Small things matter.

Especially when the Big Things sometimes get out of control and overwhelmingly negative, 
small things matter.   

The daily news sometimes hits me like a ton of bricks, and I feel crushed by the pains of this world.  I can't write.  I can't paint.  Empathy hurts.  

“Are you crying about that, Mom?”  

Of course I am.

“You don’t even know those people!”

I don’t need to know them.  I see the homeless, the downtrodden, the oppressed, and I feel their sorrow.  Some great people feel called to action.  They become powerful and invigorated when they see others’ needs.  They are motivated to do great things and change the world for the better.  Dorothy Day, Mary Jo Copeland, Mother Teresa…  They are Real, they are Extraordinary, they are Magnificent. 

I’m not one of them.

I see suffering, and I just get knocked down to my knees.  But I am beginning to think that’s not only a bad thing.  Because on my knees, I am praying.  And only when I am on my knees can I see the small things that make all the difference.  

Small things are easy to overlook.   Like these dewdrops on the grass…


If I wasn’t on my knees, I never would have noticed them.  The veins in this beautiful Maple leaf show me that there is order and design here in the universe.  I didn’t make it.  I can’t understand it.  Certainly can’t control it.  But I don’t have to.  Even if I feel chaos or pain around me, those feelings do not sum up the entirety of the world.  News headlines cannot take away the perfection surrounding us.  
​
God is here, and He has it under control.  I just need to pay attention to the little things.

They are everywhere.  They are perfect.  Just as they always have been.

And that matters.

Last night, just as the sun began to set, I began a long drive home.    I don't often get to just sit and watch the sky, but last night was an exception.  I was a captive audience to the most amazing moon transformation!  I wasn't washing dishes, I wasn't putting kids to bed, I wasn't sorting paperwork or homework or planning for tomorrow.  For two and a half hours, I just watched the moon.  Well, and the roads, of course.  The roads were pretty deserted, because everyone else was busy sitting on their patios, watching the moon with their kids.   I called a friend to let her know how beautiful it was, and believe it or not, they had known in advance that the supermoon eclipse was coming.  They had their camera all set up already.  They probably even had popcorn.  

​I, apparently, was the only one on earth that didn't know it this was planned in advance.  Like everything else in life, it took me by surprise.  And I didn't have my camera with me.

​But I had coffee.  I had silence.  And I had the moon.   The night felt so ethereal and majestic;  I wanted to be part of it, be in it.  Being hermetically sealed in a metal car, looking through a window wasn't enough.  I wanted to fly, to feel the wind on my face, and breathe in the night...  

So I rolled down all my car windows, just in time to be flooded with a fog of fresh woodland skunk.
​Way to ruin my dreams of night flying.  
​Back in my sardine can.  The moon was glorious anyway, even when viewed through a window.

I made it home just before the moon disappeared completely under the red shadow... 
My kids and I watched the rest of the magnificent eclipse together, breathing in the damp dark air, laughing together in the glow of the moon.   No homework.  No skunks.

​And that's just the way I would have planned it.    

“What do you DO all day, Mom?”  my son asked me, a small tone of jealousy in his voice.  “I mean, we’re at school for seven hours.  What do you do?”  

Wow.  What can I say? That I sit at the kitchen table all day, eating ice cream?  Does he really think that I find all the hidden Snicker bars and scarf them down with no one to stop me?  They do go really well with ice cream…  Okay, I’ll be honest.  That could have happened.

But really, that is his fondest dream;  to be left alone with the refrigerator for seven hours, with no one to stop him.  

That’s not quite how it is.  Since you asked, Son, I will show you what happened at the kitchen table while you were gone.

These are a couple of statues that a very patient person has been waiting to be painted for a long time.  Today is the day...

The kitchen table turned into this:    It was gloriously quiet and deliciously fun.

The statues now look like this:

While I was painting the seeds in St. Francis's bowl, I thought about how much I love my brushes.  I have a lot of them...Some are fancy and luxurious and delicate, some are rotten-looking things that don't appear to be worth keeping.  They might look like garbage to someone who looked in my paintbrush box.  But all my brushes are needed, they all have a special purpose.  Here are two of my favorites:

The one on the right is a luxurious, expensive oil painting brush.  It is sleek and soft, the finest Red Sable Filbert. It is 100% reliable, and far more sophisticated than I am.  It blends colors beautifully.   It softens the lines that other brushes leave behind, smoothing all the imperfections.  

The one on the left is a 99 cent cheap thing from the hardware store.  It is ancient, hardened, crusted over and pretty much destroyed.  But that's why I like it so much.  That old brush can do things that no other brush can.  Like paint abstract, splotchy spots to make seeds in St. Francis' bowl, for example.   None of my other brushes can  do that.  It is precisely because that old brush is ruined that I like it so much, and use it so often.  I need it.  At times, I have taken a scissors and snipped some of the inside bristles, thinning it out even more.  There's not much left of it, really.  
That's why it's so valuable.  

As I painted today, I did a lot of pondering about brushes and people.  

People are just like my brushes... They are all unique, for their own special purpose.  
And we need them all.

So Son, that's what I did today.  But don't worry.  The kitchen table is now cleaned off, and ready for you to eat again.  

And I made cookies.

Before my daughter was born with Down Syndrome, some people painted a grim and terrible picture of what my life would be like if such a thing happened.  

“Your life will never be the same!”  
“Your life will revolve around hospitals.”  
“You won’t have time for your other kids.”  
“You will always be sad and regretful of the things your child cannot do.”

Even after she was born, a geneticist at a specialty clinic upbraided me, using primitive scare tactics.  
“I know you like babies, but you will never want to have another baby after this one,” she said in an authoritative voice, towering over me in my daughter’s cardiology office.  “You will worry and agonize every moment of another pregnancy.  You’re old and your risks are high that this will happen to you again.”  

She said this to me as my small, almond-eyed daughter cooed softly in my arm, tightly gripping my finger and my heartstrings.  

Despite that doctor’s admonishments and scolding, a couple of years later, my daughter grew into a  glorious, curious toddler.  And I did get pregnant again.  On purpose. 

I was 39 years old.   

At that ultrasound appointment, the doctor examined my prenatal son’s body closely.  He measured limbs, organs, examined bone structure, checking all the typical markers for Down Syndrome.  

“You need to have a Triple Screen done,” he said.  “I don’t see results in your file.  You are considered a geriatric in the ob/gyn world, so you need to have that done.  The fetal matter is high risk for abnormalities.”  

Wait.  He had just told me I was having a son.  Why was he now calling my little man fetal matter and wanting tests for abnormalities?  

“Look.  I’m not afraid,” I said.  “I already have a child with Down Syndrome, and she’s not the least bit scary.  She’s wonderful and absolutely beloved.”

The doctor looked me in the eye for a moment.  He closed his file, stood up, and left the room without another word.

After he was gone, the young ultrasound technician leaned in toward me, with a confiding smile.

“I’m not allowed to say this in the office", she said in a hushed voice. "But I’m so happy for you!  My friend has a toddler with Down Syndrome, and he is full of love.  He has made their family’s life so rich and happy!  I know how much love your daughter brings.”

We chatted about babies and Down Syndrome for a few more minutes, quietly sharing the joy that we both knew well.  Babies with Down Syndrome are, like every baby, full of Love.  

As an expectant parent, you may feel afraid.  You will be tested, and categorized, and railroaded.  You will be counseled, scolded, and warned.  You may feel inept or not up to the task, or just plain stressed out, because all circumstances are not ideal.  But talk is talk.  Threats of doom are just threats.  You don’t have to go down that path of worry and fear.  Especially if your child shows some characteristic that seems unique, or challenging, or just plain scary… 

Don’t lose sight of the simple truth.   

Your life will change forever, because you will be filled with Love. 

When my daughter was about a month old, I was holding her in my arms, speaking to a friend.  A man in a suit, a stranger, approached me.  He was visiting from out of town, he said.   "My own son has Down Syndrome, too.  I miss him so much when I travel.  May I hold her, please?” he asked.  He cradled my baby close to his heart, then kissed her soft, peachy face.  Tears dripped down his cheek and into his beard.  “You have no idea of the Love that is in store for you,” he said, and walked away.  

He was right.  

You have no idea of the Love that is in store for you.  

That is the truth.

It’s the first day of school.

The house is quiet.  Eerily quiet.  They are all in school.  

This is probably the first time in 21 years that I have a quiet morning.  Really. I am standing in my house, surrounded by twenty one years of childhood debris.  The walls are scuffed, the windows are fingerprinted.  Laundry spills out of the laundry room like a lava floe, oozing into the living room.  Cereal bowls and sandwich fixings line the countertop.  It is a mess, and I am feeling weird.

“The school bus comes, and you’re supposed to do the happy dance!”  one friend says.

“Want to come over for coffee?” says another.

But I can do neither.   I have too much emotion building inside of me, and there is only one thing to do.  

Cry.

None of the kids were sad to leave, of course.  They were ecstatic, joyful, bouncing off the walls at 6 a.m.  Ready for a new adventure.  Loaded down with 40 pound backpacks, they marched off as eager as Bilbo Baggins leaving the Shire.  

And I am sitting here alone, sobbing to Disney Music Soundtracks.  

Not kidding.  

“You’ll be in my heart, no matter what…  You’ll be here in my heart Always.
From this day on, now and forever more…I’ll be there for you always….Just look over your shoulder, I’ll be there always.”

This isn’t what I had envisioned when I got pregnant, so long ago.  I was on the five year plan:  Five years at home with a child, then back to real life.  I had it all planned out.  Parenting was like a small sabbatical, a little recess on the job of life, I thought.  A side dish.  Ha!

I didn’t know that the agony and the ecstasy of Motherhood would sweep me off my feet and overwhelm me like a tidal wave of love, and leave me sitting here, twenty one years later, crying to Tarzan music like a lunatic.  

I’d better pull myself together, because in a few short hours, they’ll be back, Trashing the Camp.  If you know your Disney music, you’ll know what I mean! 

And they’ll want cookies.