Jury week is over for the month. It's time to catch up.

I suppose that I have to start with the most important event that happened while I was suffering the I-don't-have-the-Internet blues.

On December the 15th I arrived at Stevie's day care just before 6 PM to pick him up. I had Donnie with me, and he was excited about visiting his old school. Donnie started there when he was just a year old -- the week after I started Law School. He learned to walk in the toddler room. He learned to use a toilet in the 2 year old room. In the 3s he learned cooperation, and in the 4s he learned to write his name, complete a yoga routine and read a few simple words.

Stevie had been following the same track, only he started when he was about 6 months old, just as I was going back to Law School after taking the first semester of my second year off to have him. The school was in the same building as our church, perfect because I had family working there who would check up on him. Perfect because the teachers knew the boys and already loved them. Just perfect.

On this uncommonly cold winter day (we are in the South, after all) Donnie ran into the classroom where the last few children were playing. I went into Stevie's classroom to pick up his papers and coat. There was an envelope in his little box. It was the familiar Christmas envelope and letterhead that our Church uses during the Christmas season.

I thought to myself, "Oh, how nice. A Christmas greeting from Monsignor to the parents." I read the letter down to the middle, when I sucked in my breath and the paper fluttered to the floor, along with the first of many teardrops. I had just reached the sentence:
"As of December 21st the child care center will close permanently."

We were given one weeks notice to find a new home. To find a new family. I read on to discover that it wasn't the teacher's fault (how true, they are wonderful women who love teaching), it also, apparently, wasn't the fault of the Parish Financial Committee and Monsignor. Those, after all, were the parties who made the decision about how and when the close the center. No, it turns out that the fault lies with me and all of the other parents. We didn't do enough to bring in other families.

We had a meeting in March to discuss the financial difficulties the child care center was having. At that meeting the parents gave several suggestions for fundraisers, cost cutting plans and advertising. We were met with a cool and patronizing "no, thank you." The one suggestion they did implement was to have a summer camp for some of the elementary school aged kids who had graduated from the program and needed a place to go for the summer when their parents were at work. We never heard a word again. No updates on how many children were in the program. No update on whether the summer camp had raised enough money. No whisper that 55 families were about to face the Christmas season competing for child care.

I put the letter back in the envelope and walked into the classroom to get the boys. I put on a blank face. I didn't think I could face the teachers. If I talked about it I would break down. I needed to hold it together long enough to talk to Don. I pretended that I hadn't read the letter. Smiled at the grave faced teachers and put the boys in the car.

I wasn't out of the parking lot before I had Don on the phone. I croaked out his name and then couldn't speak. Later, Don begged me to pull myself together before I called him with bad news. He thought I had been in an accident and one of the boys had died. Finally I got the words out, "they are closing the school" before the sobs started coming.

What an odd reaction to have at the news that a day care center is closing. What you need to understand is that I felt that my parish had betrayed me. That my family had betrayed me. When Don asked my father for my hand, he asked my father in the home of my priest. The same priest who married us. The same priest who gave me my first communion and confirmation as a child. The same priest who baptized Stevie and all three of my nieces. The same man who decided to close the only day care center where I felt safe enough to send my kids.

I know this sounds irrational, but within 24 hours I discovered that I wasn't alone. The next morning Don brought Stevie to school. I just couldn't go back, I wasn't ready. He said the parents were starting e-mail lists. The parents were writing letters and making phone calls. Offering financial support. Begging them not to rip apart this family. We were met with unapologetic caustic responses. Already walking on the more liberal side of Catholicism, I felt my faith begin to slip. The parents fought until the last day.

On December 21st I arrived at Stevie's school to pick him up for the last time. The only ones not crying were the kids. Stevie's teachers told me that he seemed to be the only child who really understood. He asked so many questions about where his teacher were going, and would they be coming with him.

"When will I see you again, Miss Katie?"

"Will Miss Laura's bunny have somewhere to live?"

I cried as I hugged the teachers and the co-directors and told them goodbye. I was asked if I would leave the parish. Everyone looked at me, and I felt like they were looking to me for leadership. After all, I had been at the parish for 17 years. I was a lector, as a teen I had interpreted the Mass in sign language for the hearing impaired parishioners, both of my parents worked at the church. I have a regular seat in the 4th row.

I had to admit that I was not sure if I could ever go back. Maybe I would find a new parish, and I hoped that I would feel at home again, but now now. We all hoped that the pain and the anger would go away. Writing this, I can tell you that it is still there. I have found a new school for Stevie (I will tell you about that in another post) but I haven't found a new home for the family.

This Saturday I went to church again for the first time since it happened. Yes, I missed Christmas. We held a prayer service in our home, and I know it isn't the same, and I have some big time confessing to do, but I couldn't go back.

This Saturday the Mass was being said for Don's uncle who died in May. His mother made a special trip to our church and really wanted the family there. I sat in my seat. I said the words and sang the songs. I did not feel at home. Even the color of the sunlight coming through the stained glass windows looked different to me. I don't think that it is my church anymore.