Welcome to TammyBundy.com!
Your Subtitle text
"I am a little pencil in the hand of a writing God who is sending a love letter to the world." -- Mother Theresa

 

Tune in to Tammy on Sacred Heart Radio's (740AM) Son Rise
morning show every Wednesday at 7:40 a.m.  Listen live on the
radio or on-line at:  www.sacredheartradio.com

Also, listen to EWTN radio to hear Tammy's columns appear as Notes from the Homefront.

Recently heard columns:

School forms

           

“Please give this your utmost attention and return.”

Thus began another year of back to school forms.  And with all four kids in the school system, I was somewhat overwhelmed when I began to fill out one duplicated enrollment card after another. 

Name.  Address.  Phone Number.

The more I filled out the vital information of my children, the more I realized how I wished I could tell the schools what really was vital about each of my kids.  Yes, emergency medical forms serve a purpose, but our kids are so much more than the sum total of their allergies.

So when I am done filling in emergency phone numbers, I want to tell my five year old’s kindergarten teacher something really important about my son.  I want to tell her that he is more than ready to go to school this year.  As the youngest child, he has done nothing but watch the others go and do and live.  It’s his turn now and he is thrilled.  But his shyness might make you think he’s not ready.  Please don’t give up on him.  He’s an amazing kid. 

And after I have filled out all parental release forms, I want to tell my eight-year-old’s teacher about him.  I want to tell her that his heart is beautiful.  And I know this for a fact because he wears it on his sleeve so often.  And this breaks my heart because I know that school kids as well as society in general aren’t always kind to little boys who live by their feelings.  Please look out for him.  He’s an amazing kid.

And once I have written down what my children are to do in the event the school should ever close early, I want to tell my eleven-year-old daughter’s teachers about her.   I want to tell them about my daughter’s dramatic flair.  I want to tell them about her great sense of humor and how she loves to make people laugh.  As a matter of fact, my daughter would do anything to make a friend happy.  And as she dives into adolescence, that absolutely terrifies her mother.  Please keep an eye on her.  She’s an amazing kid.

And upon completing the student directory form, I want to tell my fourteen-year-old daughter’s teachers a few things.  I want to tell them that going off to high school this year was hard, even for my most confident child.  I want to tell her teachers that she will most likely never let them know she was nervous at all.  No, she will most likely be as easy going as always.  It’s just her nature.  She will always smile.  Please smile back at her.  She’s an amazing kid.

I guess when the very last form is filled out and filed away, and our children have filed into class for another year, we parents have one basic request we would make of their teachers.  We are turning over to you our children.  May you not just see them as a part of your classroom.  But may you understand they are a part of out hearts.

 Please give them your utmost attention. And return.

They are amazing kids.

 


The Sunflower
“Why is mine the only one not growing?”
That lament is typical of youngest children every where.  And so it was that it came from the five-year-old mouth of my youngest child.
We had recently planted a bunch of sunflower seeds and everyone had his or her own flowerpots to tend.  Moments after planting his seed, my youngest watched and waited for the new life to spring forth. 
I tried explaining about how you have to wait for these things, they don’t just happen overnight.  But still, every morning my son would rush outside to take inventory on his watched pot.  One by one he reported on the progress of the plants.  One by one the little seeds sprouted stems that reached above the soil.  One by one, my son noticed his pot was the only one not yet growing.
But that seemed so appropriate.
At five, my youngest is at the stage when he is painfully aware of everything that he can’t do that others do so well.  “I’ll race you to the swing set,” he hopefully challenges his eight year old brother.  Of course eight-year-old legs naturally run faster than five year old legs.  And the only thing more upsetting to a five-year-old than losing is when he suspects you simply let him win.
 I watch his little face ---his entire body---as he valiantly tries to keep up with his older brother and his brother’s older friends.  Always a step behind, but never really out of step, he makes up in determination what he might currently lack in skill .  Still, I hear his need to push himself further.
“I need to learn how to tie my shoes.”
“ I need to learn how to ride a bike.”
 “Why can’t I hit the baseball every time?”
 Once, after watching too much commercial television, he ran up to me and urgently announced, “Mommy, you need to buy me ‘Hooked on Phonics’ because I’m in preschool and I can’t read yet.”
And so it was very characteristic of him that he impatiently waited for his sunflower to grow and bloom.
 And as he watched and waited for what would develop, I couldn’t help but think about what I was watching develop in my children.   I guess watching kids grow is a little like watching a seed.  When the seed is first in the ground, we have a vague idea of what it will be like when it fully blooms.  But when it will fully bloom and what it will fully be, we never know until it is the exact time for us to know.  We are anxious to see the final product, but we know better than to dig up the seed in order to check on the development.  Instead, we patiently water it and give it light.  And we wait.  We know that eventually storms will come, but we pray that the roots will be strong enough to survive.
And like my five-year-old and his seed, there are days when I don’t think I can detect any change at all in the growth of my children.  But then there are days when I am absolutely astounded by the incredible change that has seemingly taken place over night.
This was the case with my youngest and his flowerpot.  One highly anticipated day the seed of my youngest eventually sprouted.   He now has the privilege of having the biggest and strongest sprout in the whole family.  I am sure the flower that comes from it will be a source of great pride for him as it grows and reaches to the sun.
Already my five-year-old can barely contain his excitement as he declares, “Look how big it is getting!  Isn’t it amazing?  And all this from a little seed!”
And I smile as I watch his eyes sparkle with the excitement of his accomplishment.  Somehow, he took the words right out of my mouth.

The Look Back
 It all started with a look back. 
We were on our way home from a family vacation at Cape Cod.  It had been a great week and we were driving the 16 hours to make it home by Sunday morning.  Of course two hours into what was supposed to be our all-night drive, we got a flat tire.  The fact that this didn’t happen at three in the morning on the New York Turnpike did, indeed, give me a reason to feel grateful.  But still, we were now faced with a spare tire---appropriately called a donut---on which we were not supposed to drive more than 50 miles per hour.
We found a Sears Auto Mall by

To grandma’s house we go

      The other day my daughter mailed a letter to a friend of hers who is away at summer camp.  It's a six-week camp where the kids are given incredible opportunities to learn and grow in different ways.  After discussing that friend’s summer agenda, we also talked about a friend who had gone to camp in Europe.  My daughter started telling me about some of the other exotic camps—with exotic price tags---some of her friends were attending this summer.  She then asked me if I had ever gone to an expensive camp.
And at that thought I chuckled.  Because the summer camps of my youth were indeed full of adventure-filled learning and growing, but the price tag was quite different.  My camp time was spent at my grandma and grandpa’s farm. 
Now my grandparents have been gone from this earth for more than twelve years.  But they will somehow never be gone from my memory.
You see, every summer, I would go up to my grandma and grandpa’s house in a little town in Northern Ohio where my cousins and I would stay for a whole week.  This may not be a European vacation by any means, but for me there was nothing better than grandma’s house.
The apple orchard beckoned us city kids to come and play.  We climbed the trees.  We made houses in the trees.  One tree was even our Dairy Isle where we made, sold, and ate the most delicious imaginary ice cream I ever didn’t taste.
But there was also a clearing among the trees where we could always get up a game of kickball.  And if that clearing got too tall with grass, we could take turns riding on the riding lawn mower with Grandpa.  And when we got really big---like ten, we might even be able to take the mower out by ourselves.
And while we were outside, Grandma was inside doing what grandmas do best: she was baking.  Sugar cookies, apple dumplings, and more pies than I ever imagined existed, filled the air with their tantalizing aromas.   Then there was the ice cream---the real kind.  Home made and hand churned.
Don’t think I didn’t work for my supper, though.  In the morning, before it got too hot, we kids would have to pick various forms of produce from grandma’s very productive garden.  And of course, if we picked beans, we had to snap beans.  But I never minded too much.  As we sat with Grandma on the back porch, snapping those beans, she would snap into a reflective gear, sharing with us recollections from when she was a little girl.  Grandma and grandpa always ate their big meal of the day at

Summer games

I remember one summer a few years ago when I learned one of the best lessons from two little teachers who had never even been to primary school.  The classroom didn’t have a chalkboard.  But it did have an inflatable pool.  It was my backyard.
You see, it was the day I was watching two four-year-olds do what they were meant to do on a hot summer day: play, play, play. 
My son had invited his young friend over to play in his little pool.  Under the guise of life guarding this two-foot deep area of water, I did what I had not been doing much of that summer: sit, sit, sit.
The summer had been going strong with activities: swim team practices, swim meets, baseball games.  Pepper into this schedule various camps and you can see why the only time I caught myself sitting at all, was when I was behind the wheel of my car.
I felt like I was no longer experiencing things in my life as much as I was simply checking them off my “to-do” list.
That’s when my four-year-old swimmers taught me something.
I can’t watch little children play together without marveling at how natural the whole process is.  As an adult, I am often tempted to offer suggestions, rules, and games to play for any given moment.  But kids teach us they don’t always want, or more importantly, need that structure we so strive for as grown-ups.  In fact, they blossom the most when they are simply left to play, play, play.
Immediately upon hitting the water, my son and his friend began to interact with each other totally on their own terms.  They delighted in the fact that they were making up the rules as they went along.
 “Let’s run three times around the pool and then jump in,” one would giggle as he began to run, followed  by his friend.
“Now, let’s fall into the water, but you can’t get your head wet at all,” the other one chimed in.
“Let’s swing on the swings four times and the run to the pool and fall on our bellies!”
After several minutes of their own version of “follow the leader” they began the preschool diving division of the afternoon.
“Hey,” one would holler, “do you know what this dive is called?”  Contorting his body into a shape I can’t do justice to with mere words, he jumped into the water as he announced, “It’s called the rhino-pencil dive.”
“This one’s called the cloud bomb!” one would yell, while the other followed with, “Hey! Watch my doggie dip dive!”
All the while they were playing there was never a shortage of that most precious sound, which I believe has the power to heal: giggling.
And as I watched them play their made-up games, I felt a warmth come over me that wasn’t due to the fact that I had forgotten my sunscreen.  No, this warmth was the dawning of an appreciation for this game of life that begs for you to come and play, play, play.
And that’s when I learned something.
I learned I want to try to stop simply checking my days off my “to-do” list so that I might thoroughly enjoy this game.
Maybe I’ll make up some rules as I go along.
Who knows?  I might even start to giggle.


Thirteen

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the summer storm was gaining some momentum.  Seeing the trees bending with the wind, I glanced outside my window.
That’s when I saw him, my thirteen year old, alone in the backyard.
He seemed to be playing his own version of a game where he would throw his baseball bat up into the forceful wind and then joyously allow it to fall somewhere on the ground.  This seemingly ordinary undertaking would then be accompanied by exaggerated cheers of jubilation for the accomplished task.
I smiled at the contrast of this boy with the changing young man who is emerging from my house every day.
Thirteen is such a hard age; one foot in childhood, one foot in the teenage years.  I remember what it was like to be a girl at thirteen, so when my daughters went through their rites of passages, I could relate --- not necessarily understand everything, but definitely I could relate.  But this particular gender at thirteen is all new to me.
I am awed by the physical transformations.  The change in the round, little boy face that is beginning to take on the dramatic angles of a young man.  The feet that skip shoes sizes within a month’s time due to serious growth spurts.  The body that stands eye to eye with me now.
And then there are less visible changes, but dramatic nonetheless. Most of these come under the category of the “coolness factor”.  I am finding the factor first manifests itself in the voice. Apparently, the naturally changing thirteen year-old boy’s voice needs to be spoken in an even lower range to be extra cool.  Most responses can and will be made in one syllable.  That’s the coolness factor, I guess.
My son has even begun spicing his language with new “cool” terms. Just the other day I had to have a talk with my new teenager to explain to him that the popular expression “my bad” is not the equivalent to “I’m sorry” to anyone who is old enough to think that rap is simply what we do to presents.  What is more, “dad” seems to have been replaced by the less endearing “dude” and can be heard in expressions such as, “ Yo, Dude, you still owe me $10 for mowing the grass.”  And, in case there were any doubts to the coolness factor, the standard remnant of childhood affection known as the hug, is now usually substituted with a high five. 
Lastly, there is the whole introduction of girls as something more
than simply the other half of the classroom.  And, most importantly, there is being cool around girls.  This whole cool package is then dressed in clothes that have been carefully picked out, while walking and talking in a new, cool way.
All of this seems so much to remember for a guy who used to just want to play baseball with his buddies. 
And so it is that when I see him back to being a carefree boy again, enjoying a silly, made up game with outright abandon, it makes me smile.  It reminds me of the boy I still can recognize under the cool clothes, expressions, and lowered voice.
But perhaps it really just reminds me that childhood comes and goes way too fast.  Blowing into our lives, intense and incredible…and then gone.
Like a summer storm.



Who moved?

 There’s an old saying that observes, “If you can’t find God--- which one of you moved?”
I was thinking about that the other day with my twelve-year-old son.
The time right before my four kids get home from school and all their activities and commitments is my moment to try to get some work done on the computer. Every day at the same time, in the same place, I can be found tapping away at my keyboard in my office.
Nevertheless, it is rare that a day goes by that my youngest doesn’t bolt in the front door, hollering, “Mom!  Mom!  Where are you?”
Now, I used to try to holler back to try to answer him, but I soon realized it was pointless.  He couldn’t hear me over his own voice volume.  So it is that I soon learned to instead sit quietly exactly where I am and wait for him to remember this and come find me. 
And in time, every time, he rounds the corner to locate me right where I always am. Exasperated, he will announce, “Mom!  I didn’t know where you were –I thought you weren’t here.”
You’d think he would learn.
Might this be what our heavenly Father does with us, his children, when we are desperate for our requests to be heard?
During our toughest times, we tend to run through our busy lives, in a way hollering for God to help us. In doing so, we often make so much noise that we couldn’t possibly hear Him over our own voice volume.
And aren’t these the times we feel somewhat abandoned --- wondering where God is in the moment?
You’d think we would learn.
Because, finally, when we do quiet ourselves down, we eventually come to understand that God was with us all along –He never left.  He was simply waiting for us to get all the running around and the hollering done, and come find Him where He’s always been.
Yes, God never moves from where He always is.  But only when we desperate children slow down, quiet down, and listen to Him, can we find God and finally allow him to move us.

 



Dad

The muscles weakness had been slowly affecting my dad for years before he was told a name for his condition. The diagnosis was Inclusion Body Myositis, but the easier to remember name is the acronym, IBM.  This diagnosis was a mixed blessing. After such a long process of seemingly endless doctor’s visits, there is definitely something good about getting answers.  But there is admittedly something bad when the answer comes back as a chronic condition for which there is no cure. He was told by his doctor that his quad muscles would weaken with time, most likely landing him in a wheelchair. 

Over the years he has reluctantly given in to using a cane, to keep himself from falling as much.  The falls happen unpredictably.  Now, to say his falls are unpredictable, may seem odd, since most falls, indeed, are not predicted; but it seems all the more true when talking about my dad.  You see my dad never just walks somewhere.  He never strolls, meanders or saunters.  He walks with a purpose.  He walks with a destination in mind.  Full speed ahead.  His walk says so much about him.  He is strong, determined and heading somewhere.  I remember as a little one having to walk two steps for every one step of his just to keep up.  But I would keep up.  In so many ways, I have always been intent to keep up with my dad.  Today my kids beg me to slow down as I shop with them in the mall or even just walk around the neighborhood.  I have to smile when they complain about my fast gate, because I know where it came from. 

From my dad.  The man who taught me to walk with a purpose. 

So when his purpose is interrupted with a fall, it seems all the more discouraging.  The first time I saw my dad fall, I didn’t know what to do.  I wanted to help him, but I also wanted to respect the look in his eye that seemed to say, “Don’t look at me like this”.  While he managed to get up with only a skinned knee, claiming he was fine, I knew his knee was not what was hurting him the most.

He vows he won’t go willingly into a wheelchair.  And with the determination that is my dad, I don’t doubt for a minute that he will do all he can to avoid it. 

No matter what happens, though, there’s one important thing he needs to understand.  Whether he falls, walks unaided or with a cane, or even one day ends up in that wheelchair, to me, no man will ever walk as tall as my dad.

 

 

Mother’s Day

I suspect my youngest child will one day be referred to as a man of few words. 
Perhaps it comes from being the youngest of four siblings who happen to have no trouble sharing their thoughts with anyone listening.  Maybe it’s the apple falling far from the tree of his parents who have conquered the mastery of the word beyond that which may be healthy.  Then again, it might just be the combination of the two and the simple fact that he has to work too hard to get a word in edgewise.
Regardless of the considerable conversational characteristics of the rest of us, I think it all boils down to the mere fact that my youngest happens to be a genius at getting his point across in other ways, when he sees the need, completely on his own terms.
I have seen this for his entire eleven years. Even as a toddler, he wasn't likely to give a hug when it was requested of him; but completely out of the blue, when the mood struck him, and only when the mood struck him, he would bestow upon me the most wonderful embrace that was all the sweeter due to its rarity. 
When he began to talk, the gushing words may not have spouted forth frequently, but like the rationed hugs, loving words would eventually be delivered in beautiful packages, and savored for their preciousness.

So it is, on days like Sunday, I can appreciate the big picture of my child even more.

It began on Saturday when my little guy had just returned from going out with his dad to get me a Mother’s Day present.  He hung around where I was working on my computer, leaning closer and closer to me.  Soon, he was practically knocking me off my desk chair as he nudged as close to me as humanly possible without crawling into my skin.  Knowing better than to ask what was on his mind, I just waited until he was ready. 

Soon he was. 

With no deliberate drama whatsoever, he simply began to tell me about a new friend of his who had lost her mother to cancer a little over a year ago.  He twisted his body around enough so that he was looking into my eyes as he all but sat on my lap. And then the boy who sometimes only seems to care about sports and other things eleven year old boys care about, the boy who doesn’t say too much, astutely observed, “I’ll bet tomorrow is going to be really hard for her.”

Allowing himself one minute of sentiment, he put his head on my shoulder just long enough for me to try to think of something… anything… to say to a child about another child losing a parent. 

And before I could swallow what felt to be my heart in my throat, that moment was over.

But then the next day came. 

I was treated to my annual breakfast from my kids and then came the “giving of the presents” portion of the morning.  Upon thanking them all for my gifts, I went to give them each a kiss and a hug.  That’s when my youngest grabbed hold of me and didn’t let go.  At first his brother and sisters thought he was just hogging the hugs; but I soon realized there was more to it than that. The prolonged hug was simply him remembering his little friend who was without her mom on Mother’s day and every day after that.  It was, indeed, my youngest child’s way of proclaiming, “Mom, I’m so glad you’re here.”

As tears filled my eyes, I held tightly to my little man of few words. 

Somehow I could hear, loud and clear, exactly what he was saying. 

 

++++++++++For archived stories, please see Radio Archives++++++++++++++++

Announcing...... Tammy's new book from Heart to Heart!

 Listen with your whole self:

Hearing God's words in the whispers

 What are people saying about this?

"Tammy Bundy's no-nonsense approach to keeping the lines of communication open with God is refreshing and practical. Her rich experience of partnering with Rev. Jim Willig in sharing his incredible journey of faith is one no one should miss. It is a story of miracles woven into real life."
Brian Patrick
Host, Sacred Heart Radio's Son Rise Morning Show
Founder of The Good News Network

"Tammy has taken the story of being called to work with Fr. Jim on Lessons from the School of Suffering and has broken it open to discover more lessons for those continuing their education. She applies the same successful lesson plans that worked so well for her and Fr. Jim: short, poignant chapters, insightful personal reflection, scripture  texts, and soul- searching homework. All this sprinkled with a gentle dose of humor and a double dose of grace!"
Fr. J. Michael Sparough, SJ
Friend of Fr Jim's/Director of Charis Ministries

Want to know more about it? Read the introduction:

Listen with your whole self       Introduction

 It all began few years ago. 

 After school. 

 This is the time when my house is like Grand Central Station --- four kids coming from four different schools ---with four different snack requests and four different friends. To call it chaotic is more than an understatement. 

 I typically try to combat this chaos by giving each child roughly a quarter of my attention. Usually, this works. Most of the time they are so caught up in their own worlds, they don't notice that I am too caught up in mine. 

One day, though, I got busted.

It was the day my third child, Ryan, arrived home from school brimming with excitement. It was the most thrilling day of his little life. He was absolutely animated about his story which involved the first grade bunny. The little guy couldn't even sit still long enough to finish his requested snack, instead following me around the room as I dutifully went through all the backpacks of the day. Every now and then I would give him an affirming reaction such as, "Uh-huh. Is that right?" assuming that would satiate his story-telling thirst.

But right between his backpack and that of his little brother, he stopped my wondering,
inattentive mind. 

"Mommy," he stated, sounding much older than six, "You're not listening."

And he was right; I wasn't. But I hadn't been a mommy for all those years to simply admit defeat all at once. I stammered, "Yes I was, honey," as my mind raced for something to repeat back to him. 

Somewhere in my quarter-interest zone, perhaps a couple of the words he had spoken had seeped through. I dug deep, grasping the first cohesive thought I could remember: "You were telling me about the classroom bunny."

Talk about pulling a rabbit out of the hat! 

I was quite proud of myself for that save.

But Ryan wasn't buying any of it. He moved his first grade body so that he was right in front of me. Then he placed one six-year-old hand on the right side of my cheek, and one six-year-
old hand on the other, as he looked me firmly and yet so gently in the eyes as he said, "But Mommy, I need you to listen with your whole self."

And so I did. 

I listened with my whole self.

And what a difference it made.

With my ears I could hear the excitement in his voice as he told me about the classroom
bunny getting out of its cage. With my eyes, I could see the sparkle in his eyes as he giggled, recalling how the teacher almost fell down while trying to catch the furry friend. And with my hands, I could feel his heart beating ever so fast as he revealed how he was the one to capture the bunny and put it back in its cage. 

I listened with my whole self. 

And it made a whole lot of difference.

 Sometimes it's so simple. But we make it so hard.

 After that moment with Ryan, I felt I had something close to an epiphany. It was one basic and yet incredible thought: That must be what God wants to tell each of us so many times. 

Too many times I say a prayer and then go about the rest of my busy day. And every now and then I might stop to think, "Oh, it looks like He isn't going to answer my prayer."

But I would bet that God would love to firmly and yet gently grasp me by the face ---one
majestic hand on the right cheek ---one majestic hand on the other ---and say, "Child of mine, you're not listening."

To which I would defensively come back with, "Sure I was listening, Lord. I said my prayer. But You didn't answer."

And of course, the Lord could respond, "I am answering your prayer. But you're not listening. I need you to listen ---listen with your whole self."

Just the thought of it took me to a deeper level of anticipation in my prayer life. 

What had I been missing?

What had I not been hearing?

But then a thought came back to me.

How can we listen?

Really listen. 

At the time, I had no idea what I was getting ready to discover, but I did sense I was on to something. 

I became determined to find out what it was. And when all began to be set before me, it was more than I ever dreamed. 

I listened with my whole self to the answers of the Lord. And what a difference it made in my whole life.

                                                                         ***

 

To order a copy of Listen with your whole self please go to:

 http://www.heartoheart.org/store/books.html

 


 

 

 |  |  |  | 
Copyright © 2005 Copyright © 2005 Tammy Bundy . All Rights Reserved.

Copyright . Tammy Bundy. All rights reserved.
Web Hosting Companies