Habemus Papem!

Taking the name of one of my favorite saints, we have:

Pope Francis I!

Come, Holy spirit!

Fill the hearts of your faithful.

Enkindle in them the fire of your love.

Send forth your Spirit, and they shall be created. 

And you shall renew the face of the earth.

The Catholic Faith: This Is the Air I Breathe.

We gathered Wednesday night with our Bishop Emeritus in a Mass of thanksgiving for Pope Benedict who yesterday at 2:00 became Pope Emeritus.

It was glorious.

Getting there was another matter entirely.

The whole process reminded me of a mommy quote I read over at Rachel's the other day: I gave up murder for Lent. Kidding, kidding, kidding. But it easy it tweren't. I'll spare you the specifics save to mention that dinner cost us an entire shaker of salt and nearly cost us my sanity.

And here's the rub: I internalize all of this, over-analyze it, assign it far more weight than I should. I want things to be Just So. And they aren't Just So.

We're going to Mass to honor the Pope. Let's be at happy. No? How about peaceful? I would have settled for civil. I figured I could at least insist on quiet. And quiet they were until John and Kolbe began fake fighting and, rather predictably, John took a for real punch to the temple.

Cue wailing, loud, loud wailing

"It's all fun and games," Tim sternly intoned, "until someone loses an eye."

And I burst out laughing.

We arrived. Ainsley jumped out and noticed the radio tower adjacent to the church.

"It's the Eiffel Tower," she gleefully exclaimed, enamored as she is with all things related to Madeline.

This, too, made me laugh.

In we went. I had no sooner found my seat when a nearly palpable peace began to envelop me. We began the opening hymn -- Come, Holy Ghost.  As we moved into the second verse the words O Comforter, to thee we cry made me cry.

Rarely have I felt the presence of God -- the comfort of the Holy Spirit -- more tangibly than at that moment.

I  took in the first quiet of my day and I looked first at my husband and then at my children (who at that moment really did appear nothing short of angelic) and I realized once again that this faith of mine, it is the air I breathe.

I love the Catholic faith.

I love the smell and bells, the smoke and the candles, the saints and the sacramentals.

I love the vestments and the liturgical colors.

I love times like these when we pull out the big words, words like Conclave and Consistory and Petrine.

I love the phrases pregnant with both meaning and history -- Keys to the Kingdom, Bind and Loose, Apostolic Succession, Sede Vacante -- phrases that remind me that I am but one in a long succession of souls great and souls humble seeking hope, finding solace, being fed by the body and body of Christ, encountering God come to earth.

I love that we can set aside all of the above and embrace what Bishop Boland called the single, essential "kernel" of the faith: Jesus Christ is Lord.

I love it.

Just before communion, we said a prayer that has changed slightly with the new translation that came our way a year or so ago: Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof, but only say the word and my soul shall be healed.

God does enter under my roof, and I'll continue to enter under His. If the trip easy is easy or is fraught with tension. If the music moves my soul or grates on my ears.

It is the air I breathe. 

Fortitude: Do Hard Things

This article recently appeared in the The Dove, the weekly newsletter of the Alleluia Community:

Mr. Hinton, our next door neighbor, is now ninety. Over the years, he has told us stories of the Great Depression and World War II. Since the end of World War II, Americans as a whole have known unprecedented peace and prosperity. While I grew up in the shadow of the Cold War and remember hanging out in the bomb shelter in my friend’s basement, for the most part, I am a child of peace and prosperity.

And what a blessing that is!

Make no mistake about it: I have no desire to go to war to toughen up my kids or to face widespread economic collapse so we can all better appreciate the value of a dollar. But with these blessings can come a softness and, if I’m perfectly honest, a sense of entitlement. My generation, perhaps more than any other, needs to ask the Holy Spirit for the gift of fortitude, the supernatural gift of the Holy Spirit that gives us strength over time, courage under duress, stick-to-it-ness in the face of unpleasant or even dangerous tasks.

The Catechism of the Catholic Church says this of fortitude:

The virtue of fortitude has two components – endurance and enterprise.

Endurance helps us to keep going when we are fatigued, suffering, weak, exhausted, or facing discouragement. Enterprise helps us to undertake great deeds while withstanding hardship. Enterprise requires initiative to see a need and take on the responsibility to carry out a plan for the good of others.

Our teenage son is reading Do Hard Things. "Combating the idea of adolescence as a vacation from responsibility," says the Do Hard Things website, "the authors weave together biblical insights, history, and modern examples to redefine the teen years as the launching pad of life and map a clear trajectory for long-term fulfillment and eternal impact."

 

Fortitude helps us do hard things.   Several months back I conferred with a friend about why it's all sometimes so hard -- harder than it should be, it seems to me. I know that part of my struggle is that I've bought into the myth that life should be easy. At a certain basic level, I don't want to die to myself, to grow in fortitude, to do hard things.

The rub is that when I overcome my weak will, when I fully embrace my life, when I stop cutting corners, when I put off petty feelings of resentment, in short, when I truly love -- the result is joy.

We, like the Israelites before us, tend to murmur. God delivers us from slavery, parts the Red Sea, provides manna in the desert. We shrug our shoulders and ask, “What have you done for me lately?”

When I’m confronted with bad news, I tend to react as though the sky were falling. Despair would probably be too strong of a word, but I fall apart more easily than I should. Having been a charismatic Christian for thirty years, you’d think my first response would be to pray. No, step one is panic. Step two is buy a book. I log on to Amazon and find some handy how-to manual about the problem at hand. (Look at my Amazon history and you’ll find that my last three purchases were Mommy, Teach Me to Read, Parenting Your Teen with Love and Logic, and The Fulfillment of All Desire. You can probably guess the issues we’ve been facing.) Steps 3-5 vary and include, but are not limited to: crying, pouring a glass of wine, and consuming large quantities of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. Sometimes simultaneously.

I forget, if only temporarily, all that God has done for me.

Last week I arrived at our support group potluck, and someone mentioned that we had a visitor who had been part of University Christian Outreach in Ann Arbor while I was a student at the University of Michigan. Mike Shaughnessy recognized me right away, although I haven’t seen him in 27 years.

The first time I met Mike was a true turning point in my life. I was twenty-one and miserable. One night I decided to attend a prayer meeting.

I’ll show up, I told myself, and then leave right afterwards.

Before I could beat a hasty retreat, Mike came over to me and asked, “Could I pray with you?” Mike and another leader, a woman named Rosemary, spent several hours praying with me that night. Their prayers changed the course of my life.

Seeing Mike 800 miles away, twenty seven years later really rocked me. Since then I have thought long and hard about God’s provision in my life. At twenty-one I was miserable, and my misery was purely of my own making. Yet God intervened.

A friend of mine recently shared an image God revealed to him in prayer. Chuck recalled different glimmers of God he had seen in beauty, in humor, in tenderness, in sacrifice, in joy. And then God led him to observe a granite stone in the backyard. It is awesome, unyielding, whole, solid, unchanging. These, too, are attributes of God.

The morning after I saw Mike, I prayed about the nature of God and about the specific ways God has carried me throughout my life. I was overwhelmed with God’s great and personal love for me. When I was at my weakest, God touched me profoundly. When I am next confronted by faults and failures that are an inevitable part of life on planet Earth, I hope I will have the fortitude to dwell on the nature of this all-knowing and all-loving God I serve.

As we were finishing a few afternoon chores the other day, Kolbe fed me one of his favorite Calvin and Hobbes lines. Calvin, imitating his father, yells, “Calvin go do something you hate. Being miserable builds character!”

Thankfully, God doesn’t call us to be miserable. But He does call us to be strong. When we find ourselves weak, we can ask Him to send us the gift of fortitude.

Saint Teresa of Avila

Let nothing disturb you,

Let nothing frighten you,

All things are passing;

God only is changeless.

Patience gains all things.

Who has God wants nothing.

God alone suffices.

Keeping Company with Jesus and Mary

Image lifted from Karen's blog.

To my summer reading list, I am adding a book I that arrived last week: The Rosary: keeping company with Jesus and Mary. This is written by Karen Edmisten who blogs over at Karen Edmisten: The Blog with the Shockingly Clever Title.


Karen introduces her book by saying, "I'm not an expert on the rosary, unless expert can be defined as 'an average Catholic who prays the rosary and has found it to be powerful, comforting  and worth talking about.'"

A few weeks ago, I mentioned the loss of our friend and community member, Patrick McKeown. Rachel Balducci, who knew him much better than I did, penned a beautiful piece about Patrick. Rachel writes:

When I was growing up, my friend Susie (Patrick's daughter) was the only person I knew who said a daily rosary. I knew lots of people who said the rosary of course, but no one else came from a family that said it every single day. Seven p.m. sharp. No matter what.

This is the main thing I always remember about Susie’s dad, Uncle Pat . . . he was constant.

Many Catholics -- like the McKeown kids -- grow up praying the rosary. My mother probably did. She attended Catholic schools in the forties and fifties, first grade through college. I attended twelve years of Catholic schools, but this was the height of those experimental, post-Vatican II years.  I prayed the rosary exactly once. I think it was in a religion class on the sacraments. And this class of mostly cradle Catholics had to be taught and tested on how to pray the rosary since few of us grew up with this traditional devotion that must have become passe along with communion rails and Latin.

It would be ten years before I would prayer the rosary again. Then I began working with the Missionaries of Charity. They love the rosary. They pray a long, meditative rosary every morning in front of the blessed sacrament. They scatter a decade here and a decade there as they do their work, ride in the car, meet with shut in folks, run their soup kitchens.

They love to introduce others to the rosary. For many years we had a volunteer -- I think his name was David (?) -- who wasn't Catholic. He'd hop in the van every morning with me and one of the sisters. As soon as the van was in drive, sister would ask which mysteries we wanted to pray. David was always keen to pray the Happy Mysteries. "You mean the Joyful Mysteries," sister would say. "No, the Happy ones," he would tell her. We would point out that there were no Happy Mysteries. David was convinced there should be.

(I should let him know that we now pray the Luminous Mysteries, but still no Happy ones.)

I prayed many a rosary with the Missionaries of Charity, but it typically (not always) felt like I was just getting through it. Hail Mary . . . gosh, it's hot in here . . . full of grace . . .  got to remember to bring the glue sticks to camp today . . . the Lord is with thee . . . wonder if Sister Miriam ever had a boyfriend before she became a nun?

It wasn't always like that, but I struggled (as most of us do).

Lately, though, I have found tremendous solace in quiet. At our parish, Mass opens with an introit, a chant sung by the choir alone. This used to bother me to no end. I have a thing against choirs that perform. One of our neighboring parishes had an accomplished choir that had a penchant for choosing tunes I promise you no one but the choir could follow. Occasionally people would clap for them.

This, too, bothered me to no end. I'm not an expert in liturgy, but it seems to me, Mass calls everyone to participate. It's not a performance.

Back to the introit . . . It no longer bothers me. I see it as a chance to quiet myself after the hurly burly of getting six people in matching shoes, more or less unwrinkled clothing, brushed teeth, etc. all looking presentable and in the pew on time. It's a two minute Whew! And then we sing the opening hymn.

I used to get restless at the pace of Mass. Now I love it. It may well be the single part of my week that doesn't scream faster, faster, faster, hurry, hurry, hurry! In fact, when I go to other churches, I sometimes feel that we're playing a record on the wrong speed. Where's the fire, I want to ask.

Once a month Alleluia Community hosts a quiet prayer meeting. Most of our prayer meetings are full of joyful, lively praise and worship, but once a month, we slow it down, we quiet it down, and we sit in silent meditation. This, too, I now love.

And along with all these shifts -- rather seismic for my personality type -- has come a desire to pray the rosary more frequently. While my mind is no steel trap and is still prone to wander, I find myself in a very different place and much more open to quiet, meditative prayer. With the inspiration of Karen's book and Pat's example, off I go.

Or, I should say, off we go. I read chapter one aloud to the older boys. I was struck by the words of Blessed Bartolo Longo whom Karen quotes:

The Rosary is a teacher of life, a teacher full of gentleness and love, where people beneath the gaze of Mary, almost without noticing, discover they are being slowly educated in preparation for the second life, that which is authentic life, for it is not destined to end in a very few years, but to go on unto eternity.

I'm already inspired.

For the Single Gals

It's 1993. I'm a bridesmaid for something like the seventh time in twelve months.

"You've been a bridesmaid SEVEN times," my neighbor Gary exclaims. "What does this mean?"

"I have pastel pumps in every color of the rainbow," I tell him.

(I should have added that I was also flat broke. When you're always the bridesmaid and never the bride, your bank balance takes a beating.)

Eventually, of course, I was the bride. Marrying at 32 meant that I was single for what seemed a
l-o-n-g time. Those were years of adventure and of challenge. Any time our life takes an unexpected turn, we struggle. I can't speak for the widow who thought she'd be married into old age or for the ex-wife who thought her marriage would be until death did they part, but I can speak to the opportunities and to the pot holes that came from being single well beyond the age I thought I'd marry.

Emily Stimpson has written a book that might have made those single years a little less challenging and a little more joyful. It's called The Catholic Girl's Survival Guide for the Single Years. I haven't read the book, but I liked what I read in Emily's interview with Lisa Hendey of Catholicmom.com. Click here to follow their discussion.

Now married fifteen years, I look back on my single years with colorful memories of teaching and world travel, with gratitude for the people in my life who encouraged me to seize the day, and with just the smallest bit of regret for the energy I wasted on worry and self-pity.

I have a few suggestions for my young (and not so young) friends who are now where I once was. I wouldn't call these pearls of wisdom, but rather a few thoughts from someone who found Mister Right in her early thirties and knew very well what it was to be single when she really, really had hoped to be married.

So here they are:


1. Embrace your single years.

Marriage brings wonderful and radical changes. Children are an unbelievable blessing who turn your world on its head. While single, you have freedom and time and choices that won't always be options.

2. Dote on the little people in your life.

When you're single and an aunt or a Godmother, you have more time and possibly more money to shower on the babies in your life than you will when you have a few of your own calling you Mama. I will be forever grateful to Megan, Nick, Lissi and Hannah -- my oldest nieces and nephew -- who, without a doubt, gave me far more than I ever gave them.

3. Plan things to look forward to.

Great advice given to me from my good friend Dian. Travel, redoing a room, joining a book club -- these can give you a lift, lead to lifelong friendships, help you find joy in simple blessings.

4. Don't put off everything until you get married.

 If you've always wanted to go to Brazil, go to Brazil. If you've always wanted your own home, buy one. If you've thought about that master's degree, pursue it. Pray first, of course, but know that being single does not mean put your life on hold.

5. Seek wholeness.

Seek prayer, ministry, therapy if you need it. Heal the hurts life showers on us all. Whether you eventually marry or remain single, you will be more wholly the person God wants you to be. I attended a retreat during which a wise speaker commented that marriage won't cure what ails you. If you're reclusive or angry or depressed, cheerful or optimistic or prayerful -- well, you'll be those things as a married woman as well. Deal with as much baggage as you can.

6. Recognize that your marital status is just one part of your larger vocation.

The patients you treat, the students you teach, the players you coach, the aging parents you care for -- this is your apostolate, one that is every bit as valuable as marriage and family.

7. Recognize that you are carrying a cross.

No, being single is not cancer or poverty or war, but when your heart's desire is to marry and have children and that is simply not in the picture, you suffer. Sometimes all we need to pick up our cross is to have someone say, "You know, that's really hard."

8. Love God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might.

Married or single, we are all one step closer to eternity where our only vocation will be to worship God.

If I get my hands on this book, I'll post a review. If you read it, let me know your thoughts. I'll close with a few of Emily's words:

First, we can’t fall into the trap of feeling like our life won’t begin until the husband and babies show up. Today, this moment, is our life. God has something for us to do right now—some lesson to learn, some work to take on, some person to love—and he expects us do it and do it well. Second, we need to always remember that the goal in life isn’t a husband; it’s holiness.

Because I Thirst

After a whirlwind graduation weekend in Detroit, I am home again, home again and so very glad to be here. Kudos to Dave for keeping the ship afloat and sending off our oldest for a week of high adventure. Preparations apparently involved Dave saying, "Tim, go get packed" and Tim doing so without much fuss or bother.

Beautiful.

It was a full weekend, as these things usually are -- lots of coffee, lots of Scrabble, lots of running people here and there.We dedicated a good portion of graduation morning helping my nephew create a board game for U.S. History called Fight to the Finish.  On this topic, I have drawn two conclusions:

1. My sister likes school projects about as much as I do.

2. I have forgotten an astonishing amount of basic facts about World War II.

I bugged out of board game prep to go to 12:00 Mass with Ainsley.There I was treated to three special graces:

1. Holding a sleeping Ainsley for most of Mass. This was a treat not because she was quiet, but because she's nearing three and moments of holding her still and and stroking her hair and feeling her gentle breathing are becoming fewer and fewer. Bliss.

2. A quietly inspiring homily. Nothing flashy -- just good, solid stuff.

3. A singular appreciation of being in the presence of God.

As I genuflected in the direction of the tabernacle, I was struck by my thirst for God and the comfort I experience in His presence.

I thirst.

The Missionaries of Charity mount a crucifix in each of their chapels. The crucifix tends to be a realistic one that shows the wounds of Christ. Each crucifix has a sign or inscription that reads I Thirst.

Jesus thirsts for us. He thirsts for deep communion with our souls.

We thirst for Him -- I thirst for him. I have felt depleted for some time now. I can say it's been this year -- a year indelibly marked by long working hours and travel on Dave's part. But, really, I have felt depleted for a few years now. Is it the back to back babies? Being in my late forties? Dealing with teenage angst? My lack of exercise?

Those are probably all contributing factors. But when I read this earlier today, I thought that's it. Sally writes:

And what my confessor says to me, time and again, in his quiet way, is, "Well, you can't give what you don't have." In other words, if I'm running continually on hot, it's because . . . damn, I hate these tidy little metaphors, but the radiator is empty, okay? I'm running on a deficit of prayer, a deficit of quiet, a deficit of contemplation.

One of the best aspects of summer is the flexibility we have with prayer and the sacraments.

(Okay, in the interest of full disclosure, what I appreciate the MOST about summer is that I don't pack four to six lunches every morning, but one of the BEST aspects of summer is the opportunity to grow closer to God).

This morning we will reflect on this prayer pulled from the Missionaries of Charity website:

I Thirst for You. Yes, that is the only way to even begin to describe My love for you. I THIRST FOR YOU. I thirst to love you and to be loved by you – that is how precious you are to Me. I THIRST FOR YOU. Come to Me, and I will fill your heart and heal your wounds. I will make you a new creation, and give you peace, even in all your trials I THIRST FOR YOU. You must never doubt My mercy, My acceptance of you, My desire to forgive, My longing to bless you and live My life in you. I THIRST FOR YOU. If you feel unimportant in the eyes of the world, that matters not at all. For Me, there is no one any more important in the entire world than you. I THIRST FOR YOU. Open to Me, come to Me, thirst for Me, give me your life – and I will prove to you how important you are to My Heart.

We can look to our faith as a source of consolation, as the impetus to overcome our faults, as the cause of our hope and joy. Faith is, of course, all these. But at the heart of it all is relationship -- a deep communing with the author of it all. In the fullness of my Christian walk I have, in the words of the psalmist, tasted and seen the goodness of the Lord; I have been to the green pastures.

I want to get back there.

Yes, partly I want to get there so that I can apply the grace of God to this situation or that glaring fault, but mostly I simply want to abide in Christ with no other end point in mind but to see His face and hear His voice.

Because I thirst.

Charged with the Glory of God

As I've related in more graphic detail than anyone required, we've been sick, sick, sick. And sick means home bound. On Tuesday, I mad a mad dash to Goodwill and Dollar General because I was a) desperate to get out of the house and b) desperate to replace Folgers Country Blend with Folgers Breakfast Blend.

Tonight found us all, if not well, at least on the mend. The older boys were desperately overdue for real haircuts (as opposed to the desperation trims I offer to avoid notes from school). My friend Heather the hairdresser lives on the next block, so I pulled out the sit and stand, loaded up the little people, and headed over.

And I thought about how I drive everywhere. Our immediate neighborhood invites jogging, strolling, visiting. But we're always in such a darn hurry. Strolling swallows an extra ten minutes we, sadly, can't seem to muster. Tonight, however, I pulled out the stroller and down the block we went.

On the way back, there was the slightest nip in the air. As we turned out of neighbor's driveway, we began a Divine Mercy Chaplet. We passed a hedge overgrown with honeysuckle. Tim pulled off a few sprigs, and John yelled, "I want Honeysuckles, too."

I didn't know that John could recognize Honeysuckle.

I noticed my friend working in the garage of her house. Her first home! So neat! I passed my friend Karen's house and prayed that she is having a good week as she marks the halfway point in her chemo-therapy. We crossed the street and passed our friend Dennis' house. Dennis died last Friday after a protracted and difficult decline. I noticed the cars belonging to many of the grown children still parked in the driveway and prayed for the family as they continue to grapple with the loss of this giant of a man. As we turned the last corner, I spied three friends and their Saint Bernard. Kolbe, Ainsley, and I joined them to catch up for a few minutes.

I thought about how much better I do when I get out of the house and smell real smells and pray for real people and bump into friends and visit and laugh.

Last fall at the beach, we rode bikes everyday. One of the best aspects of Hilton Head is that you can bike as far as you have stamina to bike. You can bike to the beach. You can bike to the ice cream parlor. You can bike to the grocery store. We biked through a torrential downpour. We spotted birds and alligators and turtles.

And all this feeds my soul.

I came back from Hilton Head determined to spend more time outside. I love to read. I love to watch movies. I spend way too much time surfing the net. But Honeysuckle and wildlife and a nip in the air -- well, reality trumps virtual reality any day of the week.

As I look ahead to the summer, I need a plan for getting us all out of the house. Jen Fullwiler recently wrote about the allure of the McMansion for people who live in scorching climates. I, unlike Jen, do not have scorpions overtaking my backyard, but, believe me, we know what it means to be hot. Sometimes I think my kids, like Jen's, would prefer housework to doing something -- anything! -- outside. We take solace at the pool and head North for extended visits.

I've been re-reading Real Learning by Elizabeth Foss.This is a beautiful book and speaks to you whether or not you're a homeschooler. It's about home education, and all of us educate in our homes. Elizabeth stresses nature study. I'm gleaning some new ideas here that I may post later.

As Gerard Manley Hopkins once wrote, "The world is charged with the glory of God." When I allow that light to shine on me, what a keen difference it makes.

Parents on the Edge

We left church yesterday with two thoughts in mind:

1. We need to begin frisking John on a regular basis.

2. John's probably going to join the Knights of Columbus one day.

What? My thoughts were supposed to be related to the Gospel or God or holiness? Such is life with young children in church.

Quick flashback to last Thursday -- I am running to the store to buy chocolate coins for Tim's play (a total bail out, violating every tenet of "Parenting with Love and Logic" -- but that's another story). I found the coins, snagged a few other items, and zipped through the check out line.

Only one bag of coins was in sight. I was about to start a quick perusal of the floor when I thought to ask John if he had seen the candy. He reached into the pocket of his blue jean shorts and -- lo and behold! -- there they were.

On Sunday morning I delivered Ainsley to the nursery and sent Kolbe and John ahead into the church. I found them on the front steps. Kolbe had confiscated a sword and an Easter egg. Blame it on inadequate caffeine. I can understand overlooking the Easter egg, but it's a mighty distracted Mom who misses the three foot long sword her four-year-old is hauling into church.

Aside from this, John was nothing short of angelic at church. I wish I could say it was for a good reason.

About ten minutes into Mass, a family of four quietly took the pew in front of us. There were two cute little boys -- about three and five. The parents -- what can I say about the parents? They looked rough, almost strung-out. I thought the father might be  sick or in some way disabled. The wife helped him get the hymnal, gently gave him the response cards.

About twenty minutes later, the father abruptly left. The mother started hissing at the kids. One of them climbed onto the kneeler. She grabbed his arm roughly and jerked him back. This both continued and escalated. She snarled; she grabbed; she elbowed. It was ugly.

First I prayed. Then I felt sick. Then I wanted to cry.

We've all seen this before -- in the grocery store, in the emergency room, in a parking lot. A few weeks ago I heard a woman drop the F bomb to a van load of pre-schoolers. When Tim had his anaphalactic reaction to the wasp sting, we ended up in the ER late in the evening. It was chock-full of sick, tired children and parents on the ragged edge. Not pretty to see.

And I get it. The kids are miserable and the parents are scared, stressed, exhausted, maybe worried about money, usually alone, wondering if they're going to be on that hard, plastic chair for two hours or six, thinking about work the next morning, maybe thinking about children they left unsupervised at home. I get it.

Fourteen days before I delivered Ainsley, I sat in a hard, wooden chair in the doctor's office holding John who had a 104 degree fever. When the doctor could find no source for the fever, he bagged John to get a urine sample. John was dehydrated, and it took him four hours to produce a sample. Four hours.

We all have limits, and parenting stretches them.

My kids have a universal reaction when they encounter mean parents. They hold on and don't let go. When Kolbe was about three, we were browsing through Sam's Club and encountered a mother with a nasty bite.

"She's mean," Kolbe said, his eyes wide. He grabbed my leg and wouldn't let go.

So it was yesterday with John. Though the scene in front of us wasn't loud, John assessed it all, no problem. He wrapped his arms around me, sat in my lap, kissed my arm.

I leaned over to Dave and said, "Let's pray for that woman after Mass."

I am not one to intervene. Mostly I think my involvement would only cause tensions to escalate. I wish I had said something to the women who dropped the F bomb. As mothers it might -- might -- be helpful to get a wake up call that says, "Hello! Lots of ears around here! Clean it up already!"

Maybe.

In Borders Bookstore one afternoon, I encountered an exchange between a mother and daughter that was so hideous, I expected to see John Quinones jumping out with a hidden camera. John and his crew stage a variety scenes (mean parents, racist customers, caretakers being unkind to elderly people) in restaurants and playgrounds trying to see who, if anyone, will intervene.

I remember one episode in which a fake mother verbally abused her daughter. Many, many people shook their heads and passed on by. One mother stepped in to say something along the lines of, "I know how hard parenting can be. We all lose it sometimes. What can I do to help you?"

That's what I had in mind yesterday morning. This woman was on. the. edge. I couldn't simply look away.

And then she got up and left. With another rough jerk and a hiss, off they went.

Please join me in praying this family.

Be Not Afraid

Tim's preparing a presentation on torture in the Middle Ages, so I've been thinking about fear. Medieval punishment was very painful and very public. The idea was that you could kill many birds with one stone -- dispatch the guilty (?) party and give onlookers big incentive to toe the line as well.

Fear can be powerful.

I remember the morning I was heading off to the doctor after John had battled croup all night. Hours of crying, wheezing, praying, everything but sleeping -- all mixed in with a marathon of Thomas and the Magic Railway that began somewhere around 2:00 a.m. and continued into the wee hours.

John heard the word doctor and launched into a dramatic meltdown. He whined. He pouted. He kicked things.

I continued making my way toward the door. Where's Ainsley's cup? Check her diaper. Is the coffee ready? Grab the keys.

And John's angst reached a fever pitch that could no longer be ignored.

While every part of my sleep-deprived, under-caffeinated self wanted to bark, "Get in the van already!", I found myself saying, "John, why are you so upset?"

"Shots," he wailed. And I mean wailed. He howled with all the gusto his four-year-old self could muster. Oh. My. Goodness.

His last appointment with the doctor had been his four year check and had included four immunizations. John was afraid. To look at his behavior that morning, you might have thought he was rebellious, undisciplined, or just plain obnoxious. On any given day, John can be all those things. But that morning, he was driven by nothing but raw fear, and so he acted out.

"Fear," says Saint Teresa of Avilla, "is the chief activator of all our faults."

Have you ever lied in a moment of panic? Most of us did this as children. I managed to do it as an adult and -- get this -- to a priest no less.

Father John, an old and dear friend of mine, went on a tour of West Africa. He knew I was teaching world history, so he gave me a copy of his videos to show my class. Months later, I ran into Father John right before Mass.

"How did the class like the video, " he asked as he was gathering his vestments.

"Oh, ah, it was great, just great. They loved it," I answered.

Truth was, they never watched it! I had put it on a shelf planning to show it and forgot all about it. Father John asked me about it, and I panicked. In my embarrassment and vanity, I lied.

To a priest! Minutes before Mass!

Good gravy, I was aghast! I told my friend Katharina, and she absolutely busted a gut laughing. Right after Mass, I found Father John and 'fessed up. He laughed even  harder than Katharina.

Oh, the things we do!

I've been in a few deep conversations trying to crack the code on why it can be such a struggle to think, to say, to do the right thing.  Why do mothers invest so much energy in comparing themselves to other mothers? Why did we so often find ourselves -- in our professional lives, in raising children, in our marriages -- on an endless pendulum that swings between judging other women and condemning ourselves?

Mary Lane over at Catholicmom.com has a great post  called "How to Be Happy for Other People in Four Easy Steps."  She grapples with that green-eyed monster we call envy. One of her key tips for combating envy is to recognize the underlying source. Oftentimes that underlying source is fear.

Mary writes:

Another person’s happiness takes nothing from you

At its core, I think this tendency to comparison and to envy is rooted in fear. We’re afraid that, if good things happen to our friends, there won’t be enough good to go around for us. As a result, it’s hard to be happy for our friends’ good fortune because a small part of us fears that this means there is less left for us. But all we need to do is realize this one simple truth: One person’s happiness truly takes nothing from you.

Long about five and a half years ago, I found myself in a sad, sad place. Dave and I were the parents of two beautiful boys -- Tim and Kolbe. We wanted another child and, instead, experienced miscarriage after miscarriage. In November of 2006, I had just lost my sixth baby. Our doctors had no answers, and I had little hope.

I woke up one morning, poured myself a cup of coffee, and sat at the computer to catch up on my favorite blogs. I clicked over to Testosterhome, my friend Rachel's blog, and found a sonogram photo with the headline "Tiny little rice-sized bundle of joy." My friend was expecting her fifth baby.

And do you know what? I grieved. I grieved. I rejoiced for her, but I grieved for me. I processed every thought a person processes when faced with the reality The Rolling Stones captured in their classic tune "You Can't Always Get What You Want."

We can't always get what we want. We want a trip to the park, and we end up in the doctor's office getting four shots. We want a good night's sleep, and we get croup and nebulizer treatments. We want a baby, and we wind up with pain and loss.

It takes an act of faith -- an exercise of hope -- to look beyond the present and embrace Mary's pearl of wisdom: All we need to do is realize this one simple truth: One person’s happiness truly takes nothing from you.

That day I chose to be happy for Rachel. I posted my congratulations on her blog:

Happy news, Rachel! I’m praying that you will have a great pregnancy. It will be neat to see how much the boys enjoy a baby now that they are all a little older.
Love,

Kelly

I meant it. It was hard to write, but I meant it. It was an act of the will. Adults -- usually better than children -- can choose to do the right thing, can choose to say the right thing, and with herculean effort can even choose to think the right thing.

About two weeks later I found out that I was pregnant. In fact, I was early, early pregnant when I posted that comment. Eight months later, Rachel's Henry and my John were born just a week apart.  Over the next thirty months, Rachel and I both welcomed our first daughters into these families full of boys.

Rachel's happiness took nothing from me.

Mary's advice on being happy for others continues with a quote from Cicero who wrote,"Friendship improves happiness and abates misery, by the doubling of our joy and the dividing of our grief.” 

This is so true of my friendship with Rachel. Her family, her friendship -- they have added to my joy and divided my grief and given me a lot of laughs in between.

Fear has its uses. That state trooper positioned on the median prompts me to slow down and probably saves lives. One frightening encounter with a rip tide instilled in me a healthy fear of the ocean. I want my children to understand that streets and drugs and strangers can be dangerous.


But when fear paralyzes us, when it leads chronic discontentment, when we can no longer rejoice with others, when we lie to a priest!  -- well, then it really can become the chief activator of all our faults.

Me, Me, Me!

So two-year-old Ainsley joins me for an early morning rosary.

Me: Hail, Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee . . .

Ainsey: The Lord is with me.

Me, smiling: The Lord is with me.

Ainsey: The Lord is with ME -- me, me, me!

Me, assenting: The Lord is with you!

Ainsey, placated: Oh.

For Peter, For Karen, For Sue

We returned to the atrium last week. I had planned to present The Parable of the Insistent Friend. This is a favorite of mine. Over the last few months I have been struck by the life-altering impact of intercessory prayer, and no parable demonstrates this better than The Insistent Friend.

A man wakens his neighbor in the dead of night asking for bread to feed an unexpected house guest. The neighbor is clearly miffed and turns the man away. But the man persists. And in the end the neighbor caves.

Why does he cave? Because of the man's persistence.

What does he give him? All that he needs.

The Gospels provide example after example of the power of intercessory prayer, poignant testimonies of God's particular generosity when we come on behalf of someone else.

-- Jesus performs his first miracle when Mary intercedes for a bride and groom.

-- The centurion's servant is healed from afar when his superior officer asks for Jesus' healing touch.

-- A paralytic is healed when his friends tear open a roof to lower him into the presence of the Lord.

We have had several weeks -- months, actually -- of distressing news. Friends and relatives are facing grim circumstances, frightening diagnoses. We have lost a beloved aunt and a dear neighbor who was like a second father to us.

Our friend Peter is facing his third bout of lymphoma. Our friend Karen has a recurrence of breast cancer. Our friend Sue is battling ovarian cancer for the third time.

My word for 2012 is fortitude. I believe that fortitude is especially important to exercise in the realm of prayer. How often do I hear about a troubling situation and blithely reply, "I'll pray for you." But do I really pray? Sometimes yes, sometimes no.

Tim ended up in the ER Sunday night. He started the day with a mild stomach virus and ending up with what appeared to be another anaphylactic reaction. Hives, puffy lips, swollen eyelids -- potentially serious, serious stuff.  I scribbled down Tim's symptoms and the medications he had taken that day. I pulled out his Epipen with my heart racing a bit as I pondered the possibility of Dave needing to inject Tim on the way to the hospital.

And of course I prayed. I made it through most of my rosary when I started to nod off. I sat myself up and persevered ... and nodded off again and again. But I made myself finish. I summoned my fortitude which can be woefully lacking at 1:00 a.m.. At times like this I fully understand the apostles in the Garden of Gethsemane who failed to stay with Jesus even one hour.

Thanks be to God, Tim is just fine.

From a Bible study I just read:

The Greek word translated as "persistence" means "shameless," suggesting freedom from the bashfulness that would stop a person from asking a second time. Knocking once does not indicate perseverance, but "continued" knocking does.

For Peter, for Karen, for Sue, it's time to be insistent -- even shameless -- in our intercession. Let's dismantle the roof and lower our friends into the arms of God.

Rachel Balducci closed this week's episode of The Gist with a quote from Saint Teresa of Avila: You give God a compliment by asking great things of him.

Let's ask.

Igniting the Fire Within

My prayer group is reading what I believe is the best book on prayer I've ever found. From Father Dubay's Prayer Primer: Igniting the Fire Within:

If five different people pick up this book, or fall on their knees at the end of a long day, they may easily be prompted by five specifically different motives. One may be suffering and wants to find a way to cope. A second may have had a run-in with husband or wife and is hurting inside. A third is perhaps responding to an inner emptiness. A fourth is simply doing what was learned at Mom's knees. The fifth is deeply in love with God and cannot imagine beginning or ending a day without adoring and praising him - and thus loving him more and more.

Snatches of Grace

Tim came home yesterday with the best news I have heard in a long time. His research paper? He scored 105 with -- I need a drum roll here -- no revisions needed! O, happy day! I nearly cried. While I was certainly happy about the 105, I was flat over the moon about the no revisions.

The pace of life over the past three months has been daunting. Any little break -- a rained out game, a canceled meeting, a paper with no revisions -- well, the relief is almost palpable.

Over the past few days I've experienced a different and deeper kind of relief -- the relief that comes from God alone, the relief that comes when we live out Christ's exhortation, "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light."

I have been weary, and I have come to Christ.

Why so weary? Part of it is just the time of year. Soccer just finished while baseball is getting into full swing. First Communion is a great joy, but when you work with Catechesis of the Good Shepherd, it's also a ton of work. Spring for middle school students means science fair and research papers.

Saturday was one more in a series of over-the-top busy days. We began with a fundraiser race for the boys' school. Tim finished his first 5K! After the race, we hurried home for a quick clean up before Dave and I headed out to the wedding of two good friends.

We left Tim in charge. With the baby napping and a DVD to watch, we figured we were set for success. Apparently we were barely out of the driveway when John woke up the baby and then proceeded to break the DVD. Two hours of pure havoc ensued.

Now, we have this device known as a cell phone. My boys are not hesitant to use this.  I have ambled from the produce aisle to the dairy case and received no fewer than a half dozen calls most of which dealt with popcorn, Star Trek, and other pressing matters.

But the day John goes ballistic? Not a single call. We returned home to utter chaos, and I struggled through the next thirty-six hours.

While visiting in Michigan, my niece asked me if I am happy. Without hesitation, I answered Yes, I am happy, very happy.

We went on to talk about Big Picture happiness and Little Picture happiness. I never wrestle with the big picture. "For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord in Jeremiah 29:11, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." I know this. I believe this.

But little picture happiness? This I struggle with. The messes, the moody teenager, the mountain of laundry, the newspaper sticking to the spilled syrup on the table, my often lousy responses to all of the above . . .  I am unduly irked by the mundane irritants that are simply part and parcel of life.

That Sunday morning when I was struggling, I walked past a picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Too befuddled to articulate the formal prayer to the Sacred Heart, I simply pressed my hand to the glass and prayed, "Jesus, help me." And He did. The relief I experienced was nearly instant; the tasks that had seemed overwhelming were done quickly and completely. A little snatch of grace.

A few days later, a friend from my prayer group pulled up to chat. I related a few of our challenges with John and asked her to pray for my family. She reminded me of struggles they had had when one of their children was John's age. To see this child now, you would not guess that he had put his parents through their paces. Her words of encouragement and her offer to pray gave me hope. Another snatch of grace.

That evening we attended our weekly support group meeting. We spent several hours discussing the many ways we can find ourselves oppressed in our walk with Christ. We ended our gathering by praying for freedom. More grace.

If it's the little things that bog me down, it's also the bits of grace from here and there that bolster me, bring me joy, and give me the strength to embrace and to enjoy this full life of mine.

On our first morning in Michigan, my dad and sister whisked Ainsley away for pancakes while I attended therapy with my mom. Our fourteen hour drive required lots of finger food to keep Ainsey-Boo happy. Most of it wound up ground into her car seat. As they left the pancake house, Kate was unable to latch Ainsey's seat.

Later I went out to the car armed with a garbage bag, a soapy rag, and a sharp knife. Cheese, Goldfish, chicken nuggets, unrecognizable bits of chocolate -- we could have supplied snacks for Kolbe's entire baseball team with the contents of that nasty car seat.

Much like the car seat, this long drive we call Life on planet Earth can leave us gunked up and unable to function as we would like. We need our snatches of grace.

During the month of May, Small Steps for Catholic Moms focuses on grace.  I need the grace. I can take a small step to get it.

The Graces of the Cross

An excerpt from Litany of the Graces of the Cross

We adore you O Christ, when we do not get our own way.

Because by your holy cross you have redeemed the world.

We adore you, O Christ, in the midst of day-to-day aggravations, frustrations, and
annoyances.

Because by your holy cross you have redeemed the world.

We adore you, O Christ, when we live deprived of recognition or gratitude.

Because by your holy cross you have redeemed the world.

We adore you, O Christ, when dealing with others who exalt themselves and demean us.

Because by your holy cross you have redeemed the world.

We adore you, O Christ, when injustice gets us down.

Because by your holy cross you have redeemed the world.

We adore you, O Christ, in the face of worry, anxiety, and fear.

Because by your holy cross you have redeemed the world.

We adore you, O Christ, when we forgive others and show them mercy, especially when
it hurts.

Because by your holy cross you have redeemed the world.

We adore you, O Christ, in the face of others' thoughtlessness.

Because by your holy cross you have redeemed the world.

We adore you, O Christ, in confronting our daily inner rebellion.

Because by your holy cross you have redeemed the world.

We adore you, O Christ, in refusing to give in to vanity and self-importance.

Because by your holy cross you have redeemed the world.


Compiled by Father Peter John Cameron. Printed in The Magnificat, March 2011.

Fast

Fast from judging others; feast on the Christ dwelling within them.

Fast from emphasis on differences; feast on the unity of all life.

Fast from apparent darkness; feast on the reality of light.

Fast from words that pollute; feast on phrases that purify.

Fast from discontent; feast on gratitude.

Fast from anger; feast on patience.

Fast from pessimism; feast on optimism
.
Fast from worry; feast on trust.

Fast from complaining; feast on appreciation
.
Fast from negatives; feast on affirmatives.

Fast from unrelenting pressures; feast on unceasing prayer.
Fast from hostility; feast on nonviolence.

Fast from bitterness; feast on forgiveness.

Fast from self-concern; feast on compassion for others.

Fast from personal anxiety; feast on eternal truth.

Fast from discouragement; feast on hope.

Fast from facts that depress; feast on truths that uplift.

Fast from lethargy; feast on enthusiasm.

Fast from suspicion; feast on truth.

Fast from thoughts that weaken; feast on promises that inspire.

Fast from idle gossip; feast on purposeful silence.


Gentle God, during this season of fasting and feasting, gift us with Your Presence, so we can be gift to others in carrying out your work. Amen.

A Window into Their Souls

Since Tim’s birthday last week, John has been going around singing, “May God bwess you! May God bwess you!”

Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me.” And they do.

I treasure the moments I’ve spent with my children in prayer, in Mass, in scripture reading. Their innocence, authenticity, and trust surely delight God as they do me.

There was two-year-old Kolbe who one day grasped a crucifix and said, “Jesus, come to the prayer meeting tonight and give me a big hug!”

He had just learned the “Our Father” and one night piously concluded his prayers with “Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from Nemo.”

We once overheard Kolbe sing, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, I don’t want to go to bed” to the tune of “Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God Almighty.”

Prayer provides such a window into a soul. Kids pray about the things most important to them—for healthy babies and ailing grandparents, for long-dead cats and long-awaited puppies.

For years astronaut Alan Shepherd figured prominently in Tim’s prayers. Tim had read so many books about the early space missions, he was full of gratitude that Colonel Shepherd had survived his flight. Later Tim moved on to electronics. Kneeling at weekday Mass, I watched him clasp his hands and say, “Jesus, I don’t have a gameboy.”

As my children have grown, I have watched their prayers change a bit. One summer day we were scattered around the house having a few moments of private prayer. Kolbe had a prayer journal that walked children through prayers of praise, repentance, thanksgiving, and petition.

“Mom," he called from the next room, “How do you spell kicked?”

A few minutes later I heard, “Mom, how do you spell tripped?”

And finally, “Mom, how do you spell brother?”

I’m guessing he was on the repentance part.

Kolbe’s journal includes places to draw pictures. Nearly every drawing is of our family. The stick-family Dolins are always gathered around a bonfire. His intercessions express urgent pleas for a dog and a fervent hope that Ainsley would be a boy.

The oddest prayer? “Thank you for this day, the soldiers in Iraq, and the rights of Englishmen.”

Glancing through Kolbe’s journal, I’m glad Ainsley is a girl, but I suddenly have a yen to drag out the fire pit. As for the dog, one day, sweet Kolbe, one day.