The Temptation to Fill the Calendar

by Dan Masterton

It’s summertime, and the livin’ isn’t easy.

Gone are the days of 8:55 drop-off and 3:30 pickup. Here are the days of planning minimally two different activities for my bigger little kids.

My Sunday nights at the dry erase weekly calendar resemble the Charlie Day and Zach Galifianakis memes. There I stand, paving multiple avenues for the week’s days by which surplus energy and inexhaustible drive might be utilized and somewhat spent by the end of each day. This is largely a doomed proposition from the jump, for our two non-infant children are acing the whole “we’re not tired” test, filibustering bedtime nearly nightly and proclaiming “I can’t fall asleep” before evening prayers have even been recited and lights have even been dimmed.

For all the exhaustion and endeavoring for creativity in my weary heart (it’s not even July yet?), I am at least decently disposed to the chase. I have a “bucket list” note in my phone of big stuff to try for; my weekly calendar board has magnets labeled with each of our usual haunts (library, zoo, arboretum, children’s museum, etc.); I have flyers and browser bookmarks for the special summer events around town; I have a hitlist of playdate friends to hit up for meet-ups.

Thanks for reading A Restless Heart! My last paycheck bounced! My children — they need wine! Not a Simpsons fan, huh? Don’t worry, you can still enjoy these posts. Also, they’re free, and my family is doing just fine financially.

Ever since my wife and I made the choice that I’d mostly to stay home with the kids, I’ve always been the parent that wants my kids out and about. In part, this is an attempt to pair the direct, personal home time I get with my kids as a stay-at-home parent with the crucial, integral socializing they’d more naturally get if they were usually at a daycare or day-school. This has meant that playgrounds, library storytimes, park district classes, and all manner of social outings are part of the week-in-week-out fabric of my life at home with my kids.

I’m pretty Type-A, pretty organized, pretty resourceful — and this part of me gets to shine and gleam a bit in constructing this puzzle for and with my kids.

Yet, days like yesterday (Monday) come along, too, that leave me a bit flustered, frustrated, and even scared — days when I can’t come up with enough activities. When I drew up this week, I had a big blue circle and a question mark on Monday afternoon. We could hit a new splash pad after swim lessons in the morning — we wouldn’t even need to change! — but after coming home for lunch, there was nothing!

Library time needed to wait until Thursday, the day before we leave for a long weekend trip or else Lucy will read all her books before we even pack. The children’s museum would almost be closed by time we could finish lunch and run over there, so better save that for Tuesday. The special park district event is Wednesday, and the forecast is so hot for Monday that a day at the zoo would be miserable (we’ll go Friday before we pack). So what do we do?

The answer is obvious: nothing.

But I had already written “relax” in for Wednesday afternoon! That was already one module of planned relaxation time at home! Can I have two of those in a week? What madness am I inviting?!

It’s a struggle for me to embrace making fewer plans. But even just typing it out helps me acknowledge my absurdity.

Because of my personality and how my mind works, I am interested in structure, shape, and linear progression to such a degree that I’ve always struggled to play with my kids during these 3s, 4s, and 5s. When they’re younger, the randomness is more easily stomached; when they’re older, the understanding can be more easily reached. In this window, thought, their short attention span, the way they change their minds quickly, the way they set me up to contradict myself or mess up, the way they often can’t quite explain what they’re thinking or want — it eats at me. And I too often come into their playtime and imagined scenarios waiting to get frustrated.

So these lengthy blocks of time at home just feel like extended periods during which I will fall short, trouble our bond, and leave them irked. So I prefer to avoid it — to get out and about, to be playing and moving, to be going from here to there to here to there. In those transactions, I can be the effective cruise director who successfully shepherds them from fun thing to fun thing, and while doing so can more concretely provide the things they need — pre-packed supplies, snacks, water, gear, and more.

It’s a harsh self-characterization that is exaggerated, if still true. But I struggle to welcome the fallow time into our school breaks that we all could use!

Creatives take time away from the blank page and the new canvas to refresh their thinking and output; farmers leave plots of land empty for the soil to regenerate its nutrients and be better for the next crop; priests and religious take sabbaticals to decompress, study, and rest before returning to the field. While there’s many benefits to these things, it’s the fundamental reset and refresh for spirituality that is so crucial — a way to recalibrate and bring to new rest one’s soul.

My kids — and me — need to have this time somewhere in our week-to-week to retain our creativity, to struggle through these bumps in my road with them, and to keep learning how to be bored together and to cultivate fun from that boredom.

In our case, this spat of involuntarily fallow land this time was just right.

It was proper space for Lucy to warmup after being wet at the splash pad by reading next to the big, sunny windows; for Ceci to set up a hair salon and plop me down in her chair for a styling; for Brigid to get a cozy, home-field-advantage nap in her crib in the midst of a nasty sleep regression and the emergence of the feared first tooth. And for me, it was a chance to finish the laundry in the afternoon instead of at 11pm, to empty the dishwasher, and then to just be — in this case, to lay down next to my avid reader, using her Dalmatian slippers as a temporary pillow, and rest for ten minutes, and then to get my bed-head, unwashed, hat-head hair “styled” by a local artisan. And then after everyone was awake and content, we all lounged around, playing in orbit of one another bit by bit.

It’s so tempting to never stop creating, to plant on every square foot of land each season, or to try to serve up activity non-stop. It’s better when that hustle incorporates some empty space and slows or stops for a bit. I’m happy to say that, for a moment, I’m a bit more rested and surely quite freshly coiffed. 

A Little Help with Help

by Dan Masterton

Years ago, amid my day-in-day-out listening of NPR, I heard a story that struck a chord in me as a parent.

The reporter shared how kids whose offers of help and interest in collaboration are welcomed by grown-ups then grow up to be more consistently interested in helping. Essentially, the way you warmly receive and find constructive ways to accept kids’ interest in helping can have a significantly positive impact on their collaborative mindset as they grow and can become a firmer part of their personality.

For all the clichéd or inaccurate insights I’ve heard in seven-plus years of parenting, I really liked this one.

It’s something I had been intentional about as my oldest child, Lucy, got taller and stronger and more coordinated. I remember inviting a freshly-turned-2-year-old Lucy on to a stool to separate pepperonis for me as we mixed up a batch of meat, sauce, and cheese for our homemade rendition of “pizza bread.” She was delighted. It was a job she could handle and that she was excited to do.

That story couple with some early successes practicing this philosophy led me to double down. It became trickier as my middle kiddo then wanted to do and try everything that big sister was doing, but I try to stick to the mindset of finding components and subtasks in these processes that they can reasonably and safely attempt.

Then, one day at church, this philosophy crept into a new area that I wasn’t expecting.

As we prepared the bits of the ritual of baptism for our youngest daughter, Brigid, who was baptized last month on Mothers’ Day, my friend John (then a religious brother and transitional deacon, and now a religious priest) asked us to get a reader for the petitions. I thought for a moment and quickly had the idea — why not have Lucy do it?

My good friend, Cari, who’s been a youth and campus minister for decades, captured an excellent pastoral principle in tidy language: if there’s a role a young person wants to do, even if it’s a role usually filled by an adult, give them the support they’d need and have them try it. This has helped her expand youth engagement, widen youth leadership formation, and accompany young people in becoming stronger people of faith who desire to lead their peers.

My ideals of parenting and her ideals of ministry (which I share and support) coincided here as I took my 7-year-old daughter — who is an avid reader and also is already low-key a model Catholic who loves family faith formation nights and Children’s Liturgy of the Word — and showed her a slate of petitions to read with the congregation.

My wife, Katherine, took her aside to a quiet space to practice the words and clarify the pronunciations. When it came time to read, John unthreaded the microphone out of his vestments to bring it down to her level and hold it for her. And the two of them stood at her sides as she ministered to our little baptismal congregation by serving as a lector.

She did amazing! It was a joy to be a part of. I still remember, at her baptism, welling up as my friend Fr. Kevin prayed that “when the Lord comes, may she go out to meet him with all the saints in the heavenly kingdom.” And this felt like a beautiful step in that direction.

Then, last weekend, we were visiting a big group of our friends on a big vacation together. Our host-friends had their priest-friend out to our houseful of friends, and he said a house Mass for us. The lectors for the readings? Lucy and our eight-year-old cousin. And they did great! And as I beamed, I thought of how our families welcome this thread of kid-help and bring it with us into our lives of faith, including regularly going to Mass to pray together with our families and our faith communities.

These were small moments where a young person had an interest in helping. There was a place where her help could be needed and used, and where her gifts could minister to and serve others. Her help was welcomed and accepted, and her mindset of wanting to help and serve is nurtured, sustained, and hopefully furthered.

I hope we’re sensitive and attentive to offers of help — from little ones, from teens, and even from young adults. And I hope we all bring it thoughtfully into adulthood. I hope we never get so individualized or efficiency-minded or unimaginative that we turn down help. I know I’m prone to making things smooth and slick, and too often that comes at the expense of interaction and collaboration. I’m glad my daughter, my wife, my friends, and my faith could help draw me out of those things in myself and toward this life we ought to live in and with one another.

Do You Know A Guy? I Know A Guy

by Dan Masterton

Have you ever been to a Catholic wedding where it’s all too obvious that the celebrant doesn’t really know the couple? Often, the giveaway is the one-size-fits-all homily, where the Good News is preached, sure, but the pastorally sound thing of connecting explicitly to the couple is flimsy, if attempted at all.

Sure, it’s tempting to blame the priest. Did he even try to get to know them? Does he care about the couple? Is he burnt out and phoning it in? Maybe some of that is true; maybe he’s having an off day; maybe he was a last minute substitute celebrant.

But, have you ever thought — does the couple know the celebrant? Did they try to get to know him? Do they care about him? Are they lukewarm about the Sacrament or about their faith, and phoning it in?

I say this not to take sides but to reframe an oft-lobbed criticism. Have you tried to get to know a priest, religious sister, religious brother, or deacon?

Swings and Misses

Adult parish life is tricky, man.

At my first big boy parish, I tried volunteering to be a Eucharistic Minister and had a rough experience. The folks who did it were insular, cold, and weirdly mistrusting, or at least seemed that way to a 23-year-old me. (They wore albs, processed in with the priest, and sat together in the front pews; when I asked to sit with my girlfriend and then put on a robe and join them at the altar later in Mass, they didn’t want to let me.) And the way they and the rolled-in-two-minutes-before-Mass-and-threw-on-the-vestments pastor conversed in the sacristy was alienating to me. I realized this just as I had decided I was moving away soon, so I just let it slide.

At my second parish, my then-girlfriend and I belonged to an enormous city parish. The church was always packed, and we had a handful or more different priests rotating through as weekend celebrants all the time. In short, I didn’t try to get to know these priests, but I always appreciated that our pre-Mass announcements reintroduced to the celebrant and his ministry placements each time he celebrated Mass!

At my fourth parish, our elderly pastor rarely said more than two words, even when he was glad-handing before or after Mass. Our associate pastor was an energetic, charismatic fellow — nice enough but the kind of fellow who started each conversation with you as if you were meeting for a first time. We connected through the parish council on an idea for a parents-and-kids group, but after his initial word of support, I never heard back on anything again.

This is all to say that even when you take a step toward them, it doesn’t always work out to be besties with priests, for various reasons. But you might wonder — why do I expect that in any way at all?

Home Runs

For one, I grew up in a parish that spoiled me. Our long-serving pastor had essentially been left in place extra-long so that he could take newly-ordained priests under his wing, mentor them, and send them off to become pastors. Additionally, my mom was a second-grade teacher in our parish school, so between the pastor’s being her boss and her preparing half the parish for First Communion, I always felt like I had a strong sense of our priests.

Even more, though, I have had the privilege of being close with Viatorian brothers and priests. The Clerics of St. Viatorare a religious congregation that founded and still run St. Viator High School, my alma mater. Together with lay women and men associates, we strive to walk closely with youth and people who go underserved — I say “we” because I will be one of them after my commitment as a lay associate this fall.

In high school, some of them were my teachers, campus ministers, Sacramental celebrants, and service companions. I think what cemented our connection was the way they very unpretentiously made space for young people to lead and be heard. In high school, I was constantly invited to opportunities that, even now, still seem like major things for a teen, from editing a priest’s book of Gospel reflections to directing a one-day freshmen retreat.

My friend Fr. Corey Brost, CSV baptized Cecilia Jane for us, and then my pal Br. John Eustice, CSV (then a transitional deacon and soon a priest) baptized Brigid Felicity.

Young people often describe our men as “serious yet relatable.” They set an example of being committed to a life of faith, rich in prayer and service, while remaining “normal” guys who aren’t much different from your other friends. For example, my friend Br. John and I have served side by side at a men’s shelter as well as gone to a concert, a live music bar, and plenty of breweries.

I think this healthy connection with the Viatorians is a big part of why my faith is so steady and strong. It’s a natural part of my life in a way that is neither repressed nor overwrought. It’s organically a part of life as a whole. (And honestly, it’s part of why, while I respect and revere the Holy Cross men I’ve known from Notre Dame, from Fr. Jim to Fr. Peter to my classmates, I didn’t latch on to them quite so strongly!)

The Next Wave

I now work part-time with the Viatorians in a small pastoral and clerical role that they flexibly allow me to sculpt around primarily being a stay-at-home parent. One time, when I referred to Br. John, who was then my supervisor, too, my then 4-year-old daughter, Lucy said, “Do you mean brother like how Uncle Tim and Uncle Mike are your brothers?”

Here’s a recent episode of the podcast I produce where John and I discuss his nearly 20 years of religious life as a brother and his formation for priesthood. He’ll be ordained a priest June 8. We mostly behaved ourselves for this recording, and we probably could’ve made a director’s cut for our Patreon subscribers.

It kind of stopped me in my tracks. My instinctive answer? “Yeah… pretty much, buddy.” I briefly explained that he promised to live his life as a model of faith to everyone, in a way trying to be a good sibling or “brother” to everyone. But she wasn’t wrong! And I think it’s largely because she had been around me with the Viatorian guys, she had heard me talk about them and about our work, and she had developed an initial sense of what religious life maybe-kind-of-sort-of is.

In my seven-plus years as a parent, I’ve enjoyed the small but natural ways these positive relationships have suffused into our family life. Once or twice a year, I have a cookout at the house for my Viatorian friends, and priests and brothers are gathered around the same table as my kids. I bring my family to Viatorian Community events, like our Holy Thursday liturgy and dinner. And then there’s the wild card days, like when Br. John brings his table saw over so that he and I can work with my friend to put new baseboards in our bedrooms.

So What?

I often think about how our faith isn’t just meant to be a balm or crutch when things go sideways; in reality, our faith can feel insufficient if we only turn to it in crisis. I value — and try to model — a faith that is steady, that lives everyday, that animates most everything, during ups and downs and, most of all, everything in between

I think incorporating these relationships into one’s broader social life is a big boost to that suffusive, sustainable, solid-borne faith. So, if you didn’t go to Catholic school or you didn’t like Catholic school or you don’t have an in with a religious community of men or women or you have never connected with a priest or religious… where do you start?

Do you have any friends with priest/religious friends? Could you crash a meal or coffee with them?

Do you have any old teachers or youth/campus ministers who you liked? It’s almost a slam dunk that they’d be delightedto hear from you if you reached out.

If not — and this might seem like a wild one — invite your pastor over for dinner.

It might seem crazy, but… I did it once! At our third parish, I wanted to get to know our pastor, and he encouraged us to reach out to introduce ourselves so he wasn’t missing anyone. So I did! And he responded! And we planned a dinner at our place! And we made manicotti! And he brought wine! And he played with our 1-year-old, and she spit up on his shoes! It was lovely. And the subsequent, although often brief, interactions we had every time after felt much less superficial and feigned, especially for an introverted couple like Katherine and me.

It’s a neat thing to give a shot. It’s good for you and your faith life. It’s good for the heart and pastoral sense of a priest, sister, brother, or deacon.

And maybe, if you’re lucky, your new priest-friend will outlive you and preach a non-generic homily at your memorial Mass!