Worth Doing

“If a thing's worth doing it's worth doing badly.” ~~G.K. Chesterton

Today they buried my friends, Rose and Dave. In spite of how violently they died, how much publicity the crime has received, and how packed the church was, it was a solemn, beautiful Mass of Christian burial followed by full military honors for Dave who retired from the Air Force after 24 years. The Freedom Riders turned out in large numbers to line the street with flags and stand at attention for the salute and playing of Taps.

The weather also cooperated. It’s a perfect spring day here in Oklahoma—the sun’s shining, there’s a crisp breeze and yet it’s still not too hot.

So why the quote?

The funeral was lovely, a fitting tribute to my unforgettable friend, Rose and her devoted husband—all anyone could have asked for and more.

This morning as I was getting ready to go, I felt so strangely at peace, more so than I’ve been since I first heard the awful news. I knew without a doubt I was supposed to be a Communion minister today. I’ve never been a Communion minister at a funeral before; very often they don’t need extraordinary ministers, especially not when you have two priests and a deacon presiding as was the case today. When one is required, usually it’s the Mass Coordinator. But somehow, it just seemed right. Rose was the one who told me I could bring Holy Communion to the homebound years ago when I couldn’t fathom such an honor.

“But what if I mess it up?” I think I probably asked her back then.

“How will they know?!” She probably answered. I can just imagine her thinking, “Silly rabbit! Stop worrying and just bring them Communion! These sick people need your help. Perfectionists! Yeesh!”

She gave me a pyx, a book of prayers, a bunch of holy cards and sent me on my way. I was hung up on doing things “right”. Rose didn’t worry about that so much. Oh sure she tried to follow the big rules so far as they went. But she was more about visiting the person, seeing that each sick friend—and anyone in a hospital bed was her friend, whether she knew them or not—had Communion if they were Catholic, and magazines, candy, fast food or whatever else she could smuggle into the hospital, if they weren't.

Today I was the only lay extraordinary minister at my friend’s funeral. This morning, I told her that if it was God's Will, I'd really like to do it. I guess it was. Anyway, like so many other things I know I’ve done, it was worth doing—however I did it—because it wasn’t about me. None of it is about us, which is why it doesn’t matter so much how well we do it, but the love we put into it. Rose—and God—know how much her gifts meant to me over the years. Oh sweet Lord, let me be a ‘Rose’ for others.

And now she gave me another gift by helping me discover the courage to do something else I’ve never done. Thank you dear friend. One of the most beautiful things about getting older and losing dear ones is that it makes your own death less scary. Each time I can count one more soul ‘over there’ to welcome me when it’s my turn. Not such a bad thing when you think about it.

Thank you God for letting me be Catholic. Help me keep on ‘doing it’...however badly.

Now That You've Gone Home

The hand of God is usually unexpected—that’s how you know it’s His Hand. Well that’s been my experience anyway.

His trademark is quiet surprise: the friend who is standing in front of you just when you desperately need her; finding something you weren’t looking for but have been missing for months; the package arriving in the mail from someone you barely know.

Such was the case with this book and another sent by Julie Cragon over at Hand Me Down Heaven. One day I came home from work to discover I had two books from a ‘friend’ I didn’t know I had. Julie had gone to a book convention and she bought me this book and The Four Teresas, which I’ve loaned to another friend and have yet to read.

Now That You’ve Gone Home is a sweet, gentle book. It enfolds the grieving spirit like a warm comforter in a bright sunny room. I imagine myself reading it at a friend’s house who lives out in the country with floor-to-ceiling picture windows on both sides and a fire dancing before me. A white winter sky flecked with the bright color of birds flocking to the feeder. Snow drifted outside, yet I am cozy and snug, drinking a mug of something delicious, further soothed by the words of the kindest of spirit guides, Joyce Hutchison and Joyce Rupp.

Both authors have experienced profound tragedies in their own lives but it is from the anguish of their losses that their deep compassion blooms.

It is the book I wish I'd had when my brother died 19 years ago. It’s the book I will recommend to anyone now who loses someone dear. It begins with short chapters relating Joyce Hutchinson’s journey through the dark days after her husband’s death. Reading it brought out tenderness toward my own dear spouse I wish I practiced every minute of every day. It was a reminder of the brevity and preciousness of this life—ours and those we love.

After Joyce’s stories, the book moves on to a collection of other stories from parents, children, siblings, persons married and single, from all walks of life and how each dealt with the death of loved ones. There was every kind of death imaginable from old age to suicide to illness to horrible accident, as well as many different responses and coping methods on the part of those grieving. Each story chapter concluded with a meditation, prayer and affirmation for the day.

I can hardly imagine a better resource to give someone struggling with the aftermath of personal loss except—of course—a devoted friend and constant prayer.

Thank you Julie for your generous gifts! You blessed my life; may yours be blessed as well.

Sisters

“Children of the same family, the same blood, with the same first associations and habits, have some means of enjoyment in their power, which no subsequent connections can supply...” ~Jane Austen, Mansfield Park, 1814

Recently I hugged a young woman at the funeral of her only sibling, a handsome sixteen year old cut down in the very prime of life. It was one of those funerals you hate to go to but you know you can’t miss. I hugged her harder and longer than I usually hug anyone. I told her about losing my only brother eighteen years ago when he was only 29. Although it wasn’t the same, it was the most devastating loss I’d ever experienced; I know what it is to lose a brother.

She asked me one question, “Was he your only sibling?” No, I had to admit honestly. He was my only brother, but I still have two sisters.

She was now an only child. I was wealthy by comparison.

Funny how difficult it is to see one’s family as a ‘treasure’ when you’re growing up; then siblings are rivals for finite resources, such as mom’s time, the favorite chair, or extra food, etc. Still I do remember a few lights shining through the fog where I saw—really saw—what a wonderful thing it is to have other souls who share the same parents and similar childhood memories.

But something that I value even more than the collective conscious is the sense of belonging that I share with my sisters. When we were younger we had our rivalries and jealousies. Especially intense were our competitions over grades and scholastic achievements. Both of my sisters made higher grades than I did and earned more awards and scholarships—much to my chagrin.

However, my one sister who never married struggled to overcome her own desires for family life and children. And my other sister who has two autistic sons had to learn not to blame herself for the boys’ disabilities. Both sisters suspected my life a little bit too perfect until our girls became teenagers and I recounted some of the trials inherent in mothering young women today. Is anyone’s life without bumps, pitfalls and obstacles? Isn’t it the challenges we face which make us who we are? Doesn’t character develop over the long term?

“Sisters is probably the most competitive relationship within the family, but once the sisters are grown, it becomes the strongest relationship.” ~Margaret Mead

We just returned from a wonderful visit home where I was able to see both sisters and the rest of our family. The days of petty childhood differences are long gone. My single sister babysits for our autistic nephews. My youngest sister, Julie opened her beautiful home to us for the holiday and even waited up for us when we arrived late Tuesday night. My family is on one schedule due to college age kids; her family is on another time clock due to her boys’ special needs, but we worked it out.

Both of my sisters are amazing women. Patti recently finished her Masters in Pastoral Administration. She’s also a Master Gardener and she does triathlons. Julie has decorated her entire home herself—done the painting, wallpaper, curtains, made quilts and pillows for her son’s beds, does scrapbooking and lately has taken up miniatures as well! Pictured at the top is her entry for an upcoming competition. Hasn’t she done a nice job on this Jewelry Boutique?! I couldn't be more proud of my sisters' accomplishments if I'd actually done all of those things myself. I love them immeasurably. They are my dearest friends.

God bless you both!

We had a wonderful Thanksgiving. It was our best visit ‘home’ ever!

Thanks to everyone! We love you all so much!

“Bless you, my darling, and remember you are always in the heart - oh tucked so close there is no chance of escape - of your sister.” ~Katherine Mansfield

Day 17 - Finding God in Narnia

‘When he saw the crowds, he went up the mountain, and after he had sat down, his disciples came to him. He began to teach them, saying: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they who mourn, for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the land. Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be satisfied. Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy. Blessed are the clean of heart, for they will see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God. Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are you when they insult you and persecute you and utter every kind of evil against you (falsely) because of me. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward will be great in heaven. Thus they persecuted the prophets who were before you.”’ Matthew 5:1-11

For Reverend Mills, Jesus’ teachings on the kingdom make him think of the magical land of Narnia created by C. S. Lewis, especially as it is discovered and explored by Lucy and the other Pevensie children.

Parallel worlds are in fact one of the best ways to understand many of Our Lord’s teachings.

Sometimes daily life offers similar glimpses which we can share.

This past week I agreed to speak to a group of seniors from our parish on the topic of Adoration—the History of Adoration in the Catholic Church in 8 minutes or less was actually my assignment—if you can believe it.

I agreed to do it because I love Adoration, full stop. Trying to imagine doing justice to such an important topic in only 8 minutes—much less anything less—I never took seriously even before I started my research. I mean really? We’re talking two thousand years of Catholic Church history here. It simply can’t be done.

Throughout the week I made sure I spent at least an hour with Jesus every day in our Blessed Sacrament Room talking to Him about what He wanted me to say about Him.

Without a doubt it’s been the best week of my life. I worked ten hour days, fourteen on Wednesday but somehow everything came together. The talk went well. I know I went over my 8 minutes but no one complained. I’ve never been less nervous in front of a group of people in my life. Never. And I would say that usually I prefer dental visits to public speaking.

However, last evening I was thrilled to speak. It was the Solemnity of the Sacred Heart, a feast closely associated with the Holy Eucharist.

Just the day before, I had received a lovely gift from a dear blogging friend, Julie Cameron, two autographed books which she picked up for me. The one book she’d told me about, the second was an extra surprise. I look forward to reading and reviewing both books for her. God bless you Julie!

Seek the Kingdom of God, the Pearl of Great Price. He is worth it!

He is waiting there for you and He is Everything!

Day 14 - Jesus Irritates Me!

‘They came to the other side of the sea, to the territory of the Gerasenes. When he got out of the boat, at once a man from the tombs who had an unclean spirit met him. The man had been dwelling among the tombs, and no one could restrain him any longer, even with a chain. In fact, he had frequently been bound with shackles and chains, but the chains had been pulled apart by him and the shackles smashed, and no one was strong enough to subdue him. Night and day among the tombs and on the hillsides he was always crying out and bruising himself with stones. Catching sight of Jesus from a distance, he ran up and prostrated himself before him.’ Mark 5:1-6

Jesus irritates me! I feel rather guilty admitting this—all the more so because it’s true. That I didn’t choose the blog—or chapter—title doesn’t make the verity of it any less applicable to me.

I admit it. There are times Jesus irritates me. Or rather, I should say I get frustrated by things which happen to me. I think they are unfair, unmerited or unbearable, sometimes all three. When I refuse to accept the events and circumstances which God chooses to send me—at least those I cannot change—then I am refusing to accept Him.

One thing which consistently upsets me is hurting other people, especially those I love. In fact, it is at the top of my list of least favorite things. I really dislike causing loved ones pain. Probably because I have been hurt so often myself, I want to do all I can not to do the same thing to others. However, sometimes there are circumstances when everything conspires together in such a way misunderstanding seems almost inevitable. When that happens it takes everything in me not to get angry with God.

Recently I had such an event with a dear, dear friend. We’ve been friends for years. She wrote and asked me about a book.

It’s a popular new fiction book. I admitted to her that I didn’t like it. For starters, it’s in a genre which I don’t happen to care for. Secondly, although I agreed with the author’s position, I didn’t care for his presentation, development or literary style. Booklady that I am, I can get a bit esoteric and dense when it comes to books. I should have realized she just wanted affirmation of her choice of a book. I didn’t. I needed to be a friend. Instead I was literary critic. I hurt her feelings. I only realized what I’d done when it was too late. Needless to say, I felt like a heel.

Time was, I would have gotten mad at God. Or myself. It wasn’t His fault of course. My husband said it wasn’t mine either. It was just e-mail and miscommunication. If we’d been face-to-face, the misunderstanding never would have happened.

This time, however, instead of getting irritated with Him, I thanked Him. I didn’t want to thank Him. But I did it anyway . . . all the while I was crying.

After that I went to Mass and offered my Communion for my friend. I did the same thing the next day and the next.

And I called her. We talked. We’ve exchanged a dozen or so e-mails since and we’re better friends now than we were before the misunderstanding.

I used to get angry with God about so many things. The week before it was when my daughter forgot to return a call to my Confessor who needed directions to our home so he could come to her graduation reception. He was really hurt she didn’t call him back. I wanted to be angry with my absent-minded daughter for being so careless and slighting someone who is so dear to me. Instead I prayed and thanked God. My husband suggested we take Fr. John out to dinner tomorrow night. So we are. He seemed very pleased when I invited him to have this special night out with our family. Amazingly, we're even able to get all of us together on the same evening.

Anger into gratitude. It works!

The Edge of Sadness

My second installment in this trilogy devoted to Books About Priests, is Edwin O'Connor's, The Edge of Sadness. Even the title should warn you that this book is not for everyone. But if you are the type of reader who enjoys psychological mysteries, then I think you will find this study of the priesthood fascinating.

The Edge of Sadness is 646 pages of mostly thought and dialogue which spans the relatively brief time span of six months, occasionally taking retrospective forays back into the lifetime friendship of two middle-aged priests who grew up together.

The main character, Father Hugh Kennedy, a recovering alcoholic, is the pastor of the down-and-out—and going nowhere—Old St. Paul's, a conglomerate parish which has seen better days and probably won't see them again. Father John Carmody, son of the infamous Charlie Carmody, one of the most hated Irish business shysters of his generation is the type-A pastor of a type-A parish, St. Raymond's, a place which functioned much like a hospital emergency room—as did many a big Eastern city Catholic parish of the 1960's era—that is, always running, often at top speed, and never closing its doors.

But the parishes only provide a backdrop for the story which really centers on Father Hugh and his relationship with the Carmody family: Charlie, the formidable patriarch; Hugh's best friend, John; Helen, his married sister and her family; Dan, the other brother who never could get his act together and Mary, Charlie’s caretaker and housekeeper.

The overarching mystery of the novel is why does Charlie—who never does anything to no avail—suddenly decide to start calling on Father Hugh, reminiscing about his so-called friendship with Hugh's long-dead father, who in fact knew Charlie for exactly what he was, a shrewd and self-motivated businessman who never did an unselfish act in his life? What is Charlie's game now? Even his own children are at a loss to explain his seemingly motiveless nostalgia. But as the story unfolds and we go deeper and deeper into the Carmody family, we sense the damage old Charlie has been wreaking, not only on his four adult children but on ‘friends’, clients, business associates and the city as a whole.

Not that I did it, but if you’re one of those who do, even reading the last page and/or chapter won’t ‘solve’ the mystery, although it is solved, I promise. For all its length and leisurely pace, The Edge of Sadness is one of the most satisfying books I have read in a long time, also one of the most insightful and thought-provoking. The vocation of the priesthood is viewed from the inside, without glamour or sentiment but as Real Life, sometimes happy and enjoyable, other times as living on ‘the edge of sadness’. But then what life isn’t?

Here are some additional links to book reviews I've written during this Year For Priests: The Diary of a Country Priest, Silence, Priestblock 25487: A Memoir of Dachau, and Love In A Fearful Land. They are all books about priests; the first two are fiction and the last two are biographies.

forgetting what lies behind

Have you ever had a conversation with someone which was so good you were torn between hanging on every word and wanting to grab a pen or a tape recorder so that you could capture every word?

I just had such a conversation. I don’t want to forget it, but already so much of it is slipping away from memory. It was more than the meeting of minds or hearts—although it certainly was that—it was the communion of two souls. After Mass today I very much wanted to tell a lady from our parish who I know and like, but don’t know as well as I’d like to know, that I really appreciated her rendering of the Second Reading from Philippians. It’s a difficult selection and she is a superb lector, but today I could hear the Holy Spirit speaking through St. Paul’s words and her voice. It was a God moment.

Before I had a chance to tell her what I thought about her lectoring, we started talking about women, our need to give, the importance and gift of being able to receive, and special women we both know. Then in a very natural way, the conversation turned to the loss of her husband four years ago and her subsequent walk with grief.

This was not one of those conversations with a woman looking for sympathy. Rather it was the shared insight from a truly Wise Woman.

The husband she described sounded very much like my own husband—a wonderful man, loving, considerate, generous, hard-working, always thinking of others before himself. He used to take care of everything around the house, from doing the grocery shopping to scrubbing the bathroom floors. After he died, she would find herself on her knees scrubbing the floors crying ... thinking ... remembering. There are some things in the past which shouldn’t be forgotten.

But when he died she found her real spiritual work began. She needed to learn to develop in areas which she didn’t even know existed, where he’d been strong for her. It was this inner strength, this holy wisdom, this deep spirituality which I heard when she lectored. I drank it in.

I thought too about my own dear husband and felt a moment of panic, sheer terror actually, as I thought of my own potentially impending future, a time to come without him. What would I do? How could I go on?

She spoke of kind people—dear friends—wanting so desperately to help her in her bereavement and how she helped them in allowing them to help her. We both had tears in our eyes and few spilled over as well. She apologized to me! I felt privileged and honored that she would share her story with me.

We talked about judgments and she said how we are all taught to judge everything, from the weather, to people, to situations. But what a different perspective if instead of judging we choose to look at everything as an opportunity from God to grow. “What do you want me to gain from this O LORD?” And she said oh so much more…

Finally I did get to tell her how much I enjoyed and benefited from hearing her lector today, but by the time I did, I had already gained so much more, well … anyway, it made her happy. And for that LORD, I am truly grateful!

‘Remember not the events of the past,
the things of long ago consider not;
see, I am doing something new!’

Constant Contact

Remember what it was like to wait for something? Or someone? To savor the anticipation of seeing that special person? Talking to him? Hearing from her? Receiving a letter from them? Ah yes, those long ago days when we actually used to write each other letters, real letters. Remember?

Do you remember what it was like to wait and want very much to hear from someone? It could be a family member serving in the military overseas, or friends who’d move away, or that special someone you’d met and thought you couldn’t live without ... but found you could. Still the letters you wrote helped you feel connected despite the distance.

And then the day was here—that long-cherished missive from your special person arrived! You pulled it from the mailbox and looked at the return address, at your own name as the addressee, or the family name perhaps, written in long-hand on the envelope. Did you bring the paper near your nose and breathe in the scent of faraway places? Or perhaps touch it briefly to your lips? The touch and smell of someone dear sending shivers of joy and sadness through you, your eyes warm and full of moisture, close to tears...

You felt the thickness of the packet trying to judge the worthiness of the writings; the heavier it was the better. A fat letter meant many pages and more words to feast on. Maybe you wondered what he was doing now? Or if she was eagerly awaiting a reply. Now the question became, where to read the cherished epistle? In a private room? Around the kitchen table with the family? Under or up in a tree? Or for the very impatient among us, before we even got back in the house!

But what am I writing about? Does anyone even know? For more than three fourths of the population in America today, what I’m describing probably sounds like an ancient Japanese tea ceremony or a medieval courting ritual, if young people even know what those things are.

No one today knows how to wait for anything. We expect—we demand—instant communication, constant contact. Everywhere you go, everyone is on his or her cell phone, as the saying goes, 24/7. Wait to hear from someone?! Send a “letter”?! What’s a letter”? My daughters had to teach their boyfriends—and most of their friends for that matter—how to even address an envelope.

My response to all this: I refuse. I answer my phone when I feel like it. When I don’t, I don’t. When I’m with someone, I turn off my cell phone. I don't consider this anymore than common courtesy. If my husband was dying of cancer or my mother was having heart surgery that morning, I would make an exception. Otherwise, I think it’s rude to keep interrupting a lunch you’re having with someone to answer your phone. There aren’t as many emergencies as we like to think there are.

The people who love and truly need me know where I am and how to find me within a fairly short period of time. But truthfully we don’t need to talk to each other all the time. As for the rest, they don’t matter. If I could, I’d get rid of my cell phone altogether, but I can’t ... yet. I'm still working on it...

However, if I don’t blog as much as I used to ... you know why. Constant contact isn’t necessary, nor is it even enjoyable.

Savor the spaces and the opportunities to be quiet. Life is the real luxury. Letters and taking things more slowly are among the best ways to cherish it.

cat cuddles

He looks up at me and cries plaintively. It means, “Pick me up. I am lonely.” Or, perhaps, “I need some affection, a hug—some of your bodily warmth and reassurance. Please hold me and rub me ... until I don’t want it anymore.”

I may read it, “He loves me.” And in his little cat-way, I suppose he does, so far as he is able. But I don’t worry about that. I know what he means. I need ‘picking up’ too. So I pick him up and in the process, he picks me up.

I hold him close, rub his soft fur, feel his warmth and listen to his gentle purr. He’s not a young kitten anymore, but neither am I and so we are well-suited to one another. We sit together for awhile enjoying each other physical presence. It’s nice, very nice and there’s nothing ‘wrong’ with it. When he’s had enough of me, he wriggles free, stops to rub and bump up against my thigh. His sign of affection is to put his kitty forehead next to you and just hold it there ... almost in a position of submissive adoration. It’s so sweet and tender. I just love it. We calling it “bumping”.

While I watch him lick his ruffled coat back into pristine position, I muse: wouldn’t it be wonderful if we humans could do something like this?

Just look up at the person we care about—but don’t begin to understand—and meow, asking to be held? And just imagine if that loved one, a troubled teen or a disgruntled friend or even a struggling co-worker, could hold us in their lap for awhile and rub (or rock) us oh so tenderly and gently for just a little while without fear of ‘weirdness’ or sexual misunderstandings or gossip...

I know I’m being silly, but I think so many of our human problems could be solved if we could just do this.

But we can’t—for obvious reasons.

So we have pets.

Still, when my cat and I have our next cuddle (in about an hour or so) I’m going to think about the person I’m having the most trouble understanding – or loving – and imagine cradling her ... him, offering myself unconditionally and without fear like I do with my cat.

Then I’m going to see myself “bumping” that person: putting my own forehead up against my neighbor in an act of submission, trust and love.

Of course it would never work in “real” life, but oh, isn’t it nice to dream about?

And just think what cat cuddles and bumps – even just those we do in our imagination – could do for our relationships with others?

phase book

“Hi, I’m booklady and I have an addictive personality,” she drawls, standing up, addressing the circular group.

“Hi booklady,” the group choruses back at her.

Okay. It could be a joke. We certainly use it as a joke around our house whenever we want to laugh at one of our weaknesses.

Or it could be for real.

For many throughout the world, addictions are no laughing matter. They are real and they destroy lives ... homes, marriages, families, schools, and even entire towns.

If we laugh at them it is only because we need to keep from crying—because once we start, we may not be able to stop.

I do have an addictive personality.

Twenty-four years ago I quit smoking. I called it a Christmas gift for my husband the first year we were married. It was the hardest thing I’d ever done up until then.

I continue to struggle with addictions—and addictive-like behavior—in other areas of my life including eating, spending money, relationships, even exercise.

Recently however, I decided to give up facebook. Why? Because I liked it too much. It was wonderful, mindless escapism: collecting “friends”; “visiting” them; building cute little farms; setting up aquariums and towns; playing games; trading Christmas decorations and buddy hugs; sending cards and “hearts”, smiles and saints, chattering, chattering, on and on and and . . .

Woa! Wait a minute! I found myself slipping deeper and deeper into the delightful and colorful little world of iconography that is the spell of facebook … and I suppose other similar computer and technical other-worlds for those of us who find it hard to separate fantasy from reality.

I remembered the old-fashioned method for losing weight: doing push-outs. Push yourself out and away from the table. I’m sure there are many less drastic ways to remain ‘faced-in’ –even for addictive-types like me—but I decided I could live without facebook. What I didn’t know was how I could go on living with it.

One dear friend called me fifteen minutes after I closed my account to discover what had happened. I assured her that I hadn’t been phished or received a virus. Nothing bad had happened to me or my computer; I’d just decided to quit. She understood immediately; she’s that kind of friend.

A week later, my own family hadn’t even noticed I’d quit, nor that I was hardly ever on my computer anymore. (sigh) But then my dear husband didn’t notice when I gave up smoking either.

Well never mind.

We don’t do the right thing for the recognition. We do the right thing because it is the right thing.

That’s my story ... my phase book. Now I'll sit down.

Max and Benedict

Shhh! Don't anyone tell but I got this book for my pastor for Christmas.

Today I read and really enjoyed it. Personally I think it's better than Joseph and Chico, Ms. Perego's first children's book about Pope Benedict XVI. I'm not sure exactly why but I think because it doesn't read like a biography forced into a children's story. For me, Max and Benedict seemed to flow. It sounded like what it was, 'a bird's eye view of the Pope's daily life', a story told by a little bird about a gentle, quiet, scholarly man of the cloth.

My pastor (who doesn't want anyone to know what a nice guy he is) leaves bird seed just outside my office window most mornings. I know it's him because I've 'caught' him doing it a few times. A little bird must have told him I like to watch the birds ... or did he just catch me staring out the window so often he figured it out on his own? The secretaries tell me he'd planned to cut down the tree and bushes in our little shared courtyard sanctum and turn the area into office space. Now he's putting out birdseed?

Yes, we do need the office space, but we need that little bit of private nature even more.

I hope that Max in Jeanne Perego's charming little tale wins his heart and convinces him to keep the birds. Perhaps among all the birds feeding outside our windows, there is a little Max observing, singing and telling a story of our parish and the kind pastor who pretends to be so gruff ... but really isn't.

Read and share this sweet story. Thanks to my friend and the parish 'Cookie Monster' for the recommendation! And may you have a very Happy Birthday dear Lyn!

Check out my books on Goodreads!

Five for Sorrow, Ten for Joy

Five for Sorrow, Ten for Joy refers to the total number of decades in the complete rosary—fifteen ... as it used to be before the addition of the five Luminous Mysteries. It is also Rumer Godden’s title for an incredible book about the lives of women, real women—suffering, tainted, fallen women, modern-day Mary Magdalenes. It is fiction and yet it is set in a very real historical context and based on an actual society of sisters, the Sisters of Bethany, many of whom were former prostitutes and prisoners who through Grace and the ministry of other sisters, gave their lives over to God and ministering to the poor, the outcast and the imprisoned.

The story centers around Lise, or Elizabeth Fanshawe, an innocent, young British woman caught up in the liberation of Paris at the end of World War II. Swept away in the delirious debauchery of the time period, Lise finds herself far from home, and totally dependent on a man who runs a brothel when the post-war madness finally ebbs. Oh, and she has the bad fortune of being in love with him as well.

From the beginning of the story we know Lise has a deforming scar on her face and that she has gone from bordello, to years in prison, only to enter a third form of ‘bondage’, a convent. But why? And how is such a transition possible? Who is Vivi? Why has Lucette followed Lise? What is the significance of the rosary to the English Elizabeth, raised Protestant, turned prostitute, then prisoner, finally cloistered nun? These are some of the many questions the story confronts us with as we try to put all the pieces together.

Ms. Godden’s novel is intriguing from start to finish, both as a story and as a commentary on human weaknesses, the longing for God and the never-ending struggle to overcome the self. Two of my favorite passages are these:

'It was a revelation to the aspirants that the sisters, some of them elderly impressive nuns, filled with quiet holiness, should publicly admit their faults. Could Soeur Imelda de Notre Dame, the calm saintly person, really have snapped sharply at anyone? Could Soeur Marie Dominique have lost her temper? “Then do you go on being you until the end? they could have moaned. “Even after all this trying and training?” “Always,” Soeur Théodore would have told them. It was a good thing Compline finished with a prayer to Mary Magdalen: “Intercede and pray without ceasing for us, Marie Magdaleine, you who are most close to our Lord Jesus.”' (page 156)

'“I wish I had your imperturbability,” said Lise.
It was not just a shell; Lise herself could keep her face and voice in control when in reality she was in turnmoil; this was deeper—the nuns were not perturbed over things like this. “When you have seen as much of God’s providence as I have,” said Soeur Raymonde, as any of the nuns would have said, “seen the unfathomable ways in which He works, if you have any sense at all, you learn not to question or to judge—only to trust.”' (page 212)

Prayer and trust: two simple words, two powers actions.

For those familiar with Ms. Godden’s better known novel, In This House of Brede, Five For Sorrow picks up some of the same themes and re-examines them in a new light. However, although both books deal with convent life, they are totally different stories. Which is better? I’d be hard pressed to say. They are both excellent!

Thank You Father Rother!

Yesterday, the 28th of July, my in-laws and I headed out on the Northwest Expressway going – you guessed it – northwest to the little town of Okarche, birthplace of Father Stanley Rother. It was a hot, windy day on the Oklahoma plains, a good day for a pilgrimage.

Our destination was Holy Trinity Catholic Church, in Okarche, where we arrived a little before noon. For those who don’t know, a pilgrimage is a journey to a sacred place or shrine; it can cover a long distance, or be a search for some exalted purpose or moral significance. In my case, this was a personal spiritual pilgrimage undertaken in honor of the 28th anniversary of Father Rother’s martyrdom. As I mentioned in an earlier post, I’ve long wanted to tour this town, worship inside the church and perhaps even visit the grave of this inspirational priest. Several times, I planned to take my children, but something always came up. We had called our family homeschool, Father Stanley Rother Academy. We said the prayer for his canonization every morning as a part of our daily prayers … but somehow we never made the short trip to Okarche. I felt a little sad as I arrived and saw just how close the town was to us.

When we drove up, Channel 4 News¹ was interviewing a woman in front of Holy Trinity Church about why she had come today. She had tears in her eyes when she spoke about her admiration for Father. Was it my imagination, or did the questions coming from the interviewer and the camerawoman sound hostile? I handed the woman a tissue when the interview concluded.

Holy Trinity is a beautiful Gothic-style, stone and brick church, which is a well-known historical landmark in the area. Built in 1903, it is older than our state, and its outer magnificence is only surpassed by its interior serene beauty. I had come to do an hour of Adoration before the Blessed Sacrament in response to the write-up in our diocesan newspaper, The Sooner Catholic. (See page 15 of the July 12, 2009 edition for the article.) Even though my in-laws aren’t Catholic, “Mom” and “Dad” joined me for Holy Hour. It was their first experience of this particular Catholic tradition, but they were very used to attending other Catholic events with me, beginning almost twenty-five years ago when they attended our wedding in the chapel at RAF Mildenhall, UK.

After Adoration, we admired the small collection of memorabilia at the back of the church devoted to Father Rother, including some of his vestments. Then we photographed the outside of the church, including the statue pictured above, and went to lunch at the local Tower Café. Just as our food was set down before us, a nice-looking gentleman came up and said, “Didn’t I just see you over at the church a little while ago?” He was specifically addressing my father-in-law who said that yes, we’d just come from there.

With the warmest possible voice and manner and a smile as wide as an Oklahoma plain, he said, “I thought I recognized your bald head! Hi! I’m Tom Rother², Stan’s youngest brother.”

You could have picked me up off the floor … if Tom hadn’t sat down right next to me and blocked me into my booth seat! He proceeded to stay for the next twenty minutes—or so—and ‘shoot the breeze’ with us about “Stan”, their family, Oklahoma and Indiana—where my in-laws are from, farming, families in general, and just general ‘down home’ folk’s talk which just showed that farming and farming folk don’t know anything ‘bout state lines. Tom Rother, I discovered, was just a bit younger than my in-laws and they had a world in common. I reveled in just being the ‘fly on the wall’ for most of the conversation.

Tom had us laughing and feeling like we’d known him all our lives. As he was getting ready to leave, he said, “You are coming to Mass later at 5?” as if it wasn’t so much a question as a statement, and Dad said, “We should be coming back through just about then.”

We did some other sightseeing but we were back at Holy Trinity in time for Mass, after which Tom, and his lovely wife Marty, took us out to the graveyard. There we learned more family history, saw the family plot and gravestones and even encountered a representative and source for copies of The Shepherd Cannot Run ($10) and DVD, No Greater Love… The Story of Father Stanley Rother ($10), both of which I was looking for and will be reviewing in the not too distant future.

As we drove home, my own heart and spirit were soaring with gratitude and love. I have no doubt that Father Rother arranged everything, through Our Lord Jesus Christ. I believe in the Communion of Saints!

Father Rother, your brother and his wife are such warm and wonderful people. I look forward to meeting you too someday! Thank you!





¹ I was told by a friend at work today that she saw me on the news last night. Ah! My three or four seconds of fame and I missed it! We didn't get home until almost nine and then we had a whopper of an Oklahoma hail and wind storm come through which left us without power for two hours, split our pear tree down the middle and knocked over the freestanding basketball hoop blowing out the rear windscreen of one of our old cars. Guess I was just a little bit busy... ☺

² The second picture is yours truly with Tom Rother standing behind Father Rother's grave.

The Diary of a Country Priest

The Diary of a Country Priest by Georges Bernanos is a deceptively quiet book which starts off very slowly. Though I knew it had to be going somewhere, it is easy to see why some readers miss its depths—I stopped and started it several times myself. Lacking a clearly discernable plot, especially in the opening pages, I couldn't get into it.

I had even decided to put it on a backburner when a Goodreads friend, Fred, from Deep Furrows, commented on my update, 'Better to read sooner than later. Not a ponderous classic, but eavesdropping on great dialogue.' Well that was clear enough for me. I reopened 'Diary' and finished it in less than a week...with much appreciation.

The gist of the story is an inexperienced, young priest arrives at his first parish, a little place out in the country and begins to keep a diary. We also learn he is poor, devout, idealistic and ascetic. None of these traits particularly endear him to his parishioners. He seems to have but one fellow cleric friend, a worldly priest, de Torcy, who would have him ‘toughen up’ and stand up for himself. Sometimes, I confess I felt a little exasperated with our curé myself. Other times, his self-effacing meekness brought out my motherly instincts and I wanted to help this young clergyman—who so many seemed to despise or take advantage of. What makes the saga so compelling is the gentle, uncomplaining way the new priest tells about his many failures and humiliations. As his audience we see his kindnesses misunderstood and his simple mistakes turned against him. And yet he is determined to go out and visit all within his parish despite mounting health problems.

Most of the ‘action’ – if it can even be called that – in this novel occurs in the brilliantly constructed conversations between the curate and another character: a confused little girl, an atheist doctor, a long-grieving countess, her malicious teenage daughter, and a soldier of fortune to name a few. It is in these epic dialogues George Bernanos' reason for writing this testimony to faith is truly revealed.

It isn’t an action book. It’s much, much better than that! I can see why some – used to reading a different sort of literature – have discounted this book. It has to be read carefully, slowly and perceptively. Also, some background on the author, George Bernanos, and the French movement, positivism, would be extremely beneficial. The best review I've read on the book was this one written by Amy Welborn.

Highly recommended! One of the most faith-affirming books I’ve read this year! Thanks so much Fred for the gentle nudge.

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Literary Blog Award

Thanks to my friend, Harvee Lau over at Book Bird Dog, for yet another cool blogging award! This one is for something which seems to really fit in line with the okie-booklady mission, i.e., reading! ☺ ☺ ☺

The Literary Blogger Award acknowledges bloggers who energize and inspire reading by going the extra mile! These amazing bloggers make reading fun, and enhance the delight of reading! I'm passing on the award to:

Suzanne at Come to See
Michael at Reach Paradise
Enbrethiliel at Sancta Sanctis
Marie at Naru Hodo
Pete at The Food Which Endures
Ladystorm at Mystery, Suspense, and God, Oh My!
Marianne at Saint Benedict Academy

Thanks to all of you for being such great blogging friends!

God bless you and yours,

The Proper 'Hugging' of a Baby

Instructions for properly hugging a baby:

1. First, uh, find a baby...

2. Second, be sure that the object you found was

indeed a baby by employing classic sniffing techniques.

3. Next you will need to flatten the baby

before actually beginning the hugging process.

4. The 'paw slide: to accomplish this technique,

simply slide paws around baby and prepare for possible close-up.

5. Finally, if a camera is present,

you will need to execute the difficult and patented

'hug, smile, and lean' so as to achieve the best photo quality.

6. Prepare to go "Awwwwwwwww!"


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Happy Mother's Day!

I used to evaluate, rank or rate my holidays, i.e., try to determine if they were better than previous ones. As I’ve gotten older, for better or worse – and it really doesn’t matter which – I don’t do that anymore. Now instead I’ve learned to use special days as opportunities to count my blessings. Today I had so many I lost track.

For starters there are my own dear mothers: the dear lady who gave birth to and raised me in the Catholic faith and the other special lady who bore and lovingly brought up my husband. I call them both, “Mom” and I love them beyond words. I am twice blessed in their love and in the wonderful men they've been married to for over fifty years each, my two “Dad”s.

Then there’s the man who made me it possible for me to become a mother, the most profound vocation and life-changing event which has ever happened to me. Thank you Bear, for our two beautiful daughters, and for the gift of your love, fidelity, and friendship through these many years.

Which brings me to our own dear children, the two most beautiful young ladies—inside and out—I know. This week they were both inducted in the National Honor Society (NHS). Our older daughter, Meg, will be President of the Carl Albert High School NHS next year. Michelle performed in her Spring Concert this past week; she amazed me with her talent! And Meg attended her own school’s prom with her friends; she enjoyed herself very much.

If all these blessings were enough, I got to spend the day with my entire family and talk to all four parents as well. Last night I went to Mass with my husband and Michelle and today I went again with Meg. In front of us today at Mass there was a young family with three children, the youngest of which was the most delightful blonde-haired little boy with Down’s syndrome. He was affectionate, sweet, well-behaved and so cute it almost hurt to look at him. It was also obvious he was the delight of his family. As I watched the little boy hugging and kissing his bigger brother, I couldn’t help but think of this video I’d recently watched called, What Do These People Have In Common?

It’s been a lovely overcast misty day spent quietly doing nothing in particular. I am most abundantly blessed. Thank You God for everything! May this little branch forever be attached to Your True Vine!

May all the mothers everywhere have a very happy and blessed Mother's Day!

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Confirmed in Christ

On the evening of Tuesday, the 28th of April 2009, Michelle was Confirmed in Christ by Archbishop Eusebius Beltran at St. Philip Neri Parish in Midwest City along with twenty eight of her classmates. It was a beautiful ceremony attended by her four grandparents, her parents, her Aunt Patti, her sponsor Anna and a number of good friends of the family. Thanks to all who traveled so far to be with us and all who joined us in spirit and prayer. Michelle's Confirmation saint was St. Cecilia. Confirmed on the 28th of April, it was the Feast Day of Sts. Louis Marie de Montefort, Gianna Beretta Molla, Peter Chanel and Paul of the Cross, so Michelle and all of her classmates may also claim these special friends of God as patron saints.

As you can see by the pictures, it was a beautiful and memorable occasion which Michelle, and the rest of us, will always treasure.

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Encountering Christ

When I reminded my dear husband a few weeks ago he had promised to chaperon for our younger daughter's Confirmation retreat to Camp Our Lady of Guadalupe, known affectionately as Camp OLOG by many here in the Oklahoma City diocese, he wasn't especially thrilled at the prospect of spending a week-end with forty to fifty teenagers.

Knowing his joyful anticipation, I wondered what our daughter, Michelle, was going to say when I told her, that her dad was tagging along. After Bear's offer was gratefully accepted, much to his chagrin, our Youth Minister called back and wanted to know if my oldest daughter and I also wanted to come along as chaperons. We begged off, pleading prior plans. But I couldn't help wondering how Michelle would react to her entire family at the retreat. Having her dad wouldn't be too bad, I reasoned. He's pretty cool most of the time and after all, unlike 'Mom', he would be in the boy's cabin and therefore not within hovering distance.

A couple of days before the retreat Michelle learned her Dad was going along...and two adults she knows from our regular week-end Mass, friends of her Mom. She wasn't too happy. We had a family pow-wow. It seems she was looking forward to this week-end because it was a chance to 'get away from her family' for awhile. As her mom, it's sometimes hard for me to understand why she needs and wants 'to get away' from us but then my wise husband asked me, "Didn't you ever want to get away from your family at that age?"

As a matter of fact, I did...

When they returned, Michelle came in carrying this crucifix made out of Play-Doh. My husband and daughter only spoke twice during the retreat and once gave each other a hug. Mostly Bear spent his time explaining teenagers to the other adults chaperoning the kids. He's pretty good at that. He has a lot of experience helping me. I was very tuned into my children when they were little, but since they've become teenagers, I've had to get to know them all over again. It's a day by day process; some days I 'get' it and many days I don't. Or maybe I should say, some days I let them be who they are and other days I expect them to be who I think they should be, or who I think they are, I'm really not sure which. Bear is much better at letting people be who they are, at accepting. I'm better at learning. He's teaching me to accept and fortunately, for our children's sake, I'm (usually) a pretty good student.

Bear said the retreat was good for the kids. They all got away from cell phones, I-pods, non-stop music, TV, and distractions. Many had incredible experiences of Confession; a lot were crying, probably for the first time as a result of receiving a sacrament. They got to spend hours just talking to each other, really talking, not texting. They walked in the woods, explored nature, discovered silence and who knows, just maybe, they even encountered Christ?

When my daughter saw the crucifix, she asked who made it. Upon learning her Dad made it, she picked it up and brought it home.


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different point of view

Her eyes met mine as she walked down the corridor peering apprehensively into the kennels. I felt her need instantly and knew I had to help her. I wagged my tail, not too exuberantly, so she wouldn't be afraid. As she stopped at my kennel I blocked her view from a little accident I had in the back of my cage. I didn't want her to know that I hadn't been walked today.

Sometimes the shelter keepers get too busy and I didn't want her to think poorly of them. As she read my kennel card I hoped that she wouldn't feel sad about my past. I only have the future to look forward to and want to make a difference in someone's life. She got down on her knees and made little kissy sounds at me. I shoved my shoulder and side of my head up against the bars to comfort her.

Gentle fingertips caressed my neck; she was desperate for companionship. A tear fell down her cheek and I raised my paw to assure her that all would be well. Soon my kennel door opened and her smile was so bright that I instantly jumped into her arms. I would promise to keep her safe I would promise to always be by her side. I would promise to do everything I could to see that radiant smile and sparkle in her eyes.

I was so fortunate that she came down my corridor. So many more are out there who haven't walked the corridors. So many more to be saved. At least I could save one. I rescued a human today.


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