Reflection and Gratitude

This time of year always moves me to deeper thinking, because I increasingly tire of the world's decrying anything having to do with God or faith or humility, or even simple thankfulness. And that sentiment explodes with both barrels especially at this time of year. It's all about power and getting what you are "owed". Yes, there are pockets of movements for "random acts of kindness" that might get a few minutes on the news as a "feel-good piece" every once in a while around the holidays, but, in general, the world's mantra is "I want more and I want it now!" (and God help whomever gets in my way). The world views wealth and status as power -- more is more -- and sees humility, want and need as weakness. Add to that the increasing commercialism of Thanksgiving and Christmas especially. Even these have been reduced to nothing more than a list of things to buy or to get done, to check off and then move on to the next holiday without so much as a thought, let alone thankfulness...not much about which to feel joy. Each year the news reports, complete with video, about people waiting in line on Black Friday, or for Christmas sales. The countdown begins and the doors open, and the screaming hordes enter the store, no sign of kindness or gratitude, trying to be first so that they get what they want before anyone else takes it, trampling over people (as if they were not there) and screeching as though they were rabid animals. I sometimes want to scream out with Ebenezer Scrooge about needing to see some "depth of feeling"...! Is this what we have been reduced to?

I receive daily reflections (from http://dynamiccatholic.com), and have for some years now; I love starting my day this way, along with reading a daily Gospel or Bible chapter; the daily reflections are usually very short little blurbs taken from books, prayers, poems, homilies, etc. which I receive in email each morning. Some can be really profound, others just kind of give me a kick in the pants about something, or maybe inspire me to do something, or just to think (Heaven forbid!). I look at these kinds of feelings/moments as nudges from God -- things that I can't stop thinking about, or that I want to do to help someone, or just can't let go of; maybe God really does have an email account...

A recent daily reflection quote was seemingly simple, taken from a book by Matthew Kelly: "We are at our best when we are grateful." It is not that extremely profound, but it stuck with me because I try always to be thankful for the things and people in my life, even though things don't always turn out as I would like them. "Thank you" is the last thing I say to God each night -- for the day, the restful sleep I am about to enjoy, the opportunities that come my way, and especially for my husband, my children and all those I love, or who have come into my life. 

On the same day I read the quote from Matthew Kelly, I also came across an article about "Giving Thanks" written by Fr. Gary Yanus (Vicar General/Judicial Vicar for the Diocese of Cleveland). The article is worth the read, and can be found here: Northeast Ohio Catholic magazine; (click on November/December 2019 issue; it will be on page 30). It resonated because it, too, was about being grateful. The article was quite simple, but I feel so much like the author; and, as he reminisced, it reminded me of my childhood, too, and how thankful I still am for my  childhood, my parents and grandparents and entire family, how they never were embarrassed to express their faith, never wavered in expressing their love for me and my siblings or their gratefulness to God for life. It is an example I have tried to follow in my life, with my children and family.

Both the article by Fr. Yanus and the daily reflection by Matthew Kelly reminded me of what is important in life, of where all in life comes from, and that this life is a precious gift, that we should never take it for granted or wish things away (even the difficult times, as these are what help us to grow); the readings reminded me to always be grateful for the opportunities that come my way, and the people who bring them and their love to me. It was good to read something like this. Fr. Yanus spoke of childhood memories with such fondness and love and thanksgiving, I could not help but be moved; because, I too, have a great fondness for the recollections of my childhood, love for my family (then, as a child, and now, as a parent) and gratitude to those who help me realize that being a child of God is a most precious thing for which to be thankful. Wishing you all a happy Thanksgiving and holiday season, filled with love, good memories, gratitude, and peace.

Peace,
Monica

Perfect Day

Be not mindless/Of the mundane moments

While seemingly unimportant/They pass quickly,

Yet command/A lifetime of remembrance

Monica E. Smith

Perfect Day

I remember
when fun was a Saturday bus ride
to downtown with my sister
on a cold winter day
Excitement
was a Beatles album
surprisingly on sale for $3.99
at Higbee's Department Store,
the coveted place
I could never normally afford
on my teenage salary
Comfort
was a mid-morning cup of hot coffee
sipped with delight in a booth
at a Euclid Avenue coffee shop
as we reminisced
the still fresh experiences
of the morning, anticipating
the rest of the day to come
Satisfaction
was lunch at the Silver Grille
and exercise
was an all-day walk
around downtown Cleveland—
window-shopping, talking,
dreaming and planning
our next Saturday excursion—
But contentment
was the aroma of Morrow's Nut Shop
which lingered on the bus ride home
while we warmed our hands
on hot bags of fragrant, freshly roasted nuts
Each of us treasured
this fitting end to a perfect day—
A memento that would soon evanesce—
as would these precious times spent together

A Good Dog

I thought of you today
When happenstance brought me
To that road we last walked
And to the memory of your last breaths,
How I held your sweet, warm head
In my hands and whispered to you
Trying desperately to comfort you,
Willing myself to believe
You would be all right,
Willing you to know how much
You were loved, how much
Joy you brought to the lives
Of my children, to us all

I thought of you, today, buried
Under your beloved pear tree
And how you now nourish it
As it had once nourished you,
And I missed your playfulness
And the laughs you gave us
Missed the wonderful silliness
Of your sprightly, unfettered life
And yet the depth you brought
To my own, and I knew
I had been blessed

And I remembered my tears
Falling onto your limp ears then,
And how I prayed you had felt them,
Because in feeling them
You would have understood with certainty
The value of your life,
Believed without hesitation your worth,
Known beyond any doubt
That you had been a good dog

*Sadie was killed during a walk on a country road with her family. We could see nothing, as she had run a bit ahead of us; we heard only a screech, a thud and the squealing tires as the driver sped away from the scene. We found her lying by the side of the road as we ran over a hill to her side, in shock and not believing what had just happened. Though Sadie died in 1992, she returns to our thoughts again and again. She was a blessing to our family, and a very good dog who will always be missed.

Comfort Food

Top, My Brother and Sister and I

Bottom Left, My Mother (coming to call us in for hot chocolate!)

Tired of the snow yet? I can recall lying in bed as a child, in the early morning hours, waiting with butterflies in my stomach for that announcement of the news I already knew: "Schools will be closed today!".  And they were, usually  for the next two days as well. Snow in Cleveland meant instant vacation back then. The type of snow we have experienced these past few days in much of the country was the usual winter fare in Cleveland "back in the day".

The excitement would build as I curled up in a warm bed, planning my day. My sister and brother and I would wake up to a good, hot breakfast—which usually included cream of wheat, our favorite on such a cold, snowy day. We would force our mother to promise not to stir it so that soft, chewy lumps of grain would form and then eat it with butter, sugar and lots of milk, something I do to this day. After breakfast we bundled in our snowsuits, leggings (what ever happened to leggings?), boots, scarves and gloves, and somewhat resembling robots, headed outside for most of the day. Once outside we began making a snow fort out of the entire back yard. We would each focus on a particular corner of the yard and built our forts as high as we could with ice "bricks" which were broken off of mountains of snow, and then tunneling through the crusty drifts to prepare for the snowball war to soon follow. 

We never needed to be told to "find something to do". There was a whole world of things to do, given birth by our imaginations. Winter, summer, spring, fall, we were outside all day until supper, interacting with each other and our friends, enjoying the world around us, simply being children. As children we didn't need "love lives" then, we didn't have an unhealthy obsession with sex or interest in drugs or  experience anxiety from societal pressures constantly bombarding us with "be more". Perhaps it is our self-complacency as adults which is ever-increasingly manifested in our children. We didn't need to hear TV commercials focused on telling us to "Get up, get up, get up, be a player" or "Play an hour a day". Does it not seem odd and unnatural to hear social advertisements telling children to play? It does to me and it makes me sad. What has happened to childhood? What has happened to us, that we would allow such destruction of childhood?

After the war ended, frozen and wet, we headed back into the house to change into dry clothes and drink the hot chocolate that was keeping warm on the stove, waiting for us. The house was always warm, even in winter. The love and security we felt as children warmed us as no blanket ever could. And, perhaps, this is what I remember most about my childhood. We would rest easily at night, ready for sleep after a full day, knowing we were loved for who we were, that nothing we might do could change that, never doubting that we were the priority in our parents' lives. It was never something that had to be verbalized. It just was.

My father would come home after work, and supper was soon to follow. On every Saturday, and especially on snowy, winter days, supper would consist of a huge pot of beef soup. It was my father's favorite meal. And when I cook that same soup today, the wafting fragrance serves up a feast of warm and satisfying memories which nourish me and keep me grounded.

Perhaps the word that best describes my childhood is "comfort". I did not know the pain or anxiety of having to take on adult roles. I was a child and concerned with those things befitting a child. My parents knew how to love, each other and us. Neither was overly concerned about place in life, and both were concerned more with their children's well-being than the views of the world. There were no power struggles, within the family or society. The focus was on our welfare and happiness and our growth as individuals. There was love. And there was consolation and solace in knowing it would always be that way.

And as we drifted off, sleep—and peace—came to us sweet and warm. It drifted down from the rafters with the love and laughter which protected us when we were children.  And as I sleep each night, the memories, sweet and warm,  ring from distant rafters, drifting down to comfort me, ground me, slow me down when this world begins to move a little too fast. 


Comfort Food

We always laughed
As daddy ate his soup
From a large serving bowl
Filled to the brim
With hot savory beef broth,
A mountain of thin noodles
And a dash of Tabasco,
Pausing every now and then
To wipe his perspiration-covered face
And sit back, gratified, proclaiming
"I like soup no matter what flavor it is!"

We would race to drain
Our bowls in order to be first
To claim the prize—the juicy bones
Layered with chunks of soft beef,
Chewy gristle and mouth-watering
Beefy marrow which we would
Spread on our heavily salted meat

This was Saturday supper
Every week, every month,
All the years of our childhood
And the contentment
Of those early years was not only
From young, full bellies
But the love and security
That seemed to hover
Around our table, cloaking us
From the elements
Of change, floating

Like the rich, golden bubbles
Swirling in our Saturday soup

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Cocoon

Laughter rose

And rang from the rafters

Drifting down softly

To comfort at night.

Sleep was sweet and warm

Within the cocoon of family

In my youth.

Laughter rose

And rang from the rafters

Drifting down softly

To comfort at night.

Sleep was sweet and warm

Within the cocoon of family

When my children were young.

Long-ago laughter echoes

And rings from distant rafters

Drifting down softly

To comfort at night.

Memories are sweet and warm

Within the cocoon of family

As I sleep.

Thank you for reading; and keep warm...