Keys, Self-Centeredness, and Stations

Lent is winding down, but it’s still cold, and early Monday mornings are stiff with the desire to stay in bed.

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!

Subscribe to CE
(It's free)

Go to Catholic Exchange homepage

MENU