rule 12: Be Thankful for What You Have

My two youngest, Jacinta and Charlie, made their First Confessions today.

Because of rule 12, I'm not going to dwell on the fact that all of my babies are now beyond the age of reason, which really means that none of them are babies anymore and that my arms have been empty of baby for quite a while.

Instead, I'm going to think about Charlie's amazing ten-year-old friend Jack. Yesterday, when Charlie told him that he would be making his First Confession today, Jack enthusiastically responded, "Confession is awesome!" Jack is Charlie's surrogate big brother, and Charlie looks up to him in every way. Today I will be thankful for the influential witness of Jack.

I'm going to remember the bounce in Charlie's step as he left the house this morning and the way he said, "I have been waiting for this day for soooo long." He believes with all of his heart in the merciful love of Jesus, and he was ready to meet Him and have his soul made new. Today I will be thankful for the beautiful, innocent faith of my Charlie.

I'm going to picture the serious face of my sweet Jacinta waiting in line, she who is so shy and stumbles over words so easily. A few weeks ago I couldn't imagine that she would ever feel brave or strong enough to walk into that confessional...or what she would remember to say once she was in there. We had practiced and practiced and practiced the words for months, and yet even this morning as we practiced once again, she had to be prompted to say, "Bless me, Father...." But there she was, standing in line, worried but standing nonetheless, and then walking bravely into that dark, little room behind the curtain. Today I will be thankful for the incredible courage of my Jacinta.

I'm going to laugh again at the memory of Charlie proudly telling me afterwards that "Qiu Qiu did a great job on her Act of Contrition." Our parish has the old-fashioned confessionals, where the priest sits in the middle and a penitent kneels on both sides of him. Charlie was behind Jacinta in line and therefore in the other confessional waiting for his turn when she was confessing. I gently reminded him that we are not supposed to listen to the other person's confession, and he adamantly told me that he had his fingers in his ears but he could still hear her. (And this is why we only go to confession at our parish when we think no one else will be there and we can leave one side empty. :) Today I will be thankful for the gift of laughter and the pride of a little brother.

I'm going to imagine the day, less than two months from now, when we will all walk forward to the communion rail as a family to receive our precious Lord...and no one will be left behind in the pew. It's a day that has come too soon for me but not soon enough for those two little buddies always waiting in the pew. Today I will be thankful for our unity in faith and our journey together toward Heaven.

Oh, how I loved my babies when they were still babies. Life was so simple and sweet, and I felt so much more competent and capable. I didn't want it to ever end. But today I will be thankful for what I have now, right now, and walk forward in faith, believing that we are still just beginning the journey.

A Better Plan

I had big plans for this past week, plans that involved lesson planning and schedules and book orders, plans that involved creating a beautiful, efficient road map for the coming school year.

(Yes, I know that I have never been able to create a beautiful, efficient road map...or even a hideous, cumbersome one, for that matter...but hope springs eternal in this delusional heart of mine.)

My plans for the week did not involve apple picking or roller skating or listening to a dear friend pour out her heart or emptying all of our bedrooms for the laying of hardwood floors or traveling solo to my hometown for a funeral.

His plans were better.

I try really hard to keep my eyes on my own work and not compare our way of learning to the ways of others. I know that God knew all of my limitations and weaknesses when He blessed me with my children, and He sent them anyway. It's just that my dreams are so much bigger than anything I ever accomplish.

His dreams are even bigger.

After Jim's retirement ceremony, my younger but wiser sister told him that instead of being disappointed that he hadn't achieved his plans and dreams, he should try to understand and be grateful that he was achieving God's plans and dreams, which are so much greater than his own. Tough words to swallow for one who clings to the false belief that she is the master of her destiny, rather than face continual submission and surrender to her true Master as He sends unexpected, unplanned, unwanted events into her days.

Doesn't He understand that I don't want to be a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants mom? Can't He see into my heart and know that I long for order and beauty in the form of an organized Franklin planner and a counter top with nothing piled on it? Doesn't He want me to experience the smallest bit of success in this overwhelming endeavor of educating my children?

Apparently not. Apparently He cares more about my holiness than my happiness.

I yearn for perfection in all the wrong ways. He yearns to make me perfect in Him. With each interruption, He asks, "Do you trust Me enough to let go of your plans and let me work Mine?"

And so, as I drove to Youngstown this evening for an unplanned, unexpected gift of visiting with my sweet dad and dear stepmom, I prayed as Matt sang:

I stand in awe of You
And everything You've done for me
You speak Your words into my life
And where You are is where I want to be

I stand before You, Lord
Humbled by the love You give away
A widow's mite, my will and pride
It's all I have to offer anyway

I'm holding onto Your love
I'm letting go of myself

How Do I Carry My Cross?

From In Conversation with God on Wednesday:

"Today, too, the cross can be carried in different ways. There is the cross carried furiously or sullenly, in a rage; man writhes and squirms, filled with hate, or at least, with a deep and burning resentment. It is a cross without meaning and without any explanation, useless; such a cross may even separate one from God. It is the cross of those in this world who seek comfort and material well-being, who will put up with neither suffering not setbacks, for they have no wish to understand the supernatural meaning of pain. It is a cross which does not redeem. It is the cross carried by one of the thieves.

On the road to Calvary is a second cross, carried this time with resignation, perhaps even with some dignity, with an accceptance of the situation simply because there is no alternative to it. The is the one carried by the other thief. Little by little he realizes that close by him is the sovereign figure of Christ, who will radically change the final moments of his life on earth, and for eternity; he will be the one converted into the good thief.

There is a third way of carrying the cross. Jesus embraces the saving wood and teaches us how we ought to carry our own cross: with love, co-redeeming all souls with him, making reparation at the same time for our own sins. Our Lord has conferred on human suffering a deep meaning. Being able, as he was, to redeem us in a multitude of ways, he chose to do so through suffering, for greater love has no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." (John15:16)

Lord, help me to lay down my life, that I may embrace Yours.

Put Every Day to Good Use for Eternity...and the Time to Begin That Is Now

The Catholic faith is not simply a collection of doctrines and ideas, or a body of knowledge, or even a system of beliefs, although all those things are important. At its root, Christianity is an experience: a life-changing, personal experience of the risen Jesus Christ. Everything else in the writings of St. Paul, and everything else in our life as Catholics, flows from that personal encounter with Jesus Christ. If we truly seek him, then we will always find him. But when we find him, we need to be ready for the consequences, because nothing about our lives can be the same. (emphasis mine)

Read the rest of this challenging message from Archbishop Chaput here...

Wildflowers

I chronicled the story of my motherhood in just fifteen minutes last night.

Funny. It sure seemed a whole lot longer as I was living it.

A few months ago my dear husband volunteered for us to share our story with an adoption class at a local hospital. Somehow I ended up the one standing there alone in front of thirty-some prospective parents. I hadn't prepared anything, planning instead to share from the heart. I do know the story quite well, after all. The coordinator left me a thirty minute slot, and I was worried about running over. Fifteen minutes later, I had run out. Of words. And intelligible thoughts. And unintelligible thoughts.

Well, what can I say? I'm a writer, not a talker. Obviously I should have prepared something more than to rely on my heart. Live and learn. At least, I didn't keep them sitting there forever, blabbing on and on, right? Short and sweet and to the point.

I hope I had a point.

Anyway, I know Someone had a point last night. Someone knew that the last few days would be really pretty rotten for me. Someone knew that I would need to reflect and remember and recognize my life for what it is. To witness the blessedness of it all and wonder in awe at the gorgeous tapestry He is creating, in spite of my crooked ways. Even for just fifteen minutes.

Mother's Day is a tough one for me. And not because my husband doesn't do his darnedest to make it special. He does. I'm telling you, you will never go wrong marrying a man whose language of love is service. You may feel woefully inadequate at times, but you will always be pampered. And not just on Mother's Day.

I thought about writing a post about why this day is not my favorite, and then I remembered that I wrote it last year. The feelings and struggles are still there, much the same. That little girl of mine is on a path toward healing and ever so much better than she was a year ago, thanks be to God. But Mother's Day hits her hard too. It's virtually impossible not to get mad about a day that tells you to celebrate one mother half a world away who neglected and abandoned you and another mother here who still feels foreign after almost seven years. The heartache spews out like venom. I can't say that I blame her. Not at all.

So, God gave me this tremendous, uncomfortable opportunity to stand before a room of strangers and tell them of the wonders of His love. Because He knew how much I needed to hear it. To be reminded that this is a journey, my journey, and no matter how badly I may wander and feel lost and alone, He is there, guiding me, sometimes gently by the hand, sometimes yanking my arm almost out of the socket, making sure I stay on that path, strewing wildflowers in my way and hoping I notice them before they are trampled underfoot.

May I see the beauty and smell the sweetness of those wildflowers, every single one.

Be Still, My Heart

I admit it. I am completely infatuated with Sir Piers Rudde, a noble Englishman of the thirteenth century, a virtuous knight who pledged his life and his heart to Countess Theodora of Aquino, the vivacious, unattainable sister of St Thomas Aquinas.

Interestingly, I discovered why I am so smitten as I serendipitously/providentially listened to EWTN Live this evening while I was cleaning, two things I rarely do. In describing his understanding of marital relationships, Dr. Philip Mango told Fr. Mitch that every woman longs for her husband to be a knight, to be a strong and valiant man who will protect her from all danger.

So, that explains it. But that's not what this post is about.

My daughter Elena has been begging me to read The Quiet Light: A Novel about St Thomas Aquinas by Louis de Wohl ever since she finished it last spring. It's taken me this long to acquiesce. I am so grateful that I finally did. I love this book. Not only is it the only place I could ever encounter Sir Piers (making my heart go pitty-pat), but its rich, beautiful writing weaves a moving story set in a fascinating period of Church history. St Thomas is the humble, gentle giant of a saint who emerges out of this story.

But that's not what this post is about either.

Today, I was unusually struck by a particular passage, a dialogue between Sir Piers and Mother Maria of Gethsemani, the oldest sister of St Thomas. I read it a few times over, and I thought of it later when I read this post by my dear friend, a sister pilgrim who struggles against many of the same demons I battle.

"My brother Thomas taught me to be content only with the supreme Good. With nothing less than that."

"Mother Maria," said Piers with a twinkle,"where is your humility, pray?"

"Just that is humility," said the nun simply.

He shook his head. "I don't understand."

"Think then...what does it mean to be content only with the supreme Good? In other words, to want God, God Himself, nothing less? It means that you must recognize first that you are in need, in a great and dire and terrible need of Him, so much so that nothing else matters. Then that in this need of yours you cannot help yourself at all...that you need the help of Another, of God. Then, that you have no claim on such help...none, none whatever. And worse still, that you are unworthy of that help. Domine, non sum dignus. And thus, you empty yourself until nothing is left, no desire, no wish, no hope, except for Him alone. You die to the world; there is nothing left in you but that which awaits Him; you are a vessel to be filled but with Him. Our Lord himself...as Man...emptied Himself in such a way, obedient...even He...unto death. His was the supreme humility, and Him we must imitate. But there can be no true humility unless you aspire to the supreme Good." [emphasis mine]

Later she tells Sir Piers,

"You are a most honorable man, Sir Piers, and God must love you very dearly. Most likely your life is itself the answer to your question of how a layman could follow the way I was talking about. What humility demands is the renunciation of the self and also a readiness to serve. And surely you are fulfilling both demands."

I'm not sure I can put into words exactly how this passage relates to the struggles of my friend Margaret or myself, except to say that surely we are striving to fulfill both demands. We can have the best plans and ideas in the world, and then we can beat ourselves up for not achieving them, but if they are not His plans, then what does it matter? He is present and calling us to Himself in our weakness, in our sadness, in our selfishness, and in our pain. He is holding us, molding us, shouldering us in our darkest moments. If only we could remember to turn our face to His.

To reiterate Mother Maria's words above, we must empty ourselves until nothing is left, no desire, no wish, no hope, except for Him alone. We must die to the world, until there is nothing left in us but that which awaits Him; we are vessels to be filled but with Him.

I'm praying for you.

Total Surrender

"One thing Jesus asks of me: that I lean on Him; that in Him and only in Him I put complete trust; that I surrender myself to Him unreservedly. Even when all goes wrong and I feel as if I am a ship without a compass, I must give myself completely to Him. I must not attempt to control God's action; I must not count the stages in the journey He would have me make. I must not desire a clear perception of my advance upon the road, must not know precisely where I am upon the way of holiness. I ask Him to make a saint of me, yet I must leave to Him the choice of the saintliness itself and still more the means which leads to it."

---from Total Surrender by Blessed Teresa of Calcutta

A Mother Remembers Her Journey to Russia

On Thursday, we celebrated the sixth anniversary of a very special day, the day that two little girls in Russia started calling me Mama. What an amazing journey of joy, love, and faith we've been riding ever since. I wrote this reflection a few months after that day and included it with their adoption announcements. I can't recall if I've already posted it here, but it seems right to look back now and remember....

I will always remember the moment I discovered that two daughters were waiting for me in Russia. Sitting in our kitchen with the phone to my ear, my heart pounding, I scribbled their names and birth dates on the back of an envelope. I was still mourning the loss of our referral for Saule, a precious six-year-old in Kazakhstan. Could I dare to believe that these two little girls really would become mine? Yet in my heart I had to hope, and I marveled at how beautifully God was answering our prayers--not one, but two girls, sisters who could remain together. He even chose for us girls whose names (Valentina and Anastasia) and ages (7 and 5) were a perfect match for our family. (All of my daughters’ names end in “a” and have three or more syllables, and seven- and five-year-old girls would perfectly fill the gap between our nine- and two-year olds.) That moment was filled with hope for the future our Father had designed for us.

I will always remember the moment we met our little girls for the first time. As we anxiously waited in a tiny hospital room three hours south of Moscow, I was overwhelmed with nervous anticipation of what would be. Valya bounded into the room with energy and sweetness, and Nastia wandered in after her and remained much more detached and reserved. It was awkward and strange, not being able to communicate in words and knowing we would soon be welcoming these strangers into our lives forever. After the social worker asked Valya if she would like for us to be her parents and she quietly responded “da,” she became shy and seemed fearful. At the time Nastia didn’t seem to understand what was happening. Knowing her now, I think she probably did understand but trusted Valya to take care of things, as she always had. The next day Valya ran into my arms, shouting “Mama, Mama!” and Nastia even smiled a little. Precious gifts for a new mother.

I will always remember the moment we were standing in court before the Russian judge as she read her decision allowing us to adopt our girls. Of course, I couldn’t comprehend a word she was saying, but our translator was smiling so I knew it must be good news. After the brief but joyous translation, Jim turned to me and said, “Congratulations. You are now the mother of four.” Wow. What a surreal moment. I felt an awesome sense of responsibility to have their little lives placed into my hands. I may never know why they had to spend so many years without us, but I do believe that God’s timing is perfect, that He had to prepare us for them, and that they had a purpose to fulfill in Russia. From the beginning of time, He chose these daughters for us and set forth the paths that would lead us to each other.

I will always remember the terrifying moment we were first left alone with the girls without a translator. Within five minutes, they had torn through every suitcase and turned our hotel room upside down. I cried and wondered what we had done as I faced the reality that our lives would never be the same. The first weeks at home were very difficult. There were tantrums from all sides as we grieved our losses and learned to live with one another. Looking back, I can see that it was something we had to walk through together, but at the time it felt incredibly wrong. Valya became especially fond of the first song on a children’s praise CD, and she used to play it loudly over and over and over in the girls’ bedroom. It nearly drove me crazy. Those lyrics were some of the first English words she learned (“Change my heart, O God; make it ever new; change my heart, O God; may I be like You”), and I remember thinking bitterly, “How ironic that she chose that song--I hope the words are sinking in.” Only later would I realize that the Holy Spirit was inspiring her to play that song for me, for I was the one who needed to hear that prayer.

I will always remember the moment the Lord spoke clearly to me in my heart as I knelt after receiving the Eucharist. I was hurting so deeply that I could not even utter a cry for help, and He told me that my struggle was not about the girls but about my relationship with Him. In the same words that He spoke to Peter two thousand years ago, He asked, “Diane, do you love Me?” Like Peter, I responded, “Lord, you know that I do,” and He said, “Feed My lambs.” He reminded me that these two beautiful girls kneeling next to me were His precious lambs, whom He loved with all His heart, and that He had entrusted them to my keeping. What a privilege and honor, yet I had not embraced His gift. He told me that love was not a matter of how I feel, but of what I do and how I do it. That moment changed me forever. Jesus did not remove the struggle, but He graced me with new perspective. I am eternally grateful for His mercy.

Most of all, I will always remember how Valya and Nastia have loved and trusted us with complete abandon from the very first moment. They have been such brave and strong and joyful little pilgrims, never looking back, charging forward full of hope and life. They have endured tremendously painful and difficult experiences, including leaving behind everything they knew—their caregivers, friends, language, and country—to join a family of strangers in a foreign land, but you would never know it if you met them. I can honestly say that they are the happiest children I have ever known. They greet each new day and situation with enthusiasm and song. After being their mother for almost five months, I have learned so much, first about the depths of my weakness and sinfulness, but more importantly, about what it means to love and to live and to surrender control. What precious gifts they are to me. I pray that someday I may be able to love and trust my Father in Heaven as they have loved and trusted me. With complete abandon.

Egads, where'd my baby go?

It seems as if only yesterday my little girl, dressed in a size 3T pink leotard, was giving us private recitals in the living room. Now here she is...hitting the big stage...and loving every minute of it.

Last September we were blessed to find a wonderful group of Christian homeschoolers, called Stage Lefters, who meet weekly throughout the school year to create a theatrical production. This was their seventh season, and it was their most ambitious project, The Music Man, complete with exuberant singing, enthusiastic dancing, and a real live band. Elena won the part of Zaneeta Shinn, the mayor's daffy daughter who runs around with the town badboy. Let me tell you, she played it just a little too well for her daddy's taste. She lit up the stage with her radiant face.

I had one mom tell me, "Your daughter is so good at being a ditzy flirt." Why, thank you. I think.

She's been in productions before, but this was the best and most fun, and now she is firmly convinced that her future belongs on the stage. (Egads!) She can't quite figure out what second degree equations and present participial phrases have to do with that future...just bring on the music and drama. Oh yes, we know all about drama in this household with six females. Oh yes.

After the high brought on by four spectacular performances earlier this month, she was facing nothing but a long, lonely summer of catching up on a few subjects and counting down the days until the first rehearsal of the next play. So I sent her off to a week of choral camp, followed by her first high school youth conference at Franciscan University. She's in Steubenville as I write this, hopefully fast asleep. (She'd better be.)

Ten years ago, I escorted a group of kids, including my youngest sisters, two cousins, two nieces and a nephew, to one of those conferences. It was a life-changing event for my sisters, who both embraced their faith deeply that weekend and later graduated from FUS, where they also met their amazing husbands. Elena, who was only five, joined us for the closing Mass of the conference, and I remember thinking that someday she would be old enough to attend one herself. Someday seemed so far away. It wasn't. I'm praying that the Holy Spirit touches her soul in a meaningful and lasting way this weekend as she continues her journey of becoming a beautiful young woman.

The night before she left, I sat in her bedroom as she was packing, and she gave me one of the sweetest gifts I've ever received. Excited and a bit nervous, she was peppering me with questions about what to expect, when she suddenly looked me in the eyes and gently said, "I wish you were coming with me."

Be still, my heart. I don't suppose there are a whole lot of high school girls who wish their mothers would accompany them to a weekend away, where there are bound to be a plethora of cute Catholic boys. Whoever said they didn't enjoy the teenage years never had the blessing of raising my Elena.

Gosh, I'm going to miss her. And I'm not just talking about the rest of the weekend.

A Journey of Grace and Love

Seven years ago today, I experienced a sublime taste of Heaven. It was the day that I became a mother through the gift of adoption. I will never forget the breathtaking moment that began this amazing journey of my heart, nor the precious little face that ignited the spark of my impassioned love. Seven years later, this beautiful little girl remains an exquisite jewel I hold ever close to my heart.

Several months after adopting Mariana, I wrote the following reflection, whose title eventually became the name for this blog. It seems right to share it here now, as the memories of that day have been so pressing in my thoughts today. (I have linked to it before but never posted it fully.)

The Journey of a Mother's Heart

"On a sunny mid-winter morning not long after our return from China, I was standing in the kitchen holding Kelly, when I was struck by one of those bolts of clear realization that seem to come out of nowhere. As I pressed her chest against mine, her soft cheek brushing my face, I suddenly, absolutely, knew that I could not love this child any more than I did right then. I loved her without condition, without reservation. There was simply no room left in my heart to love her more."

"I can't explain how or why this has happened, but I knew then, just as I have known every moment since, that I am holding nothing back, that there are no circumstances of birth or fate that could make me love this child any more- not if I'd conceived her myself in some specific and memorable moment, not if I'd held her in my arms any sooner in her young life. No fact of genealogy or physiology or of actual fleshly attachment could add to my certainty that we were fated to be together, that we are completely, whatever the differences in our physical makeup or our ethnic or cultural origins, mother and daughter."

— from The Lost Daughters of China by Karin Evans

One evening last year, my husband Jim read these inspiring words from The Lost Daughters of China aloud to me as we sat together on our bed. This beautiful description of a mother's love for her adopted daughter touched me so deeply. During the many months that we waited for our own little girl from China, I reflected on these words often. I prayed that my experience would be the same, but deep down within me there lurked a hidden fear that wondered if it really could be. My love for our biological daughter, Elena, was so intense, so overpowering. Was it possible that I could love a stranger with that same kind of love, even if that stranger took the form of a baby? Yet I believed that God had led us down the long and winding road to this adoption and so I tried to ignore my fears and I walked forward in faith.

After eleven long months of waiting for our referral, we again sat together on our bed. This time Elena sat between us, and we held a precious envelope in our hands. It was that magical moment for which every adoptive parent yearns---the moment when you receive the first glimpse of your new child in a tiny photograph. As we gazed at the little face that would soon join our family, Elena declared her absolutely beautiful, Jim laughed at her chubby cheeks, and I tried to hide just how much my heart had sunk. I had hoped to be filled with a deep maternal love that recognized my beautiful child instantly, melting away all of my fears. Isn't that how I heard it would be? Instead I stared at a stranger, and I felt nothing but a sense of dread, dread that my worst fears had come true and that I really wouldn't be able to love this child as my own. I feared that I would only be able to offer her a secondhand love.

Despite these feelings, turning down her referral was never a consideration for me. I truly believed that God had orchestrated this journey, and I never doubted His wisdom in it. But I knew too well the weakness of my own heart, and I guess I didn't trust in His ability to change me...or maybe I feared what it would take to change me. For the next six weeks, I focused on planning the logistics of our trip to China and our homecoming. In the midst of this busyness, much sorrow filled my heart at not being able to rejoice in this great blessing for which we had prayed and waited so long. I felt ashamed and ungrateful. Again I had to look past my feelings and walk forward in faith.

On the afternoon of March 18, 2001, Jim, Elena, and I were riding on a purple tour bus with Jim's parents, six other adopting families, and our guides. When we had arrived at the airport in Changsha, we were told that our little Ba Shi Qi was already waiting for us at the hotel. Things were very hazy during that bus ride. I saw a man plowing a field behind a water buffalo, I heard our guides speaking but couldn't comprehend what they were saying, and I found my mind racing through many thoughts, trying to imagine this rapidly approaching moment when my life would be forever changed.

As we left the bus, I noticed a woman carrying a bundled baby into the hotel. I think at that moment I knew it was Mariana. Everything was incredibly surreal. We all walked into the lobby, and I remember that Mary Ann, Jim's mother, said, "Oh, look at that beautiful baby…can we take her?" Jim must have sensed what I did, because he wandered over to the woman---Elena was close behind him---and discovered that the baby was indeed Ba Shi Qi. I had been holding back, but when I saw the woman hand her to Jim, I made my way through the group and took my new daughter into my arms.

Time stood still. From the first moment I held her, I knew in the depths of my heart that since the beginning of time God had designed to create this child to be my daughter. In that instant, my entire being was miraculously connected to her, and I was filled with the intense, overpowering love of a mother---her mother---forever. I was overwhelmed with how incredibly beautiful she was. And I was stunned by just how merciful and loving and generous my God is to have blessed me beyond my wildest dreams, in spite of my fears and lack of faith. How can I ever thank Him enough for entrusting me with the lives of my two precious daughters? Being their mother is the greatest privilege of my life.

Since that unforgettable day, I have had many moments like the one described above by Karin Evans. Lying on our bed, I look at my baby and marvel at how the Lord brought us together from two very different corners of the world, to be mother and daughter, forever. Mariana has filled my life with immense joy, and I feel as though I have always known her. She is truly my child in the deepest sense possible.

But my love for her will always hold a touch of sadness, sadness for her first mother, the mother that she may never know. I ache for that mother to know how beautiful, how smart, how funny, how kind, and how strong-willed her daughter is. I long for her to know that her baby is safe and that she is loved beyond measure. And I grieve that I will never be able to thank her for giving my Mariana life and for making the ultimate sacrifice which allowed us to be brought together. Once again, I find that I must walk forward in faith and pray that someday she will know.

True Beauty

Do you know Ann, who shares her heart at Holy Experience?

If not, you want to. Trust me on this one. I could link to her every single day.

Ann has the exquisite gift of being able to view life---in all of its simple and grand moments---through the eyes of Faith, and then being able to describe her visions in a poetical way that playfully wrestles the mind and gracefully stirs the heart. Her beautiful words gently chasten me and powerfully inspire me to draw closer to the One for whom I was created.

Spending time with her is a Holy Experience indeed, a refreshing oasis for this weary, imperfect soul of mine. How blessed I am to have her as a companion on this journey toward Home.

I encourage you to read her touching reflection on beauty. And then go offer your loved ones a truly beautiful you.

I Taught Them Everything They Know

Um, yeah.

Don't miss this inspiring post by my younger-but-wiser sister, Sarah.

And check out this creative, thoughtful piece by my Lil Bro, brand new to blogging. It's very long but well worth the read.

No, I am not breaking my blog fast. Just doing my job as a big sister, watching over them and all. ;)

Hopeful Thoughts for Lent

I was catching up on my Magnificat reading today and was encouraged by this beautiful meditation from Sunday.

The reason trials are necessary in order to reach this state is that highest union cannot be wrought in a soul that is not fortified by trials and temptations and purified by tribulations, darknesses, and distress, just as a superior quality liqueur is poured only into a sturdy flask which is prepared and purified. By these trials the sensory part of the soul is purified and strengthened and the spiritual part is refined, purged, and disposed...

God allows them to be tempted in order to elevate them as high as possible, that is, to union with the divine wisdom...

The combat of trials, distress, and temptations deadens the evil and imperfect habits of the soul and purifies and strengthens it. A man should hold in esteem the interior and exterior trials God sends him, realizing that there are few who merit to be brought to perfection through suffering and to undergo trials for the sake of so high a state...

For God repays the interior and exterior trials very well with divine goods for the soul and body, so that there is not a trial which does not have a corresponding and considerable reward.

----St John of the Cross

Hopeful words, aren't they? Of course, for me there is always the question of how well we must embrace our trials in order for them to be redemptive. No matter how much suffering I'm given, I'm not sure it gets me any closer to perfection if I'm kicking and whining the whole way.

I wonder, how do I make myself able to comprehend fully that with each difficulty I encounter I have the opportunity---and gift---to unite all of my suffering to His? How do I live out the nitty-gritty of my day-to-day with such constant awareness and total submission? Because if I did, I think the burdens I face would be so much lighter and even, dare I say, sweeter.

St Michael the Archangel, Defend Us in Battle

I received a very thoughtful email from a dear friend, and I want to share some of her words here, because she touches upon the most essential element in our battles against the darkness. (The emphasis is mine.)

I have been reading your posts but not commenting because I thought you were expressing the secrets of my heart even better than I could, but your post today made me want to reach out and tell you "Thank you!" It helps so much to know that we are not alone. I can relate to everything you said even down to the "why would they ever want to know me". My demons usually take the very real form of voices in my head questioning everything that I know is true. I have talked with my priest in the confessional about how I felt so tired always fighting and arguing with that voice, always feeling like I had to re-convince myself of these truths. He gave me the best advice after he pointed out that yes, this was a temptation and a spiritual attack. He said, "Let those better able handle it for you!" I stopped trying to argue with the voices in order to get them to be quiet. I started saying the St. Michael prayer whenever I felt weak. He knows, better than I the ways to defeat that wily serpent. He knows how best to defend my fragile self. He is my protector, I believe, responding quickly and thoroughly to my cries for help. The voices stopped antagonizing me in that way some time ago but whenever I hear their whisperings in my heart, I call on my protector and my Lord by saying, "Lord, I believe...help my unbelief."

Ultimately, we must remember that this is a spiritual battle. Yes, we can, and must, do everything we can to fight it---nurturing our relationships, changing our diets, exercising our bodies, ordering our lives, and seeking professional help, if needed. But our most powerful weapon in this battle is prayer. Let us lay our lives into His Holy Hands and entrust our souls to Her Immaculate Heart. And let us never forget the great cloud of heavenly witnesses, just waiting to intercede on our behalf.

"Since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us, 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 God."
Hebrews 12:1-2

Sometimes the only prayers that I can offer are wordless ones, when I simply clench my rosary beads tightly to my heart and cry. That's okay. He hears me all the same.

Hope in the Body of Christ

I write a lot of posts in my head that never make it onto the screen. Sometimes I never find the time to transform my thoughts into words. Sometimes I steal the time, but the words just aren't there. I found this so frustrating when I first started blogging. Now I simply see it as God's way of weeding out some of the stuff that doesn't need to be recorded. My best received posts flow out almost effortlessly. I don't want to read too much into that---I surely can't claim to know or understand how much the Holy Spirit is involved here---but I don't think it's coincidence either.

When I started writing yesterday's post about my struggles with the dark thief, I really had no idea where it was going or why I was writing it. The images came, and so I narrated them. Last week I faced a few dark days of depression---a battle I've been fighting on and off since my youth---and the heaviness was still very fresh in my mind. I hesitated a bit before clicking on that orange "publish post" button, and to be honest, I considered deleting it all when I awoke this morning. Wouldn't my readers rather receive light, upbeat posts, and shouldn't I wait until I had one to give them? Who would want to be challenged by such a heavy, painful confession?

In risking my heart, I discovered that I am not alone in my experience with the darkness, and I learned that those lies whispered by the thief---of being alone, unloved, and unlovable---truly are lies. Some of those who stumbled upon my writing yesterday discovered the same. I was humbly overwhelmed by the tender, encouraging love notes I received from brave and beautiful women who shared their hearts and their suffering.

Suddenly I knew exactly why I wrote that post.

We are not alone. We are broken and battered, weary and worn. We have been tested and trampled and torn into tattered pieces. We have been robbed of our joy in spite of our blessings. But we are not alone.

We are bound by the Love of One who carries our crosses with us. Though we may not feel His presence in our most terrible moments, He bears the greater weight of our pain. We could not endure it without Him.

He offers us the healing gift of each other, a broken Body made perfect in its weakness.

Grace. Mercy. Love.

Darkness

There is a thief who enters the door to my soul when I least expect him. He comes not at a certain season nor time of month, no rhyme nor reason to his intrusion. Yet he is there, sometimes slowly, stealthily, sometimes in a rapid burst of overpowering strength. By now I recognize him well yet still feel helpless to defend my threshold. He chases me, corners me, crushes me. I cry out for help...but my cries are muffled and no one hears my plea.

I am dragged down into the oppressive darkness. I flail and fight my foe to no avail. Please, I beg, my children, they need me. With a hideous snarl, he mocks me and tightens his grip. Harshly he whispers lies, there is no one who knows me in my struggle, no one who truly cares for me, I do not deserve such love. He grows stronger, and I feel my life fading, feel him sucking the very breath from my soul. I know that I should continue to battle, must continue to battle, yet I am so very tired. I long only for the sweet respite of slumber, the only time I forget his heavy hold upon my heart.

I encounter the saints who warn me that despair is likened to sin, despised by my Father and keeping me from His protection. I believe this with all of my heart and yet I know not how to live it. I know not how to trust Him when I am gripped by such an enemy.

I wait upon my Lover, my Savior who will rescue me from the menacing claws of this thief. He comes not. I wonder if I have done anything to anger Him, anything to prevent His coming. Have I unknowingly sent Him away in my childish ingratitude, Him whom I know is the only One who can save me from this beast and heal these deep, raw wounds? Did I leave unlocked the door that allowed this intruder? Is it somehow my fault or just chance happening? Or it is a piece of my redemption, a cross I must carry and not deny? How long will my Beloved delay?

I carry a guilt in not being able to defend myself against this enemy. I have been blessed, so very blessed, and shouldn't that knowledge be enough to ward off this battle? If I were grateful, truly grateful, wouldn't my heart be so full of joy that there would be no room for this thief to enter? So many have suffered far worse than I. How is it that I am so weak and faithless?

I know my Mother watches and cries over me in my suffering. Like a wayward adolescent, I cannot face her in my shame, cannot find the words to seek her comfort, though I long to run to her loving arms and bury my tears in her embrace. She watches and waits and prays.

The thief will release me and depart. He always does. I know not how long he will torture me before he leaves, but I know that he will go. Each time I find my scarred soul stronger. And more battered. I search for ways to safeguard my heart. I pray and hope for healing.

I wait for my Lover to return.

As We Await the Coming of Our Lord

After a gentle nudge from the Holy Spirit by way of Elizabeth, this evening our family began the Christmas Novena for the first time ever. What a beautiful, meaningful way to draw our Advent to a close (especially since we never quite got around to the Jesse Tree ornaments...again. Sigh. I'm determined to join a swap next year.).

We don't have an O Antiphon House, but I'm making simple ornaments using the Antiphon symbols to hang on our bare Advent tree, adorned only in purple lights. (see above comment regarding the lack of JTO) Actually, I think it might be better that the tree will simply hold the O Antiphons this year. I'm all about simplicity (and rationalizing my failings) whenever I can be. Next year, I'll aim for a Jesse Tree and an O Antiphon House, and we'll see where the good Lord takes us.

My sweet friend in Vermont pointed me to an excellent website describing the O Antiphons where you can actually link to each Antiphon sung exquisitely in Latin. (Thanks, Marianne!) You can be sure I will have my laptop ready to play during our evening prayers tomorrow night.

So, how are you getting ready for the arrival of baby Jesus in these final days?

My Amazing Little Brother

In the spring of my senior year of high school, my youngest brother was born. He was my parents' ninth and final child; I was their first. Out of the nine of us, my father only chose the name for two---his oldest son, named after a priest, and his youngest son, named after St. Anthony. He had been praying to this beloved saint for years and had promised to name a son for him, but the previous three babies had been girls. St. Anthony finally sent his boy.

A week after my little brother was born, my mother was rushed to the hospital. Her lungs were filled with fluid, making it very difficult for her to breathe. The doctors discovered that the mitral valve in her heart was leaking, and she was placed on medication. It sustained her. She would sometimes struggle for a breath, and that often led to panic attacks. But for the most part, her life continued on as normal---well, as normal as the life of a mother with nine kids can be.

Within a few months, Anthony was given the nickname of Piper, a name that we continue to call him to this day. I'm absolutely certain that no baby was ever loved more. He had dark hair and big brown eyes, and his charm only grew more endearing with each passing day. It was a difficult time for my family. My father was burdened with financial struggles, my mother's health was frail and uncertain, and we were all squeezed into a small Cape Cod home in a new town. God knew exactly how much we needed that sweet little boy to bring joy and hope to our lives.

My mom was especially close to her baby. I think she had a sense that her life was fragile, and she clung to him, wanting to give him every ounce of love that she could. The feeling was mutual. He adored her. If the two were in a room together, her lap was his chair...for years and years. Theirs was a special bond borne out of suffering.

When Piper was nine years old, and my firstborn was nine weeks old, our mother died of heart failure. As incredibly difficult as it was to lose her, it was even more painful to watch my youngest siblings lose her, knowing they would have to grow up without a mother's love. We all did what we could for them, but of course, it could never be enough.

There was one particularly painful day for us siblings about a year after my mother had died. That night I lay with my ten-year-old brother as he tried to fall asleep. With innocence and sincerity, Piper said to me, "I'm glad that Mom died when she did, because now she is in Heaven and she doesn't have to suffer anymore. It's better for her." And I prayed, "Oh Lord, give me the faith and wisdom of this amazing little boy."

When I learned that the mother of Pope John Paul II had died when he himself was nine years old, it gave me hope for my brother. I asked our Holy Father to watch over and intercede for him, and I prayed that Mary would become a mother for him, as she had for Karol Wojtyla. If God could mold this saintly man out of such tragic loss, surely He could take care of our Anthony.

High school hit Piper hard. Searching for relief from the deep wounds of his childhood, he began to self-destruct and tried to escape from his life. Honestly, I'm not sure the extent of his behavior, but suffice it to say, it was definitely not good. His relationship with our father and stepmother was distant at best and hostile at worst. As he watched each of his siblings leave home to begin a new life, I'm sure it intensified his feelings of abandonment. He was traveling a downward spiral.

We watched and suffered helplessly and prayed with all of our might. Amazingly, throughout it all, he faithfully went to Mass and Confession. He did not give up on God.

And God did not give up on him.

Two days ago my beautiful brother sat at the center of our Thanksgiving table, across from my father and stepmother. He kept the children, all sitting at one end of the table, involved in the conversation with the adults, all sitting at the other end of the table. He was the bridge between generations. My dark haired, brown-eyed baby brother was charming and thoughtful and witty and kind. In two weeks, he will graduate from Ohio State with a bachelor's degree in a double major that he designed himself. For the past five years, he has worked full-time to pay his way through college. Although he is unsure of the specifics of his future, he is hopeful and confident.

So am I. And oh so grateful.

For great is His steadfast love toward us;
and the faithfulness of the LORD endures for ever.
Praise the LORD!
Psalm 117:2

Respect Life!

In honor of Respect Life Sunday, I'm going to send you over to read a real life story, beautifully written by my sister, Sarah. For me, it was a powerful reminder of how God can use our ordinary lives, faithfully lived, as a witness for Life.

While you're there, check out her excellent review of the new film, Bella.

Karen E and Margaret, I say we meet up in Chicago for the weekend. ;)

A Day in Lisieux

In honor of the feast day of our beloved St Thérèse of the Child Jesus, I bring you a day in Lisieux, France with my family...

In February 2006, my sister, her husband, and their three very young children (the youngest in utero) came to visit us in Brussels. During their stay, we rented a farmhouse west of Paris and made daytrips to Chartres, Mont St Michel, the Normandy beaches, and Lisieux. My favorite by far was Lisieux, an unassuming town in Lower Normandy where our Lord fashioned a little saint who would be loved the world over.

We began our pilgrimage with a visit to Les Buissonnets, the home where Louis Martin raised his five daughters after the death of his wife, Zelie. A tiny, elderly woman (was she a nun? I can't remember) met us at the door. She spoke no English, but thankfully, my talented brother-in-law was able to communicate with her in French. Even more thankfully, she played a recording in English that led us through the house.

We stood before the fireplace where Thérèse and her family had gathered many times, we climbed the stairs she had run up and down, we entered the room where she had been miraculously cured of a serious illness after praying before a statue of our Lady, we explored the bedroom which displayed clothing and toys from her childhood. It was all so amazing and beautiful, a simple home where a holy saint and her family had lived not so long ago.

Upon leaving Les Buissonnets, we visited the Basilica of St Thérèse, an enormous and quite extravagant church filled with mosaics and stained glass windows that seek to illustrate the message of St Thérèse. When my father-in-law saw it a few years ago, he was disturbed by the magnitude and opulence of the building. He did not find it fitting for this saint of the Little Way and couldn't imagine that she would approve. I, however, found it a magnificent tribute to the greatness of God and the many miracles He has given us through this powerful intercessor. Lining the sides of the upper sanctuary, chapels of gratitude have been erected by countries from all over the world. It was very touching to see this tangible witness of the shower of roses that Thérèse has sent down from Heaven. There we prayed before her relics and felt her presence.

Unfortunately, we weren't able to visit Carmel, the convent where she gave her life completely to God and wrote The Story of a Soul. It was closed during the lunch hours, and we had planned to spend the second half of the day at the Normandy beaches and their memorials of World War II. I would love to go back someday and devote more time to this special little town, but for now, I am thankful to have been blessed with a few precious hours.

*****************************************************************************

Because I also missed the feast day of

St Michael and the Archangels, I'm going to add a couple of photos from our visit to Mont St Michel here.

If you ever travel to France, after Lisieux and Omaha beach (and Paris, I suppose), don't miss Mont St Michel! It is an architectural wonder, incredibly beautiful to behold. And if you manage to go during a snow storm in February, the crowds won't really be too bad.