In November the hubby, the big kids, and I had the pleasure of attending Leah Libresco-Sargeant’s talk on her book Building the Benedict Option (Amazon Associates link). (The event was sponsored by The Angelico Project which we are really excited about.) I finished the book last week.
Which lessons I could apply to my life wasn’t immediately apparent. The contrasts were interesting. I’m a cradle Catholic; Leah’s a convert from atheism. I feel like I’ve lived my faith publicly all my life: carrying a Rosary, making the Sign of the Cross, praying in public — these come almost second nature to me — it’s simply what I grew up with and how hubby and I (and therefore the kids) operate. Leah is very much an extrovert; I’m an introvert. She says she’s terrible at silence; silence is how I recharge. But we’re both passionate about presence (and Presence). We both desire to make a difference and we both like to facilitate connections.
She’s given a lot of thought into what we do offline. Here I feel that I’m a few steps ahead of her, because of my age, my faith background, and my experiences. My primary vocation, my role as wife and mom, are clear to me. And I do already have a “tribe” of sorts: the people I pray with and build relationships with, both offline and on. We’ve pretty much figured out how to minister to each other through the years.
Where I find Leah’s ideas most applicable is in building a BenOp online, even though her suggestions were meant for offline interactions.
I bookmarked many sections in her book, but this quote caught my attention:
You are not only a link with something. You are the thing itself; and you are the sacrament, the instrument, by which we learn to love the things that are. Your body is the first object any child of man ever wanted. Therefore, dispose yourself to be loved, to be wanted, to be available. Be there for them with a vengeance. Be a gracious, bending woman. Incline your ear, your hands, your heart to them. Be found warm and comfortable, and disposed to affection. Be ready to be done by and to welcome their casual effusions with something better than preoccupation and indifference. It isn’t a matter of how much time; only how much intensity. Children love fat mothers. They like them because while any mother is a diagram of place, a picture of home, a fat one is a clearer diagram, a greater sacrament. She is more there.
(from this book)
It reminded me of a joke between my husband and me whenever I lamented the weight I had gained in pregnancy. He would respond with “No worries; more to love.” If my goal for 2020 is to be a fat(ter) mother, how do I accomplish that?
2019 started with endless questions. I was confronted with the legitimate needs of both my parents and my hubby/children, and the inescapable reality that I can’t bilocate. Papa was battling kidney cancer, and he and Mommy were 6 hours away. My big kids would survive but they still needed me home. For months we were driving back and forth, and I was constantly torn and felt that I was shortchanging everyone, a distressing thought that led to the shedding of many tears.
Cutting down on social media time was the easy decision to make, but even after Papa passed away the questions remained unanswered.
I have long equated social media with apostolate, (real) friendship, and prayer (the rest => time suck). Of course, much pain is also found there, which I’ve always felt called to help alleviate. Looking back though, I see that my early efforts at online ministry were marked with pride, selfishness, and unrealistic expectations. Though I was eventually able to detach from external motivators, and accepted that people can and will disappoint me, I still wrestled with the thought of disappointing others.
There’s the unending, overwhelming need, and my utter powerlessness. Too often unable to provide tangible help, I could offer “only prayer” — not valueless, but there was the feeling of never being or doing enough. Facebook’s ever-changing algorithms made it even harder — I’d miss someone’s illness, death or dire need simply because I didn’t see it on my feed. Humans are made for communion, but this tool which is supposed to facilitate that is imperfect, and manipulated by unseen forces I had no control over. I decided it was better to leave than to keep shortchanging people. The “all or nothing” mentality was misguided, I know — but I just couldn’t reconcile the need vs my inadequacy.
Is this unnecessary hand-wringing? Perhaps, but I needed the process. The Benedict Option isn’t about isolating ourselves, and Leah’s book helped me to envision an online BenOp in more practical terms. She invites us to ask ourselves, “What do I do alone that we can do together?” and “What do I do privately that I can do publicly?” These weren’t the questions I was asking, but they helped to frame mine better, and to refine my intentions and actions.
Funny, as I was writing this I hopped on over to Jen Fulwiler’s Word of the Year Generator and you won’t believe the word I got: ENOUGH. In the past year much has been said about accepting that WE are enough. I get why that’s a necessary message. But here I’m taking a different tack.
The puzzle still isn’t complete, and chances are it won’t be, not this side of heaven anyway. My life is as full as ever and many days I still feel like I’m pulled in so many different directions, and wondering where the pause button is. But I can continue sharing prayer, and those moments of beauty and inspiration that hit me during prayer time. I can keep on praying for people and I can still be a fat mother to them, even when my efforts are hit or miss, even when my presence is sporadic. In my absence, my friends can still be miracles to each other too.
I can be lacking and still be generous. All that’s needed is my willingness to share my small basket of loaves and fishes; God would take care of multiplying and distributing them as He saw fit. I don’t have to be the miracle, or the Miracle Worker… I can’t be. In 2020 I’ll celebrate the fact that no, I don’t have to be “enough”, because Someone Else Is. And when I share Him, He fills in the gaps.
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