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I Want My Hour Back

time

I was planning on writing a big diatribe about how much I dislike Daylight Savings Time. I could have used the hour that was taken away from me to write this anti-DST manifesto and rally like-minded concerned citizens to launch letter writing campaigns to their congressional representatives, hopefully reversing this unfortunate tradition.

It isn’t so much the hour I have lost…it is having to change the entire family routine and bedtime wrangling because some farmers needed extra light during WWI (the entire fascinating history of this barbaric practice can be found here). While Farmer MacInsomiac was busy using the extra daylight to slop his hogs he set a chain of events into motion that denied ME rest as I try to convince small children that it is okay to go to bed when it is still light outside.

Servant

Reflecting on the loss of a man who made a profound impact on the world…

To maintain a joyful family requires much from both the parents and the children. Each member of the family has to become, in a special way, the servant of the others.

Pope John Paul II

Joel a seventeen-month-old servant? Can Ryley serve Tommy, can Sam serve Aidan, are hubby and I servants to each other?

I am guilty of saying to the kids “I am not your servant!” but I really am.

I try to remember that each individual member of our family has an impact, a gift to give to each other member. Sam’s relationship with Tommy is unique to the two of them, just as Tommy’s bond with Ryley is different than his bond with Joel. All these different dynamics under one roof can seem daunting and difficult to manage, but the key is not trying to manage too much. I can direct, I can lead by example, but I cannot ever fully understand the intricacies of what the kids are building amongst themselves.

I can learn from the way they serve each other, however. Aidan brings home little trinkets she wins at school on blue slip drawing days. One day she brought home toy sharks for Tommy and Sam. It thrilled them, not so much because they were the proud new guardians of plastic great white and hammerhead sharks but because their big sister thought about them. They kept thanking her over and over. I love seeing gratitude expressed between the kids. I should express my own gratitude toward them more often by telling them what gifts, what treasures they are.

Each of the four bigs kids has discovered their unique keys to making Joel laugh. Aidan runs at him waving her arms. Ryley makes faces, Sammy likes to tickle, and Tommy makes funny noises. Joel is a lucky guy! He rewards them with his gerbily grin and squeals. They see that they can make a positive impact on someone else. They have that power. They are servants.

An April Not For Her Eyes

Terri Schiavo died today, starved to death; her organs and eyes swollen and cracked with dehydration, her heart beat ceased because blood does not feed the dead and the dried.

Regardless of where one falls on the end-of-life issues brought to light by this all-around tragedy, nobody can argue that her death was dignified or humane in the least. I have seen editorials attempt to persuade that dehydration and starvation is a peaceful way to die and that she may have been given morphine. Why the morphine if eyeballs cracking in their sockets is so serene?

The truth is that all living things cry out for nourishment and water. There is nothing “artificial” about what was sustaining her life. The mode of delivering the nourishment was artificial, but so are baby bottles.

Today is the last day of March, the last day of her life. She will not see April. It wasn’t promised to her and it isn’t promised to any one else, either. From T.S. Eliot’s The Burial of the Dead:

April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.

Isn’t it amazing that what seems so dead during a winter is actually shockingly and greedily alive. The lilacs spring to life, the flowers and grass too. They appear dead, but there must be something, the smallest kernel of life deep inside holding out for those drops of melted snow.