"That's The Good Stuff"

I saw this image the other night and it hit me right in the feels. It said very succinctly, in a kind of koan-type fashion, exactly what I have thought on many occasions, and how easy it is not be be present to the blessings right in front of you. 

 

In Looking In From The Outside, I wrote:

Middle age is a tough time for dad. You're so focused on your career and managing things that time is at a premium. I try to balance having time for myself (time that my wife usually doesn't have as a luxury, admittedly), time with other men, time with my parents, time with my wife, time with my kids, time writing, and time in prayer.  

My wife was chastising me a bit last night for not being present with my kids when I have the opportunity. She's not wrong. She is a 'be-er' and I'm a 'do-er.' Every time I do have the opportunity to just 'be' I end up 'doing' something instead. Everyone knows that you can't substitute time together with other things and expect to have a healthy marriage. And the more time you spend with someone, the more you get to know them, and want to spend time with them. I feel like my kids pick up on that I am not as present with them as their mom is, and so they turn to other 'things' to fill the vacuum that I could be filling if I was more present.

There's an image I have, when I go out on the patio for some time to myself, of looking from the outside in while the rest of my family is inside. I've chosen to take time for myself, but I would be horrified if I tried to come back in the house and it was locked for some reason. Then you realize the place you really want to be more than anywhere, with your family, you're barred from, because of what you've chosen instead. I know it's just a moment but I don't want it to project as a future reality. Moments add up to days, and days to years, and before you know it if you're not careful, you can become a stranger in your own house.

My wife was telling me something she heard from Leila Lawler, some erudite wisdom on homemaking and childrearing, along the lines of "You don't 'make memories' for your children. They make their own memories." I don't know the exact context of what she was saying, but from what I surmised "the trip to Disney World," or "the birthday party" or whatever is often not the true memory. The memories are those snippets, those scraps of tapestry, that the children make for themselves. It could be the smell of the salt air, a song heard on the radio, laying on the couch with mom, or the salted caramel ice cream cone your dad treated you to.

We played a round of miniature golf yesterday, and walked over to the Wendy's afterwards to treat the kids to some frosties and things. It was "a great day" for them, and it wasn't because of the mini golf or the burgers or any one thing, but because we were together as a family. I don't make much money and I don't have any real professional status or standing. But I realized many people would kill to have what I have. My 'new core memory' as a dad that day was seeing them at the table as I ordered food, and realizing I am not a poor man, but instead very, very rich.

Robbin Williams has a great monologue in Good Will Hunting (part of which I heard was unscripted) when he's talking to the young Will about his deceased wife. 

"My wife used to fart when she was nervous. She had all sorts of wonderful idiosyncrasies. She used to fart in her sleep. One night it was so loud it woke the dog up. She woke up and went like "oh was that you?" I'd say yeah...I didn't have the heart to tell her...Oh God...[laughing]

Will: She woke herself up?

Sean: Yesssss....aahhh. But, Will, she's been dead two years and that's the shit I remember. Wonderful stuff, you know, little things like that. Ah, but, those are the things I miss the most. The little idiosyncrasies that only I knew about. That's what made her my wife. Oh, and she had the goods on me, too, she knew all my little peccadillos. People call these things imperfections, but they're not, aw, that's the good stuff." 

We are coming up on our thirteenth year of marriage, and I have plenty of those memories of my wife--the things that make her my wife. The time she dozed off looking at her phone and dropped it on her head; the particular sigh she makes which distinguishes whether she is angry or just tired, which would be lost on anyone but me; when she laughs and then accidentally snorts at the same time. I try not to take them for granted, either, to recognize and give thanks for that privileged place. 

There's a saying I'm fond of, when it comes to your life in Christ as a Catholic:

You have all that you need.

You have the grace of your baptism; the heavenly manna of Christ's flesh in the Eucharist; the opportunity to confess your sins to a priest; a community of fellow pilgrims and those who have gone before you, the saints; the solace of prayer and silence; the assurance of the promise of salvation; the opportunity to become a saint. We are rich in faith, every single one of us. And if we're not careful, there will come a time when you would give all you have to have that again and not find it. You will remember the heavy smell of incense, the flicker of an offering candle bouncing light of the stained glass windows, the solidness of the oak pews where so many hands have been placed, the unlocked door that allowed you to sneak in for a few moments of quiet. 

Same goes for our families, or marriages. These are great graces which we can build up, invest in, and recognize them for what they are: moments stitched together in time, moments not promised that can be taken away from us at any moment as the Lord wills. Each moment can be sacred, can be sanctified, especially while the kids are young--if we are paying attention and not letting it pass us by. This is what makes a man rich, establishes a legacy. You have all that you need.