Category Archives: Musings

Why I love December 26

When I was a kid, Christmas morning was the high point of the season.  Nothing could top the sheer excitement of a morning spent opening gifts under the tree.  And I distinctly recall that the morning after — the morning of the 26th — always felt like a bit of a letdown.  You still had the gifts to play with, of course, but somehow the Best Part of the Season had already come and gone.

I see things differently now.

Now, I wake up on the 26th full of anticipation.   Because as an adult, I’ve come to believe that the period between Christmas Day and New Year’s is, in fact, the best part of the season.

It’s the best part of the season because the heavy lifting is done.  The gifts are purchased, wrapped, opened.  The cookies are made.  The house is decorated.  The Christmas meals have been planned, made, eaten; the dishes are clean and put away.  I don’t want to make it sound like that is all work; I enjoy the holiday preparations. Realistically speaking, though, they can be stressful, especially when balancing other things (like a job) at the same time.

So when the 26th rolls around, life is more leisurely.  The house is festive and pretty and nothing big needs to be done.  I have time to sit with a cup of tea and look at the fireplace and enjoy the tree, just letting myself be.   That time between Christmas and New Year’s is a chance to dive into one of the new books I got as a gift (because I always get at least one book each year, usually more), and to read it without guilt.   It’s a chance to listen to Christmas carols (like this beautiful one) and to absorb the full meaning and magic of the Incarnation, with a mind that is no longer acting like a lord-a-leaping, bouncing from one task to the next.

It’s a blessed time, a magical time.  And it’s now.

Enjoy it.

Hungry for some Blessed Conversation?

One of the best things to happen to my spiritual life in the last two years has been getting involved with Blessed Is She.  If you aren’t familiar with it, it’s a website — that’s a totally inadequate term; it’s really more of a gathering space and sisterhood — for Catholic women to grow in faith.  It features daily reflections on the Mass readings, online workshops, and materials for small group studies, among all sorts of other wonderful things.

And it’s just launching a brand-new study guide called Blessed Conversations.

Blessed Conversations is a seven-part series for use in small groups — anywhere from two women on up — to reflect on key aspects of the Catechism.   You can do the whole seven parts or any one of them.

My contribution to the project was writing the guide on the sacraments.  It — like each of the guides — features excerpts from the Catechism, related Scripture verses, a personal reflection on the sacrament, and questions for group discussion.  It’s also gorgeously designed (by the enormously gifted Erica Tighe) and is available for purchase as a download on the BIS site.

If this study guide (or any of the things BIS offers) tugs on your soul, check out the website.  If you’ve ever thought of getting a few ladies together  and sharing your spiritual journeys, the Blessed Conversations just might be the place to begin.

A life well-lived


Here’s a truth: you can plan all you want, but sometimes, life just doesn’t deliver what you expect.   We certainly learned that this year, when the Christmas we got was very different from the one we wanted.

The boys and Scott and I flew out to upstate New York a few days before Christmas, planning to spend the holiday with Scott’s dad Bob, and Scott’s sisters Terri and Kathy.  Ever since Scott’s mom’s death in 2014, Bob’s health had been declining, but he was hanging gamely on.  But when we arrived on the 21st – his 84th birthday – he had a bad cold and cough.  The next day the doctor recommended that he go to the hospital.  He died there early the next morning.

It was not the Christmas we meant to spend.  Instead of family time together, doing the classic Moyer Happy Hour – drinks and snacks about 5, one of Bob’s favorite traditions – we met with a funeral home, packed up his apartment, and sifted through the many photos and clippings to figure out how best to capture his life in an obituary.

Grandpa Bob and Matthew

Grandpa Bob and Matthew

But as awful as it was, we all agreed that there were blessings there, too.  We were all in town when he died, not in various parts of the globe as we usually are.  We’d had a chance to see him and celebrate his birthday.  And it was a chance to process his life and our loss together, instead of separately.

It’s quite a life, too, by any measure.  A native New Yorker – from Glens Falls – he loved the East, and knew a great deal about local history.  He and Joan raised their three kids in Oneonta, a small town in Otsego County.  Over the years, he became involved in banking, eventually serving as  CEO of Wilber National Bank and, later, as director of the New York Federal Reserve Bank.   He served on more boards than you could name, donated his time to countless volunteer organizations, and believed passionately in the power of community.  He loved Oneonta and being in a place where you know people and they know you.

Bob was also a man of deep principle.  I remember Scott telling me years ago that his dad, before retirement, used to get mildly frustrated with some of the federal regulations affecting banking.  This was because Bob himself would never do anything remotely unethical, and he tended to assume that other bankers were the same.  Regulations are not necessary if everyone has the customers’ best interests at heart, as Bob always did.  If only there were more people like him.

Bob was also a military man, a member of the Air Force who also flew Air National Guard missions in the 1960s and 1970s.  I remember him telling me about the years he was stationed in France in the 1950s, and how his name – Robert Moyer – was pronounced by the French people he met, with the accents moved from the first to the second syllables.  (“Ro-BEAR  Moy-YAY.”)  I often use his name as an example when I talk about poetic meter with my students, explaining the difference between trochees and iambs.

I wish I’d talked to him more about his time in France.  It must have been quite a difference place in the 1950s than the France I knew in the 1990s; I suspect he had some good stories to share, and I regret not asking him.  I guess we always think we’ll have more time.  I should know better by now.

Bob loved talking, reflecting, thinking.  Up until the day he died, his mind was sharp and curious and he was always “noodling,” as he’d say, over some world problem and how to solve it.  In the last years of his life, after he lost his beloved wife of 54 years and was dealing with the resulting grief, he settled into the habit of lying in bed at night and reviewing the many blessings and gifts of his life.  They were many, and I suspect Joan topped the list.  He was crazy about her, as is evident in photos of their early years and their later ones, too.

Bob and Joan

Lovebirds Bob and Joan

One of my favorite memories of Bob is when they came out to visit us back in 2008.  The two of them went out for a romantic dinner one evening at a restaurant near our house.  It’s a place up in the hills, with an impressive view of the Bay Area city lights. After they returned back to our house, I asked if they liked the view.

“Oh, it was beautiful,” said Joan, her face lighting up.  “I sat facing the windows.”  She talked for a while about how much she had enjoyed the ambiance, the food, the service.

As she spoke, Bob was looking at her with a smile on his face.  When she had finished, he said one of the sweetest things I’ve ever heard.

“I just looked at Joan,” he said simply.  “That’s my favorite view.”


Three days after Bob’s death, after a day of sorting and organizing and the arrangements that follow a death, we all took a break and watched “The Sound of Music.”  I thought not for the first time about the wisdom of the Mother Abbess’s words, when Maria is worried about her feelings for Captain von Trapp.  “Maria,” she says, “The love of a man and woman is holy too.”

Bob got that.  He showed us the holiness of being a good husband, and good father, and good grandfather.

And for all his many accomplishments in the public sphere, for all the influence he had on his community and on the lives of his clients at the bank, I think his greatest achievements are his three children. And I know my life has been forever changed, and utterly blessed, because Scott had a dad like him.

Bob and his kids

Thank you, Bob, for everything.


When all else fails, try nature


Marin Headlands, Marin County, CA

Like many of you, I’ve been spending the last two weeks looking desperately for peace and a quiet mind.  I’ve found a few things that help. Writing is one; wine is another. And getting outdoors into the beauty of creation has a healing power like nothing else.

I’d like to share with you two places I’ve found God lately.

One is a county park not far from where I work.  It’s the place where Scott proposed to me lo these fifteen (!) years ago.   And while the hillsides are light brown most of the year, we’ve been fortunate enough to have rain this fall, and everything is a brilliant spring green.


There are oaks here, and bay trees which give out a wonderful fragrance.  There is poison oak turning a beautiful red and lots of deer, who graze unconcernedly as you walk by.  Off in the distance you can see Silicon Valley and the bay.


It’s a place so dear to my heart, and on a crystal-blue day like this, with the earth still soft from the recent rain and the air smelling so sweetly of oak and bay, it’s much easier to breathe here than anywhere else.


The next place is in the Marin Headlands, north of San Francisco.  The boys went there on a Cub Scout Hike, and it was the kind of day where rain gave way to wonderfully dramatic skies, with clouds over the ocean and fog hugging the hills.



We hiked from the estuary to the coast, then up a rather significant hill to a WWII bunker up on the top (a hit with the Scouts).  Along the way we passed an honest-to-goodness cove far, far down below, in which water was churning and roiling about and moving a log as if it were a toothpick.  The whole setting was all very Poldark. I half expected to see Cornish smugglers unloading a ship down below.


Channeling my inner Demelza

Channeling my inner Demelza

It was balm for the spirit: being out by the water, seeing impossibly large waves form and crash onto the beach, smelling salt and soil and the cleanness that only comes from a good rain, seeing the birds wheel and glide over the estuary and the hills.  At every turn there was a view that makes you think about the Being that made all this, in its glorious splendor, for the rest of us to live on and with.

I’m home now, with sore legs and good memories and a renewed conviction that time outside is always the best choice.


Hummingbird happiness


There’s something about a hummingbird. They are quicksilver fast, sprightly, colorful; their little rapidly-beating wings are marvels of aerodynamics.  The sight of one always raises my spirits.

I always used to catch glimpses of them in the backyard, but not nearly often enough.  So I asked for a hummingbird feeder for my birthday, and my husband obligingly picked out a beautiful one and hung it outside the small deck in the backyard.

And I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

IMAG9892 (1)

Not once did I see a hummingbird come to the feeder.  The line of red liquid stayed at the same height, never decreasing.

I felt depressed, like a restaurant owner with no customers.  Were we doing something wrong?  Was there some stray cat lurking about the yard, scaring away potential guests?  Throughout the spring, I wondered and looked wistfully at the glass globe I could see just outside the window.

Then – two weeks ago – I was sitting and reading on the deck and all of a sudden I saw it: a small movement up near the feeder.  I froze.

A tiny bird landed on the perch.  It seemed to see me, but didn’t fly off.  I stayed immobile, almost afraid to breathe. It seemed so scrawny and thin, somehow, seeing it up close and not in motion.

As I watched it bent its head and drank.  I was thrilled, even more thrilled than I’d expected I would be.

It buzzed off into the blue sky, and I watched it go.  If it were human, I’d have called, “Thank you for coming! Tell all your friends!”   It was astonishing how happy I felt at seeing my gift enjoyed.  That close contact with the little creature was such a blessing, pure and simple.

It may not have been the first bird to drink there; it’s very possible that others had been there without my seeing them.  But there was such joy in being part of that moment, and in seeing the bird come confidently to the feeder, even with me sitting right there, to drink up.

Maybe this is how God reacts when we stop and drink in his gifts.  Does he feel the same kind of joy when we pause in our busy lives, when we stop flapping long enough to sit down and savor the sweetness of his creation – a summer evening, a bank of honeysuckle, a rainbow, a hummingbird?

I like to think so. I like to think that maybe my own gleeful reaction is a little taste of the delight that God feels when we accept what he offers.  “Thanks for coming,” I imagine God calling as we buzz away refreshed.  “And tell all your friends.”