Source of Joy

Source of Joy


There was a moment, when as young mother, I became thoroughly ashamed of myself. I was at the end of my rope as the expression goes. The moment when you’ve been grasping onto a life line and your arms are shaking and fingers cramp and you simply can no longer cling to that last thread . . . and a fit, something like desperation overcomes you and you let go without really letting go at all because you are still trying to grasp the lifeline but you simply cannot hold onto it any longer. The will is there but the ability has literally slipped through your fingers. Have you ever been there? Well I remember a particular day when I was in that state of trying to hold onto my balance as a sane rational adult parent dealing with a little but far more powerful force of nature than I could ever be, and then, losing my lifeline. I utterly lost my cool and reverted interiorly to a small child myself, having a temper tantrum, without malice aforethought, without any intention of harm, without noble reserve, I suddenly without warning, lost my grip and swung my leg back, letting go a kick right in the shins of my little five year old. (Rest assured . . . she had no bruise) I checked.


Five years earlier, the greatest challenge of my life was born into our family. Abigail, “Source of Joy’ as her name signifies. A bundle of exuberance to be sure, Abby was a difficult child from the very start of our acquaintance, the victim of colic and a thoroughly discontented unhappy screaming baby that could neither sleep nor wake in peace. Everything about her babyhood was difficult, yet she was a joyful infant in the few moments when the colic, whatever that monster was, would leave her in peace. I remember lifting her up high above me when she was about 2 or 3 months old and she would start shaking, her face a mixture of surprise and shock. She was having a seizure! I was certain of it. She was shaking uncontrollably. This strange shaking would overcome her whenever I held her high. I consulted the doctor and even demonstrated the phenomenon yet he seemed blithely unconcerned with my diagnosis of seizures. He assured me that she was only laughing. Laughing?! I had by this time, in my life as a mother, learned a few things and I had never seen this kind of laughing in an infant. It was whole body laughing whole body expression of an intense inner abandon, if it was laughing. I’m still not quite sure but I am convinced today, that her destiny is one of joy.

I have vivid memories still of desperately attempting to quiet my small child. She would simply scream for hours on end as an infant. I don’t remember being able to hold her, cuddling her, and experiencing the usual bonding of mother and child, the quiet shared gaze of mother and baby, common to the newborn/mother relationship and somewhat similar to the gaze of falling in love. One day, after nursing her, when she had finally quieted, I grasped the opportunity to look deeply into her ever-bluing eyes. Without warning, her little finger shot upward with unexpected force and poked me straight on in the eye. Eyes burning, in sudden pain, I squeezed them tight becoming almost afraid to open them again exposing them to any further assault. With great care and some fear I peeked through copious tearing at my beloved and ‘helpless’ infant.

In general she seemed to be in pain, but of what kind? Physical? Colic it seems is still a mystery. Some theories go way beyond gas pain to the possibility of sensory brain involvement. I did discover a method of sorts, my own version of short-term parental/infant care relief. When Abby was about four months old, I could put her in the baby backpack and turn on loud rock music, the louder the better. Only hard rock worked. For as long as I could jump up and down to the beat, she would stop screaming. If the neighbors wondered at my taste in music and my punk dancing, as I leapt up and down and around in the back room at odd times of day and night, to very loud rock music, they never questioned me directly. I am partial to the sensory stimulation theory of colic. On our trips home from visiting family on the North Shore, we had exactly ten minutes of quiet, and at the time when most babies would drift off into peaceful slumber ours would suddenly, as if on cue, start screaming as loud as young healthy lungs would allow. For the next 50 minutes or so we would as a family, unwillingly develop the skill of patience. I finally discovered a new method of car travel with our Baby on Board. All passengers would take turns making loud and silly noises. “Brinnnng zing zoo zooo dinga dinga ding ZZZZ pading re de de de de de de and on. . . .,” for as long as we could keep up the Zinging we could stave off the screaming. We were motivated and all took turns. But the moment we stopped. . . the screaming started.


From the time I could first reason with my second born, I realized that reason could be overrated. Sometimes reason has no place in childrearing, and sometimes it can even undermine reality. I remember when two-year-old Abby toddled into our living room. I was working on a painting and I caught sight of her as she wobbled over to the ancient couch, which was currently the resting place of our old tomcat named Tony. My painting hand suspended midair, paint dripping, I watched with a quiet sense of foreboding. Her little hand was gently traveling the length of Tony’s somewhat roughened coat, extending to the short stub of a tail, all that was left of his cat’s pride after a feline encounter of some kind. He looked peaceful in a sleeping predatory sort of way. As I watched her hand traverse the same territory for a second time, I saw with a certain inner sight, her intention. Her tiny little hand suddenly stopped mid-journey resting momentarily on the softly exposed underbelly. I watched feeling as if I were a fly suddenly caught in a web, unable to free myself, impotent and unable to avoid sudden and certain disaster. As she lifted her hand high, she turned her head instantly locking her eyes to my own, like she was sighting coordinates before pushing the button, ready to release a ten thousand pound bomb.

“ Don’t you hit that cat?” I said in a quiet yet firm voice. We had suddenly and irreversibly entered into the first battle of what would become, during the teenage years outright WAR. The intensity of her eyes, which by age two, had become the stunning blue of a summer sky held my own without revealing any weakness or intimidation at my quiet command. Her hand lifted a little in response to my words as she prepared to strike her intended target. I repeated myself concealing my inner doubts “Don’t you dare hit that cat.” My eyes, though not as clear as hers or nearly as intense of color, held her gaze by the force of my own motherly conviction. Our wills were now locked in an epic battle, the outcome of which I had no Idea. We probably would be spending the night in the local emergency room fending off Cat Scratch Fever. I was almost certain.

As a child I remember playing a game with my cousin Maryanne. We called it stare down. Stare into your opponent’s eyes until one of you cracks and starts laughing. It wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t as hard as this. My eyes were seriously drying out as were hers. We stood there blinking at one another, neither one willing to give an inch in field of battle. I’m not sure how long we continued in the stare down, but one thing I knew, laughter would not be the sign of defeat.

It seemed an age but it was probably only two minutes of intense staring when I knew I had won. For the most fleeting of moments she glanced out the window at the fair weather clouds drifting by and I knew… I exulted in my victory!!! I had won! I rejoiced! I knew it in my bones. When her eyes took up the banner once again and engaged my own, the certainty of my victory had imbued me with an inner confidence that we would not be spending the night in Milford Hospital. I purposely resumed my painting in a dignified manner neither rushing nor hesitating. Slowly with only the subtlest of motions, her hand slid downward through the air only just missing the target, as I watched her surreptitiously. She toddled away and I breathed a small sigh of relief.

The age of two was momentous time in little Abby’s life; it meant the change from crib to bed, not that we were on a time schedule. We just didn’t have a bed for her before then. When I introduced her to her new sleeping arrangements, she took to it like a fish to water. She wanted to be a BIG girl after all, and what signifies big girl more than a big girl bed? She had always wanted to be a big girl. So the transition was easy, in fact it was too easy. Her new bed arrived on Tuesday and on Friday we made the mistake of visiting Oma and Gramp in Lynn. When in Lynn, bedtime had arrived and passed itself by the time Abby and I ascended the stairs to our sleeping arrangements. In the corner of our temporary bedroom, was the playpen, the bed for visiting babies/toddlers. Directly, I became aware of the DANGER inherent in the CRIBLIKE playpen. What should I do? Was the danger too great? There was no way to know for sure. If I brought her into the big bed with us . . . we would not sleep. Of this I was certain, as we had on occasion attempted to sleep with her in our own bed at home. She would toss turn and hit us. I’m afraid to admit that I made the selfish and imprudent decision to guarantee her father and I a full nights rest and I put her into the playpen for the duration of our visit, which ended up being two nights.
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I would only too soon regret my decision.

Sunday night arrived and our imminent return home raised the specter of my prescient concerns. Home, It is always good to return home to one’s own bed. Well, it’s usually good to return to one’s own bed. That night proved to be a different sort of night altogether. All was well until ten minutes past lights out at the Winant homestead. Abby had fallen into her new BIG bed as any exhausted toddler should, prayers said, story read, then goodnight kiss and lights out! A short ten minutes later however the screaming began. I knew about this already, as the task of bedtime had never been an easy one when it came to Abby. I had been proud of myself in how, with patient persistence, I had gradually weaned her away from the nightly tantrums of facing bedtime. My long suffered efforts over the past year, which had finally found success, were abruptly replaced with wild and uncontrollable crying. I was armed with many and sundry child help and advice books detailing the process of aiding one’s little child to a safe and peaceful sleep. I had used them with some success in the past. “Let the child cry for five minutes and then enter the room, pat her back comforting her with your presence, add a minute each time, lengthening the time between visits. Soon your consistent returning visits will reassure her of her safety and she will shortly be sound asleep.” I hoped rather than believed that this good advice would work now. Five minute intervals of intense screaming became six minutes, became ten-minute intervals, became twenty-minute intervals, and became thirty-minute intervals with out any sign of her tiring or weakening at all. Perhaps she enjoyed the back rubs in between.

Midway through the first night my Husband told me to give in and bring her into bed with us. I knew that if I did my opponent’s strength would be increased tenfold and we would perhaps never, never be allowed a full night’s rest again in our own bed without her agitated presence between us. By the third night, her crying continued with as much vigor and determination as when she had first begun her crying marathon. John had a pillow wrapped completely around his head belted on for some permanency. Somehow, he had managed to fall asleep despite the auditory chaos. I on the other hand, was lying wide-awake for the third sleepless dreamless night in a row. My nerves were on edge.

As I lay there staring into the dark, trying to block out the strident notes of Abby’s shrieks I found myself unexpectedly yelling at God. “ God what should I do,” I yelled aloud? Now, I was a praying woman, but quite honestly it hadn’t occurred to me to ask His advice on this topic. It was 3AM, three nights into the battle and I knew that I was losing. “Help me!” I cried out again. “You have to help me,” No sooner had I finished my demand when a thought popped into my conscious mind. Why had I waited so long? I considered the “idea” and immediately agreed. “You’re right” I thought, “O.K. I’ll do it.” I hopped out of bed and headed for the attic. I rooted around in the dark for a few moments, echoes of the screeching below bouncing off the rafters around me. I found it, the ancient wooden playpen, and an antique in its own right. I struggled to extract it from the pile of junk and drag it out of the cobwebs. Finally freed, I lugged it down the narrow stairwell and promptly set it up. Without losing a moment I darted into Abby’s bedroom swept her, screaming, off her bed and into the living room where the PLAYPEN awaited us. I rather angrily plopped her on my knee. “Do you see that playpen.”? I asked. Her crying had stopped as she stared intensely at me from under lowered brow. “That playpen is for babies.” I said. “You are a baby because you are crying like a baby. Now do you want to sleep in that playpen like a baby or do you want to be a big girl and sleep in your big girl bed?” She glared at me and stated in very clipped but determined words “ I want to sleep in my big girl bed.” I warned her that I would only give her one chance to sleep in her new bed but if she started crying, off to the playpen with her! I placed her into her own bed patted her back one last time and then left the room with only the smallest measure of hope. I lay myself down and waited anxiously, tentatively, three minutes, and four minutes, passed. By the fifth minute, the night air was once again split with a piercing cry. I leapt out of bed, scooped up her substantial (one hundred and tenth percentile on the growth charts) little frame and purposely plopped her into the playpen. She promptly rolled over and went to sleep. The next night I took down the ancient wooden playpen folded it up and put it away. She went directly to sleep in her big bed without any fuss at all. No clue why that worked, only God knows.

In June of 1991 Mount Pinatubo erupted, the second largest volcanic eruption of the twentieth century and in August of that summer we made plans to spend a day at the beach. We invited my dad to join us. He was the kind of father who had played and swum with his children and some of my happiest memories are from the times we had spent together with him at the beach. That day, as I recall, it was about 65 degrees outside, the coldest summer temperature I had ever experienced in late August thanks to mount Pinatubo. The whole summer had been cool verging on cold, because of still-drifting ash in the upper stratosphere.
When we arrived at Good Harbor Beach, in Gloucester MA, I laid out our beach blanket and pulled out the sweatshirts that I had brought along to fend off the cold breezes. John, Sarah, my dad and I pulled on our sweatshirts without delay, all of us that is except for Abby. She was then 3 ½ years old and I had not given her one. My dad, being a dad still, noticed that I had not put a sweatshirt on Abby. He looked me directly in the eyes and asked in a forgivably critical voice, “Aren’t you going to put a sweatshirt on that child?” I thought over his question interiorly. Being still comparatively new to parenting, my insecurities as a mother bubbled up to the surface of my self-awareness with his question. Was I? Nope, I decided, not worth it. He continued to express his dismay over my lack of good judgment and my failure in being a responsible parent. I was quiet for a long moment before I pulled out the sweatshirt, child’s size four. I extended my arm to my father. “Here you go dad, you put it on her.” I knew Abby well enough to know that in her mind, she had already decided, that at a beach in the summer, ‘you do not wear a sweatshirt.’ It is probably a well-known phenomenon that dads loom larger than reality in the minds of their children and I was no different. My dad was not a small man either physically or in any other way and after all he had raised three boys and me. Perhaps he would put it on her.

My vindication shortly arrived, however, when about twenty minutes later, utterly deflated, my father, threw down the sweatshirt onto the sand, exclaiming, “ What the hell is wrong with that child?” Now he understood.


Returning to the day of my shame, it was a very stressful time in our lives. I had just recently given birth to our third child, Gabriel “Strength of God”. He was probably only around the age of three months old and I was seriously sleep deprived. We were not making enough money and were struggling in many ways. I was working several part time jobs to help out with our financial woes but still we were not only the charity case at church, we were the poorest family in our neighborhood, to be sure. I worked teaching and running the arts and crafts program for the elderly in our town and I also worked several nights a week in local company doing photo graphics. During the days that I was at home, I provided childcare for a neighbor’s infant, who as I recall, was never a happy camper. My neighbor’s baby cried incessantly and I was sadly aware that my own infant’s quiet nature demanded so little, that I barely held him at all during the days in which I cared for poor miserable little Joey.
My husband was currently employed as a woodworker but was concentrating his time mostly on his sculpture career. Much of our money went to support his studio at the Franklin mills, where he had been working for several years on a single body of work comprising about thirty sculptures. It was nearly complete. The household chores fell to me during that period as well, both indoor and out, as he was rarely home.

I was only thirty-one but I was feeling worn out, tired, worried and anxious all together at once. I didn’t have the luxury of shopping for non-necessities. We lived very frugally and it had been a long time since I had bought anything new for myself or for either of our daughters. Family, friends and church members were very kind and I will always remember the generosity of the many souls who crossed our path during those years. On the particular day, aforementioned, I can recall the intensity of feeling but not the exact specifics of incident. It was early morning. Sarah had caught the first bus, and then it was Abby’s turn to catch hers. She must have been five years old, kindergarten age. We were waiting in the front hall and I had brought her down a jacket from our apartment. It was cold outside, a late fall day. “Abby you need to put on your jacket.” I was feeling keenly, our ostracism by the majority of our neighbors as Abby and I stood together in the front hall. We had a car that was not registered because we could not afford to have it fixed. In fact we could not afford to have it towed away and thus it sat in our yard. One of our ‘neighbors’ had found a regulation in the town bylaws disallowing any public exposure of an uninsured vehicle and indeed, had just recently sent the local police to our door to inform us that we needed to dispose of the offending vehicle as soon as possible. The irony was that the man who was so offended by our old car was a car mechanic. He fixed old cars for a living! We would have given it to him if he had just asked for it.

Being already painfully aware of the fact that we were not acceptable to the majority of our neighbors, having been pointedly left out of several neighborhood parties, well I just felt hurt. “Abby you need to wear a jacket,” I repeated myself. Her little chin thrust forward, eyes glowered “No I don’t” I won’t wear it.” I am sure that my unease with our lack of financial wear with all compared with the relative wealth of our peers was influencing my determination to have Abby put on the jacket. At least she had a jacket, it wasn’t a new jacket but it would do. I was conscious of the fact that I was already suspect by the other mothers in the neighborhood. “Abby put on the Jacket. It is cold outside.” I’m not going to and you can’t make me.” I don’t know what her rationale was. I’m fairly certain that it was sensible to her, as I have since found her, to have sound, although original thinking, when it comes to reason. Probably some kid had dissed her jacket the day before. I was not then in a state to understand, nor give credence to her originality however. It was a fight I chose to pick out of wounded pride. “Abby you need to put on the jacket if you want to go to the bus stop.” Well it rapidly devolved from there and I abruptly, without warning, let go of that thread that I had been clinging to and kicked her in the shins and she put on the jacket.


She marched out the door without another word to me and I broke down and cried. The rest of the day I cried and felt thoroughly ashamed of myself. I felt literally as if I had sunk to the level of an out of control five year old, which I had. I’d lost control. I’d never lost control with Abby before, no matter how she had tested and tried my metal. I had always withstood the fire of her personality. I had always won the battle with quiet strength and purposeful reserve. This time I had won the battle but lost the war. The rest of the day I sank into a sea of sorrow. All day I called out to my God not asking for forgiveness, but rather telling Him over and over that I wished that He was real and that He could just come down to me and hold me in His arms and give me a hug. I felt as if I was a five year old myself and that I was desperately in need of a hug. “I just wish You were here and You could give me a hug.” I must have said that to God a hundred times that day. The weight of my failure weighed heavily upon me and increased as the day wore on. How could I have done that? How could I have kicked Abby?


About mid-day, a friend of mine dropped by. I can’t even recall her name now. She was a little older than me and we had been in a Bible study together. She came upon me in the throws of my self-recrimination, and I confessed my crime almost immediately. Her eyes widened a bit. I’m sure she was shocked at my deplorable lack of motherly restraint! She prayed over me as I continued to lament my sin. She said to me, “Louise there is a healing service tonight at Fatima Shrine. I think you should come.” So I did. Fatima Shrine is Catholic community over in Holliston MA that would periodically host healing Masses. I wasn’t too familiar with them but knew I needed help and I am not one to turn down help from whatever quarters it may be offered. So later that night my friend came by and picked me up. I was a little nervous and feeling a shameful sense of guilt. After the Mass, there were prayer stations set up around the church with lay people dressed in white robes. They were praying over anyone who wanted prayer.
I got in Mr. Kerr’s line because I knew him from my church in Medway. He was a kind man. As I walked up to him I reached out, still feeling as if I had somehow strangely morphed into a very little girl. He wore around his neck a big wooden cross and without thinking I took his cross in my hands, my head down and eyes wet. “Do you like my Cross?” He said in a sing songy sort of voice, for all the world sounding as if he were talking to a five year old. I nodded silently and responded in a tiny voice, “Yes.” “I got it when I went to Medgorje” he continued. “Oh” I said and then he surprised me. “Louise God gave me a message tonight before I came here. I didn’t know who it was for, but I think it is for you.” I looked up from his cross, which I had still been grasping onto like a lifeline, and stared in the eyes. “God wants you to know something . . . “You know how when at the consecration, the priest holds up the Eucharist?” I nodded. “Well you know how the Eucharist goes around?” Then Mr. Kerr extended his arms above his head imitating a priest, and he made his forefingers and thumbs join together in a circle as if they were a host held high. Then he began rocking them back and forth, touching forefinger-to-forefinger and thumb-to-thumb, “Well God told me to tell you that those are his arms and every time you receive Him in communion He is putting his arms around you and giving you a hug.” TRUE STORY