Category Archives: Family Spirituality

I’m not fervent about New Year’s resolutions, but this year, Henri Nouwen’s website on Jan. 1 set a new direction for 2024. The year is young, and we’ll see how long my resolve lasts, but I resonated with his words, “live each day as a day full of promises. Imagine that we could walk through the new year always listening to the voice saying to us: ‘I have a gift for you and can’t wait for you to see it!’”

Pragmatic as usual, I began to try the practice daily. Surprisingly (or maybe because I was more attuned to them) the gifts abounded. One day it was a spectacular sunrise: pale blush along a mountain ridge, and at the same time, a lingering sliver of new moon. Another, it was seeing a marvelous film, “American Fiction,” that made my friend and me laugh aloud. Then, in the mail, thank you notes from my grandchildren for their Christmas gifts, colorfully illustrated. Or welcome news arrives, that the dear family members we’d said goodbye to at Christmas would return to visit President’s Day week. When plans change or events are cancelled, comes the unexpected gift which Ross Gay, author of The Book of More Delights describes, “as if the universe just dropped a luminous bouquet of time in your lap. Time which is scant and sinister…becomes spacious as the sky in Montana.”

Readers can add their own gifts to this sketch of an initial list: the first green tips of hyacinths and daffodils emerging in spring, a brilliant rainbow arching over children walking to school, the simple process of swimming, showering, and slipping into clean sheets, a conversation with good friends over lunch, the fragrance after rain, an intriguing book. Add in: a thoughtless remark that could’ve caused more harm, unsafe driving that could’ve resulted in a ticket or accident—and didn’t.

Some might ask if the gifts are always good. What about bad news? Over time, perhaps we learn to recognize clever camouflage. What at first might seem disaster turns out in the long run to be blessing. For genuine tragedy, I have no answer, nor desire to drape it in pious language.

On January 16, I was pleased to read Demetrius Dumm, OSB’s reflection in Give Us This Day, differentiating David from Saul. Each represents a choice in our lives. David is “in touch with God’s goodness, looking for the blessing… positive and imaginative in dealing with problems.” Saul is “ready for the worst, cautious to the point of paralysis, fearful…negative.” There’s probably a spectrum in between, but I hope the daily practice of seeking gifts will lean me more towards David.

for taking down the Christmas tree… We put them up and decorate them with such excitement, “Deck the Halls” and other favorite songs probably playing. The tree, fragrant with soft branches, quickly becomes the center of the room. To many homes, it probably brings the most beauty of the whole year. Anticipation is high; the full season stretches ahead. We envision family members and friends gathering here, hot meals and cocoas, enticing gifts piled beneath branches. The ornaments represent the whole arc of a life—from a childhood tiny red tea pot, to souvenirs of travel, to gifts from special people who chose creatively. For over a month the first thing I do every morning is light the tree and the last thing, turn off its bright glow. It’s so hard to take the tree down, I recently spent three days at a retreat center, praying through the transition.

Fortunately, the kind staff at the retreat house gives me a room with a full view of the ocean, so I can watch the play of light take many forms there. The first rays touch the white ridge of waves, then sun lays a blazing path to the horizon at noon, later pours its molten gold and at sunset tints the ocean a deepening fuchsia. Grace too can take many forms, through hellos and goodbyes, the first Sunday of Advent through Epiphany. Or maybe the start and end points aren’t so clear, more like one ocean with high and low tides.

We can navigate the fluctuations like surfers gracefully carving the waters. Firmly tethered to their boards, or in metaphor, the divine, they look past the immediate wave and watch the far horizon, reading the swells, or seeing the Big Picture. My prayer was to learn to ride the sometimes tumultuous waves of life with the same art and trust.

Returning home to the inevitable, removing the tree ornaments and wrapping them in tissue paper, the sweet narratives were wrapped in as well. This year, I showed my granddaughters the ornament their dad had made when he was five—45 years ago. He beamed, seeing a small gingerbread man his teacher had made him in fourth grade. “Mrs. Whitman!” He recognized her immediately, and remembered how she loved his stories. I suspect she planted some seed, so that now as he stands before a large audience, acknowledging an award for his work, he easily uses stories to lighten his talk.

Interesting, that I don’t recall taking down Christmas trees over many years, only that their beauty became a focal point of the whole season. This year, my granddaughter helps me dismantle, thus making the process less painful. Still, hard to ignore an aching void in the corner of the room, one that I hope will fill again next year in life’s unfolding mystery.

It’s not over yet. Sad to take down the Christmas decorations, but the feast of Epiphany still burns bright.

Long before Jesus preached inclusivity, Mary practiced it. Imagine being the mother of a newborn, exhausted from a trip to register for the census in Bethlehem. Then picture giving birth in a stable, which was probably not as cozy and clean as most Christmas cards depict. Mary is far away from her support system, so she can’t rely on her mother, sisters or friends for help. No casseroles, no baby blankets. 

Then, according to Luke, a crowd of shepherds arrives. They must be strangers, but there is no record of Mary feeling uncomfortable with these uninvited guests. Instead, she “treasures” the memories and is filled with gratitude. Matthew’s account of the magi doesn’t mention Mary’s response, but she must have wondered: how many more strangers would crowd into their temporary housing? These surprising visitors aren’t even Jewish–and bring the strangest gifts. 

Mary’s experience should give us fair warning. If we hang around with Jesus, we’d better keep our doors open. He brings along an odd assortment of friends. They may not bring frankincense or myrrh, but they arrive unexpectedly when there are only two pork chops for dinner. They come disguised as the children’s friends or the lonely neighbor who talks too long while the rolls burn. They phone at the worst possible times and they interrupt our most cherished plans. And in these, says Jesus, you’ll find me. This feast seems to celebrate James Joyce’s description of the Catholic church at its inclusive best: “here comes everybody!”  

An intriguing figure in today’s gospel (Luke 2:22-40) is Anna the prophetess. Scripture scholar Barbara Reid believes that she, Mary and Elizabeth continue the long line of Israel’s powerful prophets. After her, women speak in pain or are corrected or disbelieved. But she, overhearing Simeon tell a bewildered young mother she’d be pierced by a sword, redirects the conversation back to where it belongs: to thanking God.  

Luke has the key characters in this little drama enter off stage, not the razzle-dazzle of the main altar or the chief priest, but a side aisle. Artfully he transposes from temple vastness into human scale. The tableau that really matters is composed of two couples, one old, one younger, centered on an infant. In her quiet way, Anna becomes the threshold to the next quiet chapter of Jesus’ life, when “he grew and became strong, filled with wisdom; and the favor of God was upon him” (Lk. 2:40). Anna signals the spectacular power that coiled beneath the apparently unimpressive surface. Had she spoken in twenty-first-century jargon, she might’ve winked conspiratorially and said, “Stay tuned…”

On 12/28/14, Pope Francis linked Anna and Simeon to grandparents. In better moments, grandparents know how precious children are. Call them dotty, but they’ve been sidelined to the really important work: cradling. Soothing. Rocking. Humming.  Inventing songs and games. It’s a “hidden way” of life; its immense fulfillment not publicized. What gives it depth and resonance is the echo back to that temple in Jerusalem where two old people waited.

Anna is the patron saint of those whose language speaks through care, the grandparents who sing off-key lullabyes, hunched over a precious lump in crib or arms, the backstage crew, the meticulous researchers who painstakingly prepare the way for the breakthrough discovery, but receive no credit themselves. She also could model for those who wait—sometimes interminably long—but don’t lose hope.

Excerpts from More Hidden Women of the Gospels by Kathy Coffey, Orbis Books, Orbis Books, 800-258-5838, or https://orbisbooks.com/

Perhaps the challenge of the Christmas season is whether we can hear familiar stories and songs with wonder, not the yawn of “déjà vu.”  Our model might be the three-year old boy, who,  entering a vast, baroque cathedral for the first time at Christmas, seeing the trees, banners, huge statues, a jillion tiny white lights, glittering mosaics arching overhead into infinite space, breathed one word: “wow.” Can we allow the stories we’ve heard a thousand times—of a journey to Bethlehem, a stable, angels, shepherds and magi, to resonate at a deeper level this year? Can we attend with care to whatever God wants to birth in us during this season? As Eugene Ionesco warns, “over-explanation separates us from astonishment.” Perhaps the rest of the year can be cut-and-dried, but this is the season for mystery to flourish.

If ever we misperceived God as stingy or punitive, the scriptures of this season should correct that image, as God pours forth God’s self in the only Son, who begins his great adventure now. Like beautiful bells, the prophets foretell: something spectacular is on the way!

The psalms keep the focus where it belongs: on the praise of God, not on human predicaments nor flaws. They bring out today’s equivalent of the big brass band: lute and harp, the songs of forest, plains, earth and sea.  And limited human beings brush shoulders with angels as all sing God’s glory.

John’s letters after Christmas might startle those who spent their childhoods following the rules, pleasing authorities and winning awards. God gives everyone gold stars, an inestimable gift of adoption as God’s heirs that no one can deserve. This inheritance would fill us with confidence and gratitude if we weren’t numb to the implications. One response might be to break into the glad abandon of dance—or to carry that exuberance more quietly within. The season also celebrates saints who took the lavish promise seriously, raising the question, “Can I too believe that God delights in me?”

This season seems permeated with impossibilities like the dead stump of Jesse budding. Even if we could wrap our minds around the idea of God becoming human, “pitching a tent in us,“ it’s an even longer leap to see ourselves as God’s children, heirs to the divine kingdom. Irish poet John O’Donohue writes of “being betrothed to the unknown.” Christmas means we are also married to the impossible, getting comfortable with the preposterous. It all began with Mary’s vote of confidence: “For nothing is impossible with God.” During liturgies when we hear Mary’s “Magnificat,” we might remember Elizabeth’s words that precede it: “Blessed are you who believed that what was spoken to you by the Lord will be fulfilled” (Luke 1:45).

It’s a good time to ask ourselves, do we let bitterness and cynicism poison our hearts? Ironically, WE are conscious of our own limitations. GOD keeps reminding us of our high calling, royal lineage and a mission so impeccably suited to our talents and abilities, no one else in the world can do it. Again, Mary is the perfect model. She might not understand half the titles given her son in the “Alleluia Chorus” of the “Messiah.” Mighty God? Prince of Peace? Such language is better suited to a royal citadel than a poor village named Nazareth.  While her questions are natural, she never wimps out with “I don’t deserve this honor.” Instead, she rises to the occasion.

What’s become of our great dreams? Have we adjusted wisely to reality, or buried ideals in a tide of cynicism? Mired in our own problems and anxieties, do we struggle more with good news than with bad? If these questions make us squirm, perhaps we need the prayer of Macrina Wiederkehr, OSB: “God help me believe the truth about myself, no matter how beautiful it is.”

Remember that the adult Jesus hung out with some unsavory characters: crooks and curmudgeons, loudmouths and lepers, shady ladies and detested tax guys. In his scheme of things, our virtue trips us up more than our sin. The ugly stain of self-righteousness blocks our path to God more than natural, human failures.  Limited as we know ourselves to be, we might ask ourselves the question raised by novelist Gail Godwin, “who of us can say we’re not in the process of being used right now, this Advent, to fulfill some purpose whose grace and goodness would boggle our imagination if we could even begin to get our minds around it?” (“Genealogy and Grace” in Watch for the Light. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 2004, 167)

Notice the angel Gabriel’s first word to Mary: “Rejoice.” The baby in Elizabeth’s womb as she greets Mary “leaps for joy.” Let’s remember that tone this week, which can be one of the most hectic in the year. The angel says, “rejoice.” Not “spend. Clean. Cook. Decorate. Shop. Bake. Wrap. Shop again. Create the perfect holiday ambiance. Work to exhaustion. Make everyone in the family sublimely happy.”

As we do seasonal tasks this week, may we do them not as perfectionists, but with a mantra of gratitude and praise: Not “I have to do this,” but “I get to do this. Let me do it with thanks.”

The human ego resists change, especially as we age. “Gimme my safe rut, even if it’s miserable!” we say, defying logic. But Advent presents a different approach to change.

Mary models the perfect response to God’s unexpected, even scandalous intervention in her life. When she told Gabriel, “May it be to me as you have said,” she had no guarantees, no script foretelling the future. All she’d learned was the trust handed on by great great-grandmothers: if it comes from God’s hands, it must be perfectly tailored for me.

In times of central heating and plentiful food supplies, we no longer battle the winter as our ancestors did, finding it a precarious season to stay alive. Isolated from others, running low on resources, great-grandparents endured many cold, gloomy nights. How they must’ve rejoiced at those glints of light in dark forests, when almost imperceptibly, the planet tilted towards spring, and the days became longer.

We too have reasons for despair, crippling fears, anxiety over how much we need to do before Christmas. If problems are more serious, do we run from them, or lean into them, wondering what they might teach us? Can we befriend our pain, knowing we’re more than its sting? Could we embrace for once an imperfect holiday, not scripted by Martha Stewart, but perhaps closer to the first, where an unmarried couple had to scrounge an inhospitable place to have a baby?

We start Advent not with dread or foreboding, but with joyful anticipation. It’s like welcoming into our homes a dear friend or relative whom we haven’t seen for a while. There’s probably a flurry of cleaning, grocery shopping and cooking—all done with delight. When we look forward to renewing a close relationship, the preparation isn’t a burdensome chore. It may be tiring, but it’s happy.   

Jesus gives the disciples similar advice in today’s gospel: don’t be snoozing when an important visitor arrives. Be alert, awake, watchful as people are at an airport, searching the crowd for a beloved face.

How much more carefully we await the arrival of God. God is already with us, always and everywhere. Our Advent preparations highlight that presence, helping us become more aware. If we are lulled into anesthesia by busy schedules or overfamiliarity, Advent is the wake-up call. Look at what richness surrounds us! See how blessed we are! Do we look for God like the gospel gatekeeper, with a sharp eye? Or do we surrender our spirituality for the ersatz cheer of sales and malls?

One way of marking time that has been honored by Christians for centuries is the Advent wreath. Googling the phrase produces over 100,000 results—ways to buy one, make one, pray with one. This circle of pine with four candles nestled within can become the center for Advent prayer, reflection and song. It reminds us to pause, breathe deeply of its fragrance, remember what distinguishes this time of year.

Many older people don’t want any more Stuff for the holidays. They’re trying to clear out, streamline, de-clutter. But what they could use is this: a dose of affirmation, a breath of humor, a unique window into the spirituality of their experience. Even this book’s proof-reader said it was like having a cup of hot tea under a warm blanket!

A Generous Lap offers affirmation of what grandparents do naturally—love the grandkids.While not skirting the challenges and difficulties, it shows how for many, a renewed involvement with children can lead to the unveiling and flourishing of the truest, best self. The book interweaves two themes: the experiences of one grandparent, and the spirituality which saturates it.

Grandparents learn from unique small people, sent into our lives at this precise moment to teach exactly what we need for the final chapter. In Grandparent School, there are no tests nor grades, but what stakes could be higher than contributing to the growth and development of a healthy human being? And it’s not just about Biology. Fr. Richard Rohr coined the term “grand parent” (note the space between words) to refer to people of a certain age who’ve grown so spacious and comfortable, children and adults feel safe around them.

At this stage of life, the frenzied pursuits of earlier years can be set aside. When we’re no longer intent on accomplishing, proving, and attaining our own goals, we can marvel at God’s work. The professional wardrobe and the identity that went with it no longer seem important when the lucky grandparent is chosen as “base” for tag.

For some, the path to wholeness is grandparenting. Why are we given the chance to grandparent? Maybe to grow closer to God later in life, or to find our truest self. We discover again that humans who make serious mistakes can still be channels for grace.

In grandchildren, hope is made visible, tangible, a promise that what I’ve worked a lifetime to become will continue. Whether it’s love of reading or music, work for social justice, appreciation of beauty, dedication to health—all that is finest in us is mysteriously passed on. What a blessed glimpse of our own immortality!

These excerpts give hints of what the book contains—other bonuses are its cover art (“Jesus Has a Sleepover with his Grandparents”), questions for reflection or discussion, interviews with active grandparents, and profiles of those who have had remarkable influence on later generations.

To order, call Orbis Books, 800-258-5838, or see their website: https://orbisbooks.com/

Register for an online Advent Day of Prayer with Kathy Coffey December 2:

 https://futurechurch.org/event/?=272  (free will offering)

I’ve said it before, but Thanksgiving seems a good time to repeat. Gratitude isn’t an attitude, but a deliberate practice, which like any other skill, builds as we do it more often, more concretely. While we’re all grateful for health, family, security and peace, those are abstractions.

Dr. Brene Brown, who has done extensive research with traumatized people says that when they undergo war, catastrophe or pain, they miss the ordinary things: a shaft of late afternoon light touching the dahlia’s peach-gold petals, “the way a wife set the table.” So in that spirit, I try to record specifics in my gratitude journal.

Looking back over a year of entries there, I seek patterns. Some things are constant: looking forward during the day to movies on PBS or Netflix at night, sun after rain, clean laundry baking on the line, surprise visits from my grandkids, who thankfully pop in and out of my days with charming quips.

It’s also interesting how often touchstones of memory appear. Hearing my yoga teacher’s voice, we’re back on our retreat in Tuscany, in the studio with terra cotta walls and cedar floor, hills and geraniums outside the windows. Or wearing a certain shirt, a vivid memory of the day I bought it with my daughter, our unanimous agreement that color and fit were perfect. Or leftovers savored the next day, which bring back the original restaurant or table at home, the group of family/friends gathered for a meal.

Then there’s the thrill of finding—the eyeglasses that were lost for months, suddenly turning up in the trunk of the car, the library book left on an airplane and kindly returned by a thoughtful passenger, the butter in the freezer that saves a trip to the store, pens under couches, earrings in coat pockets, a cookie from a trip, still not stale, work that won’t need to be redone, stored safely in the computer.

Nature appears often—from the first red leaves on the maple tree in spring to the last amber ones in fall, the way the sun in Northern California unfailingly clears the morning fog, hummingbirds dipping into the feeder, shining paths carved on the ocean by the light, the jewels left by rain on long grasses touched by sun. These beauties make me grateful for Celtic spirituality, which finds God in sacred landscape more than in the hierarchical structures of church.

Always grateful for a bonanza of library books—most recently,

The Covenant of Water, Abraham Verghese

The Heaven & Earth Grocery Store, James McBride

Tom Lake, Ann Patchett

The Book of Awakening, Mark Nepo

Blocks of time, especially those that come by surprise, always rate gratitude, maybe because I’ve felt short on time most of my life. An unscheduled afternoon or day feels like graced gift, and makes me appreciate the years of life I’ve been given, more than several friends and relatives who died prematurely.

The main value in reviewing causes for gratitude lies in prompting the reader’s own. No list is exhaustive; all are enriched by broader contributions. So, what makes YOU grateful?

Register for an online Advent Day of Prayer with Kathy Coffey December 2:

 https://futurechurch.org/event/?=272  (free will offering)