Turning the page…

Posted on January 1, 2013 by
Image

Photo Credit: Google Images: http://info.mednetstudy.com/blog/bid/236859/From-the-Royal-Table-to-eClinical

|The celebration of a New Year.
The day we officially turn the worn page,
which is both woefully stained with mistakes…
and remarkably highlighted by small victories.

Today, we look forward with hope
to the markings in the next chapter…
We pray to be more careful in the forming of our words,
but less careful in the intimacies of our souls.
More careful of our sorrowful laziness
and less careful when pursuing our passion.
More sure of God’s melodic Word
and less sure of the lies carved in our skin.

Today, because of God’s grace and His unimaginable mercy
we turn the page.
With pen in hand, we begin to scrawl…
with all the force of what’s behind
and all the magnetism of what’s ahead.
Happy new page,
Happy new year.

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To Vote or Not to Vote.

Posted on November 1, 2012 by

This letter was published in the Daily Journal on October 29, 2012. I appreciated the opportunity, but was frustrated be the fact that there is no mechanism to share the entire article from the newspaper’s website. I’m publishing here, even though this isn’t the best place for it, simply because there is a mechanism for sharing. Thanks for reading! 

Apparently, many registered voters plan to abstain in the upcoming presidential election because they object to both candidates.

Some refuse to vote for Mitt Romney, claiming that by doing so, they would be endorsing his religion. Others refuse to vote for Barack Obama, claiming they can’t trust his values or allegiances. These objections, while important, must not keep a good citizen home on voting day.

This is not the first time we have suffered from a lack of confidence in our candidates. We often go to the polls with some reluctance — forced to pull the lever in faith. This term is no different, but the stakes certainly do seem higher.

Many claim we are reaching the much feared point of no return. All of tradition and every kind of principle seems to have gone under the knife.

Our foreign alliances don’t seem to matter; our foreign policy protocol has been modernized, our religious roots denied; and traditional institutions redefined. The new “whatever” mentality has been officially inaugurated.

To make matters worse, we are all being pummeled by opinion from every direction. Our in-boxes contain one long stream of spinning propaganda. We are served heaping platters of information — but are never sure if we should swallow the next bite.

We grapple for reliable and unbiased sources of real data. It seems much easier to close our eyes and cover our ears until this is all over, but by doing so, we give up our right to have a voice — even a very small one.

During a recent homeowners association meeting, I couldn’t help but do a little imaginative comparing. As neighbors, we vote on issues such as water treatment, road maintenance and the use of common areas. Some choose to skip the meeting, leaving the power of their vote, or “proxy” with another. This makes the opinions of those present stronger, and in a sense, gives their votes more weight.

This scenario prompted me to think about those who don’t plan to show up at the polls this November. These passionate abstainers will not be leaving their “proxies” with trusted individuals who share their values and that can be counted on to vote with a balanced view of the issues; instead, they will simply abstain from using the power of their influence.

By refusing to vote, they are refusing to be counted, deciding instead to disengage. This decision doesn’t sound like civic responsibility— and it doesn’t sound like faith in action — it sounds like something to regret.

So, how does one vote when there doesn’t seem an acceptable choice? For me, it comes down to pressing in and believing that to vote is my civic duty. I must play my part, however small. I refuse to leave the power of my vote in a stranger’s hands.

I will choose the candidate that seems to most closely align with my conservative values and the issues that concern me most. I don’t need a pastor in the White House any more than I need a pastor to do my dental work. I want competent leadership that will tackle the many critical issues that matter to me, both locally and globally.

I will not make the perfect choice in this presidential election, but by faith, I will do my part by engaging and voting, with the belief that many collective voices can call us back from the dreaded point of no return, so that we can continue to walk the fine line of tension we so enjoy in this great country we call home.

Catherine Whittier 2012

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Passing the half-life…

Posted on June 7, 2012 by

Turning 50…

If the story of my life happens to be 80 pages long- then I’m 10 years past my half-life today.

Artwork by Angie Stevens, the Doodlemum © 2012.

It’s so strange to look in the mirror and wonder what happened to the young woman that used to look back at me. Lines have emerged- lines that tell the stories nobody knows. I would like it if all my lines to turned upwards- but they don’t.

Is this the same woman who, on a good day, men used to turn to admire? I recently retired a big pile of jeans that don’t fit in the same old way and I face myself with the question, “Am I willing to do what it takes to fight back against the slow atrophy of aging?” Truth is, I’ve never been a very good fighter.

I’m a true survivor, having escaped death and doom time and again… but the talk in my head usually says- “you lose.” It’s been a slow and difficult process to believe and embrace the truth that God created and values me.

Anyway, back to aging body parts. Will this be the battle of my decade- how to fight back against the hands of time? That certainly seems to be the cultural mandate. In fact, if I had a few more bucks… I could just pay to fluff my buns in order to make my old jeans fit. I could uncurl the lines around my mouth and poof my lips. Yuh know, a 50,000 mile service check. The only thing is, the manufacturer didn’t make these recommendations.

The other strange thing about turning 50, is that I realize that some of the dreams I dreamed haphazardly in my 20′s may not come to fruition. Now that I’m almost 50, married, with two, mostly-grown-up kids- I may not be able to live single, in a high-rise, in the inner city, whilst commanding a high salary. I may not ever again pack up and move to another State to take a menial job and live on macaroni. I might not ever become buff like the girl in “Flashdance,” (well, it’s been thirty years since I saw the movie, but that “Maniac” song is still stuck in my head). I might not ever travel as a bohemian journalist to do interviews all over the world. At this late stage, optimistic as I can get, I may never become fully functional when it comes to laundry. I may never have a clean purse for two weeks running. I may never become a coupon master. I may not ever do…. well… anything else really “big.” There’s a little change left in my purse and I better decide how I can make it go the furthest.

Artwork by Angie Stevens, the Doodlemum©2012

As I look at the last quarter or so of my active life- some good questions once again emerge – like, what matters most? With all the competing draws for my attention- what is the highest and best use of this day? Which choices will be high impact in the next chapters of my story? I want to be intentional and wise.

I can hear answers coming from some- “Well, you’ll never stop being a wife and mother,”  and, “Soon, you’ll have grandchildren!” Others declare, “Now is the time to clean your purse!”  Well, maybe so. Maybe I should clean out my purse- so I don’t have to dig so long to find gum for my grandkids- but, I don’t want my goal to be a “finally” clean purse or a polished car.

It’s true, my family is my greatest joy and my level of commitment to them will be constant… but there will be lots of times when my presence will be unnecessary… and there’s more… more of me and more of the mission.

More of the mission that helps people where they get broken; that spot where something wicked came and some little treasure of a person believed a lie which set them on a path they weren’t intended to follow…

But, I digress… back to gray hair and body parts.

Artwork by Angie Stevens, the Doodlemum©2012

I’ve been told time and again about how fast it goes. I was always grateful that I didn’t begin to have children until I was thirty and had seen a little of life and death. I felt I somehow understood a bit more about the precious and insignificant. Now, as I look back, I’m faced with knowing, once again, that we are never wise enough in this lifetime to see with perfect clarity.

I absorbed the verses that explain that we are but a vapor, or a fading flower. I have done my best to cherish moments and collect the important things of the heart and I’m thankful. I’m immensely grateful for the good and mostly at peace with the bad. I haven’t led a boring life- there’s adventure, intrigue, romance, violence, crushing sadness and utter joy…. but I look cautiously forward now- knowing more keenly than ever- that I don’t have forever.

Artwork by Angie Stevens, the Doodlemum©2012

Interestingly, I’m not afraid of the same things that used to scare me. I’m no longer afraid of forceful women. I’m not afraid of being disliked. I’m not afraid to say no and almost not afraid to fail. I’m not afraid of teenagers who scowl and seem fiercely independent anymore. I’m so far past them now that I look back with a familiarity and move right in to their crabby space, loving them wholeheartedly.
Now, I have different fears. I fear bitterness. I fear that I will misunderstand truth. I fear self-loathing. I fear unbelief. I fear that through any and all of those things, I have the power to hurt others and experience living death. I fear I will not meet my potential by not finally getting- all the way down in my core- without wavering, that God really enjoys, likes, and trusts me; that He looks at me with adoration. If I can really get that relationship right- all the rest will follow. Because of that truth, I can breathe clean air and I can love my husband with a real and wild love.

Yes, well, back to stopping the hands of time.

Now I understand why “the bucket list” became a such a crazy-popular catch-phrase- because it’s not a bad idea to make one. I’m amazed to see young men and women jumping out of airplanes and traveling to Atlantic City because it was on their ‘bucket list.’ It blows me away to talk with those who are asking good, stark questions about the use of their time and the direction of their path at such early ages; but why do I know that somehow, even these brilliant, young folks are going to ask the same tough questions when they reach the half life? They will do similar evaluations, regardless of the check marks on their bucket-lists. They will once again begin to ask, “Have I fulfilled my purpose and have I done it well? What is good- what is beautiful, really- and what am I chasing after?”

Well, I’ve edited out about 10 pages here and I will leave my special birthday post with these final words. Gray hair happens, cellulite isn’t only for couch potatoes, and we don’t have forever, but in these days of evaluation- while I may not have the game plan down… I have had an amazing time thinking about the definitions of goodness, happiness, and legacy. I have enjoyed every living thing from a new perspective and I feel more alive than ever. My goal is to seek God first in all things and know that all the rest will follow, whatever that may look like.

A friend recently told me that since she crossed over the 50-yard line- she doesn’t hold back as much. She’s not afraid to tell it like it is and speak a little encouragement that she might have otherwise kept to herself. She’s not as worried or embarrassed about her imperfections. She also said I’m at the peak of my life in terms of wisdom and creativity.

Yeah, that’s a good word… I’m feeling a little more saucy myself.
Pretty, dang saucy.

I’ll tell you a little secret. My husband is a wild man and he’s been known to go outside in his boxers in the dead of winter to get wood for the woodstove. How would I know that? My neighbor mentioned she thought she saw him outside in his underwear at 4 am.
Ahem.
Now, I get it!
This behavior must be a result of being 51. He crossed over the line and into the second half.

Naa. I’m too young for delusions. He was born that way.

Scary to think he will get even saucier.  Now, that I’m a wise and wild 50 year old, I wonder if this means he’ll finally get me to skinny dip?
That would sure get the neighbors talking  :)

“Therefore we do not lose heart though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.” 2 Corinthians 4:16-18

A special thank you to Angie Stevens for the use of her wonderful artwork. I subscribe to her blog at http://doodlemum.wordpress.com/ and very much enjoy receiving her sketches in my inbox.
Angie describes herself as “38, short, defensive, far too chatty for my own good, mother, artist, noisy, chocolate loving and permanently tired. (I know,  how many bloody adjectives do I need…).” I describe her as a kindred spirit. I love her impish little sketches. They are very transparent and remind me of myself as a young mother. Thank you, Doodlemum!

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The Seasons of Motherhood…

Posted on May 12, 2012 by

About the bittersweet journey of motherhood and the milestone of graduation…
Read more here:

A New Rhythm

Artwork by Susana Tavares


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Crawling out of bed tired

Posted on May 5, 2012 by

Lately, the little things don’t look like backyard adventures.
They look more like shopping for dress pants and cheap ties that might fit the boy for two weeks,
and practices and performances,
and algebra lessons,
and end of semester field trips,
and birthday celebrations,
and meetings,
and big decisions for next year.

The little things look like begging sorry to my honey for leaving bagel crumbs on the  kitchen counter as I go flying out the door.
Looks like forgetting what I came for
and coming back for what I forgot.

Looks like living in the country means we can’t run home and throw in a load.
Looks like we’re getting things halfway done and digging through piles for socks,
Looks like drinking lots of coffee and crawling out of bed tired.
Looks like not finishing anything.

Looks like wondering how other people get all this stuff right,
and then remembering that I’m almost 50 and
most certainly beyond such penchants to compare.
It also looks, conversely and hormonally,
like I’m old enough not to give a flip what anybody else is doing and how.
Looks like I’m glad for my girlfriends- doing whatever their doing,
smiling at me with that knowing smile,
it’s in the little things- even when they go very fast.

Looks like racing out early in the morning to check the baby bluebirds in my bath robe and staying up late listening to the non-stop, run-on sentence plans of two very active, young people. Trucks and cars and apartments and jobs and school and girls and guys and this one and that one and today and forever…
golden sound waves and bleary eyes.

Looks like my husband can’t find me,
but my toes can still find his toes under the covers.

Looks like my boy will drive.
Looks like I will soon be forced to wear shorts again.
Looks like I won’t be getting any younger.
Looks like I don’t know what’s coming next.

Looks like, when it comes to self improvement, my greatest opposition is
myself.

Looks like the little things are imperfect and profound and sweet and that even in the messed up mess of the day, I find myself stopping to say thank you.

Life in little things looks like embracing frustration and reaping joy,
It looks like running on empty and finding it full.
It looks like this life, this very minute.

Photo by Will Whittier@2012

Thank you God for little things,
Thank you for my little people, who aren’t so little anymore,
Thank you for the little moments that add up to big ones.
Thank you for my faulty processes and my little failures,
Thank you for stolen moments and infinite noise.
Thank you for the little things.

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Happy Spring…

Posted on April 19, 2012 by

Photo by Catherine Whittier ©2012

Ahhhhh… Happy Spring! 

Photo by Catherine Whittier ©2012

This fat, little toad waves “Hello to you!” from my garden.

“Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under the trees on a summer’s day listening to the murmur of water, or watching the clouds float across the sky , is by no means a waste of time.”
Sir T. Lubbock
(pg 11. Meditations for Mothers, Elisa Morgan) 

Photo by Catherine Whittier ©2012


Photo by Catherine Whittier ©2012

Bluebird eggs!
This nest is on my back porch and I go out 100 times a day to see if we have babies.

“A bird’s egg comprises a wondrous balance. It bears the weight of an incubating parent, and yet is not so thick that the grown hatchling cannot get out.”
Maryjo Koch, Bird Egg Feather Nest
(pg 144, Meditations for Mothers, Elisa Morgan)

 

Photo by Catherine Whittier© 2012

Momma bluebird sitting on her eggs to keep them warm.

“Incubating birds develop brood patches- areas on the abdomen that are bare of feathers. Here networks of fine blood vessels lie close to the surface. These distribute body heat and keep [the eggs] at their normal incubating temperature- about 93 degrees.”
Alexander Wetmore, Song and Garden Birds of North America
(pg 62, Meditations For Mothers, Elisa Morgan) 

Photo by Catherine Whittier ©2012

Daddy bluebird is protective; he spends a considerable amount of time chasing woodpeckers away from a nearby bird feeder. He also frequently visits the nest. He is so elusive, the minute I open the door or window to take a picture, he’s off~ in a flash of brilliant blue.

“Nest building takes place most frequently in the morning. The male usually guards the birdhouse while the female makes trips to gather nesting material, or he may follow her around.”
Donald and Lillian Stokes, The Complete Birdhouse Book
(pg 48, Meditations for Mothers, Elisa Morgan) 

Photo by Catherine Whittier ©2012

“Propagation is work. Real work. How a bird manages to charm a mate, design and construct a nest, incubate eggs, feed hatchlings incessantly, and defend it’s territory, seems an exhaustive, if not impossible feat.”
Maryjo Koch, Bird Egg Feather Nest
(pg 22, Meditations For Mothers, Elisa Morgan)

 

Photo by Catherine Whittier ©2012

The same God that hovered over the waters of the dark and empty earth,
The God who simply said, “Let there be light,” and there was~
He hovers over my heart.

The same God that separated the light from the dark, and the day from the night,
The God that suspends the moon and the stars,
The same God that decided upon watercolors for the sky
and a rhythm for every sunrise~
That God hovers over my heart. 

The God who gathers waters and calls them seas,
The God who asked the earth to bear fruit,
The God who formed the tiny seed, 
The God who fortified the soil with every necessary thing~
That God hovers over my heart.

The great and mighty artist,
The grand designer,
The wild sculptor,
The fierce lover of all manner of good things,
The One who infuses every speck with life~
He hovers over my heart 

This great God,
This smiling One who parts the seas,
This One who weaves with His breath~
Wraps His ancient and expert hands around mine
and whispers, “Create.” 
He invites me to close my eyes and see in color.
This God, this One with laughing eyes,
The One who designed the toad and the firefly,
The bluebird and the flower,
This God~
He hovers over my heart.

Catherine Whittier © 2012  

Happy Spring my friends… He hovers over your hearts!

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Just Fishin’…

Posted on April 7, 2012 by

I don’t have many memories from childhood- but some of the good ones include fishing adventures. My Dad loved to fish- and funny- I don’t know if he ever actually got to do it, he was so busy fixing, untangling, un-snagging, and re-rigging our lines. I remember the air and the grass and the sound of the water. I remember how my Dad could expertly tie knots in the fishing line and how he would fearlessly grab a worm and split it in two with his bare hands.

As I got older, it was fun to sit and watch the men enviously change their rigs over and over as they watched us girls haul in the fish using only our water-logged “worm sundae’s” and a little patience. One day, Sally and I counted “Thirteen!” from the bank, while Dad was helping Grandpa, who was risking life and limb to rescue his lure from way up in a tree. Even then, in the midst of the worst of aggravations, my Dad would put down his pole to tie on my hooks whenever it needed doing.

I’m so thankful to both of my parents for helping me to develop a love for the outdoors. It was in moments like these- and many others- from camping to more simple backyard experiences, that I learned to talk to God and believe in the unseen. Things were very tough at home- but there was a place I could go- even if I didn’t understand the respite I would find there.

So this week, I have been fishing with the Wil-de-beast. Historically, he hasn’t cared all that much about fishing- but it now seems he has caught the bug. He wakes up in the morning thinking about the pole. He even missed a workout- which for him, is unheard of.

On the first day- the Wil-de-beast and I decided we wanted to try worms, so we dug up the field grass, right where we stood, with whatever implements we could find in the tackle box. Our most useful tool was the fillet knife- we were able to carve away chunks of ground and quickly grab exposed worms before they got away. Using a knife ensured that we had nice worm pieces anyway. This was sort of a trap-setting, living-off-the-land kind of thing and I’m sure the worms were juicier and the catch was sweeter since we extracted these babies from the earth ourselves.

This fishing fun led us to the Walmart store, where the Wil-de-beast spent an inordinate amount of time in the fishing aisle. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so eager to plunk down ten bucks on his necessities; now I know why Grandpa was willing to risk his life up in that tree.

The beast has spent hours alone out in the not-so-easy-to-fish-in paddle boat exploring little coves and experimenting with different bait. He caught some big bass and some nice crappie- but he also caught the ability to enjoy the journey- fish or no fish. As I look out the window, and spot the boat tucked into a little cove, my eyes fill with tears as I realize these are hours spent with God. As he watches the water ripple and listens to the birds sing- there’s likely a voice speaking to his heart and it’s likely that the Wil-de-beast is talking back… and he thinks he’s just fishin’.

It’s these kind of little things that really blow me away.

The Little Things…
 I don’t know about you- but I find that details, business, entertainment, and connectivity can creep in and smother my creative impulses. If I’m not careful, I find that somehow I stop breathing- fail to hear the birds sing- and find myself dry and out of the stream. In these shorter posts, entitled, “The Little Things,” I hope to make a public effort to tend my private heart by recording a few of the little things that bring me life. Please join me in this adventure by taking a moment to record for yourself how you stepped into the stream today. What little thing did you intentionally do for yourself that makes you laugh, cry, or sing? What are you doing that makes you feel alive? Record them for yourself and share with the rest of us when you feel you can. I would love to interact.
Happy little things!
~Catherine 
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