Cottage Blessings

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

Brighter than the sun

I was visiting my mother in Intensive Care when a patient several beds away began to struggle and shout. An emergency code was issued, bringing medical personnel running from far and wide, and all visitors were ushered out into the hallway to allow the staff to work.

It was already about nine o'clock in the evening, and I made my way down the elevator to the front of the hospital. The air was temperate for October, so comfortable in fact that I parked myself on an outdoor bench, opening my cell phone to update the family at home. A pair of automatic doors parted, and two men emerged from the building, deep in conversation. As they shook hands to say goodbye, I heard one say to the other in the most heartfelt of tones, "Thank you, Father."

The priest was wearing a collar, and, slipping the phone into my bag, I could not resist smiling and saying, "Hello, Father" as he passed. He returned my greeting and paused a moment, as if he was used to strangers wanting a word with him. Given the opportunity, I added, "Father, I wonder if you could pray for my mother--she had an extensive stroke yesterday."

"Yes, I will pray for her," he said, looking sorry to hear the news.

"Are you a chaplain at this hospital, Father," I asked hopefully, "because I know she would love to see a priest."

"No," he said, "I am from St. Boniface and was called in tonight because someone died, but I will come back to see her tomorrow. What is her name?"

"Alice O'Brien," I told him, welling up at this kindness, my voice wavering a little, "she is in Intensive Care."

"Alice O'Brien," he repeated, "I will see her tomorrow," and I thanked him heartily as the two of us parted ways.

Still reeling from the shock of my mother's stroke, I had not yet cried over it. Alone in the car a moment or so later, the tears flowed, tears of sorrow to be sure, but also tears of affection and gratitude for this good priest. I prayed that God would bless him always and thanked Our Lady for putting one of her faithful sons in my path when he was so needed. A crescent moon beamed above the hospital rooftop, casting a pleasing glow upon the night that had began so bleak, warming me through like a smile.

A great deal is often said nowadays about the environment. Americans are reminded that we must learn to be better stewards of the earth, preserving our forests and fossil fuel and purifying the air and water so that we will have something left for our grandchildren. There is something else we must also preserve, holding onto it and nurturing it for dear life, praying that we may pass it along as the most sacred of all legacies--the Catholic Priesthood.

Saint Padre Pio once said, "It would be easier for the world to exist without the sun than without the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass."

St. Pio speaks with his customary clarity, offering an analogy that is both shocking and obviously true. Without our priests, we would have no Mass--we would have no Confession for the forgiveness of our sins--and our world would be bleak indeed. Let us treasure the priesthood as the greatest gift humanity has to offer, praying for vocations and asking God to bless our families by calling our sons to the altar.

Twenty years ago, my grandmother lay dying. My mother and I stood at her bedside with a holy priest on hand to offer her the sacraments. Now, an impossibly short time later, it is my mother who is gravely ill, and a priest was there for her. Someday all too soon, my time will come, as it did for the last two Alices before me, and I cannot help but wonder: Will my daughter be able to find a priest right outside the hospital?

The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few--may the Lord of the harvest send forth more laborers . . . and may we never find ourselves without one of these chosen ones in our time of need.

*******
The following afternoon, I asked my mother if a priest had been in to see her. "No, I don't think so," she told me, "I would have remembered."

This was disappointing, but I thought perhaps he had forgotten her name or had been busier than expected. No one is pulled in more directions than the average parish priest.

A nurse came in to check my mother's IV moments later and mentioned off-handedly, "Your mother had a visitor here earlier--a priest."

"Really?" I said, feeling a throb in my heart, "thank you for telling me." My eyes and the bridge of my nose stung and I swallowed hard, once again more from gratitude than sorrow. Turning my mother's hand over in mine, I offered a prayer of thanksgiving from both of us for good Father Fred.

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!

Taking Care

I just noticed something fascinating and could not resist sharing the observation here.

In the recent post, Daddy has the last word, I told about finding a forgotten Loreto holy card with a prayer for aviators purchased at the Mission San Rafael. The timing (just before our flight home) was so perfect that I wrote, "The Blessed Mother is not slow to let us know she is caring for us, sometimes even before we remember to ask for her help."

Just now, I was looking over posts from the San Francisco trip--we've only been home a week, and already I'm reminiscing--and came across the story of Maria, the woman who treated our family so kindly at the Mission San Rafael. Reading that account again all these weeks later, I cannot help but be amazed to note that Maria's parting words to me (and I would have no recollection of this if it had not been written down) were "the Blessed Mother always takes care of us."

Suddenly, these words have taken on new significance, and you may be sure I will be pondering them for quite some time.

Our Lady of Loreto, pray for us!

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.

On Bowls and Winged Hearts

Sunday morning,* I stepped downstairs to find two bowls side by side on the kitchen counter. Both had a spoon laid sideways to rest and the remains of Ben & Jerry's "Dublin Mudslide" smeared within. With the kitchen otherwise well ordered, the bowls stood out, two bright green domes inverted against a slab of stark black marble.

Remembering the ice cream Daddy and I had shared very late the night before, I smiled at those two errant bowls. Although unwashed and out of place, they looked to my eye picturesque and right--the remains of a pleasant moment together after a long day at work. Alone in the bright morning kitchen with the hardwood floor creaking beneath my feet, I realized that those two bowls were telling the real reason our family had come to San Francisco. They became for me the quaint symbol of two people (not to mention seven others) who belong together on whatever side of the country it may be. "Then the Lord God said, 'It is not good for the man to be alone.'" Genesis 2:18.

Sometimes when God begins with a chink of insight, He kindly pries open another slab with a crowbar, and this particular Sunday was no different. The Mass readings and sermon were about "following," beginning with Elisha rising up to follow the prophet Elijah [1 Kings 1: 16, 19-21] and continuing with Jesus' words to those who would follow Him, "No one who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God." Luke 9: 51-62. I wondered, smiling to myself, what Our Lord would say about following someone three thousand miles for ice cream, and, in an instant, I had my answer: "they are no longer two but one flesh." Matthew 19: 6. Yes, He would think it was just as it should be.

After Mass, Maureen and Eileen frolicked at the foot of a massive bronze frieze depicting the Flight into Egypt. The older I get, the more I love the Blessed Mother--the ultimate woman's friend who has been through it all. She once scooped up her newborn Son to follow St. Joseph through dust and danger to a land unknown, all the while trusting in him and in God's care. Following Daddy to flowery and friendly San Francisco for the summer was embarrassingly tame by comparison, yet I felt sure that if she could have had a word with me at that moment it would have been, "Aren't you glad you did not stay in New York and miss that ice cream?" And I would answer, "Yes!"

Backing out from my space in the church parking lot, I found myself in the middle of a song from the distant past, perhaps not coincidentally, by a group called "Genesis":

". . . close at hand, oh I'm better for the smile you give,
And while I live
I will follow you--will you follow me?
All the days and nights that we know will be.
I will stay with you--will you stay with me?
Just one single tear in each passing year."

Music loved in high school has a way of transporting us through time like nothing else, and I found myself sitting in the back of typing class with my friend, Wendy, a blonde good-natured girl who was quick to laugh and therefore an excellent companion. She was writing something in a large, rounded and swirling handwriting, encased within a hovering heart flanked by feathery wings, "John loves Wendy." Beneath this proclamation, she had copied out the words to their song, "Follow You, Follow Me," by Genesis. Wendy had a class ring on a chain, a diamond-studded ankle bracelet, and a football jacket, and I admired her wildly, thinking she had reached the highest pinnacle in life. She and John had attended a Genesis Concert the weekend before, and this seemed to me like heaven itself.

Waiting at the light, I wondered what Wendy would think if she could see me now? My guess is that the dear girl would enshrine my husband's name and mine in her notebook, taking care to create a suitably elaborate winged heart, with perhaps a bit of fancy shading for good measure. She would not mind one bit that I had borrowed her love song as the theme for this summer. After all, I have two rings on one finger, two tell tale bowls of ice cream, seven children--and someone to love who will always be worth following anywhere.

[Posted with a prayer for husbands in the military, the loving wives who follow them, and those with husbands fighting overseas who would love to follow but cannot.]

*Sunday, July 1, 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 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.

"like a wise man who built his house on rock"

Our First Communicant, Marie, looks ready to face any and all of life's trials with the Madonna and child for shelter.

Plus, she is pretty well camouflaged!

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, so good.

The next question continues:

“How soon do you want to start a family?”

A confident “Right away” appears plainly in the feminine slant, but this time the masculine scrawl is nowhere to be seen.

What is the meaning of this, I wonder. Aren’t we both ready to start a family?

My fiancé looks at me seriously and explains, “I would love to begin a family right away, but my fear is that, years from now, you will remember the career you left behind and feel sorry. I don’t ever want you to have any regrets.”

“I will never feel that way,” I assure him with confidence.

“How do you know?”

“Because I know myself. It would not be possible for me to feel that way.”

And that was that.

I woke from my reverie to find my husband motioning something to me, his eyes twinkling meaningfully—our little boy was on the dance floor attempting the “Cotton Eye Joe” in awkward, oversized red snowboots (none of us had noticed his unconventional footwear until we arrived at the party). We laughed as only two parents, united through the Sacrament of Matrimony, but also in infinite love for a child, can laugh. Sitting there at that table, with our children dotting the dance floor like violets in a May meadow, we shared another moment among millions to remember the undeniable Truth of the Catechism: “Children are the supreme gift of marriage and contribute greatly to the good of the parents themselves.” [CCC 1652.]

And I secretly gloated thinking upon my own prescient words of self-awareness, “It would not be possible for me to feel that way.” Indeed, I never have and never will.

Years ago, I remember telling a dear friend and former classmate of mine we were expecting our first child. She responded as our culture has taught her, and, as she heartily believed even without any real life experience, “What a waste!”

Please understand, as I repeat these words, they held no sting for me then or now. I know, in fact, she meant them as a backhanded compliment, a tribute to my “worth.” Her sensibilities were steeped in society’s pervasive notion that children should be, particularly for the educated woman, an afterthought, best left until prominence, profit and partnership are all checked off the to do list. My heart went out to her in honest sympathy, as I imagined her wearing her youth away, perhaps never tasting the joy I was already feeling just knowing a precious heart was even then beating beneath my own.

And what of that to do list? What price would have been exacted for prominence, profit and partnership?

Prominence would have required my twenties. The children of my twenties were Agnes, Theresa, and Margaret.

Profit would have sought my early thirties. The children of my early thirties were Marie and Patrick.

Partnership’s capital investment would have been paid during my late thirties. The children of my late thirties were Maureen and Eileen.

Somehow, I think I would have been working off the wrong list.

Is it any wonder I reaffirm today, but with even greater fervor and emphasis, that promise, spoken all those years ago: “I will never feel that way. It would be impossible for me to feel that way.”

But this time, I am uttering a heartfelt Deo Gratias to go along with it.

*******
[As I post this piece, I want to include a note to make sure it does not have the unintended effect of hurting any women or mothers who work outside the home, particularly those who strive to make a better life for their families. My reflection is meant as an affirmation that children are a greater source of joy and fulfillment than unnecessary ambition.]

Of Sisters and Soldiers

"Were you there when they crucified my Lord? Were you there when they crucified my Lord? Oh-o-o, sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble. Were you there when they crucified my Lord?"

--Negro Spiritual, sung each year at our parish Lenten Pageant

The Children's Living Stations of the Cross at our local parish are as anticipated a part of our Lenten season as ashes, palm, and purple. We are blessed with a director who truly loves the project and participants, treating all the children under her direction with infinite kindness and care.

This year, eleven-year-old Theresa was especially excited, musing more than once, "Wouldn't it be great if they asked me to play the Blessed Mother?"

"If they do, you will play the role perfectly," I told her with frank mother's admiration, adding, "but please do not be disappointed if they don't!"

"Oh, I won't," she assured me stoutly, "I'll be happy with whatever part I get."

The evening of the first practice rolled around with a flurry of snowflakes and flutter of anticipation. By the time we arrived, the three younger children were dozing in their carseats, and I decided to wait outside, giving one last instruction to the girls: "Please keep an eye on Marie, and, whatever you do, remember we are team players. Be happy with any parts you get, and make them the best they can be." With nods of assent, my four young actresses took off, and I spent a quiet hour jotting ideas in my journal, praying part of a Rosary, and wondering how the girls were making out.

Before long, four figures emerged from the church. Theresa and Margaret, beaming with excitement, raced ahead of the others to the car. "I'm playing the Blessed Mother!" Margaret announced in joy mingled with a note of amazement, adding, "Can you believe it, Mom?" Theresa looked perfectly happy, chiming in with honest pride, "Isn't she going to be great?" I was glad for Margaret, but not a little surprised. She is only nine-years-old, and the part of Our Lady is usually reserved for a sixth grader. "Margaret, honey, that's fantastic," I assured her, still wondering how such a thing could have come about and scanning eleven-year-old Theresa's face for traces of disappointment. It was not long before a story unfolded.

When the girls first arrived, the director had greeted Theresa with the good news that *she* would be playing Our Lady. Theresa was overjoyed, but, within a few minutes, it became clear that this might not be a perfect arrangement. The Pageant did not have enough taller children signed up (and very few boys), and Theresa was the only one the right height to fit into the costume . . . of a soldier! The director asked her if she might switch parts, leaving nine-year-old Margaret as the next in line for the role of Mary. Remembering my admonition about being "team players" and glad to see her sister in the coveted role, Theresa cheerfully accepted this change of fortune, trading in the promise of a flowing blue mantle for a clanking coat of chain mail.

How can I reflect upon this unexpected turn of events? My little girl (no longer "little" in reality, but forever so to me) has shown what it is to go beyond talking about Lenten sacrifice and self-denial, and to live it out willingly and unflinchingly, in a spirit of obedience and love. The bud opens its first petals to reveal the color of the rose it will one day become.

I am looking forward to seeing Margaret play Our Lady, and my pride in her cannot be overstated, but you may be sure my camera will be clicking wildly to capture the pretty soldier standing tall behind the Cross.

Afterward

If Books Could Kill

The title of this piece might make it sound like a comedy, but truthfully, it is more an evening rumination and hand wringing than anything else--the late night shudder of a mother thinking back upon the bullets dodged in an average day.

I was standing near the stove lining up ingredients for pancakes and engrossed in Margaret's opinion of Otto of the Silver Hand when I heard a subtle hiss, an empty sound like a tire spewing a crisp quiet stream of air. Looking to its source, I saw little Maureen poised in the middle of the kitchen with the nozzle of a can of WD-40 in her *mouth,* pressing down delightedly as if expecting whipped cream!!! I was upon her in an instant, checking her tongue and throat, calling indiscriminately to find out how such an article could have made its way into our toddler's hands, and relieved to find that her feeble baby fingers had not succeeded in releasing the wretched stuff inside her mouth. I could just make out the "DANGER: Keep out of reach of children. Harmful or fatal if swallowed" notice as I squirreled the dreadful can away to top of the refrigerator.

Hours later, during our peaceful evening story hour, Agnes read aloud from Anne of Avonlea. She was just getting to the moment in which Anne tells Mr. Harrison she has sold his Jersey cow, when I gasped to see Patrick, beaming with delight and wielding a weighty Duraflame log (not lit, fear not) toward his giggling sister Margaret. It was part of a lively game to which she was an encouraging participant, and he had no intention of actually hitting her. What he did not realize, however, as he pretended to hurl the hefty weapon toward his foe, was that another little one was at hand. Eight-month-old Eileen, so new to crawling she is still a bit of a surprise to us all whenever she turns up, was teetering on all fours beneath him, her fuzzy head in a plumb line beneath Patrick's haphazard burden. I sounded the alarm and Margaret caught the log just as my string-bean-armed little guy was beginning to lose his grip directly above the Eileen's head.

And so, my dears, these are two scenes from our Ash Wednesday, and I must say, it feels as if God is sending a gentle but timely reminder that the status quo is fragile, and trouble could sweep in in an instant. An unremarkable day is perhaps His greatest gift to us, a gift His holy angels work overtime to provide. May I never forget to give thanks each time I kiss seven healthy children good night, and may my heart never desire anything more in life than this.

Deo gratias!

*******
Addendum: For a beautiful reflection on the life of a child and thankfulness for the everyday, please do not miss my dear friend Beck's Twenty Two Months Old.

The Cottage in Lent

“When our hands have touched spices, they give fragrance to all they handle. Let us make our prayers pass through the hands of the Blessed Virgin. She will make them fragrant.”

--St. John Vianney (The Curè of Ars), from the Mary Vitamin, February 20, 2007 [Marian Vow.]

How welcome is this season of Divine simplicity--forty days of sacrifice, supplication, and sacred bareness-- a moment for putting off ornament and the ordinary to stretch our empty ar