Fearfully Made

"For you created my inmost being;
you knit me together in my mother's womb.
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
your works are wonderful,
I know that full well." Psalm 139:13-14

Thanks to Ruth at Dealings with Shadows and Cy at Therese's Roses, both of whom had this amazing video on their blogs. The animation is outstanding! I was struck by how quickly the baby's heart began to beat!

Dear Editor

Oh how I hate to foray into politics on this blog, but I simply must, for I cannot keep quiet about this issue which has kept me awake with boiling blood these past few nights. Senator Russ Feingold from Wisconsin has a long-standing and proven anti-life track record. He would allow for abortions all the way through the end of a term pregnancy. The Milwaukee Catholic Herald, which is published by Archbishop Listecki (whom I cannot fathom would approve of this), placed an advertisement for him in their October 21st issue, stating that they were not endorsing him, but by law, if they were to allow one politician to advertise, then they had to allow all politicians to advertise. That didn't sit too well with me or with my son, John, so we both wrote letters to the editor complaining about how it felt like a slap in the face to open our Catholic newspaper and see a pro-abortion politician staring out at us. We received replies letting us know that our letters were appreciated and that after the upcoming November election they will decide whether or not they will print political advertising in the future. This is my response to his letter.
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Dear Brian,

Thank you for taking the time to respond to my concerns about the advertisement for Senator Russ Feingold in the October 21st issue of the Catholic Herald. In the secular business world, your letter makes perfect sense, but in the world of Catholicism it makes no sense at all. It was the following two lines that really struck a raw nerve with me: "we solicited advertising" and "the decision to accept or not accept all political advertising...is ours." It didn't take me too long to find the solicitation to which you refer on the Catholic Herald's web page:

“Let the Catholic Herald and chnonline.org "help you win" your next election.”

Is that really the Catholic Herald's goal, to help political candidates win the election? The fact that the Catholic Herald has offered their help to all candidates regardless of whether or not their positions fall in line with Catholic teaching by publishing their political advertisements, tells me that the Catholic Herald does not care whether or not Catholic values are upheld. It also tells me that the Catholic Herald doesn’t care whether or not Catholics are informed of their duty to vote based on the values of the Catholic Church, but rather, that the Catholic Herald is concerned about making the most money that it possibly can. Publishing an advertisement for an anti-life politician feels like blood money to me!

"No one can serve two masters; for either he will hate the one and love the other, or else he will be loyal to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and mammon." Matthew 6:24

Just who is it that the Catholic Herald chooses to serve, God or mammon? You can't have both! From the placement of this advertisement in your periodical it seems to me that the Catholic Herald is more concerned with the almighty dollar than it is with the Almighty Father! How very un-Catholic! I can just picture Jesus turning over the desks and computers at the Catholic Herald in a rage over the fact that this periodical doesn't care whether or not it's readers are led astray from Catholic teaching so long as they can keep their heads above water financially. Didn't Jesus tell us that our Heavenly Father knows what we need, and as long as we put our faith first, all of our needs will be met?

"Therefore do not worry, saying, "What shall we eat?' or "What shall we drink?' or "What shall we wear?' For after all these things the Gentiles seek. For your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things. But seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added to you." Matthew 6:31-33

As Catholics, aren't we all called to sacrifice for our faith? It is a huge financial sacrifice for my husband and I to send our children to Catholic Schools so that they may be educated in the faith, but we feel that we are best serving God by doing without some of the nicer things in life so that our children may someday enter into the heavenly kingdom. How is it that the Catholic Herald cannot make the financial sacrifice of doing without political advertising that is contrary to Catholic teaching so that it's readers may someday enter into the heavenly kingdom? I fear that the Russ Feingold ad sends mixed messages about living our faith to vulnerable Catholics who may not clearly understand church teaching about pro-life issues. In today's issue of the National Catholic Register, Cindy Wooden from CNS quotes Pope Benedict during his recent visit to Brazil as saying: “Dear brother bishops, to defend life we must not fear hostility or unpopularity, and we must refuse any compromise or ambiguity which might conform us to the world’s way of thinking.”

You say that you will evaluate your decision to run political ads in the future. I pray that a deep love for the Lord and His teachings will prevail in your heart and your future decision will be to eliminate ALL political advertising since there is not and never has been, one political candidate who upholds all of the teachings of the Catholic Church. The Catholic Herald should focus on educating Catholics on the true faith of the Church as upheld by Pope Benedict XVI instead of advertising for the current political candidates.

In Christ, Anne Bender

Jesus Christ, Our Sovereign King

"If anyone loves me, he will hold to my words, and my Father will love him, and we will come to him, and make our home with him." Jn 14:23























...and I do believe that the Father loves me and my family so very much. Every time I look at a crucifix or a picture of Jesus with His open, gaping wound, that hollow place in His side just seems to cry out to me begging me to enter into His Most Sacred Heart and to place all of my love within it. I know that it is here where I will always be at home, and will always be loved by the Father, as well as the Son and the Holy Spirit.


But I want to live that love in a more complete way, and every wife and mother is somehow incomplete unless her family is by her side, joining her in the deepest love for our Savior. So, although Jesus has always been the King of our hearts and home, last night we prayerfully declared that fact with a special Mass and Enthronement ceremony. With the help of my good friend, Fr. Jim Kubicki, SJ, we enthroned our home to the Sacred Heart of Jesus and consecrated ourselves to His Sacred Heart, as well.


When I had told my sisters that Paul and the children and I were going to have a Mass and Consecration in our home, their love and excitement for us could not be contained and they asked to join in the celebration. I am so grateful for their presence because they made the joyous occasion complete. I know that the devil did all he could to try to dissuade us from following through on our plans; he threw lots of kinks into the works, such as a three hour drive to and from a funeral on the day of the consecration in the most blustery 60 mph winds, he caused my husband and I to argue more than usual and he brought immeasurable worry, stress and frustration to our household in the weeks leading up to this special night. But in the last hour before our guests were to arrive, I walked into the fierce autumn winds that were blowing through the yard to pick the last of the mum-daisies from our garden to decorate the house, and I couldn't help but smile and think "God wins! He always wins! And nothing will stop us now!"


And truly nothing did! Our celebration of Mass and Consecration to the Sacred Heart of Jesus was absolutely beautiful! With Holy Water sprinkled on the pictures of the Sacred Heart of Jesus and the Immaculate Heart of Mary that are now Enthroned in our home, and Holy Water sprinkled on each and every one of us as well, I feel more blessed than I have ever felt in my entire life! After Mass, Bob, my brother-in-law, popped open a bottle of champagne. This was without a doubt a most joyous occasion to celebrate! As my sisters were leaving at the end of the night, Diann, my oldest sister, mentioned that she had goosebumps the entire evening long, and Paul, who wasn't 100% sure that this would be a good idea when I first mentioned it to him, thanked me for working to make the Consecration possible. What greater blessing could I ever ask for?


And now, it is our responsibility to live that Consecration each and every day of our lives. We are to share the love of our Lord and King that overflows from His Most Sacred Heart with everyone we meet, both inside our home as well as in the world around us. With His help, I know we will succeed!


If you are interested in Enthroning the Sacred Heart of Jesus as King of your home, please visit the Apostleship of Prayer website to order leaflet #825. And please, pay a special visit to Fr. Jim's blog, Offer It Up, where he gives a fascinating history on the Enthronement and Consecration.

From Across the Street

I watch as the children gather
near to each other in the front yard
wrapping arms around necks
in efforts to offer comfort;
this public display of sorrow
is so unusual for the deeply
private family and I watch
and my heart breaks, too
from across the street

feeling much discomfort
wanting to offer solace as well
but knowing it is not my place,
not yet anyway,
I silently pray for her soul
from across the street

neighbors who are really strangers
to one another
watching from across the street
that might as well have been
an ocean divide;
their blinds closed tight,
keeping out the neighbors,
holding others at a distance
and soon, we forget to care
forget that they are even there

a few friendly waves now and then
maybe we scowl at the loose dog
that got in our yard
or they chastise our children
for tossing the ball
towards their newly purchased car;
years pass and we never cross over
into true friendship
but remain content
to watch each others lives
from across the street

but in the end
what does it matter?
a life is over too soon,
only fifty-four the papers say
and the family grieves
while the wind and rain
blow the memories of her spirit
around our hearts;
and the arms of loved ones
that comfort the family in their loss
represent those of the angels
that are now comforting
a woman after her years
of cancerous pain

and the widower returns
to his garage every morning
where he and his dog
listen to the radio
while the fire burns in the stove
and now his heart breaks in silence
and our prayers rise to heaven
as we consider sending a card
and a casserole
yet it seems too little, too late
and we continue to fear
reaching out
from across the street

Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon her. For my neighbor, Becky, and my sister's mother-in-law, Dolores, may their souls and all the souls of the faithful departed rest in peace. Amen.

A Heart Filled With Love

SACRED HEART OF JESUS, I PLACE ALL MY TRUST IN YOU!

Please brace yourself...I believe this post is the most complaining I have ever done online! Lots to offer up here!

My family and I are preparing for a very important event this Wednesday; we are all going to consecrate ourselves to the Sacred Heart of Jesus! To say that I am excited about this would be an understatement. I have been praying and planning for this day for the past month and I can't believe that it is almost here!

My sweet and wonderful friend, Fr. Jim Kubicki, SJ, has kindly offered to come to my tiny little house to celebrate Mass and to help us to consecrate ourselves to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. When I told my sisters about this upcoming event the last time we had gathered for our monthly rosary night, they all insisted upon coming over and helping us to celebrate the Mass and Consecration and to join in the celebratory dinner afterward. This means that there will be seventeen people in my teeny, tiny house, but I know that even though my husband and sons are worried about the cramped conditions that will result from so many people in our house at the same time, God will see to it that our hearts filled with love for the Sacred Heart of Jesus will crowd out any difficulties that may occur. And let me tell you, a heart filled with love was exactly what I needed to get me through this past weekend of final preparations!

My plans had consisted of thoroughly cleaning the house and baking some pies to tuck away in the freezer for the celebration of Thanksgiving following the Mass and Consecration. I woke up Saturday morning with a splitting headache. No problem, I thought, I'll just pop a few aspirins and get right to work, which I did. By noon, the work was well underway in spite of the persistent headache which did not respond to the medication.

It was just about this time when the my sister Cindy phoned to tell me the sad news that her mother-in-law had passed away from a long-term illness. The funeral will be held on Wednesday, which meant that she would not be coming to my house for the consecration, which is understandable, of course. But, I want to go to the funeral, too, as do my other sisters. So, after many phone calls, three of us who are not working on Wednesday will attend the funeral that will be held in Manitowoc which is an hour and one half drive away. I'm sure I can be back in plenty of time to put on the finishing touches for the evening's event.

By the time Saturday nightfall came, I still had a raging headache and was thoroughly exhausted, so after dropping my daughter off at a friend's house for a sleepover party, I went straight to bed. It was 7:30 pm.

When I awoke on Sunday morning, I found that the throbbing in my head had not subsided. But, I was up and at 'em because I was scheduled to read at the 7:30 Mass. My wonderful husband had gone outside to pull the van out of the garage for me, and found that our garage door had broken and would only open halfway. So, my sons Justin and Joe manually held the door up while Paul and I backed our cars out into the alley, and three of my sons and I headed off to Mass. As soon as we came back, I handed the keys to my oldest son, John, who was scheduled to read at the 9:00 Mass and to sing with the choir at the 11:00 Mass. Then I headed out in my husband's car to pick up my daughter from her sleepover party so that she and Paul would be ready in time for the 11:00 Mass.

This particular Sunday also happened to be my son Jack's twelfth birthday, so our whole family had planned to go bowling along with one of Jack's friends, as a way to celebrate the special day. While we were waiting for Paul, John and Mary to return, we noticed three ambulances and two police cars outside our house. Our neighbors across the street were all outside sobbing and holding each other. It seems that the mother of that household had just passed away after a long battle with cancer. I'm sad to say that although this family had been our neighbors for eighteen years, we barely know them and hardly ever see them except for a passing wave now and then. We did know that our neighbor who had died was quite young; only in her sixties. How strange it seemed to be celebrating a birthday with a death occuring so near. We waited until the mortician had left and things had seemed to quiet down before we left for the bowling alley.

Splitting headache intact despite having swallowed what seemed like half a bottle of aspirins, we arrived at the bowling alley and everyone succeeded in having a good time. Still, I was very glad to leave because with every crash of the pins I had thought that my head would explode.

When we arrived home, Grandpa and Grandpa Bender came over for Jack's favorite lasagne dinner and ice cream birthday cake which was soooo delicious I indulged in a second piece. (The recipe comes from my friend Fr. Don as one of his favorites as a child-I'll share it at the end of this post.)

By the time the fun and games were over, I took my headache to bed with me and gladly bid the weekend goodbye! A weekend like that made me glad to go to work on Monday morning just so I could have some peace and quiet! (Shh...don't tell my boss I said that!) No, really, it's ok, I told her myself, and besides with the sound of crying babies and toddlers all day long as the backdrop to my work environment, there is no such thing as peace and quiet at work. But, thankfully, my headache did not join me on this workday!

And now, I am sure that I have all of the difficulties and complications out of the way and I can joyfully continue on with my preparations for Wednesday's consecration with my heart filled with love! And you can enjoy a delicious dessert! Thanks for putting up with all of my grumbling! Now you have something to offer up as well!

SACRED HEART OF JESUS, I PLACE ALL MY TRUST IN YOU!

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Fr. Don's Fudge Sundae Ice Cream Pie

Crust

1/4 c. corn syrup

2 tbsp. brown sugar

3 tbsp. butter

1/4 c. peanut butter

2 1/2 c. Rice Krispies

Filling

1/4 c. peanut butter

1/4 c. chocolate syrup

3 tbsp. corn syrup

1 qt. vanilla ice cream

Combine first 3 ingredients in saucepan. Cook over low heat until mix begins to boil. Remove from heat, add 1/4 cup peanut butter and Rice Krispies. Press into 9" pie pan for crust. Stir next 3 ingredients together. Spread 1/2 mix over crust. Freeze until firm. Soften ice cream slightly and spoon over crust. Freeze until firm. Allow to stand 10 minutes before serving. Warm remaining peanut butter mix and drizzle on top.

Dear Anonymous

My dear and wonderful friend Katherine, whose idea it was that I should write this blog, has a marvelous blog herself (Inside Out). She is a fabulous photographer and scrap-booker (is that the right term?) and I always enjoy reading her posts as they leave me with a smile on my face. Today her post really tugged at my heart, not so much because of the post, but because of the comment left by Anonymous. I simply must respond!












Dear Anonymous,

you are not alone. My husband had a 1985 Chevy Cavalier(looked just like the car above only blue) that he simply could not part with. The trusty car had 200,000 miles on it, and it ran great, but the body! It was rusty everywhere! The driver's door would no longer close tightly, and sometimes when I was driving and would turn the corner, the door would fly open! Thank God for seat belts or I would have fallen out! To solve that little inconvenience, my husband installed a hook and eye inside the door so it would stay shut while driving. The passenger door would not open or shut. If we wanted to prevent people from stealing the car, we had to lock the hook and eye and crawl out the hatch in back! When the people at my new job saw me doing that in a dress and laughed at me, my pride had enough. The car had to go!

One day, after my husband sold the car, he came home from work terribly excited! He found his car parked about a mile away at a local apartment building! The new owner lived nearby! It was like old times! Every day he would slowly drive past that apartment building parking lot, just so that he could look at the car and reminisce about the good old days!

Please do not feel that your sorrow over the loss of your Honda is unusual or uncalled for. Please know that you have company in your misery. I hope that some day you will find your Honda parked in a nearby lot and you can visit it every day!

Your friends, Anne and Paul

Seasonal Purification

"Many of us spend our whole lives running from feeling with the mistaken belief that you cannot bear the pain. But you have already borne the pain. What you have not done is feel all you are beyond the pain."
- St. Bartholomew


















Every year it seems to come earlier
and stay longer
the cloak of clouds that covers me seems to be heavier
than the previous year
dark emotion surrounds me,
suffocates me,
becomes me

I've tried to escape; tried running away,
but it always overtook me
I've tried numbing it with food and alcohol,
but I only ended up feeling worse
I've turned to prayer,
but my words get caught in my throat and I
have to depend on the Holy Spirit
to groan inexpressibly within me

I am useless against it
I can only accept it,
live with it,
embrace it

for this darkness is God working within me
purifying me of everything that comes between
my Creator and me

Somehow He must believe that
I am strong enough
to withstand the pain
and so I must trust in Him
and in His love for me

until the Summer sun shines
in my heart once again.

Giving it Over to God

"Cast me gently, into morning,
for the night has been unkind.
Take me to a place so holy,
that I can wash this from my mind,
the memory of choosing not to fight."
The Answer-Sarah McLachlan














There I stood on the wet rocks
at the edge of the lake,
a damp chill in the air
from the recent rains of
late October.

The water was as gray as the skies
and the wind whipped my hair around my face,
catching it in my tears.
I watched the waves tumble into the shore
one after another, and I waited
trying to summon up my courage.

Slowly, I reached into my pocket
and pulled out the picture
that represented my life,
it was surrounded by the red of love.

I bent down, and released it
into the water, giving it to God.
He took it with purpose,
the waves scooping over it
and drawing it into the deep.

I waited and watched
until I could no longer see it
moving in the water,
until I was sure that this was
what God was asking of me.

Then I bravely and surely
stepped across the rocks
and into my new life,
trusting that this is what
He wanted for me.

"I will be the answer
At the end of the line
I will be there for you
While you take the time
In the burning of uncertainty
I will be your solid ground
I will hold the balance
If you can't look down

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 gone out
You'll still be burning so bright"
The Answer-Sarah McLachlan

Crow on the Cross

There he proudly sits, beak in the air

right at the peak of the cross,

as if he can smell sin, pain, death;

he knows what this instrument is used for

and he wants to be the first to see it happen,

wants to call out death with a single "caw!"

But he's too late!

The deed has been done,

the blood of my redemption

has been washed from the cross,

the tomb stands empty.

His Spirit soars beyond the crows!

Let him wait, wait for

eternity

he will never find what he is

looking for; sin is no more.

We have been set free!

Love is all that remains.

The Artist

She solemnly sits for the artist,

a bit embarrassed to be the center

of attention as she prefers to remain

silent, in the background.

He paints a picture with his words

weaving and flowing,

but the colors surrounding

his brush with beauty

fail to capture the essence

of the one who held The Word.

Yet he knows that for

generations to come

the woman will be honored

regardless of his talent or skill;

for her greatness cannot be contained

in the written word or in the work of art.

She will transcend all that man

can do to describe her,

for she can only be felt in the heart

that is open to her love,

in the spirit that is

longing for her companionship,

and in the child who is

in need of a Mother.

Thank you St. Luke for bringing our Mother's love into our hearts with your artistry of words, and thank you for journeying through this year with me as my own personal companion and patron saint!

Life (As I Understand It)

You can climb a mountain
You can swim the sea
You can jump into the fire
But you'll never be free
You can shake me up
Or I can break you down
Whoa-o-o-o-o
Whoa-o-o-o-o
("Jump Into the Fire" by Harry Nilsson)

There are endless philosophies, doctrines, codes, ethics, beliefs, and so on depicting and boxing the age old concept of what life is. What life means. What life can or cannot be. One can be realistic in various different "realistic" mindsets. One can be the inversion of that.

The point is, from my understanding, life is as cryptic now as it has always been for me. For some reason though, I read these lyrics written by Harry Nilsson for his kick ass rock song, and I can't help but relate them to my life. I don't really comprehend why. I just do. I hear the lyrics, listen to the beat, bust out into a groove, and feel my mind surfing the cosmos.

Life is as cryptic as these lyrics I posted. I can think of a multitude of things Nilsson could be commenting on. He could be talking about human drama or ego. He can be talking about the condition of being human. The chorus that follows the verse above is a repetition of "we can make each other happy". In that vein, he could be singing to a lover ditching him to pursue something more fiery and chaotic. Or, I could be completely wrong and the sexual passion is nonexistent.

I change my mind a lot pondering this. The more I learn, the more it molds and jives with a variety of ideas, building some elaborate leviathan of a composite philosophy - stolen and adapted from more sources than I care to mention. The same goes for my interpretation of this song.

There's just one constant. This song charges me up. It opens the floodgates to the Dragon nestled deep within the cavernous, fiery Hell that is my body. It unlocks that doorway that lets the inner behemoth soar into the endless possible queries of what "life" is. It becomes this mysterious formless concept that vibrates and resonates my foundations, unleashing that beast within. Life and sound. Energy. A mythical creature of tantamount abilities.

You can jump into the fire
But you'll never be free

I already have jumped in. I just don't know what the "fire" is. I may never know.

-Doctor Nonsensical

Dive Bar

Dive Bars are exhilarating beacons of culture. Walking into one is like walking into a major crossroad of the community. Some people are just passing through. Some are hanging around looking for the right partner. And still others are stalking prey.

All of these people have their own stories to tell. Each dive bar is littered with haggard, worn cogs in the social system escaping the cold autumn air outside, seeking refuge from the law man that sits in his car, looking for speeders and fun-loving hooligans that may upset the perfectly stacked system. They're people with and without hearts, both humans and robots, meeting up to mingle and see what sort of co-conspiring energy can be manifested.

Outside one such establishment on the Woodstock square, I ran across a public re-enactment of Romeo and Juliet. It was geared toward a more "urban" audience judging by the clothing style, and that may have been the reason why there were so few audience members beyond the typical smokers exiled to puff in the night's chilly embrace.

The Montague family greatly outnumbered the Capulets in this production. There were three Montagues and only Juliet. It seemed to be an X-rated version aimed at a more sexually charged TV audience, and by looking at the intensity of the argument between Romeo and his lady fair, I felt I was nearing the climax. The first blow job had been given, as with some more sexual encounters, and now Romeo had been ousted as a puss hound.

Romeo's eyes gave it away. They were cold and distant, hidden underneath a black hoodie. They cared not for the complexities of the human mind or the human condition. They only craved flesh. I imagine there was a terrible, burning hunger within them. A cannibalizing fire. Romeo just wanted to devour his Juliet - nothing more. He wanted to scour her until his hunger was satiated, in which case, his attention most likely turned to X-Box.

His friends stood a few feet behind him and giggled. They were the live studio audience on stage as Juliet, with her "crazy" eyes (a blend of sadness, anger, and past traumatic victimizations combined with smeared mascara), called Romeo out as a "dick head". She spew forth the troubles with their faux passion, reiterating dramatic cues she heard from primetime dramas - fighting TV-mindedness with TV-mindedness.

However, I've seen these television programs before. I can recognize what part of the story these actors were in. They were at the part of the story where Juliet bitched out Romeo for being in it for the nookie. Romeo would call her a crazy bitch and dump her. Then, they would depart, in which case Juliet would feel lonely and send him a text message. Romeo would see it and think about it as his loins burned. He would apologize, and they would meet up to reignite the fire that once burned between them, except this time, as they had been separated, the passion was doubly stronger (the climax!).

I didn't stay around to watch this drama end. I needed a drink, and I headed inside the cavern.

Dive bars are never new. Even if they've newly opened, each one has a look to them that screams, "this place has seen better days!" They have that cheap wood paneling one would see at the local greasy spoon diner. Slashed stools are sometimes bolted to the fake linoleum flooring. The tappers are typically domestic, spouting only the affordable beers pushed by tasteless corporate giants. Pabst Blue Ribbon. Miller Lite. Coors Lite. Bud Lite. Oldstyle. The bar maid is always a woman of average beauty. On a normal day, she's a 6, but her charm makes her a 9 on a plastered early morning. She's usually well guarded by the man who runs the karaoke machine - a middle-aged buff, bald man with a Harley Davidson-inspired beard. In the world of 'Road House', this man would have been a legend, but since that world is not ours, he is here, making sure the 6 isn't man-handled by any of the rabble rousers sitting around her.

On this particular night I found myself within mixed company. Across from me there was a lumberjack. he was a fat man in a red flannel shirt with dark hair. Hammered out of his mind, he was trying to make time with a red-headed beauty or her female bodyguard (the type of guard wing men are hired to dive into). It didn't matter which. The Brawny man was just looking for love. It had been a long week in the woods with nary a woman in sight.

A few seats down from him was Michael Caine, fresh off his butler duties for the night. He was sitting right next to Neville Longbottom of Harry Potter acclaim.

A bar fight almost broke out at one point. An overweight Clancy Brown tried to start a fight with two Harley Davidson fan club members, and found himself outnumbered in manpower and weight power. His gut just wasn't big enough to sling around.

I closed my eyes as a woman started screaming at her boyfriend. He apparently was making eyes at another, and she had taken notice. As her raspy smoker voice boomed over two girls singing Stealer's Wheels, I let my mind flutter free, reaching out to touch the soul of the dive bar. I wanted to embrace the neurotic nature of the cavern many called home. I wanted to absorb myself into the underbelly of American culture.

There was a black man sitting a few seats down from me. He was alone, playing a regular gameboy game on his gameboy color and drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon. Every now and then his named would be called up to sing karaoke. He mumbled out lyrics to the saddest love songs ever concocted. Then he quickly stumbled back to his seat and picked up his gameboy.

I couldn't tell whether he was sincere or if this was some elaborate ruse to entice the ladies in this establishment, to show them that he was sensitive and "different". If it was a scam, he had failed. No one spoke to him all night beyond a couple men commenting on his tunes. If it was sincerity, that begs the question, "Why did you come here?"

Bearing the Wounds

Ever since the Feast of St. Francis of Assisi on October 4th, a quote has been running through my mind; it comes from my dear friend, Fr. Jim Kubicki, SJ, and is in regards to the stigmata which marked the body of St. Francis.

"All of us are called to bear in our bodies the wounds of Christ. They may be wrinkles of parents who worry about their children, or bodies worn out from laboring to support our families. The marks of love, visible or invisible, should be there in those who bear the name Christian and who witness through their love to the love of God."

And then, this week, one of my favorite blogs, Just A Minute ran a beautifully heartfelt story about the illness of a loved one. It moved me deeply and exemplified Fr. Jim's quote so perfectly. I encourage you to visit Jenny's blog and read and reflect upon her lovely words in "He Suffers."

My Heroes! Ordination 2010

This short yet powerful video highlights the very best of the 2010 ordinations to the priesthood for the Archdiocese of Milwaukee. You will be moved! Keep an eye out for my heroes, my spiritual director and friend, Fr. Don Hying, Deacon Christopher Klusman (incensing Archbishop Listecki), you can read more about his fabulous and fascinating story here, Fr. Matthew Widder, the youngest of the ordained priests and sponsor for my son John's confirmation this year-(his picture is the last one at the end of the video,) Fr. Carl Last, the priest that married Paul and I and he also baptized our first three sons, (kissing the altar towards the end of the video-he is by himself,) Bishop William Callahan who is deeply missed in Milwaukee as he has journeyed on to Bishop of La Crosse, WI, and finally, if you look very closely around 26 seconds into the video, towards the back on the right hand side, you will see my son, John, and his friend, Jerry praying in the seminary chapel.

2010 Ordinations-click here to view

Please keep all of these newly ordained priests in your prayers as well as the thirty-six men who are currently enrolled in St. Francis de Sales Seminary this year, and those who are discerning a call to the priesthood, because after all, every man who hears and answers the call to the priesthood is a hero to many, sacrificing his life for the good of God's people everywhere.

Guest Post-God Be With Me

My daughter Mary likes to play pretend. She likes to pretend that she is me as her fingers tap away at the keyboard, mind swirling around words of prayer. Thing is, she doesn't have to pretend to be someone else like this weak and weary mother, she is a gloriously prayerful poet in her own nine-year-old right. She recently tapped out this prayer and with her permission, I share it here.

God Be With Me

God in the rays of the sun, be with me.
God in the clouds of the heavens, be with me.
God in the hours of the day, be with me.
God in the waves of the water, be with me.
God in the light of the stars and moon, be with me.
God in the mists of the silence, be with me.
God in the stillness of my prayer, be with me.
God in the love of your heart, be with me.
God in the darkness of the night, be with me.
God in the playfulness of the day, be with me.

God be with me in every hour, every minute, every second of the day. I don't want to feel alone. You are my soul, my power, and my strength, but most of all, you are my life. I love you, oh my sweet, beautiful, loving God. I will love you each hour, each minute, and each second of today and of the days to come because you are with me always.

The Papists vs. the Anglicans

I am not a football fan; professional football, anyway. I cannot stand to waste a Sunday afternoon watching grossly over-paid men whose behavior off-field is often extremely juvenile, play a game. More than this, those players are often worshiped as if they were God, a most recent example being Brett Favre who was a hero in Wisconsin until he left the Green Bay Packers for the Minnesota Vikings. Now our new favorite past-time is to criticize him and scorn him. Even the Catholic Press fawns all over these sports celebrities and praises them simply because they are Catholic football players, regardless of how they fail to live their Catholic life.

Equally bothersome to me, after the game is over and I try to watch the nightly news to catch up on the local happenings, the first twenty minutes are filled with coverage of that game that I refused to watch, as if nothing else in the world happened that day but a football game. I'm sure that a lot of my strong feelings have to do with the fact that I grew up in a house where we were not allowed to speak during the Green Bay Packer game, and couldn't speak even if we wanted to because the volume was always turned up to full blast while the green and gold tromped all over the field. And now, I live in a house where men are the majority and once again, Sunday afternoons are filled with a blaring loud football game on the television, so I usually choose to leave the house and spend some time at a Holy Hour, or out in the backyard with a book. My husband often teases me about my lack of love for the game. He says, "I suppose the only way you will watch a football game is if it is between the priests and the seminarians!" Well now, yesterday, he got his wish!

It was a lovely, warm, Sunday afternoon, and the smell of incense from the thurible next to the stands hung heavy in the air. According to St. Francis de Sales Assistant Vocations Director, Fr. Peter Berger, "With regard to the incense, the Episcopalian minister incensed the Nashotah House team prior to the game (clearly it didn't work :)" Every now and then the breeze brought a whiff of the heavenly perfume past the fans whose cheers roared from the stands as the football fans supported their respective teams in the third annual flag football game between the Seminarians of St. Francis de Sales (known as the Shoremen) and the Seminarians of Nashotah House Episcopal Seminary (known as the Black Monks.) The announcer called out the match between the Catholics and the Protestants that was met with groans from the crowd, so it was replaced with the match between the Papists and the Anglicans. The coveted St. Lawrence Cup went to the Shoremen with a 32-19 victory! After the game, both teams united in faith to celebrate Vespers together.

I was curious to find out the meanings behind the team names, and although all of my searches have come up empty for the Shoremen, I am left to speculate that they chose this name because their lovely Seminary sits on the shores of Lake Michigan and it is from this location that they are trained to be fishers of men. With a little snooping around, I was able to discover this fascinating tale about the Black Monks...

There is a legend that states that the Nashotah House Seminary is haunted. Apparently, before the building was an Episcopal Seminary, it was a Monastery and there is a legend that one of the Monks killed another Monk, perhaps over a woman, but made it look like a suicide. Since suicide is a mortal sin, his body was buried in a cornfield instead of in the Consecrated Cemetery grounds. Twenty years later, when the murderous monk confessed to his crime, the grave of the murdered monk was exhumed but found empty. Apparently the "Black Monk" Ghost is often found roaming the scenic grounds and buildings at the Seminary, and everyone steps aside to let him pass. This legend is how the name "Black Monks" came about.

I'm such a skeptic about the paranormal, especially because I tend to think it goes against Catholic teaching, so I was surprised to find this post this morning at Badger Catholic which lead me to this excerpt about ghosts by Peter Kreeft from his book "Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Heaven, but Never Dreamed of Asking."

And now that I have veered off about as far from football as I can get, it must be clear to you, dear reader, that my attention span for sports is truly very short!

The Funniest Thing I Have Ever Seen

This neglectful blogger was tagged by NC Sue (who always seems to have the most clever and interesting posts), for a new kind of MEME in which the person tagged is to post the most funny thing they have ever seen. Apparently I don't laugh much, or I am so absent-minded that I laugh and then forget all about it, because it feels as if it has taken me forever to find something that would compare with the hilarious clip from the Carol Burnett Show that Sue has shared back on September 24th.

Well, finally, today is the day! H/T to Deacon Greg Kandra at the Deacon's Bench, this great little Sesame Street video had me laughing out loud, so I gladly share it in the hopes that it will leave many others laughing in the aisles or at the computer desk, wherever you happen to be.



And in case you have missed the joke, here is the link to the original television commercial that is spoofed by the Sesame Street spot.

She Leads the Way

At the end of October, my family and I will be enthroning the Sacred Heart of Jesus as King of our home, and consecrating ourselves to His Most Sacred Heart. My good friend, Fr. Jim Kubicki, SJ, the head of the National Apostleship of Prayer which promotes devotion to the Sacred Heart, will be coming to our house to say Mass and to lead the Enthronement and Consecration ceremony. I thought that since this will be such a special and solemn occasion, I should be spending the month preparing by attending prayerful events and by praying to the Sacred Heart of Jesus each day, asking Him to enter into the hearts of my family and I and to draw us ever more deeply into love with Him.

Last Thursday, on the Feast of Our Lady of the Rosary, my son Jack and I attended a special Mass and outdoor candlelight procession with the recitation of the rosary to honor our Mother. As we were re-entering the church after the procession, one of the doors would not stay open on it's own, so, since Jack and I were near the front of the line, we stood at the door to hold it open as everyone in the procession stepped into the church. At the end of the procession, my dear friend, Fr. Don Hying, the priest who said the Mass and processed with our Lord was walking past us and I couldn't help but notice how his eyes were fixed on Jesus in the Monstrance which was directly in front of his face.

How wonderful it must be for a priest to hold our Lord directly in front of himself for a full twenty minutes! It's no wonder that Fr. Don's face always seems to have a glow about it when I consider that he spends so much time looking directly at Jesus up close! And the fact that he doesn't trip and fall when he is walking in the dark over cracks in the sidewalk, down curbs and steps, and around corners while his eyes are constantly fixed on Jesus, is truly a miracle in itself!

My sweet and tender Jesus, how beautifully you care for us when we are spending time adoring you! You see to it that no danger will ever befall us as long as we keep our eyes fixed on you!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Today my sister Diann, and my niece Jenny and I renewed our consecration to Jesus through Mary via St. Louis de Montfort. Upon arriving at the church, I looked in my rear-view mirror and saw that Fr. Don had pulled up right behind me. I was blessed to spend a few minutes in confession with him, and then attend a lovely Saturday morning Mass. The music director at the parish where the Consecration Conference was held chose all Marian music for the Mass and had asked one of the parish cantors to sing "Panis Angelicus" for an after communion meditation. It was breathtaking, and a rare occurrence for a daily Mass!

Just before the consecration, everyone gathered in front of the Shrine of Mary, Queen of Hearts to pray the rosary. Although this is the third year that I have attended this conference, it was the first time that I noticed that in the shrine, Mary is holding a heart blazing with fire. This was significant to me in light of my family's upcoming consecration to the Sacred Heart. I couldn't help but feel that my most beautiful Mother is truly leading me to her Son and His Most Sacred Heart. It is only fitting that today I consecrated myself to Jesus though Her, and later this month, I will be consecrating myself to His Sacred Heart. She really does always lead us to Him, if only we will let Her.

Mary, My Most Beautiful Mother, thank you for always leading us to Jesus and for giving His Most Sacred Heart to us so that the fire of His love will burn within us forever!

Penis Jokes

"Show me thy devotion to thy loving and generous God," the fair maiden said unto me.

It was then that I revealed my Godhead betwixt my loins.

"Sacrilege!" she shouted.

I deduced from her horror and the manner in which she covered her eyes that this fair, virtuous maiden was not the God-loving mistress she claimed to be. Only God-fearing people recoil with such atrocity at the sight of the Lord's seed.

Lo, another fair maiden passed by as the horrified one swiftly retreated, screaming aloud her accursed vision.

"I see you are but petrified by her response. Even the cool chill of this eve unshaketh your resolve," said the newcomer.

"I stand sturdy at every resolve," I replied rapidly. "The tremendous heights of mighty Redwoods are my family heritage, and I will let no icy demeanor lower my achievements."

"You claim your Godhead is resolute," the maiden said, "but I've heard such ramblings from fools much longer in shadow than yourself."

"Trying to put the fright in me?" I asked.

"I see no error in forcing you to recoil your public boasting from the wanderer's eyes. We are all God-fearing people in this quaint town with no desire to seek out the black beast within the mysterious shrubbery," she said.

"I will let you know that I am tamed," I said. "I have steadied my accursed rampages into more manageable hours."

The maiden flashed a knowing smirk, touching her upper lip with the tip of her tongue. She dragged it across slowly, teasing me with her supple moistness. Then she glided in closely, placing her hand upon my chest, digging in deep with her nails. From behind, she brandished with her free hand a knive and licked the blade. Blood dripped down her blouse from a stream that developed along the knife's edge.

I could feel my face turning red. My heart began to race faster, a muddied confusion of seduction and fear. Would she kill me? Or was she just... "funny"? My conviction became unbalanced, and my pride, thrown off by such a public display quietly deflated.

"I too can arouse discord," She said grinning. "I'm no mere woman. I am THE woman. The Goddess. You can call me Eris, and I lower the boastful apes into shriveled monkeys."

She left me standing alone, unbuttoned in time. Frozen up to my neck.

-Doctor Nonsensical

Sometimes I Cry

He's very emotional
and given to bouts of tears;
when they begin to fall
his ability to express
his sorrow in words disappears.
All he can say is
"Sometimes I cry for no reason."

He needs to be held and loved
and to know that he is not alone.
With my arms around him
his weeping turns to sobs;
I hold his heaving body close,
absorbing his hurt through my skin
and into my heart.

He needs something,
some One to cling to
when his heart is aching
and he feels lost and scared.

I turn to the Sacred Heart of Jesus
and implore Him to make room
for this little child
who hurts so much.

I know His Heart will
take him in
for I have entered
into His love myself
in my own neediness and worry;
my longing for assurance
that I'm alright, that I will survive.

The beauty he will find there
is the warmth and peace
that is only found in
His Most Sacred Heart
open, bleeding, vulnerable;
so blessedly vulnerable.

And the thorns that circle His Heart
do not poke and jab;
they have burned away
in the fire of His love.

And the insecurity
that reduces him to tears
no longer wracks his fragile body;
it, too, burns away in the fire of His love.

Guest Post on the Papal Visit in the UK

My young English friend, John H., the founder of "A Vocation to be a Priest" has gathered his thoughts about the recent visit of Pope Benedict XVI to Great Britain and kindly shares them here...












During and after the visit of Pope Benedict to Britain, I am so proud to be a Catholic, but especially an English Catholic! There has been a Christian presence in these isles for 1500 years and our land has probably produced more saints and martyrs than any other country on earth. At long last I know what Blessed John Henry Newman understood when he wrote "I am a link in a chain".

Pope Benedict made a State visit to the UK rather than a pastoral visit - that means he was invited by Queen Elizabeth and Her Government. While I was only able to be physically present at one event (Hyde Park in London), I followed every single event on BBC TV which was truly outstanding. The warmth of welcome by the Queen was commented by all, and the Holy Father managed to win many hearts and souls by his humility and warmth and by his message. He addressed many political leaders in Westminster Hall (including four former Prime Ministers) and told them to be aware of rampant secularism which denies the voice of the Church and the Gospel in the affairs of State. This was especially significant because Westminster Hall was the place where St Thomas More was tried for putting his conscience before Government.

Talking about secularism - it was a washout - a total and abject failure. The protests against the Holy Father amounted to a pathetic 5000. At the same time 240,000 people lined the streets of London to greet him, wave flags, while 80,000 joined the Vigil in Hyde Park. This was outstanding - in the middle of a great and huge city, there was total silence as we adored Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament. Even the skeptical secular press was won round, who had predicted that the Papal visit would be a disaster, with nobody turning out.

The Holy Father had a punishing schedule, which included a visit to a retirement home, and a meeting with victims of clerical abuse. But for me, he won the hearts of everyone in his interaction with young people - they simply loved him! He told us that we were created for love and that is where we should seek our vocation.

It is reported by our Bishops that the visit was highly successful - the Pope has encouraged us, but he has been amazed at the vibrancy of Catholics in the UK.

You may know that we have a special link to the USA - the miracle from Blessed Cardinal John Henry Newman was via a Deacon in Boston.

As our Bishops have indicated - we now need to think about keeping alive the momentum of the Papal visit.

Faith-Filled Weekend

Whew! This past weekend flew by like a 747! But it's all good, because God was definitely in every minute of that flight.

I had the chance to spend the day with my four sons and a few friends on Saturday. It was the annual "Fire on the Hill St. John Bosco Youth Day" rally at Holy Hill Basilica in Hubertus, WI. This faith-filled day of music and speakers for teens set our hearts on fire, blazing like the bonfire that warmed us up in the 40 degree weather. But nothing could warm us like time spent confessing our sins and spending an hour in Eucharistic Adoration followed by Mass with Fr. Stan Fortuna.

In his homily, Fr. Stan was explaining how we can better understand what God's will is for us in this world. He said that the only way that we can hope to understand how God is working in our lives is to "turn it around." Instead of hoping to UNDERSTAND, we should be trying to STAND UNDER. Then he lifted the crucifix from the altar and held it over his head to show us that we are to stand under the cross, like Mary, and it is there where we will find God and realize how we are called to serve Him in this world.

Sunday afternoon, my family and I stood along a busy highway holding "Abortion Kills Children" signs for our local Life Chain in honor of Respect Life Sunday. Nine-year-old Mary kept us entertained by making up pro-life songs with lyrics like "You can stop abortion, yes you can!"

As the weather continues to be chilly in my part of the world, I was glad to sit down for a cup of coffee after that with a young girl who is preparing for her Confirmation this Spring and who has asked me to be her Sponsor. What a joy and an honor it is to be considered worthy to form the faith of someone who is serious about her relationship with the Lord!


Finally, St. Augustine parish is within walking distance of my home and they held a Transitus Service last night in honor of St. Francis of Assisi. I had never heard of Transitus before, so I was intrigued to learn more. My daughter, Mary, and I walked over and were pleased to take part in a solemn service in honor of this great saint! Mary noticed that the service began a lot like the Easter Vigil, in darkness. After Archbishop Listecki gave his homily, the pastor of the parish read the story of the passing of St. Francis from this life to the next while the altar candles were extinguished, one by one, leaving only one flame burning to represent the light of Christ that St. Francis reflected in this world. Then, from that one candle, every candle in church was lit. It was both beautiful and joyous!

And now, I am glad to land again on a normal Monday at work so that I can catch my breath from all of last weekend's excitement!

Travelogue 6 - The Toilet paper is Better Here...

September 26, 2010


I'm a newly reborn gun enthusiast. It took a few days and many hours of trial and error with learning how to blow the piss out of clay pigeons in the sky, but I have never felt anything nearly as liberating as firing wildly into the sky on an open range. The kick of a 12 gauge against my shoulder, the slight smell of sulfur on my fingertips, and the shattering of an orange disc in the sky sounds a bit dumb and unintelligent to the more Eastward urban dwellers who have never experienced it. Let me tell you this, from having my origins and my mind built around suburban fuck head sentiment, I too shared a disdain for skeet shooting. Until I tried it. There is a bit of a frustrating learning curve, as I mentally can wrap my mind around something fast, but my hand-eye coordination lags a bit. This causes me to lash out like some frantic animal, but after I get it, I usually fall in love with what I'm trying to learn.


I don't want to keep talking about firing guns though. They're amazing devices, and just holding a shotgun (like the double barrel I used at one point) is an orgasmic experience. Once it fires, for that fragment of a second, it's an awe-inspiring moment of zen that shatters any city stigmatism one may have. Standing out in the open desert, breathing fresh air, blasting away at clay discs - it's heavenly and an embodiment of one ideal of freedom.


However, I promised I'd move on to some other topic.


Today was the day the group packed up and left Hidden Springs. We slept in, had a large breakfast, talked greatly, and fired more guns. The parting was too soon, as always, and as always, today was the day I felt the strongest connection to these people. They have their flaws. They're human. They're normal, dysfunctional twits like me, and I can resonate strongly with that vibe. The men have their fun in wolf packs, and they come back, heads lowered, to their controlling, baby-sprouting wives like a typical 1950s picturesque family. But also like this ancient magazine cover image, they generate warmth and a welcoming nature, even after seeing me indulge in a few beers and imbibing herbs. My jokes and good-natured humor seemed to outweigh this breach of their perfect, manipulated social order reminiscent of some archaic way of thinking.


There was a man there (young guy a bit older than myself) who looked like Bill from 'Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure'. Let's just call him 'Bill' after his namesake. On the surface, in front of his wife, kids, father, mother, and other relatives, he's this good-natured Mormon who lowers his head at the dinner prayer. But when the family stays indoors and he leaves the house, Bill entertains his true, rebellious nature - cracking open a bottle of booze, strapping on a backpack of small supplies, and jumping on a four-wheeler with a mini-cooler to tread out into the untamed countryside, adhering to the beckoning of the awakened beast inside. He's chill. Calm. Kind. With a twisted smirk reminiscent of a devious Willem DaFoe as Norman Osborn.


He's American.


I've never delved much into patriotism as the kind of patriotism that is often displayed through the media is the exact kind of patriotism I find disgusting. It's not about supporting an overbearing government, a military peon home from his latest tour, or any other sort of political establishment. It's about living the ideals. It's about unleashing that Lynrd Skynrd 'Free Bird' lying deep within the human soul. To sing. To howl into the night like some sort of grizzled mad man with a bottle of booze, a dime of pot, and a handful of energy pills. To growl at those boring oppressors when they feel the need to press their greasy thumbs down on you.


"All we are is dust in the wind, dude."


We left Hidden Springs with smiles all around and a weekend that will go down in memory. It was many firsts for me, and it shall not be the last. It unleashed that fire deep within, blowing the embers to a wild blaze - much like the blaze started by the National Guard in Utah that incinerated many trees and houses.


I'm in a Studio 6 hotel in Vernal now. The town with all smiley, kind faces that say "sir" to you when you buy or order something from them. This is the best room I've ever stayed in. It's the price of a regular hotel room anywhere else (just under $100), but it's the size of a small apartment in Chicago - just an infinitesimally times cleaner. It's relatively new and still has that new building smell down the halls.


Sure, like most places, they skimp on some things. The toilet paper is ultra thin as expected, but it's better at Studio 6. It's got some padding that's soft on my ass - like sweet-talking politicians campaigning for a bit part in government theatre. Unlike these politicians, this toilet paper has no about face. It does the job, and you toss it away, whereas with politicians, once elected, that softness turns to rampant sodomizing with no lubricant.


Sincerely yours,

Doctor Nonsensical

Travelogue 5 - "Strange Things are Afoot at the Circle K"

September 25, 2010

I went hunting for pheasant today. It was my first time hunting - roughing it through fields of weeds and tall plants with a majority of the males at the compound. I was given a shotgun (a 12 gauge) and plenty of ammo. At the day's start, mid-morning, we all stood lined up outside the field 8 feet apart. The sun was beating down, and my flesh could feel the searing, invisible solar flares lashing my arms and face.

Our two guides unleashed the hounds, and we marched in a line. It was like the Odessa staircase scene from 'Battleship Potemkin' as we trudged forward, silently, clenching our shotguns and ready to blast at any aerial movement. The pheasants were the civilians massacred on the concrete steps, and slaughtered they were. It wasn't much of a challenge as the hounds flushed them out, and our hunters put gun to air and blew them sky high, decapitating some with sinister grins and joyous howls of orgasmic pleasure.

I missed at every opportunity. I may have grazed one bird, but I failed to kill anything. However, my crew mates slaughtered 33, gutting them and wrapping them afterward like delicious take-out. I just joined in the fanfare to look like the capable hunter when we returned back to the women at the compound. After all, I have an image to maintain.

I did have fun today though. I've never fired a shotgun, and I find it exhilarating, especially when blasting away at clay pigeons and feeling the kick of the gun against the shoulder. It's a taste of freedom that, back in Illinois, is too tedious with paperwork to enjoy. In Utah, one just has to sign a waiver, grab a gun, and go to town, so long as you don't hit another human or a hunting dog.

This was just a minor thought of the day.

For the entirety of this weekend, being a total of two days thus far, I have been the outsider to this relatively Mormon shindig. I drink. I smoke cigars. I gamble. I have had premarital sex. I do things Mormons can't and won't do (most of the time) - things that are heavily frowned upon by their mythological "Heavenly Father".

Yet, as I sat around at dinner, I felt more comfortable in my outsider status. These people were, as I saw, normal screw-ups. They were just a bunch of people (most of them my age) in dysfunctional families and relationships. They graduated high school, married, fucked, and led mediocre, argumentative lives (just without booze, gambling, and all around good American fun). One wife seemed to come on to me the more I talked to her. I was just being friendly and trying to get to know people, and she was looking for male attention outside of her "lazy husband" as she hinted at. Her disagreement was with the fact that he left her in the morning to go hunting and then returned back just to sit in front of the television and watch college football.

This led to a heated outburst, which was one of many for today. As I ate dinner, I just sat there quietly, chewing on garlic bread, and listening to all these rages of "cabin fever" as various couples fought and fought and fought. In some way, it was satisfying, knowing that not only was I an asshole, but they were vicious assholes too. Many of them were severe control freaks, and these control freaks tormented the others like the sick, delusional monsters they were deep down. A twisted grin found its way scrawled across my face as this sanctity of marriage suddenly became a sick joke. The men married early on because their loins burned with passion, because they were told to, and their wives, while sexually giving, were not the painted pictures they dolled themselves up to be. It reminded me of the film 'Bordello of Blood'. I was Dennis Miller in a den full of ravenous, soul-sucking dominatrixes, and I was watching my vampire-hunting compatriots succumb one-by-one to the garish organization of these Orwellian calendar freaks.

Not all are like this. There are some great, fun people here - some of which are creative individuals with unmatched talents.

Yet, like all of us on this big globe - they are merely human. These "Mormons" have the same issues and flaws as any other, the same motivations and personality issues, and that gives me a peace of mind and ease to really let loose and go to town. Once I heard these dysfunctional, Orwellian character setbacks, I opened my damned floodgate of jokes and worked the room. Nothing like a hyperactive jokester with nothing to lose and self-depracating (yet egotistical) humor to raise spirits.

----------------------------

I should have waited to write, so I could include all of this in one coherent rambling. However, an hour or two after writing my initial post, one of the clansmen suffered a severe back injury. He couldn't move. He had to be dragged by his relatives to a room with more space to help him. The man had guts. The whole time he said not a word. He just looked stoic, biting down the surging pain within - fighting that popped disc in his back or whatever it was.

Another one of his relative, an uncle, ran upstairs after a while of trying to help him unsuccessfully to grab a small tube of something - anointed oil. It was blessed, of course - olive oil taken to a holy man. All the others were in the room at this time, watching silently. Some were holding their babies.

As the uncle opened the tube of anointed oil, they all lowered their heads and prayed silently. I watched on from afar, feeling great, sweeping compassion and sympathy for this young man, but I was compelled to leave the room by a disruption in the air. One of the babies began to speak during their silent prayer. He repeated the same word in monotone over and over again. "Milk. Milk. Milk."

I lost it and started laughing.

"Milk. Milk. Milk," the baby continued.

I left.

Salve Regina

My husband and I were blessed to attend the Rector's Dinner last night; it's an annual fund-raiser for our wonderful St. Francis de Sales Seminary. It was a joy to meet many wonderful friends and acquaintances, to share a delicious meal with some fellow members of our parish including our Pastor, and to hear the good news of the wonderful growth occurring at the Seminary under the guidance of the Seminary Rector and my good friend, Fr. Don Hying. But by far, the most beautiful and touching moment came at the end of the evening when Fr. Don asked all of the thirty-six seminarians to join him on the stage for the final blessing of the evening. Then, in peaceful humility, the holy men joined together to chant the Salve Regina from their nightly prayer. That beautiful prayer, vocalized so tenderly, will long remain in my heart as a great sign of love that all priests, and those men aspiring to the priesthood, have for our glorious Mother.

Travelogue 4 - The Hall of Eyes

September 24, 2010

Skinwalker Ranch came and went. It's a fenced off area on a dirt road deep in an Indian Reservation in the Uintah Basin. There are cameras and lights posted in the trees and wire all around, prohibiting trespassing to the casual viewer. I arrived in the mid-afternoon, so sneaking in was out of the question, especially with the local tribal police surveying the area cautiously, ready to prosecute anyone willing to break federal regulations.

I saw it though. I stood there for a few moments, taking in the atmosphere of solitude. Of silence. Knowing the kind of strangeness that partakes there caused an eerie feeling to slither up my spine. It made me want to relieve myself, so I marked my territory on a bush and left.

On the way out a pit bull lunged out from a local's house. He snapped at my arm just as I removed it and rolled up the window. Then he proceeded to tail the vehicle as I drove off, away from the downtrodden town. It's worse than a trailer park in Southern Illinois out in the Uintah Basin. Supposedly, the Indians are a blight on the land, sucking in federal funds and living a lazy, unclean lifestyle suckling the tit of hardworking Americans. At least, this is the sentiment conveyed by the local caucasians, and they corroborate this sentiment by pointing to the unkept trailers, rusting and littered with junk. The lawns are overgrown. The shutters are lying on the ground. Some glass windows are broken, taped over with duct tape. However, the natives all own brand new vehicles (SUVs and trucks of utmost quality - at least that's what the advertisements would have us believe).

This ugliness is one many would have white-washed from the area, but it persists. Ironically, Wal-Marts are allowed and saved from said white-washing.

Speaking of Wal-Mart, I had to stop at one earlier in the day in Rock Springs, Wyoming. I had to relieve my bladder, and Wal-Mart was my only option. After defecating and leaving, I saw a homeless man just on the turn out of the parking lot. He had a sign that read: "Food, money, anything. God bless." My father was with me, and as I was the closest to the man, my dad slipped me a fin. I rolled down my window and handed the bill.

"Thank you. God bless," the homeless said gratefully.

I would have it known that being from Chicago, a land where strangers cuss out others and show anger and apathy toward one another, learning how to be polite, nice, and quick-thinking is hard to do. I'm great at improv comedy. It's a specialty of mine if I had one, but I cannot improv politeness and kindness. I need to script it like a movie, lest I make myself look like a fucking idiot. Which is exactly what I did.

"Thank you," I said. My mind was running a mile a minute. I didn't know what to say. My corporate, fast food restaurant and front desk etiquette training kicked in. "Have a nice day."

What a fucking stupid comment to make. He's homeless. If I said, "Try to have a nice day" or "I wish you the best of luck," that might have been better, but I had to utter the same fucking comment the polite clerks at department stores are witnessed to whisper every now and then.

I still can't get over myself for such sheer stupidity, which only compiled on as I tried to shoot clay pigeons with a shotgun this evening. I hit nothing but the air. Granted, it was my first time firing a shotgun, but I need to improve quickly, as I'm expected to hunt pheasant tomorrow. I sorely hope I don't pull a Dick Cheney and plug somebody in the face.

I've never hunted, obviously, so this will be a new experience. Supposedly, we will eat what we catch. I'm excited as I have a vast interest in animal anatomy. I've always loved dissecting dead creatures, and cleaning a pheasant seems to be the most anticipatory moment for me tomorrow.

The blood. The organs. The flesh.

(I'm kidding).

However, I am excited to eat a kill I hopefully will earn. However, with my shooting thus far, trees are going to be the only living things to fear me. Poor trees.

These people in my hunting party are a strange people. They are warm, welcoming, and friendly, but they have their silly rules they frown on - two of which I broke. I drank a couple of beers, and I had a couple cups of tea. Wait. No. I broke three. I swore a few times out of habit. Maybe four. I bashed spectating sports. I don't know. They still show warmth, and the women here are plentiful in number for those in my age group; they are beautiful. However, they may be too stuck in their silly rules to engage in passion.

That's another thing about this area. The warmth. The people here are well-mannered and friendly, as I've mentioned previously. At Wendy's today, the woman at the drive-thru window referred to me as "sir". "Thank you, sir," she said pleasantly.

.....The Hell?

These people are so economically depressed in comparison to many suburbs I've been known to haunt back home, but they are so much more friendly and....... human. Human. That's a word. Something seen less and less in my world. Perhaps I need to change this - move elsewhere. However, I'm still an outcast in this community. Weird. Different. Maybe intimidating by my immense height and size.

I need to convey a loving nature to gain entrance into this festival, so long as they can deal with my booze indulgences, teas, and herbal smokes.

Cortlands, Gingersnaps and Dad

It's that wonderful time of year again when trees burn with oranges, reds and yellows, the air has a brisk feel to it and apples are back in season! Today as I pushed my grocery cart to the produce aisle, I was delighted to find those red jewels, Cortland apples, just waiting for me! I was reminded of a post I wrote last year about that crunchy treat, so as I was munching on my apple on the drive home, I decided to repost it. How funny that when I found last year's post, it was dated October 1st. I must be more of a creature of habit than I realize!

I just returned from the grocery store where I was delighted to find the autumnal treat of crisp, sweet and juicy Cortland apples. To me, Cortland apples are not just a healthy treat, they are a memory of love. They were my dad's favorite apple. Just before he became too ill to go out walking, my children and I took him to an apple farm. There we picked several bushels of Cortland apples. My dad, who was usually very quiet even when he was pleased, thanked me for the outing and wondered how in the world I had ever found that out-of- the-way apple orchard. When he became home-bound, I would bring him bags of those Cortlands from the grocery store and set a shiny apple and a knife in front of him at the table and just watch him delight in peeling and quartering his favorite apple. Tonight, when I found those apples in the store, I was overcome with nostalgia and love for my dad who has passed away over three years ago. I couldn't wait until I got home to eat one, and peel and cut it like he did. Instead, I immediately bit into it and enjoyed memories of my dad with every bite, all the way home. Recalling the memories of those apples led me to remember another food that was a favorite of my dad's, gingersnap cookies, which is also a food that feels like autumn...

Gingersnaps

Crisp
Spicy
Aromatic
Delicious

These are the traditional joys
of gingersnap cookies.
But to me, gingersnaps offer so much more
than these sensory attributes.

Gingersnaps are a memory of love.
They remind me of my Dad
who loved gingersnaps more than any other cookie.

That rich molasses flavor
hooked him
and he was in love.
There was nothing he enjoyed better
than dunking them in his coffee.

When he was feeling generous
he would buy a bag or two
for my family and I to enjoy.

When I was feeling generous
I would spend an afternoon
baking them from scratch
for him to enjoy.

When my children were small,
their favorite job
was rolling the balls of gingersnap dough
in the dish of sugar
and flattening them with the bottom of a glass.

Whenever I see gingersnaps in the store
or even better
smell gingersnaps
baking in the oven
I am immediately
transported back to another time,
a time when I could share love
with my dad
through a gingersnap cookie.