As the winter trees bare their limbs
to receive the blanket of pure white snow,
So my cold winter soul bares itself
before the Lord God
to receive the warm covering of
His Pure and Holy Presence.
Nov 30, 2009
Winter Soul
As the winter trees bare their limbs
to receive the blanket of pure white snow,
So my cold winter soul bares itself
before the Lord God
to receive the warm covering of
His Pure and Holy Presence.
Fear
Aren't we all afraid of something? Jesus said "Be not afraid" but do we really listen and try to follow that advice, or do we cover ourselves with our fears like a comfortable old overcoat and wear them wherever we go?
My husband is afraid. Last week Paul checked out a brand-new book from the library and decided he would bring it to work to read during his break. He came home from work that day and asked me if I had seen his book. "No, you took it to work with you." I replied. The next day he returned from work triumphant. He had found his book...on the side of the road. It seems he had set it on top of his car as he unlocked the door, and forgot all about it. He found it on the side of the road, rain-soaked, muddy and with a broken binding. It seems that sturdy book took a ten mile ride on top of Paul's car before it skidded off to the ditch.
Now, Paul is afraid to return the book to the library because he worries that the librarian will yell at him and cause him to blush, and possibly cry. (Truthfully, our family has a very bad reputation at our public library. We are much despised for returning items late and in poor condition. I'll never forget the time little Justin broke a library CD in half and then stuck it in our computer to see what would happen. I'll tell you what happened. A $65.00 fine is what happened.) So, Paul is justified in his fear. Still, he can't get around it. He has to face up to his fear and return the book, confess his crime and pay retribution.
I'm afraid, too. I'm afraid of how reckless my children are. I'm afraid when Jack tells me that while I was at work, Joe set up a mattress at the top of the stairs and they all slid down to the bottom on it, again and again. I'm afraid when Justin shows me a video he made of himself attempting to jump over the garbage can on his scooter and I hear the sound of Mary laughing as she watches Justin fall and practically break his neck.
Fear is irrational. I'm afraid of aging. I'm afraid that as I turn 44 years old, my entire body will begin to fall apart, and my mental capacities will quickly diminish.
But I know better than to be afraid. I just need to remind myself of the lovely words from 1 John and the tremendous Lover who is the only One whose Love can remove all of my unfounded fears and cast them far, far away from me...
“There is no fear in love. Perfect love casts out all fear.”
1 John 4:18
I live inside of fear.
I cower under its shadow.
I carry it with me wherever I go.
But Your love is stronger than my fear.
You shower it down from the heavens
In generous rainfall
That enriches my soul.
You wash the fear
Into the stream
And carry it far away from me.
I am left with the glow
Of peaceful love
Finding it in all people
All things and
All places.
Fear trembles and runs in your presence.
Thank You Lord, for Your perfect love. Amen.
My husband is afraid. Last week Paul checked out a brand-new book from the library and decided he would bring it to work to read during his break. He came home from work that day and asked me if I had seen his book. "No, you took it to work with you." I replied. The next day he returned from work triumphant. He had found his book...on the side of the road. It seems he had set it on top of his car as he unlocked the door, and forgot all about it. He found it on the side of the road, rain-soaked, muddy and with a broken binding. It seems that sturdy book took a ten mile ride on top of Paul's car before it skidded off to the ditch.
Now, Paul is afraid to return the book to the library because he worries that the librarian will yell at him and cause him to blush, and possibly cry. (Truthfully, our family has a very bad reputation at our public library. We are much despised for returning items late and in poor condition. I'll never forget the time little Justin broke a library CD in half and then stuck it in our computer to see what would happen. I'll tell you what happened. A $65.00 fine is what happened.) So, Paul is justified in his fear. Still, he can't get around it. He has to face up to his fear and return the book, confess his crime and pay retribution.
I'm afraid, too. I'm afraid of how reckless my children are. I'm afraid when Jack tells me that while I was at work, Joe set up a mattress at the top of the stairs and they all slid down to the bottom on it, again and again. I'm afraid when Justin shows me a video he made of himself attempting to jump over the garbage can on his scooter and I hear the sound of Mary laughing as she watches Justin fall and practically break his neck.
Fear is irrational. I'm afraid of aging. I'm afraid that as I turn 44 years old, my entire body will begin to fall apart, and my mental capacities will quickly diminish.
But I know better than to be afraid. I just need to remind myself of the lovely words from 1 John and the tremendous Lover who is the only One whose Love can remove all of my unfounded fears and cast them far, far away from me...
“There is no fear in love. Perfect love casts out all fear.”
1 John 4:18
I live inside of fear.
I cower under its shadow.
I carry it with me wherever I go.
But Your love is stronger than my fear.
You shower it down from the heavens
In generous rainfall
That enriches my soul.
You wash the fear
Into the stream
And carry it far away from me.
I am left with the glow
Of peaceful love
Finding it in all people
All things and
All places.
Fear trembles and runs in your presence.
Thank You Lord, for Your perfect love. Amen.
Nov 29, 2009
Manger Prayer
Lord,
My heart is like the manger straw at Bethlehem. It’s cluttered, unkempt and dusty.
Yet, You chose to be born in my lowly heart just as You were born in a lowly manger.
You know that humble, unworthy surroundings are the perfect holding place for Your love to grow. What’s more, Your beautiful love transforms cluttered hearts and filthy mangers so that they become shining temples of glory.
This Advent, I will patiently wait for You to renew my cluttered heart with the birth of Your abiding presence and love. Amen.
Nov 28, 2009
Advent: The Season for...Fighting?
Every year it’s the same story when Advent comes around…Advent, which means, “come”. The ideals that our family holds up, the things we most want to come into our lives are peace, harmony and joy. We always start with the best intentions. We create a homemade Advent wreath, cutting fresh sprigs of cedar from our trees in the backyard and fill a glass pie dish with the greens and four candles, violet and pink. We lovingly place the wreath at the center of our kitchen table. Each evening as part of our dinner prayer, the children take turns lighting a candle and reading a prayer about building the stable in our hearts for Jesus. Doesn’t that sound beautiful? No greedy dreams of Christmas wishes for toys and gadgets. No secular Christmas music blaring from our radio. No loading up on Christmas treats and Christmas decorations before the season actually arrives. Just peace, harmony and joy around our Advent kitchen table...read more...
Praise for the Balance of God!
"You have turned for me my mourning into dancing" Psalm 30:11
Our God is a God of balance. He will never leave us in eternal sorrow or in eternal joy while our footsteps walk the soil of the land. No matter what we feel or have now, it is certain that He will give us an opposite to keep us balanced and detached from extremes. Praise for the Balance of God!
Praise for nights of darkness balanced by mornings of pink and blue sunrise.
Praise for frosty mornings balanced by the warmth of a woolen coat.
Praise for the pain of hunger balanced by a full, nourishing meal.
Praise for the dignity of work balanced by peaceful rest.
Praise for tears of sadness balanced by the sound of laughter.
Praise for empty loneliness balanced by the embrace of love.
Praise for songs of jubilation balanced by silent prayer.
For all of this and so much more, I praise You my glorious God, for you are always with me, loving me with your gifts of balance. Amen.
(Thanks to Jennifer at My Chocolate Heart for the Praise MEME.)
Nov 26, 2009
Prayer of a Mother of Teenage Boys
Dear God,
Now that my boys are teenagers, I am keenly aware of what an embarrassment I am to them. These are the years where I am supposed to become invisible, but I find that task to be impossible. I can manage it when I am cross and irritable; then it’s easy to be silent and unnoticeable, in fact, invisibility is what I most desire at those times.
But when I’m happy and joyful, becoming invisible is impossible. My entire being wants to passionately cry out with love and joy to you. I want to let my happiness show in singing, dancing, shouting and laughter. I want everyone to join in my joy. How can I help but sing along with the radio when such a fun, old-fashioned folk song like “La Cucaracha” comes on while I’m driving my children to school? That song was just meant for exuberant singing! How was I to know that at that moment when I would be so caught up in joyful singing, my son’s friends would all be standing outside watching as we pulled up to the school?
These are the moments when I see horrified looks cross my son’s faces and I hear them mutter under their breath, “Please Mom, people are looking at you!” It’s funny, but it seems like only yesterday when they were toddlers and I would mutter those same words to them when they would act up or throw temper tantrums in public.
I understand how they feel, so why is it so hard for me to control myself? As I approach my 44th year, why do I sometimes feel like the child and my children seem like the parents? Is life really meant to be this way?
Forgive me, Lord, for my childish behavior and please help my children to forgive me as well.
Amen.
Now that my boys are teenagers, I am keenly aware of what an embarrassment I am to them. These are the years where I am supposed to become invisible, but I find that task to be impossible. I can manage it when I am cross and irritable; then it’s easy to be silent and unnoticeable, in fact, invisibility is what I most desire at those times.
But when I’m happy and joyful, becoming invisible is impossible. My entire being wants to passionately cry out with love and joy to you. I want to let my happiness show in singing, dancing, shouting and laughter. I want everyone to join in my joy. How can I help but sing along with the radio when such a fun, old-fashioned folk song like “La Cucaracha” comes on while I’m driving my children to school? That song was just meant for exuberant singing! How was I to know that at that moment when I would be so caught up in joyful singing, my son’s friends would all be standing outside watching as we pulled up to the school?
These are the moments when I see horrified looks cross my son’s faces and I hear them mutter under their breath, “Please Mom, people are looking at you!” It’s funny, but it seems like only yesterday when they were toddlers and I would mutter those same words to them when they would act up or throw temper tantrums in public.
I understand how they feel, so why is it so hard for me to control myself? As I approach my 44th year, why do I sometimes feel like the child and my children seem like the parents? Is life really meant to be this way?
Forgive me, Lord, for my childish behavior and please help my children to forgive me as well.
Amen.
Nov 25, 2009
I'm So Thankful!
The day before Thanksgiving is a big grocery shopping day to gather up all of the special last minute ingredients for a family feast. Now you know that grocery shopping is not my favorite chore because I often feel persecuted by rude comments from fellow shoppers for my family size and the amount of groceries I buy nearly every week. But yesterday was a huge exception to the norm.
Yesterday the store was filled with smiling faces and friendly voices wishing one another a Happy Thanksgiving. I passed the security guard who commented with a wink "Here's Wonder Woman once again!" Next the manager asked me where all of my "helpers" were. I was grateful to tell him that although I appreciate their help in the store, sometimes it's nice to shop alone.
As grateful as I was to receive these kind comments, as Christians we know that the greatest joys come in giving more than receiving. So it was with great joy that after I unloaded my cart with the weekly grocery staples, I was able to add one more item behind my purchases, a gift of a jar of home-made grape jelly and a thank you card to surprise Carol, my favorite cashier as she finished ringing up my purchases. Week after week Carol greets me with smiles and friendly chat to help me forget about the rude comments I usually gather from the other shoppers. I was so happy to be able to give her this small token of my appreciation.
After sharing a hug of thanksgiving gratitude, we commenced with some small talk. Carol wanted to know if I would spend the day after Thanksgiving shopping for Christmas presents. I assured her that the stores are the last place I'd spend my time, but instead, I will spend that day mixing up Christmas cookie dough and filling the freezer with the cookie dough until I am ready to bake the cookies that our family will share and enjoy at Christmas time. I confessed that I have to stand guard at the freezer to make sure that my kids don't raid it and eat the raw, frozen dough before I get a chance to bake the cookies!
The woman standing behind me said with tears in her eyes, "If that is all you have to worry about, consider yourself lucky! I am going to visit my daughter today...in the cemetery." She was buying nothing but flowers. As Carol and I both reached to hug her and comfort her, I felt the sting of tears in my eyes, but this time, instead of the tears of self-pity and resentment from which I usually suffer in the grocery story, they were tears of gratitude for my healthy and happy family.
So this year as I sit down to a Thanksgiving feast with my family, I will bow my head and thank God for the rich blessing of my wonderful husband and our five beautiful children and four fabulous God-children. I will thank God for my brothers, sisters, in-laws, nieces and nephews, including the greats! I am thankful that we are all healthy and happy and that this Thanksgiving, we will be visiting each other in our varied homes and not in the cemetery. I am especially thankful for my mother-in-law who is now cancer free and my father-in-law who will be relieved from some of the burden of caring for her in her sickness. I am grateful for my friends both near and far. I am grateful for this blogging community and your wonderful, loving words of wisdom and kindness. I am so grateful and I am so blessed. Thank you God!
Nov 24, 2009
Little White Martyrs
Mary complains that she doesn’t have any friends and nobody will play with her at recess. Some of the third grade girls tease in a sneering tone: “Why do you go to Mass, Mary?” Mary tries to sneer back: “Because I’m Cath-o-lic!” Walking away, all alone, she shakes her head and wonders why her classmates at a Catholic School would even ask her that question.
Thirteen-year-old Joe stretches out on his parents bed as mom sorts through mail at the end of the day. “I hate to tell you this Mom, but it happened again today. Please don’t feel bad, but almost every day, someone teases me because I go to daily Mass. If I don’t behave perfectly, if I say something mean, or get in trouble with the teacher, it always comes out… “Nice Christian witness, Joe! Is that what you learn at daily Mass? What would your holy Mom say? And by the way, did she used to be a nun?” Joe grimaces at the snide remarks and holds his temper in check until I come home and he tries to release it without hurting his sensitive mother.
Wondering if Jack was getting the same treatment, I questioned my quiet son. Unsure of the details, all he remembers is a question from his teacher at the beginning of the year… “Do you really go to Mass every day Jack? Who else is there, any other students?” Jack replied in the negative, “The only other people there all have grey hair.”
Gentle Jesus,
We love You and try to serve You in all we say and do. Our time with You each day at Mass is a treasure beyond cost, even the cost of painful remarks. Let the power of our daily reception of Your precious Body and Blood soothe the hurts of these humble believers who choose to begin our days in Your Holy Presence. Amen.
Nov 22, 2009
Sabbath Sunday-Alabaster Jars
Enjoy a re-post from last May... In the spirit of Sunday, a day of rest, I am joining with Fr.Christian Mathis from Blessed is the Kingdom and re-posting a favorite story from the past instead of writing something new. Join in, put your feet up and keep the Sabbath holy...
“Now one of the Pharisees invited Jesus to eat with him. So he went to the Pharisee’s home and took his place at the table. There was a woman who was a notorious sinner in that city. When she learned that Jesus was eating at the Pharisee’s home, she took an alabaster jar of perfume and knelt at his feet behind him. She was crying and began to wash his feet with her tears and dry them with her hair. Then she kissed his feet over and over again, anointing them with costly perfume.” Luke 7:36-39
The perfume that this woman poured on Jesus’ feet cost her a year’s wages! This was extravagant love indeed! I dream of being this woman, of pouring out all of my love for Jesus and having him respond gratefully. This is by far my favorite gospel story. Fr. Don Hying, the rector at St. Francis Seminary, writes about this extravagant love and says, “When we break open the alabaster jar of our lives, the world is filled with the fragrance of Christ.”(New Heart New Spirit, April 2008) I can easily see that alabaster jar being broken open in the love of Mother Teresa, and all of those wonderful missionaries who follow after her. I can see the alabaster jar being broken open when a mother sits up all night, exhausted, and patiently caring for her sick child. I can see the alabaster jar being broken open when two friends sit together and quietly share stories of the love of God working in their lives. I can see the alabaster jar being broken open at every Mass when the priest holds the precious body of our Lord in his hands and everyone looks upon it with love.
Recently, I witnessed two very real instances of alabaster jars in my own life and I would like to share those stories. Not too long ago, I was having a very bad day; I was feeling unloved and unlovable, really drowning in self-pity and sorrow. I spent an afternoon at home crying and pouring out my misery to God. Then, my husband walked in the door at the end of his workday. He held me in his arms for the longest time and poured love from his heart to mine. Later, when I opened the bedroom door, I found two dozen red and pink roses on our bed. They were the most beautiful roses that I have ever seen in my life! Now, Paul is not the type of husband who routinely buys me flowers. In fact, in the eighteen years since we were married, I can only recall two other instances when he bought me flowers. But this day, those arms around me when I needed them the most and those beautiful, fragrant roses were an alabaster jar of extravagant love that nothing could ever match!
Another instance of an alabaster jar brings a smile to my face every time I recall it. While babysitting for my great-nephews and great-niece, Alex, Andrew and Caitlin, we spent a sunny morning outside, delighting in the beautiful warm spring weather. Caitlin, having just turned one year old, enjoyed exploring her world from her new-found skill of walking. She wobbled from tree, to flower, to slide, to toy car, to sandbox with a smile of pure joy on her face. I’m sure our time outside completely wore her out! I was trying to delay her naptime to coincide with Andrew’s, so I know she was very tired. My nephew, David, came home for lunch, and the minute that Caitlin saw him, she threw her little, tired body down at his feet and wrapped her arms around his ankles as if to say, this is what I have been waiting for! Here is my beloved father who brings me happiness with his very presence! Watching the love of that moment, I was no longer looking at Caitlin and David, but before my eyes, I was witnessing Mary and Jesus. As David bent down to pick up Caitlin and hold her in his arms, her head naturally rested near his heart as if to say, this is all I ever need, and thank you for loving me.
Everywhere I look, I will be seeing alabaster jars breaking open for the rest of my life. The world smells delicious with the rich perfume of love hanging heavy in the air. I could never grow my hair long enough to dry all of the ointment mingling with the tears. And it doesn’t matter how many people may react with scorn and disdain and criticize the extravagance. Those alabaster jars are going to keep on breaking, the fragrance is going to continue to spread, because God’s love cannot and will not be held back. Once the fragrance of Christ is in the air, our senses are awakened and we cannot help but breathe it in and share it with others.
“Now one of the Pharisees invited Jesus to eat with him. So he went to the Pharisee’s home and took his place at the table. There was a woman who was a notorious sinner in that city. When she learned that Jesus was eating at the Pharisee’s home, she took an alabaster jar of perfume and knelt at his feet behind him. She was crying and began to wash his feet with her tears and dry them with her hair. Then she kissed his feet over and over again, anointing them with costly perfume.” Luke 7:36-39
The perfume that this woman poured on Jesus’ feet cost her a year’s wages! This was extravagant love indeed! I dream of being this woman, of pouring out all of my love for Jesus and having him respond gratefully. This is by far my favorite gospel story. Fr. Don Hying, the rector at St. Francis Seminary, writes about this extravagant love and says, “When we break open the alabaster jar of our lives, the world is filled with the fragrance of Christ.”(New Heart New Spirit, April 2008) I can easily see that alabaster jar being broken open in the love of Mother Teresa, and all of those wonderful missionaries who follow after her. I can see the alabaster jar being broken open when a mother sits up all night, exhausted, and patiently caring for her sick child. I can see the alabaster jar being broken open when two friends sit together and quietly share stories of the love of God working in their lives. I can see the alabaster jar being broken open at every Mass when the priest holds the precious body of our Lord in his hands and everyone looks upon it with love.
Recently, I witnessed two very real instances of alabaster jars in my own life and I would like to share those stories. Not too long ago, I was having a very bad day; I was feeling unloved and unlovable, really drowning in self-pity and sorrow. I spent an afternoon at home crying and pouring out my misery to God. Then, my husband walked in the door at the end of his workday. He held me in his arms for the longest time and poured love from his heart to mine. Later, when I opened the bedroom door, I found two dozen red and pink roses on our bed. They were the most beautiful roses that I have ever seen in my life! Now, Paul is not the type of husband who routinely buys me flowers. In fact, in the eighteen years since we were married, I can only recall two other instances when he bought me flowers. But this day, those arms around me when I needed them the most and those beautiful, fragrant roses were an alabaster jar of extravagant love that nothing could ever match!
Another instance of an alabaster jar brings a smile to my face every time I recall it. While babysitting for my great-nephews and great-niece, Alex, Andrew and Caitlin, we spent a sunny morning outside, delighting in the beautiful warm spring weather. Caitlin, having just turned one year old, enjoyed exploring her world from her new-found skill of walking. She wobbled from tree, to flower, to slide, to toy car, to sandbox with a smile of pure joy on her face. I’m sure our time outside completely wore her out! I was trying to delay her naptime to coincide with Andrew’s, so I know she was very tired. My nephew, David, came home for lunch, and the minute that Caitlin saw him, she threw her little, tired body down at his feet and wrapped her arms around his ankles as if to say, this is what I have been waiting for! Here is my beloved father who brings me happiness with his very presence! Watching the love of that moment, I was no longer looking at Caitlin and David, but before my eyes, I was witnessing Mary and Jesus. As David bent down to pick up Caitlin and hold her in his arms, her head naturally rested near his heart as if to say, this is all I ever need, and thank you for loving me.
Everywhere I look, I will be seeing alabaster jars breaking open for the rest of my life. The world smells delicious with the rich perfume of love hanging heavy in the air. I could never grow my hair long enough to dry all of the ointment mingling with the tears. And it doesn’t matter how many people may react with scorn and disdain and criticize the extravagance. Those alabaster jars are going to keep on breaking, the fragrance is going to continue to spread, because God’s love cannot and will not be held back. Once the fragrance of Christ is in the air, our senses are awakened and we cannot help but breathe it in and share it with others.
Nov 21, 2009
Praise for the King!
When life becomes dark and I succumb to misery, the only solution is to praise God. Gratitude is the antidote to sadness. So it is with gratitude to Jennifer at My Chocolate Heart for this fabulous MEME that gives me pause to reflect upon all of the good things that God has done for me.
PRAISE for kind words of comfort and love from friends who care.
PRAISE for my children who sing so well and share their gifts with others.
PRAISE for a full pantry with healthy foods for my family.
PRAISE for the smiles of children.
PRAISE for a warm house and comfortable clothes when so many go without.
PRAISE for jars and jars of grape jelly to share with friends and family.
PRAISE for the gift of my Catholic Faith and the never ending love of Christ my King.
Praise for the King
In the dark days of winter,
a light shines forth
golden crown of glory
captivates my eyes
sparkling, glistening,shining
covering yesterday's pain.
Though marks of pain are lasting
the sorrow melts away
with the brilliance and majesty
of my wondrous Lord
who loves me,
Jesus Christ the King!
Nov 20, 2009
The Story of Mr. Blart/Guest Post
As a homework assignment, my 13-year-old son Joe was to write a children's story with a moral. I just loved what he came up with so much, that I thought I would share it on the blog, hoping that it would bring smiles to many faces. Enjoy!
The Story of Mr. Blart
By: Joe Bender
Mr. Blart was not very smart.
Instead of a car he drove a grocery store cart.
“Today,” Mr. Blart did start.
“Today I will buy a car at Wal-Mart!”
When he got there he met Mrs. Dart,
a lady who worked right there at Wal-Mart.
What she said tore Blart right apart.
“We don’t sell real cars, cross my heart.”
That left poor Blart feeling real glum,
“A car at Wal-Mart, boy am I dumb!”
To cheer himself up he took out some gum.
It was his favorite and it made him say “YUM!”
But that still left him sad and his heart still numb.
Then poor Mr. Blart he started to hum
and on a guitar he started to strum.
Though nothing he did could make him not glum,
because after forty-three years he still lived with his mum.
“That’s it!” shouted Mr. Blart with might.
“I’ll change my life and I’ll put up a fight!”
Then Mr. Blart felt he reached a new height.
He felt like he was flying just like a kite.
He always wanted to feel so light.
He had never felt so cool so tight!
As he skipped home into the night
a smile came across his face full of delight!
He spread many books across the table.
He’d study all night if he were able.
One book had a very interesting label.
The title for it was Anne of Green Gable.
He read the book ‘til he didn’t feel stable.
Then he clicked the remote and fell asleep watching cable.
He had a dream about when he was a lad.
He got into trouble and acted real bad.
When the teacher yelled at him he got so mad
that he quit school and the whole life he had.
Waking up he felt very sad,
but only just a tad.
He wished that he still had his dad,
Though he knew he got shot by a Russian named, Vlad.
“I’ll do it!” Blart said “I’ll do it for dad!
I’ll do it for the dad I never had!”
And for him Mr. Blart went out on a limb.
He went to his old teacher, Mrs. Kim.
Mrs. Kim knew his chances were dim
but out of pity decided to help him.
Her husband, Tim,
bought some books on a whim.
With help from Mrs. Kim and Tim
he felt much smarter and they were so proud of him.
Then after that Mr. Blart was just fine.
He had an IQ of 2009.
He was so smart he could create things with some sticks and some twine.
He made a house, a garage, and a car with an engine 409.
He had lots of women all waiting in line
for Blart to say to one “You are mine!”
And so Mr. Blart turned his life upside-down.
He now wears a smile instead of a frown.
So the morale is if life’s got you down
and you’re always the loser in town,
work hard and you too, can turn your life around.
The End.
The Story of Mr. Blart
By: Joe Bender
Mr. Blart was not very smart.
Instead of a car he drove a grocery store cart.
“Today,” Mr. Blart did start.
“Today I will buy a car at Wal-Mart!”
When he got there he met Mrs. Dart,
a lady who worked right there at Wal-Mart.
What she said tore Blart right apart.
“We don’t sell real cars, cross my heart.”
That left poor Blart feeling real glum,
“A car at Wal-Mart, boy am I dumb!”
To cheer himself up he took out some gum.
It was his favorite and it made him say “YUM!”
But that still left him sad and his heart still numb.
Then poor Mr. Blart he started to hum
and on a guitar he started to strum.
Though nothing he did could make him not glum,
because after forty-three years he still lived with his mum.
“That’s it!” shouted Mr. Blart with might.
“I’ll change my life and I’ll put up a fight!”
Then Mr. Blart felt he reached a new height.
He felt like he was flying just like a kite.
He always wanted to feel so light.
He had never felt so cool so tight!
As he skipped home into the night
a smile came across his face full of delight!
He spread many books across the table.
He’d study all night if he were able.
One book had a very interesting label.
The title for it was Anne of Green Gable.
He read the book ‘til he didn’t feel stable.
Then he clicked the remote and fell asleep watching cable.
He had a dream about when he was a lad.
He got into trouble and acted real bad.
When the teacher yelled at him he got so mad
that he quit school and the whole life he had.
Waking up he felt very sad,
but only just a tad.
He wished that he still had his dad,
Though he knew he got shot by a Russian named, Vlad.
“I’ll do it!” Blart said “I’ll do it for dad!
I’ll do it for the dad I never had!”
And for him Mr. Blart went out on a limb.
He went to his old teacher, Mrs. Kim.
Mrs. Kim knew his chances were dim
but out of pity decided to help him.
Her husband, Tim,
bought some books on a whim.
With help from Mrs. Kim and Tim
he felt much smarter and they were so proud of him.
Then after that Mr. Blart was just fine.
He had an IQ of 2009.
He was so smart he could create things with some sticks and some twine.
He made a house, a garage, and a car with an engine 409.
He had lots of women all waiting in line
for Blart to say to one “You are mine!”
And so Mr. Blart turned his life upside-down.
He now wears a smile instead of a frown.
So the morale is if life’s got you down
and you’re always the loser in town,
work hard and you too, can turn your life around.
The End.
Nov 19, 2009
No Crucifix?
“The Vatican denounced a ruling by the European court of human rights that said the display of crucifixes in Italian public schools violates religious and education freedoms.” By Alessandra Rizzo, Associated Press Writer
Does this break your heart like it breaks mine? How does the crucifix which freed me from my sin, violate religious and educational freedom?
Here in America, the crucifix and prayer in public schools has long been done away with and is a tremendous loss to people of all faith backgrounds. When my children study history and/or world cultures in school, they learn about all faiths, not only Christian but Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist and Hindu as well. Having knowledge of all faiths can only help to increase our understanding of and love for one another. Shutting the door on a faith and its religious symbols only serves to increase fear, misunderstanding and hatred.
When my children were in a public grade school I was always saddened when I would take them to our parish classrooms for religious studies, for it was in those rooms where I would see the beautiful crucifix and statue of our Blessed Mother. It hurt to realize that my children were denied the comfort of the precious symbols of our faith in the school that they attended each day.
What I resolved to do was to make sure my children were well educated in their faith, not simply by sending them to Christian Formation classes at our parish, but mainly by teaching them the tenets of our Catholic traditions at home and encouraging them to live their faith each day no matter where they happened to be. If the Christian symbol of the Crucifix could not be displayed in their public school classrooms, then the symbol of the Resurrected Christ would be carried in their hearts each day and shared with a non-believing world through their daily words and actions. Like the old hymn states: “They will know we are Christians by our love.”
Each day when I would walk my children to public school, I would trace the sign of the cross on their foreheads before they walked into the school as a physical reminder to them that Christ lives in them and they are to show His love to others. Then they would each trace the cross on my forehead as well so that I would also carry Christ with me no matter where I went. Today, my children who attend Catholic school, begin their day with Holy Mass and the reception of the Eucharist so that Jesus is truly alive in their hearts and can readily be shared with others through their actions each day.
I realize that this is only the tip of the iceberg, for beyond living our faith as individuals and sharing our personal love of Christ with others, we can display our faith in so many ways. Why not consider wearing a crucifix necklace every day as an outward sign of your faith? Crucifix bumper stickers for the car and statues in our yards could be a great way to display our faith. My young friend John, in England, who is editor of "A Vocation to Be a Priest" has purchased small crucifixes to leave on buses and trains. If the European government is going to rule against the crucifix in schools, he plans to bring the crucifix with him wherever he goes so that the whole world will know that wherever we are, Christ is there too. With his loving words, actions and personal witness, John plans to keep the crucifix visible not only in the schools, but in every public place in Europe.
For more on this topic, I encourage you to visit Gabriella’s Blog. You may also feel moved to email the Committee of Ministers to protest their verdict at: cm@coe.int. This is a worldwide concern, not simply a European concern. Please add your voice and your prayers to address this disgraceful situation.
Nov 18, 2009
Simple Joys Are Holy
"Truly, I tell you with certainty, when you were young, you would fasten your belt and go wherever you liked. But when you get old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will fasten your belt and take you where you don't want to go." John 21:18
We have a new Archbishop Designate in Milwaukee-Bishop Jerome Listecki. The Milwaukee news has been filled with pictures and videos of his welcoming Mass and meetings with the press at St. Francis de Sales Seminary. Our Seminary is a beautiful building set on the glorious wooded grounds next to the shores of Lake Michigan. I wonder if our new Archbishop will ever have much time to enjoy the natural setting in which he will be living and working, or will he be so busy serving the people of the Archdiocese that he will barely have time to notice the natural gifts from God that are right in his backyard.
Reading the stories about him got me thinking about how difficult his life and the life of all bishops must be. For that matter, I'm sure I could include Pope Benedict and most priests in that statement as well. I imagine that their lives must be filled with one round of meetings after another.
I think back to last spring when Archbishop Dolan was installed as Archbishop of New York. Watching the Mass on TV, I was struck by how this big, robust and energetic man, full of life and joy, looked like a little boy, fearful of what tremendous work lay ahead of him in his new responsibilities. I think that Bishop Listecki may be feeling the same way right now.
I offer my prayers to all of our hard-working and faith-filled leaders in the church who often have to give up so much of themselves and the things they enjoy, so that we may all come to know God more deeply.
I wonder, do they ever have much time to just enjoy life? I'm sure they are so grateful to be living their lives in a way that pleases the Lord and nothing must make a man happier than the knowledge that God is using him as an instrument to draw others closer to His loving heart. But I can't help but let my imagination get carried away with how similar the life of a bishop must be to that of the princes in fairy tale stories...
We have a new Archbishop Designate in Milwaukee-Bishop Jerome Listecki. The Milwaukee news has been filled with pictures and videos of his welcoming Mass and meetings with the press at St. Francis de Sales Seminary. Our Seminary is a beautiful building set on the glorious wooded grounds next to the shores of Lake Michigan. I wonder if our new Archbishop will ever have much time to enjoy the natural setting in which he will be living and working, or will he be so busy serving the people of the Archdiocese that he will barely have time to notice the natural gifts from God that are right in his backyard.
Reading the stories about him got me thinking about how difficult his life and the life of all bishops must be. For that matter, I'm sure I could include Pope Benedict and most priests in that statement as well. I imagine that their lives must be filled with one round of meetings after another.
I think back to last spring when Archbishop Dolan was installed as Archbishop of New York. Watching the Mass on TV, I was struck by how this big, robust and energetic man, full of life and joy, looked like a little boy, fearful of what tremendous work lay ahead of him in his new responsibilities. I think that Bishop Listecki may be feeling the same way right now.
I offer my prayers to all of our hard-working and faith-filled leaders in the church who often have to give up so much of themselves and the things they enjoy, so that we may all come to know God more deeply.
I wonder, do they ever have much time to just enjoy life? I'm sure they are so grateful to be living their lives in a way that pleases the Lord and nothing must make a man happier than the knowledge that God is using him as an instrument to draw others closer to His loving heart. But I can't help but let my imagination get carried away with how similar the life of a bishop must be to that of the princes in fairy tale stories...
He lives behind the walls of the castle.
Although he is the leader,
his life is ruled by the demands of others.
All day long
he sits in meeting after meeting,
words rolling into each other until they lose their meaning.
He dreams of freedom.
If only…he thinks…
If only I could feel the cold, autumn air in my face.
If only I could see my breath escape from my mouth in little clouds of white.
If only I could watch the sky turn pink and purple from the shadows of the setting sun.
If only I could hear the crunch of autumn leaves under my feet.
If only I could listen to the sound of the waves crashing into the shore.
If only I could find the deer family hidden behind the trees.
If only I could live outside in the beauty of nature like Francis.
If only I could dance on the hillsides like David.
I am so close to that dream, yet I’m a million miles away,
trapped by the life that leads me instead of the life I lead.
Yet if I only had an hour in those surroundings, in that glorious fresh air,
I know that I could endure the stagnant indoor environment for days on end.
By faithfully succumbing to my rightful place,
whether it brings me freedom or entrapment,
I know that I am pleasing God,
And my heartfelt work is pure.
I trust that He will give me small gifts of time in the beauty of nature today,
that will be a foretaste of my future in heaven's glory.
(Inspired by the lyrics to "If You Want Your Dream to Be" from Brother Sun, Sister Moon)
Father of all the faithful, thank you for so many courageous leaders who are not afraid to give their entire lives to your service. Bless our wonderful Pope Benedict XVI, all of our Cardinals and Bishops (especially Archbishop Designate Listecki), our beloved priests, seminarians, deacons, those discerning a call to the priesthood and religious life and all of our wonderful religious brothers and sisters. Thank you for blessing us with so many who have bravely answered Your call. Give them moments of respite so that they many continue to serve with energy, zeal and love. Amen.
Nov 17, 2009
It Will All Be Worth It
If it takes my whole life
I won't break, I won't bend
It will all be worth it
Worth it in the end
'Cause I can only tell you what I know
That I need you in my life
When the stars have all burned out
You'll still be burning so bright
Cast me gently
Into morning
For the night has been unkind
“The Answer”
Sarah McLachlan
My mom and her sister Marge were women of deep faith. Their entire lives were lived in the love of the Lord. My mom died ten years ago. It was a brain tumor that resulted in her leaving this earth for eternity with the Lord at the age of 73. Eight years later my aunt Marge passed away at the age of 87.
At the funeral wake for Marge, her daughter, my cousin Mary, a beautiful and faith filled woman who seemed to have everything going for her, shared a story with me about my mom. It seems that Mary had been suffering from depression at the time of my mom’s death. Life for her was very bleak. Shortly after my mom had died, Mary had a dream about her. In Mary's dream, my mom came to her and said “Mary, it’s all worth it.” That dream gave my cousin so much peace, believing that my mom was in heaven and was encouraging Mary by letting her know that all of those earthly trials will be replaced with the joys of heaven. Of course, my sisters and I were a bit jealous of Mary because she had the dream about my mom and we didn’t, but maybe Mary needed it more at that time.
In the few months before my Aunt Marge died I myself had two experiences of prayer that have left me pondering the power of prayer and the ability we have to feel the needs of others. I was at daily Mass. During the consecration when the priest prays for those who have died, our pastor, Fr. Dave, has the habit of pausing to give everyone time to silently pray for those departed souls that we hold deeply in our hearts. I always use this time to pray for my parents and anyone I know who has died recently, by giving their names to the Lord. Suddenly, out of the blue, Marge's name came to my mind. I had not been thinking of her and had not seen her in such a long time. I wondered, "why now?" Had she died and I hadn't heard about it yet? Shortly after I “heard” her name at Mass, I was told that she was sick and in the hospital. I wondered if it wasn’t Marge’s angel who had placed her name in my mind and my heart, knowing that she was in need of prayer. A few months later this happened yet again, Marge's name coming to my mind during the consecration at Mass. It was later that I learned she had been moved to a hospice right around the time when I had "heard" her name at Mass.
By the time she finally did die, I was the one suffering through a deep depression like my cousin Mary. So, although I never had a dream about my aunt Marge or my mom comforting me from heaven, my cousin Mary’s words to me at Marge’s funeral wake about her own dream gave me comfort. God must have meant for her to share her experience with me at this particular time because he knew I needed it more at that moment than I did at the time of my own mother’s death.
Since that time two years ago, my bouts of depression come and go with a frequency which leaves me spinning, but those words that Mary heard in her dream, “it’s all worth it”, help me to cope when I know that whatever suffering I undergo here on earth will draw me to eternal joys if I can only remember to offer it up to God for the good of others both living and deceased.
I won't break, I won't bend
It will all be worth it
Worth it in the end
'Cause I can only tell you what I know
That I need you in my life
When the stars have all burned out
You'll still be burning so bright
Cast me gently
Into morning
For the night has been unkind
“The Answer”
Sarah McLachlan
My mom and her sister Marge were women of deep faith. Their entire lives were lived in the love of the Lord. My mom died ten years ago. It was a brain tumor that resulted in her leaving this earth for eternity with the Lord at the age of 73. Eight years later my aunt Marge passed away at the age of 87.
At the funeral wake for Marge, her daughter, my cousin Mary, a beautiful and faith filled woman who seemed to have everything going for her, shared a story with me about my mom. It seems that Mary had been suffering from depression at the time of my mom’s death. Life for her was very bleak. Shortly after my mom had died, Mary had a dream about her. In Mary's dream, my mom came to her and said “Mary, it’s all worth it.” That dream gave my cousin so much peace, believing that my mom was in heaven and was encouraging Mary by letting her know that all of those earthly trials will be replaced with the joys of heaven. Of course, my sisters and I were a bit jealous of Mary because she had the dream about my mom and we didn’t, but maybe Mary needed it more at that time.
In the few months before my Aunt Marge died I myself had two experiences of prayer that have left me pondering the power of prayer and the ability we have to feel the needs of others. I was at daily Mass. During the consecration when the priest prays for those who have died, our pastor, Fr. Dave, has the habit of pausing to give everyone time to silently pray for those departed souls that we hold deeply in our hearts. I always use this time to pray for my parents and anyone I know who has died recently, by giving their names to the Lord. Suddenly, out of the blue, Marge's name came to my mind. I had not been thinking of her and had not seen her in such a long time. I wondered, "why now?" Had she died and I hadn't heard about it yet? Shortly after I “heard” her name at Mass, I was told that she was sick and in the hospital. I wondered if it wasn’t Marge’s angel who had placed her name in my mind and my heart, knowing that she was in need of prayer. A few months later this happened yet again, Marge's name coming to my mind during the consecration at Mass. It was later that I learned she had been moved to a hospice right around the time when I had "heard" her name at Mass.
By the time she finally did die, I was the one suffering through a deep depression like my cousin Mary. So, although I never had a dream about my aunt Marge or my mom comforting me from heaven, my cousin Mary’s words to me at Marge’s funeral wake about her own dream gave me comfort. God must have meant for her to share her experience with me at this particular time because he knew I needed it more at that moment than I did at the time of my own mother’s death.
Since that time two years ago, my bouts of depression come and go with a frequency which leaves me spinning, but those words that Mary heard in her dream, “it’s all worth it”, help me to cope when I know that whatever suffering I undergo here on earth will draw me to eternal joys if I can only remember to offer it up to God for the good of others both living and deceased.
Nov 16, 2009
This, too
I’m afraid that I will never know what it is like
to be whole and peaceful this side of heaven.
Whenever fresh pain enters my heart,
the remnant of a voice from the past comes back to haunt me,
“It’s your Good Friday, Anne, get on the cross."
I cry softly in the early morning hours of darkness,
desperately hoping God will hear me,
and release me from this pain,
but silence is the only reply.
Lonely, empty, long-lasting silence.
And when the help does finally come,
in the form of friends and family who really do care,
and put their arms around me and tell me that they love me,
I find that their love hurts, too.
I don’t believe that I deserve it.
Unworthiness and low self-esteem are my constant companions.
With a sigh, I ask God,
“This too, Lord? Do you want me to accept this pain too?
Do you want to take all of what I am, all of what I am not and all that I will never be?”
I’ve tasted resurrection; I’ve had joy after the sorrow of the past.
Now, I am here on the other side of that hill again,
standing before the cross that is waiting for me once more.
It beckons to me with the knowledge
that Jesus died because He loves me
and if I truly love Him in return,
I must also die to myself.
Like a child, I greedily beg to hold on to the joy for a little while longer.
I bite my lip to hold back the tears.
The blood dries hard on my lip like the happiness that is shriveling in my heart.
Lip biting is useless; the tears come anyway.
Never-ending tears.
I walk the familiar pavement that leads to my cross,
face to the ground hoping my tears will go unnoticed.
Cold November wind stings my damp face.
I hear the Spirit’s reply;
"This too, Anne. I want all of you.”
I bravely surrender my desires and reach out for my cross.
“This too, Lord. I give you my all.”
Nov 15, 2009
Hear The Cry of the Poor
I've written many posts these past six months about my job as a nutritionist for the Wisconsin WIC Program. I thought it might be high time that I gave a little background into what the WIC Program is for my international friends and also to give a little background into my personal history with the program. If you care to read more of my stories about WIC, see the labels section on the sidebar.
Wisconsin WIC Program
The purpose of the Special Supplemental Nutrition Program for Women, Infants and Children (WIC) is to promote and maintain the health and well being of nutritionally at-risk pregnant, breastfeeding and postpartum women, infants and children.
WIC provides supplemental nutritious foods, nutrition and breastfeeding information, and referral to other health and nutrition services. WIC promotes and supports breastfeeding.
To be eligible for WIC benefits in Wisconsin, a person must meet the following requirements:
• Be a pregnant, breastfeeding or new mother; be an infant up to age one; or be a child up to age 5; and
• Be a resident of Wisconsin; and
• Be income eligible; and
• Have a health or nutrition need.
Hear the Cry of the Poor
I’m just a small town girl who led a fairly sheltered life growing up in a large, Catholic family. When I moved to Milwaukee to become educated in dietetics I was quite naïve. Part of my training included some time spent in the inner city working at a WIC clinic. I absolutely hated it! I found the clients to be extremely rude and poorly behaved. I heard so many swear words that it broke my heart because children were everywhere. None of the clients were the list bit interested in attending my nutrition classes. It seemed they just wanted to receive their food vouchers and be on their way as quickly as possible. When my WIC internship was completed, I swore that I would never work at WIC as long as I lived! Over the years I worked at hospitals and nursing homes in both clinical nutrition settings and in food service administration and was quite content.
As time passed, I met Paul, the love of my life. We married and quickly began a family. We were a happy middle class family with the birth of our first son, John. Justin came along shortly after, followed quite quickly by Joe (they are each a little over a year apart in age). While I was pregnant with Joe, it was decided that I would quit my job to care for our three children at home. It was shortly after I quit, that Paul lost his job. How quickly the shoe falls on the other foot! I had haughtily swore off WIC as a career choice, but ran to them for help as soon as my own family was in need. Like most first time WIC clients, I was humbled and nervous about applying for benefits. I felt like I didn’t belong and was very uncomfortable. But the wonderful staff at the WIC Clinic treated me so kindly, that my discomfort soon wore away and I was very grateful for the dignity they provided me, as well as the relief that the WIC benefits brought to my grocery budget with vouchers for milk, cheese, eggs, cereal and peanut butter.
Paul soon found another job, but with one income, which was lower than that to which we had previously earned and with three children depending upon us, we still qualified for WIC benefits, and continued to qualify until the youngest of our five children turned five years old.
Paul and I decided that I should return to work to help support the family financially. After finding a temporary job at a bookbinding company, I was thrilled to see an advertisement in our local paper for a Nutritionist for the WIC program. Now that I had experienced first hand the great benefits of being enrolled in the WIC program and had also personally experienced motherhood, I knew that I would be better able to handle working in a WIC clinic than I would have been as a 20 year old inexperienced girl. I applied for the job and was thrilled to get it!
But that thrill wore off pretty quickly. I began by working 20 hours a week. Just as my workday was ending, I would arrive home in time for Paul to leave for his new job as a chef at a local country club. He’d pass off the three little ones to me and take his tired body off to work. We were both quite exhausted by our schedules and the demands of three babies at home. Our communication had whittled down to a nearly snarled “hello” and “good-bye” in passing. Not much fun.
On top of that, I didn’t have a clue about all of the rules and regulations that the State required the WIC Program employees and participants to follow. It was like going back to school to learn new career skills. Neither of my two coworkers who were hired with me had any previous WIC experience either. We were hired to open a new WIC Clinic inside of a hospital and we were all as green as could be. Our manager at the time was not the nicest boss in the world, to put it kindly. Her favorite word contained four letters and began with an “f”. She was always mad at someone. Can you say “stress”?
To make matters worse, the newspapers were full of stories of child abuse and neglect. It was so hard to read those stories and then go to work and hear women tell their babies to “shut up your ugly face.”
I went home every day for the first three months and cried. My only consolation was reuniting with six-month-old Joe and nursing him while reading stories to John and Justin who were toddlers at the time. Those wonderful breastfeeding hormones helped me to calm down and re-gear my attitude toward loving mother instead of stressed out employee. I gave thanks to God for my wonderful family and also for the ability to provide for them along with my husband. In time, I became competent in my position, I learned to cope with mother’s whose parenting skills left much to be desired and found ways to gently nudge them toward treating their children with more love and respect. Also, my mean foul-mouthed boss left for another position after six months and she was replaced by one of the dietitians with whom I was hired and who is still a wonderful boss today. But, best of all, Paul found a better paying job that allowed me to cut my hours down to a four-hour shift every Saturday. I felt extremely blessed. I was a stay-at-home mom with my children during those precious, fleeting years while they were small, yet every Saturday I had a four hour escape to the work world, where I could keep my foot in the door for the day when I might need to pick up more hours to help support my family once again.
Today I have been at my job for 13 years. I currently work between 24-30 hours a week. My boss is wonderful. I love my coworkers; we all get along very well. (Although we all come from different faith backgrounds, I sometimes think of us as a little community of religious sisters serving the Lord by serving the poor.) I love that I am able to help women to be the best mothers they can possibly be. And I love that I am able to learn so much from the poor. Most often I find that I am the poor one in need of the love that the clients are able to share with me.
I can’t say that my job is always easy, in fact, most days I am quite challenged by the variety of people and situations that I encounter. My job as a WIC Nutritionist entails screening the clients for a nutrition need such as a low iron level, underweight or overweight or poor dietary nutrient intake. I then counsel the women on how best to meet the particular nutrition needs of her family while staying within her food budget. But very often, my visits with the clients cover areas far beyond the nutrition needs of the family. Many times, I end up giving referrals to dentists because the children’s teeth have decayed, or I assist in finding a homeless shelter or food pantry. Sometimes a mother will need help in finding someone to screen her child for a developmental delay or in locating a safe place to stay to escape her abusive boyfriend
I can go from visiting with a married mother of three small children who struggles because her baby won’t latch for breastfeeding, to a 13 year old frightened pregnant girl, to families who recently emigrated from Nigeria, or Laos or Pakistan and speak very little English, to a woman who lost custody of her baby because of her drug use. I see mothers of children who are sick and in intensive care or who have medical disabilities, I see women who have callously aborted their babies and I see women who desperately want a child but continually suffer miscarriages. In all of these situations, I do my best to refrain from being judgmental about their situations and instead look to see Jesus within them. I know He’s there. Sometimes it’s a little harder to see Him, but if I am patient and gentle, He always reveals Himself to me somehow. As I quietly listen to the voices of the mother and children who visit with me in my office, I can hear Him in the cry of the poor.
Whether the clients I serve are single or married, young teenagers or what is medically called ‘advanced maternal age’ (over 35 years), faith-filled or faith-less, I find that it is I who grows in faith, love and joy each day through my service to these women and their children in the WIC Clinic.
Wisconsin WIC Program
The purpose of the Special Supplemental Nutrition Program for Women, Infants and Children (WIC) is to promote and maintain the health and well being of nutritionally at-risk pregnant, breastfeeding and postpartum women, infants and children.
WIC provides supplemental nutritious foods, nutrition and breastfeeding information, and referral to other health and nutrition services. WIC promotes and supports breastfeeding.
To be eligible for WIC benefits in Wisconsin, a person must meet the following requirements:
• Be a pregnant, breastfeeding or new mother; be an infant up to age one; or be a child up to age 5; and
• Be a resident of Wisconsin; and
• Be income eligible; and
• Have a health or nutrition need.
Hear the Cry of the Poor
I’m just a small town girl who led a fairly sheltered life growing up in a large, Catholic family. When I moved to Milwaukee to become educated in dietetics I was quite naïve. Part of my training included some time spent in the inner city working at a WIC clinic. I absolutely hated it! I found the clients to be extremely rude and poorly behaved. I heard so many swear words that it broke my heart because children were everywhere. None of the clients were the list bit interested in attending my nutrition classes. It seemed they just wanted to receive their food vouchers and be on their way as quickly as possible. When my WIC internship was completed, I swore that I would never work at WIC as long as I lived! Over the years I worked at hospitals and nursing homes in both clinical nutrition settings and in food service administration and was quite content.
As time passed, I met Paul, the love of my life. We married and quickly began a family. We were a happy middle class family with the birth of our first son, John. Justin came along shortly after, followed quite quickly by Joe (they are each a little over a year apart in age). While I was pregnant with Joe, it was decided that I would quit my job to care for our three children at home. It was shortly after I quit, that Paul lost his job. How quickly the shoe falls on the other foot! I had haughtily swore off WIC as a career choice, but ran to them for help as soon as my own family was in need. Like most first time WIC clients, I was humbled and nervous about applying for benefits. I felt like I didn’t belong and was very uncomfortable. But the wonderful staff at the WIC Clinic treated me so kindly, that my discomfort soon wore away and I was very grateful for the dignity they provided me, as well as the relief that the WIC benefits brought to my grocery budget with vouchers for milk, cheese, eggs, cereal and peanut butter.
Paul soon found another job, but with one income, which was lower than that to which we had previously earned and with three children depending upon us, we still qualified for WIC benefits, and continued to qualify until the youngest of our five children turned five years old.
Paul and I decided that I should return to work to help support the family financially. After finding a temporary job at a bookbinding company, I was thrilled to see an advertisement in our local paper for a Nutritionist for the WIC program. Now that I had experienced first hand the great benefits of being enrolled in the WIC program and had also personally experienced motherhood, I knew that I would be better able to handle working in a WIC clinic than I would have been as a 20 year old inexperienced girl. I applied for the job and was thrilled to get it!
But that thrill wore off pretty quickly. I began by working 20 hours a week. Just as my workday was ending, I would arrive home in time for Paul to leave for his new job as a chef at a local country club. He’d pass off the three little ones to me and take his tired body off to work. We were both quite exhausted by our schedules and the demands of three babies at home. Our communication had whittled down to a nearly snarled “hello” and “good-bye” in passing. Not much fun.
On top of that, I didn’t have a clue about all of the rules and regulations that the State required the WIC Program employees and participants to follow. It was like going back to school to learn new career skills. Neither of my two coworkers who were hired with me had any previous WIC experience either. We were hired to open a new WIC Clinic inside of a hospital and we were all as green as could be. Our manager at the time was not the nicest boss in the world, to put it kindly. Her favorite word contained four letters and began with an “f”. She was always mad at someone. Can you say “stress”?
To make matters worse, the newspapers were full of stories of child abuse and neglect. It was so hard to read those stories and then go to work and hear women tell their babies to “shut up your ugly face.”
I went home every day for the first three months and cried. My only consolation was reuniting with six-month-old Joe and nursing him while reading stories to John and Justin who were toddlers at the time. Those wonderful breastfeeding hormones helped me to calm down and re-gear my attitude toward loving mother instead of stressed out employee. I gave thanks to God for my wonderful family and also for the ability to provide for them along with my husband. In time, I became competent in my position, I learned to cope with mother’s whose parenting skills left much to be desired and found ways to gently nudge them toward treating their children with more love and respect. Also, my mean foul-mouthed boss left for another position after six months and she was replaced by one of the dietitians with whom I was hired and who is still a wonderful boss today. But, best of all, Paul found a better paying job that allowed me to cut my hours down to a four-hour shift every Saturday. I felt extremely blessed. I was a stay-at-home mom with my children during those precious, fleeting years while they were small, yet every Saturday I had a four hour escape to the work world, where I could keep my foot in the door for the day when I might need to pick up more hours to help support my family once again.
Today I have been at my job for 13 years. I currently work between 24-30 hours a week. My boss is wonderful. I love my coworkers; we all get along very well. (Although we all come from different faith backgrounds, I sometimes think of us as a little community of religious sisters serving the Lord by serving the poor.) I love that I am able to help women to be the best mothers they can possibly be. And I love that I am able to learn so much from the poor. Most often I find that I am the poor one in need of the love that the clients are able to share with me.
I can’t say that my job is always easy, in fact, most days I am quite challenged by the variety of people and situations that I encounter. My job as a WIC Nutritionist entails screening the clients for a nutrition need such as a low iron level, underweight or overweight or poor dietary nutrient intake. I then counsel the women on how best to meet the particular nutrition needs of her family while staying within her food budget. But very often, my visits with the clients cover areas far beyond the nutrition needs of the family. Many times, I end up giving referrals to dentists because the children’s teeth have decayed, or I assist in finding a homeless shelter or food pantry. Sometimes a mother will need help in finding someone to screen her child for a developmental delay or in locating a safe place to stay to escape her abusive boyfriend
I can go from visiting with a married mother of three small children who struggles because her baby won’t latch for breastfeeding, to a 13 year old frightened pregnant girl, to families who recently emigrated from Nigeria, or Laos or Pakistan and speak very little English, to a woman who lost custody of her baby because of her drug use. I see mothers of children who are sick and in intensive care or who have medical disabilities, I see women who have callously aborted their babies and I see women who desperately want a child but continually suffer miscarriages. In all of these situations, I do my best to refrain from being judgmental about their situations and instead look to see Jesus within them. I know He’s there. Sometimes it’s a little harder to see Him, but if I am patient and gentle, He always reveals Himself to me somehow. As I quietly listen to the voices of the mother and children who visit with me in my office, I can hear Him in the cry of the poor.
Whether the clients I serve are single or married, young teenagers or what is medically called ‘advanced maternal age’ (over 35 years), faith-filled or faith-less, I find that it is I who grows in faith, love and joy each day through my service to these women and their children in the WIC Clinic.
Aberration of Species
I don't care about Barack Obama. Every day at Follet Library Resources, hundreds upon hundreds of books about Obama come filtering through the warehouse – children's books, adult books that read much like the children's books using similar vocabulary and rudimentary style, picture books, comic books, and fantasy books. All of these ride down the humming, mechanical assembly line in totes tattooed with bar codes, sent out to find a specific destination also marked by a code of black lines and spaces. Ultimately, fans and die hards (or hungry, hateful fiends) will find these dementedly dull products of American consumerism and devour their minuscule portions of knowledge. That's how the system works (or at least a simple explanation of its intricate, complex inner workings).
With that sort of logic, I suppose I don't care about the system. I mean, if I don't care about Obama, how can I care about the system in which Obama books are distributed? What fucking sort of question is that anyway?
I don't care about politics. At least not anymore. I used to care. I used to be actively involved during my earlier years in this state of existence, which, aren't that many. These adamant feelings about political involvement stemmed from my intense Republicanism invoked by public education in a Middle Class suburban upbringing. I was implanted with ideas of Americanism, patriotism, and a good, moral structure in which I would be subservient, obedient, humble, and giving to my neighbor, all the while strutting about town in baggy pants whereby horny corporate hyenas with hideous, shrieking laughs could have access to my youthful ass. This was a perfect simulation of hardworking Americans. It was the American dream. I was comfortable. I wasn't struggling day to day and fighting for survival. I was reaching for a carrot dangling higher than my hands could ever possibly grasp, no matter how many growth hormones I ingested.
The irony behind all this was that I cared about politics. Yet, I didn't care about wrestling (not real wrestling but that heavily marketed WWF faux drama wrestling). I cast out one pill for the same one but colored differently – yellow for red. It's like those kids who are swayed to eat anything out of a McDonald's wrapper and forsake the same product in another wrapper, even if it tastes and is composed of exactly the same thing.
Somewhere along the line, however, I stopped caring. I tossed politics aside and considered it melodramatic nonsense that belonged in a Jerry Bruckheimer production, and I really hated Armageddon. That movie sucked. Pearl Harbor did too. It was then that I became a media frenzied aberration. I indulged in the stimulants everyone else of my generation did. I watched the movies. I played the video games. I listened to the music. I submerged myself in the masturbatory fantasy that was 90s entertainment for kids and bought all the products (or begged my parents to make those purchases – asking them sweetly to sacrifice for me the hard earned money they earned from bending over for the corporate machine). At the time, I so eagerly wanted to bend over too, like most of my peers still do. Fuck me you smarmy corporate prick! Fuck me hard! I can take it! You tricked me into wanting to take it, regardless of how much I bleed!
There was a flip of a switch somewhere in that media-induced dream. The hallucination fizzed out, and I began to look at things differently. I was able to look at the cover of Maxim Magazine, see the pretty blonde in the red dress, and point out the faulty placement of her facial features. I could see that one breast was slightly larger than the other, and one arm hung longer than its counterpart. My friends at Wal-Mart mutated into empty ghouls wandering the corridors of American life, yellowish ooze dripping from the corners of their mouths and splattering on the once immaculate phony tile floor. Listless eyes rolled left and right as these ghastly beasts touched and fondled Magic Bullets, cans of Spaghetti-Os, Snuggies, Shamwows, copies of Twilight (also written at a rudimentary level that even stoop lower than the reading levels of people doctors consider to be mentally handicapped), and so on and so forth.
The older denizens in society have an excuse for still playing within the dream. They ultimately realized they were lied to and tricked too late. They are, unfortunately, stuck in a bad record loop of Billie Ray Sirius' “Achy Breaky Heart”. The youthful spuds don't have an excuse. Information is more prominent these days. It's everywhere. Every time a person touches an LCD screen, Internet access is almost a given that could open worlds upon worlds of different thoughts, ideas, realizations, and manifestations. Yet, all these spuds want to do is text one another sultry messages and masturbate in seclusion to dirty thoughts of their betrothed and their friends. Stimulation. Multiple stimulations. They'll masturbate whilst listening to the Jonas Brothers and watching 300. Pleasure centers all over the body all reaching a climax in one high crescendo, and then, during a lull at school, depression hits while these busy-bodies wait to eagerly repeat the same act again and again and again.
Fuck me you smarmy corporate prick! Keep me in this illusion!
There's a cliché quote from William Shakespeare that people like to throw around (most prominently members of the theater community): “All the world's a stage”. Whether or not these people ponder the quote is anybody's guess. Apparently the quote was already a cliché when Shakespeare tossed it in one of his works. Yet, it's meaning can be established a number of ways, depending on the mentality and perceptions of its interpreter. It's just one piece of information that's out there, that is floating about in this web as large as the universe filled with information.
“These creatures have seemingly little or no reasoning power...”
The American dream exists for a few. It's the dream of a few wealthy tightwads to have a nice, fulfilling lifestyle while other brain dead peons change their diapers. These insects work about the hive, so the queens can live happily, and the ants never question or think critically, even though, now more than ever, the possibility exists to do so. It's this hallucinatory drug that steps in the way. This multi-faceted world of media that Marshall McLuhan once wrote about as being the doom of our world will enslave this generation (and generations to come) into a sleep reminiscent of John Carpenter's They Live. They will be stimulated.
Then again, the economy is bad. Rapid technological advances do indeed create an unstable economic market, among other things. Change is happening. Change is coming. Change is here. We have a man – this Barack Obama. He can do it for us? He is one of the most heavily advertised figureheads I have ever witnessed, even moreso than Michael Jackson or any other artist paired with the recently deceased “King of Pop”.
Since the recent generations have become so reliant on this dream to do all the work for them, like a fat senator expects his hooker to do all the work, these little zombies elect an individual to bring about their wishes while they shoot up terrorists in Call of Duty. Mooooooooooooooooooooooom, can you bring me a drink? I can't 'cuz I don't want to leave the realm of Oblivion.
Experienced frat boys will note that good sex comes not from hot chicks, but hot chicks that also are actively involved in the drunken art of after party love-making. The corpses that just lie there are merely empty vessels to release waste into. The keyword behind this idea is: actively. Actively involved. It's this notion of doing something yourself, but beyond that, thinking critically, analyzing the situation, and actively working to pursue the way of life you really want to pursue, deep down, without all the influenced bullshit brought to you by Walt Disney, Kay Jewelers, or GM. Deer-crunching SUVs will not be used to drive on the top of Mount St. Helen, but rather, will be jammed in traffic with some consumer-whoring old woman applying lipstick, texting her evening rendesvous, and checking her tweets, while smashing into the back of some aloof NASCAR fan. At least, that's the reality we, as human beings in Western culture, have constructed (or allowed to be constructed) for ourselves. Is it what we want?
Information is everywhere, and the cake is a lie. Questioning one's religion, upbringing, social status, laws, ethics, morals, and lifestyle is a beautiful thing. It's a reminder that the hamster wheels of the mind are turning.
All the world is nonsense, and all the men and women are merely nonsensical.
I guess the ultimate irony to this whole post is that I will be placing it and linking it to Facebook – the current king wasteland of hallucinations and delusions.
With that sort of logic, I suppose I don't care about the system. I mean, if I don't care about Obama, how can I care about the system in which Obama books are distributed? What fucking sort of question is that anyway?
I don't care about politics. At least not anymore. I used to care. I used to be actively involved during my earlier years in this state of existence, which, aren't that many. These adamant feelings about political involvement stemmed from my intense Republicanism invoked by public education in a Middle Class suburban upbringing. I was implanted with ideas of Americanism, patriotism, and a good, moral structure in which I would be subservient, obedient, humble, and giving to my neighbor, all the while strutting about town in baggy pants whereby horny corporate hyenas with hideous, shrieking laughs could have access to my youthful ass. This was a perfect simulation of hardworking Americans. It was the American dream. I was comfortable. I wasn't struggling day to day and fighting for survival. I was reaching for a carrot dangling higher than my hands could ever possibly grasp, no matter how many growth hormones I ingested.
The irony behind all this was that I cared about politics. Yet, I didn't care about wrestling (not real wrestling but that heavily marketed WWF faux drama wrestling). I cast out one pill for the same one but colored differently – yellow for red. It's like those kids who are swayed to eat anything out of a McDonald's wrapper and forsake the same product in another wrapper, even if it tastes and is composed of exactly the same thing.
Somewhere along the line, however, I stopped caring. I tossed politics aside and considered it melodramatic nonsense that belonged in a Jerry Bruckheimer production, and I really hated Armageddon. That movie sucked. Pearl Harbor did too. It was then that I became a media frenzied aberration. I indulged in the stimulants everyone else of my generation did. I watched the movies. I played the video games. I listened to the music. I submerged myself in the masturbatory fantasy that was 90s entertainment for kids and bought all the products (or begged my parents to make those purchases – asking them sweetly to sacrifice for me the hard earned money they earned from bending over for the corporate machine). At the time, I so eagerly wanted to bend over too, like most of my peers still do. Fuck me you smarmy corporate prick! Fuck me hard! I can take it! You tricked me into wanting to take it, regardless of how much I bleed!
There was a flip of a switch somewhere in that media-induced dream. The hallucination fizzed out, and I began to look at things differently. I was able to look at the cover of Maxim Magazine, see the pretty blonde in the red dress, and point out the faulty placement of her facial features. I could see that one breast was slightly larger than the other, and one arm hung longer than its counterpart. My friends at Wal-Mart mutated into empty ghouls wandering the corridors of American life, yellowish ooze dripping from the corners of their mouths and splattering on the once immaculate phony tile floor. Listless eyes rolled left and right as these ghastly beasts touched and fondled Magic Bullets, cans of Spaghetti-Os, Snuggies, Shamwows, copies of Twilight (also written at a rudimentary level that even stoop lower than the reading levels of people doctors consider to be mentally handicapped), and so on and so forth.
The older denizens in society have an excuse for still playing within the dream. They ultimately realized they were lied to and tricked too late. They are, unfortunately, stuck in a bad record loop of Billie Ray Sirius' “Achy Breaky Heart”. The youthful spuds don't have an excuse. Information is more prominent these days. It's everywhere. Every time a person touches an LCD screen, Internet access is almost a given that could open worlds upon worlds of different thoughts, ideas, realizations, and manifestations. Yet, all these spuds want to do is text one another sultry messages and masturbate in seclusion to dirty thoughts of their betrothed and their friends. Stimulation. Multiple stimulations. They'll masturbate whilst listening to the Jonas Brothers and watching 300. Pleasure centers all over the body all reaching a climax in one high crescendo, and then, during a lull at school, depression hits while these busy-bodies wait to eagerly repeat the same act again and again and again.
Fuck me you smarmy corporate prick! Keep me in this illusion!
There's a cliché quote from William Shakespeare that people like to throw around (most prominently members of the theater community): “All the world's a stage”. Whether or not these people ponder the quote is anybody's guess. Apparently the quote was already a cliché when Shakespeare tossed it in one of his works. Yet, it's meaning can be established a number of ways, depending on the mentality and perceptions of its interpreter. It's just one piece of information that's out there, that is floating about in this web as large as the universe filled with information.
“These creatures have seemingly little or no reasoning power...”
The American dream exists for a few. It's the dream of a few wealthy tightwads to have a nice, fulfilling lifestyle while other brain dead peons change their diapers. These insects work about the hive, so the queens can live happily, and the ants never question or think critically, even though, now more than ever, the possibility exists to do so. It's this hallucinatory drug that steps in the way. This multi-faceted world of media that Marshall McLuhan once wrote about as being the doom of our world will enslave this generation (and generations to come) into a sleep reminiscent of John Carpenter's They Live. They will be stimulated.
Then again, the economy is bad. Rapid technological advances do indeed create an unstable economic market, among other things. Change is happening. Change is coming. Change is here. We have a man – this Barack Obama. He can do it for us? He is one of the most heavily advertised figureheads I have ever witnessed, even moreso than Michael Jackson or any other artist paired with the recently deceased “King of Pop”.
Since the recent generations have become so reliant on this dream to do all the work for them, like a fat senator expects his hooker to do all the work, these little zombies elect an individual to bring about their wishes while they shoot up terrorists in Call of Duty. Mooooooooooooooooooooooom, can you bring me a drink? I can't 'cuz I don't want to leave the realm of Oblivion.
Experienced frat boys will note that good sex comes not from hot chicks, but hot chicks that also are actively involved in the drunken art of after party love-making. The corpses that just lie there are merely empty vessels to release waste into. The keyword behind this idea is: actively. Actively involved. It's this notion of doing something yourself, but beyond that, thinking critically, analyzing the situation, and actively working to pursue the way of life you really want to pursue, deep down, without all the influenced bullshit brought to you by Walt Disney, Kay Jewelers, or GM. Deer-crunching SUVs will not be used to drive on the top of Mount St. Helen, but rather, will be jammed in traffic with some consumer-whoring old woman applying lipstick, texting her evening rendesvous, and checking her tweets, while smashing into the back of some aloof NASCAR fan. At least, that's the reality we, as human beings in Western culture, have constructed (or allowed to be constructed) for ourselves. Is it what we want?
Information is everywhere, and the cake is a lie. Questioning one's religion, upbringing, social status, laws, ethics, morals, and lifestyle is a beautiful thing. It's a reminder that the hamster wheels of the mind are turning.
All the world is nonsense, and all the men and women are merely nonsensical.
I guess the ultimate irony to this whole post is that I will be placing it and linking it to Facebook – the current king wasteland of hallucinations and delusions.
Nov 14, 2009
Praise for the Reality of God!
“Give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus”
1 Thessalonians 5:18
I've had a couple of rough weeks recently. Nothing major at all, just lots of little things that nagged at me and bothered me. I wrote down all of the things that were bothering me, thinking I would counter each negative event with a positive thing. I never got around to doing that. Once I had my list of negativity, I was ashamed that I would even bother to write down the things that upset me as if I needed to hold onto them somehow, nurture them, let them grow and fester inside my heart.
I was blessed to spend a little bit of time with a friend this week and when I told him about my negativity list he said "Anne, that's not real. All of those things will be gone tomorrow, they don't last. All that is real is God. He is the only One who will last forever." WOW! That made so much sense to me, I went home and tore up my list. I am now determined to focus on the beautiful reality of God and all of the real ways that he shows his presence to me.
Here is my list of praise for the week. It is real because they are all gifts from God and I choose to remember them all and praise God for them.
1) For the reality of Jesus in the Eucharist.
2) For yellow mums growing in the garden in the middle of November after everything else has died.
3) For walking under a beautiful pink sunset, listening to the song of a friend.
4) For the new Archbishop of Milwaukee-Archbishop Jerome Listecki! Hooray! And a huge Praise be to God!!!
5) For the gift of old friends from the original St. Matthias Mom's Group and the chance to reconnect-especially for wonderful Sr. Moira who is visiting from Australia. How I've missed her these past 13 years!
Dear One and Only Real Father in Heaven, thank you for the reality of your love and goodness in my life. Thank you for the reality of my husband, my children and my friends. Thank you for the reality of your love in my heart. Thank you for the reality of the beauty found in nature. Thank you for being Real. Amen.
Thank you also, to Jennifer at My Chocolate Heart for hosting this weekly Praise MEME, and for her recent story about The Velveteen Rabbit becoming real (The Process of Holiness: Sometimes it Hurts to Let Yourself Be Loved for Real)published in Catholic Online.
1 Thessalonians 5:18
I've had a couple of rough weeks recently. Nothing major at all, just lots of little things that nagged at me and bothered me. I wrote down all of the things that were bothering me, thinking I would counter each negative event with a positive thing. I never got around to doing that. Once I had my list of negativity, I was ashamed that I would even bother to write down the things that upset me as if I needed to hold onto them somehow, nurture them, let them grow and fester inside my heart.
I was blessed to spend a little bit of time with a friend this week and when I told him about my negativity list he said "Anne, that's not real. All of those things will be gone tomorrow, they don't last. All that is real is God. He is the only One who will last forever." WOW! That made so much sense to me, I went home and tore up my list. I am now determined to focus on the beautiful reality of God and all of the real ways that he shows his presence to me.
Here is my list of praise for the week. It is real because they are all gifts from God and I choose to remember them all and praise God for them.
1) For the reality of Jesus in the Eucharist.
2) For yellow mums growing in the garden in the middle of November after everything else has died.
3) For walking under a beautiful pink sunset, listening to the song of a friend.
4) For the new Archbishop of Milwaukee-Archbishop Jerome Listecki! Hooray! And a huge Praise be to God!!!
5) For the gift of old friends from the original St. Matthias Mom's Group and the chance to reconnect-especially for wonderful Sr. Moira who is visiting from Australia. How I've missed her these past 13 years!
Dear One and Only Real Father in Heaven, thank you for the reality of your love and goodness in my life. Thank you for the reality of my husband, my children and my friends. Thank you for the reality of your love in my heart. Thank you for the reality of the beauty found in nature. Thank you for being Real. Amen.
Thank you also, to Jennifer at My Chocolate Heart for hosting this weekly Praise MEME, and for her recent story about The Velveteen Rabbit becoming real (The Process of Holiness: Sometimes it Hurts to Let Yourself Be Loved for Real)published in Catholic Online.
Nov 13, 2009
Favorite Quotes/Bishop Fulton Sheen
"Mary recaptures woman's vocation from the beginning namely, to be to humanity the bearer of the Divine. Every mother is this when she gives birth to a child, for the soul of every child is infused by God. She thus becomes a co-worker with Divinity; She bears what God alone can give. As the priest in the order of Redemption, at the moment of Consecration, brings the crucified Savior to the altar, so the mother in the order of creation brings the spirit which issues from the Hand of God to the cradle of the earth. With such thoughts in mind, Leon Bloy once said: "The more a woman is holy, the more she becomes a woman."
Fulton Sheen
"The World's First Love"
Nov 12, 2009
Our Lady of the Gate of Dawn
"Day pours out the word to day." Psalm 19
Tota pulchra es, Maria
et macula originalis non est in te.
Vestimentum tuum candidum quasi nix, et facies tua sicut sol.
Tota pulchra es, Maria,
et macula originalis non est in te.
Tu gloria Jerusalem, tu laetitia Israel, tu honorificentia populi nostri.
Tota pulchra es, Maria.
Last week I met with my sisters for our monthly rosary. My sister Cathy who lovingly cared for my parents before they died, brought along a box of post cards that my parents had collected on their world travels. I found this postcard in the box and I immediately fell in love with this beautiful picture, the lovely prayer and the gorgeous name-Our Lady of the Gate of Dawn. This image of Mary is also known as Our Lady of Ostra Brama and/or Our Lady of Mercy. It originated in Lithuania in the 1300's and was painted by an unknown artist. The gold and silver were added to the portrait later. Her feast is celebrated between November 10th and November 16th. Happy feast of Our Lady of The Gate of Dawn!
Tota pulchra es, Maria
et macula originalis non est in te.
Vestimentum tuum candidum quasi nix, et facies tua sicut sol.
Tota pulchra es, Maria,
et macula originalis non est in te.
Tu gloria Jerusalem, tu laetitia Israel, tu honorificentia populi nostri.
Tota pulchra es, Maria.
You are all beautiful, Mary,
and the original stain [of sin] is not in you.
Your clothing is white as snow, and your face is like the sun.
You are all beautiful, Mary,
and the original stain [of sin] is not in you.
You are the glory of Jerusalem, you are the joy of Israel, you give honour to our people.
You are all beautiful, Mary.
Last week I met with my sisters for our monthly rosary. My sister Cathy who lovingly cared for my parents before they died, brought along a box of post cards that my parents had collected on their world travels. I found this postcard in the box and I immediately fell in love with this beautiful picture, the lovely prayer and the gorgeous name-Our Lady of the Gate of Dawn. This image of Mary is also known as Our Lady of Ostra Brama and/or Our Lady of Mercy. It originated in Lithuania in the 1300's and was painted by an unknown artist. The gold and silver were added to the portrait later. Her feast is celebrated between November 10th and November 16th. Happy feast of Our Lady of The Gate of Dawn!
Nov 11, 2009
Prayer in Motion
I walk the downtown streets
each noon,
rosary buried in the palm
of my hand
lest someone see it and know
of my prayer.
I pass the homeless,
the families and
the college students hurrying to class.
All the while
my prayer continues,
but now, it includes each of those
I pass on the way.
A stranger asks
"What are you doing?
Talking to yourself?"
I don't answer as the blush
of embarrassment covers my face.
I try to keep my lips from moving
so that only God will know of my
noontime conversation with Him.
But sometimes, I get carried away
in prayer and lose awareness of my surroundings.
All through the rosary and the
Chaplet of Divine Mercy
my fingers work the beads
as fast as my feet work the sidewalk.
I cross over to the college campus
and nod to the priest as he leaves the
Church of the Gesu
in appreciation for the many confessions
he's listened to my heart unburden.
Ave's continue for family and friends,
strangers and acquaintances
and my very own soul
as I skirt around the little French
St. Joan of Arc Chapel
and wind my way back
to work.
Now, I am refreshed,
renewed,
and able to continue my day
of service to others
after having given the service of my heart
to the Lord.
each noon,
rosary buried in the palm
of my hand
lest someone see it and know
of my prayer.
I pass the homeless,
the families and
the college students hurrying to class.
All the while
my prayer continues,
but now, it includes each of those
I pass on the way.
A stranger asks
"What are you doing?
Talking to yourself?"
I don't answer as the blush
of embarrassment covers my face.
I try to keep my lips from moving
so that only God will know of my
noontime conversation with Him.
But sometimes, I get carried away
in prayer and lose awareness of my surroundings.
All through the rosary and the
Chaplet of Divine Mercy
my fingers work the beads
as fast as my feet work the sidewalk.
I cross over to the college campus
and nod to the priest as he leaves the
Church of the Gesu
in appreciation for the many confessions
he's listened to my heart unburden.
Ave's continue for family and friends,
strangers and acquaintances
and my very own soul
as I skirt around the little French
St. Joan of Arc Chapel
and wind my way back
to work.
Now, I am refreshed,
renewed,
and able to continue my day
of service to others
after having given the service of my heart
to the Lord.
Nov 10, 2009
Road Rage
"He who commits sin, is the slave of sin." John 8:34
I'd been feeling a bit of remorse over the fact that I don't openly live my Catholic Christian faith in a way that others could readily tell what it is that I believe in and value. This feeling was made clear to me last Spring while spending some time reading Jennifer's My Chocolate Heart blog. Jennifer embraces the pro-life cause openly and proudly. She doesn't seem to have any qualms about defending innocent life regardless of any backlash she may receive from others who oppose her view.
Last year, my niece Jenny gave me a bumper sticker which reads "You can't be Catholic and pro-abortion." I thanked her and promptly put the bumper sticker in a drawer, not wanting to advertise my pro-life views publicly. Yes, I'm pro-life and I pray for the end to abortion every day, but did I really want to advertise that fact to a non-believing world? Not at that time, unfortunately. But after reading Jennifer's blog, I decided it was time for me to stop hiding like a coward and to finally stand up for what I believe in publicly. So, I pulled that bumper sticker out of the drawer and put it on the van.
And nothing happened. For a while, anyway. I have since then received two compliments on the sticker-one was from Jenny who has the same bumper sticker on her van and was probably wondering what took me so long to slap mine on my van, and the other was from a man I met at a rosary prayer group who told me that he also had the same bumper sticker on his car.
Last month my son John completed the last of his "behind-the-wheel" driving instructions to obtain his driver's license. When he pulled up to our house with his driving instructor, the van was parked out front. John told me that his instructor commented on the sticker and said that it should read "You can't be Christian and pro-abortion". Of course, he’s right, all Christians should espouse pro-life views, not only Catholic Christians.
All of these positive comments had me feeling pretty proud of the fact that I finally put that sticker on my van. Until this past Sunday, that is.
On Sunday afternoon, I loaded up the van with three of my children and one of their friends. We headed down to the Seminary for our monthly Holy Hour for Vocations. After giving our respect and adoration to Jesus, we hopped onto the freeway for a drive out to the country for a visit with some friends at their "barn", a building filled with fun and active equipment like trampolines, climbing ropes, sponge pits and basketball hoops.
Now I don't have a reputation as a very good driver, in fact I have been known to have a lead foot and struggle to hold myself back from tailgating. But I am quite sure that on this particular trip I was not offending any other drivers with whom I was sharing the road by my poor driving habits. So, I was extremely startled when another car completely cut me off, nearly taking off the front end of my van as the driver careened into my lane. My son who was sitting beside me in the front seat was also in a state of shock over the near life-altering accident that was averted by my foot slamming on the brake. Later, as we passed that car once again, the driver sent an obscene hand-gesture my way which made me question whether or not I might have been driving in such a way as to have upset her. I'm sure I didn't.
Thinking back, I wonder if it was my bumper sticker that might have offended her. Could she have been an angry pro-abortionist who delighted in harming others who disagreed with her point of view? Would a person really be so vile as to nearly cause the death of innocent children who are passengers simply because she didn't like to be reminded that abortion is murder?
Maybe as a chronic worrier I am simply over thinking this incident, but I can't help but wonder, am I putting my children's lives in jeopardy every time I drive them somewhere in the van with that bumper sticker? I may be willing to die for my faith, but is it right that my children might be taken along with me? Is it time to cover up that bumper sticker with something more politically correct?
Regardless of whether that woman's reckless driving and obscene gesture were due to my bumper sticker or something else, I have decided that I will pray for her and others like her who feel that behind the wheel is the place to vent their frustrations, and I will pray for the safety of all travelers regardless of their faith values or lack of faith values.
"I have set before you life and death, the blessing and the curse. Choose life, then, that you and your descendants may live." Deuteronomy 30:19
I'd been feeling a bit of remorse over the fact that I don't openly live my Catholic Christian faith in a way that others could readily tell what it is that I believe in and value. This feeling was made clear to me last Spring while spending some time reading Jennifer's My Chocolate Heart blog. Jennifer embraces the pro-life cause openly and proudly. She doesn't seem to have any qualms about defending innocent life regardless of any backlash she may receive from others who oppose her view.
Last year, my niece Jenny gave me a bumper sticker which reads "You can't be Catholic and pro-abortion." I thanked her and promptly put the bumper sticker in a drawer, not wanting to advertise my pro-life views publicly. Yes, I'm pro-life and I pray for the end to abortion every day, but did I really want to advertise that fact to a non-believing world? Not at that time, unfortunately. But after reading Jennifer's blog, I decided it was time for me to stop hiding like a coward and to finally stand up for what I believe in publicly. So, I pulled that bumper sticker out of the drawer and put it on the van.
And nothing happened. For a while, anyway. I have since then received two compliments on the sticker-one was from Jenny who has the same bumper sticker on her van and was probably wondering what took me so long to slap mine on my van, and the other was from a man I met at a rosary prayer group who told me that he also had the same bumper sticker on his car.
Last month my son John completed the last of his "behind-the-wheel" driving instructions to obtain his driver's license. When he pulled up to our house with his driving instructor, the van was parked out front. John told me that his instructor commented on the sticker and said that it should read "You can't be Christian and pro-abortion". Of course, he’s right, all Christians should espouse pro-life views, not only Catholic Christians.
All of these positive comments had me feeling pretty proud of the fact that I finally put that sticker on my van. Until this past Sunday, that is.
On Sunday afternoon, I loaded up the van with three of my children and one of their friends. We headed down to the Seminary for our monthly Holy Hour for Vocations. After giving our respect and adoration to Jesus, we hopped onto the freeway for a drive out to the country for a visit with some friends at their "barn", a building filled with fun and active equipment like trampolines, climbing ropes, sponge pits and basketball hoops.
Now I don't have a reputation as a very good driver, in fact I have been known to have a lead foot and struggle to hold myself back from tailgating. But I am quite sure that on this particular trip I was not offending any other drivers with whom I was sharing the road by my poor driving habits. So, I was extremely startled when another car completely cut me off, nearly taking off the front end of my van as the driver careened into my lane. My son who was sitting beside me in the front seat was also in a state of shock over the near life-altering accident that was averted by my foot slamming on the brake. Later, as we passed that car once again, the driver sent an obscene hand-gesture my way which made me question whether or not I might have been driving in such a way as to have upset her. I'm sure I didn't.
Thinking back, I wonder if it was my bumper sticker that might have offended her. Could she have been an angry pro-abortionist who delighted in harming others who disagreed with her point of view? Would a person really be so vile as to nearly cause the death of innocent children who are passengers simply because she didn't like to be reminded that abortion is murder?
Maybe as a chronic worrier I am simply over thinking this incident, but I can't help but wonder, am I putting my children's lives in jeopardy every time I drive them somewhere in the van with that bumper sticker? I may be willing to die for my faith, but is it right that my children might be taken along with me? Is it time to cover up that bumper sticker with something more politically correct?
Regardless of whether that woman's reckless driving and obscene gesture were due to my bumper sticker or something else, I have decided that I will pray for her and others like her who feel that behind the wheel is the place to vent their frustrations, and I will pray for the safety of all travelers regardless of their faith values or lack of faith values.
"I have set before you life and death, the blessing and the curse. Choose life, then, that you and your descendants may live." Deuteronomy 30:19
Nov 9, 2009
That Sinking Feeling
Bravely I stepped out of the boat,
not with a timid toe check
but with a full body plunge.
This is easy, I thought.
I can do anything!
And my head puffed up with pride.
The swelling of my large head
pushed my eyes closed
and I lost my focus.
I became top-heavy
and began to sink,
deeper and deeper.
I spluttered and choked
on my way down as
the anchor of sorrow
from my foolishness
pulled me into the watery darkness
and I could not break free.
I need a strong hand
to reach beneath the water
and pull me back to the surface.
I need to be resuscitated
with the friendship
and love of Jesus.
I need to be reminded
to keep my eyes
forever gazing on the Lord
for only in Him can I be redeemed
from my foolish pride.
Only in Him
will my steps on the water
humbly lead me to eternal salvation.
Jesus, never let me lose sight of you.
Hold my hand and lead me across the
watery path of life straight into your heart. Amen.
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