Written: December 30th
This morning I packed brownies, pizza bites, and granola bars and stuffed our family into the Honda Pilot. It just fits our family of eight. We’re pretty squished in there, but I’m grateful we have that car. When it works it meets our needs. As we drove along on our way to a hiking spot the teenager was grumbling about the little kids touching her, kicking her, and being the nuisances and pests that she believes them to be. My two year old was incensed and screamed “liar”. I couldn’t help but laugh. It reminds me of that scene in A Princess Bride when the wife of Max the miracle worker screams “ Liar, liar. I’m not a witch, I’m your wife”. I feel like replying "I'm not a liar. I'm your mother, but after this I'm not sure I want to be. " But then something about that “liar” bothers me too, because it shows the kind of words that we focus on too much in our family. Squabbling is a normal part of car rides for us. Its unpleasantness and the cramped confines of our car are one of the reasons I don’t do long distance road trips. I’m still recovering from our recent move which I broke into two short days of driving because I couldn’t harbor the thought of my sanity holding out for doing it all in one go. Once we got to the pond trail and unpacked and started walking my cares started to melt away. Each of the kids brought their uniqueness to the outing. My eldest grumbled, grumbled and asked a billion times when we were going back home. Was I listening? My second born made up a story about how the far off sounds of hunting were actually the deranged machinations of a haunted hunter. My third born ran off gleefully towards the pond, reckless and with abandon. My fourth child intermittently sulked and giggled and tried to keep up with the older kids. My fifth child stopped every couple of minutes to collect flowers. These flowers were dead and withered, but still to her they were beautiful. My youngest demanded to walk and picked up sticks along the way in the hopes that someone would spar with him. My husband would occasionally pick him up and carry him on his shoulders. This was my family. We are far from perfect. We’re hopelessly flawed. A lot of the time I hyper-focus on all our deficiencies and fail to see the beauty. Today is the feast of the Holy Family. I love the Holy Family. We have images of them all over the house. I’ve always struggled though to find them encouraging. To me they look unattainable. How could they possibly understand my problems? Their child was the son of God. But I forget that Jesus, Mary, and Joseph were living in a world full of sin. Mary and Joseph did not necessarily understand what was being asked of them but they always obeyed. I know my family is imperfect. We are loud and cantankerous. Our words lack grace. We ask forgiveness of each other. We go to confession often. We pray together. We are a family on the way. It is a road paved with trials and tribulations. I look to the Holy Family and I ask them to help us.
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