Our Version of Normal

There are certain hymns I've sung hundreds of times. Maybe thousands. Most Sundays, I sing them without giving much thought to the lyrics. They are familiar companions, woven into the sanctity of the Mass. But every now and then, a line catches me off guard. I'll be standing in the pew singing words I've known for years when my eyes begin to sting. A tear slips down my cheek, my voice catches, and I find myself wondering why this song feels different today. The words haven't changed.  I have.  There were seasons God felt far away. Looking back, I don't believe He ever was.  One of those hymns is Be Not Afraid , a song built around the promise that God goes before us. The tears that sometimes come during Be Not Afraid aren't necessarily born of sadness or joy.  I think sometimes they're what happens when your heart recognizes a truth before your mind has fully put words around it.  You hear:  I go before you always. And suddenly you're not hearing a lyri...

Years ago, we were sitting under the grandstands at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway eating fried chicken during practice for the Indy 500 when an older man stopped to say hello to Lily. Lily was sitting a few feet away from us in her wheelchair. She was playing on her iPad with one hand pressed against her ear, her shoulders hunched, avoiding eye contact and ignoring everyone. Because she's often like this in public, it's rare for people to interact with her.   Moving over to them, I prompted Lily to say hi. She looked up at the man, who looked a little like her Grumpa, and softly said, "Hi," and then held out her hand for the man to hold.  He first grasped her hand lightly and then offered up a fist bump. Lily decided she'd do a high five instead, and this made the man smile. He leaned over to me and said with a strong catch in his voice, "Our daughter was just like her." Then he turned and headed over to the elevator, up to his suite to watch some race...

My husband's family says "I love you" all the time. My family didn't. That's not because my parents didn't love me. I never doubted that they did. They just expressed it differently.  My mom's love was impossible to miss. She always seemed to know what to say when I was anxious, uncertain, or overwhelmed by a situation. I think her advice mattered so much because it came from someone who consistently lived what she taught. She was the one I went to with worries, questions, and the everyday things that felt big when I was young. I felt safe just being near her and was deeply attached to her. My mom may have rarely said "I love you," but I heard it every day. Throughout my life, my mom always dropped everything when I needed her most. At my children's births, she was right there beside me. She helped Matt and me navigate C-sections, the twins’ NICU stay, and Lily’s Down syndrome diagnosis. She grieved with me during difficult times, but never l...

I think most of us carry around a picture of what our lives will look like. We don't always realize we're carrying it, but it's there, tucked quietly in our hearts, shaped by childhood, family, and unspoken dreams. When I was twelve, my parents had a surprise baby, a new sister. There were already four of us, born within five years. My oldest brother was fifteen, my second brother was thirteen and a half, and my younger sister was ten.  I got a front-row seat to motherhood watching my mom love and care for my new baby sister.  I was fascinated by all of it. The growing belly, giving birth, breastfeeding, the endless laundry, the meals cooked while juggling pre-teens and teenagers, and still meeting my father's needs. She managed it in ways that felt both familiar and entirely new to me. Almost three years later, my parents added one more to our family: my youngest brother. My mom was forty-two and my dad was forty-three. To me, my little sister and brother...