For the Love of Murphy!

When you bring your newborn home and lay him in the bassinet that once cradled your father, you know your nights of uninterrupted sleep are over.  What you don't know is that they are over forever. 

My children are 6 and 4, and they have been "sleeping through the night" for years.  Sort of.  Take last night for example. 

The Castrataro household is hosting a nameless virus that inspires unproductive coughing, fevers, and general grumpiness.  My children put themselves to bed at 6 pm last night out of sheer fatigue. 

At 8:30 pm, I gave up pretending to be awake, pulled my twin-sized Murphy bed down from the living room closet (another blog post altogether!), and crawled under my cozy afghans "to sleep, perchance to dream." 

(Insert fiendish laugh here.) 

At 9:30 pm my daughter had a coughing fit and came into the living room.  I got her some cough medicine.  It wasn't grape-flavored, however, so she spit it up in her hair and on the couch.  I admit to being annoyed.  I grabbed the Carbona 2-in-1, cleaned the couch, and put Chinchita to bed, knowing her hair would be stuck solid come daylight. 

I stirred the fire and went back to Murphy. 

At 10:30 pm, my son called out from his room.  He was having growing pains.  (These growing pains are really gruesome, by the way.  He has had them for years and the only solution is Motrin and time...and Mommy's bed.)  I gave him the Motrin.  He was in agony.  I asked if he wanted to sleep with Mommy.  But of course. 

So Ranita and I squeezed into the twin-sized Murphy bed.  My son tossed and turned and eventually slept.  By 1:30 am, I was ready to have my bed to myself again.  He agreed. 

I put my son back in his bed, stirred the fire again, and returned to Murphy. 

At 3:30 am, my daughter awoke to another coughing fit.  I got her some cough medicine (yes, the grape-flavored this time).  She was still coughing. 

I sighed.

Did she want to sleep with Mommy?  Naturally. 

So Chinchita and I squeezed into my twin-sized Murphy bed, with the addition of her pillow.  She periodically had a coughing spasm, I rubbed her back, and she went back to sleep. 

At 6 am my alarm went off, reminding me it was time to get up and spend time with God.  I asked Him for grace and went back to bed.  A half hour later, I awoke with a coughing fit, made a cup of coffee, and sat down with my Bible and my journal. 

I try to tell myself I will sleep when the kids are older, but I realize that is a fantasy.  In their teen years I will be kept awake by nightmares of drunken orgies and unsavory girl/boyfriends.  When they leave for college, I will stay up praying they are not running amok with their newfound independence.  Jobs, spouses, grandchildren . . . all the things I once worried about for myself I will then worry about for them. 

And I somehow suspect that once I have my Murphy bed all to myself again, I will miss the days when one--or both--of my little munchkins were curled up beside me, getting comfort from their mommy. 

What is so Holy about Fish?

One of the most marvelous--and most terrifying--moments in a mother's life is when your six-year-old suddenly calls you out as a hypocrite. 

Ranita did this to me last week (fortunately without using the word 'hypocrite'!).  The issue?  Taking the Lord's name in vain. 

Really.  Those who know me know that using 'God' or 'Jesus' as a curse is something I generally do not do.  I will admit to using a few four-letter gutter words in times of extreme stress, but even those are accompanied with shame and apologies all around. 

So when my son pointed his finger at me during breakfast and accused, "You took the Lord's name in vain!" I was honestly befuddled. 

I mentally reviewed the conversation.  Nope.  No use of the Lord's name at all.  What had I said? 

Holy mackerel!

This is a phrase I have been employing for nearly forty years to express everything from surprise to frustration to irritation to mild anger, confident that it was a, well, holy expression. 

As I began to explain the distinction between the NAME of the Lord and the term in question, I suddenly realized my son's wisdom and my error. 

I've read the Bible through more than a few times, and though I remember lots of fish stories--one swallowed Jonah, another spit up some money, a couple fed a crowd of 5000, and a whole boatload refused to be caught until the fisherman cast on the other side of their vessel--I can't recall any one of them ever being called holy. 

On the other hand: Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty. 

Ugh. 

So mid-sentence I stopped justifying myself and thanked my son for his correction.  I also told both him and Chinchita that mommy had a bad habit in this area and it would be hard for me to break and that I needed their help. 

They were more than willing.  It's not every day your mother gives you permission to correct her speech! 

They have been as good as their word, and slowly I am beginning to catch myself as the phrase comes to mind.  I fear it may take some time: it's hard to teach us old dogs new tricks! 

The up side is that I am more aware than ever of how truly unique God's holiness is, and how I should not minimize it in any way. 

Out of the mouths of babes.

First Comes Pain, Then Comes Love

For millennia people have struggled with the apparent contradiction of the presence of a good, loving, all-powerful God and the existence of pain and evil.  I won't deny it: I, too, have had to wrestle with the issue. 

Because I consider myself to be pretty theologically solid, I usually navigated that morass by relying on concepts such as "free will," "the Fall," and "original sin."  That usually satisfied my brain.  It rarely satisfied my heart. 

I am coming to a place, however, where I am becoming not just reconciled to, but thankful for, the pain in my life.  (No, I am not falling into masochism!)  Rather, I am beginning to sense something of the heart of God in the midst of our sufferings. 

This morning, I read the following passage:

"For you, O God, tested us; you refined us like silver.  You brought us into prison and laid burdens on our backs.  You let men ride over our heads; we went through fire and water, but you brought us to a place of abundance." (Psalm 66:10-12)  

Notice to whom the psalmist is giving responsibility for his suffering?  Not the prison guards or the soldiers.  Not even the psalmist himself.  GOD.  GOD has done this. 

What?  How does that fit? 

All I can tell you is what I've been experiencing in small ways for two years and in a far greater way over the past two months: 

God brings us into pain so we can find relief in Him.  

I would not have known what security in God's hands meant if I hadn't experienced insecurity.  I would not have known the wealth of God had I not experienced penury.  I would not have known the faithfulness of God had I not seen the faithlessness of humanity. 

Most of all, I would not have known the love of our Lover-Creator-Savior had I not known what is is to be unloved. 

For I am now--after nearly 40 years of walking with the Lord--just now experiencing the passion Christ has for us.  I brought my best to the world, and the world counted it as trash.  I brought my broken, tired, bruised self to Christ, and He exulted in it.  He knows my every thought, and He cherishes them all like priceless gems. 

He considers me his treasure, the same person who spat upon Him as he stumbled to Calvary and drove the spikes through his hands and feet and mocked him as I hung dying in my own sin.  This person, he adores. 

I look back over my life and see that the times of ease, though delightful, have not necessarily been the times of greatest growth.  It has been holding God's hand over the slick rocks and the thorny paths and the icy patches and never slipping that has brought me to this place of indescribable, abundant love the likes of which I have never before known. 

I'll be honest:  It doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me.  But then, who ever said love makes sense? 

Having a Good Day

Do you ever wonder what, exactly, constitutes a "good day"? It came to mind yesterday when my son got off the bus, elated, saying it had been a great day . . . then went to the doctor and got a flu shot which turned it into an awful day . . . and then went to Stop & Shop which (shockingly!) turned it back to a good day. 

Well, I can unreservedly say I know what a good day looks like, because today most certainly was one.  A good day is when you:

• Get to mix business with pleasure by Skyping with your college roommate about a work project
• Acquire a new project doing work you love
• Single-handedly replace the rotor on your washing machine without swearing, springing a leak, or breaking anything 
• Update your CV and LinkedIn profile
• Read stories to your kids
• Help your son build a Lego train
• Give your kids cuddle time
• Stay in your Weight Watchers' points
• Post your first blog entry in longer than you care to think about

Yeah, it really has been a good day.  

What does your good day look like?

On Hiatus . . .

Due to circumstances beyond my control, I must take a hiatus from Storm Songs. 

This does not, however, mean that I am no longer writing.  Au contraire!

There will be weekly updates to the "Publication Credits" page, so please keep following. 

I miss sharing with you . . . but I will be back when the time is right! 

Blessings to you all. 

Do Unto Others

When you're going through a personal crisis, it is easy to get so absorbed in your own pain and needs that nothing matters except managing your own "stuff."  That is normal.  It is even healthy.  Putting our energies into managing our own issues is a sign of maturity.

There should come a time, however, when healing has progressed to a place where you can not only recognize the crises others are facing but also lend a helping hand.

My opportunity to do that came a week before Christmas when a farmer I know called me and said, "We're going to lose our farm to a railroad!"

For the preceding year, the only "cause" I had the emotional, physical, and spiritual energy for was getting my kids and myself through our divorce and its fallout.  And it took all I had.  Some days it still does.

But when I heard those words over my phone, I felt a flame rise up within me.  This was a battle I had to help win in whatever small way I could.

Why this one?

It could be the fact that I have lived my life in the shadow of a farm taken by eminent domain "for the public good."  It could be because my first paying writing job was covering a farmer who also lost his farm by eminent domain so it could become a parking lot for his neighbor's significantly larger business.

It could be because I know at least two other farmers in Rhode Island who have either lost land through eminent domain or through unethical government business practices.

It could be I have finally had enough.

It could be the time was just right.

I don't know.  But in the past weeks I have written letters, posted articles, called government leaders, and spoken on radio calling for our state to prevent this railroad from going through.  I have read good portions of the NEC Tier 1 EIS and discovered that I no longer oppose this project just for my friends' sake . . .  I oppose it because it's just a plain old bad idea for our state.

Through this process, however, something else happened.  I found myself re-energized.  I rediscovered a clarity of thought and purpose that has been elusive in recent months.  I saw the sun shining through the clouds, promising that better things were on the way.

I remembered how good it felt to do something for someone else for no other reason than it's the right thing to do. 

Look for your own opportunity to "Do Unto Others" . . . it's good for you!

(By the way, you can find out more about the railroad plan on my LinkedIn and Facebook pages or by visiting the Charlestown Citizens' Alliance webpage!)  

Going to the Dogs

Before my kids were born, I had dogs.  I grew up with German Shepherds . . . and one little dopey beagle.  When I moved out on my own, I adopted a Sheltie who became my constant companion and best bud.  Six months into my marriage, we adopted an Australian Shepherd puppy.  A year later we adopted a Newfoundland cross. 

When my marriage ended, I kept the kids and the dogs. 

As much as I love my dogs, I have to admit there are times when they are an awful lot of work.  Today was such a day. 

I was helping Ranita "excavate" a Tyrannosaurus head on our kitchen table when I suspected he had had an accident.  Nope.  It was our Aussie.  Disgustingness all over my kitchen floor. 

I wondered what was going on, but didn't wonder too hard.  I mopped the floor.  I cleaned her.  I went on playing paleontologist. 

Several more times throughout the day, the scene was repeated, including the moments immediately before the new President took his oath of office. 

By 4pm, I was getting worried.  She was looking lethargic and was obviously feeling punk.  In the back of my mind was the fear that she had eaten parts of the dinosaur dig and was being poisoned.  (The comment on the label regarding "formaldehyde Phase 2" didn't alleviate my concerns any.) 

My vet was closed for the day.  I called the expensive emergency animal hospital, hoping they'd tell me to wait it out.  They told me to call Poison Control. 

For a fee of $65 Poison Control told me I should immediately get my dog to a vet. 

Ugh.  With all the upheaval of the past year, there isn't a lot of extra cash for discretionary vet bills. 

In fact, last month we were stringing popcorn and cranberries for the Christmas tree when we found one of the strands missing . . . with the needle still attached!  That call to the expensive animal hospital gave me a minimum quote of $1,500 by the time they got through with x-rays, exams, and scoping.  Add another grand if they had to do surgery. 

In another lifetime, I would have spent the money.  This time I asked the vet for home remedies.  He said to feed them bread.  Each dog got an English muffin.  We prayed . . . hard.  I watched them like a hawk for signs of sepsis.  They were fine.  Praise God!

I asked for home remedies today.  No such luck.  If it was poisoning, home remedies wouldn't do it. 

Our dogs don't get separated often, so the Newfie was frantic at being left behind.  I crated her, knowing my house would not be the same if I didn't.  The kids and I went to another neighborhood vet we had been to once before. 

Aussie messed on the floor the second we walked in the door.  In the exam room, she threw up . . . on my son's sneaker.  The personnel were amazing, though.  My kids watched the dog get a mini-bath in the back room, patted the feline mascot Arlo, and checked out a Dachshund curled up in a crate.  They also left with fish-shaped face cloths.  Good day for the kids!

It ended up being a pretty good day for Mommy, too.  The dog was suffering from something she ate, but it was nothing some probiotics and antibiotics wouldn't cure.  The bill was significantly less than the animal hospital would have been.  The vet even gave me a prescription for amoxicillin and a discount coupon to boot. 

That did lead to me having to set up a CVS account for my DOG, which was very weird. 

Pharmacist: "Is there a chance your dog is pregnant?"
Me:  "Really?  Nobody ever asks me if I'm pregnant before filling a prescription!" 

It really is a dog's life, Charlie Brown!