“That’s right!   That’s right!” he responded to our ‘Please Don’t Pass the Healthcare Bill’ sign.  “I think they’re spitting on us!”

It was Monday, March 15, 2010.  The day Bishop Paul Loverde of Arlington, Virginia called the people of his diocese to pray and fast for an end to the healthcare bill which haunts all people of good faith with the specter of having to pay for abortion.

We live in close proximity to the Nation’s Capital and feel a burden to physically represent the Americans who would like to march on Washington, but can’t.

So, after being fortified with the Holy Eucharist, we packed up the children and headed an hour east to Capitol Hill.

A chill wind and brooding sky reflected the mood.  Somber.  Threatening.

Along the way, we discussed the ramifications of our taxes being used to fund abortion.  Was it material participation?  Was there room for civil disobedience?  Which is more important, obeying God’s law or man’s?  Is there a difference between the rhetorical answer and the practical implications? Homeschool civics class.

There was consensus — the Bishop is a cool dude.  A shepherd, who sees a danger and uses his means to protect his flock.  A line of defense for the unborn.

“Lord, you know we need a parking pla…” I didn’t have to finish.  There was one at the head of the Mall, near the Museum of Art.  We plunked in four dollars worth of quarters for a two-hour stay and set off.

Our plan was to show our sign to as much traffic as possible, since the area around the Capitol building is filled with Senate and House of Representative office buildings, not to mention the Supreme Court.  We turned south.

“Hope you never lose your job!” said a jogger, not a minute after we set out.

“What does that mean, Mama?”

“It means he wants the healthcare bill to pass so people without jobs can go to the doctor.”

“Is that good?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t we want it?”

“We want to help people who need help, honey, it’s just that this bill says we have to pay people to kill babies, too.”

“That’s bad.”

Our five-year-old, a natural evangelist, took up our sign and held it high above his head.  Several people stopped to take his picture.

In front of the Supreme Court, a family passed by, the boy quizzing his dad about the sign.

“What’s healthcare, Dad?”

“The biggest screw-up this country’s ever seen.”

People honked and waved.  Staffers called down from the steps of one of the House Office Buildings.  Tourists thanked us.  A woman climbing into a cab said, “We agree!”

“Call your congressman!” I suggested.

“We did.  We’ve written, we’ve called, we’ve done it all.”

Another jogger, this time at the Northeast corner near Union Station, called, “Oh, come on.  Let your parents hold the sign.”

“What does that mean, Mama?”

“It means he doesn’t think you’re old enough to have an opinion.”

The child scoffed.

Twice, we walked the long block around the building, and when we finally took refuge from the wind and drizzle in the van, it was with a sense that the overwhelming majority of people agreed.

They don’t want the healthcare bill in its present state to pass.

You’ve probably written, called, emailed, and forwarded.  The only thing left to do now is follow Bishop Loverde’s lead.

Some things only come out by prayer and fasting.

A great witness.

But it occurred to me, briefly, that our enemy probably didn’t much care for his witness.

A few months later, I noticed him at Mass with a band-aid on his head.  The rumor mill churned out the story that he had been bashed by a hit-and-run driver, his car totaled after crashing nearly head-on into the concrete median.

I wasn’t too surprised.  A blatant pro-life stance can be dangerous to your safety!

Today at CCD, he pulled me aside.

“Pray for me tomorrow, please, it’s my court date.” “Court date?” “Yeah, for the accident.” “I thought it was a hit-and-run!” “It was, but the police officer didn’t think so, and he’s charging me with reckless driving.” “Someone’s not happy about all your pro-life bumper stickers,” I quipped.

He replied with a wry grin.  We turned to look at the statue of Our Lady, a serpent beneath her foot.  He stomped and made a grinding motion with his heel.  We laughed.

But as I sat down in front of the Blessed Sacrament, a picture rose in front of my closed eyes.

Our enemy, in heaven before God, violently demanding permission, day and night to hurt, kill, or maim us.  To make us suffer disease, temptation, disability.  His hatred for those made in God’s image and likeness could not be assuaged.

God, on his throne, denied request after request.  No, you may not kill him.
No, you may not strike him with AIDS.  No, you may not cause a tornado to rip through his house.  No, you may not tempt him to murder.  No.  No.  No.
A thousand nos every hour, and more because of his pro-life stance.  His guardian angel holding a bubble of protection around him like Violet from The Incredibles, holding up a force field to protect her family.

And then one small yes.  Yes, you may allow his car to be struck.  No, you may not kill or maim him.  Yes, he may have a small injury.  No, it may not affect him permanently.  Yes, you may cause legal trouble and force him to seek the services of a lawyer.

The triumphant sneer of the enemy, and the instant enactment of the accident.

Then, for a moment, the picture behind my eyes changed, and it was me and my children with a similar force field held in place by vigilant angels, enacting the will of God.  Fending off everything evil unauthorized by Our Lord.  The requests for injury were too numerous to count and yet each day I drove thoughtlessly, somewhat carelessly, through the maze of potential injury.  Each day with its errands and events, each day ceaselessly protected from the myriad, malevolent petitions of our enemy.

“Thank you!” I exhaled, opening my eyes.  “Dear God!  You save us from so much!” For a moment, I was scared to move.  Scared to drive.  Scared to live.  Every second held a trap, the possibility for harm from the vast and endless hatred of a violent foe.  It’s a miracle we’ve lived this long!

And then I remembered.

Childlike faith.  Like my children rely on me to take care of them, I can rely on God to take care of me.  He always has.  Occasionally, he allows one small evil, one grain in a rice paddy of potential evils, to occur.  A minuscule fraction of the constant requests for our demise.

And then, God takes the evil and works it all together for our good.  A good we can’t even see yet.

The court exonerated my friend.  And, since he offered up the pain and inconvenience for the soul of the driver, we have every reason to hope God will use such efficacious prayers to bring that soul to Heaven.

He is a good God.

Praise Him for the lukewarm and wishy-washy Church leaders.

Bless Him for the days of half-hearted adherence to Church teaching and the post-conciliar years of the infallible self.

And I mean that from the bottom of my Church/Tradition/Magesterium respecting heart, because God in his Mercy has used these men to bring salvation to souls.

I was speaking with a convert friend recently, listening to her account of coming to the faith.  She was preparing to marry a fallen-away Catholic whose roots were tugging him back for the celebration of the Sacrament of Matrimony.  A heathen whose taste for things spiritual was rapidly becoming a fully-fledged hunger, she was willing to be married in the Church building.

“Whatever,” she thought.

To her, it was the emotion, not the place, that mattered.  A painless concession to old-school in-laws.

But would the priest allow it?

A Big Tent man, he welcomed the couple with outstretched arms.  “Come on!  Of course you can be married here!”  He intoned boisterously.

She didn’t even have to sign the paper saying she’d raise the kids Catholic.  The one my pen almost choked on when it was my turn, a rabid Protestant, to marry a Catholic. 

In she came, and the Sacrament, the outward sign of the invisible grace, became a platform, a foundation, a core for more, and the ultimate result of grace building upon grace, established on the nature of her willingness, propped up by the somewhat lackadaisical approach of the parish priest, is the reason she was eventually baptized along with their children. 

It’s why she is today a Church/Tradition/Magisterium respecting Catholic.

There was another priest in the 1970s – I don’t even know his name.  He must have had a blase attitude toward the stricter norms regarding education required for baptism, and the pesky little godparents detail, because he baptized a whole family – mom, dad, two small children – without so much as a crash course in making the sign of the cross, although perhaps there was a handout on the creation of felt banners.

And clearly, the ancient Church has her reasons for requiring the anchors of education and godparently assistance for the neophyte, because very soon thereafter, the family fell away.  And the baptisms were forgotten.

But the grace of the Sacrament was at work.

Like Tolkien’s Ring of Power, the grace built quietly with the passing of years until one day, the fullness of time came, and the grace ignited a homing beacon.  There followed a strange and unlikely sequence of events that did not involve hobbits, but resulted in one of the children, now Protestant marrying a Catholic, in the Catholic Church.  One Sacrament having attracted another in a hungry soul, the combined grace power of the two was more than the soul could resist.  Twenty-one years after the somewhat improperly imbued grace of Baptism, the soul came home to live in the Catholic Church, receiving the Easter ‘Grand Slam’ of Reconciliation, Communion, and Confirmation’ in very short order.

Then came the phone call to family.

“Oh, and by the way, I became Catholic.”

A long silence, during which the years of Protestantism marched in reverse review until the long-forgotten day of the unlikely baptism was projected on the screen of family memory.

“Well!”  the voice was indignant toward the traitor.  “Well!  I suppose I’m not too surprised since you were baptized Catholic when you were two!”

She nearly dropped the phone.

And then she laughed.

For what God but ours would create time-release grace?

Who, but our God would know how to bring good from the work of those who should perhaps know better than to pass out Sacraments with such a cavalier attitude?

And how could it be contrived, except through His omnipotent omniscience that an invisible, indelible homing device could be affixed to a soul so that despite distance and intervening years, in spite of hours of fishing at the “new religion” pond, a soul could be recalled?

“This one’s mine,” God said.  “See my mark?

And I praise Him for the unknown, and perhaps unorthodox priest who put that mark on me.  Who, more fastidious, might have insisted on proper form, a lengthly process for which my drifting parents would not have waited and my friend might not have bothered.    Our souls would have been left nameless, master-less, vulnerable, without the the latent attraction to the Faith that eventually drew us home.

God bless the lukewarm priests, and the soul-saving power of Christ which can work through them.

It had to be a matter of life and death, because I can’t remember my Dad’s sister ever calling me on the phone.

“He’s in the hospital, dying, and he says he has some unfinished business. I think you are that business and you should go see him if you can.  You know, let bygones be bygones.”

I thought through the 27 years since I had last had contact with him.  I had been seven-years-old.

“I’ve forgiven him, Aunt Kay, but he’s a pedophile.  It’s not like I can have a relationship with him.  I have to keep my own kids safe.”

“I know, I know, but you might consider going out to see him.”

That night I booked a flight to the other coast to see him.

It was the first of two visits I was to have with my Dad before he died.

I stood by his bedside during out last meeting, surrounded by statues of Hindi deities who ruled his hospital room.  It was the night before the ventilator was to be turned off.  He was conscious.

“Dad, I know you were Catholic once.  Can I put my scapular on you?”

He looked at me, the silence punctuated by the mechanical hiss of his lungs inflating and deflating.

Then he nodded.

I untangled it from my shirt and put it over his head.  He felt hot and sticky.

I stood by his bedside, cradling my baby and praying the rosary.  He dozed peacefully.

At 11:00 PM, a nurse came in to give him some medication.  A change stole over his face.  He looked at me with anger and suspicion.

“Stop it!” he yelled suddenly at the top of his ventilated lungs.

I put down my rosary and looked at him.

“Go home!” he gasped, inexplicably furious.

His paralyzed limbs prevented him from hurling anything at me, but I saw the look of impending violence I recognized from my childhood.

“Okay, Dad.  Goodnight.”

He rolled his eyes at me and muttered between mechanical breaths, “Get some sleep.”

The next day he died, unable to breathe without the aid of the silenced ventilator.

The nurse took out the tracheotomy tube.  My relatives straightened his body.

“What’s this?” asked one of them, gingerly fingering the square of brown wool.

“My scapular,” I said.

“Do you want it?”

“Yeah.”

They took it off over his head, cold and waxen, and handed it to me.

I matched the cloth squares and stared at the embroidered picture of Our Lady of Mt. Carmel giving the scapular to St. Simon Stock while I wound the strings around it.

“Mother,” I prayed silently, “please remember your promises. Bring this man to heaven.”

I stuffed the scapular in my pocket and left the hospital.

It was the feast of St. Terese, and the wind was blowing.

“Little Flower,” I prayed, buckling the baby into her car seat, “please send me a rose when he gets there.”

I thought about his life.  I wondered about the state of his soul.  I drove away.

Three hours later, a friend handed me a single red rose.

And I knew then the scapular isn’t just a symbol.

It’s a promise.

“Lord, have mercy”  I mutter, as if my loud toddler is His fault.

The foyer isn’t soundproof, but it goes a long way to muffle the noise of little people who have not yet reached the age of reasonably complying with their parents’ pleas for silence.

Several other parents I can see from my vantage point are on the cusp of joining me.  Nervously bending over a loud child, hissing for silence, eyes wide with ‘meaningful looks.’

It’s near the Consecration, and a boy in the back is fidgety.  I can see him starting to lean too far over the pew in front of him.  The mother in me is leaning forward to pull him back, although he is not mine, and the glass door prevents my interacting, even if it were my responsibility.

Father is elevating the Consecrated Host.  If we could see with spiritual eyes, the sanctuary would be full of angels, prostrate before the incarnate Word, Who has taken on physical dimension to accompany us on our Long Journey.

The boy loses his balance. “Papa, I need help!” His cry is spontaneous, the volume untempered by sacred awe for the moment or place.  I imagine the angels turning to look.

I cringe interiorly, knowing the glances of disapprobation the parents are sure to receive, anticipating the pointed commentary of departing parishioners after Mass.  Too close to my own memory of once being asked to keep my children from the sanctuary. But instead, the angels are looking at me.

They are pointing toward Our Lord, elevated in the priest’s hands. They are encouraging me — all of us — to cry the same thing to God at this sacred moment. “Papa,” we cry out in concert as his hidden Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity is raised before us, “Papa, I need help!” But our sweet Lord has anticipated our need, and is already among us.

It’s not like we were close — we hadn’t seen each other since we were kids, and there is no reconciliation between his “lifestyle” and mine.

Richard and his sister were adopted by my relatives when they were already old, by adoption standards.  By the time a child has bounced around the foster care system for five or six years, compounding the emotional trauma inflicted by a non-functioning family of origin, the damage is done.

Recovery seems a hopeless proposition.

Emotional problems, sexual abuse, every three-letter acronym representing the gamut of dysfunctions and disorders — is there enough love in the world to overcome them?

It seemed not, in their case.

Richard ran away to San Francisco in his early teens and soon discovered the wealth to which he had access.  For certain favors to his johns, there were drugs for the asking, every material possession he desired, and, undoubtedly, a sense of belonging.

For awhile.

Soon, he was HIV positive.

Hepatitis C.

He grew older.

The johns died out or found younger boys.

Mental issues became harder for him to deal with, as were the continual rounds of hospitalizations for a body closing down.

Last week, we heard he was in a coma.

His sister called me.  There was depression and fear in her voice.  Her life is a mirror of his own, in many ways, except that she has a mysterious strength that keeps her fighting in spite of a decaying body surrounded by decaying relationships.

“It’s eaten his liver,” she said, monotone, no doubt thinking of her own tenuous organ, barely able to function, “and now, it’s got his heart.”

“Does he have anyone out there?” I questioned, “Any friends, any family?”

“No.”

And I felt her despondency.

All those years and no one, no one left to comfort him.

“He still deserves compassion!” she blurted.  “He’s a person, and he needs to be loved!”

I thought about him from my two warring  perspectives — the perspective of a cousin who distantly knew and cared about this man who lived a lifestyle and carried diseases I dared not approach, but who, as part of my family, MY FAMILY, deserved my care and compassion.  And yet again, from the perspective of "righteous indignation": Who was this man, using public funds to finance revolving hospitalizations punctuated by drug binges and homosexual behavior, no doubt victimizing as he himself had been victimized?

Does this person deserve disdain or mercy?

My answer came this morning.

She called me early.

“He died last night.”

Neither of us cried.

I could hear her loneliness.  She and he suffered much together, and now, she is alone.

We talked.  We hung up.  Promising to talk again soon.

The kids and I huddled under the golf umbrella and dashed for the van, headed for morning Mass. We started our Rosary.

But were soon interrupted.

“Mama, who died?”

I explained.

“What did he die from?”

I explained, a little.

“Is he in heaven, Mama?”

Disdain, or mercy?

“I don’t know, but I sure hope so.  Let’s say the St. Gertrude prayer for souls in purgatory.”

We prayed.

“When did he die, Mama?”

“Yesterday, hon.”

And then I thought about it.  Yesterday, the Sunday after Easter.

I picked up the cell phone and began to cry.

It was all I could do to scroll through my contacts and find her number.

“Hey, Cuz,” she answered, husky-voiced.

“Divine Mercy,” I wept into the phone, “Divine Mercy!  He died on Divine Mercy Sunday!”

Cousin Richard, pray for us!

“For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other created thing, will be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord”  — Romans 8:38-39.

I left my keys in my husband’s car last night, but didn’t realize it until all the children were in jackets and headed to the van for Mass this morning.

There was a collective sigh of frustration when I broke the news.  Not so much because they love to get up on a cold morning and drive half an hour to daily Mass, but because after all the effort, it’s a real let down not to go anywhere.

I berated myself, allowing the self-pity to sink in deeply.   Even in the midst of a whole family of sinners, it’s all about me.  If only I was better organized.  If only I was a better mom.  If only I was more careful.

“We could do the Stations of the Cross,” hinted the 8-year-old, interrupting my reverie of self-flagellation.

Of course!

Three weeks ago, at the beginning of Lent, I assigned him the task of creating a set of outdoor Stations for our family.  I had the best intentions of Stations every Friday and maybe even inviting friends one week.

The 8-year-old laboriously drew and painted 14 papers, one for each Station.  He figured out the Roman numerals, and designed a motif.  He labeled each page, created an introductory picture, and then prodded me for two weeks until I finally rummaged through the basement and found the laminator.  I must have been on a roll, because I dug out the lamination paper the same day, and he spent the afternoon encouraging the feisty machine to coat his Stations in plastic.

While they were cooling under the weight of the College Dictionary, he found and loaded the staple gun.  Finally, he marched out to the backyard, slippery stations sliding from under his arm, and fastened them to the posts of the fence.

He’s the one who gets frustrated when at the tiniest detail.  He’ll be the one yelling about the peanut butter which dripped off the side of the bread.  He’s the one who has to have perfection or his year is ruined.

But there was no drama in this project, frustrating step after frustrating step.  Making the Stations was bigger than himself, and he seemed to know it.

He begged us to go out and see the final product, and his Papa did, when he got home, but I didn’t.  There was something else which needed attention.  It was cold.  It was wet.  I just didn’t want to deal.  And I felt guilty.  It was all about me.

So when, in the Fifth Week of Lent, my misplaced keys provided the opportunity, out we went, and I was grateful to assuage my guilt.

Station by station, we walked around the backyard.  The rain had seeped into the plastic through the staple holes, leaving a purplish stain on each Station, but he didn’t mind.  I don’t think he even noticed.  We were using his creation, and it was good.

We arrived at the Twelfth Station.  It’s the one where Jesus dies on the Cross.  My ears were ringing with the cold wind, and the two little guys were trying to lick the paint off the fence.

The twelve-year-old nudged me.

“Look!”  he whispered, gesturing upward.

In the tree on the other side of the fence, directly above the “Jesus dies on the cross” Station, was a twisted strip of bark.  It must have peeled from the tree in the heavy thunderstorms the night before.  It hung draped over a small branch and was twisted in such a way that it formed a perfect cross.

Oh, sweet God of details!

I tapped the perfectionist.  “Look!”  His eyes traveled upward, and when they rested on the cross, they grew round with awe.  A delighted grin spread over his face.

“I think God is very happy with your Stations, my dear,” I said quietly.

We reflected in silence until the 4-year-old started trying to put our eyes out with a fallen branch.

And then, I remembered the keys, my self-pity, and how God used my mistake to assure  the boy of His love.

Oh, this life is just so not about me!

What will they take away from their years under my care and tutelage?

Will they be angry and resentful, mocking me as sometimes we mocked the quirks of my late grandmother?

Or will they laugh with joy at shared memories of the fun things we did?

Will they bring up my sayings?  “Mama always said…”

What will they remember from the snippets of common sense which are my platitudes and sentence-long commentaries?

“Use your head to save your heels.”  I got that from my Auntie Peggy.

“Pride goes before a fall.”  My grandfather quoted that the day I fell from a guardrail because I refused to hold his hand while I walked along it.

“No work, no eat.”  It’s biblical.

But I know the one they will remember the best.  I’m sure, because they always join in like a chorus when I start to say it:

“When you’re disobedient, bad things happen.”  This one is original.  It’s true, though, at several levels, and I wonder if as spiritual or physical parents themselves they will see its facets.

Mama’s platitude in Natural law:  If you jump off a cliff in rebellion against the law of gravity, no amount of self-assurance in your ability to fly will resist the law of gravity.

Mama’s platitude in the law of “no-brainer:”  If you must defy common sense by standing on a swivel chair to hang curtains, expect a heavy landing.

I think God enjoys supporting our parenting efforts by making our quotes come true.  Some may call it Murphy’s Law, but I know better.  It’s Mama’s rule of direct proportion between disobedience and the occurrence of ‘bad things.’  Like when the Baseball Hall of Fame wannabe is facing the house during batting practice.  Or when Jimmy insists on treating the kitchen chair like a rocker.  Or when your budding kitchen apprentice drinks the vanilla anyway.  Or the possessor of her first credit card goes shopping.

When we’re disobedient, bad things happen.

It goes deeper, though, to the level of God’s parenting of us.

If we insist on disobeying God through sin, bad things happen.  

Sin happens.  Yes.  And so do the consequences, whether we make our way to the confessional or not.

Without confession, our small disobediences rack up a debt on our spiritual credit cards we cannot pay, and whose collection agencies require our souls.

Even if our relationship with God is healed through the Sacrament of Reconciliation, the effects of our sin carry on.  Broken health.  Broken dreams.  Unfulfilled purpose.

When we’re disobedient, bad things happen.

Today, I was reading from John chapter 5, where Jesus heals the man who had been lame for 38 years.  After the supreme humility of disappearing into the crowd before he can be thanked, Jesus meets the now mobile man in the Temple.  

“Now you are well again, be sure not to sin any more, or something worse will happen to you,” He says.

See, kids?  It’s in the Bible!  If you’re disobedient, bad things happen.

I wonder if my children will get it.

Jesus wonders if I will ever get it.

On the tenth day of of Christmas, my true love gave to me – the chance to say thank you in DC!

In November, I related my family’s experience on the White House lawn where we gathered to say thank you to President and Mrs. Bush for their eight years of service to our country, and particularly to the unborn.

The President was in Peru at the time, but the staff at the White House were so touched they asked the organizers to come back in January.  The original date, closer to the Inauguration, has been changed along with the location.

At Noon on January 3, we will gather again, this time at the Washington Monument, where we can accommodate a larger crowd.

More information and an RSVP link are available at http://www.thankbushevent.com/ .

Dress warmly, bring signs, and join us in thanking God and the President!

I hope to see you there!

Every few months, we scramble the seating arrangement.  Who will best tolerate whose presence?  Which two personalities should never breath air in the same three square feet of space?  Who can handle the added responsibility of sitting next to the baby?

Right now, the boys are mostly in the back.

An older one in each row with a younger boy.  The most volatile is on the inside, where it is harder for him to reach out and ‘encourage’ whomever is annoying him.

Girls sit in front. 

They’re not as loud, which means I can hear them and still keep up with the back rows where the majority of the action –and the noise – takes place.

Talk about distracted driving.

It’s a delicate duo of diplomacy and preemptive strike critical to the peace and interpersonal harmony of the family.

This week, the odometer on the van rolled over the 200,000 mile mark.  We bought it from a Mennonite dealership in Pennsylvania seven years ago with 27,000 miles on it.  

You do the math.

We do the driving.

A big van, it turns out, is a catalyst for developing all sorts of latent skills.

Judging height, for instance.

Like the time we were trying to park in downtown Washington, DC.  A parking garage was conveniently available near one of the Senate office buildings whose sign, swinging in the breeze off the Mall read ‘Max. Ht. 6’10″.’  I wasn’t quite sure how tall we were in the van, but since our friend who is 6’6″ had to duck down to look in the doors, I figured we were okay.

We weren’t.

But that day, along with learning we need a clearance of 7′, I also learned how to communicate ‘BACK UP!’ to a line of cars which spills out of a driveway and down the street.

Other skills come with practice.  

Like how to parallel park a full-size van in a spot previously occupied by a Hyundai Elantra.  The secret is in the angle of approach, but the maneuver is entirely dependent on a the width of the street’s shoulder.

Of course, learning to parallel park in a van involves spacial judgment and depth perception, which one develops quickly, after a few close encounters.  We installed convex mirrors on the side view mirrors.  Best $1.98 I’ve ever spent.

Getting the van back out of a parking place is tough, too.  Forget a three-point turn.  We’re talking eight, maybe ten.  Sometimes, ours comes out only by prayer and fasting.

Like when the sporty little candy-apple red Nissan parked along the curb directly behind the parked van.  I backed up without even knowing it was there until the sickening crunch, at which point my four-year-old piped up, helpfully, “Not again, Mom!”

My favorite skill, however, developed through necessity, the proverbial mother of invention, involves eating in the van.  You probably don’t let your kids eat in the car.  I shouldn’t.  It would extend the life of the interior, which will probably have rotted away long before we lose the engine. 

I call it “Annie Oakley of the Van.”

This skill takes many years of practice to develop, and requires excellent hand-eye coordination.  Here’s what happens:

Child in the back seat, some eight feet from Mom behind the wheel, announces for the third time, “I’m hungry!  Is there anything to eat up there?”  Mom, ignoring the fact that the last snack was distributed a mere fifteen minutes ago, roots around in the snack bag between the front seats.

Finally, her hand alights upon a box, and while simultaneously maintaining speed, course, and tracking the nearest intercept, she removes the lid and selects an individually wrapped nutrition bar.  Hefting it twice for weight and wind resistance, Mom glances in the rear-view mirror, makes eye contact with the target, and without turning her head, hurls the bar over her shoulder toward the back seat, where it lands in the lap of the undernourished child.

Novices may find it helpful to preface the hurl with a shout of “Duck!” until sufficient skill has matured.

The truly proficient Mom can, with a single glance in the rear-view mirror, fire off eight Clif bars in a row, each landing in the lap of a different child.

Don’t try this with cans of soda.  And don’t ask how I know.

There are some negative side effects to driving a big van, however.

Ripped skirts from the long climb into the driver’s seat.

Feelings of overwhelming vulnerability when driving smaller vehicles.

Danger of UFOs inside the vehicle when braking suddenly or swerving.

Oh, and the part about not seeing everything they’re doing back there.  Or not knowing if they cleaned up their apple cores.  Until a week or so later.

I admit to feeling envy when the Lambourghini dealer’s “We-come-to-your-house-and-wash-your-car-for-life” truck passes me on the Dulles Toll road, especially when I know the coating of dirt from our road has been inscribed with ‘Hey you!,” and “Wash Me,” by my budding Van Goghs.  I am reconciled to less than pristine carpets, windows covered with Trader Joe’s stickers, and Cheerios in the seat.  And I don’t even mind that the van was manufactured in a different century, because as long as it lasts, it’s our home away from home.

Driving East or West, van is best.