So. I’ve hesitated to write this post. Heck, I’ve not written anything at all for over a week…which surely tells you that I’ve kind of “gone to ground.” I’ve waffled between wondering if I have no words at all left to say/write or if I’ve just got so much too many….

Anyhow, after a week of processing all this, I’ve decided that in order to really follow through on my series about Chris entering the Novitiate, I need to at least give some account of “the dropoff.” I would have given my eye teeth to be able to read another parent/mom’s experience of this uniquely layered event. It might have prepared me a bit more, not that anything really can, of course. But, as you know, this is such a different deal, it’s not dropping your kid off at college, or his first apartment and new job, or going to his wedding….it’s much less common, and has different layers. But in entering the novitiate, he chooses to step OUT of the world and leave it and all things behind, to walk closer to God and a life of prayer.  That means even us, to a degree and it’s a kicker.  Of course, it’s also different for each and every person and their family. However, this one…it was ours. And…before you recoil in horror, those of you who know me well, rest assured I will try to spare you all the histrionics and be as objective as I can for the reporter value to any mom who comes behind me.  Read on:

Call me Mrs. Brown. That’s right, as I pondered how to get through this last month or so with my son before his big exit , I prayed and stewed and then finally came to this realization.  I was, in many ways, “the delivery mom.”  You know that ad campaign, “What can Brown do for you?”

• Well, I was Mrs. Brown.
• My job was to deliver my boy back to God.
• Via the Novitiate.

His dad and I were delivering our boy, this young man, safely to his next adventure and the next phase of his life.  It was our job to get him there safe and sound, with as much support and encouragement as we could muster for his excitement and anticipation of this big day.  In short, we had to try (ok, me) to work hard to be happy for him and not steal his thunder with those pesky sparking tears and the difficulty of this change.  It was momentous enough for him, he is keenly tuned into the emotional radar of the family and he knew how big this was for his folks and his sibs…no reason to have him have to bear the burden of that sorrow or feel conflicted about looking forward to getting there.

Kids with cousins (minus hannah who was in england. priceless)

So, I put on my Mrs. Brown hat and we had a great vacation at the beach, we ate meals together, I had him help with big guy chores, he hung out with his dad on a special project (‘nother post that), I cooked all his favorite foods (and didn’t season them with my tears).  He was able to visit with friends, and sibs and play bananagrams, whooping us as usual, play  music with his brother, laugh joke and relax.  I’m telling ya, I begged for prayers during this time and you all pulled through in a huge way as I was cheerful, was ok, and felt like I was  wrapped in a a mantle of grace. Really, there is no way I can thank you all for those prayers, except to return the favor, anytime.

Anyhow, so I thought it was going really well and it was.  But by his farewell supper, I broke.  As we went around the table in our usual way of each person saying what they are thankful for that day…I just kinda broke down into tears.  I think the “night before” is always SOO hard. .  The night was busy with packing and prep, Chris, his dad, and I ended up staying up too late, well after midnight, despite knowing the tough day ahead.  The puppy was a terrific distraction, still is.  Finally we all fell to bed for a few  hours sleep.  The morning came early, I woke with knots in my stomach and hot tears behind my puffy eyes.  Tom and Chris went to an early Mass, the kids slept and I got final things ready to load into the car.  I’ll spare you the tough details of the next hour or so, but the short version is that they came back and we loaded the car, the kids all woke and then we had to have them say goodbye. It was just as sad and wrenching as you might imagine, for us all.  As Chris hugged one, and then another, I went behind him, soothing hugging tears falling all around, tom did the same on the other side.  Quickly, hugs had been made, sibs were crying and we had to just go.

And so we did.  It was a quiet start, some coffee, a letter dropoff, then heading out of town.  Chris looking out the window, me driving to use the distraction.  After awhile we all prayed the Office and Morning Prayer together, Chris and Tom reading the prayers while I drove, streaming. It was a beautiful day, hot, sunny.  We had five hours of driving ahead.  Soon we could start talking and joke a bit here and there, we tried to find some music to listen to but all the songs off  his ipod made me cry. I had to box that idea.  We settled into sports news and a book on tape.  As we got stuck in a huge construction project we took his new rosary, 15 decades, for a spin and prayed them all . That was tough again, that searing cold poker stabbed through my chest, causing tears to stream again, especially in the sorrowful mysteries.  What is it about prayer that makes you so vulnerable? Oh, yeah, doh, it’s prayer – opening up that heart.  Gee whiz.  Ow.  Once finished we were pulling into Cincinnati.   Perfect timing. Of course.

We had about 30 minutes to kill.  So, we went to get him a sandwich. I got a cup of coffee, no eating gonna happen for me, went to freshen up, nervous, knowing we had about one hour left with my boy.  Jittery.  Tried to make my bullfrog eyed self presentable to meet the Novice Master and anyone else we might have to say hello to.  Don’t want them to think his folks are unstable or horrible, right? Sigh.  Fail.  I not sure there IS makeup that can cover up a nose like that or cheeks flushed.  Give up.  Coffee cold.  The guys choked down a sandwich, conversation was tough.  You feel like you have to say those last words of wisdom, but they’ve already been said.  So, we all decided to head on over, we couldn’t stop the clock. It was time.

Driving to the Novitiate was a 5 minute hop.  Through Madeira, a very charming little town. I thought, “I could live here, it ‘s lovely.”  That was a comfort.  The parish is beautiful and they had white tents on the lawn, receiving parents, though it was a small group.  Chris was nervous and excited.  Tom and I were just nervous.  I dreaded meeting the Novice Master, being such a mess.  Chris was calm.  He had a smile on his face.  We walked over and one of Chris’ pals from college was there, finishing his Novice year; he strode over to hug and greet Chris.  Chris grinned, happy to see him.  Other brothers came over to say hello, and there was Fr James Sullivan, right before me, hand out to say, “Hello Mrs Gautsch!”  I kind of burst into tears behind my big sunglasses.  He’s no fool and said, “I seem to have that effect on mom’s....” I laughed and said hello and told him he was funny and apologized for being a mess.  He took it all in stride, God bless him.  Fr. James asked two of the postulants to show us three around the priory a bit and off we went for a quick tour.

St. Gertrudes Parish

The priory is where the community lives, rather like a dorm, but not overrun with freshman moving in with stereos and boxes and bedding.  It’s not fancy; it’s modest but serviceable.   The refectory, where they take their meals has three long tables connected in a U shape and a bank of windows across one wall.  It is bright and pleasant and cheerful.  We couldn’t see the bedrooms, community only.  We saw the library, the laundry, the exercise room, the chapter room (where they have weekly meetings to go over biz and whatnot), the lovely chapel.  And I have to say, part of me thought, “Oooh, maybe I shouldn’t have gone on this tour.”  Because my mind was shouting at me: “I could never do this!”  Which made my heart kind of seize and I kind of stopped breathing a bit.  Then, as we went back outside….it was time.  Time to hand over his one suitcase, his mandolin, his guitar and backpack.  Time to hug our boy goodbye.  I tried to sear the image of him hugging his Dad long and tight into my memory and heart.  Then I held him one last time (break……..blink blink blink  blink  blink………………………………..breathe…………..exhale.  Ok, typing again) and (wait……blink blink blink) kissed his cheek, made a cross on his forehead and told him I loved him so, and turned and walked to the car.  Tom got in beside me and we drove.  I couldn’t help but turn to look at him, there in the parking lot, and was happy to see  him standing and talking with the other new novices as they loaded their bag(s) into a van.  They took the newbie’s to a retreat  house nearby to stay for a few day, as the exiting novices were still living there and there was just not room in the priory (their home).  So, as we drove off, my son was smiling and talking, even as I could see he was a little on edge and nervous.  But he had begun.

Tom and I had completed our task.  It was heartbreaking, so much more so that we had anticipated (which is saying something) but also exciting and worrisome and a whole sea of emotions; a mini tsunami of feeling.  It was hard.  Make no mistake.  And even as I keened as tom held my hand tight tight tight and he drove….we talked and I said “I couldn’t do it.”

But we both immediately knew and know the answer to that cry: we don’t have to.  Nor does he.  But we were NOT called to.  We were called to marry and parent.  This year is for our son to decide if he truly IS called to this life, this radical life that will take major adjustment and transition just to go and try it out.

We did our part.

We delivered our boy back to God, and into his new life.

Call us Dr and Mrs. Brown.

So, the Fresh Air Fund is a great program that gives city kids a two week breather in the country…or burbs. I’d love to put up a video or some of the pics from their site but I’m computer challenged right now due to my location.

But think about it. The program isn’t for everyone, but it might be for you and it’s worth a thought, just in case.

“If you or someone you know is able to host, please sign up now. In 2010, The Fresh Air Fund’s Volunteer Host Family program, called Friendly Town, gave close to 5,000 New York City boys and girls, ages six to 18, free summer experiences in the country and the suburbs. Volunteer host families shared their friendship and homes up to two weeks or more in 13 Northeastern states from Virginia to Maine and Canada.

Thanks to host families who open up their homes for a few weeks each summer, children growing up in New York City’s toughest neighborhoods have experienced the joys of Fresh Air experiences. “

Worth thinking about. They need Hundreds more families for this summer. Go, see.

Today is the second anniversary of Marta’s arrival on American soil. Today she is an American Girl, two years ago today she became a citizen. Now, you might wonder why we make a big deal of this…it’s because it’s a big deal to her. We don’t do “gotcha days” for all our kids who were adopted….I’ve got conflicted feelings on that. We stop marking every homecoming and such. Gabey has been home three years now and we didn’t do his American Boy day. But it doesn’t have the same meaning for him, as he was 18 months old at the time. But for our Marta, it has huge meaning. Almost as much as coming into our family – and yeah, I could do multiple posts on that concept. But I probably won’t.

Anyhow, you might wonder why we make it a big deal. Well, a couple of reasons. First, is because it’s fun to have some hoopla; especially if we are out of the birthday seasons. Second, this one is a big marker for her and one that she can understand fairly well. She remembers her fear and nervousness going through customs. She remembers how hard it was to get permission to leave Ethiopia. She remembers her relief when we said, “We are in America and it was all ok, done.”

Why don’t we celebrate the family gotcha day? Well, because that is a bit more conflicted for her; some days that’s something to celebrate for her and some days, not so much. Going from an only child, losing both parents, and then launching into a big ol’ family is no picnic. And if you have some challenges and delays, it’s exponentially more difficult. Processing all that, the challenges, the grief, the trauma, the attachments, the good, the new, the better, the worse…is all so much. And so much harder lacking language and cognitive maturity and ability. So. We don’t really make a fuss about any family or gotcha day.

But American Girl day can be just good happy fun. Not as loaded. Something to smile and grin and talk about, simply. Easy remembering and easy looking ahead. And here we are at the beach..across America….my favorite spot in the world and, I think, soon enough one of hers. Last night she told me, “Every summer, California!” You betcha honey, sounds perfect to me too. And yes, in case you were wondering…any celebration worth it’s salt still must involve cake. And so we will have it: an American Girl Cake. {And no. not like the dolls of same name. Just a festive cake will do.} She’s already reminded me four times, and it’s only eight a.m.

Our Marti: our Ethiopian, Teen, American Girl.

{I have pitiful net here and can’t load new pics. Its the cost of doing biz at the beach}

I looked across my room to my son, sitting in the armchair by the light of the lamp.  I wished I had my camera, not only the grainy phone camera.  I wanted to freeze that image, keep it.  But even as the wish whizzed through my brain, I knew I wouldn’t.  I knew this was one to try to see, really see, all the details and sear into my brain.

I really looked at him in the lamplight: his face, now settling into his manly face and features and structure.  No longer the softer baby-child face of the boy, but filled out now, settled into a thicker stronger man face.  His long tall self spilling over the chair, feet beyond even the recliner footrest, big feet.  His computer on his lap, the light from the screen also filling his face with a glow, reflecting off his glasses.

I gazed at him, he didn’t notice.  He was seeing the faces and bios of his novice class-mates, his soon to be brothers, for the first time.  He was intent and focused on reading them, his first intro to his ‘new family.’  And I, the matriarch of his old family, his first family, could only look hard at my son, and send out a silent prayer for his happiness, for the goodness of these new men in his life, for him to find joy.  His dad, snoozing next to me after a long day, unaware that his boy was looking first glimpse at his future and new, possibly lifelong friends…brothers of a kind.

I’ve been trying hard these past weeks and months to step away from  the tears that come unbidden…because those tears are for me.  They are a selfish yearning to grasp what I don’t really have anymore…and to hang onto the known that I do.  I have been trying hard to trust in the joy that I have been told and that I hope is just on the other side of this goodbye.  Some days I do better and I can simply laugh and enjoy his company. Some days I have to walk away and do laundry or some automatic chore so that I can sidestep the sharp stab in the middle of my chest, and blink back the tears that are springing again, leaking.

Last night was a moment, in the lamp glow, frozen in time and marked in my brain and heart.  It was a still long look at my son, on the very cusp of a new life, “meeting” his new brothers in the Dominican Order, the new novices who will spend next year with him, and very possibly beyond.

And I blinked.

Then, I took a deep breath, smiled, and asked him if I could “meet” them too.

**Again, written earlier, a few weeks ago.  The timing of this process has been lifted out of real time to protect the privacy of this time, in a small way**

“Mom, can you bring a measuring tape?”

“A tape measure? Um, ok, but aren’t you packing up?” 

“No a measuring tape, you know, to measure.”

“Right that’s what I said.  Ok, if you need it, don’t you have one, a tape measure? What a measuring tape? Right, that’s what I said…..”

Who’s on first?

That’s how that conversation felt like.  I didn’t get it.

Not until a few days later. Below is the entry from that day, a few weeks ago:

Today I measured my son.

It wasn’t the standard – the heels against the wall, book on the head, marking of height that we’ve done since he was small.

No, it was a once in a lifetime measure…and one that is not so common, perhaps.

 

Today I measured my son for a habit.

 

I took the measuring tape, and he sat in front of me in the kitchen on the counter stool.

I pulled the tape along his shoulders, left to right.

I gently pressed it to his clavicle and circled the tape to measure his neck.

I laid it on his shoulder bone and measured to his elbow, then wrist.

He stood then, I had to measure his chest, his waist.

I had to measure from the base of his neck to his heels.

The tape wasn’t long enough.

I had to measure from his clavicle to his feet.

The tape wasn’t long enough.

We laughed and teased about it all.

But I could feel my heart thumping as I did it, at first.

Then it just all got kinda still, one of those “time out of time” moments.

 

I measured my son for his habit today.

It was kind of surreal, kind of hard, kind of funny, kind of wonderful.

 

They don’t ask for a measure of his heart though….that is what this coming year is for.

This year he and the order will measure his heart and parse out where it is to go.

But I don’t need to do that, so I can let him go to find that out…..

Because I measured his heart so long ago.

 

Today I measured my son for his habit.

So, how do you get a humungous big old family ready for a vacation?

First you hire security: your familia big brother with anger issues and 200+ pounds of pure muscle is asked to stay at your house, manage your viscious guard dog and keep a sharp eye out for anything unusual.  You alert your state of the art security company to be, um,  on alert.

Second, you make endless runs to Target and Walmart for all the last minute forgottens: snacks and plane trinkets and coloring books and shoes and underwear.  Yes, we need new underwear to travel it seems, because the old ones just won’t do.  Go figure. It’s a “big family mystery”, but it’s real.  I’ve got the Hanes action figure boxer receipts to prove it.

Third, you make sure that mom has a minor rampage of overwhelmed tearing through the house the day before, trying to remember everything that needs to packed, prepped, labeled, and stowed.  Laundry churns without a break for a few days running, in order to pack what few clean socks and underwear we do have.

Fourth you direct all smalls to deposit all bags and backpacks to foyer, for counting and for corralling, so that the exit tomorrow is smooth and without that exciting last minute, “Wait, I can’t find my________!”

Fifth, you buddy up.  You plan out seating arrangements on the plane in advance.  It’s as serious an  undertaking as planning a State Dinner.  Just as certain countries and their ambassadors might need to be seated far apart in order to quell tension; the seating of siblings on a plane must too be undertaken with great care and concern for underlying tension and tendencies to snarl and/or wail.  Hard ones are paired with easy, bigs with littles and Mom and Dad are separated for maximum parental real estate coverage.  The seating arrangements on the plane is a big crapshoot  gamble as well; if we are on our game, we will get different boarding groups and have two go ahead to score seats as the rest of the tribe shuffles aboard.  Worst comes to worst, we pull out the trump card.  I hold the one with the runny nose (there is always one with a runny nose) as Dad leans in and asks a passenger or two if they wouldn’t mind moving so we could sit together…though if not, we think this one could probably be ok on his own next the passenger.

Lastly, you make arrangements for troop movements to airports, in multiple cars.  That’s right.  When you are a large family, you can’t get to the airport in one vehicle.  NOPE, it’s gotta be a minimum of two, sometimes three, depending upon the suitcase situation and the length of trip and the possible addition of friends and/or nephews.  Happily, one of the upsides of the ridiculous and obscene airport luggage restrictions is that it cuts our vehicular caravan down to a more reasonable two, most of the time nowadays.  You have to beg godchildren and best friend to drive you to the airport and return the large vehicles back to the house, because big angry brother and  his family will be needing them as well.

And, if all goes well, you all make it onto the plane, on time, and take off without tears or fuming and a minimum of rolling eyes.  It’s rare, but it can happen.  If you hit the jackpot, two or three kids will fall asleep (and not just the teens).  Yes, we are that family.  The one that gets the goggle eyed looks and stares, that is asked if we are a school group, and sometimes even gets actual sneers.  We have learned to smile and look those folks directly in the eye.  We are as polite as we can be, we deplane last, we actually have some skilled little travelers.  But, man, we look alarming when we roll through the terminal and onto that plane.   And, until we get there and hit the beach, it’s go mode, baby.  That means, the tribe is on the move.

It’s the feast of Pier Giorgio Frassati.

This is the young man that inspires my son in so many ways.  Like him, he aspires to go higher and higher.

Go here for a good round up on this remarkable young man: Blessed Pier Giorgio.

And, to know a bit more (from todays Office of Readings): From a Fr. Stanislaus, a Dominican Bishop, on Blessed Pier Giorgio:

“He only had time to be a student; but already the man he might have been one day was presenting itself in him: not precisely an intellectual, that is a man capable of putting all of his life at the service of his thought, but rather a man of action, resolved to put all his thought in service of life.”

Happy Feast Day Buddybug! 

Novitiate, it’s all the news here at the Coffeehouse….. But, it’s not exactly the local college now, something everyone is familiar with, been to, done that.

I mean….just what exactly is the Novitiate, anyhow?

I know, right?

Well, as you know by now, maybe, my son is going to the Novitiate for the Eastern Province of the Dominicans of St. Joseph.  A mouthful, to say the least. We typically shorten it to say, “He’s entering the Novitiate.”

But what does that mean?

Well, (and this is mom-speak; not officialese) the Novitiate is a little like the freshman class at a graduate program, and a little bit like boot camp, and a little bit like a year long spiritual retreat. What it means is that he has discerned that God might be calling him to religious life, specifically to the priesthood, and with the Dominican Order (as opposed to the more familiar neighborhood parish priest).

It is only open to college graduates, it is not for boys, or the elderly – strength is needed to answer this call. Thus, Chris has applied and been accepted into the Novitiate class for this summer. Meaning, my son and 14 other guys will live and work and pray together as they live as Dominican brothers (little brothers, in a  way) at a parish about five hours away.

This is the year for them to live as Dominican’s and see if the call they are discerning is real. It is a “final answer” kind of year.  Sort of.  Really, they have until final vows, years from now, to really change their mind if the need to.  But this year, in particular, is the one that they usually find out for sure, if their call is real.  This year is the year that they go through some of the spiritual rigor, the loneliness, the changes, the giving up most things, the stepping out of the world, and by living it learn if it is for them, or not.

Most often, this year leads to a confirmation of their vocation and great joy.  And, with that, first profession of vows (“First Vows”, “First Profession” – same thing) next August.  {The second and “final vows” come about 4.5 years from now, usually…and the Ordination to Priesthood happens around seven years in}.  But this is about THIS big year.  And sometimes, this year of discernment leads to the realization that this is just one step on a different journey and they leave the Novitiate house and step into a new direction, maybe back to grad school, a different job…That’s not a fail, that’s a listening, discerning thing.  It is part of the work of this year ahead.

But this is the year that these young men attempt to answer the call to leave the world behind and live for God, any way and any where he calls them. It takes great courage I think, especially in our modern age and culture.

My son will be allowed to bring only a few things with him: a few books, his guitar and mandolin (Dominican’s love music and the Novitiate has a piano, yay), some work clothes, some exercise clothes, a 15 decade rosary, breviary.  That’s it.  Nope, no cell, no computer, no email.

Yeah, this is where I kinda have to remind myself to keep breathing….

We can all use snail mail, and he will call now and then.  But we won’t see him for a year; except for one short parent only weekend.

He will live in community with the other novices.

He will be given a habit, white robes, belt, rosary.  He might well be given a new name.  (Ok, that’s a whole ‘nother post, isn’t it?)  They mostly have their own rooms, I think.  Simple rooms, bed, desk, basic.

What do they DO?? They get up to pray together, they have classes, they work, they eat together, they have time to play basketball or read, they help out in the parish, they sing, they pray alone too, they study. They learn to give up their comforts and their crutches, they learn to lean on God and prayer and to find the joy in that and in service.  They detach from the world, even from their families and old friends….

That sounds so hard, especially for me as mom, but I have been assured that they then become closer than ever to their family, after the novice year…..perhaps because some of their youthful selfishness has been burned away. Perhaps because we will all have learned how to love better, with less leaning on our own desires for physical proximity, instead, leaning on the sturdy bridges of deep love and faith…the stanchions that are firm, strong, made to last through all.

I don’t know.  We wait to see that, with hope and continued reminders to each other to breath….deep breaths as we miss our Chris.  But the key for him, this year, will be our continued prayers for him and his continued prayers for discernment.  I believe he is called to this, so does he or he wouldn’t go.  But the prayers are key, for him, for us…for two reasons.  One – because great things and changes are best done prayerfully, every step of the way.  Two – because prayer unites us, it is the best kind of connection because it beyond time and place.  And if that’s how I can be close to my son this year, that’s where you will find me.

The Novitiate, not for sissies.  For men.  And now, well, in one more month – for my son.

Summer is for….

Recovering from knee surgery.

For more Wordless Wednesday, click here.

Since we are talking about Fatherly love, {see post just below, there, on the Holy Trinity}…..let’s talk about the Dads.

There are two Dad-people in my life: my own Dad and the Dad to my kids, my Tom.

They are both remarkable men.  And today, is their day.  Sure it might be an artificially contrived holiday, but what’s not to love about a day to stop and say, “Hey, we so appreciate you!” And, because neither of them are stupid; I suspect they both know how to sit back and enjoy the attention.  And well they should.

My dad is that dad, the one that little girls use to measure others.  Fair or not, it’s how it plays.

As dad’s are supposed to be, he was larger than life to me as a little girl.
And I suppose in many ways, he still is, because he’s still the dad…it’s a lifetime, ya know?
He’s part of many of my favorite things:
Riding horses, yakking about everything and nothing.
Sipping hot strong coffee, yakking about everything and nothing.
Reading the paper in the morning, commenting on the news and everything and nothing.
Comparing wines, and yakking about everything and nothing….
You get the idea….
I love him for his loyalty and his steadfast grit, no matter the tide,or his opinion on my choices and my opinions.

He’s my dad, forever and always and I love him.

And then, there is my  Tom.  The father of my kids, and my partner in raising them.  Oh, I don’t know how I’d do it without him.  I’m not sure I could, as he makes up for what I’m missing.  He is the yin to my yang, he is steady rock solid where I am an emotional rollercoaster.

He’s such a great dad; such a great partner in raising this tribe.
He pulls up the slack when I am a slacker.
He pulls me up out of the indigo when I fall into the blues.
He can make me and/or the kids pound the table in laughter, so funny.

He loves his kids to distraction.
He is easily distracted by fun new adventures and toys, to their delight and my sometime consternation.
He is a born teacher, to my delight and to their sometime consternation.
His love and gift for music has carried into his children, all of them, in one way or another…enriching all of our lives.
He works far too hard and carries too many burdens; and without complaint, though he sometimes does daydream about moving to islands….
He is an adventurer, but stays close to home and it’s needs regardless, tamping down that wanderlust and craving for new thrills.

He is strong inside and out, steady and sure, kinder than me and a softie on the inside.His girls totally pegged that, right away.
His boys don’t always believe it.
But he is.
He’s the dad.
He will go to the ends of the earth for his children, and has.
He’s the dad, and we all love him so, and are so grateful for him.
I love this man, the dad of this clan.

He Aspires.

Aspirant.  My son is an aspirant.
What, you might well ask, is that.
Well, I will tell you, and I should do so with fair warning that this may well begin a series of blogs about this subject.  Because its a lot for us all to process, not the least of which is me.  And you all know well that I process through blogging.
But I digress.
Anyhow. My son is an Aspirant.

That is what it is called when your son is seriously considering life as a religious, with an order.  In this case, the Dominican order.
It’s the step before the formal application, sort of an understood verbal or written “notice of intent;” which means he’s let them know he is seriously considering this and they said “Good news!”.
Now that may seem huge to you.  Or maybe not.  But if you knew my son, you would know that he does not make decisions, any decisions, lightly….not even ordering a chicken sandwich.  So when he called them up and said he’d like to be considered an aspirant…..he might have well as jumped off the cliffs like the divers in Mexico.  So it feels like a big darn deal to him. And it is.  It does to us too.

Oddly, and on an inconsequential aside, we all keep getting hung up on the pronunciation:  “aspire- rant” “as per ant?”.  Ok, maybe its just me.  The vocations director says it as “aspire-ant”. I suppose this most apt.  But my years of reading too many books tells me I should pronounce it like “asper-ant”.  Though one of my girlfriends tells me that pronunciation reminds her of someone who has aspirated something and is choking to death.
Maybe that’s not the image we are going for.
Hmmm.
With that visual I suppose the vocation directors version is better, eh?
I suspect my hesitancy with the speaking of this word reflects the hesitancy of this new thing in our lives.  In my sons life.
And yet, even so, its not hesitant at all, really.

I know in my very bones and deepest corners of my soul that he is made for this.  Indeed, I know and believe he was made for this, from the beginning.
I think I knew it before he did.
But maybe all moms say that.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.  Or him.

That running ahead is part of the difficulty with all this.  He has to discern slowly, listening and praying and listening some more to hear the will of God.
Sounds like a tall order, no?
I mean, we aren’t talking audible voices, or voice, like the classic Bill Cosby routine about Noah. Although come to think of it, listening to that routine on the radio on long car drives unfailingly made my sons just fall over laughing.  Maybe I should’ve taken note?  Anyhow, the point is that this discerning thing is a tender nurturing thing.
It’s his call.
Oh, so literally.  It is his call.
And while I could see it coming, yeah, a long way off and his dad and I saw it sooner than he did….its still his to discover, unwrap and examine with wonder.  And he is.

If you want to know what its like…well obviously I can only say what I see.  But…on his part, in some ways, it seems its kinda like falling in love.  I see that same rush of wonder and excitement and quiet marveling wow.  His eyes sparkle and his words spill over as he describes what’s “so cool” about this or that.  It makes me grin to sit and listen to him.

So.  For now, his dad and I watch and listen and pray for our son as he prayerfully considers and discerns Gods call.  If you’ve a mind to, please pray for my boy.  And maybe throw one or two prayers our way too as his dad and I look ahead to this special road, filled with different challenges and joys and very big adjustments for us all.

Because what WE aspire to, for our son, is for him to joyfully step forward into whatever life God is offering: teacher dad plumber or priest.

* Note: this post is not precisely real time. I wrote it months ago. But only have permission, now, from Chris to post it. And so I will, a short series perhaps, about a rather unique process and time in all of our lives. *