Who Burnt the Cereal?

  I’ve woke up this morning to the calming sounds of my family. My four-year old gave me a good morning squeeze while I was still in bed and my ten-month old was calling “dada” from his crib. The boys and I decided to let mom sleep-in and headed downstairs for some breakfast before I had to get dressed and leave for work. This has become my Monday through Friday routine, just a father and his boys, and I love it.

  For breakfast I prepared what I prepare best, cold cereal. I know, it’s sad and you saw it coming. It’s a reality I have to face. My wife’s eggs are fluffier, her bacon is crispier and that whole “But I made it with love” bit doesn't make the toast I prepare any less burnt.

  “What’s your poison boys?” is what I call out as I view my vast selection of fruity loops and frosted flakiness. Believe it or not men, I do have an influence on what is bought at the grocery store, and ever since I’ve been letting my sleeping beauty sleep a little longer most mornings breakfast has been a wonderfully sugary adventure.

  “I’d like some Raisin Bran, dad”, is the response my four yr old gives me. Clearly this is his mother’s recent influencing, and also means I better have the raisin bran as well. Guilt, it’s such a Catholic thing. I pour us both a bowl and make some oatmeal-cereal-fluff for the baby. I also throw a few Cheerios on his high chair tray, which is my own personal touch to breakfast. The baby pushed out a fifth tooth last week and has been anxious to use it as often as possible. We once had to dog-sit for my sister-in-law and her tiny, hairy rat chewed up the legs of most of my furniture. That pooch can be considered toothless compared to the piranha that is my baby boy. The T.V. remote control is missing a few buttons and there are now holes on top of my shoes to match the ones on bottom. So, each morning I try to ease his sharp apatite with a Cheerio or two.

  It has to be obvious, even to the youngest of my boys, that I’m a mess in the kitchen. However, they don’t appear to be fearful, but rather may actually be getting a kick out of watching me muddle through our new routine. Their toothy smiles and laughs also put me at ease with the whole Morning-Mr. Mom situation. What a way to start my day. I highly recommend it, soggy cereal and all.

  Before I realize it the boys are fed, I’m dressed, the real Mama is up, and I have to head out to work. It’s a blessed day already.


Blessings,
Michael

Noise

  Each morning I jump into my car, start the engine, and that’s when I face how noisy my life really is. I’m not talking about loud music on the radio, or even construction around the neighborhood. I’m talking about the cries from the foreclosed signs that fill up block after block, and the moans from the rotting wood frames that are unfinished houses. I ‘m speaking of the screams from the demolished iron fence that can be seem from the freeway, and the angry shouts from the eyes of the young women who look three times their age walking the streets just to pay for a room to sleep in that night. This is the noise I see the moment I back out of my garage; the moment leave my faithful wife and oh so innocent children. On most days I just want to pull back into my garage, run back into the house, and burn some more toast, but I don’t; not on most days.

  No, on most days I take that long half-hour drive to the office, waiting behind lost individuals who cut me off in their expensive cars whining about their lattés to a plug in their ear who could care less. These people make noise enough for themselves and countless other around them. Their souls beg for freedom from materialistic slavery. Their hearts emit a retched screech that demands the bonds of secular humanism be broken. Their faces crackle behind posh expressions and no one cares to hear. No one wants to hear the sadness that they all have driven themselves to. Screams for mercy from their spirits go unanswered, passed off as mere common background noise, but not be all.

  The old woman clutching her rosary at the bus stop clearly hears them. These calls for help are heard by the young man offering up his own lunch to the dirty, unshaven, sun-beaten man sitting on a crate on median. The young women giving up her summer to dish out soup in a shelter hears the moans and offers her mercy for all it is worth. I hear them.

  When I look beyond my needs I hear the voice of Christ asking for water and a piece of bread. I hear God asking me to love his children the way I love my own. From my sister who feels forced to sell her body, to my brother who decides to sleep in someone else’s bed I hear the call to love them all. I hear them and answer their pleas when I show my children how to be prayerful. I hear and answer the calls to stop this rollercoaster so many have found themselves on by loving my wife the way the Lord intended, sacramentaly. By looking beyond myself I respond to the noise that saturates this world.

  It may be thought that I ache to get home at the end of my work day simply to escape all the noise that’s out in the world. Not true. For we all know we cannot rest from answering God’s call to be pastoral to everyone we encounter until we see heaven; otherwise we may not see heaven nor hear the sweet sound of His voice. The best way to preach the Gospel is by living it each and every day. The journey is not smooth, but we know we do not take it on alone and each lump is well rewarded on the last day. Wait…Do you hear that?


Blessings,
Michael