospels record several scenes of impressive, knowledgeable, and well-respected men trying to trap Jesus with their theological questions and hypothetical scenarios. They all keep themselves at a safe distance from Him, refusing to commit to much more than a head nod or a “yes, that was well said” when Jesus responds to their tests. Yet in so many of the stories of healing found in the Gospels, we see the urgent straightforwardness of the humble men and women desperate enough to run to Jesus in their need. Blind Bartimaeus (Mark 10) shouts at Jesus despite the crowd’s insistence that he shut up, the Syrophoenician woman (Mark 15) begged Jesus to heal her daughter even though she and her family weren’t faithful Jews, and Martha and Mary (John 11) run to Jesus to let Him know how upset they are that He allowed their brother Lazarus to die. Like children, these people weren’t embarrassed, afraid, or unaware of their needs. They had the courage to approach Jesus, despite the crowds and the awkwardness of it all, and their boldness was rewarded by Our Lord.

I think one of the biggest differences between children and adults, other than size, age, and relative desire for Pez candy, is the fact that kids are really transparent and they haven’t yet figured out how to hide their dysfunction. Even in the ways that I see my kids misunderstanding or failing to trust in my and Courtney’s parenting, our children’s honesty and directness allow us to identify and address the issue immediately. My children make me a better man, and not just because of the patience I’m forced to learn in dealing with them. They live with a confidence and a freedom that I pray they never lose.

Being a dad has been an incredible gift. It’s certainly been demanding as well; these little monsters claim every minute of my and Courtney’s life from the moment they wake up till beyond the point at which they fall asleep. Life is completely different now than when I was single. My weekend plans have never been more lame, my own bedtime has never been so early, the music played in my house has never been so annoying, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world. I can’t get enough of my kids. When I look at them I see myself, I see my beautiful wife, and I am reminded of the incredible goodness of God that He would bring life from our love.

God the Father doesn’t love us like we’re His grown children back in town for a holiday meal. He loves us with the love of a dad holding His newborn for the first time. Toward the end of the Bible we read, “See what love the Father has bestowed on us that we may be called the children of God. Yet so we are. The reason the world does not know us is that it did not know him. 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” (1 John 3: 1-2).

From the beginning, the story of humanity is one of a Father who will stop at nothing to rescue His kids. The Father loved us so much that He sent Jesus to redeem us, and He loved us so much that He sent the Holy Spirit to teach us that we are His children. I am convinced that everything changes when we know the love of God the Father. We’re not orphans left to fend for ourselves or slaves constantly in fear of punishment. We are loved intensely, we are known personally, and we are held tenderly by our heavenly Father. If I’m overwhelmed by my imperfect, distracted, and still selfish love for my children, the Father’s love for us must be beyond words.

Chapter 13: Puzzles and Suffering

I know that most of you people are probably offended when someone makes generalizations about entire groups of people, but Austrians are really good at taking care of their stuff. (As a side note, I don’t generally generalize, nor do I support the habit in others. I thought it would be funny to say “most of you people” and then to make a sweeping statement about concerns about generalizations. Now that I’ve spent so much time explaining the joke, I’m sure it’s really going to be well received). Moving to Austria with just our clothes and a few toys for the kids, we’ve ended up getting some good deals from local flea markets. Because I believe there’s always more space for abandoned items under our couches, I’ve purchased several jigsaw puzzles for the kids at local Flohmärkte (that’s ‘flea markets’ in German, but I’m sure you already knew that). I’ve been so impressed to find that with each used puzzle we bought, every single piece was in the box.

So far Ellie’s been the only kid of ours with an attention span long enough to work on a puzzle with more than five pieces, and we usually need to wait until her brothers are either asleep or occupied elsewhere to work on the puzzles together. She always starts out strong with plenty of enthusiasm, quickly finding two or three pairs of pieces that go together. No matter what she’s doing, if Ellie is enjoying it, she always provides her own extremely affirming soundtrack. Usually her song is something along the lines of, “Look at her go, she’s the best, she can do everything, in the world, she’s so good.” I have no idea where she gets this confidence from, but I’ve been told by my wife that the would-be-annoying-if-you-didn’t-love-her constant singing flows directly from my genes.

After about three minutes, the obvious puzzle piece matches have run out and the self-motivation song fades. Very quickly, Ellie is convinced that the puzzle is impossible to complete and she suggests we give up. When I convince her that we need to keep working on it, trying to encourage her that we can finish the puzzle, Ellie often chooses one piece that she cannot find a match for. For her, this lonely piece is proof that the puzzle is impossible. There are only two successful ways that I’ve found out of this situation, but of the two there is one that she almost never agrees to try. In my humble opinion, as a man who has completed the same 24-piece Finding Nemo puzzle approximately 270 times in his now long life, I believe that the “edges and corners” approach is the fastest way to complete a jigsaw puzzle. Pieces along the edge of a puzzle will always stand out because they have one flat side, and corner pieces are easy to spot because they have two flat sides (you already knew you were reading a good book, but the inclusion of puzzle strategy tips is probably what pushes this work over the edge).

Once you’ve isolated and strung together all the corners and side pieces, the puzzle becomes much more manageable. Especially in the puzzles we have, about two-thirds of the work is done once you’ve completed all four sides. For whatever reason, Ellie will rarely take my advice of working on the corners first. She focuses on the piece that she has in her hand, but she’s unaware of how this particular piece fits within the entire picture. Ellie will continue to stare at the piece and grow frustrated as a few attempts to connect it with other nearby pieces are unsuccessful. When I realize that she’s not going to choose the efficient strategy, I start looking at the other pieces to find a match for the piece she is fixated on. Knowing that Ellie takes great pride in doing things herself, I can’t simply hand the piece to her when I find the match. It’s important to her that she feels like she made it happen, so when I find it first, I’ll just suggest she tries looking in a different area for the piece she needs. If that’s not enough help, I’ll move the piece next to Ellie’s when she’s not looking, and soon after finding it, tells me how she can’t believe it was right there all along. Soon after all the pieces are in place, Ellie will proudly announce to Courtney that she finished the puzzle all by herself. I can’t be all that mad at Ellie for taking all the credit in finishing the puzzle. First of all, I’d expect mockery from everyone ages six and up if I were to brag about my contributions toward the completion of a 24-piece Finding Nemo puzzle. Secondly, every time we work on a puzzle together, I’m reminded of how naively I often relate to God the Father. For much of my 20s, I was throwing a tantrum like Ellie when I prayed. I held up one piece of my life, alternating between the questions of my vocation and my career, and I demanded over and over that God make sense of it.

The importance of starting with edges and corners is obvious when putting together a puzzle, but I was just frustrated and annoyed at the prospect of having to work on anything else in my life other than trying to find a wife or figuring out a 10-year plan for my career. Growing in virtue, being a better friend, striving for excellence in the job I had at the time, and cultivating self-discipline just didn’t sound that exciting to me, so I hesitated to work on those areas of my life that I knew God was inviting me to address in the present moment. No matter how blessed I was to have strong friendships and to have a great job at a great parish as a youth minister, I was never satisfied. In his inaugural homily as the Holy Father, Pope Benedict XVI said, “The world is redeemed by the patience of God. It is destroyed by the impatience of man.” Amidst my tantrums, my impatience and my stubbornness, God the Father patiently loved me and never relented.

In those moments where I was able to see progress and growth in my life, my tendency was to take all the credit for the work God had done. Our Father in Heaven isn’t overwhelmed by our problems. He is not surprised by the outcomes that don’t go as planned, and His plans aren’t thwarted by our stalling and stumbling along the way. Because His perspective is eternal, God the Father can see beyond the immediate obstacles that we can’t imagine getting past. In the middle of our fighting and our resisting the demands of daily life, God will not give up on us. He can handle the pieces we’ve thrown aside in our anger and fear, because He is eternally faithful. Still today I find myself struggling to focus on the present moment, but God gently and lovingly draws my attention away from my seemingly urgent questions. He reveals in time the progress He’s making in other areas of my life. No matter how many times the Father has proven His ability to put pieces of my life together, I still keep staring at the next piece wondering how He’ll possibly make sense of it.

For too many years, my relationship with God revolved around my big questions and my obsession with the future. Instead of seeking to learn more about who God is, I treated Scripture like a horoscope, looking for each passage and verse to provide clues to the answers for my urgent inquiries. I shouldn’t have been surprised that prayer for me felt nothing like the rest and refreshment I had heard others speak of; I kept showing up to pray with 50 questions and no time to listen. I’ve slowly grown in my understanding of prayer. From a practical level, I’ve realized that my life is much more peaceful and enjoyable when I can begin to trust that God is in the middle of my life with me. He’s always helped me in the past, so I don’t need to worry that He’ll abandon me by the time today’s crisis hits.

When I approach prayer with a desire to get to know my Heavenly Father, I’m less likely to be anxious as life unfolds and I’m more confident that He’ll give me what I need when I need it. Even more than my daughter is unsure of how her jigsaw puzzle pieces will fit together because she doesn’t have the entire picture in mind, my life can seem random and senseless when I try to make sense of the present moment in isolation from the larger context. It seems that we often operate from one of two perspectives: either God is actively involved in the affairs of our lives or He’s not. If God is playing an active role in my life, then it’s not up me to tie up all loose ends or to fix all my problems and the problems of those around me. His presence and provision takes the pressure off of me. I’m still called to strive to serve and to grow in virtue, but the larger task of keeping the universe held together is off my plate.

Time in prayer can be spent more peacefully when I know that God is still working for my good when my prayer ends and I’m back to the daily grind. Prayer is no longer just the time where I ask for energy and power to go change the world; it’s the place where I encounter the Father who loves me and wants to give me a front row seat as He is renewing the world. Remembering how faithful He’s been, I can begin to trust that God is able to bring good even out of pain and disappointment in my life. Experiencing small doses of suffering as a father has begun to open my eyes to the reality of how aware and concerned our heavenly Father must be for us. Ellie learned to walk within days of her first birthday. Initially we were so excited that she had taken her first steps, but we soon realized that this new development included months of terror as she staggered and stumbled with no ability to catch herself from the countless falls that ensued. One afternoon that spring, we were at our parish hall; I was outside with Ellie while Courtney was inside for a meeting. Ellie insisted on walking on the concrete in the parking lot, and my fear of her falling was slightly less than my fear of her tantrum if I tried to make her walk on the grass. Within a minute, Ellie faceplanted, and Courtney ran outside when she heard the screaming. Blood started streaming from our daughter’s mouth and we were so worried. Ellie’s always had a strong gag reflex, so her crying usually led to coughing and then vomiting. We ran to the car to head home, and Courtney started googling “child bleeding mouth” to get an idea of how serious the injury was. Within five seconds of browsing, we had narrowed down the diagnosis to three possible options: the bleeding would stop within a minute or two and she’d be fine, the injury would result in death, or this was proof of government conspiracy involving aliens and beloved former U.S. president Jimmy Carter.

Fortunately the wise guardians of the internet only allow medical professionals to post their findings online. We feared the worst (of the injury options I mean, not the conspiracy stuff) as Ellie’s cries turned into coughing and then we started seeing large dark red chunks coming up as she started throwing up in the car seat. I forgot to mention to Courtney that Ellie had eaten several blackberries shortly before she fell, so Courtney assumed she was witnessing massive blood loss resulting from a life-altering accident. Even though I was the one who fed Ellie the blackberries, I trust my wife’s instincts, so I started freaking out as well until I remembered the berries. Within ten minutes, we were back home, Ellie had stopped bleeding and crying, and everything was back to normal. But in the midst of the chaos it was absolutely horrible. It’s brutal to watch your child suffer, to see them hurting and to be unable to fix the problem. You would give absolutely anything to take away their pain, and you’d swap places with them in a heartbeat if it was possible. Having children is like having your heart divided up and placed in their little bodies. Even the smallest inconvenience or pain that they feel is difficult to endure because they’re a part of you. This sense of solidarity with my children wasn’t due to my holiness or my capacity for empathy; anyone who knows me well knows that I lack both. But as a dad, it breaks your heart to see your child hurting. My knowing that the pain is temporary, or that the monsters they fear aren’t real, doesn’t lessen my compassion for my children.

For the first few weeks after Ellie was born, we had to return daily to the hospital to get her blood checked as doctors monitored her jaundice. Each day we’d have to hold her tiny feet so they could prick her heel for the blood sample. It was horrible. Ellie was fine throughout the very short ordeal, but Courtney and I could barely take it. This little girl that we had just welcomed into the world was in pain and all we could do was watch. Despite knowing that the blood tests were for Ellie’s good and that the needles were ultimately helping her, it was still heart-wrenching to witness as parents. Even my distracted, selfish heart hurts to see my kids in pain. If my imperfect father’s heart is so moved to see my kids suffering, how much more must God the Father’s heart be moved with compassion for us. Shortly after Ellie’s first birthday, we were overjoyed to find that Courtney was pregnant again. It was still early in the pregnancy, and while we knew that miscarriages are fairly common in the first trimester, we were devastated when an ultrasound revealed that this baby no longer had a heartbeat. I think neither Courtney nor I realized how emotionally invested we were in the idea of this child when we walked into the doctor’s office that day, but the sad news brought waves of grief and loss that rocked us to the core. Facing the reality of death, no Christian clichés were helpful. We were left with so many unanswered questions and there was no silver lining to lessen the grief.

It was heartbreaking to see Courtney bear this great burden of pregnancy only to lose the child, and as a father I felt completely powerless. I don’t share these stories to impress or to gain sympathy; we know close friends and family members who have faced far more significant suffering. For some it’s meant burying their children, while others carry the weight of being unable to have children despite all the prayers and sacrifices they’ve made. Several years ago, I asked my dad about what he and my mom went through in losing my sister, Anne Clare, who passed away just one month after being born. My dad teared up and responded that the experience gave him a glimpse of what God the Father must’ve endured in watching Jesus die on the cross. At the time, this made no sense to me. I had always thought of the Father sending His only Son as some cruel punishment. It seemed to me that God the Father simply watched from a safe distance above as Jesus bore the cross and endured death for our salvation. My experience of fatherhood has radically changed my understanding of the incarnation, Christ’s coming to earth to enter into our humanity and to redeem us through His death and resurrection. If my imperfect fatherly heart breaks to see my children suffer even in small ways, how much more must God the Father’s heart have broken to see His perfect Son suffer and die to save people who had rejected His love. In the midst of suffering, the providence of God remains a mysterious but evident reality.

The puzzle analogy I spoke of earlier works to an extent, but like all other analogies, it falls short in some areas. I don’t believe that our miscarriage, my sister’s death, or my dad’s cancer was just God handing us puzzle pieces and saying, “Here you go, good luck with this one.” I don’t like the phrase “everything happens for a reason” because it’s not really helpful. Sometimes the cause of bad things happening is nature, sometimes it’s a result of other people’s decisions, and I fear that the phrase leads to us wrongly believing that God is using people and taking lives to teach us neat little lessons. Rather, I am convinced that the Father is so committed to us that He can work through anything, and that He can bring good from any situation. The cross of Jesus bears witness to this reality; God turned our greatest act of rebellion into the source of all grace and the place of our reconciliation to the Father. I believe that God is a loving Father who knows our pain and weeps over us, and I believe that He doesn’t allow our suffering to go to waste.

Shortly after our miscarriage, I was running one morning and praying the sorrowful mysteries of the rosary. As I was reflecting on Christ’s scourging at the pillar, I recalled the scene from the movie The Passion of the Christ. After the Roman soldiers had severely beaten Jesus, they led him away and Mary was left at the pillar staring at the pavement below covered in blood. She sank to her knees and with a towel soaked up every drop of Jesus’ precious blood that had spilled on the ground. This was during a period where I felt like my and Courtney’s suffering was simply in vain bringing nothing but sadness, grief, and tension to our marriage and home as we mourned the loss of our child. As I recalled the scene, I thought of how Mary worked to recover all of the blood that had poured from Her son. I was filled with hope that somehow God would not allow our pain, and our child’s life, to be for nothing. Five years later, we still wonder what our child would’ve looked like, sounded like, acted like. We still mourn the loss, but we’ve also seen fruit and progress in our marriage as the shared suffering has deepened our faith and our bond with each other.

Providence remains a mystery; some suffering is permitted while some is alleviated. Coming to believe in the Father’s love has led me to begin to trust that somehow He can and will bring good from our suffering. God the Father perfectly loved His Son at every moment on earth, including those moments when Jesus hung on the cross on Good Friday. This conviction is only possible in the light of the resurrection, where we see that the Father never abandoned His Son but instead glorified Him. I am convinced that the Father’s heart must break to see us, His children, suffer, but I am equally certain that Jesus’ resurrection means that death no longer has the final word in our lives. In the words of Saint Teresa of Avila, a woman who knew suffering and experienced years of prayer where she felt nothing, “The feeling remains that God is on the journey, too.” No matter what we’re up against, no matter how random our lives feel or how unable we are to make sense of the puzzle piece in front of us today, we can have confidence that our Father is tenderly and patiently loving us right now. Amidst our tantrums and our giving up, our frustration and our pride, He simply loves us too much to walk away. God knows what’s ahead, He sees the entire picture, and He’s absolutely committed to weaving together a good ending of our stories.

Chapter 12: On Our Side

I’ve found that part of parenting is making a huge deal out of seemingly insignificant events in the lives of our children. We’ve all had the painful experience of having to listen to parents ramble on about their little geniuses or insist on showing you their little brat’s macaroni art; a parent’s desire to talk about their kids is always 1,000 times greater than everyone else’s desire to hear about those kids. Sometimes I’m aware enough to notice people’s eyes glazing over as I share all about Ellie’s latest adventures or Isaac’s most recent bowel movement, but usually I’m oblivious. Reading the last few sentences, I’m realizing that the same could be said about this entire book, but since you’ve already made it this far, I might as well keep going.

Last year we were visiting an aquarium in Spain, and all three kids were running around in the children’s play area. I’ve become slightly less anxious about my kids’ safety in public play places, but I was still constantly monitoring the scene to make sure all three were doing well. Within a few minutes in the play area, Ellie had successfully traversed the entire structure and was running around rolling her “r’s” convinced that she could now speak fluent Spanish. Isaac was content to spend the time laying down in one of those plastic ball pits, trying to eat each ball in the hopes that at least one of them would turn out to be something other than a collection of new and exciting communicable diseases.

Francis was focused on the incline that he saw older kids trying to climb. The padded surface was slippery, but there were a few pieces spread out for the kids to grab hold of or step onto as they attempted the hill. At first, I doubted that my son would make it to the top, given both the difficulty of the incline and the presence of ten other kids scrambling up and down. At age three, Francis’ initial excitement for adventure would typically fade quickly into frustration and giving up. It was tough to watch as he kept falling down the hill, over and over, either because he ran out of energy or because one of the other kids fell into him and knocked him back down. It must’ve taken about twenty minutes and fifty attempts, but Francis eventually made it to the top. I couldn’t believe it. I received a bunch of weird looks from the other parents there as I screamed and cheered to congratulate my now victorious son, but they had no idea what a big deal it was that Francis had actually persevered and succeeded despite repeated failures.

When we got back from that trip, I kept telling my friends about Francis and the climb. For the next several nights I went to bed replaying the scene in my mind; I was so proud of my son for what he overcame that day. Though it was a relatively insignificant accomplishment, one that he probably won’t remember years from now, I knew how much it mattered to Francis and I felt like my son had just won the Super Bowl.

I remember vividly the time when I knew for sure that my dad was proud of me. For my whole life I’ve been trying to make my family laugh, and for several years, my attempts earned laughs from my siblings and corrections from my parents. It’s not that they were trying to oppress me, my parents just weren’t cultured enough to appreciate fake foreign accents during our nightly decade of the rosary at the dinner table. For a project in a high school history class, we had to reenact a scene from the first World War. The rest of my group provided the required content while I took the important role of imitating a local TV anchorman. My impression of the reporter was a bit over the top, but I showed my parents the video expecting nothing more than the sighs of parents wondering why they were continuing to fund my education. The next morning my mom told me that my dad was cracking up laughing the night before as he told her how funny he thought my impression was. I always knew my dad loved me, but if he was always affirming me, how could I ever know when I had really made him proud? To know that I brought joy to my dad really made my day. Twenty years later I still look back on that moment as a turning point in our relationship, though I still think my rosary accents were among my best work.

Throughout my life, I’ve been told that God is watching over me. It was helpful to hear this as a little boy slightly afraid of the dark, but as I grew older I came to fear Him as some divine police officer or referee. If He was watching me, I was convinced that He was waiting to see me screw up so He could punish me and teach me a lesson. I don’t know if Francis was even aware that I was watching the entire time he tried to climb the hill. There’s no way he could know how much I was rooting for him, and how it took every ounce of self-control I had to not pull him up myself or push all the other kids out of the way so he could reach the top.

More than I was aware of the obstacles standing in Francis’ way, God the Father is aware of the struggles we face in life. He knows how many times we’ve fallen; He knows how hard it is to keep trying when we’re tempted to give up. And more than I was rooting for my son, the Father is pulling for me. He doesn’t stay close to catch us sinning or to catch us messing up. He simply wants to catch us, to lift us back up when we fall. God doesn’t watch us like some detached observer, He is overwhelmingly and unwaveringly for us. In his letter to the Romans, Saint Paul describes the lengths and depths of God’s love for us. The Father loved us into being, He loved us so much that He sent His Son to redeem us, and He sent His Spirit to make us holy so that we could share His life. “What then shall we say to this? If God is for us, who can be against us ?” (Romans 8:31) God the Father isn’t simply with us or near us, He is in love with us and actively working for our good.

He sees our efforts, He knows our weaknesses and our tendency to give up in frustration, and He celebrates even our smallest victories over sin and selfishness. This is a radically different notion than the idea of God the Father as some distant observer. The way I approach prayer changes when I’m aware that the Father I’m praying to is actually on my side. I shouldn’t hesitate to ask the Father for things, fearing that my requests are a burden or tiresome for Him. When I do fall into sin, I should be all the more motivated to seek reconciliation because I’ve turned away from the God who loves me deeply. Several years ago I traveled with two friends to visit Ireland. One afternoon we visited the Knock Shrine and there were a few priests hearing confessions as we arrived. I was eager to go to confession, both because I needed to go and because I knew I’d never see the priest again. It’s not that I had any really exciting sins to confess, nor that I have ever known a priest to betray the seal of the sacrament, it’s just that the anonymity of confessing in a foreign country was appealing to me at the time. When I heard the priest’s prayer at the beginning, I knew I had hit the jackpot.

The priest in the confessional that day sounded pretty old, which meant he’d probably have lots of wisdom to offer, and he had a great Irish accent, which meant that even his critiques of my life’s trajectory would sound charming. Kneeling behind the confessional screen, I launched into my list of sins. After I had gotten out only one or two sins, both of the priest’s hands reached around the screen. I hesitated for a second, unsure if maybe the sins I confessed had upset him so much that I was going to get slapped. His hands grabbed my hands and he just held on as I continued with the list of my guilt, shame, and regrets. As I continued confessing, I kept looking down at his hands holding mine, wondering if the next sin I said would be the one to make him let go. No matter what I shared, he never let go. When I had finished confessing my sins, the priest released my hands and prayed the words of absolution. It was a strange but beautiful experience of God the Father’s tenderness. As I acknowledged my brokenness and admitted my specific sins out loud, the priest never once pulled back or loosened his grip. Even at my worst, the Father isn’t second-guessing His commitment to me and He’ll never let go. My sins don’t scare Him, and my confessions don’t surprise Him. During Jesus’ public ministry, He frequently spent time with known sinners and outcasts. It was unfathomable to many that any decent man, let alone God’s Son, would make time for such unholy people. Yet Jesus made it clear that He came specifically to redeem and rescue the lost. When the Pharisees expressed concern about Jesus dining with sinners, He responded, “Those who are healthy do not need a physician, but the sick do. I have not come to call the righteous to repentance but sinners” (Luke 5:31-32). In sending His Son into the world, the Father revealed the depths of His love for His wayward children. God is not cheering for us from a distance. He is actively engaged in the struggles of our lives and in the battles we face every day. His love for us is without conditions and His love is unhesitating. The Father’s love doesn’t change with the seasons or rise and fall with our stumbling on the path to holiness. At our worst, when we put the Son of God to death, He chose to remain with us.

In the face our rejection, our blasphemies, our taunts, and our torments, Jesus begged forgiveness for us with His dying breaths. Jesus was never a passive victim; He chose to endure suffering for our salvation every step of the way. This is how committed the Father is to rescuing His lost children. Jesus carried the cross not simply out of duty but with all the love of a groom heading down the aisle. Many crucifixes and images of Good Friday portray a detail from the Gospel of John showing Jesus with His head bowed as He died. Saint Bonaventure, a 13th Century Franciscan theologian, offers a powerful reflection on the significance of this detail. Bonaventure sees Jesus’ bowed head not as a sign of His death as much as a sign of His reverencing us. This is the scandal of the incarnation: God continues to lowers Himself to serve, love, and save people who continue to reject His love. To the woman caught in adultery, while she stands before the condemning crowd, Jesus lowers Himself to meet her where she is on the ground before He says one word (John 8). In the midst of her shame, her guilt, and her humiliation, Jesus bows to her and lowers Himself to elevate her dignity. Before we’ve done anything good, and even in the aftermath of our greatest sin, Jesus lowers Himself to be with us and He bows His head to us. In Jesus, we see beyond the shadow of a doubt that the Father is for us and not against us.

Christ on the Cross bows His head, waiting for you, that He may kiss you; He stretches out His arms, that He may embrace you; His hands are open, that He may enrich you; His body is spread out, that He may give Himself totally; His feet are nailed, that He may stay there; His side is open for you, that He may let you enter there. (Saint Bonaventure, Soliloquy on Four Spiritual Exercises)

Chapter 11: Paper Scraps and Worship

Kids are pretty terrible at keeping secrets. Maybe this is why they’re not typically hired to do intelligence work. For Christmas this past year, both Ellie and Francis made a gift for Courtney and I at their school. The gift each kid made was a battery-operated light made to look like a large candle (it’s like they knew exactly what I was hoping for), and they brought the candles home two weeks before Christmas.

The day they brought the candles home, even before taking their backpacks off, the secret was too much for Francis to hold in. He jumped off the bus (after it was stopped of course) and said, “Hey, dad, we made you a candle but you can’t know about it because it’s a secret. It’s for you, for Christmas, but it’s a secret.” I assured him that he could trust me with the information. Ellie was slightly more discreet, but within three hours she couldn’t resist showing me what she had made. In the two weeks that followed, I had approximately 10 conversations with the kids about how excited they were for us to see the secret candles that they had made for us. I was even asked to fix one of the secret candles on Christmas Eve because the battery had already run out from extensive use over the previous two weeks. Finally on Christmas morning Ellie and Francis put the candles under the tree, completely unwrapped, and asked Courtney and I if we knew what gifts we’d receive. The children were so excited to finally give us the candles, and I should’ve received an Oscar nomination for the convincing work I did in feigning surprise. My surprise was faked but the gratitude was completely genuine.

Ellie loves drawing and coloring, and it’s exciting to see her develop as an artist. Most days she’ll bring home 1-2 papers with her drawings, and usually she creates each piece with either Courtney or me in mind. From the color choices to the theme of the drawing, Ellie is very intentional with all the decisions that go into the art that she gives us. No matter how many pages of her artwork Ellie creates during and after school, she’s always clear about who each piece was intended for. She’s had this love of drawing since she was two years old, but it’s nice for us now that the things she draws are obvious and we don’t have to offer vague affirmations of, “You really did a great job coloring whatever that shape represents, and I can tell you put a lot of work into that yellow thing in the corner.”

Gifts from Francis require the use of one’s imagination. He walked up to me a few days ago and handed me 15 scraps of paper, some with blue writing on them but none of them in any commonly recognized shape. He proceeded to explain that the largest piece was an “underwater rocket ship” and that the remaining scraps were various related accessories. Naturally the rocket set was a gift for me, so now I’m trying to keep track of all these pieces so none of them are mistaken for trash. Hopefully my wife can tell the difference between a booster pack and torn paper destined for the recycling bin, even if they appear at first glance to be one and the same. Without fail, Francis always brings something home that he made for me at school. Years later he might admit that he just didn’t want to throw away the trash that he had collected in his backpack, but for now I’m believing that these gifts are coming from the bottom of his heart.

Isaac has recently started handing me my things that he finds in the house. One morning it was a shoe, the next day it was the wireless mouse for our laptop. His joy in giving me these things is evident in his beaming smile as he runs to me with whatever he’s grabbed. It’s especially sweet because he’s so young that his vocabulary’s very limited, so the interaction just involves him handing me the item and him saying “Daaaaaaddy.” Sometimes the gifts are even personalized, like handing my wife her phone or bringing one of my shoes to me. He’s so proud of himself for being able to give us these things and his face lights up as he walks over with gifts in hand.

After seeing the play A Christmas Carol, Ellie and Francis are now obsessed with reenacting the scenes for Courtney and me. They’ve been going strong for months now and show no signs of slowing down. Unfortunately for us, they only remember a handful of lines and the part of the plot they’ve latched onto is the haunting by Jacob Marley’s ghost. Every day Ellie and Francis sit us down in the living room so they can compete for the role of the dead accountant. My wife and I are so proud of our kids for aiming at realistic life goals. Who needs superheroes anyway? When Ellie’s playing Marley’s ghost, there’s a lot of singing as she relates every detail she remembers about the play. Francis’ performances are a lot shorter and just involve him marching around yelling, “I’m Jacob Marley, and I’ve been in prison my whole life.” Honestly the acting isn’t that great. Neither of them is believable in the role, they haven’t memorized many lines, and they always pick the worst possible time of day to perform (right before dinner). It’s the best. There’s nothing in the world that makes me laugh harder than Francis playing the role of Jacob Marley, and I could listen to Ellie’s musical commentary all day.

I’m sure that eventually our kids will outgrow paper-based gifts, or in Isaac’s case, finding what was never lost and gifting me with items that already belonged to me. As much as I won’t miss having to account for the now hundreds of paper scraps that were crafted with me in mind, I will be sad when the kids get older and the gifts become more practical. I’m sure at least one of our kids will continue to improve artistically as they get older, but there’s something especially beautiful about our kids giving us art that’s not all that aesthetically impressive. It’s a strange generosity that Francis, our fast-moving son who never spends more than three minutes on an activity, would cut up hundreds of pieces of paper and scribble on each one with different markers. Even Isaac’s attempts at gift-giving move my heart as his face makes it clear that he is thrilled to be able to do something helpful. I can’t imagine receiving gifts from our kids more meaningful than the drawings, the scraps, and the left shoes I’ve been given. Guests to our house are clueless when they see pieces of paper and lonely shoes randomly dispersed, but I’ve got all these reminders of how loved I am everywhere I step.

When I was a kid, the only gifts I remember giving my parents were purchased at my elementary school’s annual Christmas gift bazaar. Looking back now, I wonder why they never had any normal or desirable gifts for sale. Presumably there were some parents involved in the organization of the sale, as I can’t imagine 9-year-olds brokering consignment deals with the type of vendors that would sell English Leather cologne and steel wool pads.

You’d think that the parents planning the event would’ve at least included gifts that were desirable or at least useful. Maybe they did have great gifts and I just remember the cologne. All I know is that every boy in my third grade class walked in with the intention of purchasing meaningful gifts for each of our families, but we all found the cheap cologne we really needed and walked out of that cafeteria smelling like old men. We also gave the cologne as gifts to our dads, and I still remember my excitement in giving the English Leather to mine. I was convinced that I had found the perfect gift for him, even though I’d never known him to wear cologne. I don’t remember his reaction, but the memory does provide some empathy when my kids hand me their daily gifts.

In 2001 I spent a semester studying here in Gaming, Austria, with Franciscan University of Steubenville. Though I didn’t play it well, I thought I would look cool if I brought a guitar to Europe. I mostly wanted stickers from everywhere I traveled to put on my guitar case. Until now, it never dawned on me that I probably could’ve saved myself from a lot of work if I had just left the guitar in Ohio, bought the stickers in Europe, and waited till I got back home to America to put them on the case. So I brought this guitar, with little ability to play and absolutely no ability to sing.

Soon after arriving in Gaming, one of the Franciscan priests who was working with the study abroad program introduced himself to me and told me that he wanted me to be in charge of music ministry for the masses all semester. I quickly explained that I neither played nor sang, despite the guitar I was holding. He must not have been listening; a week later I found myself leading a music group at mass. Fortunately we were up in the choir loft, so I could be nervous without being seen by everyone. I had no problem with being in front of people, but I only like being in front of people if it’s on my terms. I’m totally comfortable giving a talk to a large audience, but I knew I wasn’t a musician and this insecurity left me really anxious. I was the only instrumentalist, so I asked three or four friends if they’d sing with me to help drown out the sound of my guitar and, more importantly, my voice. For each song and mass part, I’d strum a short introduction and then give a vigorous head nod so the singers could come in and take over.

We were doing just fine until the memorial acclamation. This is the part of the mass in the middle of the consecration, right after the bread and wine have become the Body and Blood of Christ. Everyone is kneeling, the church is silent in prayer, and it’s now time for us to lead the congregation in singing, “Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again.” For anyone not familiar with the flow of the Catholic mass, this is really a solemn moment in the liturgy. The singers and I had rehearsed this part several times, so I played the three-chord intro and nodded my head for them to start singing. They just stared at me confused, so I tried playing the intro again.

This time I nodded even more dramatically, once again grateful that I was invisible to the congregation and safely perched in the choir loft. More blank stares followed and I was aware that the mass simply had to go on; neither the liturgy’s rubrics nor my guitar ability could withstand a third attempt at the introduction. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and I realized I would have to sing.

Unfortunately I realized two seconds too late and had already missed the first two words of the phrase before belting out, “DIED” at a volume level higher than necessary and spoke-sang the rest of the acclamation. People say that usually when you’re embarrassed, you’re focusing on something that nobody else even noticed. I hoped it was the case that no one in the congregation was even aware of my slip up. After putting the music away, I headed to lunch to meet up with my friends. Within seconds of my entrance, one girl just looked at me and yelled “DIED” from across the room. Apparently other people had heard my brush with death.

Though I showed up in Austria with no plans of doing anything musical in front of people, God had other plans. It wasn’t like I had these secret talents I was keeping hidden; I knew that I wasn’t good and that’s why I never planned to do anything with music. What began with a painfully humbling experience later became an important part of my life and my youth ministry. Eventually I got less bad at singing and playing, and I was given incredible opportunities to travel and lead music for several retreats and events from that point forward. It’s been clear to me that this talent wasn’t at all the fruit of my efforts or some natural ability; I knew it was simply a gift from God the Father and a way that He was inviting me to participate in what He was doing in the world.

In the Gospel of John we find the story of Jesus feeding 5,000 people. Jesus first asked his disciples if they had any ideas of how they could feed such a huge crowd. Phillip responds that the cost alone for such a feat made it unimaginable. Then we’re told that a boy came forward with a few loaves of bread and some fish. Next thing you know, Jesus is thanking His Father and the disciples are running around collecting leftovers after everyone had eaten as much as they wanted. I find it interesting that Jesus isn’t helped by any of the professionals; His supplier that day was just some kid who happened to have extra food.

Scripture is full of stories of God continuing to invite unqualified people to play a role in His story. He picked Moses with a speech impediment to speak truth to the pharaoh, He picked David to be king even though his only previous work experience was taking care of sheep, and Jesus bypassed a handful of full-time fisherman that day to receive the generous gift of two fish that this little boy had to offer.

I’m not at all comparing my short-lived music career to the Davidic Kingdom or to the Exodus, though an argument could be made that my initial musical attempts were reminiscent of plagues. When we give anything to God with a generous heart, He receives it with joy and blesses it. I believe the Father delights especially in our awkward gifts and our sputtering attempts to please Him. There’s something beautiful in the humility of children giving their all in something they’re not particularly talented at. As we get older and our pride becomes attached to our proficiencies and our comfort zones, it’s much easier to give from places of surplus in our lives.

As the Church dives into the New Evangelization and seeks to re-engage the baptized and reach those outside the Church, I think it’s a real danger that we would overemphasize our role and underestimate the centrality of the Holy Spirit’s work. God forbid we turn the Gospel into a talent show where we line up the best looking and best sounding Catholics to wow people from a stage. At best, we’d convince the world that we have good speakers.

It seems that God loves to work powerfully through people that clearly don’t have much to offer from a worldly perspective. No one hearing Peter preach at Pentecost left thinking that he should start a career as a motivational speaker, yet the Spirit of God was in his words and thousands converted that day. The Father wants to involve all of us in bringing glory to His name; the only question is if we will allow Him to do so. The underequipped and the unqualified become the best candidates, because when good things happen through them, it’s clear to everyone that the power must be coming from God.

My kids point me daily to the reality that God the Father rejoices in everything we offer Him from our hearts. Whether we’re giving Him some good work we’re proud of, or simply handing over our failures and our shortcomings, the Father delights in our gifts. If I am able to see the love Francis puts into every piece of paper he cuts for me, how much more must the Father know and see every single effort I put into loving Him, no matter how successful or impressive. Our worship is beautiful to God because He sees the love behind our distracted prayer and our heartfelt attempts to be patient with each other. Just as the messy and aesthetically lacking art from my kids is more beautiful to me than the professionally done paintings hanging on our walls, I’m convinced that God the Father delights in our awkward and messy attempts to please Him. He doesn’t just put up with our lack of coordination; He delights in the beauty that only a parent could recognize.

In the mass before the bread and wine are consecrated, one of the prayers addressed to God the Father includes the phrase, “You have no need of our praise, yet our desire to thank You is itself Your gift.” As our loving Father, God patiently teaches us how to pray to Him. We’re more helpless than my son, Isaac; we can’t even begin to pray without the Holy Spirit teaching us how. And this isn’t annoying or frustrating to God; He loves us in the midst of our inabilities and our neediness. Like Isaac handing me shoes that were already mine, our generosity to the Lord is simply a response to what He’s already given us. In every liturgy, we mysteriously participate in the once-and-for-all offering of Jesus to the Father for the salvation of the world (CCC 1366). The best gift we can possibly give our heavenly Father is His perfect Son; even our worship requires divine assistance throughout. The humble bread and simple wine brought to the altar at every mass should remind us of how lopsided our exchanges are with God. We give Him so little, and through the power of the Holy Spirit, the Father gives us back our gifts transformed into Jesus. Surrendering to God always leads to gaining more; are we willing to entrust Him with everything He’s already given us?

Chapter 10: Just Go To Sleep

Last night was rough. The night started off strong as Courtney and I lucked out with a dinner that everyone ate without complaining. After cleaning up the pieces of food that Isaac finally rejected after several rounds of taste testing, we let the kids play for a few minutes and then they all went to bed relatively peacefully. Then around midnight, Isaac woke up. We’ve learned the hard way that exhausted kids don’t always sleep so well. When Ellie was a baby, I remember we were so optimistic one night as we put her to bed. She hadn’t napped much that day, so Courtney and I naively assumed that meant Ellie was due for a great night of sleep. We were wrong then, and the lesson was relearned last night when our overtired son woke up late at night eager to party.

For four hours, I tried everything I could to get Isaac to sleep. He drank milk, I walked with him in my arms for awhile, I laid down with him, but nothing was working. Once I set him down, he’d stand back up and start running around in his crib. I brought him downstairs and immediately he demanded to watch kids singalong videos on YouTube. Before anyone is either overly impressed by Isaac’s communication skills or alarmed by our lack of parenting skills, it’s important to know that he simply said, “E-I-E-I.” The “O” at the end was implied, and yes, we do let him watch an animated rendition of the Old MacDonald song every so often. No matter how desperate I was, I knew that screen time wouldn’t help, so I found myself with an overtired, energetic, and whiny toddler who kept repeating those two vowels ad nauseam.

Isaac kept fighting sleep, and in hindsight his perseverance in the battle was impressive, but he eventually gave up and passed out in my arms. It was obvious that the kid needed to go to bed, but it was the last thing he wanted to do. As I held him, Isaac kept trying to squirm away, flailing and writhing to elude my grip. Even in my own sleep deprived state, I knew that my son wouldn’t find rest in running around or watching YouTube videos, no matter how insistent he was. Especially for kids, sleep is essential to their growth and development. Children simply need sleep to aid in all the growing, learning, and moving they do every day. Like every other human who’s ever lived, Isaac without enough sleep is a mess.

I miss the days when he was a baby, when rest was his default mode and when he was most content in our arms. There’s something beautiful about the utter trust of a baby in the arms of their mother or father. They don’t grip, they don’t hold on to you, they often don’t even open their eyes to see how high they are or what’s around them. There’s no fear or even awareness of the possibility of falling, because they’re safe with us. As a father, there are few times in my life when I’ve felt more content than when my child is asleep in my arms.

Now that Isaac’s getting older, he usually resists being held. Just like his older siblings, Isaac now only wants to be cradled in our arms when he’s ready for bed, scared, or suffering in some way. In many ways our kids’ growing independence is a good thing, but Courtney and I cherish the rare moments when our kids are willing to be held. Our kids are convinced that our embrace can protect them from whatever they fear and that our affection can heal whatever’s hurting. While we never want to see our kids hurting or afraid, we are grateful for every second we are given to embrace our children. Most of the time they’ll squirm away once the fear subsides or their pain is eclipsed by some shiny object in the room grabbing their attention.

I know you’re not supposed to have a least favorite passage from the Bible, but for the longest time I didn’t like the story of Martha and Mary. This particular narrative comes at the end of the tenth chapter of Luke’s gospel, soon after Jesus sent His disciples out to preach and heal as they announced the coming of the Kingdom. Jesus prepared His followers well and they came back excited to share stories of God’s power at work through their ministry. The disciples got to do cool stuff and demons were terrified of them. This is the type of story I can get excited about. After the disciples return, we read the parable of the Good Samaritan, another call for Jesus’ followers to reach out in love and service. That’s not quite as appealing as demon expulsion, but still I find it inspiring.

Then Jesus goes to Martha and Mary’s house. As they continued their journey he entered a village where a woman whose name was Martha welcomed him. She had a sister named Mary [who] sat beside the Lord at his feet listening to him speak. Martha, burdened with much serving, came to him and said, “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me by myself to do the serving? Tell her to help me.” The Lord said to her in reply, “Martha, Martha, you are anxious and worried about many things. There is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part and it will not be taken from her. (Luke 10:38-42)

It never made sense to me why Jesus would affirm Mary for sitting around while her sister Martha is doing all the hard work. It’s understandable that Martha would be anxious, worried, and probably a bit annoyed that Mary just lounges around while Martha keeps busy serving Jesus. What could be more holy than making dinner for God? Doesn’t Jesus value Martha’s hospitality?
I pride myself in being busy. I must not be alone in this, because most of the time when I catch up with friends and ask how they’re doing, one of the first things I hear is how busy they are. For me, busyness is the barometer of my day. I feel lazy when I’m not productive. I used to say that I felt lazy when I was on vacation, but now that I have kids, a day on vacation is like every other day except with a higher chance of sunburn.

Even my time spent in prayer is busy. When I try to just have quiet prayer time with nothing to read or no prayers to recite, I spend most of the time thinking about the 30 things I still need to do before the end of the day. I’m not very good at sitting still. If I am not accomplishing anything or at least working toward some goal, I feel like I’m just wasting time. I am constantly striving for greater efficiency, convinced that my worth is tied to my productivity. My obsession with productivity isn’t limited to when I’m at work; I struggle with the fear of sitting still even at home with my family. Fortunately I’ve been blessed with children that are always willing to remind me of what matters most as they pull me away from checking my phone.

I’m comfortable with the idea of God as my cheerleader and motivator, but I’m usually too proud to realize my utter and constant need for Him. It takes a lot for me to recognize where I really stand. Illustrating the unique way that suffering wakens us to the reality of our dependence on God, author C.S. Lewis, in his book The Problem of Pain, claims that pain “removes the veil; it plants the flag of truth within the fortress of a rebel soul.” Like my kids, I resist the idea of resting in the Father’s arms until I remember that’s the only place I’ll truly find peace in this life. When I experience moments that make me aware of my profound need for God, the reality of my existence is brought into focus again and I am reminded of my constant dependence on His goodness.

More than I desire to hold my restless kids, the Father desires to hold my restless heart. Despite my pride and distractedness, this overwhelming affection I feel for my children must be only a shadow or an echo of God’s love for me. He knows well that my running around won’t give me peace, my work won’t set me free, and that the best use of my time spent with Him is for me to simply receive His love. I still can empathize with Martha’s frustration, but I’m beginning to see that Mary did indeed choose the better position. In their inability and their helplessness, babies remind us that it is possible to be immensely loveable even when we’re terribly unproductive. Just as Isaac’s restlessness doesn’t lessen my love for him, God tenderly continues to invite me back to prayer no matter how often I flee from His embrace. From the very beginning of humanity’s relationship with God in the Garden of Eden, it’s clear that rest is an essential component of our lives. Before Adam and Eve had worked at all, they were commanded to take a day off. Celebrating the Sabbath rest helps to re-center our lives and to reorder our priorities as we humbly recognize that the world keeps turning and the Father continues to provide for us, even if we stop working for 24 hours. In the Psalms we even find a command to go to bed. The psalmist reminds us of the primacy of receptivity over production: “It is vain for you to rise early and put off your rest at night, to eat bread earned by hard toil—all this God gives to his beloved in sleep” (Psalm 127:2). The witness of men and women religious who have found a life of fulfillment and joy in the midst of embracing poverty challenges us to rethink our obsession with work and to be reminded of each person’s true posture as beggars before God.

The lives of the saints testify to this reality. When we read their autobiographies, it can be disheartening to hear how they became more aware of their littleness before God as they progressed in the spiritual life. If these saints who truly drew close to God felt weak in their faith, what hope do I have? The saints’ growing awareness of their limitations actually served to draw them nearer to the Lord; in seeing their weaknesses they could see more clearly the depth of the Father’s love for them. Our inadequacies are not disqualifications in God’s eyes. He loves us with all the affection of a parent for their messy, stammering, stumbling toddler. Reflecting on her own weakness and the impossibility of progressing spiritually through one’s own efforts, Saint Therese of Lisieux saw the image of an elevator as an analogy for what God can do for a soul:
I was far too small to climb the steep stairs of perfection. So I sought in holy Scripture…and I read these words: ‘Whosoever is a little one, come to me.’ It is your arms, Jesus, that are the lift to carry me to heaven. And so there is no need for me to grow up: I must stay little and become less and less. (Story of a Soul)

Though much of my time spent in prayer is full of distractions, with my mind ricocheting between overanalyzing the past and worrying about the future, God the Father can handle it. Although I’m less able to sit still in His presence than my kids are in mine, God’s okay with that. In referring to our childlike posture before God the Father, the Catechism beautifully illustrates the importance and simplicity of contemplative prayer. “Contemplative prayer is the prayer of the child of God, of the forgiven sinner who agrees to welcome the love by which he is loved and who wants to respond to it by loving even more. But he knows that the love he is returning is poured out by the Spirit in his heart, for everything is grace from God. Contemplative prayer is the poor and humble surrender to the loving will of the Father in ever deeper union with his beloved Son” (CCC 2712).

I love the wording in the last line of that description. We should always be aware of our poverty before God, cognizant of how little we have to offer Him. My poverty extends to my surrendering as well; I love to cling fiercely to everything I have and I’m bad at letting go. Even if I surrender poorly, if I struggle to let go of my agenda and my to-do lists in prayer, I can still find the Father’s arms reaching to embrace me. Though I still have a long way to go before they’ll be naming churches after me or asking me to pose for a holy card, I am just as loved and cherished by God as the great saints that we honor and strive to imitate. The goal isn’t for me to go off and do great things for God, the goal is to rest in His presence and learn to trust that He’ll do great things through me.