There’s a very large family that attends my church. A married couple with 8 kids or so, 3 of which are foster children. Such an awesome witness to the Catholic faith. Opening their home to life as God gives it and proving against all rationality that there is enough. There is enough love and there is enough means to sustain the needs of such a large family.

They often show up late for Mass and appear frazzled as they walk into church. No wonder– I can’t imagine coralling a family of ten on a Sunday morning. Then they get to tackle the challenge of finding a pew that can fit them all which is no small task.

This morning, they had to split into three pews because the people at the end of my pew wouldn’t move down. I was so frustrated I could barely contain it. Here we claim to celebrate large families because of our faith but offer no accommodation for them when they arrive in their need.

I was really hoping to catch the mother after Mass so I could apologize to her, but she left early. I did manage to catch the father on his way out. I could tell he was frustrated and wasn’t willing to receive an apology from anyone, but I tried anyways.

He said it happens sometimes. “But it shouldn’t,” I responded. He wasn’t in a mood to continue talking about it though. So the conversation ended somewhat abruptly and awkwardly.

As I walked away I wanted to correct the issue. I wanted to tell the ushers they needed to take care of this family and that they fell short on it today. I wanted to make an announcement telling the whole congregation that they needed to shape up and that their lack of accommodation is unacceptable. I wanted to tell the pastor so he could address it.

Then I realized as I was driving home that wasn’t my place. None of those actions would make this better. The damage had been done and clearly it wasn’t the first time. I couldn’t take that away.

It became clear to me that I wasn’t called to resolve the situation. All that was asked of me was to share in the family’s suffering. To receive the misplaced negativity from the father and own it on behalf of the congregation. To receive his hurt and that of his wife and feel that frustration and pain with them. To sit in that place with them.

Lord, help me to avoid running to a solution so I don’t have to feel other people’s hurt. Let me take it in and absorb what I can on their behalf. Give me the courage and humility to accompany them in that space, believing that I am somehow lightening their burden by partaking in it.

Jesus, be our model. You didn’t change our circumstances. Instead, you decided to enter in and share in our reality. Such an incredible gift. I can’t imagine a more compassionate response.

You could have changed the world but what mattered more is that you stepped into it and chose to live it with us. Lord, show us how to do the same for others. When it’s not our place to change the world, let us take on our portion of the burden gladly, knowing that our compassion is the most divinely human response we can offer. Amen.

Just last night I took Sammy outside for some fresh air and experienced something magical without pursuing it. (As is often the case with magic.)

There’s this awful looking shrub in the lower corner of my yard that I’ve been wanting to get rid of forever. To say it looks haggard would be kind. It looks like a shrub from the scary haunted forests found in Disney movies.

It exhibits the strangest combination of old gray wrinkles and new blossoms of springtime, with the former clearly outweighing the latter. I soon found myself breaking off the small, fragile, and hideous branches that were dead– first with one hand then as I was drawn into the mystery of this tree and its fading, flaking bark, the other hand too began to take part in the exploration.

It occurred to me as I studied and reveled in its oddly intriguing beauty that my experience of this little tree was far more engaging and impactful when I committed both hands to the endeavor. This ugly little tree somehow became better and richer with both hands.

Come to think of it, isn’t that the case with all things in life? Everything’s better with both hands. It seems that whatever my two hands hold somehow takes hold of all of me in return.

Carefully holding a newborn baby to my chest.

Digging in the dirt as I weed my garden.

Warmly hugging a friend who’s hurting.

Cupping my hands together to catch raindrops and snowflakes as they fall.

Intentionally holding the steering wheel as I drive down a winding road.

Softly embracing the face of the one I love before a kiss.

Life’s better with two hands. Life’s better with all of me and that’s what my two hands bring to the table, often without my knowledge and without my consent.

Oh that I would more readily embrace the things and people in my life that require two hands instead of disdaining the additional effort that is required of them! If only I could consider the effort less and the gift of total presence more. How much richer would my life be?