enough already

Let's just get this over with, shall we?

I feel like I've been away so long that I don't know how to come back. It's like going back to the gym - and I like going to the gym - I just don't like going BACK to the gym. It feels like every one is looking at me, wondering where I've been. I can just imagine what they're thinking: she's gained some weight. I bet she's been noshing on chocolate cake every day during the hours she used to work out with us. Who does she think she is? She's not one of us anymore.

It' silly, because after 30 minutes on the eliptical (OK, 15, it's been awhile, right?) I feel like I'm right where I belong. No one cares that I've been away for awhile. They're truly glad I'm back. And so am I.

Same goes for the old blogity blog. I feel shy whenever I've been away for awhile. I think all of my followers are ticked at me. I don't think I'm a real blogger anymore. I'm hoping you'll graciously welcome me back, and not wonder whom I've been cheating with while I've been gone.

Nothing can take the place of my blog, and the kind of writing I'm free to do here. But I'm happy to report I have been doing something good in my time away.

The new job suits me nicely, I think. The hours are wonderful (8 am to 3:30 pm) and while I'm there I'm able to combine my two loves: my writing and my faith. I don't like to over-spiritualize things, but I'm convinced God placed me there for a reason.

For, I don't know, years, I suppose, I've been asking Him to give me an opportunity to use my "gifts" in a larger way. I used to get so frustrated, wondering why God would give me a love for writing, and some talent in it, and not want me to use it.

The whole concept of "in God's time" is being played out right before my eyes. I believe I'm right where I need to be, and that He has put me here, today, because that's where He can use me.

Last summer, I was so disappointed when an opportunity I thought was just perfect for me was pulled out of my reach. I found out last week that that whole thing fell apart - I thought I was missing an opportunity of a lifetime, and it turns out it was no such thing.

It's easy to tell each other to trust Him, isnt' it? When we're not on the receiving end of that advice, it all seems so clear. But the truth is it's a bear to hang in there when we're seeing nothing. It's exhausting to keep trusting when we see nothing in the way of "results."

I was starting to wonder if He heard me at all. And now I'm just in awe of how He put it all together for me. Yes, for me, His girl, the one He always looks out for.

If you're waiting for Him, please be patient. He will never, ever forget you. He's got something planned for you that is just right.

Trust me.

Better yet, trust Him.

the obligatory Palin post

"I’d rather go moose hunting than be involved with politics."

Sarah Palin's dad said that, but I certainly could have.

I feel his pain. I don't like politics, don't understand the process, and don't particularly want to. In the past 25 years that I've been voting, I've based my decisions on a simple formula. How does this candidate line up with Catholic teaching? Is he/she prolife?

It's a simple strategy that has served me well.

The first election that I really got emotional about was the Bush/Clinton contest in 1992. I remember feeling so despondent when Mr. Clinton won. What disturbed me the most was that so many of my Catholic friends didn't seem to care that Clinton supported abortion rights. For me, it was all about the babies. It was not the economy, stupid, and who cares about character? Let's focus on the babies.

I still focus on the babies, and while that does keep things simple in many regards, I am not naive. I know that these things, like most, are complicated. Are these candidates qualified? Are they people of good character? Are they fit to lead our country?

I was, honestly, not very excited about John McCain. He was more prolife than Mr. Obama, so he had my vote. That was it. But when Mrs. Palin joined the contest, I must admit that I got a tiny bit excited.

My husband says that a vote for Sarah Palin is a vote for me. That's amusing, but we do have a thing or two in common. I'm just amazed that a woman like her -- a prolife woman, the mother of five -- is a candidate for vice president of our country. The recent chatter about her pregnant daughter is compelling. Is it Mrs. Palin's "fault" that her daughter is pregnant? Is this about sin and scandal? Would readily available contraceptives -- not the abstinence education that Palin promotes -- have prevented this seventeen year-old's blast into adulthood?

Is it my fault when my kids don't listen to me? You can imagine where I stand on this. I'm just not passionate enough about the political process to spend lots of time here writing a commentary.

I want a world where God is honored. I want a country where we forgive the sins of others, and let God do the judging. I want to live in a place where each life is honored and nurtured and welcomed.

Instead, I live here, in this real world, in the United States of the 21st Century.
Eden is a long way off, a distant memory.

Let's do our best to vote for candidates who are aiming to know, love and serve God. And let's do our best to live individual lives of virtue that lead other souls to Christ.

Most of us lack the political savvy to make much of a difference in that arena. We cast our votes and go home. Let's work to make that home a place that reflects our goals as Catholics.

Let's live without judgment and hostility. Let's save the babies and each other. Let's be such atractive examples of the Christian life that everyone will want to find out more about Our Lord.

None of the candidates are perfect. None ever will be. Let's work to do the best we can to attract, promote, build up, edify, strengthen, and nurture.

I'd go moose hunting now, if I could. Instead I'll get back to the work of being a humble Catholic wife and mom trying to love others as she loves herself.

That's the best I can offer.

back to (home) school days

You know those ads for back to school sales that feature celebrating parents? You know the ones. The parents, fed up with the kiddos who've been annoying them all summer, are overcome with glee. The kids will be back at school, no longer in their parents' hair. The grown-ups lives with now be so simple. No more cares!

How ridiculous. Even when your kids go to "real" school, they're still your kids, and they're still there to annoy you. They are still there to be your responsibility. And, GASP, they are still yours to ENJOY.

Today our family is "back to school," which has a very different meaning when you are homeschooling. Like "regular" school families, we buy school supplies, and sometimes even get haircuts or new shoes. But on the first day of school, mom is not enjoying a latte after sending the urchins out the door. She's wondering, once again, what she's gotten herself into. She's excited about spending the year teaching her children and learning right along with them. She's a bit overwhelmed with the responsibility, but ever so thankful for this opportunity to form her children.

This year my homeschool has only three students: a first grader, a fourth grader, and a high school senior, all boys. I have an idea about what I want to teach them this year, but I know from experience we may end up learning something else entirely.

Here's a sampling of what's on our bookshelf:
Math 54 by Saxon. A true classic. Starting this book is considered a true milestone in our family: it's the first in a series of "real" math books. Love the content, style and repetition. No surprises here, just good solid math. Love it.

George Washington's World by Genevieve Foster. What a great book! When my Joey read this book history came alive for him. I know John's going to love it too. The others in the series, like Augustus Caesar's World, are just as awesome.

The classic religion series "Our Holy Faith." Published in 1961, they are rock-solid, easy to read, and filled with information. I learned more about my faith through homeschooling with these books that I learned in 12 years of CCD. (But that's another story entirely!)

"Wordly Wise 3000." This vocabulary building series is the best I've come across. It's very challenging, so I have the kids go a grade level lower than what it says on the cover.

Understanding God's World, from Abeka Books. An amazing science book if ever I saw one! Joey and I learned so much through this book when he was in fourth grade- I'm looking forward to using it again this year with his younger brother.

Speaking of science, the Jaye Wile books are out-of-this-world! They are actually written for home schoolers, and the experiments contained in them are easy to do.

I'd like to add more, but as I'm writing away here my young charges are asking to start school! This, like the lovely summer days, will not last. I know that soon (probably by tomorrow) they will complain that they would rather be watching Spongebob.

But I'll be here, ready to teach them what I can, when I can. And I'll try to keep in mind that all those great books are just tools, and that the most important lesson is one I will teach with my life: we are here to learn to know, love and serve God. If we are aiming to do that, everything else will follow.

be not afraid

Last night, with a sunset in front of me and a mountain to my back, I set off on an adventure that the Big Man assured me would be exhilarating.

We're guests at a lovely resort in Northern Michigan, courtesy of the Big Man's employer. As we schmoozed with financial types on the patio, enjoying the free drinks at a reception, my dear husband decided it was time to escape the titillating conversation by making me an offer I REALLY wanted to refuse.

He offered to join me on a ride up and down the ski slopes.

Sounds like fun, you say? Who wouldn't enjoy a jaunt up and down such a scenic hill on such a pleasant summer evening? Who wouldn't want to see the expansive view encompassing three counties? Who wouldn't want to risk her very life, riding up a steep mountain, feet dangling yards above the earth, with only a lightweight bar in her lap and NO SEAT BELT?

Did I mention that I'm just a little scared of heights?

OK, that's an understatement. I'm TERRIFIED of heights. My husband's offer did not make me feel exhilarated. It made my palms sweat. It made me slightly naseous.

The Big Man assured me I would feel better if I worked on conquering my fear. He told me he would keep his arm around me the whole time, and he promised me he would not tease me or threaten to remove the bar.

Trusting my husband, I swallowed the wine remaining in my glass and said, "Yes, dear. I would love to accompany you on a chair lift ride. Sounds like fun!"

That's not at all what I said, not even close, but I did it. I rode up and down the mountain, and I lived to tell about it.

But I'm not exhilarated, and I'm a little sad.

Why am I so afraid? My rational brain kept telling me all the truths about the situation. I knew that the cable was sturdy. I knew that hundreds of people, including small children, rode this thing without fear all the time. I knew that I would not fall. But still I was afraid.

Could it be that I'm not really afraid of heights, but of something else? I don't have the time, money or inclination to spend years on the therapist's couch with this one, and I imagine that might be what it would take to help me unearth and conquer the fear. So we talked a bit about it, and I tried to let it go. So I'm afraid of heights, so what. Everybody's afraid of something, right?

This morning I woke up thinking about the experience and had something of an epiphany. I realized that it was not just being in a high place that made me feel uneasy. I was filled with anxiety for a much more basic reason: I had no control of the situation.

I'm a bit of a "type A" gal at heart. I am a hardworking perfectionist. I like things done well. (That is, done by me, of course.) I am also a "rule follower," obedient and loyal. When I can't follow the rules, I tend to walk away. Ever wonder why I home school my children? That's one of the reasons. I just didn't want to "jump through the hoops" so I brought the young 'uns home where I could do things my way.

Like everyone else on the planet, the truth is there are many things over which I have no control, but I live with the comfortable illusion that I am the master of my world. But when I am faced with situations that blantantly challenge this illusion -- like my little trip up the mountain -- I'm filled with anxiety.

If leaves me wondering what I might've done if it had been me instead of Peter called out for that little walk on the water. Talk about having no control! Old Pete, a regular type A guy himself, convinced himself for a moment that he really trusted Jesus, and that of course he could walk on water. Everything was fine until the wind kicked up. Then Peter forgot his intention to trust his friend, and down he went.

The sad truth is that often I have much less faith than Peter did. I don't even start to trust Jesus as I should. I'm not talking about my adventure on the slopes, although it wouldn't have hurt to trust that Jesus probably wasn't going to allow me to fall to my death. I'm referring to those opportunities I get every day to trust God with my life.

I need to work on letting go of this illusion of control. Feeling so anxious last night made me realize something about myself. I'll never feel safe and at peace in this world if I continue to feed the illusion of control. I must accept the fact that much of life is simply out of my hands.

But it's in God's hands, and that's where my fears, and everything else, belong. I'm still scared of heights. But next time I'm in a high place (tonight, in fact, when I take another trip up that mountain) I'll remind myself that no, I'm not in control. But Someone infinitely smarter, greater, stronger and more powerful is.

adopt an atheist today!

Sometimes, when you're goofing off on the internet, you end up some place scary.

Recently I googled "images" to find a photo for one of my projects, and I came upon, quite by accident, the blog of an atheist fellow intent on "converting" us all to his very sad point of view.

I won't send you there by link, my friends. It is not for the faint of heart, and I just can't direct you there without a good friend close by to hold your hand.

Anyway, I ended up on this site, with its black background and vulgar language, its vague profiles and disturbing imagery, and read a charming post about a parody of the song "Jesus Loves the Little Children." This one was called "Jesus Loves the Little Zygotes," and its primary purpose was to instruct believers that Jesus didn't really love children, He just loved to give them all sorts of sufferings and hardships to muddle through. It was simultaneously intriguing and nauseating.

I knew I should just ignore it and go back to reading the wholesome blogs of my Christian sisters, but I couldn't help myself. I also knew that I should definitely NOT post a comment, but I am not known for my prudence.

I didn't give it much thought, just a lot of emotion, and left his site in a huff. I did not intend to return, ever. I was so offended and sad, I swore I wouldn't come back.

Then one day I googled something else and found myself back at his site, where he had posted a response to my comment. Now I'd done it.

I took a deep breath before reading his reply to me. I knew it would offend and annoy me, and I told myself to punch myself in the gut before I read on. I can be a sensitive one, and I knew I didn't want to hear what he had to say.

I was not disappointed.

I read his reply and pondered what to do with it. I REALLY wanted to give him some more. I wanted to address his comments point by point, highlighting his ignorance.
But I knew that this was a tough soul, one used to debating with amateurs like me. Words from me would only fuel his passion for atheism, not convert him.

But I just couldn't let it go, so I decided to share it here. The following are my comments and what he had to say.

ME: OK, so here's a comment from someone who happened upon this blog for some unknown reason and will certainly never return again.

But I digress.

I had a daughter born with a heart defect. She died when she was four months old.

Did Jesus "give" her that defect so that you could mock her suffering, and His?

I'd explain it to you, but it is so far beyond your understanding that all I can do is pity you. Learn from your inevitable sufferings. Find joy in your existence. You have been given the great gift of life and appear to be completely clueless.

Thank God for those suffering children and the lessons they teach us. Learn up, my friend.

Time is short for each of us. If I am wrong, and there is no God, OK. But what if you're wrong. Hmmm...what if...

Then my dear atheist friend responded. Read on to hear what he had to say. The comments that I wanted to make to him are in caps.

MY ATHEIST: Cathy, I am sorry that your daughter was born with such an affliction, but.....(WHY ARE YOU SORRY? WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE IF SOME BLOB OF CELLS WAS BORN DEFECTIVE? HER LIFE DIDN'T MEAN ANYTHING ANYWAY, RIGHT?)

You will demonize me for mocking a belief in an all-loving, all-powerful 'god' who either cannot or will not assist the smallest most helpless of his purported 'special creations', but in reality I am not the one who is deserving of pity, you are the one upon which much pity should be heaped. (WHEN DID I DEMONIZE YOU? WHEN I DISAGREED? AND DEMONIZE IS AN INTERESTING WORD CHOICE. DEMONS, ANGELS, HMMM. NO SUCH THING, RIGHT?)

You claim these are so-called "tests" (I NEVER USED THE WORD TEST!!! I DID NOT CLAIM THAT GOD CREATED MY DAUGHTER WITH A DEFECT TO TEST ME!!!) and they occur to teach us something but what kind deity shreds a mother's heart by giving her a beautiful daughter only to steal the child away a few short months later? (NO ONE STOLE MY DAUGHTER. HOW DARE YOU CALL HER BEAUTIFUL! SHE WAS DEFECTIVE, REMEMBER?) I am sorry but your claim of 'lessons from the lord' embedded in these tragedy is a psychological spin you put on the event to make it all seem to have a higher purpose.(I READILY ADMIT IN MY BOOK THAT IF I AM WRONG, I AM USING THE THOUGHT OF AN AFTERLIFE AND A FURTHER PURPOSE FOR MY DAUGHTER'S SUFFERINGS TO COMFORT ME. WHAT'S WRONG WITH THAT?)

The truth is, what happened with your dear child is unfortunate and sad,(WHY WAS SHE DEAR? IF THERE IS NO GOD, NO PURPOSE IN LIFE, WHAT MADE HER SPECIAL?) she was lucky to have a mom who dearly loved her for the child she was (WHAT IS LOVE?), and she was not merely a pawn in some overseers elaborate game to 'test' a family.

It is much more comforting to think that all that was at play was unfortunate circumstances and not a maniacal 'guy in the clouds' deliberately torturing his 'beloved' creations. (WHY DO YOU THINK HER DEATH TORTURED ME? CAN YOU EVEN IMAGINE THAT I AM AT PEACE?)

And your last part, it's called Pascal's Wager (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pascal%27s_Wager, look into it.(OH, YOU'RE KIDDING. I'M A STUPID, UNEDUCATED CHRISTIAN WHO NEVER HEARD OF PASCAL. GOSH. THANKS FOR ENLIGHTENING ME.) "What if you're wrong" doesn't hold much water because much more can be said of what might happen if you are wrong than "so what". (HUH?)We both could be wrong and the Muslims correct, that would damn both of us(NEWSFLASH...THE MUSLIMS AND I BELIEVE IN THE SAME GOD), or the Hindus correct and where would that leave us?(MAYBE I'D BE A QUEEN NEXT TIME AROUND...OR A WORM, WHO CARES? I WOULDN'T EVEN KNOW...) Ultimately though, what if you're wrong? You have spent a life worshiping and bowing to the unseen, making excuses for the deity with your loved ones as examples, spent so much precious time on your knees idle when you could have been out doing some real good for humanity.(YOU PRESUMPTUOUS, STUPID SON OF A ....YEP, ME AND MOTHER THERESA, ON OUR KNEES, IGNORING THE NEEDS OF THE WORLD. ARE YOU CRAZY?!?)

Thanks for visiting.(YOU'RE WELCOME. I'M SO IMPRESSED BY YOUR MANNERS.)

OK, I'm sorry. I just had to vent, to share what he can't -- what he refuses to -- hear.

But I just can't forget him.

And I have a devious plan.

While he's posting on his blog, encouraging folks to worship the god of science, laughting at Christians, dressing in black, I'll be doing something that would drive him nuts.

I'll be praying for him.

I've been doing it regularly, and enjoying it immensely. I offered my Holy Communion for him today, and I just couldn't stop smiling. He's My Atheist now, and I'm hangin' on tight.

Lucky devil.

My goal is to meet him someday in Heaven. I'll be the one with the pink carnation, rosary in hand, silly grin on my face. He'll probably still be dressed in black, shaking his head, amazed that I didn't forget him.

It'll be a sweet reunion, one worth waiting for, much more satisfying than what I might be faced with on his nasty old blog.

My Atheist, this one's for you.

the art of disappointment

It's a craft I should have well-honed by now, but it looks like I still need more practice.

I started off today with a very disappointing experience. The details aren't terribly important. Suffice it to say that I missed out on an opportunity, one that I very much wanted to take advantage of. In fact, I thought I was perfect for it -- I even felt called to it. I thought God had presented me with a beautiful, exciting invitation to share my gifts and reach souls in the process. Apparently I was mistaken, and that isn't the plan, at least not for today.

I exist therefore I've suffered disappointments before, so my wealth of such experience should have softened the blow, right? I should have calmly received the disappointing news, maturely weighed the facts, and accepted God's will with joy. Is that what I did? No, I cried like a spoiled child.

Now I'm a bit disappointed with myself, but with that being human stuff and all I guess I could cut myself a little slack. (My husband, my wise and wonderful best-thing-that-ever-happened-to-me husband,told me I should give myself at least 20 minutes to bounce back.) I am able to acknowledge and name my feelings, and I am flat-out disappointed. That's the way it is.

So what to do with that? I've wiped away the tears, penned a quick note to see if there might be a chance the opportunity still exists, and decided to get on with it. I'm sitting here wondering why I think I know better than God, because at its root that's really what disappointment is, isn't it? My will seemed so perfect, so right. I knew this was the greatest idea for me. I was certain that I would be able to do so much good, and I knew my motives were completed other-centered. Now I'm not so sure.

It's hard for those of us who love the Lord and want to use our talents to share the Good News to accept this simple fact: it's up to Him how He uses us.

Again and again I am distraught when my plans to reach souls are thwarted, through my own mistakes or the decisions of others. I've read enough saint biographies to know that I'm in good company. St. Therese longed for the mission field, but died unknown in a local convent. St. Bernadette was visited by the Blessed Mother herself, then when on to a life of suffering and death at a young age, too. Bernadette called herself "the stupid one" and acknowledged that God would put her a corner, like an unused broom, brought out only if He needed her for some menial task. Yes, that's what she said, and she had been visited by the Queen of Heaven. Just who do I think I am????

A small part of my soul wonders if God is trying to make me a saint when He gives me these disppointments. (I'm not being overly pious here; it is of course His will that we all become saints, right?) I just don't understand His preoccupation with little 'ole me. Doesn't He realize that I could do so much good if he just gave me the chance?

He is giving me the chance. The chance to grow, to mature, to endure, to suffer. The chance to give my fiat, again.

I guess I've done the best I can today. I've wrapped up my self-pity and my tears and my disappointment, and offered it back to my Abba, my daddy who really does know what's best for me. His will be done.

a new blog!

I'm excited to announce the arrival of a fabulous new blog...my musings on faith and fitness at In God's Image.
Many of us have a difficult time with our self-image. Should we spend time at the gym, on or knees, or a little of both? Visit me there to chew the fat about these important issues and more. Bring your own chocolate.

another runaway?

Would I walk away?

Would I be able to bear the sight of someone, anyone, being crucified? Would I stand by, knowing that I was putting my life in danger by the very act? And further, would I continue to witness this horrible torture being inflicted on The One I believed had come to save me? The One I loved?

Am I like Mary Magdalene? Or am I Judas?

I pondered these thoughts and more last night as I walked through an exhibit on the Shroud of Turin hosted by a local church. I had seen the display years ago, but it continued to inspire and fascinate me. And provoke me.

The first time I saw the display it included a graphic figure of the Crucified Christ as He was likely to have appeared: covered with horrific wounds, dripping with blood. I quickly looked away.

I continue to look away. I cannot bear the cross. I can't bear Jesus', and I can't bear my own, even (maybe especially) the tiny ones. I used to entertain a fantasy in which I was like Veronica, offering Jesus compassion. I was like The Magdalene, steadfast at her Lord's feet. I was akin to His Blessed Mother, washing his wounds with my tears.

I know myself better today. I'm much more like Joseph of Arimathea, who showed up at the last minute in secret. I'm like the Centurion, only converted after seeing Jesus suffer patiently for hours. I'm like Thomas, who was hiding somewhere and insisted on proof even when the Risen Jesus was standing right in front of him. I'm Peter, who betrayed his best friend repeatedly and then ran off crying.

I know in my heart I've got lots in common with Judas. Lots.

Seeing that exhibit again last night brought me to Calvary in the smallest way. Daily life is really more effective for that, isn't it? Just praying I won't run away. Just praying...

a Christian martyr

In Tennessee Williams' well-known play The Glass Menagerie, one of my favorite lines has been adopted by my best friend and me: "You are a Christian martyr."

Amanda, selfish mother to the fragile Laura, telephones her lady friends, attempting to sell them magazine subscriptions. She listens patiently as they describe whatever malady, real or imagined, they are enduring that day, to which she replies with feigned encouragement: "You are a Christian martyr!"

Kath and I have added it to our extensive lexicon because we love to call each other every day (OK, more than once a day) to complain, uh, er, share our challenges. Whether they be physical ailments, emotional disorders, arguments with family members, or spiritual disabilities, we love to offer up our sufferings to one another and hear that blessed affirmation. Yes, indeed, (say here with an affectation) "You are a Christian martyr!

So, needless to say, I was delighted this morning when I found in my email a response from a saint/sinner matchmaking site indicating the resident of heaven who had chosen me was a real live (in Christ) Christian martyr!

I found Marianne's site last week as I snooped around the web, and was fascinated. Here, for the price of an email, I could be hooked up with a patron for 2008. How cool is that.

I have to admit I was initially hoping for a more "glamorous", well-known saint. I just knew that I would be chosen by St. Therese, St. Bernadette, or St. Mary Magdalene. If it had to be a male saint, it would be someone famous and smart like St. Thomas Aquinas. If it was a martyr it'd be an attractive girl like Agnes or a cool, modern patron like St. Max.

When I was a little girl, I loved the well-worn saint book we had on our shelf, because it had PICTURES! Even though my mother told me I was named for St. Catherine of Siena, I knew she had really meant to name me after Cathy of Alexandria, because in those pictures she was so pretty and had long, blond hair. That gal from Siena was not pictured, but I read something about her chopping off her hair, on purpose, because it was her only decent feature. Oh dear.

Anyway, as I waited for my saint to choose me this week, I knew he or she would be good-looking, smart, well-known and creative, just like me! Imagine my surprise when I met up with St. Adrian.

St. Adrian and I just met this morning. I know nothing about him! Could this be right? I know lots of saints, and if I haven't heard of him, he must not be that great, right?

Wrong. All saints are great, of course, I'm just kidding about that. The whole making it to heaven thing is pretty awesome. But St. Adrian, I'm happy to report, turns out to be pretty interesting, and I'm sure the perfect patron for me.

I spent some time googling my new friend this morning, and I'll post more about him as our relationship develops. For now I'll share that several sites claim he is the patron of "communications phenomena" whatever that means. (Blogging, perhaps?)
He is also the patron of butchers, and I am a hardcore lo-carb girl. And Adrian is the first name of one of my favorite TV characters, Mr. Monk, that lovable OCD detective! I can't wait to find out more!

In the meantime I'll just delight in the knowledge that I have my very own Christian martyr watching my back this year. The communion of saints rocks.

from darkness to light

I thought I'd be spending the day writing. Instead, I've been distracted, annoyed and anxious. The house is empty, and I should be working away. But things don't always go as we plan, do they?

One thing after another needed my attention. I thought I'd be alone all day, but I forgot I had to pick up Lolo at the airport. The Big Man came home from school and had some homework to finish before he headed off to be with my brother and the urchins. He was home just long enough for us to engage in some lively "conversation" that included me repeatedly blowing my nose and saying I would never, ever again dare to ask for a weekend off.

We managed to patch things up and he headed off. I swear it was only 15 minutes later when he called me to announce that he was ready to kill the urchins, and that he had to stop by the house to pick up gloves for them. (The ones I sent were deemed absolutely unappropriate...what was I thinking?)

'Round about this time, Lolo asked me to go to confession with her. What kind of mother says no when her 20-year-old daughter asks her to go to confession with her? This kind. I was feeling so unprepared, so dark, so not ready for confession.

I agreed to go to Mass, however, even though I knew The Big Man would be there, urchins in tow, and they would all need me desperately.
Miraculously, it wasn't too bad. Throughout Mass I kept picturing a candle, a beautiful peaceful image of light and warmth. I started to feel some peace.

Lukie asked me to go out to dinner with them, and I really wanted to go. But Lolo and I had decided to go out together instead. That fell through too, but that's ok. I came home and ate some freezer burned chicken and played around on the computer, not accomplishing much of anything.

Now here I am, trying to decide if this weekend has been a bust. I've been so troubled these past few weeks, trying to figure out just what I should be doing around here. I thought a few days (heck, a few minutes) alone would put some light on the situation.

I want to capture the light and warmth of that candle I imagined at Mass. I need to feel the healing power of Christ's burning Love, be illuminated by the flame of His Sacred Heart. If I look elsewhere, I know I'll be in the dark for good. So in the tradition of good Catholics everywhere, I'm lighting a candle.

Christ, be my light.

why are we here?

Oh dear, more existential pondering?

I'm just wondering why we (bloggers, not just ordinary people) are here.

Since I started blogging at the beginning of February, I've learned there's a whole world to discover. I've visited countless blogs ranging from the sincere to the silly. I've added to my vocabulary words that I didn't even know existed a month ago. Widgets and chicklets and memes, oh my!

At first I thought it was all about the writing, then I found out how cool it is to add fun things and choose a layout. (I'm on my second version so far, but don't be surprised if it changes again.) I visited the blogs of other Catholic writers, at first to flatter them with my imitation, then to discover the wisdom they had to offer. I found I was soon drawn in, eager to read what my new best friends had to say. Before I knew it I was neglecting the housework, burning chicken, telling children to go find someone else to wipe their bottoms. I had a blogging jones, and there was no denying it.

Thank God for God, and thank God He gave me a nudge this week. Hello...what are you doing, girl? What's this blogging business all about? As you joined St. Blog's Parish and submitted your blog to the Catholic Mothers Online, did you even think of Me?

I don't know what I was thinking. I was just dying to write.

When I was four, I taught myself to read. When I was six, I started writing. At seven, I produced my first play, and at eight a short story developed. (I still remember it: Mickey and Ghost, the story of a little orphan girl and her dog.)

As soon as I put pencil to paper, I knew who I was: a writer.

I used to say self-important things like this: "When a writer stops writing, she stops living." So have I been dead for the last thirty-odd years?

Of course not. I've met and married a wonderful man. I've given life to seven children. I've schooled them at home for over 15 years. But have I written? A bit, but not nearly enough.

Writing my book and having it published was a dream come true, and seeing it come to fruition opened a door in my heart that refuses to be shut. Sometimes it seems the obligations of my life are pushing hard on that door, daring me to wedge my foot between wood and jamb. So here I stand, steadfast, foolish and indignant, bold and sassy, weeping between words. Why are we here? Because we have to be.

If the first rule of good writing is write what you know, the second is write for your audience. So, since I've decided to weather the storm and write, who indeed is my audience? A woman I know, experienced in writing both online and off, agreed when I lamented that if no one reads it, my blog does not exist. It's starting to blow my mind. Maybe I'm not even here right now...

But supposing somewhere an audience awaits. Who am I writing for? Myself? My Lord? My mom?

Even with my limited experience, I know enough about blogging to say YES, I'm writing for all of those listed and more. Like all who feel compelled to write, I believe I have something to say, and I earnestly hope someone will listen.

So when God nudged me this week, I did some audience analysis, some honest evaluation. I am indeed writing for me, my Lord, and even my mom. And I'm writing for you, whoever you are.

But mostly I'm writing because I can, because it's what I do. God gives each of us tools, and if we leave them in a rusty toolbox we're simply lazy and irresponsible. For many years I asked, "Why did God give me talents if He didn't want me to use them?" Of course He wants me to use them, but as we all know God is the ultimate O.T.T. Master. (He has His own timetable, so don't get impatient.)

He knows what He's doing, and He's plenty patient with us while we figure out our end of the deal.

So why are we here? I can only speak for myself. I'm here to write, to share, to teach, to proclaim. I'm here to glorify my Savior, to rejoice in His Goodness, to pick up my hammer and nails and create something awesome. I'm here to write.

a conversion story

This weekend I had the privilege of attending the Profession of Faith and First Holy Communion of a young woman entering the Catholic Church. My heart is eager to share the story, but words are hard to find.

The woman in question was baptized as a child, and has spent many of her 38 years around Catholics. But only recently her spiritual journey intensified, and she became convicted -- the Catholic church was to be her home.

Even though she had known Catholics for years, and had even worked in Catholic churches, she did not decide to join the church until now. As one of her sponsors, I felt justified in asking her a personal question. Why?

The answer is simple, compelling, and more than a bit frightening. When she answered me, in much simpler terms than I'm relating here, I thought of a story I'd heard about Ghandi. When asked why he didn't become a Christian, even though he felt unified with many Christian teachings, he shared that he would become a Christian if not for one thing -- Christians.

My friend joined the Church now for, happily, the very reason that Ghandi declined. Somehow, miraculously, she met some good people, developed some friendships, and learned that the Christian life, the call to the Catholic Church, is primarily about relationships.

I'm humbled that I was invited to accompany her on her journey into the church, and I'm in awe of the task before me. I want to be an excellent example, an honest teacher, and a wise friend. I want to mirror Christ for her. I want to be the Christian that would have made even Ghandi change his mind.

The truth is, I'm hardly up to it. I'm lazy and sinful and imperfect in my charity. I'm often a bad example of Christlike love, forgiveness and patience. But for my friend, I'm a sign, a gatepost, a guiding hand. Our relationship is imperative as she grows in her faith.

I told her the other day that our faith is really all about relationships -- our relationships with Jesus and with each other. I hope ours can be a relationship that does only good for her, one that points her directly to Christ.

Your heartfelt prayers are appreciated.

I'm dying

It's true.

I'm dying.

I'd like to say that I'll spare you the gory details, but that'd be a lie. There are lots of gory details. I want to say that it all began in December, when I had that surgery. OK, so it was only foot surgery and I'm fine now, but boy, was that rough. Six weeks on crutches! Then there was that nasty bout with the flu. Influenza! That's right, the real deal, the stuff that killed all those folks back in WWI.

Really. I'm dying.

I've still got a lingering cough, and my toe hurts. It pains me to reveal this, but I can't even wear normal shoes. No high heels, and not even my favorite clogs. It's misery, pure misery.

Yes, I'd like to say it started back in December, my demise that is , but the truth is it started long before that. About 43 years before that. Because, of course, like everybody else, I've been dying since day one.

We love to complain when we're sick, injured, or even just bored, don't we? We want everyone to share our sufferings. We're dying. I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I uttered that actual phrase numerous times in the past couple of months. To my children, leave Mommy alone. I'm dying. To my husband, first thing in the morning, I'm dying. To my best friend, can you come over? I'm dying.
Of course it's all true. I really am dying. Wow.

We Catholics call them the Last Things: death, judgment, resurrection. Important concepts to be sure. Ones we'll all face someday. And since I really am dying, maybe I should give them a thought now and then.

I love to complain about the consequences of my fallen state (that nasty cough and painful toe, for instance) but I don't like to think about the real consequence that we'll all face one day. I will be dying one day, really and truly, and I must consider if the way I'm living reflects that reality.

It's Lent, a good time for this dying stuff. Instead of just dying with my annoying irritations, I should be "dying to self." Making some sacrifices. Doing good for others. Shutting up when I want to talk, stuff like that.

Next time I want to announce my mortality to the world, I hope I'll stop for a second to think what I'm really saying. I'm dying. So I better be serious about living. Damn serious.

and baby makes....four?

This morning I happened to see a segment of a popular morning talk show (hosted by a middle-aged guy and a blonde -- is there any other kind?) I'm not much for TV, especially in the morning, but their conversation drew me in. It seems there have been some interesting developments in the world of genetic science, something even the audiences of mindless talk shows need to know about. It is now possible to create a designer baby, one with all those nasty genes that cause muscular dystrophy and cystic fibrosis and maybe even bad breath conveniently removed. We can even request the color of the perfect little darling's eyes and hair, and instill a love of Beethoven and a dislike for, I don't know, mindless talk shows. How wonderful, right?


At one point the hosts called it a "no-brainer." Everyone wants a world without disease, right? Who would want a child to suffer with imperfection and illness? The smug "infertility doctor" on their panel of experts, charming with a soul patch and expensive haircut, paled when asked if he was playing God. "This is about science, not religion," he announced, obviously annoyed. He spouted lots of nonsense about choice and how all can agree that any "imagined" negative consequences arising from the creation of a baby from the eggs of two women and one man were nothing compared to the positives: people can have the babies they want, when they want them, and perfect babies at that.



The ethicist on board, predictably nerdy and uncomfortable in front of an audience, spoke clearly to the ideas of right and wrong so easily put aside by the doctor making lots of money from the parents of those perfect babes. He had a tough task in front of him. How do I get them to buy the notion that right and wrong even matter? You could see his frustration as he tried to explain foreign concepts like natural law to a group of folks accustomed to hearing that what matters most is what they feel at any given moment.



The child psychologist, placed uncomfortably close to the woman next to her who had "designed" a lovely little girl for herself, brought up a pertinent point. What if those perfect children don't turn out so perfect? How disapointed will those parents be when little Mozart detests music and Picasso doesn't paint? Is it fair to create children with such high expectations? On another note, is it right to deny children the opportunity to know their parents? (In this case, all three of them?)



The conversation ended without resolution, as all conversations of talk shows must. They asked the audience to vote with a show of hands. Does this bother any of you? About half of the hands went up. On to the next segment.



I turned off the TV. I didn't need to ask myself if it bothered me. I was bothered, all right, but mostly by a question that had remained unasked. Do we really want a world inhabited only by the perfect?



I am most definitely not perfect, and neither are you. Last time I checked, there was nary a perfect specimen in sight. If we decide to literally play God and design children in our image, whose image do we choose? Some would say (as the hosts of the program did) that eliminating disease and illness is a no-brainer. But is it?



I have given birth to seven children. In the world's eyes, the first six were in good shape -- "perfect" babies. They were born well and remain in good health. They are not only healthy but attractive, intelligent and talented. (I swear I am being at least somewhat objective.) My seventh child was not so "lucky."



My seventh child, my third daughter, Celeste, was imperfect. She was born with a severely damaged heart, one corrupted and malformed by Ebstein's Anomaly. When she was four months old, we discovered that her brain was now imperfect as well. Dramatically damaged by a series of strokes, it was now so bad that she could not receive the heart transplant she needed. After a life filled with suffering, pain and imperfection, she died in my arms.



If I could have, would I have "re-designed" Celeste, healing her imperfections?



I wanted a healthy, "perfect" baby. I wanted a little girl to love for many years. Like all mothers, I wanted a child that would not experience any of the negatives of our fallen condition.


But if given the chance, I wouldn't change a thing.



God knew what He was doing when He created my daughter, and He did not make a mistake. Her tiny body and her pure soul were knit together by Him with only love. She was imperfect in the eyes of many, but to her Father in Heaven she was perfection: beautiful and worthy, sent to us as a gift.



I would not send back this gift, not for all the "perfect" babies in the world.



In my conversations with other parents of "imperfect" children, I have come to a conclusion, one I doubt they'll reach on a morning talk show any time soon. Children with special needs, those who are not "perfect" in their minds and/or bodies, add to the world's beauty with unimaginable power. They love purely. They teach us. They allow us to love them, training us to serve.



I am thankful such technology was not available to my parents (not that they would use it in a million years.) Maybe they could have saved me from my illnesses, addictions and faults. Maybe they could've given me the blue eyes I've always yearned for. But I would not be the person God wanted walking in my shoes. And that person is good enough for me, even better than I deserved.



People ask me if I'm angry at God for giving me an "imperfect" baby. Are you kidding? I didn't deserve her either. But thank God for His generosity, his patient blessings to His selfish, imperfect children.