He Never Misses

Category: Change the World

  • Confessions of a Creeper…

    I am what my Dad’s friend, Ed, calls a “creeper”.  Apparently, this is a quality dreaded by persons with whom the offender cohabitates.  You see, evidently there is an invisible line of demarcation on a bathroom counter.  One ought not to cross said line for any reason.  “Creeper” is the official term used for repeat offenders of this “law”.

    Last week, Tom and I were in a small territorial war it seems.  I would place my oversized bottle of Scope over the “Mason-Dixon” line, and then when I was not around he would place it back on my side of the counter.  This went on for several days until he placed my Sam’s Club sized bottle of mouthwash as far as he could place it away from his side, all the way in the far left corner of my sink.

    Arriving home Friday night, he noticed that the offending antiseptic was nowhere to be seen.  VICTORY was his!  I had seen the light and put the bottle away under my sink as he had been hoping I would!  Sheepishly, as he changed for our dinner out with friends, he mentioned to me about our little passive-aggressive counter top battle and how happy he was that I had seen the light.

    This story came to my mind after my Election Day experience on Tuesday.  You see, I went to my polling place at the Carmel Fire Station on 131st St. and I encountered a fairly lengthy line of folks snaking around the fire truck waiting their turn to vote in the mid-terms.  That gave me time to make a friend. Just in front of me our good and gracious God placed a friendly woman with whom I quickly struck up a conversation.  She told me she was a Jewish woman from Iran and that she had moved to the US when she was 14. She marveled at all the things that make America “the greatest country on earth” (her words) not the least of which is the remarkably civil way we treat others who are on the other side of the aisle from us—who have a different perspective.  I’m pretty sure I crinkled my nose about that last part. Does this gal not own a TV? She further explained that she knew to me that must sound crazy as we have lost our way a bit with all the over the top yelling at each other and mean TV ads.  “But at the end of the day, if the current leader loses the election, he will call to congratulate the winner.  Then, he will give him the keys to his office peacefully and without incident.  In my old country, if you lose the election, they kill you.”  Yikes.  How do I take back my crinkled up nose?

    She went on to explain that she misses the civil discourse she used to see here a bit more regularly.  We discussed the concept of “agreeing to disagree”.  She said the “your side vs. my side” stuff was tiring and that we definitely should put our phones down and quit making comments on Facebook and Twitter that we wouldn’t dream of saying in person.   She expressed her deep desire that we remember what it is to speak face- to- face about what is bothering us.  “It just works better,” she added “but democracy is amazing and I could never dream of skipping the opportunity to vote!”  AMEN.

    This leads me back to our territorial battle over the bathroom counter at the Thieme house.  Here’s the rub.  I had NO IDEA what Tom was talking about when he thought I had seen the light and corrected the error of my “creeper” ways.  In fact, when I realized what had been going on under my nose, I just looked up at him with very genuine confusion, followed quickly by a great big belly laugh.  Then, he shook his head and started laughing too.  I mean,  good grief!  It’s been 24 years of marriage.  Despite the genius of his patient and repeated witness on this concept, one would think by now my remarkably intelligent husband would grasp the fact that I simply do not speak passive- aggressive?  Nevertheless, my face, as it often does, told him the full story.  I just had genuinely missed the entire week of counter wars.  I had no clue he was bugged by the Scope and zero idea there was a “thing” happening.  His frustration was completely lost on me.   I’m just authentically not that into worrying about where stuff is on the counter.  This explains why the “house” part of “housewife” gets me every time.   It was at that moment he saw it too and we both began to look at each other and really laugh.

    At the end of the day, Tom and I did one thing right.  We realized we are living in the same house and we were able to laugh about how differently we think and navigate life.  Discussing our disagreements rationally and with an open mind is virtually always more effective than engaging in civil war?  I am never going to care about where the Scope is stored.  Tom is never going to be happy living with a creeper.  Chances are good we can negotiate a solution here that is good for us both.

    Compromise, agreeing to disagree, laughing with each other despite differences— these are all simple concepts worth revisiting.

    No tennis shoes on the bed in exchange for the Scope under the sink…..what do you say, hon?

    No matter who you were for this election season, I hope you voted!

    God Bless America.

  • Kooky Aunt Helen

    In loving memory of my peculiar, imprudent, silly and utterly amazing great aunt Helen Lammers…
    On left, my photo from inside San Luigi dei Francesi, “The Calling of St. Matthew”

    Allow me to introduce you to my Aunt Helen. To merely describe her as a colorful figure in my childhood would do her a tragic disservice. Aunt Helen always wore a wig and whatever was trending in the juniors department at Kmart. I recall quite a few long, bold fish necklaces paired with stirrup pants, big sweaters and those plastic shoes we called “jellies” on her feet. Her gifts at the holidays were always my favorite, despite being the least expensive of all the offerings, because they were so obnoxiously wrapped, one inside the other. The unwrapping lasted a long time…which I found incredibly fun! Inside, there would inevitably be some vibrating or glow in the dark plastic trinket mostly likely purchased at Spencer gifts.

    If you could hum her a few bars, she could play absolutely any song you wished on her piano. She rarely, if ever, used sheet music. She liked us to sing along with her to songs like “Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better”, and she always insisted I sing it in an octave a little higher than my alto voice wanted to go. “It sounds prettier,” she’d whisper. She wrote a little song about me as a small girl, the chorus of which included my entire proper name, which somehow rhymed the way she sang it. Phonetically, it sounded like “ME-SHEL-LIN DIE-Q-ZIN… is a very pretty girl.” There were verses too, but I don’t remember them now. I do, however, remember that chorus and how she made me feel when she sang that song.

    Aunt Helen was the sister of my grandmother, Pauline. That made her my great aunt, in reality. She had one beloved son who had long since moved to Florida when I was coming of age, and he was unmarried. That made my sister, Robin and myself her adopted grandchildren. Since Mom was a young student at Purdue when she married my Dad, Aunt Helen was a frequent babysitter. I spent a lot of time at her little house on 27th Street, just a block from Columbian Park and with a backyard that virtually backed into the front door of the old Home Hospital. We made tents out of the sheets she hung from her clothesline in the backyard and spent whole afternoons pretending to hold an imaginary circus, making a palace for our dolls, or trying on her closet full of high heels. It didn’t matter that we were without a swimsuit. If it was hot and we wanted to run through her sprinkler, she just told us not to worry about a silly problem like swimsuits and she let us run through in our underwear. We’d break pieces of bread and toss them back into their bread bags and take them to the park to feed the ducks. The larger, more aggressive among the flock terrified me not just a little, and my running from them made Aunt Helen cackle with delight on many occasions.

    As I grew older, we remained close. She was my confirmation sponsor. When Tom and I were in high school and then in college, we would stop in to visit my Aunt Helen (and Uncle Charlie) to play euchre. It was always girls vs. boys and I really have no recollection of who won or who lost. I just remember my quirky Uncle Charlie always slow playing his 1 beer and 3 oreos, which by the way, was the same pace at which he played euchre. We always left there smiling and feeling like it was time well spent. I loved Tom for all the hands of cards he played with me and my grandparents as well as Aunt Helen and Uncle Charlie.

    When she passed away down in Florida, where she went to live with her son Johnny at the end of her life, I recall feeling robbed of the opportunity to properly mourn someone I loved so deeply. All those years later, I honestly still feel that way. Here’s the utterly inappropriate and yet awesome gift Aunt Helen gave me. I knew I was her favorite. She was embarrassingly open about the fact that she liked me just a little better than everyone else, and in fact it got her into some trouble with my grandmother as well as my parents. “Helen, you can’t ask the girls what they want for dinner and then ALWAYS make what Shelly asks for,” my grandmother would scold. As a parent myself, I know I would be vocal about this kind of favoritism when it comes to my boys. It was wrong….oh so wrong….B-U-T….I always felt beloved by her.

    When I was in Rome very recently, I found myself in the very front left corner of a church called “San Luigi dei Francesi” which translates “The Church of St. Louis of the French” and it is not far from Piazza Navona. One of the side chapels in this beautiful church contains some spectacular paintings by the baroque master Caravaggio. This includes a world renowned canvas of “The Calling of St. Matthew”, the seeing of which rather took my breath away. It has long been a painting I consider a favorite for spiritual reasons I don’t think I can convey adequately here. To look up, though, and see it in person felt a whole lot like being that 8 year-old girl who knew she was Aunt Helen’s favorite. In that instant, a certain feeling of belovedness which often eludes me, just washed over me.

    For just a moment, I nearly drowned in it.

    Writing about a moment of divine intimacy, or of spiritual consolation is often said to be a poor idea, as it’s very giving away can serve to minimize or trollop on the moment which was perhaps meant to be a private gift between one soul and it’s Creator, among other reasons.

    Here’s the reason I’m doing it anyway. The thing that had long prevented me from growing closer to God was a disordered view of myself. Like A LOT of people I know, I had been Matthew with my head on the table. I am quick to believe all criticism and remember all failure, and loathe to believe in my goodness. I long felt like Matthew with his head on the table saying “not me, Lord.” He was a hated tax collector, he was all things unworthy. Yet there was Jesus pointing at him saying, “Come follow me.”

    We think we are so darn smart, but our self-knowledge and ingenuity are utterly insufficient, and they certainly won’t effectuate union with God. What we really need is a supernatural faith. We need a faith that understands God loves His children more than we love ours. We need to know that we are worthy, our lives priceless, simply because WE ARE HIS.

    If you are reading my words today, I want you to know something. YOU ARE LOVED. YOU ARE NOT ALONE. YOU ARE WORTHY.

    This summer, my cousin took his life and that of his family. This fall, a young college senior named Evan, who was the very picture of goodness, took his life. Last week, the nephew of a church friend, a young man named JJ, the only child of his parents, took his life. In the last year alone, my pastor has buried 5 of his parishioners after the same tragedy. Folks, this must stop.

    I’m not quite sure how but we must help and it must begin with being unafraid to love others. That means EVERYONE. ALWAYS. You and I maybe aren’t mental health professionals. We are just regular people like my Aunt Helen. What can we do about it, right? I mean who are we to solve such a big problem? I’m not sure.

    However, I do know this. Aunt Helen was divorced at a young age, a thing about which she never spoke. She liked her cocktails a little too much. She thought iodine and baby oil was the nectar of the Gods and should be slathered upon the human body whenever the sun peaked out. She seemed to believe pimento cheese and fried chicken were both food groups unto themselves. Also, in her quirky and ordinary life, she was the face of Christ to me. Despite her flaws, God used her to teach me that I am beloved. She was a person who seemed to see the butterfly wings I couldn’t spot because they were behind me. So, when God came close to remind me, I remembered the feeling as I gazed at the beauty of the Caravaggio painting and He drew me in.

    I left there thinking about how very much I love Him, and that I can do more for the Lord.

    The beautiful senses God has given us can help us grow in holiness. I feel His love at mass, in the Eucharist and when Tom kisses me gently on the forehead. I feel it when a friend sends me a sweet card or when the sun sets over Lake Michigan—and apparently in the corners of dusty old churches in Rome I discover with Mom.

    This week, we celebrated the feast day of one of my favorites, St. Theresa of Avila. She said this. “The important thing is not to think much but to love much; and do that which best stirs you to love.”

    I don’t know how to fix so many problems I see in this world, but I think it starts there.

     

  • WHAT IF….

    When we let the little cracks in our heart show, that’s where the light seeps out.  That’s what I’m telling myself as I write.

    Four years ago, I lost a friend.  Gosh, the whole of my community lost her.  She was shiny and beloved.  She died in a senseless shooting.  It was a murder-suicide.  I try and honor her memory in my life in various ways, but mostly, though, by very intentional affirmation of others and a decision to say  (with a wink to heaven) “Bless his/her heart…” before choosing words that might turn out to be less than kind.  I still have a boat load of work to do if I want to ever shine a light as bright as Shannon’s.  Still, “that date” on my calendar in late July makes my stomach churn.

    Several days ago, I got another call.  It was mom.  Horrific violence, she reported, resulted in the death of three members of my family.  Two were murdered and a third was responsible.  He took his own life as well.  I heard it, but I didn’t.  I’m still reeling, to be candid.  That call from mom came four years later, on the same day I was remembering how Shannon was taken.  It was “that date” on my calendar.  All the questions you have?  They don’t have answers.  Not really.

    In a moment like this, nothing feels the same, and everything seems unimportant in comparison.  Also, things are all numb and fuzzy.

    I don’t really want to share more details, because those who are the very closest to this situation are people I love and they are beyond consolation at present.  However, God has placed a few things on my heart and I think it might help to share them.

    Keep this in mind.  I am unapologetically a Christian woman.  Actually, to be specific, I am a Roman Catholic.  This fact frames how I think and feel about most things, and it informs how I respond to life in all its complexities.

    Perhaps I’ve lost a few of you now, but please try and stay with me?  I understand.  In fact, at a local coffee shop this week I was unpacking sorrow and concern in the lap of a faithful friend.  I am told even my whisper is top volume, so inevitably I am overheard.  An interested passerby was kind enough to pick up the “Catholic” in my words and interjected that he didn’t “mean any harm” but we Catholics are all a joke with corrupt leaders.  I’m going to assume this human hasn’t discovered the Lord at all yet.  If that’s where you are too, I want you to know I respect how you feel, and I will probably pray for you even against your will.  Before I continue, allow me to share my only viable response to this.  I’ve not quite mastered it’s memorization, but I have the sentiment down cold.  In my sorrow that morning at Panera, I regret I wasn’t able to think clearly enough to share it, so I’ve decided to victimize those reading with the wisdom I failed to impart that morning.

    “The Catholic Church is an institution I am bound to hold divine—but for unbelievers a proof of it’s divinity might be found in the fact that no merely human institution conducted with such knavish imbecility would have lasted a fortnight”  –Hilaire Belloc

    Now, Belloc was born in 1870, but his words are the most relevant I’ve discovered recently, and they contain the truth as I know them.  So, please forgive me as I share some wise words that I think will ring as truth for all who believe in Jesus.  These matter more to me than any failed or sinful leadership ever could.

    A holy 90+ year old Monsignor (that’s kind of an honorific in the Catholic Church…he’s a priest) who says daily mass occasionally at my parish told us last week to remember that we are not our own.  A great price was paid for us, and what that means is that we are called to be the salt and the light.  We are called to be the face of foolish courtesy and love for others—even if it defies logic.  His message was so beautifully and simply delivered.  It stuck in my brain—a gift from God.

    Now, imagine losing your daughter and your young granddaughter violently.  Ponder also immediately deciding to forgive the responsible party AND to have a funeral for all three—TOGETHER.

    It defies all logic.  It’s the ultimate example of foolish courtesy and love for others.  It was grace beyond all imagining.  My jaw is still slack considering the beauty of this choice.

    There was absolutely no way to leave that funeral unaffected by scores of 8 year old girls mourning the loss of their teammate, or  without being wrecked by the faces of two sets of mourning parents and grandparents, siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles.

    Also, there was no way for me to leave there without hearing the daily mass homily I had filed previously in my mind that called for ALL OF US to be foolishly courteous and loving.  Always.  I could not even conceive of a more dramatic example of love than what I had just witnessed.

    My dear friend Julie sent me this beautiful thought yesterday.  She said, “imagine what would happen if we all think about what is right with people rather than fixating on what is wrong with them.”

    WHAT IF? What if we all choose to see the right and love others ridiculously…like the Colliers?  If they can do that, what small injustices can I overcome with love in my own?  I think God expects me to try harder.

    For the sake of three souls we’ve lost to this earth, and my own, I’ll be working on that one for some time to come in honor of the Langdon and Collier families.  Only with God’s help will I succeed.

    Love everyone.  Always.

    +Rest in Peace, Justin, Amanda and Kendall. 

  • It’s the HOUSE in Housewife That Always Gets Me…

    Scheduling the plumber, schlepping my college kid’s 14 year-old clunker to the repair shop, endless laundry, friends in crisis, carpool runs to and from summer camps, Dr. Mom duties for the sick and injured, short order cook, bum knee throbbing, bill paying—that’s a glamourous synopsis of my week.

    Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got an amazing life.  It’s just that some days I forget that.  Some days are like one I had last week where I just never sit down, never stop folding, cooking, consoling or cleaning until fairly late.  Usually those are the days when someone I am related to will inevitably ask, “So, did you do anything today?”  The particular night I recall now, I noticed at about 10pm when I finished the dishes that my entire family was downstairs watching some goofy movie.  I decided I would join them.  Kid you not, I was downstairs in my seat MAYBE 15 minutes when they started asking for “old fashioned” popcorn (a true delicacy with the Thieme men).  They begged and whined.  It was pathetic but my energy was too low to even fight them.  I just got up, went upstairs and made the popcorn.  I delivered it to their beautiful hungry hands (I mean they hadn’t eaten in at least an hour)….then I went upstairs to bed and just cried myself to sleep.

    COME ON WOMAN.  Get over yourself!  RIGHT?

    Because I tend to put a Jesus frame around all things, I immediately saw in myself some unflattering gaps in my holiness.  “Don’t be Judgy McJudgerson. Just cut that shit out.”  That’s what I literally had to say to myself about myself, lest the evil dude from Hades would have had me in his grips quickly.

    I doubt I’m the only one who whines to herself occasionally about how no one appreciates, no one notices, no one asks me how I am….blah, blah, blah.  I am PRETTY sure, though, that Mary wouldn’t be too impressed with my whining about laundry, dishes and popcorn given that I’ve read the whole “Magnificat” deal a few hundred times. Spoiler alert:  She just found out she’s an unmarried pregnant teenager and she OOZES joyfulness so beautiful it will overtake you. Unfamiliar?  Read it in Luke 1: 46-55.

    Here’s my point, folks.  I decided I needed a HOW TO GET OVER YOURSELF manual. I then planned to place it in a prominent location. I googled it and I didn’t find one.  So, I’ve been thinking about the things that help me quickly find the version of myself that I enjoy being around.  I’ve compiled my list, and I have decided to share. Maybe there are one or two of you who could find something here that’s useful.  I find I don’t have to get very far down the list to feel SO MUCH better, SO MUCH more grateful.

    Perhaps there are more of you who would like to share your own tips with me.  Please.  I beg you.  SHARE WITH ME ALL YOUR POSITIVITY SECRETS.  More is definitely more.  I love you all and so does the Lord.  You are HIS BELOVED children.  Don’t ever forget it.

    SHELLY’S “HOW TO GET OVER YOURSELF” LIST:

    1. TELL SOMEONE YOU LOVE THEM

    2. READ SOMETHING INSPIRING

    3. GET SWEATY

    4. ROCK OUT TO SOME LOUD MUSIC

    5. PRACTICE GRATITUDE—THANK SOMEONE IN PERSON OR IN A NOTE

    6. RANDOM ACT OF KINDNESS

    7. LAUGH

    8. PERSPECTIVE—YOU HAVE IT PRETTY GOOD COMPARED TO WHO?

    9. PRAY FOR THE PEOPLE YOU THOUGHT OF IN #8

    10. RECEIVE THE SACRAMENTS—GOD’S GRACE IS A CURE ALL

  • Be Like Will.

    Ummm…Drew?  Did I hear the doorbell ring at 11:30 last night?

    Yeah, Mom.  You did.   All you need to know is that Oby is an amazing friend!  I gotta go!!

    Ok, then.  Have a great day, D!

    The above conversation was one of those “I’ve got no time and I am running late so make it quick, Mom” moments.  Every mother of an 18 year old knows what I’m saying.  In this case, my middle kid had gotten very little sleep.  He had played his basketball game and gotten home about 10pm the previous evening.  He arrived home starving, so I shoved a sandwich and some apple slices at him.  Then, he hustled upstairs to work on homework.  I knew he would be up until all hours.  His academic load is significant— by his own choice.  He’s a bright kid and a hard worker but I do worry about him.  It’s a mom thing.  Is he getting enough sleep?  Is the insane IB homework load just too much?  Would it be better for him to have more time for just being a goofy kid?  You get it.  All of us who have kids constantly have this little interior chatter.

    This particular day stands out to me, because as the day wore on, I learned more details about the late night visit of one Will Oberndorfer.  It was a God wink.

    Apparently, in the new world of electronic everything, there are online quizzes and apps you must have operational, plus midnight deadlines for assignments….all sorts of things I cannot imagine as I compare my son’s academic experience to my own.  I don’t even pretend to understand any of it, and I am truly thankful to God that I was born in 1971.  Pencils, paper and dogs that ate homework were all actual things back in the day.  I digress.  Anyway, on Tuesday night after Drew had his sandwich and a shower, he began his homework marathon later than normal.  It was pushing 11pm.  Shortly after plopping down at his desk, Drew realized that there was a glitch causing his computer to be unable to run some application he needed in order to successfully complete a required quiz by midnight.  He texted his friends—the other crazy young people who are also up half the night, every night, trying to finish their own work.  He was wondering if any of them knew a way to fix the computer issue.  None did.  His friend Oby offered to let Drew come over to his house and use his working computer.  Drew didn’t want to bother his buddy so late.  He then just thanked his friends anyway deciding he would have to just take the zero this time.  He would take his computer into the Guerin Catholic IT folks in the morning for a technical assist.

    Then, the doorbell rang.  It was 11:30pm.

    I don’t want you to take the zero.

    There was Oby.  He had an operational computer for Drew to borrow to take the quiz.

    Was it just a small act of kindness?  Yes.  Did it feel small to Drew?  No.

    This week, God used a terrific teenager named Will Oberndorfer to remind me, again, how we can all effect positive change in this crazy, wonderful, and sometimes breathtakingly desperate world.  It’s done one kind act at a time, right in the place where you live.  Simply put:  BE THE FRIEND EVERYONE WISHES THEY HAD.

    If we’re all working to be the face and hands of Christ, pretty soon it’s going to be incredibly difficult to go anywhere and NOT see how much we are ALL deeply loved by our truly awesome God.

    Atta boy, Oby!  You are the REAL DEAL, kid.

    Spread love everywhere you go.  Let no one ever come to you without leaving happier.  –Mother Teresa