Life on the Bus

Last Sunday, my husband shouted to me "I can't believe we both have Graduate Degrees!" as we waited at a bus stop for an extremely late City bus.

His statement was provoked by the behavior of Maria, our youngest. My toddler cried as snow soaked her polka-dot stockings and pink dress shoes. Maria demanded to at home with warm clothes and a cup of hot chocolate. Helpless, my husband picked up Maria's wailing body and tried not to mind that her dirty shoes left tracks on his black wool coat. Jon looked at his wrist watch and grimly confirmed to our bus was now 22 minutes late.

"I can't believe we're in this situation and I've got a Graduate Degree! We BOTH have Graduate Degrees" he told me.

I looked at Jon in confusion. I didn't immediately understand the meaning of my husband's statement. After all, it was our gigantic $200,000 joint student loan debt which necessitated us taking the City Bus to Mass in the first place. What Catholic parishioners would be in this situation without two big debts and one modest income?

When my husband started recounting painful stories of graduate school, I suddenly "got" the irony of our current situation. In grad school, we'd spent hours hunched over lap tops in dimly lit libraries. We mastered courses in vague Latin terms and 18th Century Japanese Landscape Painting. We wrote term papers. We passed finals. We aced hours of job interviews. If not tons of wealth and worldly honor, there was supposed to be some sort of comfortable middle class existence that came as a reward to all of that hard work.

Never once, in all those years of study, did we consider that our future children would wander snow banks in their church clothes as we waited for a late City bus. In America, people with graduate degrees are not supposed to live lives without a car.

Filled with the Eucharist, I chose the right response. Instead of lapsing into self-pity, I started teasing my husband. "I'm the one who wore silk honor cords at graduation. I'm the one who is really not supposed to be here. Do you think they'll find out and revoke our diplomas?"

Over the head of a furious toddler with corkscrew red curls, Jon met my smile.

The bus arrived. We entered into a swirl of humanity. A babble of French and Mandarin and Creole surrounded us. Baby Maria stopped crying. Within five minutes we were home and happy again.

In truth, I love to ride the bus.

It's hard in the winter. It's hard that our bus system is either 25 minutes late, or worse, 11 minutes early. Yet even in the cold, playing extra rounds of "Mother May I" beat trying to strap uncooperative children into their car seats.

Surprising, my kids love the bus. I lived through countless crying fits while driving in a car. Yet we've only had one awful trip to Mass where Maria cried the full 35 minutes. Usually the kids adore the bus and become cheerful angels while swished along with strangers in a large City bus.

Yet the best thing about the bus is that it puts you firmly on God's time line. When we ride the bus, we are NEVER, ever late to Mass. Can you imagine? Trying to get to get three children church on time used to be awful. Now our bus drops us off at church 20 minutes early. We have time to leisurely check out our parish library and spend time praying before the Eucharist in a silent church. If we're ever so late that we miss the bus, we have to attend a later Mass.

Having to factor in a bus trip makes it easier to say "no" to unnecessary activities. I've dropped book clubs and church committees. I'm the only mother I know whose elementary age kids aren't on any sports teams. My groceries are ordered online and delivered to my home. My husband bikes to work. We spend only $60 a month on bus passes rather than endure car payments, car insurance, gas, car repairs and parking fees. Riding the bus is what keeps our family budget in the black each month.

Besides all of these practical things, there are amazing moments of Grace that keep happening on the bus. Once I sat next to a pregnant Catholic who was about to give up her baby for adoption. The conversation we had about our Blessed Mother was beautiful and something that would never happened if I drove my own car to the local library. Our new dentist, for example, is next door to an abortion clinic. Now as I wait for my kids to have their teeth cleaned I have a beautiful chance to pray for life.

I love having the chance to know my city on foot. I love knowing that the immigrants who speak the least English will give the kindest smiles to my noisy children. I love having gallant Latino men hold open bus doors and fix stuck strollers for me. The whole city has become more friendly since I started riding the bus alone with 3 small children.

The most amazing thing about the virtue of poverty, is that when you ride the bus, you can easily fit in another baby.

In my old life in a plush suburbia, I heard a Catholic mother remark that she couldn't possibly have a third baby at this time because they would have to buy a new car. I registered that comment in confusion. I was the Mom who purposely bought the most narrow car seats possible in order to wedge three small bodies into my back seat.

Then this past summer when our ancient, five seat belt car died three days before Vacation Bible School, I had another confusing car conversation with a fellow Catholic. This time a dear friend tried to sell me on the idea of emptying our retirement account to pay the $6,000 repair bill since "a rebuilt engine can last another 10 years. You'll be driving that car forever!" he said with cheerful certainty.

I looked at my friend with confusion. I didn't know how to express the sad cry in my heart. "I'm only 34!" I thought. "I don't want to drive a newly, repaired five seat car for the next ten years. I want another baby!"

Long story short, while I schlepped three tired kids on an awful 1 1/2 hour commute to Bible School, my husband sold our broken car. We canceled our car insurance and bought monthly bus passes. We found a new dentist and a new doctor on our local bus line. We ordered groceries online.

Sometime in heat of August, we decided that we need to switch to a new Catholic Church with an easier bus commute. We left the church where we were well-known. We resigned multiple church committees and volunteer posts. My husband is no longer a Lector. I stopped washing purificators. We quit attending our weekly Adoration time slots. We stopped seeing dozens and dozens of dear friends. The sacrifice of our "church home" hurt.

Now we're anonymous faces in a large City Church. Six months later, the change couldn't be better for our family. The graces are huge. We attend Daily Mass in a small, historic chapel that is a beautiful setting for Mass. We fallen in love with new, dear, parish priests. My daughter is getting First Communion with a CCD program that loves homeschoolers.

Even better, for two Carmelites that are poor in time as well as money, our new "rich" church is well run with many volunteers. There are no longer painful pleas for more Lectors at Lent or more members on that teeny purificator committee. Our big church fits this season of our Catholic life as parents who have overwhelming responsibilities for young children. We go to church to get refreshed and renewed by Christ. My only donation of "time and talent" is a warm smile to my parish priest after Mass.

By God's grace, I'll deliver a new baby this summer. For our first trip home with the new baby, we might hire a cab. We might rent a car. Or, we might ride the City Bus.

My husband happily discovered that the City Bus stops at our hospital entrance. Jon loves to picture shocked face of the volunteer who will carefully wheel a newborn and his mother from the hospital room to the driveway. Instead of pulling up with a scrubbed Honda or new Lexus, my husband, the man with a graduate degree, may carefully strap a newborn into an infant carrier and lead his sore wife onto the City Bus.

Humility. Poverty.

Four perfect souls as free gifts from the Lord for two parents who could never afford even one adoption fee.

God is good!

Stone Soup

One Saturday in Ohio, I discovered that I'd completely miscalculated our grocery budget. The pantry was beyond barren. There was a half opened box of spaghetti, a few withered garlic cloves, and a bag of frozen Starbucks coffee beans. (Ah, the days with only one five month old, when we could still afford to be fussy in our taste in coffee beans!)

We desperately needed to grocery shopping, but there was no money in our bank account until the next payday. Jon & I discussed our options over a napping baby. We could use our credit card. We could transfer some money from our savings account.


"Or, instead of spending ANY money ..." I announced, "we can host a huge Stone Soup Party!"

God graced me with an incredible husband. Jon didn't say "What crazy thing are you talking about Abby?" Instead, he mildly responded "I'm not sure I've ever heard of this Stone Soup thing."

"That's because I just made it up!" I said happily.

I reminded him that last Christmas we'd given his nephews a beautiful children's book called "Stone Soup." In the Middle Ages, three monks went to a new village to beg for food. Everyone they asked for help, refused. "What shall we do?" a hungry monk ask. An old, wise monk responded "make stone soup."

So the monks took out their large iron pot, placed three clean stones in the pot, filled it with water, built a fire and started cooking "stone soup." A little boy came by the road and asked the monks "What are you making?"

"We are making stone soup," they replied.

"Can I have some?" the little boy asked.

"Sure!" the old monk said. "The soup will be ready in a little while. But you know what would really go well with stone soup, is some carrots. Mmmm, I'd really like the taste of Stone Soup with carrots."

"We've got carrots growing in our garden!" the little boy replied.

"Go ask your mom for some carrots, and we'll add them to our soup!" the monks said.

Then a little girl walks by. The same thing is repeated, only this time the monks ask for some potatoes.

Again and again, curious villagers stop by and the monks end up adding celery, meat, turnips, and salt into the stew. Finally, the monks work is done. The entire village comes out to eat a delicious "stone" soup. "I brought the carrots!" the little boy said. "I brought the salt!" says another. Everyone agrees it is the best soup ever.

So I reminded my husband of this story. "Instead of being embarrassed that we are broke this weekend, we should celebrate it. All of our friends have been in this same place. Lets do what we do best, we'll host the party. We'll have the music and the fun. We'll let everyone else bring bring the soup supplies."

So Jon located the smooth river rock we'd picked up during our trip to Wyoming. We filled our largest stock pot with water and turned on the gas stove. Then my husband cleaned our apartment. I called everyone we knew in the small town of Athens, Ohio to invite them over to our house.

"We're having a Stone Soup Party," I said. "Pick two things out of your pantry right now that can go into a vegetable soup and bring them to our house at 6:30. The only rule is that you can't go to the store to buy anything. The ingredients have to be something that are in your house right now."

My friends were mostly Legal Aid attorneys and school teachers, so this impromptu party was right up there alley. We had at least six guests, maybe more. People brought all kinds of treats, including many extra cans of beer which made my husband very happy!

I remember this sweet moment of cooking with my former boss, Anne. I'd never made homemade soup in my life, so I had no idea what I was doing. Anne brought vegetable stock cubes. She taught me how to saute the vegetables and also insured we added enough salt.

At around 7:45 PM, we sat down to the yummiest stew. Someone had brought good bread and Olive Oil. Someone else brought wine, beer, and fancy bottled water for a nursing mother. My husband placed his favorite CDs on our stereo. Everyone was so jolly. There was something about providing their own food that made our guests extra relaxed and comfortable. It made everyone laugh that my husband and I'd had thrown a party without providing any food. "Only Abby & Jon could throw a party with an empty pot!" one friend said.

"We brought the rock." Jon kept saying, whenever they teased him. "Don't forget, we had the most important ingredient in Stone Soup. We brought the rock!"

I thought about that funny party yesterday in front of the Blessed Sacrament. Recently, I've started exploring the "gift of my poverty' in prayer. I used to assume, that the virtue of poverty referred only to material things. It seemed obvious that the Franciscan monks single habit was "better" than a socialite's closet filled with designer duds. Now, I know the spiritual dimension of "blessed are the poor" is even more true.

What is "spiritual poverty?"

I used to think that I had to put on my best thoughts and feelings before I talked to Jesus. Sort of like putting on a nice dress to go to church. I didn't dare talk to Jesus when I was angry, bitter, put out or feeling stepped on.

It was a bitter cycle. The times when I most needed help were the times when I felt most ashamed to talk to Jesus.

Now I understand that when I pray to Him most especially when I don't "feel" like it, when I'm in sin because I'm small, and hateful, and harsh-- I'm bringing Jesus the gift of my poverty.

"It's like Stone Soup!" I said in front of the Blessed Sacrament. When I pray, even when all I have is a small stone of envy and the boiling water of rage, it's like stone soup. I make a gift to Jesus of my poverty. He responds by showing down graces. He brings the carrots, and the onions, and the meat, and the salt. He even reaches down and removes those stony grudges from while I'm busy swallowing.

This metaphor is completely true.

A few weeks ago, I had the most emotional and uncomfortable interaction with a fellow Catholic at my church. "You don't need to go over that family's house, anymore. It's too hard on you," my husband told me.

"I don't think that's how this Catholic thing works," I said.

"Well, we're supposed to be friendly with everyone, but we don't have to be friends with every single family in our parish."

"I think we're supposed too try," I said. "Well, I'll at least pray about it."

I walked over by the dishwasher and gave Jesus the smallest, meanest prayer ever uttered.

"I know I'm supposed to love this person. I know I'm supposed to pray, even for an enemy. That's an impossible standard. I'm only here out of obedience to you. Here's my tiny prayer, I pray to have a better relationship with this person."

Fifteen seconds, and then I started to peel off the mustard stains from my plates and load them into the dishwasher.

A few weeks later, this same person, who I KNOW did not approve of me as a Mother or as a Catholic in any shape, left the longest, kindest message on my answering machine to invite me to join the Vacation Bible School Planning Committee. "It's mostly a chance to have a Parent's Night Out. Please join us."

"That's my prayer answer," I thought as I listened to the voice on the answering machine. I did not pick up the phone. I did not call this person back that night. I did not call this person back for several nights."

Two weeks later, we ran into this family at a rare Sunday Night Mass. We never usually go at that time. We were all there to support to my husband's first time as a Lector. I saw the family during Mass and prayed for them. Later we joyfully ran into them in the aisle. My husband was floating after his Mass experience. I felt so bouyed up by his Hope.

"It's so good to see you!" I said. There was no smile on this person's lips. Nothing bad was said. But no words or cheerful looks were returned. The conversation was like a bad four square game. My husband and I would toss out jolly remarks and we'd watch as blunt, negative responses would flatten the conversation. Mostly, I felt desperately, desperately uncomfortable.

"Well, that was rough," my husband said. "That all happened in front of Jesus, immediately after Mass. I guess were excused from pursuing a relationship now."

"I don't know," I said. "I don't think this church thing is so simple." I'm pretty sure I neglected to pray to Jesus after that remark.

Last night, after three hours of pouring over the Children's Baltimore Catecism with my husband (YUM! THE best book for converts ever!) I heard the phone ring and then a familiar voice on my answering machine.

"Hello, Abby. I hope you are having the best Feast of Christ the King ever! I hope you are doing lots of prince and princesses crown things with all of your kids. Isn't this a beautiful feast?"

"I'm so happy to hear from you," I said as I rushed to pick up the phone. I couldn't believe how much love was pouring out of my heart. "You know, I planned to do all these tiara things with the kids, but instead Jon and I have spent the whole day reading the Baltimore Catecism. You know, we're new to our faith. This little book is such a gift, it answers so many of our perplexing questions."

"Oh, that must be so beautiful to see the mysteries of our faith with fresh eyes," this person intoned.

We had this wonderful loving talk. In the middle of it, I knew I had to address the non-returned phone call. I prayed quickly to Jesus for help.

"I'm so sorry I didn't return your phone call about the Vacation Bible School."

"Oh no, problem!"

"No really, it is a problem. I actually need to ask for your prayers. I'm drowning in my first year of home-schooling. I love teaching, but I'm not getting my other Mom tasks done. I don't have one free night a month to donate to a church event. I don't have any time. I'm behind in all of my work. I'm not getting basic things done, like returning phone calls. I'm really, really struggling. I really, really need your prayers.

This veteran Catholic said that not only would s/he pray for me, but that every Tuesday, s/he would offer up all of her/his sacrifices so that I'd have an easier time with Motherhood."

"Who was that on the phone?"

My husband's face registered his shock. He's shocked I sounded so sweet and loving on the phone. He's shocked I so nakedly asked for prayer. He's shocked that I eagerly accepted a joint family visit during Advent. "That's a big change," he said.

"Oh, I'm sure we're going to be great friends now!"

"What are you talking about?"

"I gave Jesus my smallest, meanest prayer to have a better relationship with Person X," I said. "The poorer the prayer the more He responds with grace and spiritual gifts!"

I'm blessed to be so broken, so mean spirited, so hard-hearted and so sensitive. Those prayers said in the midst of my spiritual poverty, those are the ones that bring the best, best graces into my life.

Humility

During my chat with one of our debt collectors this afternoon, I stumbled into dreaded territory.

“How many dependents does your husband have? Four?” a woman with a friendly Midwestern accent chirps.

“There are five in the family now.” I answer brightly, trying to juggle a nursing newborn and a cordless phone on the same shoulder.

“And you’re STILL a stay-at-home mother?” The friendly voice becomes less friendly. The woman leans hard on the word “still.”

“Yes” I answer simply.

“And you’ve had ANOTHER baby!” There is a sharp accent on “another.”

“Yes,” I answer. A much smaller, meeker, but still simple “yes.”

Yes.
I’m the girl who is still sitting on her graduate degree,
still a mother of yet another newborn,
an ex-student still hitting the “post-pone payment” on my Sallie Mae student loan debt,
the borrower still only 18 months into a 5 year credit-card repayment schedule
AND I’m still trailing almost $1250 in debt from our family’s lapse onto Food Stamps two years ago. (Our $1250 debt is a batch of unpaid medical co-pays with an unpaid electricity bill and an unpaid Ohio parking ticket thrown in for variety. Today’s family-size judgment came from the unpaid electricity bill people.)

I must be in some sleep-deprived alternative reality because when Ms. Midwest identified which “important business matter” message had been left on my answering machine three weeks ago my heart leapt up. “Oh, Madison Electric!” I think. “I know that bill.” “Hurrah, your company’s finally made it to the top of the repayment list.” “I even sent you a check from the money we received when the baby was born.”

Ms. Midwestern Debt collector was not so joyous when she opened my account. “Yes we received your $100 payment. On June 4th. That was three months ago.” (The baby is that old already?) “No payment has been made since that date. You’re husband is still at the same job making the same amount? You’re still a stay at home mother? And you’ve had another baby!”

I answer “yes.” Then I do something that I’ve never done before. I hold my breath. I pray to the Holy Spirit for guidance. My husband has specifically asked me to stop placing impossible deadlines on our old bills. Without this promise, my natural tendency is to promise to sell my left kidney in order to pay off the creditors faster.

For example this is the verbatim conversation that occurred between the family accountant (me) and the wise, loving husband (him) on March 17, 2006.

“Honey, if we don’t pay rent for three months and ask my grandfather to cover all of our groceries, then I think I can pay off our biggest credit card by July.”

My dear husband says “No.”

“But I’ve negotiated such a great deal, we can save $4,000 if we do this.”

“No” he says with infinite patience.

“But I don’t think that we’ll get evicted as long as we stay just two months behind in rent. Even if we do get served with eviction, it’s a six week long process and I can handle all the pre-trial motions for free.”

“No,” remains his firm and wise counsel.

Eventually, even with my impaired vision, I can see that this great deal is not so great. So I call back Bank of America and tell the nice claims adjuster that the deal we spent 45 minutes hashing over is now off the table. (Eventually, we settle on $318 per month over 5 years at 9.9 % interest).

So this time, rather than have the embarrassment of over-promising and not paying, I choose to just stay silent. Not mad. Not defensive. Just quiet. And this time the debt collector actually got quiet and got off the phone. Without my promising to pay anything at any date! Because honestly, I have no idea when or how to pay off that debt.

And yet, I’m still having babies. Lots of babies. “Why?” our creditors mournfully ask.

Because. . . it’s hard to explain. I’m afraid that if I waited until I had the money thing all figured out, I’d risk never having any babies at all.

Besides Maria (our newborn) is the cheapest one yet. She came, as the Italian proverb said, with a loaf of bread tucked under her arm. Her fine baby clothes came from a surprise shower held by her Daddy’s co-workers. The income tax deduction from her birth perfectly covers Daddy’s private student loan bill—the one that begins in October and runs for the next ten years. Nursing Maria means no grocery bill yet. Her great-grandpa generously picks up her diapers during his Cosco runs. Maria even came with a tiny $844 co-pay hospital bill. Since we gave birth at Holy Cross, a Catholic hospital, we receive an additional 50% off. (The financial aid income limit for three or more children is almost double, which I excitedly interpreted as “Hey, thanks for having a large family! Please let us grant you practically free medical care!)

Claiming that Maria is such a “great deal” at only $422 doesn’t satisfy our creditors, however. I still feel bad every time they call. I don’t have any answers for them or even strength to make pretend answers. I’m still swimming in the same pool of debt. Now I’m just pulling even more babies behind me.

Practicing humility sometimes requires enduring humiliation. My husband has one pair of scruffy dress shoes from Kohl’s with soles that are so wore-out that they pick up stones during his daily walk to work. (I’m down to one pair of rhinestone encrusted snappy evening shoes and one pair of seven-year-old Teevas.) This current shoe-shortage might feel sort of liberating if it was done by us on purpose to pay for Hannah’s Catholic school tuition. (I imagine a sort of pride in taking Jesus’ call to “take only one pair of sandals with you” so literally.) Instead, we have neither money to send Hannah to pre-school now nor a clear prospect of how to pay for her kindergarten next year. There is no money to pay two-year old electricity bills and the sinking knowledge that someday soon there’s upcoming expenditure, of at least $75, for men’s dress shoes

So we are limping. We don’t have our financial house in order. Yet we are still having kids.

God Bless the Debt Collectors. What dirty, rotten job they have to slug through every day. God Bless the families that can’t pay their electric bills. God Bless those families that abstain from having more children in order to avoid conversations like mine. And God Bless newborn baby girls who are their mothers' greatest treasure.