stop whining and start praying (I think)

So it's all over but the whining.

Is anybody else as drained as I am? Not by the outcome of the election, but by the response to it? I am disappointed in the results (particularly that Proposal 2 failed in Michigan -- embryonic stem cell research got a big green light) but I will not give in to the urge to whine, complain, and/or move to a foreign country or neighboring planet.

As I mentioned in my last post, I intend to do my best with what I've got. Elections and politicians will come and go. Laws will change, statutes will evolve, and, while cultures and nations rise and fall, God will stay the same.

I felt sad yesterday, and when I talked to friends and family and popped around on the net I felt even sadder. Some of my loved ones are not just disappointed, they are bitterly angry. I'm praying that they will come to a sense of peace. President-Elect Obama is not in charge here...God is. We have to return to that fact again and again.

Speaking of prayer, I got into a very passionate discussion on the subject with the Big Man and our eldest son last night. I was sharing my thoughts on prayer, that I have felt lately that it is rather ridiculous to submit a request list to God and then feel let-down when my demands are not met. I can ask God to bless our nation with a president who respects life. But God is certainly not going to say, "OK, Cathy. You have said enough rosaries and prayed enough Holy Hours. You have met the prayer quota, so I'm going to place your candidate in the White House."

My experience, and I believe Catholic theology, tell me something quite different about prayer. Prayer is communication with God. We can offer praise, adoration, seek reconciliation, or complain. We can, of course, ask for things or situations, graces and blessings. But prayer does not change God. It changes us. And God will always respect our free will. He will not answer one man's prayer by forcing HIs will on another.

I admit that when I hear that Bob is ill and asking for prayer, I don't ask for a healing. I ask that Bob be blessed with the grace to bear his cross. I ask that God's will be done through Bob's sickness.

Some of this attitude certainly comes from the fact that I have seldom seen my prayers answered in the way I'd like. When I prayed for a bike when I was 12, I didn't get one. When I prayed for career successes, they didn't materialize. (At least not yet! :))

When I asked God to spare my daughter's life, she died.

I am not bitter, don't get me wrong. I consider myself a realist (my husband and son prefer pessimist) who accepts the truth that life, well, sucks. (Pardon the expression.) Since Adam and Eve chomped down on the apple it all went downhill. We are not promised happiness in this world (remember Our Lady's words to St. Bernadette?)

That is not to say that we will not experience genuinely happy moments this side of heaven. Most of us will have our share -- the birth of our children, the love of our spouses, good health, enough to eat, roofs over our heads. We have the beauty of nature and the blessings of creative, good people who try to serve others. But all the happiness in the world is just a shadow of the real happiness we'll experience in heaven if we stick it out here.

The conversation with my men did not end well. My husband muttered something about wanting to end it all after chatting with me, because my view of life is so depressing. My son kept his positive spirit, but was clearly disappointed in his Mom's belief that not much good will come our way here.

He had a few good questions for me. "Why do you write on your blog if you don't think anyone will read it or care? Why did you write your book? Don't you have hope that someone will hear what you have to say?"

I admit I do hold onto a shred of hope that some of my worldly dreams will come true. I just know that God is not Santa Claus and he won't automatically wrap up my requests and put them under the tree.

I figure Jesus died on the cross for me and everything else is gravy.

Am I wrong? Or should I just pray a little harder for that new bike?

Grandma's beads

When I was six years old, I loved to visit my grandmother's apartment. She lived on the ninth floor of a local senior's building, and from her balcony we could see the "skyscrapers" of the big city reaching for the clouds. My brother and I ran to the window when we got there, signing the 60's hit "Downtown."

After a chorus or two of "downtown, dadadadadadaaaa..." my next stop was my grandma's nightstand drawer. That's where she kept the most beautiful thing my young brown eyes had ever seen -- a set of rosary beads crafted from white plastic. Each bead was fashioned into a rosebud, and they were linked together by a silver chain. I felt like a princess when I put these around my neck and pranced around the apartment. Grandma let me wear them until it was time to go, when I reluctantly placed them back in her room. I couldn't wait to visit again, when I could gather up this precious "necklace" that made me feel pretty and special.

I know that rosaries are not jewelry, but that childhood experience gave me a love for Mama's Beads. I had the good fortune of belonging to a parish at which the rosary was prayed before each and every mass, and every Sunday, at my father's insistence, we arrived early enough to join in. Like most children, I was bored sometimes as I knelt there watching the beads slip through my fingers. But the habit was developed, and the comforting repetition of the familiar prayers soothed me and brought me focus and calm.

I don't remember praying the rosary much during my teen years, but I do have one vivid memory of Mr. Ted, a fiesty, outspoken lover of our Lady who taught catechism (as we called it then) to us after school. My brother and I arrived with our family at Sunday mass, and we were sitting in the car preparing to go in. Mr. Ted banged on the car window, frantically waving his beads. "Don't forget your rosaries!" he admonished my brother and me. We were mortified, embarrassed at his ridiculous behavior, so we went into church, laughing at his crazy zeal -- rosaries in hand, of course.

I can clearly recall the day I returned to the rosary as a young mother. Rachel, my firstborn, was napping, and I decided to pray the rosary. I couldn't remember the mysteries, so I got out the huge family bible my parents had given us as a wedding gift. I opened it to the pages that featured the mysteries, highlighted with large color pictures, and placed it in the baby's playpen. Then I knelt there with my beads and the sun lit up my tiny apartment. It was so incredibly quiet and peaceful and I felt, for the first time in years, like I was home.

The rosary became my companion then. I must have prayed it a thousand times during those early years of my marriage, particularly when my girls attended a school some miles away. Getting in the car meant praying the rosary. I often think that those many rosaries I prayed during those years protected and prepared us for the many challenges we would face in years to come.

We prayed the family rosary, too, alternately nudging the children to either stop pestering one another or stay awake. We discovered the rosary was the very best way to calm ourselves (even the experts acknowledged that praying and meditating this way lowered blood pressure!) Sometimes the kids balked, but we did it anyway. They, too, began to develop the habit that I know will bring them peace throughout their lives.

In difficult times I have wished I could return to Grandma's apartment and dance around like a princess without a care. Instead I turn to the beads that I learned to love there. When my baby Celeste was living and dying in the hospital, Aaron and I prayed the rosary on each drive there and back. It was all we could do. It was everything we could do. I was sometimes numb as the cool beads slipped through my fingers, tears streaming down my cheeks. But I could see Jesus and Mary clearly in my mind as I tried to focus on their lives, their sufferings and joys, instead of my own anguish. I could not find adequate words with which to pray. I didn't need to search for them. I could pray the sweet, familiar prayers of the rosary, and I would be comforted, healed and protected.

Today I most often pray the rosary at Adoration, where I sit with my elderly father as well-worn black beads slip through his fingers. I have many rosaries (of course I do! Such pretty princess beads!) but my current favorite is the set that my husband bought me soon after Celeste's death. These beads are little pink hearts, and they speak of my little girl. They make me feel like a little girl, as well, and I realize that's just what I am when I pray -- Mama's little girl.

The rosary makes me feel like a child, safe in my mother's arms. Maybe it's my early experience with my grandmother's rosary that makes me feel like a little girl every time I pray the rosary. Or maybe it's just that that's truly what I become when I pray this way.

Perhaps someday a little girl will go to her grandmother's nightstand and gather up a rosary strung with tender pink hearts. Maybe she'll dance around, wearing it like a necklace, feeling like a princess. I hope so.

I still have the white plastic roses. I received them when my grandma died, when I was only seven. They are the only remembrance I was given. They are enough.

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.

praying for pilgrims

Please join me in praying for the thousands of pilgrims attending World Youth Day in Sydney, Australia -- especially my daughter Lauren and her fiance Giovanni. After a 24 hour flight, they arrived safely down under last night. They'll be spending the next two weeks praying and partying with young people from the world over, and two weeks after they return they'll be getting married. Send up lots of prayers for them!

joy!

Now, it's your job to get one another to Heaven."

As I heard our pastor instruct my daughter and her new husband Saturday afternoon, I was overcome with joy and awe. Marriage is a sacrament; with its grace my little girl and her love will be on their path to Heaven. (And now it's my son-in-law's job; am I off the hook?)

Bittersweet, yet joyful. The wedding was extraordinary. We were blessed with beautiful weather, a moving ceremony, and a party that rocked! I can't wait to share photos. For now I'm including this lovely photo from our photographer's website. I haven't seen the photos yet but I was so impressed with Stacey's professionalism and "eye" that I'm sure I'll have much to share.

Join me in praying for the new Mr. and Mrs. Christopher LaPointe!

laborers for the harvest

Please pray also for our newly ordained priests! While the Big Man and I attended Rachel's graduation on Saturday, we sent a contingent of family members (namely AJ, Joey and Lauren) to the Ordination of our friend Clint McDonell. Fr. Clint spent his internship as a seminarian at our parish, and we quickly adopted him into our family. (We love to do that! Our Lukie says that our family is like a black hole in outer space -- if you get close enough to us, we'll suck you right in!)

Fr. Clint is an awesome young man. He is brilliant, kind and holy, and an amazing tenor to boot! We are so proud to know him, and so honored to call him "friend." His priesthood is such a gift to our church.

Read more about him here.

and the fire fell...

Pentecost was especially poignant this year. Our family attended Mass at Detroit's Cathedral of the Most Blessed Sacrament, witnesses of the Sacrament of Confirmation.

Our dear friend Catherine (CT) was confirmed, taking the name Cecelia. As I stood at her side, honored to serve as her sponsor, I prayed that the Holy Spirit would truly transform us. As the Cardinal began the words of the consecration, asking the Holy Spirit to change our meager gifts of simple bread and wine into the Body and Blood of Jesus, I had a realization. If the Holy Spirit is so powerful that these humble fruits of the earth can be changed into God Himself, how much more can He do with us? We are, after all, made in the very likeness of God. Imagine what He can do with us! Imagine how awesome we can become when we allow the Holy Spirit to transform us!

Here are a few photos from this special occasion. Please keep the newly confirmed, and all who call on the Spirit, in your prayers!


CT and I at the foot of the altar.


With Cardinal Maida.

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.