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Rubens, “The Resurrection of Christ”Hallelujah, He is Risen!
He is risen, indeed! Hallelujah!
It’s Easter Sunday!!
This is it.
This is the reason I get out of bed in the morning, ultimately.
If it wasn’t for this, I’m not sure I could, so many days.
It would just be too too hard.
But this, this makes it all worth it, more than worth it….
this makes it glorious.
Every day.
I don’t even have the words….
Happy Happy Easter.
Go hop for joy!
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Painting by Mantengna, c 1490 Holy Saturday.
We wait.
It is finished.
It is so silent, so sad.
It is a somber quiet day.
I think of his Mom.
And I ache for her.
Painting by Franz von Stuck, 1891
And today is an achy day, all around.
It hurts.
It should.
It is too quiet, too somber.
And yet, of course, not.
And we wait, happily for us, in joyful knowledge and hope, for tomorrow.
But still, today, we wait.
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image source: SQPN
So, there’s been a lot of talk about confession, different kinds of confession and different ideas and feelings about it. And of course, Lent begins in a mere few days, so…if there ever IS a season for confession…we are there.
And even so, I think that there is a yearning for this practice, no matter your faith tradition, or lack of one. Deacon has an interesting article on the rise and desire for confession, as evidenced by the long lines outside the old fashioned/refurbished confessionals in a New York church.
So I’ve been stewing on whether to write about what I think about confession, or not. There is SO much there and I can’t even begin to do it justice, and I would simply bore you all if I tried because I’d just mumble on. Like now…erk.
So, I’m gonna try to give you my quick, personal gloss on confession, my Catholic take on the Sacrament of Confession. As I mentioned, I think our culture craves this. Now, my use of the term ‘confession’ is quite a different thing from dear Becca’s confession Fridays. She has been doing a post on her Friday confessions each week, and encouraging us all to speak up if we are so inclined, to ‘confess,’ so to speak. Don’t get me wrong, this idea of owning up to our weaknesses and imperfections is hugely important, liberating, and also a relief…..it gives us all the evidence that none of us are supermom out there. And that is a great gift, so don’t stop Becca, you help us all when you put yourself out there!
But when I think of confession, I am meaning the specific Sacrament of Confession, or Penance, or, most accurately (and modern, but not my ‘old dog’ term): the Sacrament of Reconciliation. Because in the Catholic use of the term confession, we are really going to reconcile, with Christ himself. Many of us think, why do I have to go sit with a priest to do that? I can just tell my sins to Jesus in prayer and He will forgive me. Well, yes.
But it is utterly healing to do it with a person, and in the Sacramental nature of Confession, it is Sacramentally healing – meaning actual Grace (capital G grace, divine grace) comes to us through the priest’s absolution and gives us strength to do better and forgives our sins.
It’s a radical thing, don’t you think? Of course, it has to be, it’s biblical:
I am a cradle Catholic, but a poorly taught one for most of my life, certainly my formative years. And I never knew, I never really knew, the depth and the amazing power of this sacrament. And I avoided it, scandalously, for years and years; my lapsed Catholic years, if you will.
Ever so long ago, I was called out, so to speak, on some of my (gravely) sinful college behavior, by a priest in confession. I was shocked and upset and wanted to be patted on the head and told, it’s ok, you have the best intentions and your heart is in the right place. Well, he pointed out that my heart might be in the right place but my behavior wasn’t and called me on it, called it for what it was: sin. Serious sin. I was, correctly, horrified. However, since I was an ignoramus, truly, I fled from the ‘rigid, archaic” Church rules and regulations and skipped confession for many years. Because I was hurt and upset, angry and finally, kind of terrified. {Just like a kid who’s gotten on the wrong side of their parents, but doesn’t really fully understand why.}
Finally, some long time ago, a kind wonderful young priest said, “Um, that was a tough experience, though he was correct. But, you need to trust again.” Oh. My. I am really bad at that whole trust thing. I don’t do that well at all. But he was right. So I worked on learning more, about the church and confession, the Sacrament of Reconciliation. And so, with heart racing and feeling like I might get sick, I tried again. I went to confession. For real.
And it was electric.
I mean, I had, for all those years, prayed and never left my faith (I thought). I apologized in my prayers for my failings and my sins. But when I actually returned to the Sacrament of reconciliation…well, I finally felt it, I felt, um, reconciled. Doh. But it felt like the world made real sense again, better and truer, more hopeful.
I kept, and keep, screwing up. My life is like a briar patch, and I get caught on my own thorns and snags every single darn day. But now, I have this sacrament to help me out. And it does, unspeakably so.
It’s like that itchy, uncomfortable, out of sorts kind of feeling that you have when you’ve been fussing with someone, or when you said the kind of wrong thing or something was taken the wrong way. It kind of stays with you and makes you have that very low, underlying out of kilter feeling…until you make it up with that person and/or sort things back out with them. That’s confession. It’s a reconciliation, after all. But with the most important person of all.
I went to confession this morning. And I had to kind of drag myself there. I knew I needed it, it had been a few weeks since my last confession. And I was getting over a week of sick in the house and a killer migraine last night, so had a “migraine hangover.” I was not feeling too great, exhausted and ridiculously irritable. But I did make it to church. And when I got there who did I see arriving but our own dear Bishop! Bishop Choby. Special, unscheduled surprise visit!
I love this man. He is my spiritual Father. He used to be our pastor and is now our Bishop and he is a holy man, period. He is utterly kind and good. I almost cried, just saying hello to him, I was just SO happy to see him! (Yes, I’m a doofus like that, but I haven’t seen him in a while). And so I made my confession. And he gave me absolution and my penance. And then I did cry, as I sat in the pew to pray, I couldn’t help it. Not because it was horrible and I was still scared, but out of love and sheer gratitude for the beauty of this Sacrament.
Because this is what it comes down to, for me. If I am SO glad to see this man, my spiritual Father, my Bishop, how electrified and lit up with jubilation will I be when I get the chance to stand before Jesus himself, God, my heavenly Father? OH, I can’t imagine, but I know that this is but a shadowy glimmer of the real thing.
And that’s the Sacrament of Confession, for me.
It’s often electric.
But not always.
But it’s always strengthening, and comforting.
It brings me back to the person, after I stepped away in my selfishness.
It’s a reconciling.
It heals.
Here are a couple of books that are great:
A pocket guide to Confession
Pardon and Peace
So, erk, I did it again. A long ramble. You know I can’t help it. And that’s a Becca confession: “my blog posts are long and rambly and boring”…but it’s Saturday and not Friday…so I’ll have to add it to hers next week!
But, I love confession. I went from being terrified of it, to finally knowing the great peace and real strength and comfort it gives.
It’s worth a try. It is, literally, out of this world.
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Madonna of the Rosary, by Lorenzo Lotto 1539Yup, another Catholic feast day. But this one devoted to our Blessed Mother and a particular and wonderful Catholic devotion and prayer: the rosary.
{I know, more Catholic stuff, I warned you: ’tis the season! And if you are thinking “hey I thought this was an Ethiopian adoption blog! What gives?” Well, it is, but read the header, it’s also about life in this family as a mom of a pile of kids, which means, Catholic, food, family, adoption, travel, Ethiopia, kids, whining, venting, opinions, links, drivel, and cool stuff…..the whole package.}
Now, the rosary can be a really confusing devotion and set of prayers, especially if you’re not Catholic or if you’ve not practiced it. It takes time to learn. It seems all complicated but it’s not.
Basically, it is a serious of meditations on the life of Christ. Yes, you’re saying “Ave Maria’s” (or the “Hail Mary” prayer) for much of it, but at the same time you are saying those words of the prayer you are invited into meditation on a ‘mystery’ of the rosary, or a particular scene or even in Christ’s life. If you make through an entire full rosary, all twenty decades, you have pretty much just walked through the gospel in your mind. How cool is that?
Now, I have to admit, my praying of the rosary is erratic. I get busy, I get tired, I get lazy. Too much so to make myself stop and take the 20 minutes it takes to pray the rosary. Sheesh. But, I love the rosary. I love the prayers, the calm that comes with praying it, the storytelling aspect of it, the results, the feel, the sound – all of it. But, as with anything regular, there is a discipline to doing it daily or regularly. And I’m not always so great at steady discipline (check out my utter lack of running of late: talk about NO discipline!). But all I can say is that when I do pray the rosary regularly and often, I see benefits. I see our family doing better, I feel myself calmer and more capable of coping with the harried life we live, the mundane irritations and feel my teeny weeny well of patience be a slight bit fuller.
The rosary is not mindless babble; it is often accused of this. Now, to someone who doesn’t understand the fullness of the rosary or what it really is or how it’s done, it could seem so. At it’s worst, it is a distracted attempt at turning our mind to Christ, through His mother and her pointing out scenes from His life. And heck, that’s not so bad: A- for even trying, right? At it’s best, it can be a transcendent prayer. It can not only change our hearts, I really believe it can change others and the world, just a bit. But every bit counts.
So, don’t short change this prayer. And of course, NEVER short change or underestimate our Blessed Mother. If she gave this prayer to the world and hears it, and I believe she does…well, great things can happen. I’ve seen them and so have many others. It’s an oldie but one of the very best prayers and devotions. It’s not a requirement as a Catholic, you don’t have to do this. But, oh, always, I am glad I did!
Happy Feast Day!
Our Lady of the Rosary, pray for us!
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Guardian Angel Icon by Ikonart.com
It’s another Feast day! I love Autumn!
I hesitated to blog about this today, because this is one of those Catholic beliefs that can be misconstrued, and has. There has been a fad in the popular culture about angels and it has devolved too often into the kitschy ‘Hallmark’ cherub kind of angel, complete with squishy feelings and trite sentiment (not to sound too much like a curmudgeon, but I think you know what I mean). Or angels are shown as the kind of nauseating gauzy filmy pastel drawing of a blond angel in billowing robes and flowers. On the flip side however, if you do a google search on angels, specifically, Guardian Angels…well, it can get kind of creepy! I mean, like, you are walking the edge of the dark side. No kidding. When folks start talking about ‘channeling’ angels and having conversations with them and learning their names and so on…I say, run, run fast! That is just too borderline for me.
Permit me a short rant on this: I do believe a tiny handful of us have actually known and/or spoken with angels, (specifically: Mary, Abraham, Tobit (though, unaware)). However, I think that most of those who say they do, or have, might well be either psychotic or actually have spoken with angels, or spirits, but the wrong kind. Now you are probably writing me off as a nut case. But, stay with me.
We are taught that angels are true and real. We are also taught that there are angels of God and angels who chose against God. God’s angels can and do work in this world, but usually in the background and/or through our own conscience and the people around us. I think only those who have elevated to pretty lofty heights of holiness ever are given the grace of meeting an angel and knowing it. Mary was sinless, for Pete’s sake! Deigned to be chosen as Mother of God! She was holy enough to have an angel greet her with “Hail, Mary, full of grace.” Even then, she must have been frightened and flipped out. But, I know, that I hope to never meet with an angel in a concrete, physically discernible way. I am simply not holy enough and thus it would be maybe a temptation from the wrong team, so to type; not to mention it would scare me into a gibbering idiot. {I know, you’re thinking “already there.”} Rant over.
So, after all that, what’s up with Guardian Angels?Guardian Angels are such a fantastic gift from God himself. Talk about a Creator who thought of everything! Even someone to be with us our entire lives, who knows us better than anyone else, and is there for the express purpose of our best good. Not, and this is important, our greatest want/desire, but for our greatest good. Not to mention, who are smarter than us by leaps and bounds. Whew. What a relief! We need this so much. I do. And they are so polite about it too, nudging here, pestering there, saving when needed. I can point to a few times when I am absolutely sure that but for the intervention of my Guardian Angel, I would be dead or in dire straights. Most recently, on 65S, saved from a collision beside me before I even knew it and my adrenaline shot sky high. Thank you.
[So, now I have surely lost any reader I might have had left. But well, the little boys and myself are all sick with a muzzy thick head cold. So maybe I’m ranting a bit. But still, the thoughts are there and mine on this day and this subject.]
Thank you Guardian Angels! For watching over me and saving me from harm of all stripes, most usually myself. For watching over my children when they are near and especially when they are far from me. It’s a comfort. The best friends a gal can have, in so many ways…and ones so very taken for granted. So today, phone a friend, in honor of our best friends, the Guardian Angels.
Painting by Roxanne>
It’s another Feast Day!
It’s the Feast of the Archangels: Michael, Gabriel, Raphael.
Now, yeah, this is yet another Catholic Feast. Brace yourself, we are coming into the calendar season just chock full of Feasts. No wonder I love this time of year, full of special days, feasts, memorials, birthdays…all running right up to the very special season of Advent. (But that is for another post, in the future). Today, this Feast of the Archangels: I love this feast and I love the archangels as well. How can you not? They are always involved in the best of the stories and events from the bible. They are God’s own top notch messengers, the A-team, if you will.
St. Michael is a fantastic comfort, he is the protector and guardian for us and prince of the messengers. He is the ultimate warrior for Christ. It he who I call on for extra protection when we are frightened, waking from dreams that disturb, or to comfort one of my kids, or heck, even me when I get scared or nervous. St. Raphael, he is a the one to call on for safe travel, he who traveled with Tobias, both as companion and messenger there too. And of course, St. Gabriel. Obviously, we have a special spot in our hearts for this messenger of God’s will. He was the most special chosen messenger to our Blessed Mother of the divine news of her son, Christ: the Annunciation, the one who got to hear her “fiat.” He was the patron of our own message of God’s will: our own Gabriel Tariku, who now brings the message of God’s love to us, every day.
St. Gabriel Monastery, Ethiopia 
Happy Feast Day!>
It’s the Feast Day of Saints Cosmas and Damian, patron of physicians.
These two twin brothers were physicians, born in Arabia and known for their great faith and healing. They never accepted payment for their services and instead healed because it was their gift and skill and a desire to live a life of charity. This mindset and behavior, even way back then, wouldn’t go unnoticed and they came to the attention of Diocletian. They were martryed under his persecutions of Christians. They had a holy mother who taught them their Christian faith and set them on their paths. Here is another place to read about them as well.
And so, these two twins are great patrons for physicians (and pharmacists), an example of living a life in the pursuit of caritas and comfort of others. Our Coffeedoc counts them as his patrons, and rightly so. They have been faithful intercessors and so today, we celebrate their saintly example to us all.
Saints Cosmas and Damian, pray for us!>
St. Therese is a favorite saint around here. She has been an intercessor for us over the years and she is a faithful pray-er if asked for her help. She is known as being a patron saint of missions, among other things. However, she never went on a mission, though she deeply desired to.
St. Therese is known as “the Little Flower.” She died young, of TB (a grizzly painful death), and she led a humble hidden life. Her sisters in the convent didn’t think so much of her, but she had a burning simple faith; a pure love for Christ in a childlike simple uncomplicated manner. Her writings reveal such truths that she is considered one of the few Doctors of the Church. And while her writings, her autobiography, was written during that Victorian era when the writing was florid and frankly, difficult for modern eyes and sensibilities to digest (ok, me), it has profound deep truths in it. The biographies of her are better (see Gaucher), IMHO.
I love this saint. I love her because she was simple, because people totally underestimated her, and because she really strived to lead a more faithful life even though it was a struggle. I love her because she is honest in her writings both about the depth of her love but also for the challenges of her struggles in being charitable and kind sometimes.
I love her because her story comforts me in my measly efforts and tells me we don’t have to all be amazing heroic saints here, but if we love, truly and simply and keep trying, that counts for everything. I need that.
“For me, prayer is an aspiration of the heart, it is a simple glance directed to Heaven, it is a cry of gratitude and love in the midst of trial as well as joy. Finally, it is something great and supernatural, which expands my soul and unites me to Jesus.”
I am going to start this novena tonight. I have prayed other novenas to her over the years and, as with all novenas, the prayer itself transforms. The remembering to pray and intention itself helps transform our hearts and souls, as of course do the prayers. I need that. This novena will be for this next adoption we are in. For a small miracle with CIS to amend our approval swiftly, and thus get our paperwork there so this girl can come home. She too, is little and hidden, like St. Therese. So I think St. Therese, who was a young girl, little, overlooked, but with a huge heart for reaching out to the world….just might intercede and pray for this other little one, half a world away.
St. Therese of Lisieux, pray for us!>
This is a painting Coffeedoc brought back from Haiti. It is a favorite of ours and the photo doesn’t do it justice. But it brings up stuff we’ve been talking alot about lately.
What do you do about the hard stuff? The big stuff? How do you reconcile the whole concept of suffering? How do you endure it and not succumb to it, meaninglessly? How do you not just wither into it and wallow in your pity party (ok, me)? How do you factor it into a life: suffering, joy and all the in-between?
We have had a year of the highest highs and lowest lows: bringing home new child, our toddler, from Ethiopia and losing a beloved Grandma, Coffeedoc’s mom. And all around us too, we find friends and family in different variants of hard and happy….just like the rest of the world. And I think it’s human nature to want to make sense of it all, as best we can.
And we talk around and around this. And pray through it, for it, about it…..it seems that there is not that much we can figure out except this: Suffering comes in many forms and it’s hard. It hurts! It can be pervasive or precise, overwhelming or simply pointedly excruciating. Joy too, comes in many forms, also broad or the perfect pinpoint moment.
But they are connected.
They are utterly connected.
This I know. This we are taught in our faith. It is scriptural.
I forget it, just about every darn day. When I am fearful, I am forgetting. When I am controlling and trying to shape every thing that happens, push, pull, heave, ho, I am forgetting. I tend to want to jump over, and protect my loved ones, from any bit of suffering (unless it’s the dishes…). The idea of their suffering is ever much more awful to me than my own, of course.
And that path, it is all about the fear.
And when I talk about suffering, I am almost always, really, talking about fear. I know, you’re thinking I’ve already hit on this, a few posts back already! I know. Bear with me. Because, I am a slow learner and I learn and process by talking and typing. So here we are. Again.
We are taught, and I need to be reminded, again and again and again, that even through suffering, we are transformed, and with that, we are brought into joy. In fact, I can point to some of the greatest suffering we have experienced, personally and as a family, and I can say, that is where we grew into ourselves, our joy. We are taught that our sufferings, especially when we are trying, giving and pouring ourselves out for something beyond us – stretching, that we will be returned good. Shaken, tamped down and overflowing good abundance. But first we have to walk through the fire of a given or accepted suffering. And, well, that is hard. Often “hard” doesn’t even begin to describe what it is.
But in faith, I know, that it is all for a greater good. For MY good, even if it is good for anything beyond me as well. But it is so easy for the fear to stymie that. To stop the whole process or accepted effort in it’s tracks. So, I need to be reminded. Again and again and again.
It’s about the JOY, stupid. That’s for me.
That’s where it is. That’s what I forget. That’s what I need to remember to tell folks, to tell myself, to tattoo on my forehead so I won’t forget.
Heb.12:1… let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us,[2] looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God.>
Titulus of the Holy Cross, And another smacking good homily by Father G. I’d say its yet another brick, but its more apropos to say its a beam. Of the Cross. Whacked up side my head.
Because you can’t talk of the Cross, much less of the Divine Contradiction of the Cross, without talking about suffering. And Godzdogz covers this feast day so well. Much more thoroughly and better than I ever could, so go there and read about it! (Because, as usual, this bit is all about me, and us and our doofy little lives and crosses; my stream of consciousness. )
And once again, my life runs smack into the homily. Or the homily runs smack into me. Because carrying the cross can mean even the little ones, right in your face (literally sometimes, like the toddler on my lap with the runny nose…excuse me while I take a “life break/cross lift” and medicate three kiddos for allergies/cold). Jen, at Et Tu, Jen, writes beautifully about this concept. Her blog is always worth a read!
Carrying the Cross, and the exaltation of it, can sometimes mean the dramatic suffering that is the unspeakable, hard, once in a lifetime (hopefully) event. It can also be the constant setting aside of self, and responding to the tasks – even the dreary mundane tasks – set before you. Again, go to Jen for another on this, worth the read. Here is where we find the best examples: the Mother Teresa, 
the St. Teresa of Avila,
the St. Francis de Sales.
For me, it’s this that is so difficult. It’s so easy to write it and read it and say, yeah, that’s right! Embrace the Cross, big or small. Carry the little ones you see, every day. You can do it!
But to live it, to actually oh, get up from the computer when I want to blog stalk or type or answer email and go get the milk, answer the question, swap the laundry…its very difficult. To set aside my moody self, especially on a foul mood sort of day (today?) and respond with kindness and patience (again, not one of MY virtues)…well that is a challenge. That is a dying to self that is asked for again and again. Lift that cross, die to me. For a control freak, a proud one, it’s very tough to put ME aside, my wants and ways.
So today was a good brick, erm beam, I mean, Homily for me to hear. I have had a migraine for two days, finally it is fading, almost gone. The kids are starting to get a cold, I see a few snuffly noses starting. And we have been wrestling with some of the more big dramatic sort of choices and bandaging the bumps from the falling bricks.
I guess I needed one more. Today.
But it’s alright. I have my hard hat on. I think I might keep it on my head as a permanent fixture: maybe slap a sticker on it to make it cuter. I’d rather have the bricks clonking onto my head than the perfect coif anyhow.
I’m gonna need it, because as Fr. G pointed out, embracing the Cross is also, all too often, a stepping out into the unknown. A willingness to step out in blind faith, a willingness to keep lifting, even if you drop that Cross. Yikes. But it’s true, we don’t get to pick or design our Crosses (and that just freaks out gals like me) and we often look at things others are going through, their Crosses and think, or say, “Oh man, I could NEVER do that!” Happily, we don’t have to. Our Cross, our sufferings that transform us, are designed perfectly for our own shoulders. Its just so easy to forget that we have such Designer togs to don.
Happily we have feast days, where we get to be reminded of all this. Usually, for me, JUST in the nick o’ time! Today, as it usually goes, it just confirms where we are at now and the effort, the conscious nervous, concerted effort, of opening our arms wide to embrace the cross. Little or big. We want to try. How can we not? So, on this feast day: watch out for falling bricks and beams!
Crossbeam of the Good Thief’s cross, >
“The Annunciation” by Henry Tanner 1898 >
painting by Deacon Bernard DeschlerO God of love, compassion, and healing,
look on us, people of many different faiths
and traditions,
who gather today at this site,
the scene of incredible violence and pain.
We ask you in your goodness
to give eternal light and peace
to all who died here—
the heroic first-responders:
our fire fighters, police officers,
emergency service workers, and
Port Authority personnel,
along with all the innocent men and women
who were victims of this tragedy
simply because their work or service
brought them here on September 11, 2001.We ask you, in your compassion
to bring healing to those
who, because of their presence here that day,
suffer from injuries and illness.
Heal, too, the pain of still-grieving families
and all who lost loved ones in this tragedy.
Give them strength to continue their lives
with courage and hope.We are mindful as well
of those who suffered death, injury, and loss
on the same day at the Pentagon and in
Shanksville, Pennsylvania.
Our hearts are one with theirs
as our prayer embraces their pain and suffering.God of peace, bring your peace to our violent world:
peace in the hearts of all men and women
and peace among the nations of the earth.
Turn to your way of love
those whose hearts and minds
are consumed with hatred.
God of understanding,
overwhelmed by the magnitude of this tragedy,
we seek your light and guidance
as we confront such terrible events.
Grant that those whose lives were spared
may live so that the lives lost here
may not have been lost in vain.
Comfort and console us,
strengthen us in hope,
and give us the wisdom and courage
to work tirelessly for a world
where true peace and love reign
among nations and in the hearts of all.
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It’s the feast of the Nativity of Mary! Happy Birthday Mary!
Today is the day we celebrate and remember the nativity of our Blessed Mother, Mary. The birth of the Theotokos, Mother of God. I know some have questions or issues with this whole concept…but I am all about loving our Blessed Mother, and all about celebrating birthdays, so I can run with it! Go to the ever interesting Anchoress for a good read on this feast and why it’s so good to ponder….also here for a quick bit on it as well.
I am so grateful for her and for her birthday that we will celebrate with flowers for her and maybe even a yummy dessert….Because living the liturgical year is fun and cool and gives much needed texture, rhythm, and depth to the warp and woof of our lives.
And here is a lovely prayer for the day: shamelessly nabbed from Deacon’s Bench, but from the Liturgy of the Hours:
— the Liturgy of the Hours
Lastly, dear sweet holy Father Luckas promised to offer Mass today, on this feast, for a special intention for us. And for that, and for the intercessory prayers, I am so humbly and deeply grateful. And just in case you want to know HOW much that Mass offering is worth to us, this treasure of a book explains it well. 
So, this is a bit rambly…but well, think of your Mother today…your Blessed Mother and maybe say a prayer of thanksgiving for her. Because like all of us moms, she loves us even when we don’t love her nearly well enough back….
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Just what this mom needs during a Sunday funk: a nudge, or maybe a soft slap in the face reminder. From the excellent Deacon’s Bench. Another excellent homily for today. Here’s a bit:
The AP reported the story of a little baby named Solomon, an Ethiopian child who was left by his mother at an orphanage there when he was just one year old. The only things his mother left with him were a crucifix and a picture of Jesus. It was, in effect, a death sentence. Because little Solomon had HIV. He was one of about 14-thousand Ethiopian babies born with the virus every year. The health care system has to struggle to care for these infants, with limited resources.
But during a visit to Ethiopia, a Wyoming mother named Erin Henderson saw Solomon, and fell in love. She decided to adopt him on the spot. Officials told her they weren’t sure he’d even live through the weekend. But he did. And Erin Henderson brought him home to Wyoming.And, one more snip, because this part is from one of my very favorite saints: Blessed Mother Teresa of Calcutta:
This past Friday was the feast day of that nun, Blessed Mother Teresa. When people would show up at her convent in India, wanting to volunteer, she would tell them instead, “Find your own Calcutta.” The fact is: Calcutta is here. It is Forest Hills. It is Long Island. It is in an air-conditioned office with a cubicle. Calcutta may even be found in your own living room. It is anyplace people are in need, desperate for encouragement, or comfort, or hope.But it’s not the sort of love that belongs just to saints. It belongs to all of us, if we choose it.
Go, read, it’s Sunday, just perfect for the day.
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Monstrance courtesy of NYU.eduEvery Friday morning, I have an appointment that is sacred.
By which I mean, I keep it at all costs, schedule around it and don’t miss it unless I have a darn good reason.
By which I mean, somebody is sick, I am sick, or my husband or babysitter can’t be here, or an appointment is SO important that I will miss my standing one, just this once.
By which I mean, if I don’t go my day, my week, gets out of whack a bit and I have to fight myself not to sulk just a touch.
Sacred, by which I mean: it is Sacred time. Holy. Of God, not men.
Every Friday morning, I have a standing slot of adoration.
This is one of those Catholic things. One of those that I used to think was a little bit nuts maybe…
Ok, for some I guess, but I was sure I would never manage it because I was way too busy and really, who can just sit for an hour? Really?
But about, oh six or seven years ago, I agreed to give it a try. One of our local parishes was starting up Perpetual Adoration and needed people to be able to sign up for an hour. A serious commitment, you had to be there if it was your hour.
No, “Oh gee, I forgot.”
No, “You know, I’m just not feeling it today.”
It was a commitment, to Christ himself. Talk about pressure! But I signed up. Coffeedoc and I each took an hour, separate days. You have an adoration partner who also mans your slot, it’s so important to have someone there.
Adoration is based on the Catholic belief of Christ’s real presence in the Eucharist, and the line “can you not stay with me for one hour?” So we do. We go and sit in front of the Blessed Sacrament, Christ himself, exposed in a monstrance, on top of the tabernacle. We pray. We read sometimes, spiritual reading, lectio divina. Sometimes we just sit. We look at Christ and He looks back at us. We keep Him company.
It made me so nervous to start this. I worried about being able to slow down and SIT down for an hour without getting all fidgety and twitchy….worried about being able to slow down the little gerbil mill of my mind and just BE there, quietly and mindfully and prayerfully. Such pressure!
What I found however, was that it is one of the best hours of my week. It is certainly one of the quietest, but it is also one where I can simply be. It is a phenomenal comfort, it is like drinking cold clear water. It is sacred.
When I used to bring Little Man with me – back when he was just Little Babe….it brought home to me a deeper parallel. Little Man/Babe would lie in my arms, and just gaze at me (he was only 3 or 4 months old), and I would gaze back at him.
And that was when I got it.
I didn’t have to come up with the profound words or prayers. I didn’t have to formulate the right way to get my ideas across. I only had to be there, and gaze at God himself. Just look at Him. And He would look back at me.
And that was not only enough, it was everything.
So, today, I had another appointment that was so pressing, so important, that I had to get a sub for adoration (thanks Jeanmarie). And I have been mildly out of sorts all day, partly due to that, as usual.
By which I mean, I was in a mild funk, until I realized something this afternoon. (Remember, I am a slow learner.) As I watched Sbird and little Gabe, just happily and calmly, peacefully, sit together in the big old faded chair in our sunroom….I realized, that I really hadn’t missed adoration at all.
I just had to open my eyes to see it; slow down my gerbil mill mind, stop my endless shark cruise through the house, and gaze on the very presence of God. Not quite the same as in the adoration chapel. But, still. He was right in my sunroom, His love and presence squooshed together grinning at each other in a big old faded chintz chair.
So I sat down, and spent an hour or more, just being there, with them all.
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Freed French-Colombian hostage I have been following this story over the past few months, and it’s riveting. This is a wonderful, happy ending. It makes me smile, when she talks of hugging the Pope and protocol…somehow, I don’t think he minded. I think I would end up doing the same thing, I do it every time with our dear Bishop. Lastly, the Pope points out that her prayer was the right kind, the kind it’s so easy to forget:
Just a nice read to start to the day. Again, at Deacon’s Bench, go read.
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Image courtesy of Augnet.org
It’s the feast of Saint Augustine!
Here’s the deal with Augustine. He is recognized by so many, not only Catholics, as an intellectual giant. He was brilliant. But the thing about Augustine that is so appealing I think, at least to me, is that he lived a real honest to goodness human life that so many of us can relate to. I mean, he was a total hedonist for a good while, he led a live that was centered in well, him, and what was fun and felt good if you didn’t like it (mom) then, that was too bad but oh well. He thought fairly well of himself, knew he was smart and thus knew better than his old mom and those stodgy fogies.
He was, well, us, me.
Only, finally, realizing the emptiness of such a life, did he bitterly cry out from the depths of his soul to God . And of course God responded. He was just waiting on him.
As St. Augustine said, “Late have I loved thee.” Ah, that’s it. That’s me. Again and again.
And the rest, is, well, history. And we are so lucky, no, not lucky, so graced to have this intelligence and tempered faith be turned in eternal service to the Church. We are all so fortunate to have his writings and prayers to learn from and soak into our hearts and souls.
This is St. Monica, and today is her feast day!
She is most well known as mother to St. Augustine, one of the doctors of the church.
And she is a patron of all mothers, everywhere, as well as to wives – for good reason. Read more about her here.
As a mom, who is impatient and worries about her kids, at times losing sleep over them and the whole process of raising them….it helps me to remember her and her steadfast course on behalf of her husband and children, Augustine in particular. Monica was from North Africa, a tribal African woman, married to a Roman soldier. She was married to a difficult man, a nonchristian (who only tolerated her faith) and she prayed for him without ceasing. He experienced a deathbed conversion, surely due to her faithful prayers.
Her eldest boy, Augustine, was a wild and wayward kid. The kind of young man that makes mothers lose sleep and fret and fume. He left home, he was a wild party-er. Disregarding his mother’s typical advice, he met a girl (ok, many, he was quite the man about town), lived with her, got her pregant, fell in with a psuedo religious cult, an intellectual snob…all the top of the charts mom stressers. And so she prayed for her son, got tough on him when she had to, didn’t just let him drop out of her life even when he wished for her to….and she never quit on him. She was faithful. It was not fun or rewarding. She just did it with the grace of hope and faith.
And he ended up not only coming back to a good life, but converting to the church and eventually becoming a Doctor of the Church (meaning one of the few people who’s writings are recognized as foundational teachings – a big wig). So, wayward young man makes good, through no small faithful effort of his mom. Hence she is also the patron saint of patience!
In a way, I suppose in modern times she would be considered a helicopter parent, huh? However, then again, not. She was a mom, and she loved her husband even though he was hard to live with and her son despite his poor choices and she believed in them and her faith enough to persevere in prayer. And that, for me, is a role model – one of the best.
Because, really that is what we do, what we are called to do, what we get tired of doing, but what the whole mom gig is all about. So, she is a saint for moms, everywhere, and for me in particular. So, happy feast day!
St. Monica. Painting by John Nava.St. Monica, pray for us!
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Mary’s house in Ephesus, where she is believed to have lived out her days.
I know, another uber Catholic post and event. Still, fascinating and cool for us and if you want to know more, go read here. I love this one!
This is one of those Marian Catholic things that makes some folks a bit nuts. But really, it all makes sense. It is traced back to the apostles themselves:
“The Assumption completes God’s work in her since it was not fitting that the flesh that had given life to God himself should ever undergo corruption. The Assumption is God’s crowning of His work as Mary ends her earthly life and enters eternity. The feast turns our eyes in that direction, where we will follow when our earthly life is over.” From Catholic Culture.org
When I think of and meditate on this mystery, this feast, I always can’t help but think of Mary and her close relationship to her Son. A love from two pure souls, not smudged up by selfish hurts or striving, pure true love.
And, because it’s always about me, I think of me and my son(s). I am about to, again, take my eldest up to school, to move him back out of the house. And I am already starting to leak tears here and there. And it will make me cry when we have to begin our drive home again, without him. I will try not to bend over in pain and sob (not in front of him on campus, ok?). But I will grieve him going. I will be happy for him to be there, but it makes me cry to let him go.
And then, I remember, when he comes back on break or I go to visit him, the electric JOY that makes the world light up and a grin break across my face and dance to my feet. And that, that feeling, that reunion is what I think about, finally, every time, on this day.
Because no matter how old the mom is or how old the son…..that feeling surely cannot change, it hasn’t yet.
The sheer undiluted JOY that must be had at THIS reunion – when Mary is lifted to heaven, after being physically separated for so long from her only dearest Son, and His for her. Think of that glee, those grins…I don’t imagine a static statue of elegant repose and small appropriate smile on their faces. I hear and see whoops of laughter and hugs and glee and tears and grins and kisses. The best reunion of all. Glorious.
painting by Botticini>
Meet Edith Stein,She’s one of my heroes. She is an amazing woman. It’s her feast day today. Go read about her here.
She was born and raised Jewish and German, after she went to university she became an athiest. She was an amazing intellectual and scholar studying philosophy and the then current academic vogue of phenomenology. However, after reading another one of my favorites, and one of my patron saints, St. Teresa of Avila, she recognized Truth. And she converted to the Catholic church. That was a huge thing to do, in wartime Germany for a Jewish raised athiest scholar…to convert to Catholicism. Also not so popular at the time. Her mother sat shiva for her. Not only did she convert, she became a Carmelite nun, first in Cologne (where my guys, husband and big boys were able to visit her convent, so cool!) eventually ending up in Holland. However, even that wasn’t far enough from the Third Reich and eventually she was taken from her convent and transported to Auschwitz, where she died, a martyr for her faith, in the gas chambers for being both a Jew and a Catholic, a double whammy for the Nazi’s.
She’s a hero though, she spent her life searching for Truth, no matter if it was popular or vogue or presented challenges or changes. In a way it was her intellectual craving to search for Truth no matter where it took her, but of course, it was also Grace calling her to Himself.
Anyhow, I think she is a modern example of courage and strength, and of course she appeals to that part of me that connects with my Jewish grandmother and my old academic self. But mostly, she is just another strong, courageous woman for me to look to, as an example of one who stood for Truth, regardless of whether it was popular or easy. I need that example, maybe especially today. 
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Read on if you dare. It’s long, you know that by now.
It’s been 40 years since the publication of “Humanae Vitae“, “Human Life.” That’s the encyclical, the letter from Pope Paul VI on the dignity of human life; the letter that started a cultural firestorm due to it’s stance on contraception. Talk about an unpopular topic and stance – one of the biggies (not the only one, but one of them). This post is not a big gloss on this encyclical, for that go to Darwin Catholic and/or The Deacon’s Bench for a good run down on it. This is about how it impacted me.
St. Peter’s Square, where the action is.Now, this letter was huge – the ramifications huge. Basically it said that ALL human life is precious and that the act of creating life is God’s alone and the means to that action is also God’s alone – not ours to blockade or strip through scientific/medical intervention. I know, I can hear you all squalling, it’s my body, my life, my/our decision, who is some old Pope to tell us what to do? I get it. I was there. For years, and years, and years. I TOTALLY get it. I felt the same way, exactly.
Then I came back to the Church, which begged the question, what do I do about this? I was so happy to find and deepen my faith again, it was so good. But. How was I supposed to reconcile my natural individualism and STRONG independent streak, a modern educated woman…with this teaching that felt intrusive and old fashioned, almost medieval, at the very least simply outdated and really, behind the curve?
Many modern catholics just kind of flick it off their radar or decide to disagree. But you know, I finally came to the difficult realization that just ignoring Catholic teaching if it wasn’t to my immediate agreement was kind of hypocritical. It was an authority issue for sure. No surprise there. But what did I do with this? Fish or cut bait, if you will. Was I gonna live a true Catholic life or muddle along, kind of …not? So, I had to come to terms with this.
Buddybug, that first baby boy.I already had three kids, for pete’s sake. I was full up, right? I mean, busy! Heck, three kids meant I was already an over-acheiver by the current cultural norms on the kid front, right? And the third, well she had colic and was a drama queen! My husband was a doc who had to work insane hours, gone so much, we were still in deep debt from all that med school. We were supposed to be good stewards of our life, funds, plan. C’mon anyone would have been justified to continue to use the pill. By anyone’s standards I could check “done that” on my life list and move on (well, almost anyone’s). More, I had cysts, the pill was supposed to help. See, medical necessity! Hmmmm.
I prayed about it, irritated that I was being nudged along this path, totally resistant. I prayed some more, I consulted with our priest, who I loved and respected (and is now our Bishop). He is a tactful man, utterly kind. But he discussed things clearly as well, with all kindness. He gently pointed out that some things are a grave medical need. And some things are control issues. And trust issues.
Booboo, the largest baby, second boy.Oh.
Well, dang.
You know, I have found that God can be a terrible nag.
Bananas: first daughter, baby number three.And this pegged it. Bishop (Fr. C) was right. Dang. This was a trust issue. This was a control issue and authority issue which brings it back to a trust issue.
Because I didn’t.
Didn’t trust.
Not really.
I could make the big pitch for it, say the words, follow the prayers. But my heart was really stony on this one, because you know, I was a control freak. I didn’t trust God to be in charge of my family, not really. I was in charge of my family. I knew how many kids I/we could handle. I knew where my breaking point was.
Now the question became what did I do with that? How do I learn to trust more? Remember, I was/am stubborn and a slow learner, slow to change.
So I prayed. Or tried to. Prayed for grace to give up on this, this grip of fear. Because a lack of trust is really, well, fear. It is. For me, at least. It is the fear of not being in control.
I was afraid of having more kids and not being able to handle it on so many levels. My last pregnancy was high risk (due to my huge second baby boy 9lbs 9oz) and they warned me of rupture and the grave dangers of having more kids. More worry.
Just as I was needing to let go, I found myself running across more reading (I am a reader) on the depth of God’s love for us; on His desire for our perfect good. I read and it finally soaked in that God doesn’t want anything for us that will break us, but instead what He sends us, even when it’s scary and nerve-wracking or very hard, is for our greater good and our truest happiness.
Like a Father.
Oh.
Doh.
Like I do for my kids when I say no to that next piece of cake that will make them sick and give them carrots (ok bad analogy, but you get the idea), when I teach them something hard that they are then grateful {eventually} to know. Oh.
Now I had to decide if I really believed that God knew best? Did I know more than God Himself? (did I hang the stars…?) Ok, no.
SBird, fourth baby home, tiniest.So, I stepped onto a pitch-black stepping stone, one step forward in faith, and agreed to accept the teaching of Humanae Vitae. No, I didn’t have to sign anything, but I gave over. Inside. God could be in control of our family. Of me.
Really.
Oh, man it was kind of nervous making.
But then, kind of liberating.
And, with it, came (as drippy as it sounds) a lifting….I was happier. Somehow, that diving in deeper, the acceptance of this teaching helped bring me closer. And that brought a deeper joy. Go figure.
The Divine Miss MAnd no I did not have any more biological children. I was/am open to it. My cysts went away, totally. But I was happier. Our marriage, surprisingly to me, moved into a better place. And, yes, you know the next thing.
God started nudging us to have more children. Another way: adoption. And, as we had decided to accept any children God brought to us, we talked and wondered and prayed and then, kind of nervously, stepped forward. But that story is one for other posts. You know how it ends up though…..
Little Man, third boy, happy boy!Oh how beautiful is the lesson of Humanae Vitae, Human Life.
Is it easy to have seven kids? Not always, no. It can be crazed and has taken me places I never dreamt, not all of them easy.
Is it easy to trust and let go, still? No.
However, it is glorious. It is beautiful.
Our seventh, Gabriel Tariku, a gift from Ethiopia.>
AnnunciationI’ve been thinking about this icon today. For one thing it has the Archangel Gabriel in it, one of my favorites and the namesake of our dear boy. He is the messenger. God’s messenger. And in this icon he brings tidings of the greatest joy. A son. The Son. And Mary learns she will be a mom. And she says, “Fiat.” “Yes, I will.” And the heavens rejoice.
And today Gladney families got news of the iceberg breaking up and movement to come. And maybe even some families experienced tidings of great joy. And the moms will say, “yes, I will.”
I know for me, just knowing about the beginning, the not so distant anymore, coming of good tindings brought me great joy today for all of these families, waiting and waiting. And I think of the rejoicing to come. And the message sent: God is faithful. He sends his son, and a mom will say yes. And there, in that message, is typified the joy, real joy. A living breathing icon in our homes, a window into heaven played out by our own selves.
How cool is that? I love icons.
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Crazy!
No, not our Divine Miss M, she’s just goofing around!
But “they’re crazy” “what? oh they’ve lost their minds”….this is the sort of comment we run up against, in various forms, all too often.
And this past week, with the whooping announcement of our new baby boy, waiting for us in Ethiopia, we had a little swell of this sort of phrase swept our way…usually blurted out before the person caught themselves and offered some form of tepid congratulations.
I’ll admit, another child for us is a surprise to many. Especially to those not as close to us and considering our already full house and ok, our not quite as young as we used to ages (40’s….but hey, that’s the new 30’s right????). Some people are tactful, some are truly thrilled for us, some are politely neutral, and some, a few, are downright disdainful.
You know, I touched on this a tiny bit a few posts ago, in “Why adopt…Again.” But after this past week, I think it is not just an adoption thing. This sort of reaction of disdain, scoffing, or just dismay and dismissing me or us as “a little nuts” goes deeper. Even folks who are completely supportive of adoption tend to often have the reaction that perhaps we are taking this too far.
But what? Taking WHAT too far, exactly? Adopting again? No, I don’t the objection is to adopting or even adopting again. I think it is a number game. A sheer number bias. And that shocked resistance to more, to the larger numbers, to MORE kids is pervasive. How many of you have had people say “oh boy, you’ve got YOUR hands full!” And, “wow, I have two kids and that’s PLENTY for me.” Or, “well, don’t you think you might be taking away from your other kids? You have to think about them too.” Hmmmm. Or there is the cliche, “you know, I knew this person and they just adopted a baby and bam, then they got pregnant!” This is always related as a horror story. Like they somehow blew it in their planning and somehow it’s a bad mistake and maybe even a twinge of rating of the kids. Oh….this makes me nuts. There is an bit of an insidious undertone in these last two.
You know, I am the first to say that “yup, two kids (or one, or three, or whatever number) CAN be a handful and boy golly, that can be plenty” from a “whew, this is a lot of work” standpoint. All kids and all families are different. There is no perfect family or perfect number. NO FAMILY SIZE IS AUTOMATICALLY BETTER THAN ANOTHER (so please don’t send me nasty messages about how I am being rude or self righteous, I am SO not meaning anything like that). However, what I object to is the idea that smaller is more sensible or easier or somehow more “right.” Smaller is fine. But why is it crazy or too much to have more? It’s not. It’s this bizarre culture we’ve evolved into that has woven that message into our cultural psyche. And I, we, reject it.
Instead I know, we live, the fact that for us, larger is better. It is awesome. It IS a lot of work. My hands ARE full. But in the best way, in the way I was made for. The very best gift anyone can be given is a child. Period. Not a Ferrari, not a mansion, not an island in the sun (don’t get me wrong, that last one especially has a strong appeal…ahhh). It is a child. Nothing else brings that deep, core tingling, whooping joy. And for those who say “what about the other kids?” Well, the very very best gift they can be given, is a sibling. Period. One of our children has some issues that are a bit more high maintenance. And even with that, the time they take, the difficulties in interactions even with their sibs…..even so, the best gift any of them has is each other. Period.
As a Catholic (you knew I had to bring it in), this is part and parcel of it for me. It is being open to life. It is the Catholic stance (and of course so many other’s) that ALL life is precious and has value, inherent distinct value. All life. The ones that God might send me through my own body and gene pool and any others that he brings to us, whether they are here or half a world away. Teeny babies or older. Babies and kids who are perfectly healthy and made like that old “Ozzie and Harriet 50’s” stereotypical family framework, and babies who might have different needs or who are abandoned or who are from a different part of the world. It is a conscious letting go of the “we determine” our family, and instead letting God determine it. Which, in a weird way, is radical.
It is a tough concept for a control freak like me to get used to; and in fact took me YEARS to be willing to do it. And then, I finally did, and by that time, we were looking at adopting. Maybe that was part of it, because if you think you are in control of everything; of your body and deciding when to get pregnant and how it will work out best and feeling in charge of the whole deal…well, try stepping on to the adoption road and watch that sense of control be ripped out of your hands and placed in someone else’s….meaning oh, the social workers, the caseworkers, the doctors, the FBI, the taxman, you name it…they all have input. Yikes! But the funny thing is, it was never REALLY in our hands in the first place. I think, for me, it took starting the adoption process to figure that out. And then the beauty of that stance got it’s chance to unfold. And here we are, about to bring home number seven. And we are once again, still, whooping with joy.
So, I guess this is a whole long venting built up after a few days of high emotions and joy at our news. And a response to that whole “you’re crazy, when ya gonna quit?” kind of response. Frankly, I think THAT knee jerk reaction is a bit crazy. Nice people say this to me. But really, the ingrained, learned perspective today, is that we are all in control of everything: our bodies, our destiny, our choices, our kids, how our families will be formed and our lives lived out. And really, this is a ruse. We don’t have nearly as much control as we think, we have choice. Which is so much better, really. So, we choose being open to life, which often results in a big old family, and that’s seems a bit crazy.
It’s nut’s, right? Yup. We are crazy, in the best way. And, well, a big mixed up family is a whole LOTTA life, every day!!! And we love it and if that’s crazy, then I guess my new answer to “are you nuts?” will just have to be “you betcha!”
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Well, you know what I love? That there is always a connection. I have found an article that will bring a smile to my kids, especially my Booboo. It’s one of those quirky asides from this serious Papal visit. That’s Little Man on the skateboard over there. Booboo’s skateboard days are on hold for a few months, ahem….crutches. But this is fun and kind of cool…if you like art or skateboards.
It’s a Papal Skateboard Contest! No, no, not for the Pope to be skating the ramps himself (although there’s an image!), but for the skateboard design/art to include his coat of arms and the theme “Christ our Hope.”
Now, I think this is cool. Many, if not most, skateboard artwork leans very far into that whole kind of goth death destruction too cool to care in your face kind of artwork. This is a welcome change. Fun. Go see!
Image above courtesy of Knights of Columbus.
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The ever fun to read and insightful Danielle Bean has a good article today here.
With the dovetailing of this week’s events: Pope Benedict’s visit to the U.S. and in our family microcosm of the world, our joyful news of passing court and the official additon of a new child, our household and my scattered brain has been, well, more scattered than usual! So much to pay attention to, new exciting things.
So many thoughts have been rumbling through my mind from the mundane to the ones with a wider scope. My attention has been focused mainly on the awesome ecstatic news of our new baby, but it has also been caught again and again by our Pope, glimpses on the news and web, flashes of those wonderful red shoes, following the trail of his historic visit here.
My kids ask why it’s important that he’s here. And I say “because we are Catholic. That’s our Pope.” But that means so much. It is so far reaching. “Catholic” itself, the word, means universal….far reaching indeed. And somehow, for me, this week, that jives as I reach my heart to Ethiopia, half a world away, to my little boy, waiting for me, for his new dad, for his family, in a blue crib. And somehow, that connection, that reaching seems so much more.
As I have little to no skill in distilling my rambling racing thoughts, it gives me great pleasure to find someone who does and who has put into words some of the ideas that are important, to our family, to me as a mom, and as a Catholic. I love this about blogs, the great writers are out there and think more clearly, have better ideas and then say them better than you…but you can still find that ‘ping’ of recognition where you connect and think “yeah! she’s right, he’s good!”
Here is a snip of what I mean, by Danielle Bean and her most recent article:
“Each time, I am struck by the cultural significance of what it means to my kids to be raised a Catholic today. Because we are Catholic, we are interested in goings-on hundreds or even thousands of miles away. Because we are Catholic, our mother turns on the television in the middle of the day and wipes at her eyes when a white-cloaked, red-shoed man emerges from an airplane and sets foot on American soil.”
snip:
“Benedict first endeared himself to me three years ago when he admitted that he prayed not to be elected pope.
“At a certain point, I prayed to God, ‘Please don’t do this to me,'” he said. “Evidently, this time he didn’t listen.
Benedict’s vulnerable admission of reluctance to take on responsibility made him seem delightfully more human to me. I may not be charged with shepherding the entire Catholic Church into the next generation, but I do understand fearsome responsibility: My husband and I are charged with the shepherding of eight small
souls into the Church.
Following the pope’s lead, Catholic parents can accept awesome responsibility with confidence. We can do our best to teach, to love, to pray, and to be open to God’s work in our families. We can let go of the ulcer-inducing consciousness of our own deficiencies.”
So. Even the Pope had or has doubts. Maybe he didn’t feel up to the job, or doesn’t all the time. And yet, just by serving, as best he can, God surely does work through his deficiencies. He represents and serves the Church. This brings me comfort. God surely then, will work through my own deficiencies, “ulcer-inducing” and shocking in their abundance.
This is the mystery of the how or why it works. And yet it does. And it is a “fearsome responsibility” to presume to call myself Mom, and us family, for a sweet baby boy, sitting in a blue crib, across the world.
And I think it’s the trying. The stepping forward in faith, even if you can’t see the path or even the next steps ahead, it’s the taking of that next step. It can be scary. Daunting. Ulcer-inducing. But as our Pope shows us, as he physically travels far, across the world despite his 81 years, it’s the physical doing and acting out of our faith. Then God can work through us. That’s Catholic. That’s how it works. That’s faith. That’s family.
This adoption stuff can be daunting. Far travel. Far reaching. Uncertain. Long waits. Unknowns. It stretches our everything: our intellect, patience, faith, endurance, courage, and best of all, our hearts. But first we have to take that step. Again. And again.
For us, this time, we are stepping far. To Ethiopia. Stepping, flying, to our Tariku.
Go. Read. It doesn’t take long. Danielle is great.
I might go shopping for some red shoes!
Photo courtesy of Knight of Columbus
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The Archangel Gabriel
From an icon of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church.
This is of course, in keeping with the feast of the Annunciation today, had to put this up too, since you don’t have the annunciation without the messenger!
Now I love icons, they are called, “windows into heaven.” I haven’t seen too many icons from Ethiopia (although you can find some more and read about them here), but I did run across these and I am tickled to find Ethiopian versions. It’s especially nice to find an Archangel Gabriel who is not only depicted w/ flowing blond hair… We have a particular fondness for Gabriel, the messenger, and we hope he is watching over our boy in Ethiopia even now.
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It’s Divine Mercy Sunday. The eighth day in the octave of Easter. In our measly effort to mark the day, we are going to watch the Saint Faustina movie this afternoon and maybe try to be merciful to each other, in the little things. Just maybe, be mindful of being a tad more patient and tolerant of those irritating day to day things that happen in a family. Not so easy. There’s that line in the ‘Our Father’: “forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.” Sigh. Gets me every time. Ow. Much harder than it sounds, eh? For me, at any rate. Read more about Divine Mercy Sunday here.
Another Espresso, Please 