When Your College Student Doesn't Call Home

I’m going to begin with a disclaimer: I have sons – three of them – and so any advice I have is a result of the male mindset. From what I hear, it seems as if daughters are better than sons about emailing, texting, calling, and being more communicative, but I’m aware that this is a huge generalization. There are daughters who don’t call home, just as I know there are sons who faithfully call their moms. In our household, we fall somewhere in-between -- sometimes they call, and sometimes they don't. But now that we have two done finished with college, and one about to start his sophomore year, here is what we've learned along the way.

1. When our sons don’t call home it doesn’t mean they don’t love us. Or need us. Believe me, the second they need their winter jacket or help with a resume, they will call. And they will be so nice about it.
2. We ask for one day a week – we let them choose – in which they are expected to call home. This puts the ball in their court and allows them to take the lead. A friend of mine once told me that she had to train her sons in this area, and I am so glad took her advice. For us, Sunday evening is the time we catch up with our sons. That doesn’t mean we don’t/can’t talk during the week, but at least on Sunday evening our sons take a break from their busy college lives and think of their family back home. Sometimes the call comes in the afternoon, sometimes in the evening, and sometimes late at night – but that’s okay.
3. They are expected to respond to our texts.  We have watched our sons arrive late for dinner, stop in the middle of a conversation, or rush out at the end of church in order to answer a text from a friend. We know they will do anything to answer a text, and as parents we deserve the same courtesy. But there is a caveat . . . and it is IMPORTANT so listen up: We do not text our sons all they time. They need their space, and the last thing we want to do is hover-text (and yes, I just made up that word).
4. When they call, we don’t grill them about everything they’ve been doing. It’s a conversation, which means information flows both ways. They share a little of their life and then we give them some news from home. For them to hear about Dad’s new car, their baby brother’s latest Lego creation, or what we did for Friday Family Night will remind them that we are still family and that they are still an important part of it … even though they are way over there, and we are over here.

Of course, things happen. Sometimes they will “forget” to text back, sometimes Sunday’s call comes Monday morning, and sometimes they call but aren’t talkative, but it’s all good. Besides, I know how to get the communication flowing ...

Two words: Care Package

Nonna to the Rescue

Once Upon a Time (not too long ago) Timothy was following me around the kitchen, worried. 

"I think I've been MOSTLY good. I mean, sometimes I wasn't, but MOSTLY I was. Do you think I've been good?" he asked.

"I think that worrying about this on December 24th is a little late," I replied.

Timothy stopped pacing.

"That's it," he announced. "I'm calling Nonna."

And after he finished talking with Nonna, he handed me the phone and I got a lecture.

#NonnaConnections

And To All a Good Night . . .

Tonight I will sleep.

I won't be listening for odd noises, or getting up to make sure windows and doors are locked, or have a sleepless night like I do whenever Joe is out of town.

I won't toss and turn worrying about Jonathan in Atlanta.

Or stay awake thinking about Nicholas in Little Rock. 

And I won't wait for Timothy's text informing me he's driving home from work. 

No, I won't do any of those things because tonight ... we are all home.

Together.

So tonight I will sleep.

 

 

Table for Two

As far as date nights go, it wasn't the fanciest place we've ever been to. There were no tablecloths. The menus were laminated. We were the only diners.

But on a cold, rainy, windy night it was the only bright light on Riverwatch Parkway. A beacon of welcome and warmth.

The hostess was nice, the coffee was hot, and while the weather did its blustery thing outside, we were cocooned inside enjoying breakfast for dinner for two.

Sometimes it's the simple things that carve memories on our heart.

Speak to Me Sunday: Making a Catholic Connection

Earlier this week I was talking to a stranger about faith when she asked what religion I was. I'm not going to lie. This conversation occurred just two days after the Pennsylvania abuse cover-up made the headlines, so when I told her I was Catholic I felt as if I needed to apologize, or explain, or even defend. I felt uncomfortable knowing that I could possibly be judged for the evil of those who misrepresented our faith in such a despicable manner. But I also knew that now, more than ever, we need to be the face of the Catholic Church -- not only members of the clergy, but those of us who are one the front lines living ordinary lives as parents, doctors, lawyers, youth ministers, students, political figures, teachers, cashiers, waiters, writers. We need to take every opportunity to live our faith, person to person. Even when we are dining at Arby's ... 

Last night we treated my parents to a dinner at Arby's, specifically because Jonathan was working. We like to do that -- bug Jonathan when he's working --  and last night we had double the fun because his friend, Taylor, was working, too.

When we sat down to eat we noticed we were missing a sandwich, so I went back to give Taylor a hard time about messing up our order. (See? That's why Jono groans when we walk in the door ;-) When I approached the counter there were two black gentlemen in front of me (one retired, one a little younger) who told me to go in front of them because they saw that the rest of my family was waiting. When I tried to protest, they insisted, saying they had plenty of time before heading to the movie theater down the street.

A little later the younger of the two walked past our table with their order, and I asked him what movie they were going to see. He told us, we chatted for a minute, and then he asked, "Are you guys Christians? I can tell that you are a Christian."

"Yes," I replied. "We are."

"What are you?" He wanted to know. "Are you Evangelical? Apostolic?"

"Actually," I said. "We are Catholic."

"Oh," he said, nodding.

I could tell he didn't quite know what to make of that, but he smiled and we chatted a little longer before he continued to his table.

After we finished eating I walked over to them and told them to have a nice time at the movies. The younger gentleman stood up, shook my hand, and said it was a pleasure meeting us.

And because making a connection (a laugh, a story, a compliment, a conversation) with a complete stranger  reaffirms for me the wonderful interconnectedness of humanity, and because it's one of my absolute favorite things about this world, on the way out I ordered two apple turnovers and told Jono and Taylor to deliver them to the two gentleman ... compliments of the family who had been sitting at the table next to them.

Hopefully it left them with a sweet memory of having met a Catholic family.

The Road must be trod, but it will be very hard.

And neither strength nor wisdom will carry us far upon it.

This quest may be attempted by the weak with as much hope as the strong.

Yet it is oft the course of deeds that move the wheels of the world:

Small hands do them because they must, while the eyes of the great are elsewhere.

~J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

Haiku Who?

It started when my-brother-the-doctor, who should have been busy doing doctor-ish things, sent my sister and me the following text ...

to which I replied: Oh my gosh! I need that t-shirt! I'm always writing haikus ... it's my favorite form of poetry.


To which my sister replied:

And then they ganged up on me ...

Well. Well.


Ever since high school, I've loved writing haikus. Fast forward a few years when I met my blogging friend, Laura (Catholic Teacher Musings), who hosted a weekly haiku fest entitled Bad Haiku Friday which covered everything from Frito Bandito to Bunions. She got me thinking in haiku. She even sponsored a haiku competition; here was my entry and I'm PROUD that this snotty one won a category (grossest?). She even mailed me a prize.

Little boy sneezes

long, slimy, strands of grossness.

Where are the tissues??!!?

Then one year I instituted Haiku Summer with my family in which every Friday during family night everyone penned a haiku about ... whatever they wanted. The haikus were taped in the kitchen and it was so much fun reading about our summer in a progression of haikus.

Going up, up, and then up

while on a roller coaster.

Please! I change my mind.

Nonno and his shirt,

Yikes! a tourist from Hawaii.

We do not know him.

Also, during a family reunion/picnic that very same summer, I passed out 3 x 5 index cards and made encouraged everyone to write a haiku. This was my sister's:

Bia is the boss.

We do whatever she says,

Or else we don't eat.

Oh, haiku how I love you!


Back to my brother and sister, both of whom I love, but STILL. They have insulted the haiku, so like a good sister I'm going to haiku the heck out of them ...

This is my brother

who is also a doctor?

He is, really, I promise.

He's smart but also

fond of the poop emojii ...

so I wonder.

This is my sister

she is a librarian.

You have to whisper.

My travel buddy

who doesn't know how to read

so uses the men's restroom.

What does David know?

Or Laura, for that matter?

Nothing. Just ask me.

So this is my ode

the five-seven-five format

in Haiku. The end.



Lenten Friday: Oreos and Fortnite

Things haven't changed much around here. One year our little guy gave up all cookies for Lent EXCEPT Oreos ... when all he ate was Oreos. This year our not-so-little guy gave up computer games EXCEPT Fortnite ... when all he plays is Fortnite.


"Mom," says our little guy yesterday. "Don't put cookies in my lunch. You keep forgetting that I gave up cookies for Lent."

Now, as we are having this conversation he is sitting at the kitchen counter with a tall glass of milk and a stack of 6-8 oreos. Dunk - munch, munch. Dunk- munch, munch.

"What do you mean?" I ask. "You're eating cookies right now. You've been eating cookies ever since Lent started!"

Dunk - munch, munch.

"No one gives up Oreos for Lent," he explains matter of factly. "I gave up all the other kinds, like chocolate chip."

Huh. I'm thinking that's like someone giving up all sodas for Lent except Diet Coke ... when all they drink is Diet Coke.

He smiles, a very oreo encrusted kind of smile.

Okay, then.

I reach for an Oreo and ... dunk - munch, munch. After all, I did NOT give up cookies (of any kind).



The Second Walk

Last winter I decided to supplement my daily morning workouts. Nothing complicated, but in the evenings after dinner, once the dishes were washed and the table was cleared, I started going on hour-long walks instead of sitting on the couch watching television or reading a book. I mentally referred to it as The Second Walk.


Then this past January Timothy started going on these walks with me. To be honest, his original reason for accompanying me was to play Pokémon GO on my phone, but after a while he came so we could "just talk" (his words).


The Second Walk has now become our thing. We walk around the neighborhood, up and down Stevens Creek Road, down to the Pavilion and on the canal. We talk the entire time. Sometimes we have an adventure, such as earlier this week when we went on our Second Walk in the pouring rain (which is precisely why we went). We put on rain jackets and baseball hats, left umbrellas at home, and walked for an hour and a half on the canal. We got muddy, and very wet, but gosh we had a good time.


My favorite thing about this time together is the randomness of topics: how his legs won't fit under the tiny desks at school, the range of his new BB gun, the judge's picks on America's Got Talent, his Christmas wish list, the movie Dunkirk and can-he-go-see-it, the deer that crossed the road in front of us, and a step-by-step explanation of how he built a hovercraft with a computer fan and the box of Nicholas' leftover engineering wires and circuit boards. Incidentally, all these topics were from one walk.


And it never fails that every time we return from The Second Walk I think . . .


If I could just save time in a bottle.

Pizza Night

Friday night is usually pizza night around here, but this time I tried something new: instead of making 2-3 large pizzas, I divided the dough into individual portions, assembled a toppings bar, and then had everyone make their own. Buon Appetito!

Transitions

"Now, don't cry when we start carrying his things out of here," said the man from Atlas Van Lines. "The first one out of the house is hard."


Well, I'm not crying . . . yet.


But it is a strange feeling. As I'm typing this, perfect strangers are packing, sorting, and wrapping our son's things into boxes and loading them into a large Atlas moving truck parked in front of our house. After twenty-two years it's all going: the furniture, clothes, art supplies, television, video games, board games, cleaning supplies, posters, and books.


There are more books than anything -- from Dostoyevsky to Naruto -- and, more than anything, I think it's the books that have caused a lump in my throat. Nicholas is the only one in the family who shares my love of reading, and through the years we've exchanged novels and have had wonderful conversations about some of the books we've read.


It's all happening so fast. Today is Nicholas' last day in Denver, tomorrow he flies home, and on Sunday he and Jonathan will drive out to Little Rock, Arkansas. Joe, Timothy, and I will follow a few days later to help Nicholas move in, after which the four of us will say goodbye and go on a little road trip.


I know some may see the finality of a child moving out as an ending, but I like to see it as a transition. There will be a shift in our family dynamics, and certainly a period of adjustment, but it will also be a springboard to new beginnings, traditions, and adventures.


Just the same, though, I think I'll keep a box of tissues nearby.

The Twilight Zone (Mall episode)

There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity ... and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge ... it is an area which we call the Twilight Zone the Mall.


So. I'm living in the Twilight Zone.


Since the beginning of summer each of the Novajosky boys has wanted to go the mall ... up to and including my husband who, just this past Friday, announced that it was too hot to do anything outdoors and suggested we go to the mall.


Now, I go to the mall maybe three times a year, and here I've been three times since the end of May. All because of my guys. Go figure.


But on Friday I should have known something was up when Joe pulled up to a Sears entrance -- not the main one, but a side entrance -- and parked the car as close as he could to the doors. Any closer and they would have called security.


We entered directly into the lawn mower section where my husband found a salesperson who told him everything about our lawn mower bag which needs replacing: Yes, we sell this type of bag; no, we don't carry it in the store; yes, you can order it online.


"Okay." Joe announced, turning to us.


"Okay, what?" I asked, although I was pretty sure I knew the answer to my own question.


"All done. That's all I needed." he replied glancing at the exit.


As my head was spinning to come up with a clever comeback, Timothy intervened.


"I want to go to GameStop."


That's my boy. Normally I try to discourage anything related to video games, but GameStop is precisely 45 feet from the entrance of Sears so we would actually have to go into the mall.


After GameStop someone suggested Barnes & Noble and all of a sudden we were MORE in! Like, we had to walk all the way down the upper level to the other end of the mall! Along the way I helpfully pointed out some of my favorite stores and offered some helpful advice:


Pandora is a great place for jewelry; and you know me, I like chunky bracelets.
Sephora is great for makeup; a gift certificate is the way to go.
Teavana has the cutest little teapots. You can also sample the teas.


In Barnes & Noble we headed for the magazine section where Joe saw this ...

and I saw this.

Then I found myself near the travel maps and, because everything was just a tad surreal, Timothy and I goofed around until Joe peeked around the aisle and asked what we were doing. Not behaving, was what we were doing, but it was fun.


(What wasn't fun was re-folding that nice map of Rome. Maps can be pesky like that.)

We then walked the length of the mall back to Sears and our getaway car. On the way we stayed on the upper lever, but since we were on the other side we had to walk past Victoria's Secret and all those pink, frilly, lacy things. I told Timothy to close his eyes.


Now, I know you're probably wondering, "What about the lower level?"


Well, there just wasn't enough time in this Twilight Zone episode. Thirty minutes, max. We'll do the lower level in the next episode . . .

The Dining Table with the Turquoise Chairs

The year Joe and I lived in Santa Fe, NM was a very special time in our lives. We were away from family, we didn't have children, and so our weekends were filled with hikes, cross country skiing, road trips, and enjoying the Hispanic and the Native American cultures which are so prevalent in that part of the world.


During our time there we lived in a beautiful adobe house which was just a five-minute walk from the main plaza. Everything about that house was charming ... the small courtyard, the brick floor in the kitchen, the three kiva fireplaces, the Spanish tile on the walls and countertops, the skylights, and the small dining table with wooden chairs painted a bright turquoise color.


There are a lot of memories associated with that little home. The midnight walks during a snowfall and a full moon, watching the rain while sitting under the skylights, lighting the kiva fireplace for the first time and setting off all the fire alarms because of the smoke, listening to Italian tapes in the evening so Joe could learn the language, and once ordering a pizza with green chili, only I must have said jalapeno because that's what they delivered, and yowza! that pizza was hot.


And it was near the end of our stay, while sitting on the blue turquoise chairs at our little dining table, that I told Joe that he was going to be a father for the first time.


New Mexico is known as the Land of Enchantment ... and so it was for us.


*this was a re-post from June 15, 2014.






Our dining room table in Santa Fe



Our adobe home in Santa Fe, NM

48 Hours

This past weekend my husband and I flew to Little Rock, AR with our eldest son who will be moving there in a month to begin work. We had 48 hours to explore the city, find an apartment, and get a feel for the area. We had 48 hours to stake our claim in a city in which we had never visited and where we didn't know a single person. We had 48 hours to do as much as we could to lay the foundation for a new beginning for our son.


And within the span of that 48 hours we also planned to attend Mass Saturday night. There were many Catholic churches in Little Rock, so once Nicholas signed the lease for his apartment we Googled nearby churches and arbitrarily picked one to attend.


Here's what I envisioned (hoped!) would happen: We'd walk into a church with lots of young people -- people my son's age! -- and he would feel welcomed and excited about joining a new parish. Maybe even someone would even come up and speak to him and tell him about a Bible study or a young adult group.


Instead, here's what happened: We walked into the church, and of the 40 people in attendance Joe and I were the youngest which, as you can imagine, was not a good sign for Nicholas.


It was definitely not how I would have planned things. Not. At. All.


But as I knelt in the quiet of the church before Mass started, I wrapped myself in the comforting traditions of our faith and unburdened my soul to God.


I gave Him everything -- my hope, fears, doubts, and tears. I told Him how proud I was to have a son primed and ready to go forth into this world, but at the same time confessed how letting go is so contrary to a mother's heart. I gave Him my confidence in my son's intelligence and maturity, but also my fears of him being in a city of strangers.  I asked for patience with the arrogance of youth (of which we have all been guilty) who think they can go it alone and often forget that seeking advice, asking for help, or kneeling before God is not a sign of weakness, but of strength.


And then came the homily. The priest, who was originally from Vietnam, told the story of his last few months in seminary when he was consumed with worry on how he was going to buy a chalice for his ordination. He knew his family back in Vietnam could not afford it, and as a seminarian on scholarship with no funds of his own he didn't know what to do. He told no one of his dilemma. Then one day a priest teaching in the seminary informed him that an elderly priest from another parish had died and that his family wanted his chalice to go to a seminarian. Would he like to have the chalice?


Sitting in that nearly empty church in a strange city, listening to this story of a man who followed his vocation to live among strangers, I realized that there are times in our life when God has given us that chalice -- such as the moment He provides exactly what we need at the exact moment when we need it, or when He gives us something we didn't even realize we needed, or when we don't know how to ask for something and He gives it to us anyway.


I also realized that maybe, just maybe, God brought us to that church not for Nicholas (the way I wanted it to happen), but for me.

Somewhere in Italy

(photo taken by my cousin)

Reading for Pleasure

I recently spent the afternoon packing Nicholas' books. Boxes and boxes of them. Here is a stack of books he read not because it was required reading in college, but simply because he had never read them before.  #lightreading

How do you do Mother's Day?

Here's my opinion on Mother's Day: I enjoy the attention.


Let's face it. I can be a mom martyr for 363 days of the year -- running here, driving there, being at everyone's beck and call -- but on Mother's Day BRING IT ON.


The attention, I mean. I don't need gifts (although that's a nice perk) and I don't need to be taken to a restaurant (I actually prefer pizza and a movie), but what I do like is the same love and attention that I get throughout the year but ... more of it. Pile it on. The thicker, the better.


Shameless, I know.


So this year Mother's Day began with Cinnamon Crunch Bagels from Panera because, really, is there a better bagel out there? I know, I know. Carbs. Calories. Yadda, yadda, yadda. But that's why I only have them on SPECIAL occasions (the last time was New Year's Day). So in my world Mother's Day is most definitely and emphatically a bagel occasion.


Served with a cappuccino. Can't have one without the other.


After breakfast we took a mid-morning hike/stroll through the woods and along the Savannah River. To be sure, it's a route I take often, sometime alone or sometimes with Joe, but on this day EVERYONE came. No one complained and no one was in a hurry to get home, so for the time we were climbing up hills and over tree logs they were mine, mine, MINE!


And I don't mean that in a heart-two-sizes-too-small Grinch way, but in a Henry Wadsworth Longfellow "in the round-tower of my heart" kind of way.


After the hike my heart was full (well, the bagels helped, too) and I was perfectly content to spend the rest of the day curled up with a good book. But after lunch Joe had a very Mother's Day-ish idea.


"Let's go walk around the Morris Museum of Art," he suggested.


Whoa.


Now, I could have insisted that the boys come, too, and they would have, but the whole idea of Mother's Day is to highlight the fact that Moms are pretty great. And understanding. So I kissed the boys goodbye and left them waging some battle on the PlayStation while I went to the museum with Joe.


At the museum we lingered in the two rooms featuring art by James Michalopoulos whose painting are so rich with color and texture that they blew me a way. I loved his work, and I would highly recommend going to see the exhibit except this past Sunday -- Mother's Day -- was the very last day. Sorry. But I did take lots of photos . . .


So there you have it. Mother's Day was all about bagels, a walk in the woods, and an art museum. Nothing complicated, but pretty darn nice.

Piano Lessons with Mr. Jeff

If children were not introduced to music at an early age,

I believe that something fundamental is actually being taken from them.

~Luciano Pavarotti

When Nicholas and Jonathan were in grade school they took piano lessons.


Their teacher -- Mr. Jeff -- recently moved to Augusta and was looking for piano students; truthfully, the only reason we decided to go with him was simply because he came to our house. This was huge for me. Timothy was less than a year old, so I cannot tell you what a blessing it was to not have to take the boys to a piano lesson but have the piano lesson come to them.


Mr. Jeff was the most untraditional piano teacher you can imagine. Prior to arriving in Augusta he had worked as the organist for the Atlanta Thrashers when Atlanta had a professional hockey team, so needless to say he was loud, fun, and had a dramatic flair. The boys loved him.


Once a week he arrived shortly after dinner and would spend the first half hour with Nicholas, and then Jonathan. He used a music theory book to go over basics, and even assigned a little homework, but he never taught the boys any of the silly songs in the book; instead, he took a music theory lesson and applied it to music by Billy Joel, or to theme song from Charlie Brown or Star Wars. He always assigned each boy a different song, so for that one hour while I loaded the dishwasher, and while Timothy crawled everywhere (including near the piano), and with Mr. Jeff sometimes improvising a duet, we had a virtual concert coming from our dining room. We enjoyed having him in our home, and he always left with some dinner leftovers or a plate of cookies I had baked that afternoon.


But then, sadly, Mr. Jeff moved to Florida and the piano lessons stopped. We tried two different piano teachers after he left, but neither one was Mr. Jeff so the boys lost interest.


Little did I know that those piano lessons with Mr. Jeff would one day come full circle.


Years later, when Nicholas was a junior in high school, he asked for an electric guitar for Christmas and taught himself how to play. He had music sheets everywhere. Before he went off to college he purchased an acoustic guitar and, again, he learned on his own, lugging the guitar on camping trips or beach outings with his college friends. During this, his last semester at Clemson, he needed to take an elective so he signed up for a piano class.


Jonathan was in 7th grade when he requested an electric keyboard for Christmas. I was thrilled because he always had a natural rhythm on the piano. In high school he purchased music books from 2nd & Charles, downloaded songs from the internet, and practiced constantly. This past December he upgraded to a better quality keyboard, one with more keys, and practices every day after and between classes. He occasionally sends me a text video of him playing a new song.


Finally, there is Timothy. Other than crawling around Mr. Jeff's ankles during those piano lessons, Timothy never experienced his unorthodox teaching style. We tried traditional piano lessons for one year (plus a summer), but abandoned them after they started to feel like a forced march. Like his brothers, however, Timothy came back to music on his own. Last week he came home from school and asked if he could play my guitar. A few days later he downloaded a Pokémon score from the internet (Littleroot Town Duet) and taught himself how to play the first two lines on the piano.


And I love that there is music in our house, that those early lessons were a springboard for learning later, when they wanted to return to it. Now, when all the boys are home, music is drifting from the rec room, down the stairs from their bedrooms, and even from the very same piano where they sat with Mr. Jeff so many years ago.

Jonathan, teaching Timothy

When Not to Follow an Itinerary

This weekend we are headed to Atlanta, and last night as we were planning our itinerary of things to do and places to eat Timothy asked if we were going to eat at The Varsity.


What is it about that place that has taken hold of his imagination?


A few years ago our little guy had the following art assignment: Draw yourself flying over a famous building, monument, or landmark.

Now, for someone so young he's visited some extraordinary places so this is what I imagined he'd do: draw himself flying over the Roman Forum, St. Peter's Square, the White House, the Grand Canal in Venice or Monticello.

Instead, this is what he did: he drew himself flying over The Varsity.

It boggles the mind. All the places he's been to in this world and he chooses a burger joint in Atlanta? Didn't he remember how we laughed at the ridiculously small hamburgers and the floppy, greasy fries? Didn't he remember how we all collectively agreed that the place was highly overrated? Didn't he remember how I got into a battle with a cockroach right there in our booth and how we all decided the place was just gross?


Evidently not. He remembers it with all the nostalgia of a 12 year old boy.


So, last night I added The Varsity to our itinerary. Now whether or not we actually go is another matter; after all, we just might be on the wrong side of town or get caught in a traffic jam, or something.

Upper left hand corner is Timothy's flyover ...

Fifty and a Day

Yesterday was my birthday ... my 50th birthday, to be exact.


Did it bother me, turning fifty? Scare me? Make me feel old? The answer is no, no, and no. I felt the same yesterday, on my birthday, as I did the day before. I feel the same today as I did 10 years ago. A birthday is a birthday is a birthday.


BUT, it is an important milestone and I had some definite thoughts as to how I wanted to approach it. The first thing I decided was that one day wasn't enough; that is, I didn't want to focus on a single day but make the entire year one big birthday adventure. So I said no to a big party, but yes to a weekend in Atlanta; I said no to jewelry, but yes to a one year membership for the High Museum of Art; I said no to a spa day, but yes to a road trip. I plan to do things I've never done, eat food I've never tried, hang out with people I've never met, and visit places I've never seen.


Lord Byron wrote that there is pleasure in the pathless woods, and that's how I want to move forward.


That's my plan. This is how I will celebrate.


Of course, I did have a lovely weekend. Friday night my parents gave us tickets to the Italian American Club Pasta Festival, after which we traveled to Uganda, Philippines, and Guatemala via The Compassion Experience. Saturday afternoon Edible Arrangement #1 arrived, and later we had dinner at my parents' house where they decorated the dining room with all things 50 -- banners, balloons, and signs. My mom (per my request) made homemade pizza (because it's the best) AND  homemade cannoli (again, the best). On Sunday I woke up to two heart-shaped Boston cream donuts, went for a morning hike in the woods with Joe and the boys, and graciously shared my day with the Super Bowl while we munched on Edible Arrangement #2. (I have a funny story about those Edible Arrangements, so stay tuned.) That evening I logged on to Facebook and read email and felt the love.


The whole weekend was warm and fuzzy, just the way I like it.


Believe me, fifty is a big deal. And it should be celebrated. And it does make one introspective. But more than anything it left me floating on a cloud of gratitude -- for this life God has given me, for my husband and sons, for my friends and family, for morning hikes and midnight walks, for the imperfect and perfect.


And for adventure found in pathless woods.

photo 10/16

There Is Pleasure In The Pathless Woods

– By Lord Byron
(from Childe Harold, Canto IV, Verse 178)

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal.

Compassion: To Suffer Together

Last night Joe, Timothy and I traveled to Uganda, Philippines, and Guatemala via The Compassion Experience.


Compassion: Middle English via Old French from ecclesiastical Latin compassio(n-), from compati ‘suffer with.’


Compassion literally means "to suffer together."

And in light of all the hatred dominating the headlines lately, this was a gentle reminder that we are all brothers and sisters on this journey we call life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Note: The traveling exhibit was very well organized. In our case, there were three journeys to experience -- Uganda, Philippines, and Guatemala. Because you make a reservation, each journey is just you and your family as you progress through the rooms of a child's life (a school room, a blanket in the forest, a kitchen, a shack, etc.) and listen to that child's story via the provided iPod and headphones. In the last room you are directed to watch the ipod's screen and see the actual child, whose story you just heard, now as an adult describe where he/she is today.




Experiencing a day in the life of Carlos.

So many kinds of poverty ...

Carlos' kitchen in Guatemala

Olive's hut in Uganda.
Every night the children of the village had to hide
in the woods from the soldiers who kidnapped children.

Listening to Carlos' story.
At age 8 he worked full time.

Novajosky News: Nicholas' Turn

As an English major/Spanish minor at the University of Georgia, I can say that for every time I stayed up late to finish a paper or research Faulkner’s stream of consciousness writing technique, there were just as many days when I sat under an oak tree discussing Shakespeare or attended a play in order to write a review for the paper; in other words, I remember those days as being pleasantly ensconced among writers and poets and totally devoid of undue stress.

Fast forward a few years and I find myself comparing my college experience with Nicholas’ as he pursues an engineering degree from Clemson University. Here’s what I’ve discovered: engineering is not for wimps and, most definitely, doesn’t include Shakespeare. For Nicholas, the past four years meant many late nights at the library, or marathon study sessions with friends, or working on group design projects. The past four years meant engineering internships every summer and during two Christmas breaks, and then afterwards sitting down with Joe and discussing what he could financially contribute to his tuition.

He’s a hard worker, is our son.

This is not to say that the past few years haven’t been fun. He will graduate this June with many wonderful memories:  the weekend trips to the beach or to Athens, GA to visit friends, the traditional bar crawl when he turned 21, the trivia contests at the pub and, of course, those Clemson football games and watching (on his birthday no less!) the Clemson Tigers win the National Championship. So he definitely had fun, but never at the expense of his studies.

And now here we are, his senior year. This past fall, in the midst of working on a senior design project and maintaining a 4.0 GPA, he diligently submitted resumes and interviewed at job fairs on campus. Then, between homework assignments, oral presentations and a hectic exam schedule, he had a few follow-up interviews which not only involved driving to Augusta (once) and Charlotte (twice), but also flying out to Denver, CO where he had his first “white board” interview which involved using the board to solve problems given to him during the interview. Right there, on the spot.

I broke out in a sweat just hearing about it.

He never wore a suit as often as he did this past semester, and he never called home as much as he did during those days before and after each interview. There were many things to consider, plan, and discuss: he could see himself working in Charlotte, he liked the people he would be working with in Augusta, and he really, really liked the company in Colorado. Also, he wondered in one phone call, would it be okay to fold his suit in a small carry-on?

By December he received two job offers, and earlier this month he signed a contract with the company out in Denver, Colorado. We couldn’t be more excited for him. This May he will find out where he will be located (we're hoping Nashville, TN, or it could be Washington D.C. or even Salt Lake City, Utah) and in June he will begin work after a two week training session at their headquarters in Denver.  And so far the company has been very good to him. A week after signing with them Nicholas received a beautiful, high end laptop backpack in the mail with a personal note welcoming him to the company and, just this past week, company recruiters visiting campus took him and a few students out to dinner.

As parents, nothing is more gratifying then seeing our son make his way in the world, and we are excited these doors of opportunity are being opened to him.  I have always referred to Nicholas as my “Renaissance Man” because his interests and talents are so varied: he’s very good at engineering and math, but he is also a voracious reader; he plays the guitar, follows politics and world affairs, goes to church every Sunday, and is teaching himself how to paint; he is presently taking a basic law class because he thought it would be interesting; and he’s very witty and adored by his baby brother.

It’s the bittersweet truth that children grow up in a heartbeat, and I could never have imagined, all those years ago when I sat under the oak tree discussing Shakespeare, that I would one day have a son who is poised to go off into the world as a young man. It’s exciting, gratifying, heartwarming.

It’s incredibly humbling.