Cottage Blessings

Our Lady of All Patience

This afternoon, the older four girls and I went to First Saturday confession. I entered the confessional to repeat the same sin I confess month after month after month--"Father, I was impatient with the children." My pastor smiled, telling me (yet again) that he hears this from mothers all the time.

Is it any wonder that today, of all days, I came across this--a Hymn to Our Lady of All Patience (what a title!) written by none other than our beloved St. Louis de Montfort? Here it is, an anthem to Our Blessed Mother suitable for mothers everywhere:

Come to my assistance,
O gentle and divine Mary,
Come to my assistance!
I suffer and groan every day.
Be compassionate to my troubles.
Free me from them, I beg you.
Come to my assistance!

Help me,
You are most merciful,
Help me!
Everything is under your rule.
Give me then some help
Or at least, the gift of patience.
Help me!

Please click here for the next five stanzas of St. Louis' hymn. He really seems to have been suffering when he wrote it, but it is a fine testimony to his faith in Our Lady's love and care.

Noticing the Ideal

I was sitting comfortably with the baby on my lap when Marie came in with an announcement: "Maureen and I are having a puppet show upstairs, and it is about to begin! Come see it, Mom!"

Now, when it comes to our children's shows and skits, there is a tri-fold law that must never be broken:

1. The stage needs to be set in the farthest reaches of the house, usually up or down a flight of stairs;

2. The show must begin precisely when I least feel like walking up or down the flight of stairs; and [this next point is crucial]

3. The proceedings cannot take place without Mommy in attendance, sitting front and center.

I tried buying myself a bit of time, saying "later, honey" and "in a few minutes" and "don't you two need more time to rehearse?" But Marie won me over with persistence, begging, and, as a last resort, that certain pouty look she has managed to retain from babyhood.

Little Eileen was weighing heavily on my hip as I started the slow ascent up the stairs. The effort was already beginning to pay off though--I laughed outright to find the staircase lined with homely signs scrawled in pen: "Puppet Show this way [arrow pointing up]"; "Maureen and Marie's Puppet Show"; "We hope you injoy the show!" Marie had managed to assemble all the children for an audience--even the busy older girls.

The curtain rose to reveal a china doll and stuffed lamb. From behind a chair, Maureen's thin voice rose, "Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb." It was simple and sweet . . . but extremely beautiful in its ordinary way, particularly because it was taking place in an uncluttered, painted corner of the house. I leaned over and whispered to Theresa, sending her off to retrieve my camera. She returned a moment or so later, and I snapped the photos below.

On occasion, I have heard it said that blogs do not present a complete picture of the homes they represent. We see all beauty and perfection, without the blemishes. Some would even say that these worlds of domestic tranquility are created for the camera and do not truly exist apart from the blogs. Still, I believe that this beauty does exist, and it may be found in every home.

This side of Heaven, there is no perfection, and all families are, in different ways, "mourning and weeping in this valley of tears." Yet, even in the dark valley, we are called to "wait in joyful hope." God trains His sunshine upon us, showing forth His goodness always. Just as in every home there are sorrows, there is also an Ideal waiting to be noticed.

The Ideal presents itself in any number of ways throughout each day and need not be created or staged. We find it jumping for joy as Daddy drags the Christmas lights up from the basement; we see it waiting for us with a picture book and hopeful expression; we hear its muffled shouts of fun through the glass of our back windows; and we feel its limp, dozing warmth by the armload on our laps.

When I am on vacation and see a worthwhile sight, I reach for my camera. So it is at home (the most worthwhile place of all). Marie and Maureen's performance is now in my heart's history book, and I will look at it when I am gray(er) and smile again. Indeed, it was not the only thing that happened that day--I'm sure I scaled a mountain of dishes and probably fretted over clothes and toys on the floor. That is all right and well worth it. The returning miner exclaims and rejoices over the diamonds, leaving the crags and rocks behind.

Any home where breathes a child contains more joy, contentment and beauty than the most well-crafted picture book or extensive magazine spread. And even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.

*******

Scenes from a puppet show, performed with neither stage nor puppet

The curtain is down:

Baby Eileen makes her way backstage:

And is promptly kicked out:

Cheerful programs:

Brother Patrick, program in hand, waits for the show to begin:

Maureen narrates:

"There once was a little sister. They loved her very much . . . . ":

Marie feeds Maureen her lines:

The cast assembles for a curtain call:

Related Cottage Blessings post from last year

Three days, three emergency rooms

The morning of the Feast of St. Francis, my local police department called with the news that my mother had been in an accident on her way to my house. She'd been paused at an intersection with her foot on the brake waiting to make a left hand turn, when a nineteen year old in the oncoming lane changed a compact disc, swerving just enough to hit her head on. The police said they were taking her to a local emergency room, but assured me her injuries were only minor.

Daddy rushed home from work to look after the children, and I headed for the hospital. Brushing aside a curtain in a dimly lit room, I found her sitting up in bed, wrapped in a blanket and looking reasonably well. Her leg was sore, but she remained upbeat, telling me the details of the accident, saying how nice the teenage boy had been and how sorry she felt for him. [He had already been discharged from the same emergency room.] More than anything else, she wanted to know if The Long Island Catholic had come out with my new column in it. [In other words, she was completely herself.]

A nurse bustled through the curtain with discharge papers, surprising us with the good news that Mom was ready to go home. My big black twelve passenger van, affectionately known around here as "the monster truck," is difficult for my mother to mount even on her best day, so there was no way she could get into it with a sore leg. I raced home to switch cars, returning in less than an hour and parking in the emergency room circle, hoping she would be ready to go.

Setting aside the faded curtain, I did not find my mother dressed and ready, eager to stop for a cup of soup on the way home, as she had been planning only an hour before. She was sick and dazed, her face red and puffy. Although she knew me, she could no longer recall the accident, acting surprised and alarmed each time she heard it mentioned.

Needless to say, the doctor on call would not send her home, but ordered she be taken to another hospital with a trauma surgeon. The fear was that she might have taken a bump to the head in the accident, causing a bleed on the brain. Personally, I thought she had had a stroke, brought on by the ordeal of the accident and just being in the hospital. As sweet and friendly as she is, my mother is a quiet person who craves privacy. I couldn't help feeling that if I had gotten her out of there in the first place, she would have been all right.

I returned home in the empty red Saturn, stopping to nurse the baby and grab a bite to eat before heading to the second emergency room. Night had fallen and there was a chill in the air. The hospital loomed before me, billowing smoke in crazy wisps, so that it seemed there could never be a more oppressive looking building. Six times before, Daddy and I had arrived at that same hospital at all hours, joy and excitement quickening our every step. How different was this lonesome walk, plodding toward the emergency room and a bleak unknown.

My mother was lying in a bed in the hallway. Other people's loved ones were lying in beds too, and a janitor made his way around them with a mop. Mom's cheeks looked redder than ever, making her eyes seem small and almost childlike. I stood trying to explain what had happened to her, waiting for someone else to come around and try to explain it to me. Eventually two young doctors took me aside, their speeches peppered with words like "dementia" and "loopy," concluding with a regretful, "she may never come out of it."

Back on the pavement outside, I felt sick to my stomach. Harsh lights beamed down on my head as I passed two hospital workers paused for a cigarette. An ambulance blared in the distance, drawing closer, so that the scene took on a surreal quality. I fancied it to be a movie set of an emergency room and wished I could tear it all down to reclaim the bright, hopeful morning that seemed so distant now.

The next day, I tried teaching the children in the cottage, the familiar routine somehow reassuring. Out of the corner of my eye, I kept catching glimpses of my mother walking up the driveway as she so often did, each time feeling a stab remembering that this might never be again. The younger children did not quite grasp the seriousness of Grandma's condition, mostly because I could not bring myself to tell them. In spite of my silence, Theresa's jaw twitched, and Agnes shed quiet tears, looking at me with round, understanding eyes. Those girls of mine are growing up.

By the time I was able to return to the hospital, the sun was just beginning to set, and I was driving right into it. It was enormous on the horizon, round and orange, the kind of sun no driver wants to face--yet somehow it made me think about "the woman clothed with the sun." I half remembered another experience in the very same hospital and the woman "with the moon under her feet." She had seen me through the bleak unknown before and had given me reason after reason to trust. I thought about that recent column and its bottom line: "The Blessed Mother always takes care of us."

All right, I decided then and there, I am going to trust. Not trust in the outcome I wanted, mind you, but in the Blessed Mother's care, no matter what the outcome.

I made my way to my mother's room and found her sitting up in bed. Something in the glimmer of her eye made me ask hopefully, "Mom, do you remember the accident?"

"Yes," she said, "I remember it, but it only came back to me a little while ago. A group of doctors was in asking me questions, and I kept telling them there had been no accident. I insisted I had come to the hospital after my doctor's appointment on Wednesday. The moment they walked away, it began to come back to me, and I realized what they were talking about."

She proceeded to tell me all the details, every bit as lucidly as she had during that first hour in the hospital. She began cracking jokes that had me howling, describing how the doctors had looked askance when she denied the accident, each one jotting down the same note in his or her book: "N-U-T-S!" [In other words, she was completely herself.]

Mom's leg is still in bad shape, and she cannot walk, but time and rehabilitation will take care of that. I have been taking sub-groups of the family to visit her at the rehab center every day, and there is currently no higher aspiration in life for my children than to be the one to carry the mail in to Grandma. Everyone is waiting hopefully for the day the red Saturn will bring her home to stay with us.

And, yes, as this title tells, there was a third emergency room in my future, but that, I'm afraid, is a tale in itself!

Make Believe for Moms

A very dear friend of mine once told me she does not especially enjoy looking at her children's baby pictures. It isn't that she does not appreciate them, but that the images are so bittersweet. Seeing those darling faces, she cannot help wishing she could spend some time with her babies once more, holding them in her arms and covering them with kisses.

All seven of mine are still at home, and yet, on occasion, when I come across a picture of Agnes or Theresa as an infant or tow-headed toddler, I feel a slight pang of longing. What I would not give for even an afternoon in our first apartment with those dear babies, rocking them in my arms, reading a story, or singing them off to sleep.

Sometimes, if my children are playing and I am in a position to sit and watch, I like to pretend that I am seeing them in a home movie. In my mind, years and years have passed--they are all grown up and a video of them as they once were is flickering across a screen. No matter what they are doing in the "movie"--whether it be playing and laughing, screaming or creating a mess--they are irresistible and adorable to me, and I watch with new appreciation for the blessing that they are.

When the reel runs out and the houselights of reality are raised again, I scoop them up and cover them with kisses--believe me, it is better than popcorn.

*******
Scenes from some excellent films I have watched lately:

A Coincidence

It seems my friend Elizabeth Foss and I both have the seasons of motherhood on our minds. I just visited her blog to find this post about "Writer's Block" and a son leaving for college all too soon. Her description of having ideas but not really caring about them right now reminds me of my feelings towards blogging last year when Eileen was born.

Prayers are being said here for Elizabeth, Mike, Michael and the whole family during this bittersweet time.

To everything there is a season

This time last year, I was barely blogging or even turning on the computer. Our darling Eileen had come to grace our lives forever, and her presence melted all words from my mind. I remember thinking how much I wanted to keep up "Cottage Blessings," but it was just impossible. The problem wasn't primarily a lack of time or energy either--the words simply were not there. Last July's archives contain only four posts: a meme completed by Agnes, a picture of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, a photograph of one-month-old Eileen, and a link to a Cottage Garden post about Luna moths. This July, by contrast, has been my most busy "posting month" ever, with a new entry written almost every day from a City bursting with ideas and inspiration.

Comparing the two Julys side by side, each with its unrepeatable joys, stories and memorable moments--one mostly unwritten and the other well documented--makes me realize more than ever that there is a time in our lives for everything. During some seasons of Motherhood, we are inspired to share our thoughts and stories, and during others we are called to silent reflection. Mary "pondered all these things in her heart."

Often, mothers leave thoughtful notes on their blogs saying, "I'm sorry I have been away so long" or "I have been doing a terrible job in posting." We all strive to be faithful to any task we take up, and it is natural to feel a bit bad when our blogs fall out of rhythm for a while. Still, I would say that this, like so many aspects of Motherhood, is part of God's plan for us. We should expect those inevitable quiet times, not feeling the least bit sorry when they come, but embracing them wholeheartedly.

Let us rejoice in both the stories and the silence.

Beware the Shower Door

"Yet the sound increased -- and what could I do? It was A LOW, DULL, QUICK SOUND -- MUCH SUCH A SOUND AS A WATCH MAKES WHEN ENVELOPED IN COTTON. I gasped for breath, and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly, more vehemently but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why WOULD they not be gone?"

--from The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allen Poe

One evening in the not so distant past, I was helping the girls get ready for a special event--Christmas maybe, or perhaps a Communion. Whatever the occasion, it was important enough for me to comb each of their freshly-washed heads myself. I began with Agnes, sitting her in our upstairs bathroom, carefully parting her straight brown hair and running a comb through it. This tedious process always takes a while, and before long she was absently tapping our loose shower door with her foot. Back and forth went the foot, closing the faulty door, only to have it spring open again and again. "Honey," I said, not especially liking the repeated taps, but still unruffled, "Would you please stop doing that?" "Sure, Mom," she said, immediately pulling her foot away from the door as I continued to comb.

Finishing up, I called Theresa into the room, carefully parting her straight blonde hair and running my comb through it. Before long, I heard a tapping and saw that Theresa was nudging the loose shower door closed with her foot, only to have it fall open once more. "Theresa, could you stop doing that?" I said firmly, "The noise is bothering me." "Sure, Mom," she obliged, retracting her foot as I continued to comb.

Next in the chair was (then) six-year-old Margaret, who had been playing dolls in her room with Marie. I carefully parted her strawberry blonde hair, running my comb through it. Within minutes, I could hear a tapping--a maddening, grating, inexcusable tapping. Margaret was closing the loose shower door with her foot, reclosing it each time it fell open. "Margaret!!!" I bellowed like a Bear in a Baiting, "WOULD YOU STOP OPENING AND CLOSING THAT SHOWER DOOR?!!!!"

Margaret looked dumbfounded--my sudden outburst in that enclosed space taking her entirely off guard. She did not even cry, but just stared aghast, her stark white face going red to the ears. In my mind, there was nothing for her to be surprised about--hadn't I repeatedly been saying to STOP making that awful noise?

Within ten seconds, of course, I realized what I had done. My patience had been worn thin by the tapping and the monotony of combing head after head after head. Margaret had not done anything wrong, although it certainly felt as if she had. Collecting myself, I apologized to her, explaining exactly what happened. We shared a laugh over it, and all was well again as I finished combing that strawberry head.

Every now and then, a single event shines a floodlight upon hundreds of others, and so it was with this one. How often had I lost patience with one child over something inconsequential when in reality my nerves were frayed by one or two or half a dozen other people who had just done the same thing? [This is completely understandable too, isn't it? No mother wants to yell at her kids--that Bear in a Baiting would much rather be eating blueberries placidly, or better yet snoring in her cave!]

To this day, when I feel the heat of maternal indignation rise within me, I try holding off just long enough to ask myself the question: Am I being fair, or am I giving my child "The Shower Door"?

And when, as it often does, it turns out to be the latter, we usually share a laugh over it!

The Truck in the Vestibule

Little Eileen was making herself known during Sunday Mass, so I whisked her out into the vestibule behind glass doors. Shifting my weight from one foot to another, I rocked back and forth, back and forth, soothing her into some semblance of quiet. Just beyond those isolating doors, a small blonde child wore a face that was at once stricken and longing. It was three-year-old Maureen struggling near the end of the pew as two of her sisters stopped her from running toward me. The moment she realized she would not be able to pass them, she released one long, loud sob far more disruptive than Eileen's tiny wimpers. Daddy scooped her up, but I could see poor Maureen catching her breath miserably, still straining for a glimpse of her Mommy rocking back and forth.

When I was growing up in New York City, the ice cream truck came by every Summer afternoon. Sometimes, if my mother had not seen me in a while, she was relieved to hear the saving strains of the ice cream man's Pied Piper's tune. She knew for certain it would bring me tearing from yard or house or alley or garage hoping for a doggy-faced cone or chocolate cartwheel. "If you didn't come for the ice cream man, I'd have called the police," my mother often said, and this was probably not too far from the truth.

Seeing little Maureen's expression at that moment--heartbrokenly held back from her glass-enclosed Mommy--she looked to me like a child who had missed the ice cream truck, or maybe one whose mother had just told her to go get an ice-pop from the freezer.

When my older girls were little, I would have been mortified to hear my three year old screaming for me during Mass, but not any more. I'm thankful for these last few years I'll have to be the ice cream truck to someone.

For mothers, a poem worth considering

Any Woman

I am the pillars of the house;
The keystone of the arch am I.
Take me away, and roof and wall
Would fall to ruin me utterly.

I am the fire upon the hearth,
I am the light of the good sun,
I am the heat that warms the earth,
Which else were colder than a stone.

At me the children warm their hands;
I am their light of love alive.
Without me cold the hearthstone stands,
Nor could the precious children thrive.

I am the twist that holds together
The children in its sacred ring,
Their knot of love, from whose close tether
No lost child goes a-wandering.

I am the house from floor to roof,
I deck the walls, the board I spread;
I spin the curtains, warp and woof,
And shake the down to be their bed.

I am their wall against all danger,
Their door against the wind and snow,
Thou Whom a woman laid in a manger,
Take me not till the children grow!

--Katharine Tynan (1861-1931)

[My father's favorite poet, William Butler Yeats, advised Katharine Tynan to specialize in Irish Catholic poetry. I think he made the right call.]

Gables, Steeples, and Other Points

Well, I promised a point to those early posts about our grand lodgings here in San Francisco, and it seems my day of reckoning is at hand. The trouble with beating around the bush for a month is that sometimes, in the business of living, you realize your original impression and intended "point" were not precisely right. You find that maybe you should have taken some time before drawing (and worse, promising) a conclusion.

So here is where I finally get to my original point before admitting new facts in complete opposition to it--then swiftly reconcile the two, so that I appear to have been right all along. (Ah, that law school training finally comes in handy.)

When we first arrived, you will recall, we were impressed and even overwhelmed by the
beauty of this place. Yet, quite honestly, it left me uneasy and wound up—the way I might feel wheeling a triple stroller though a narrow-aisled crystal factory. Our son Patrick hated the place right off the bat. Victorian gables and elaborate furnishings suggest haunted houses to little boys, and he would not so much as walk from one room to the next by himself for a full month.

The girls, although enamored at first, did not really fare much better. Only Agnes continued to love her surroundings without complaint (primarily because of a volume of Shakespeare eight inches thick to keep her occupied). It was clear the other girls felt stifled, as if they could not play or do anything lest something should break. Television viewing and bickering were embraced as cherished hobbies, and I began wondering if we had not entered the region of California known as “Whine Country.”

After a few days of beating up against the bars of her gilded cage, Theresa seemed to speak for one and all by exclaiming, with no small measure of disgust, “I feel as if this is a Stuck Up House.”

Now according to thirteen-year-old Agnes, there are two subjects Mommy is obsessed with and raises whenever possible—the importance of choosing a good husband (if they are one day called to married life) and the perfection of small houses. My speeches on husband selection usually take the form of pointing out potential “red flags” to keep in mind for the future, red flags being things like nose piercings, pink hair, unnerving tattoos, smoking, excessive drinking, sullenness, dishonesty, tax evasion, bad manners, a criminal record, boorishness, reckless driving, reluctance to hold doors, soup slurping, and a seemingly bottomless list of other quirks and foibles I do not wish to see in a son-in-law.

My speeches on small houses, on the other hand, are designed to help my girls become content and joyful in any surroundings. Hopefully (so my theory goes), if the children see small spaces and cottages as the ultimate in beauty and coziness, they will avoid a lifetime of yearning, covetousness, disillusion, debt, and discontent. The moment the girls grumbled about our stately manor house here in San Francisco, I felt validated. “You see?” I remarked smugly sagely, “It is just as I have always told you. Big houses do not lead to happiness! Remember this when you grow up!”

This was the point I was planning to reach in those first few posts, and I probably would have attempted to make it more delicately were it not for everyone’s complete and utter change of heart.

Once again, Theresa acted as the mouthpiece for one and all. As we sat talking about our love for San Francisco, hoping to return one day to this ethereal City by the Bay, the coiner of the term “Stuck Up House” declared (and adamantly, I might add), “If we do come back, I hope we can stay here again. San Francisco just wouldn’t be the same without this house.”

So you see my dilemma? I was trying to come to a point based on my daughter’s feelings over a month ago, and experience appeared to have taught her the complete opposite. Moreover, she had uttered my own unspoken thoughts as well. I would be lying if I did not admit to loving every inch of this place, each tasseled curtain and soaring ceiling, the front stairs, the back stairs, and all five glorious mantels. Even the reluctant Patrick has his favorite nooks and corners, perfect for pitching sheet tents or establishing imaginary zoos in which he is the naturalist in charge of all exhibits.

Mulling things over afterward, I realized what had happened, relieved to find the “point,” though off shivering in a silken-tasseled corner, still remarkably intact. No house could make us happy--WE had made the house happy! We did not love this place because it was opulent. We loved it because we had begun to fill it with family history and memory. It was no longer a looming, antiseptic, untouchable museum, but a living, breathing bower of light and life. It would forever be the fairgrounds for Margaret’s nightly “baby romps” and theatre for Agnes’ loving readings of Romeo and Juliet. It would form the backdrop in our minds for Maureen’s historic penny swallowing, Eileen’s first birthday and her triumphant maiden voyage up a full flight of stairs. In six weeks time, we had inflated this house with our laughter, sprinkled her with tears, affronted her through tiffs and tantrums, and impressed her with our lofty thoughts. We prayed many a Rosary wrapped in her embrace and transformed her trim gilded gables into steeples for the Domestic Church.

It is the family that finds its own measure of contentment, joy, and sorrow wherever it may be, and I hope the children will come away remembering this new adage: “Be it ever so humble--or extravagant--there’s no place like home."

In which we become the victims of a petty crime

[Margaret at Golden Gate Park, June 25, 2007.]

A day or so ago, I shared the story of our evening in downtown San Francisco and the homeless woman who spoke so lovingly to our son Patrick. Little did I know then that we had already become the victims of a petty crime.

Our daughter, Margaret, has a backpack she takes with her everywhere, so much so that we joke about it being the quietest member of the family. Rescued from a friend’s “things to give to charity” pile several months ago, her black backpack was the only thing she brought from New York to San Francisco, its zippered coffers brimming with origami squares, souvenir pennies, snippets of ribbon, self-authored comic strips, Sacajawea dollars, stiff cardboard dolls, and other Useful Things.

True to her faithful practice, Margaret had the pack with her the night we joined Daddy downtown for the fireworks. Dutifully leaving it in the car at my request, she did not even think of her beloved backpack until we arrived home many hours and one cable car ride later.

The next morning, we piled into the van to head to Golden Gate Park. To Margaret’s dismay, the beloved backpack was not on the seat where she had left it. She begged me to check inside the house, and I conducted a diligent search, but we knew for certain we had never brought it in. I called Daddy as our last ray of hope, but he confirmed what I already suspected—the backpack had been stolen.

As you might imagine, Margaret was devastated when I broke the news. Her face turned a dismal white, then a heartbroken shade of pink, and she sobbed, long, heaving, cries of despair and disbelief. Each moment brought a new remembrance of some trinket or treasure lost—the compact from Aunt Jenn’s wedding, a paper doll skirt made for her by Katie Barrett, the scissors Grandma mailed from New York. Trifles to all the world, but Margaret.

My mind wandered back to a time in the eighties. I was a freshman in high school and had my first real pocketbook, a blue and white striped cloth shoulder bag. It was jammed full of all my worldly possessions—a battered hairbrush, a velcro wallet stuffed with photos of classmates, a wedding photo of my parents, a black and white Woolworth’s shot of myself with my father (taken when I was still young enough to have blonde hair), a Pacman key chain, expired lift tickets from a memorable ski trip, a John Lennon button. It was all gone—stolen from my side at a fast food restaurant. How I mourned for it, shedding bitter tears over things with no value to anyone but me.

Margaret was still crying and receiving words of consolation from her sisters when I pulled into the local shopping strip. We were on our way to the park, and bagels and coffee were in order, theft or no theft. Margaret grieved for each item as she remembered it: her Klutz Paper Fashions (a year’s worth of labor, lovingly organized in a bright red binder), her four-colored pen from the San Francisco Zoo, her mechanical pencils. I left Agnes and Theresa in charge as I quickly ran in to place our order at Noah's. Standing by myself in line, I pondered the circumstances, realizing that pain and disappointment are a part of growing up. There is not very much a mother can do to avoid sorrows for her child. Life can be difficult at times, and we all need to learn it sooner or later.

My mind wandered back to a time in the seventies. The blonde-haired baby to my Sunshine Family set was missing—stolen by a little girl on my block. It had an identifying (and thereby incriminating) fuzzy spot on the top of its head, yet she was claiming it had “turned up” in her room. My mother listened to the sorry tale and had one swift and decisive response, “Get in the car, Alice. We’re going to the toy store.” By the end of the afternoon, I had a smooth-haired Sunshine Family baby in a plastic faux wicker bassinet. By the end of the week, "Smoothie" was reunited with her fuzzy-headed twin, thanks to the ingenuity of my best friend across the street. (I'll spare you the details!)

By the time I stopped thinking about those Sunshine Family "twins," I was on line at the "5 and 10" next to Noah's. In my basket was a set of sparkly pens, a star-studded binder, sheet protectors, watercolors, glue, scissors, origami paper, stickers, colored pencils, and one spang new red and white backpack. (I had already run into the adjacent bookstore for Klutz Paper Fashions, snapping up the last set with glee.) Life would have its disappointments for Margaret, and there would not be a blessed thing I could do about them, but on the morning of July 5, 2007, there was still something I could do, and I would do it--with a glad and grateful heart--just as my own mother had thirty years ago (and perhaps a bit more recently too).

Margaret has thanked me every day since then, the two of us even managing to steal down to the kitchen to admire her newly created Paper Fashions over a cup of tea. Blowing on a spoonful to cool, she looked at me very seriously and said, “Mommy, I’m not happy the backpack was stolen, but one thing makes me very happy—now, I’ll go home with a backpack and a story to tell!”

How very true, Margaret. How very, very true.
[Margaret at Golden Gate Park, July 6, 2007.]

Patrick and the Homeless Woman: A Ride on a Cable Car

Fourth of July of 2007 turned out to be the most memorable of our lives, thanks to an impromptu invitation from Daddy, the kindness of a cable car conductor, and a homeless woman who reached past her storm cloud of anxiety and confusion to shed a single ray of sunshine upon my little son.

Daddy has been working like mad here in San Francisco, and we knew Independence Day would be no different. You can imagine how pleased we were when he called from work at around noon with an idea, “Why don’t you bring the kids here to the office at 8 pm? We should be able to get a view of the fireworks over the Bay.”

From a window-lined conference room in the soaring building, we kept our sunset vigil, watching cars and crowds plodding toward Fisherman’s Wharf like a red-candled procession. In the last faltering rays of sunlight, Alcatraz became a ghostly battleship, its one bright eye blinking a warning through the mist. Suddenly, twin rockets spun like sparks from a blacksmith's anvil, beginning the show and delighting the children for over an hour.

Back on the sidewalk afterward, the City that has been home to us for a month was teeming with people and shining more brightly than the fireworks. Although it was close to eleven, the night seemed young and somehow unfinished. Daddy suggested I take a few of the older children to ride home on a cable car.

The bounding enthusiasm of the girls made this idea a difficult one to thwart, and, quite honestly, I had been wanting to ride the cable for quite some time, so it was decided. Eileen was snug in a Baby Bjorn carrier on my chest and would come along, as would the four older girls. Daddy would drive the van home with Patrick and Maureen. Looking down at Patrick, who had not yet understood what this would mean for him, my heart went out to him. How could we leave the wheel loving-est member of the family out of our first cable car ride? “I’ll take him along as well,” I decided, leaving Daddy duly impressed. He scooped up Maureen for one last wave goodbye, and the rest of us hopped on board.

Sitting on the inside of the car, the girls scrambled to find the best seats and vantage points. Riding a San Francisco Cable Car is like stepping back in time, the varnished wooden seats and wainscoted walls a relic of a bygone era. Patrick huddled by my side, his beaming smile and sparkling eyes showing what a shame it would have been to leave him behind. Our family sat in a row on a long bench, the passengers on the other side of the car smiling at baby Eileen, who was taking in her new surroundings with solemn blue eyes.

The conductor came around to collect the fare, five dollars per rider. I had my thirty dollars ready and passed it to him, but he pointed to Patrick saying, “five and under are free” and attempted to return a five dollar bill. "He is five already," I told the man, expecting him to move on. Inexplicably and very kindly, he passed back twenty-five dollars saying, “I’ll just take five for all six of you.” The row of passengers opposite, locals with cable car passes, murmured, “How nice,” spontaneously applauding and raising a chorus of “Happy Fourth of July” to the children. I smiled back, marveling at the City of San Francisco, feeling as if we had wandered into some sort of urban utopia.

As the cheers died down, a graying homeless woman hobbled on, looking confusedly left and right. The girls instinctively made room for her, and she fell into the bench between Patrick and Agnes with a thud. She was already in mid-conversation before even hitting the seat, telling me immediately that she was a Vietnam Veteran. “It’s Fourth of July, and I’m a Vietnam Veteran,” she repeated, “but nobody cares. It don’t matter to them.” The row of well wishing passengers fell as silent as a radio unplugged, all eyes soberly fixed out windows and in books. “I am clean,” she continued loudly to me--or to no one in particular, “I am a Vietnam Vet’ran.” With that, Patrick, who was paying no attention to her exclamations, jumped up to get a better view. He bounded past the woman and seemed bent on reaching the outdoor cabin. “Patrick,” I called to him urgently, sit down—you could fall out!”

The woman turned in her seat to glare at me, as if I had been interrupting. “Nobody ever listens to me!” she shouted. “Nobody cares! Nobody listens!” “Oh, excuse me,” I said, weakly, “I was listening, but I was afraid my little boy would . . . .” “Nobody ever listens!” she cut me off, pulling a white hood over her head so that it almost covered her eyes and leaning forward to rock back and forth. “You are going to push me over the edge, you and all the rest of you! You don’t care! Nobody cares!” The passengers opposite kept their eyes trained out windows and in books, the natural human response when closed in with an erratic person.

Rattled by her display, Patrick cuddled up a bit closer to me, so that there was room for a person to sit between himself and the woman. A wave of passengers clambered in at a stop. “Look at them all!” she sobbed, still rocking. “ I guarantee not one of these people will be willing to sit down next to me! I’m clean, but not one of them will sit here! Not one of them will sit next to me!” With that, Patrick, who had been clinging to me, relaxed a bit, inching ever so slightly toward her. He gingerly pushed my shawl into the empty place as if trying to fill up the seat.

She noticed the shawl out of the corner of her eye and stopped rocking. “You are trying to fill up that seat, aren’t you young man?” He did not answer but looked back at me. She continued, her face and tone suddenly serene, “You don’t want me to be alone, do you?” The entire Cable Car held its breath, and a few eyes even peeped up from books. “Thank you,” she murmured,“thank you young man, for showing me some love.” He did not look away, but listened unblinking. “Young man,” she continued, her poor withered face wreathed in smiles, “you showed a woman named Roxanne some love tonight and gave her hope. You are a fine young man, and do you know why you are such a fine young man?” Speaking now for the first time, Patrick softly whispered, “Why?” “Because,” she said, “you have a good mother, a mother who teaches you not to look down on anyone.” Hearing her response, Patrick turned his head back to me, and from the depths of his innocent little heart he said, “I love you, Mom,” planting a kiss on my cheek. Several “awwwws” from the other passengers were audible, and Roxanne beamed approvingly as the cable car ground to a halt. “Thank you, young man, thank you!” she repeated, rising and stepping toward the exit. The girls called after her, “Happy Fourth of July,” as merrily as if she was packing to leave a picnic, and she replied in kind, “Happy Fourth of July!” knocking on the glass behind us for a few more waves. As the cable car rumbled on, we could see her staggering from the street to the curb, almost too impaired to make the step.

A wave of relief swept over me as she left, particularly because I had feared her following us home from our stop. The moment she exited, I was able to chat with the girls, take a few pictures, and marvel at the hills and hotels, resuming my role as the carefree tourist. Still, two quotes from the Bible began playing in my head, repeating themselves as insistently as the rhythm of Roxanne’s rocking. The first was from last Sunday’s Gospel:

“Foxes have dens and birds of the sky have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to rest his head.” Matthew 8:20.

The other, also from the Book of Matthew:

“’Amen, I say to you, whatever you did for one of these least brothers of mine, you did for me.’” Mathew 25:40.

Jesus not only did not look away from people like Roxanne. He sought them out as companions and friends, living among them and asking us to do the same.

Our trip completed, we bid farewell to the cable car operator, setting out for home still chattering about the night’s excitement. In the distance, a tall man carrying a toddler wrapped in a long pink poncho was walking toward us, the steep terrain no hindrance to his steady, quick step.

And the children sprang up the hill to meet their father.

We now return to our regularly scheduled May

We woke from our Midsummer Night's Dream to find ourselves approaching the end of May without having taken a single Nature Walk or, other than our Marian May Baskets, completed any of our planned Marian Crafts. With a few days left, we hope to make up for lost time and began yesterday with a long walk through our favorite local gardens (the place that was the setting for our final performance of A Midsummer Night's Dream last week). Here Maureen and Eileen frolic in front of our dream thatched cottage--it is not our own, but we love it as if it were.

It did my heart good to nurse Eileen at a bench, breathing in the wild bouquet of lilacs, watching red-winged blackbirds, flashing fish, and romping, happy children.

Margaret discovered that the unassuming purple flowers dotting the lawn look like fairies' teddy bears. This little fellow rests on my new pink shawl. According to Agnes, the shawl is "the springtime equivalent of the Irish Walking Cape."

How many more chances will I have to see my older two girls holding hands? This photo seems the perfect symbol of a family growing up--with the older ones setting out toward a bright future and the younger ones not far behind.

How is it possible that a little one who was not even born this time last year could trot all over the gardens with us, looking like some pale purple blossom freshly sprung?

Slow down, Time, slow down! Let me tarry a while here in this place with these children!

Blessed be thou, fair, sweet May!

The Madonna of the Woods

in the Cottage Garden.

The Flowers Strewn in our Path

We were already a quarter of an hour late for the Andre Rieu Concert when we made our way through security and past the great glassy doors of the Nassau Coliseum. Now face to face with the snack bar (after leaving home without dinner), the sports-fan fare of popcorn, peanuts, and pretzels was irresistible.

With little cash in my pocket, I asked the man behind the counter, “Do you take American Express?”

“Sorry, M’am, no credit cards.”

“OK,” I said, widening my wallet to reveal a twenty dollar bill and a couple of other singles.

A swelling stream of requests flowed from the mouth of the girls, blissfully unaware of their mother’s shortage: “Can I have a pretzel?” “Mommy, I don’t like pretzels—may I have popcorn?” “Do you think we could order hot dogs?” “Do they sell French Fries?” “Can we bring home candy for Patrick and Maureen?”

The man stood waiting as I dammed the stream with one quick, “Mommy doesn’t have much money,” ordering three pretzels, three waters, and one bag of popcorn. Boxing the snacks in an instant, the man said, “Twenty-seven dollars, please.”

It was quite a bit more than I expected, and I presented the twenty and the stray bills counting out a mere twenty-four. The man stared while I took one last desperate glance inside the wallet, finding (joy of joys) a tightly wrinkled group of bills under a crumpled receipt—three more dollars! “Well, what do you know?” I said to him, laughing, “I have exactly twenty seven dollars.”

If I could paint a picture for you of the look on that man’s face, you would see before you the personification of human kindness, empathy, joy, and relief. He was beaming and thanked me heartily. It was only then I realized the poor man had been waiting anxiously, dreading the possibility that he might need to take back a water or a pretzel from that thin cardboard box.

We found our seats—mercifully on the aisle—with the concert already in full swing. Andre Rieu and his vibrant young orchestra, oddly out of place in the drafty sports arena, succeeded in warming it to the rafters. The girls were captivated, but there was one young one even more appreciative than my four. A small boy with Down’s Syndrome three or four years old—impossibly cute in a long-sleeved plaid shirt—sat two rows in front of us. He kept time to the music with his hands, thrilling to every note. Putting an arm around his father, he received a prompt kiss, before turning to smile toward the couple in the row behind him.

I watched that boy a long time, wishing—and this kind of thing never occurs to me with so many of my own—that he was sitting with us. My lap was strangely empty, and there was something undeniably compelling in his gestures and expression. I was not the only one who noticed it, for he had a circle of fond admirers round about him—not only his family, mind you, but smiling concert goers whose pleasant faces and hearty waves showed how their night was brightened by his unspoiled delight.

Intermission came, and, with the lights turned up, the girls began scrutinizing the aisles and floor of the arena, searching desperately for their two grandparents. We had found out earlier that day that Gram and Pop would be at the concert (just by chance—we hadn’t planned it). I warned them a sighting would be highly unlikely given the enormity of the crowd, yet somehow we managed to spot Gram who was wearing red. If you could mount an enormous Buccaneer ride in the very center of the Coliseum and set it rocking at full tilt, we would have been at one high point on the arc, and my in-laws would have been on the other. The moment they spotted Gram, the girls were elated, adding, “Look, there’s Pop! He’s coming back with coffee!” Even from that impossible distance all four reflexively waved and smiled, stretching high up in their seats in hopes of being noticed.

What is it about grandparents that can turn a cold and crowded Coliseum into a familiar living room? One sight of Gram and Pop and four Heidis begged to be allowed to descend to the deep valley and scale the Alps to pay a visit to the Grandfather and Grandmother, eager and determined as if bent on delivering an apron of fresh-picked flowers or sack of soft white rolls. Unfortunately for my high-spirited lasses, their mother was on hand to play Fraulein Rottenmeier, making short work of the plan, yet I smiled to witness their deep love and affection.

All too soon, the concert hummed to a close. Andre Rieu, as is his custom in every country he visits, played a final selection meant to capture the essence of the place and its people. At the first strains of “America the Beautiful,” the crowd was on its feet singing in one voice, in a tone at once insistent and proud, “America, America, God shed His grace on thee.” A bagpiper entered blasting the first throbbing notes of Amazing Grace and, instantly, thousands of people who had just faced the new American reality of stadium security checks, remembered our firefighters, police officers, and soldiers. This homegrown hymn breathed through old world lungs spoke its wordless message of Brotherhood, Hope, and Longing. In two simple selections, Andre Rieu had grasped the American Spirit—the immortal soul of a faithful people.

Making our way out through the crowd, I was already reflecting upon the good people blooming all around us like blossoms bursting forth from a garden well-tended—the man behind the counter, that happy little boy and his admirers, our Gram and Pop, and Andre Rieu himself—who with bow and fiddle and bagpipe had pierced through to reach the all too often hidden heart of a nation. With these thoughts still playing in my mind, I turned the key in the ignition and put our van in reverse, wondering for the first time how I would escape from the tight spot in that unceasing flow of traffic. Before I had even a moment to wait, a white-haired woman in a sedan paused and waved me on with a friendly smile.

“What a nice woman!” I exclaimed to the girls, turning my wheel instantly and flitting to freedom as readily as a boy who hears the final bell at school. Raising a hand out my window, I waved the driver’s salute of gratitude, offering up a heartfelt and heart-lifting prayer of thanksgiving for all the flowers strewn in our path.

A Timeline of Mercy

December 6, 2002

I write a notice to our local Immaculate Heart of Mary homeschooling group:

"Dear Friends,

As you know, the Little Flowers close of season party is next week, December 11th. It was originally scheduled for 2 pm, but I've decided to move it up to 1 pm to get the most of the daylight. It's supposed to rain, unfortunately, but the children wouldn't really be able to play outside in the cold anyway, so we will not postpone. The theme of the party will be "Our Lady of Guadalupe" because her feast is the next day. A wonderful craft and activity are planned, so I hope you will all try to attend.

Love, Alice"

December 11, 2002

9 am

The weather is icy and rainy. I briefly consider calling off the party at the last minute, but hesitate to postpone with Christmas coming.

1 pm

The party is in full swing. [MacBeth and her family visit for the first time--she and I hit it off instantly.] Brigid O'Neill brings cappuccino bars--a special treat for her coffee-loving hostess. The children enjoy creating Juan Diego paper dolls and pose for a group picture near a Guadalupe banner painted by my friend Lorraine and her children. Emily O'Neill, Brigid's seven-year-old daughter, appears on the right, wearing a white turtleneck and dark jumper.

6 pm

The place is a mess! Brigid, who normally leaves promptly at 4 pm, has stayed behind to clean up. When she finally gets four-year-old Danny and seven-year-old Emily into the car, she returns to say goodbye, making the observation, "It's viciously slick out there!" The family leaves, beginning the Rosary, as is their usual practice.

The moment the house is empty, I make a quick phone call to Lissa in Virginia, leaving a message on her machine saying, "This was such a great party! I really wish you'd been here!"

6:15

A speeding eighteen-year-old's car flips across the divider on the Meadowbrook Parkway, landing on the hood and roof of Brigid's van, before overturning his SUV more than once. The crushed roof narrowly misses the heads of the two small children strapped in the back, barely grazing little Danny. Emily has the presence of mind to unstrap her young brother and drag him out a broken car window to safety. She stands next to her grievously injured mother in the pouring rain, refusing to leave her side.

6:45

Brigid's mother calls with the news. She does not have any details except that Brigid is in critical condition and the children are well. The other driver was able to walk away from the accident. Brigid's husband is on his way to the hospital.

I call Lissa and leave another message very different from the first.

8:39 pm

Lorraine writes to our local group:

Brigid O'Neill was in a very bad car accident this afternoon. She is in critical condition, unconscious, in ICU. The children are fine.

Please pray.

A trio of mothers heads straight to the hospital with relics and a small image of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Those of us at home begin an emergency nine hour Novena. Lissa, Lorraine and I alert the larger internet homeschooling community, begging for prayers from the CCM mothers and anyone else we can find. [Many of you remember this well and were a part of the enormous prayer and fasting effort offered for Brigid by hundreds of mothers.]

December 12, 2002, The Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe

Lissa, helpless and distraught in Virginia, is setting out for the Adoration chapel in Staunton to pray for Brigid when two packages arrive, both sent independently by her two best friends. The first is a pair of pink and blue personalized Rosary Beads from me--an early birthday present. The second is a care package from Brigid--cappuccino bars with the note, "If you can't come to the party, we'll send the party to you." (Brigid had spent $36 overnighting them to Virginia.)

December 23, 2002

Just in time for Christmas, Brigid squeezes her husband's hand on command, in his words, "the best Christmas present ever."

January 3, 2003

A saintly woman from Westchester contacts us asking to take the pilgrim image of Our Lady of Guadalupe to Brigid's bedside the following Sunday at 3 pm, "The Hour of Mercy."

January 5, 2003

I write an update to our local group (slightly edited here):

"Dear Friends,

Patty B. brought the Image of O.L. of Guadalupe to Brigid today, and it was just beautiful. Tracey and Elizabeth were there when we arrived, and afterward we were joined by Dan, Brigid's mother and father, Mary Anne, Kathleen, and Patrice. It was very moving. The image was huge, over 6 feet tall. Patty told us all about the miraculous healings and conversions associated with this particular image, and then offered to bring it to Brigid's children . . . . [I]t was dark and the snow was coming down fairly hard, but Patty insisted on bringing the image inside my house before she left. My children were each able to kiss Our Lady and kneel before her to say the Memorare. You can imagine how blessed I felt, especially because Brigid's wonderful parents were there as well. Brigid's father actually took pictures of my family with the Image! It was incredibly special.

Now I just hope Patty made it home tonight in the snow. When I expressed my concern, she smiled and replied calmly, "How can I not be safe when I have Our Lady with me?" I guess we've found ourselves yet another saint.

Love, Alice"

January 2003 to April 2007

The pain and suffering, joy and hope, along the road to recovery is Brigid's story to tell, and I cannot begin to do it justice. These years haven't always been easy--not by a long shot--but she is with us, and her children have their beautiful mother back again.

April 7, 2007

A newer member of our local homeschooling group leaves a message (read by me on April 10th):

I would like to offer the Missionary Image of Our Lady of Guadalupe to the IHM moms. Easter Wednesday is the only available day left. . . . . Can you offer a suggestion for where we all can meet for a couple of hours, somewhere halfway?

It just so happens I am already scheduled to host the first day of Little Flowers on Easter Wednesday. I gratefully accept her offer, requesting that she bring the Image to my house.

April 11, 2007

Brigid and her children attend the party, three living miracles and reminders of God's mercy. Brigid has but one request--a picture to send to her Mom:

At the end of a grace-filled day, I take another group shot. This time Emily stands third from the right in the back row. Many of those tall young ladies were little ones in the original Guadalupe photo, and some of their younger brothers and sisters--babies back then--now stand alongside them. Time marches on.

Somehow, it seems, Our Lady has brought us full circle, continuing to ask, in her words to St. Juan Diego, "Am I not here who is your mother?"

Yes, she is here. She has always been here, standing by our side as faithfully as that little girl in the rain.

May we never cease to thank our Mother--the Mother of Mercy--for the gift of Brigid's Life.

*******
This Timeline of Mercy is dedicated to Miss Emily O'Neill, on the occasion of her twelfth birthday, which happens to fall--not surprisingly--on Divine Mercy Sunday this year.

A Hymn for Marie

“Marie, you are the luckiest girl in the world,” I announced, climbing into our family’s van. “Take a look at the hymn you will be singing for your First Holy Communion!” (The thoughtful secretary at our parish’s Religious Education Office had just given me the lyrics for Marie to practice while the children waited a moment in the car.)

Agnes was the first to get a hold of the slip of paper I was carelessly handing back, recognizing the verses instantly and singing:

“Jesus, my Lord, my God, my All, How can I love Thee as I ought?”

She interrupted herself to exclaim, “Oh, I love that one! You really are lucky, Marie. That’s going to be beautiful.”

Waiting at a stop sign and watching Marie through my rear-view mirror, I could see she was pleased. “You will love this hymn all your life and learn so much from it,” I assured her, flicking on a right hand blinker, “In fact, it is a Catechism in itself! It reminds us that Jesus is truly present in the Blessed Eucharist and we need to spend our lives loving Him more and more, taking Mary as our model.”

Within moments, the trees and lights and houses whizzing past both sides of the van seemed curiously out of rhythm with the measured hymn being sung by four steady voices behind me:

“Jesus, my Lord, my God, my All,
How can I love Thee as I ought?
And how revere this won’drous gift,
So far surpassing hope or thought?

“Sweet Sacrament, we Thee adore!
O make us love Thee more and more!
O make us love Thee more and more!

“Had I but Mary’s sinless heart,
To love Thee with my dearest King,
O with what bursts of fervent praise,
Thy goodness Jesus would I sing!

“Sweet Sacrament, we Thee adore!
O make us love Thee more and more!
O make us love Thee more and more!

Seven-year-old Marie asked only one question, “What does ‘surpassing’ mean?”

“It means the gift of the Blessed Sacrament is far beyond anything we could ever hope for or imagine. It’s better than anything!”

“Wow,” she breathed, poking a thoughtful thumb into her mouth to drink it in. [Yes, dear friends, like her mother before her, our precious Marie is a thumb sucker, particularly when she is mulling something over.] She sat quietly pondering as her sisters began again, relishing the sound of their own voices in a hymn worthy of the Seraphim.

Weeks passed, and our long-anticipated Easter Pageant rolled around. After one of the performances, Marie was asked to rehearse the song along with the other communicants. A jumble of children tumbled into three standing rows—an adorable hodgepodge of tall and small, sharp and scruffy, calm and clamorous--boys and girls with eyes and hair and faces of every description--some from Mass-going families and others who may find themselves inside the Church but rarely.

When the music began, a palpable and unifying change in expression and demeanor came over each and every one of them, and, as they lifted their voices to sing, a range of emotions could be read upon their earnest faces:

“Jesus, my Lord, my God, my All,”

Reverence.

“How can I love Thee as I ought?”

Ardor.

“And how revere this wond’rous gift,”

Depth.

“So far surpassing hope or thought?"

Joy.

“Sweet Sacrament, we Thee adore! O make us love Thee more and more! O make us love Thee more and more!”

Pure Elation.

Something perceptible and heartfelt had taken root in all of them, no mistake.

Understandably impressed and not a little bit surprised, the musical director blurted after one round, “You are the best First Holy Communion singers I have ever had!” The children gladly began the hymn once more, their second rendering no less heartfelt than the first.

This time, the director could not help but wheel about, hoping to find some adults catching this singular performance. Most of the moms were chatting in clusters, but I stood watching with a broad smile on my face, and she made a beeline toward me.

“I can’t believe how well they are singing,” she began happily and without any introduction. “When this song was chosen, I had my doubts. I thought it would be too hard for young children.”

“It is wonderful!” I agreed wholeheartedly. “I think the words of the hymn have inspired them!”

“I don’t know,” she said, still beaming toward the children, “maybe,” before slipping back to the front to cheer on her little band of singers.

The children resumed the hymn for the third time in a row, their faces still as alight and ardent as before. By this time, I had tears in my eyes, and, as if in silent accompaniment to the melody, the words of St. John’s Gospel rang out in my mind:

“Simon, do you love me? Feed my lambs. Simon, do you love me? Tend my sheep. Simon, do you love me? Feed my sheep.”

Our Lord’s lambs were right there before me and populating the First Holy Communion group. There they were, frisking and frolicking and kicking up their heels, having just been fed the hardy grasses of Truth and Beauty. I can only imagine how vibrant this flock will be when nourished by the Bread of Angels.

It seems to me that too often we choose over-simplified little ditties for young children, as if perk and pep would stand in for substance. For seven and eight year olds, insipid, shallow strains hold about as much spiritual significance as “I’m a Little Teapot.” But give them Truth articulated in rich and beautiful language, and their ready hearts soak it in like well-tilled gardens in April. Young though they are, children are eternal beings made in the image and likeness of God, longing—no living--to know Him. The question, “Jesus, my Lord, my God, my all, how can I love Thee as I ought?” is a challenge for all eternity and an aspiration that cannot be embraced too soon. It is the battle cry of the saints.

I am looking forward to the blessed day on which my fourth young one will receive Jesus in First Holy Communion, and I cannot wait to hear those precious lambs singing their hearts out once more—this time lit from within by the True Presence of Our Lord Himself.

*******

[This photo of five of our children, taken back in October, seemed perfect for Marie's Hymn.]

Pearls from the Catechism:

“Truth is beautiful in itself.” [CCC 2500.]

“’The musical tradition of the universal Church is a treasure of inestimable value, greater even than that of any other art.’” [CCC 1156.]

“What material food produces in our bodily life, Holy Communion wonderfully achieves in our spiritual life.” [CCC 1392.]

*******
Complete Lyrics to "Jesus, My Lord, My God, My All" by Father Frederick William Faber.

Sample of Marie's hymn, sung by my favorite singer, the late Frank Patterson. (Please scroll down to select.)
*******
This post is lovingly dedicated to our beloved "Papa," Pope John Paul the Great, on his second birthday in Heaven.

The Last Unicorn

December’s Feast of the Immaculate Conception was almost, but not quite, a perfect day. Some might remember I shared photos of our afternoon of rosary making at the time, mentioning Mass and a blessing afterward, but never hinting about a partially ill-fated trip to a diner in between.

Daddy was working late, and Mass hours away, so I pulled our hulking van into a narrow spot outside a local eatery. Agnes and Theresa fell into their usual routines, zipping a jacket here and unfastening a strap there, and within moments we were out of the car, across the frosty parking lot, and huddling inside the diner for warmth.

As we approached the register, the hostess’ eye darted left and right, taking us in with what looked to me (and I hate to say this) like a glint of disapproval. “Eight?” she asked, with a straight face and arched brow.

“Yes, thank you,” I smiled back, causing her to snap an oversized pile of menus to her chest.

She led the way briskly to a half moon booth, and the children slid into their seats. Baby Eileen was sleeping soundly, and little Maureen contentedly drew on a piece of paper, sipping an impossibly large glass of frosty water without spilling a drop. She giggled when Margaret fashioned a simple hat for her from a paper placemat.

Toward the end of the uneventful meal, an elderly couple at the next table caught my eye. The wife beamed affectionately, saying, “Your family is lovely,” and I gave her my earnest thanks.

As we were leaving, I passed the baby to twelve-year-old Agnes and lingered a moment leaving a tip. The couple waved goodbye to each child in turn, warmly complimenting our family once more, and mentioning that they were themselves parents of five.

I reached the register still smiling and found our formerly chilly hostess had thawed considerably. “Would it be all right if I gave the children lollipops?” she asked, reaching for a plastic bucket. I nodded readily, wondering if the fact that we had not turned out to be disruptive had anything to do with her change in demeanor. Making a mental note to point this out to the children in the car later, I gladly paid the check.

Twelve-year-old Agnes was still carrying Eileen as I pocketed my change, and I noticed that two teenage girls working behind the counter had stopped her to talk. I could see Agnes was smiling and assumed they were admiring the baby, when a snippet of the conversation reached my ears. The first girl, clad in dismal double spaghetti straps asked, “Is she your baby?”

Agnes beamed back, “Yes, she is,” with a smile of unreserved sisterly pride.

“But,” said the second spaghetti-strapped girl in a tone impatient for clarification, “Is she your baby?”

Agnes appeared perplexed by the question. I understood all too well and strode over in an instant to take Eileen, thanking Agnes for holding her, and saying in a voice remarkably calm considering the heat rising up within me, “She is only twelve years old,” and managing—though I know not how—a weak smile. The pair met my gaze with unabashed worldliness, lingering as if this response had not yet answered the question, so I hastened to add, “They are sisters.” The first girl grunted “Oh!” and the other nodded and shrugged, as I ushered my young ones away from the counter, past the register, and out into the freezing darkness for warmth.

It has been a few months now, and I’d almost succeeded in suppressing this troubling little exchange, remembering it vaguely as I would a belt once snagged in the doors of a departing train. Then this week, in considering the words of the Catechism, “Sacred Scripture and the Church’s traditional practice see in large families a sign of God’s blessing and the parents’ generosity” [CCC 2373], I began to realize what really happened in that diner. It seems the teenage girls were completely unprepared to see a large young family, and the experience left them groping for an explanation. In their world, it was easier to understand a twelve-year-old mother than a mother of seven. It was as if they had stumbled upon a unicorn for the first time and could make neither head nor tail of the beast.

At the end of the day, our reception varied by generation. The elderly couple hearkened back to a time when unicorns were plenty and felt a wave of loving, hopeful nostalgia upon seeing one of the dear old creatures alive and well. The hostess (a woman about my age) expected the unicorn to tramp its dirty hoof prints about, but was kind enough to offer a conciliatory carrot when she discovered it harmless enough. The teenage girls, sad to say, could not begin to fathom a mythical unicorn come to life in their midst and reflexively probed the base of its horn for Velcro or straps, dismissing the thing as a sort of parlor trick.

It seems to me there must be a connection made to the Feast of the Immaculate Conception--a day we rejoice in Our Lady’s purity from the moment of her conception—the necessary pre-cursor to yesterday’s Feast of the Annunciation. As a mother, my heart aches to recall the hardened countenances of those teens, jaded and faded during what ought to be the fairest bloom of their youth. Jesus once said, “Whoever causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him if a great millstone were put around his neck and he were thrown into the sea.” Two thousand years later, He has entrusted parents to fasten the millstone round the neck of the impurities of today’s culture—fashion, music, movies, magazines, and any evils blighting our children and quenching the holy light of innocence in their eyes. If we fail in this, what will He say to us?

My thoughts turn to the beauty and gentleness of the elderly woman, with her feminine dress and ready smile, compared to the cool crassness of the teenage girls. She was like a verdant, venerable oak fed on spring water alongside two wizened young saplings in acid. What a sorrowful thing it is when seventy year olds seem younger, fresher and more full of hope than seventeen year olds.

Our beautiful Catechism guides us in what it so rightly calls “The Battle for Purity”:

“Purity requires modesty, an integral part of temperance.” [CCC 2521.]

“Modesty is decency. It inspires one’s choice of clothing. It keeps silence or reserve where there is evident risk of unhealthy curiosity. It is discreet.” [CCC 2522.]

“Christian purity requires a purification of the social climate. It requires of the communications media that their presentations show concern for respect and restraint.” [CCC 2525.]

When it comes to our children, the Battle must be fought and won by stalwart parents. Let us see to it the saplings in our care are fed on the sunshine and spring water known as Faith and Purity.

And may we always remind them to believe in unicorns.

Pearls from the Catechism:

Article 9, The Ninth Commandment, sections 2514 to 2533 [particularly Part II “The Battle for Purity”].

“To become the mother of the Savior, Mary ‘was enriched by God with gifts appropriate to such a role.’ The angel Gabriel at the moment of the annunciation salutes her as ‘full of grace.’ In fact, in order for Mary to be able to give the free assent of her faith to the announcement of her vocation, it was necessary that she be wholly borne by God’s grace.” [CCC 490.]

“The most Blessed Virgin Mary was, from the first moment of her conception, by a singular grace and privilege of almighty God and by virtue of the merits of Jesus Christ, Savior of the human race, preserved immune from all stain of original sin.” [CCC 491.]

A Promise Delayed

“When Rachel saw that she bore Jacob no children . . . . [s]he said to Jacob, ‘Give me children, or else I will die.’"

Genesis 30:1.

Sometime in the middle of the 1960s, an engaged couple sat making plans for married life. Like the young people in yesterday’s story, they longed to hear the fabled “patter of little feet,” praying it would rise to a clamor before long. The two hailed from large and loving families and were eager to fill a home of their own with new young lives.

They married on a windy day in October of 1964, with a spray of rice and squall of bells. Already, the bride, a resourceful seamstress, was mentally calculating the lengths of fabric she would need to create a quilted crib set for her first little one, wondering if she ought to cut up her gown for a Christening robe. Her head swam with favorite names for future children: Alice, Mary, Florence, Eileen, Joseph, Michael, James, John . . . . So many beautiful possibilities.

The couple returned from Atlantic City and settled into normal life, looking forward to the hour they would welcome a first child into their home. Days passed, dissolving into weeks, then dragging on to months, but still no babies came. Each page ripped off the calendar was itself a wrenched hope, wrinkled into the dismal wastebasket of years.

One chilly afternoon, the wife was feeling especially downcast. She blessed herself at the door of a local church and sank at the foot of an imposing statue of St. Joseph. Unexpectedly and insistently, the turbulence in her heart swelled into tears—tears of grief and desolation, and tears of something teetering near, but never quite falling into, despair. She cried to the Saint from the depths of her heart (a “prayer” she would often recount to her daughter later):

“How could you let this happen to me? I’ve always been so devoted to you, even as a child! Why don’t I have a baby?!”

Later on that day, she felt remorseful and foolish for having spoken so sharply to Good St. Joseph, but he, having been the most perfect of spouses while on earth, surely understood the lamentations of a sorrowful wife. He also seems to have had a word with his foster Son, because, two weeks later, she found out she was expecting.

I am an only child. My mother bought her milk by the quart and frequented the express line at supermarkets. My father brought me to work with him now and then, and, unlike most of the families on our block, we never needed a Station Wagon. I had my own room, first choice of afternoon television shows, and the prizes in every box of cereal. Our home was calm, content, and quiet.

By God’s grace, the only child is now a mother of seven, and I cannot help but celebrate the gift of a bustling, busy family. Yet in my quiet moments of reflection, I remember that our large family, in many ways, sprang from a quieter place—from the recesses of a home with only one small olive branch lovingly tended. If the truth is known, the confident “right away” flowing from the pen of an inexperienced twenty-four year old came, not from any wisdom or foresight, but because of the example of faithful parents who taught that children are indeed a precious gift, but by no means assured. Thanks to their example and even their disappointment, time seemed of the essence, even at twenty four. Perhaps this blessed sense of urgency was God’s gift in the days when I thought time and childbearing would go on forever. I like to think it was His answer to my parents’ desperate prayers so many years before.

According to the Catechism, “Sacred Scripture and the Church’s traditional practice see in large families a sign of God’s blessing and the parents’ generosity.” CCC 2373.

Large families are a vivid and visible sign, a beacon of Faith in a world that has too often rejected God’s gifts. Yet we know with certainty that our Father in Heaven also sees in secret. He notices the mother shedding a tear as she puts her only child’s crib in storage or the father praying for his wife on the way to work, and, in their grief and anxiety, He Himself sees “a sign of God’s blessing and the parent’s generosity.” He holds their hearts in His and knows that their suffering is not in vain. These couples tread a path that “radiate[s] a fruitfulness of charity, of hospitality, and of sacrifice.” CCC 1654. Theirs is a hard fought tribute to the Sanctity of Life.

When Our dear Lord came to earth, He blessed small families forever by choosing one for Himself. May we never cease to praise Him for the hidden violets in His heavenly garden.

Pearls from the Catechism:

“A child is not something owed to one, but is a gift.” CCC 2378.

“Spouses to whom God has not granted children can nevertheless have a conjugal life full of meaning, in both human and Christian terms. Their marriage can radiate a fruitfulness of charity, of hospitality, and of sacrifice.” CCC 1654

“When we share in God’s saving love, we understand that every need can become the object of petition. Christ, who assumed all things in order to redeem all things, is glorified by what we ask the Father in His name.” CCC 2633

A Promise Kept

Two bright-eyed girls whirled round the dance floor at the Knights of Columbus St. Patrick’s Day Party last night--one a slim and lively eleven year old, the other a dimpled baby. The baby squealed delightedly with each bounce and bump, the deep burbling sounds of a well-entertained nine-month-old. The older girl twirled as if she would never stop, spurred by that irresistible laughter—more musical than music itself.

Watching these two girls—my own daughters Theresa and Eileen—it struck me how unusual a thing it is these days to see sisters a decade apart. My mind wandered back to a time in the almost forgotten past:

My fiancé and I are leaning over black and white composition books, comparing the answers to questions asked of us at the Cana Conference Retreat. We are completing an exercise meant to ensure we each know the other’s plans for married life. The first question reads:

“How many children do you hope to have?”

An optimistic “At least eight” appears in my feminine slant, and in my fiancé’s masculine scrawl, “About half a dozen.”

We both want a large family. So far,