tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13008456956715210562024-03-14T11:19:59.967-07:00The Longest LaborEncouragement in the vocation of MotherhoodRebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09135613529782522372noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1300845695671521056.post-65914202934696947742023-08-18T07:28:00.008-07:002023-08-18T07:38:33.987-07:00Letting Go Of Our First-Born<p> <br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYYAqL9v8psA5KaX7rtdUDgzbF-xSrn0Iimm7LXoxa85O6k3Qu6h5V_R8JTSSR3YwZLkmYy3HK3KttysyRqF_jKsjpuUfLfzuxkxumLp1EWXD7uZwzuwxcRssvjtRz7s1npJOniY1MgUwp-ijwH0L42gRqOaSURSc5m9z4LWumM5ZCMJ-wtxYiWPjSBCg/s3328/Joy%20Picture.jpg"><img alt="our oldest has flown the nest" border="0" data-original-height="1310" data-original-width="3328" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYYAqL9v8psA5KaX7rtdUDgzbF-xSrn0Iimm7LXoxa85O6k3Qu6h5V_R8JTSSR3YwZLkmYy3HK3KttysyRqF_jKsjpuUfLfzuxkxumLp1EWXD7uZwzuwxcRssvjtRz7s1npJOniY1MgUwp-ijwH0L42gRqOaSURSc5m9z4LWumM5ZCMJ-wtxYiWPjSBCg/w396-h156/Joy%20Picture.jpg" width="396" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Our oldest child has flown the nest. </p><p>It's only been a day, and I'm sure in the days and weeks to follow, I will have more thoughts and feelings, but for now, I just have a few.</p><p>It's a strange phenomenon when you spend 18-20 short years angsting about raising your child well, and then all of the sudden, the time has come to set her free. Did I do everything right?<i> No.</i> Did I give her enough attention? <i>Probably not.</i> Did I love her enough?<i> How do I answer this one?</i> I remember writing in a journal to her when I was pregnant, wondering how I would ever be able to love her as much as she deserves. I am selfish, and imperfect, and fall so short of even being worthy to. I did spend the last almost-20 years of her existence<i> trying</i> to love her, and I know that the Lord has graciously filled in the many gaps where I've failed. She has grown into a very beautiful young lady, with a heart for our Lord, and she has reached adulthood, ready to go out into the world, but determined not to be <i>of</i> it. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv_c2aAlQ_hCw-pKyezHwR2ZiwKS8c3g-QWuQElT-OJckzmf-M8-N5CQEmylAgjR6H_5MSMDRYCuiHkzBYlLckbHKAyhKrR7NPeFROMp852indG6zewYrouR9lPqaqHgHxvltNOiA-YVOPmtEicxWfDvPwa7xrjv_JmXKlUa9Z6-Tt7SBWnBfMye0Wzso/s4032/Angelina's%20New%20Bed.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv_c2aAlQ_hCw-pKyezHwR2ZiwKS8c3g-QWuQElT-OJckzmf-M8-N5CQEmylAgjR6H_5MSMDRYCuiHkzBYlLckbHKAyhKrR7NPeFROMp852indG6zewYrouR9lPqaqHgHxvltNOiA-YVOPmtEicxWfDvPwa7xrjv_JmXKlUa9Z6-Tt7SBWnBfMye0Wzso/s320/Angelina's%20New%20Bed.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>At her new place, I asked if I could make her bed. She obliged her old sentimental mother this task, which seemed so trivial to her, I'm sure. But to me, it meant the world. Together, her dad and I made up her new bed, each of us lost in our thoughts of how we got here because she was 4 years old just yesterday. We glanced at each other a few times, knowingly. Our daughter, the one who changed our life and set it on a trajectory toward much greater things than we ever could have imagined, is now no longer under our wings. <p></p><p>This is the part of life where you really learn the art of letting go in a much more painful way than you did when she went off to Preschool. Or when she got her driver's license. Or when she got her first job out in the world. The letting go must allow for an ocean's-worth of <a href="http://thelongestlabor.blogspot.com/2015/09/trust.html" target="_blank">trust in God</a>, the depths of which you should never discover. She is His, after all. He has a plan for her life that we know nothing about. We can only pray she will be who God meant her to be.<br /></p><p>When we made it back home yesterday, we pulled sheets and blankets from the dryer and once again, together, we made up her bed. A sense of finality seemed to sneak upon us; the closing of a chapter. We surveyed her empty room. Hangers dangled, purposeless, in the closet, where many beautiful and feminine clothes used to hang. Her time-worn dresser sat empty, as did her nightstand where she used to keep holy cards and an occasional glass of water. Her painting of La Vierge aux anges <i>(The Virgin with Angels, or Song of Angels)</i> which used to adorn her wall, is now at her new place. Almost everything was bare. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHdm8d6OdYZfmWKHxNvXeJYPxx6lDltZPORAw2k_TuuIJXRwcvGhslCigLpn8Lo6DPlgSLD-q_S5U7IsBRYXRItCMf42cCQD-xMed6KKr7V5inm0SbfXss4SEZtPFBDH5xqlPUcIJJR7CFHmFjJRqzry28g0lx8iG_1pbOVFnYOqKqyTxrAB_9aUsPagU/s4032/Angelina's%20Old%20Bed.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHdm8d6OdYZfmWKHxNvXeJYPxx6lDltZPORAw2k_TuuIJXRwcvGhslCigLpn8Lo6DPlgSLD-q_S5U7IsBRYXRItCMf42cCQD-xMed6KKr7V5inm0SbfXss4SEZtPFBDH5xqlPUcIJJR7CFHmFjJRqzry28g0lx8iG_1pbOVFnYOqKqyTxrAB_9aUsPagU/s320/Angelina's%20Old%20Bed.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>But my heart was full. Yes, there's an ache. But this is the start of a new, exciting chapter. My sweet, anxious daughter whom I've worried and fretted over for many years, has now proven to me that once again, God is faithful. He is the Master of turning even the things which pain and prick, into good and beautiful things. He has her under His wings, as He always has, and I know she will be okay, no matter what. I'm excited to see what He's written for her.<br /><p></p><p>And I realize that my responsibility as her parent has changed some, but has not completely diminished. I'm still immersed in this<i> <a href="https://a.co/d/2Rij4VM" target="_blank">longest labor</a></i><a href="https://a.co/d/2Rij4VM" target="_blank">.</a> I'm still here to worry over her, to pray for her, to guide her on a moral path. </p><p>And she knows that no matter what happens, she can always come back home.</p>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09135613529782522372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1300845695671521056.post-39310798737115084992022-07-10T16:54:00.007-07:002022-07-20T12:10:11.526-07:00Safe and Sound<span id="docs-internal-guid-8754f70b-7fff-1b60-2909-3ccce9082132"><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">T</span>here are moments in life that suck the oxygen from your lungs, no matter how strong your faith is. I remember such a moment when we were driving home from Hershey one evening, when my 7th baby was just 6 months old, and my husband turned on the radio. A song came on: <i>Safe and Sound, by Capital Cities.</i> As I felt the air leave my chest, I was instantly transported back to when I was still pregnant, and we were at a Hershey Bears game: That same song came over the stadium speakers, and my baby danced wildly inside my womb. It was the only time through the whole game that she did so, despite there being other songs played. </span></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Fast forward to just a few weeks later, when I <a href="https://thelongestlabor.blogspot.com/2018/03/that-time-god-took-away-my-ability-to.html" target="_blank">ended up being induced</a> 3.5 weeks early due to pre-E and subsequently, HELLP syndrome. My sweet baby girl was born the next day, on the feast of our Lady of Guadalupe, but within an hour after her birth, I crashed, and very nearly died. The details of our life afterward are a bit hazy, but for several months, I was very sick, and constantly worried that if I moved too much or got too stressed out, I’d have seizures or a heart attack. Slowly, I got better, though life never returned to “normal” for me. </span></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But we were indeed safe and sound.</span></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A few short months ago, I was walking barefoot in the cool Spring grass with that same baby girl, now 4 ½ years old, and all of the sudden she stopped and turned to me with her hand outstretched. So sweetly, she said, “<i>take my hand, mommy, and we’ll be safe and sound,</i>” as she led me over to the swing to sit beneath the burgundy foliage of the smoke tree. Again, the oxygen left my lungs, and a lump caught in my throat. I looked into her innocent face, realizing she had no idea what that phrase meant to me in light of our experience when she was born. <br /></span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <br /></span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Our family had just been through a really stressful 6 month period. We had also just moved to a new house, but we weren’t sure what our path was, if we’d stay here, how things would work out. Even as I wandered in the sunshine in our new yard, laughing and playing with her, the clenching grasp of that anxiety was upon me. Her, stretching out her little hand to me, assuring me we would be safe and sound if I just put my hand in hers, was balm to my soul. </span></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Over the years, I myself have heard that song very rarely, as I don’t listen to the radio much at all. I’m not really a fan of most secular music (or Christian music, for that matter). But I realized I’d hear this song at times when I’ve been especially worried about my children, or my health, or about life in general. It’s interesting. I think about the one line of the song which goes, “<i>even if we’re six feet underground, I know that we’ll be safe and sound</i>.” It makes me pause sometimes. After all, nearly dying after the birth of a child who, just weeks before, had randomly and frantically danced in my womb to this song specifically, has left me with a little suspicion that perhaps this was God’s unconventional way of reminding me that if I stick with Him, no matter what is happening to me, I <b>will</b> be safe and sound. Maybe precisely for the fact that I don’t listen to secular music often was how He knew it would hit me the right way. It’s little odd things like this that remind me of His perfect love and provision. Deo Gratias!</span></span></div></span><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMOie2CBr6qqASQmD2JLKo1qGGUFO7c586c-RsxEanWCBmtKsKKvwfTO9S98uqWoF7O8ho2ZbzAWiCMsImAiYKFEUJW30WfEZkzwK-Q5EqltVC5Mz2hEC0E2RvP_d9H3TNXslXuq-TftGefCZBvrkRMG5DnrAsBNPwp83m7E3em9dJLQ5xKR-YrrlE/s3472/IMG_0734.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3472" data-original-width="3024" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMOie2CBr6qqASQmD2JLKo1qGGUFO7c586c-RsxEanWCBmtKsKKvwfTO9S98uqWoF7O8ho2ZbzAWiCMsImAiYKFEUJW30WfEZkzwK-Q5EqltVC5Mz2hEC0E2RvP_d9H3TNXslXuq-TftGefCZBvrkRMG5DnrAsBNPwp83m7E3em9dJLQ5xKR-YrrlE/w255-h293/IMG_0734.JPG" width="255" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixZ2957Q5XJrbBA_DTuO86k_mE4eBlFjHALhqb197tSG6QswnvosNkWk2JyI3nQuxg0tXgkOCV_bTzDOu-f0tAJhDQCmv-ZTp0qTprkzutyeSWSkjwBdEb36UavkdM3WEFUB1JdS5yYiVLSIBmx9BiM7W1OQKFClHcVgeR1xmrLXgjrJc2irzFSG6T/s2592/IMG_0793.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicbObh76X0Iggo80mS9ZAyPs4ITwJVpeBFQFZJz9YjFcoEUo7hLki11jmYu03YQ3yn_gzU9HaU7coxEaAy5qrQyFseIxV0BevMQ7WUBeMg0nzKN1FmFBRYBK5BlsZrsaL8qjOxpUikRwngG7HVE3DWkrwQB3lwmM5S8ETclcuZ2qZsOBR62iT2ZsZz/s320/IMG_8352.jpg" width="240" /></a></div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><p></p>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09135613529782522372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1300845695671521056.post-15351001007317232042022-05-02T15:12:00.001-07:002022-05-02T15:12:24.095-07:00A Book is Born!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/0578381788/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1YOUW6GDSYLEL&keywords=the+longest+labor+rebecca+mack&qid=1651494800&sprefix=the+longest+labor+rebecca+mack%2Caps%2C90&sr=8-1" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3750" data-original-width="2400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9IMx2f4MSi5uTHE399CNW3B8xaT9-uJ0HvpTM7Hifq32t1Qj8O2JDw9SAmB9Oa3c21hdk0sRltKxU-r1lWodkbJRuJCBue6ZACGHZfXAgEGf6jMzpeOE-R19A-QaJwQw8DUL_BL7WNmBn9OWaHHeT9w190b6bkYCcwA37dTXduWpnMVgT9LxiGQIY/s320/TLL%20FINAL%20(1600%20%C3%97%202500%20px).jpg" width="205" /></a></div><i><br />I write this post not to advertise for myself, but to praise God for His infinite mercy, patience, and love.</i><p></p><p>Long ago, a seed was planted within my heart to write for the glory of God. In my vocation as a wife and mother, there was no lack of inspiration. What there was, however, was my own pride and lack of confidence. Instead of relying on the Lord to direct my path with this, to care for and grow that seed, I believed it was up to me. I believed this, yet I had no ability to discern the proper path, nor did I have the humility to get over myself enough to realize that God has given me a gift, and with it, the obligation to use it for His glory, despite any shortcomings I perceive about myself. I did keep a blog for many years (not this one), and through it, despite my lazy attitude toward its upkeep, (which wasn't quite as bad as the one I have for this blog), I managed to meet other women much like myself. I learned so much through them. And, I was often encouraged to write a book. Eventually, I started one. But it took a long time to finish, (over 10 years, actually), and not only because of my lack of time to work on it due to my focus on my children and home life. I was never confident that I understood what was being asked of me. Sometimes I felt like I was wasting my time. Thankfully, just this past year, I had some spiritual direction with a wise and trusted priest, who encouraged me to pursue that to which [I felt] God was calling me, leaving the results up to Him.<br /></p><p>The journey has been very long, and at times, painful and difficult. I am almost 100% positive that the devil did not want this book to be written because he hates children and he hates the fact that we mere humans are capable of creating them, and so I felt very spiritually attacked, especially the closer I got to actually publishing it. But, by the grace of God, publish it, I did, and I hope it will not only be a source of inspiration and encouragement to other Catholic mothers like me, but more so, a means to glorify God and direct others to Him. It is only by His grace, and with His guidance, that this book has come to be. It is only for Him that I write. His mercy on me through my stupidity and slowness, laziness and pride, His patience while I took my sweet time, and His enduring love: I praise Him for it all. </p><p>Please, I beg of you to pray for me! I do not wish for this to become
a source of pride. One of my friends, who read this book before it was
published, texted me and said, "I love you! Only one page in and, man,
you are writing my heart!" My response to her, and I truly meant it, was,
"I do not want people to love <i>me</i> for what I write. I want people to love <i>God</i> for what I write (or in spite of it)." </p>I desire to <i>always</i> feel this way. <br /><p></p><p>In any case, if you are so inclined as to purchase a copy, you can do so, here: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/0578381788/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1YOUW6GDSYLEL&keywords=the+longest+labor+rebecca+mack&qid=1651494800&sprefix=the+longest+labor+rebecca+mack%2Caps%2C90&sr=8-1" target="_blank">The Longest Labor</a>. Or, if money is tight, but you really want to read this book, please <a href="http://thelongestlabor.blogspot.com/p/contact.html" target="_blank">email me</a>. <br /></p><p>To <i>Him</i> be all the glory.</p><p>Deo Gratias! <br /></p>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09135613529782522372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1300845695671521056.post-66843851991415601882022-04-30T15:22:00.009-07:002022-05-02T15:25:10.838-07:00No Beads? No Worries!<p>Can't find your rosary?<br />
<br />
No problem! Babies have teeny tiny toes which are perfect in lieu of those lost rosary beads. <br />
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Hail Mary.....</p><p><br />
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</p>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09135613529782522372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1300845695671521056.post-29712826608953457732020-04-17T15:20:00.000-07:002020-04-24T11:43:40.681-07:00Of Prayer Shawls, Government Mandates and the Battle Within The Church<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>In God's name, let us go on bravely. ~ St. Joan of Arc</i></div>
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It's a bit chilly today. The weather we've been having as of late is kinda not...April. Temps this morning in Central PA dipped to 29 degrees. I didn't even have any decent coffee in the house to warm me up! I'm currently 1.5 weeks from giving birth to our number 8, and my husband has taken #s 1-7 on a ride to give me some much-needed quiet, which may or may not be legal right now amidst the strangest government mandate of a quarantine. I can't keep up with the ever-changing rules, and at this point, I do not care. This pregnancy has been the most stressful, angst-filled one I've ever endured. As a matter of fact, I never felt this way before my last pregnancy took a downturn at 36 weeks. Added to that memory during this pregnancy is the stress of being stuck at home, our freedoms and rights- both divine and constitutional- being quickly stripped away. So I've been a little anxious and as soon as I hit week 36 this time around, my anxiety kicked into overdrive, and in an attempt to combat, my prayers kicked up a notch.<br />
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<i>Jesus, I trust in You. </i><br />
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But sometimes I need more than prayers. I need the Mass. I need the sacraments. I need my friends. The anxiety abates at times, but at others, clings and discourages. I spent weeks after my last birth on my couch, wrapped in a pink and white prayer shawl gifted to me by a ministry at my mother's church, trying to stay alive, while one of my daughters took care of my new baby except when I had to nurse. The prayer shawl became a part of my wardrobe, its imperfect lines and soft threads (lovingly stitched by women who don't even know me) daily enclosed me and my nursing baby in a cocoon of warmth and safety. When Spring came, and we were healthier, I put the beloved shawl away.<br />
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As the chill in the house got to me this afternoon, I pulled out that same shawl and wrapped it around my shoulders. The cold I feel is a mixture of both the low temps creeping through the 70 year old windows of my home and the chill I feel deep in my heart. I was just told that because of the on-going quarantine, baptism, as with everything else, is not allowed for our baby right now. I kinda lost it. If not for a dear friend who texted with me for awhile about it, I would probably still be crying. The idea of not having the sacrament of baptism bestowed upon my son soon after birth was kinda the last straw for me. You see, for the past five weeks, we have not been able to attend Mass in person, have not been able to receive the Eucharist, and except for one instance of what felt like a covert operation to have Confession, we have missed even that. Every Sunday, we've wept and prayed through Mass as it live-streamed through the television, technical issues and fuzzy pictures interrupting the sacredness of the time, illuminating all that is wrong with <i>right now</i>.<br />
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Acts of Spiritual Communion have their merit, true, and I try to make them frequently, especially during Mass, but they do not <i>replace</i> the actual Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity of our Savior. They just don't. And sitting on our couch in the comfort of our home, even if still dressed in our Sunday best and sitting, standing and kneeling at the appropriate times, falls so short of the wooden pews and squeaky kneelers of the church, the atmosphere of holiness, the Lord present in the tabernacle mere feet away. There is so much about the Mass in its entirety, within the hallowed walls of the church, in all of its ceremony and tradition of thousands of years, that speaks to all of the senses, and infuses the soul with the presence of God. In His perfection, He made it so. It isn't about feelings so much as about the fullness of His Truth, and when you have experienced that, it's hard to settle for anything less.<br />
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As I sit here, contemplating what we will do about baptism for our son, I wrap the prayer shawl tighter around me, and a sense of both comfort and longing fills me. I remember when my entire family was sick just after I had our last baby, another splinter added to the immense cross of all that had happened before and after the birth. The shawl reminds me of all the prayers people said for us in that trying time, each person a Simon of Cyrene in their own way. And I am reminded of one of our priests, who visited me in the hospital during my induction to offer Confession and comfort. And of that same priest risking sickness himself to bring us the Eucharist and offer Confession in our home because we were all too sick to go to the church. Of the meals that were made for us, lovingly dropped off by generous and wonderful friends who, while cautious of germs, risked the visit anyway to care for us and love us, catch a glimpse of our tiny, premature baby, and offer prayers for our recovery.<br />
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The longing I feel, so heavy and deep, is for what should be: To be able to receive our Lord in the Eucharist, and our ability to have our baby baptized soon after he is born, most definitely. But also for the faithful of a Church already in turmoil to rise up and defend the idea that our souls are to be cared for <i><b>first</b></i>, above our earthly body, not the other way around. And for the hierarchy to make decisions not based on fear or government mandates but on the Catholic Church's wisdom and teachings, Her laws and Her love. It is a sin to presume God's mercy. It is a sin to lead others astray from the Truth. I am devastated by these mandates from the hierarchy, tying the hands of our priests and relinquishing us to the emptiness and sorrow of daily life without the sacraments, without even the Eucharist, without the community of support most needed in such a strange and difficult time.<br />
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How will this time make us saints? How can we reflect back on this and confidently say that we did exactly as we should have, cowering in our homes and doing the very little we still can do to attend to the sanctity of our souls, and those of the children in our keep? How do we justify the utter loss of access to almost everything about our Catholic identity? When we've been taught our whole Faith journey thus far that the sacraments are necessary and important for the sanctity of our souls, but right now, for some reason, they magically are not. How many will fall away at this time? How many will lose hope? If those of us who are faithful are hanging on by a thread, teary-eyed and white-knuckling it through this dark time, what about those who have already been on the fringes, disillusioned and luke-warm in their faith because they just haven't been convinced of the Truth quite yet? Or the ones new to the Catholic Faith? Or the ones who peer in from the outside with interest, but through this time see nothing more extraordinary than what they currently know?<br />
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And- If we are but wayfarers in this earthly life, and the Church, our ship to carry us through to heaven, how do we remain confident when Her sails have been ripped to shreds, and our captains have all but jumped overboard?<br />
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We are the Church <i>Militant</i>, are we not?? And yet, here we are, wandering like lost sheep, commanded by bishops who should know better how to shepherd their flocks with not just the concern- but also the loyalty and faithfulness- of the Good Shepherd. In the beginning, my battle cry, shared with my friends to bolster their faith and lend comfort, was a quote from the book, <i>The Spiritual Doctrine of Sister Elizabeth of the Trinity:</i><br />
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"<i>When they tried to console her at being no longer able to receive the Blessed Sacrament, </i></div>
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<i>she said, 'I am finding Him on the Cross; it is there that He is giving me life.'" </i>And this was </div>
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followed by my further attempt to encourage: <i>Hang in there my sweet, fellow Catholics </i></div>
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<i>longing for our Beloved.</i></div>
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And while it is yet true that we can- and are- finding Him on the Cross daily in this, and we can- and are- given life through that, the unrest is rising, the emptiness spreading, because in all honesty, none of this makes any sense to any of the faithful, and we were given the sacraments as gifts, the principal way to obtain a certain communion with God, His graces heaped upon us to help us through daily life. Some counter our questions with heretical ideology, vitriol spewed in blogs and comboxes with what essentially equates to the idea that our bodies are more important than our souls. People who allude to such things should not be listened to, but oh, how so many Catholics are falling in line with this thinking because it's easier to swallow, and it's safer for our priests. And because our bishops are saying the same sort of things with their mandates. But is it not our priests' and our bishops' duty to attend to the needs of our <b>souls</b>? Why would we expect them to do any less? Why would we want the care of our bodies to outweigh the care of our souls? We shouldn't want that. I don't want that- not for me or my family. And I don't think our priests want that, either. In the words of General George S. Patton, I'd rather "<i>live for something than die for nothing." </i>We are to be living this life <i>only</i> to reach the promise of Eternal Life. But, we could die an eternal death because we didn't take care of our souls. <i> </i>And in reality, perhaps the General's words should have been,<i> "die for something rather than live for nothing." </i></div>
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I can't help but feel a sense that, especially because the Church has been in such turmoil, there is a diabolical nature to what is being mandated currently. <i><b>We are in the midst of battle</b>.</i> I am thankful, though, that when Christ instituted the Church, He promised that the gates of hell will not prevail against Her. Two thousand years and counting, despite splintering into thousands of different heretical factions, and despite some of the shepherds falling away, She remains solid and Her Bridegroom, Jesus, has remained faithful to Her, guarding the Truth, and keeping Her from permanent detriment. So She may come out of this haggard, desperate, weary, poorer, and smaller, but the gates of hell have not- and will not- prevail. Deo Gratias! </div>
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So we press on, I guess. Maybe my daily armor in this will have to look less like a pink fluffy prayer shawl and more like the chainmail of my beloved Confirmation saint, St. Joan of Arc. One thing for sure, though, we will be baptizing our baby...somehow.</div>
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Oh...And my new battle cry? <i>St Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do thou, oh prince of the heavenly hosts, by the power of God, cast into hell satan and all the evil spirits who prowl about the world <b>seeking the ruin of souls</b></i><b>.</b></div>
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Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09135613529782522372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1300845695671521056.post-15977883745808205662019-03-13T14:40:00.001-07:002019-03-14T12:36:58.709-07:00Leaving God at the Altar <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrvfvshGTAdxvrqEm8Qpg9XvkryE0VCTSOHf8JdOdTgdyhJEwY0fpuulVn6hFJAnLZdseDPuVqxq_tsjZlTMZQ0f8VVSZc8fIxOYVD-EEFnweZI9lU_6eENSXNi5nlWrKwKegb3-XYolM/s1600/IMG_2272.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrvfvshGTAdxvrqEm8Qpg9XvkryE0VCTSOHf8JdOdTgdyhJEwY0fpuulVn6hFJAnLZdseDPuVqxq_tsjZlTMZQ0f8VVSZc8fIxOYVD-EEFnweZI9lU_6eENSXNi5nlWrKwKegb3-XYolM/s320/IMG_2272.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My youngest, Miss Sicky Sickerson </td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit;">It's Lent. This week, my TLM parish was/is holding a 3-day mission, given by a visiting priest, Fr. Joseph Tuscan, OFM. My husband and I had plans to go, especially yesterday, Tuesday, for my birthday. We both have missed the first two days and tonight, the final night, will be no different.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">Our household is currently battling the stomach bug. It's been hanging out since Friday, passing through a few of us at a time. The littler ones are continuing to exhibit some symptoms, though the majority of their suffering seems to have passed. The hubs and I are feeling mostly better, with still-queasy stomachs and slight weakness from not eating. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">In any case, my dear friend posted on Facebook a couple notes she took from one of the talks from the mission, and I was so blessed to be able to receive the message through her, but also felt frustrated and disappointed that I could not be there in person for the entire experience: Confession, Mass, then the talks given by Fr. Tuscan. I had been looking forward to it, and am still feeling the sting of not being able to go because of the sickness in my household. I feel cheated out of this extra time with the Lord, a special Lenten gift so generously offered by our priests. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">It's always so difficult to really take advantage of all that Lent has to offer in the ever-growing desire to empty out oneself and draw closer to the Lord. Lent is traditionally the liturgical season to put specific focus on this, although it's a crucial practice in your every-day, but especially within a large, busy family, sometimes Lent sneaks up on you. And sometimes your best-laid plans to really make Lent meaningful and fruitful in your spiritual journey actually end up by the wayside, or, in our current case, down the drain. This can happen for so many reasons, including laziness, or a lack of self-discipline and/or diligence. It's one thing to be in control of it, and to then be disappointed in yourself for not following through, but it's a whole other issue to have those plans be destroyed by something you can't control, like sickness running through your household.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">It's frustrating, to say the least. But it's also humbling.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I recently came across this really insightful quote from St. Francis of Rome, and then came across it again just this morning, and since then it has been a source of great comfort (and humility) to assuage the despair in missing out on the mission, as well as a few other practices within our home we had incorporated for Lent but have been too sick to execute these past few days. Read:</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span></span></span><br />
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<i><b>"A married woman must often leave God at the altar to find Him in her household care."</b></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This speaks volumes to me as I navigate the remnants of the virus and its aftermath, as well as the disappointment of missing out on my * planned * means of Lenten devotions. This week of Lent, God has called me away from the altar, away from the "easy" means to love, worship, and draw closer to Him. He has called me not to a beautiful church with its peace and quiet, not to an organized retreat with Mass and words of wisdom from a beloved priest, not to a respite with my husband from the nitty-gritty of daily life with many children, but to ground zero of a horrible sickness in all of its gory detail, to sleepless nights, to a clingy, fussy baby who wants to constantly nurse. He has called me to find Him amidst the chaos of a household in distress. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In this Lenten season, we are called to choose special devotions, sacrifices and offerings in order to empty ourselves out so to be filled with the Holy Spirit, to unite ourselves to Christ on His cross, His passion and death, to truly realize our humble humanity, as well as the magnanimity of Christ's love: His life offered up for us. Having a particular suffering chosen for us doesn't negate the other, but it can, in its own right, provide a means of grace, as well as a kind of devotion and love to offer up to our King. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I may not have chosen this particular mode of suffering and sacrifice, but I can choose how to utilize it: as either a humble offering, uniting myself to His passion, or as a source of complaint and despair. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I choose the former.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;">PS. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;">A few quick notes, practical and spiritual 😇 : </span></i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i><b>Practical:</b> In my desperate search for how to best attack the <a href="https://www.cdc.gov/norovirus/index.html" target="_blank">Noro</a> virus (the most common culprit for the stomach bug), I found that you MUST get a cleaner that specifically says that it will kill Noro. It would be good to maybe keep this stuff on hand from Nov-April when this type of virus is in its prime. Lesson learned for me. Fortunately, we've NEVER in our 15 years of parenthood had to deal with this relentless illness, at least not to the extreme we have been, but there's always a first time for everything, right? Incidentally, I am normally a pretty crunchy/naturally-minded person for our household but I felt like this called for the big guns. </i></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i>We bought several things: </i></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i>(NOTE: these are NOT affiliate links and I didn't necessarily order these products all from Amazon) </i></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i>*<a href="https://www.amazon.com/PURELL-Multi-Surface-Disinfectant-Spray/dp/B075H16TBT/ref=sr_1_6?keywords=purell+spray&qid=1552504369&s=gateway&sr=8-6" target="_blank">Purell</a> Multi-Surface</i></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i>*<a href="https://www.amazon.com/LYSOL-95590-Lysol-Disinfectant-Garden/dp/B06XYN59ZZ/ref=sr_1_11?keywords=lysol+max&qid=1552504423&s=gateway&sr=8-11" target="_blank">Lysol</a> Max cover; hubs chose garden after the rain scent which is not too offensive</i></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i>*<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Clorox-Healthcare-Hydrogen-Disinfectant-30829/dp/B00LES496S/ref=sr_1_3?keywords=clorox+healthcare&qid=1552504710&s=gateway&sr=8-3" target="_blank">Clorox</a> Healthcare w/Hydrogen Peroxide, cleaner and also <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Saalfeld-Healthcare-Disinfectant-Norovirus-Rotavirus/dp/B00K3U1B64/ref=sr_1_4?keywords=clorox+healthcare+wipes&qid=1552504742&s=gateway&sr=8-4" target="_blank">wipes</a> </i></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i>*<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Germstar-Noro-Sanitizer-Spray-Bottles/dp/B00BFEX82C/ref=sr_1_3?keywords=Germstar+noro&qid=1552504788&s=gateway&sr=8-3" target="_blank">Germstar</a> Noro hand sanitizer </i></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i>I read that you can also use hydrogen peroxide 3% on its own. To appease my psychological despair over all.the.germs, these killer cleaners seemed like a better suit for us.</i></span></span><br />
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<i style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Spiritual:</span> </i><i>(And shameless plug). Inspired by the notes from Tuesday's talk which my friend had posted, coupled with our sickness experience, I wrote a blog post on <a href="https://thefinalbattlewon.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">The Final Battle blog</a>. If you need some inspiration about forgiveness in your marriage, I hope you will find it <a href="https://thefinalbattlewon.wordpress.com/2019/03/13/forgiveness/" target="_blank">here</a>.</i>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09135613529782522372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1300845695671521056.post-45177924218576932332019-01-12T16:07:00.000-08:002019-01-12T20:44:05.952-08:00All The Things Pale in the Shadow of Christ's CrossSo I'm laying here, nursing a sick baby, fighting my own sickness, exhausted. I was up most of the night feeling like my head was caught in a vice, unable to breathe well, and then Little Miss decided it was time to party at 3 AM. Hubby and I didn't get back to sleep until after 5, then up at 7:30 when the first set of little feet came padding through the door. In any case, it's second nap time and I'm laying here in my bed, listening to her labored breathing, the melody of a sleepless night and the remnants of that week-long cold winding down to a steady rhythm, and my mind wanders, as it's wont to do.<br />
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I am taking inventory of <i>all the things:</i><br />
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How this time last year we were still battling an even worse sickness, and I was just beginning to recover from everything that had happened with this baby's birth.<br />
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How since then, it seems like one thing after another keeps tumbling down upon us.<br />
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How starting even further back, there was all this stuff... All this stuff that began in our life that seemed to just keep piling up, overflowing.<br />
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How our life, believe it or not, has seemed- for the last year especially- much like a windowless, doorless room, filling up with sand. There are a couple of major things that are out of our control right now, things we just need to wait on God to take care of. He hasn't opened any doors or windows and there are literally none even to be seen. And so we wait. And pray. Meanwhile, little and big things (the sand) continue to tumble down, filling this desperate place with the heaviness of a hundred crosses...<br />
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Then I look up.<br />
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I look up and I see this:<br />
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<i>Jesus</i>.<br />
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<i>On His cross</i>.<br />
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And I think to myself, G<i>osh... How long have we faced what we have and it hasn't been our doom? H</i><i>ow long has He held us up with the very same strong hands that were nailed to that rough-hewn tree? </i><br />
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<i>All the things pale in the shadow of Christ's cross.</i><br />
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Then I realize that in thinking of all the things, I'm still at peace. I'm at peace and have been most of this time, and I didn't even realize it until now. I just kept a hold of my husband's hand, putting one foot in front of the other, continuing to labor forward. I remember talking to a good friend one day about one of the major things going on. It had come up in conversation about a related subject, and when I told her, she replied that she had no idea how I wasn't freaking out.<br />
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The only thing I could say is that it's been by<b> God's grace alone. </b><br />
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In reality, sometimes I start to hesitate, slow my pace, but I am continuously, gently called back, back to the way of the cross.<br />
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I am kinda excited to see what comes of all the things: The inescapable room that is our life, the sand pouring in... I don't really believe that there is no purpose to them. I don't believe it's just bad luck, Murphy's law, or punishment for my sins. I think that once it's all said and done, there will be an amazing testament to God's perfect love, timing and plans. Even if our circumstances never change; even if all of the things continue to rain down, there will be beauty in our path. There will be growth. There will be light shining in the darkness. And to Him will be the glory.<br />
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So, dear friends, if you are struggling with some things right now, take heart! If you are currently living in a windowless, doorless room, especially one that is also filling up with sand, don't give up! Keep putting one foot in front of the other and keep moving forward. Christ wasn't stripped bare, scourged, and nailed to a tree to die just to leave you in despair. He rose, and so will you.<br />
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Pick up all your hundreds of crosses, even the last splinter of one, and unite yourself to Him on His. He will surely lift you up.<br />
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PS. On a particularly "sandy" day recently, my husband was in the Catholic goods store getting our newest goddaughter a gift for her baptism, and sitting RIGHT NEXT to the item he was in there for was this:<br />
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If you don't know this already, this verse, Jeremiah 29:11, is very near and dear to my heart, and this would be the second time it was "left" for me unexpectedly at a moment in time that I needed the reminder. And of course my hubby bought it for me.<br />
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I'm praying for you. Please pray for me!Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09135613529782522372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1300845695671521056.post-81081021997160660872018-11-01T10:12:00.002-07:002018-11-01T10:15:35.872-07:00Overcoming Trauma: To Jesus Through MaryI hoisted my tired body over the railing of the rickety pack-n-play which shifted and groaned beneath my weight. Dropping down to lay my number seven on the thin mattress and curling around her, I settled into the familiar - albeit uncomfortable - routine we have had for nap-time since she started crawling: nursing to sleep in the safe confines of the tiny cage. After a little bit of gymnurstics and other shenanigans, my sweet baby finally succumbed to her sleepy rhythm, grasping at my scapular as she slipped into dreamland. And I began my rosary.<br />
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This habit of saying a rosary at nap time has only recently become my routine. I usually say one each time I lay her down. It has been a means of drawing closer to our lady, and through her, our Lord, obtaining so many graces as well as consolation and encouragement for my vocation. Additionally, lately it's been my lifeline as I approach my baby's first birthday, which has seemingly been a time-trigger for remembering the trauma surrounding her birth. For the past month or so, I realized I was struggling a bit more and became convicted of the idea that I need to be extra purposeful in my efforts to make my way through the after-effects of that trauma. Over the last year, I've tried to use the word "trauma" loosely, careful not to put too much importance on the event or myself, pushing myself to move on and be grateful that I am alive, grateful for the beautiful new little life I was blessed to add to my keep. But I guess I should just call it what it is. One doesn't go unexpectedly to the hospital 3 1/2 weeks ahead of a planned homebirth because one is all of the sudden very sick, face the prospect of a c-section after 24 hours of induced labor, almost die from magnesium overdose, and then spend weeks recovering from a rare life-threatening syndrome and whatever damage sustained from the overdose, while her husband spends a week in the hospital being near-death himself, and not be given permission to call a spade a spade....right?<br />
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<i><b>It was traumatic.</b></i> And that's ok.<br />
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Incidentally, I recently read a quote that said, "<i>other people don't get to decide when you move on from your pain or trauma.</i>" This is profoundly true. No one should be forcing anyone to just get over something that they've experienced that has impacted their life in a negative way. People need time to process. They need space to adjust. They need to be allowed to feel steady on their feet again, be comfortable and certain in their own skin, most especially when something or someone has betrayed them, or they've had a loss, or have faced their own mortality. They need encouragement, support, love. I bet there is not one person on this planet who hasn't suffered something traumatic- big or small- in their lifetime, and yet I wonder how many people were afforded the opportunity to walk their path of grief and pain unencumbered by the people in their life, let alone supported by them? More still, how many gave <i>themselves</i> the permission to do so?<br />
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Trauma and grief are topics people don't like to approach, at least not without apprehension. They are messy, uncontrollable, nonlinear, and- let's be honest- they can be downright <i>scary</i>. Unaddressed feelings fizzle below the surface of our ordinary lives as we motor about from one thing to the next, surrounded by the blaring message that finding our happiness is what life is all about. The truth is, that is just one big lie. It's dishonest. It glosses over the fact that as broken human beings living in a fallen world, we are subject to much more than the passing phenomenon of "happiness," and are called to much more than its pursuit. The reality is, we aren't guaranteed happiness. Those of us who have a propensity toward melancholy or angst are supremely aware of this fact. No matter how many pills the medical world wants to throw at us to give us the false impression that we are happy, the fact actually is, sometimes- maybe a lot of the time- we just aren't. Sometimes, what's in our arsenal to battle the darkness cannot be given by prescription or found in a medical journal.<br />
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I once wrote about the feeling of standing on the <a href="http://motheringgodschildren.blogspot.com/2011/02/thoughts-from-brink-of-insanity.html" target="_blank">brink of insanity</a>. A young mother of four small children, I was always at war with myself, battling the darkness that followed me since adolescence, unable to just figure out how to manage my family life, live out my vocation, love my children and husband without constantly feeling like the darkness was going to swallow me whole. I had a good grasp on my knowledge of God and His love, was on a decent path to deepening my faith, but was not aware of all the many tools at my disposal. I look back on that person and hardly recognize her. My Catholic faith has been such a beautiful gift to me in this walk because it encompasses the <i>fullness of God's truth</i> which offers so many graces rich with His mercy. I no longer stand teetering on the brink of insanity, and when I find myself possibly inching closer to it, I know without a doubt that I can pick up my rosary and immerse myself in the love afforded to me by a most gracious and generous God, through Mary His mother, by meditating on Jesus' life, death and resurrection. The promises contained in all the beautiful prayers are such a strong source of tethering myself to the Lord, so that I'm never very far from Him.<br />
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I only wish I had thought of adding in a few extra rosaries a day at nap times years ago. Because... I fail all the time in this vocation and often get sidetracked by the trappings of this fallen world, distracted away from my path to holiness, and I need all the extra graces I can get.<br />
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One last note....In this longest labor, I have come across a lot of women- mothers- who are struggling just as much as I am with the weight of the many souls we carry through this life. All of us are at varying stages in our journey, but one thing remains constant at every turn, and that is our ardent desire to not mess up, to do everything we possibly can to have <i>no child left behind</i> as we make our way through this valley of tears. If you relate to this, I encourage you to pick up your rosary as often as you can; call on Christ to strengthen you, ask His mother, whom He so lovingly and generously offered to us, to guide you on your path to Him. And pray for your kiddos as well! Our lady will not fail you. Deo Gratias!<br />
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<i>PS. If you are a non-Catholic, a new Catholic, or even a cradle Catholic struggling with the idea of the rosary, I want to clarify a couple things:</i><br />
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<i>The rosary is a gift given to us as one of <b>many</b> ways in which we can appeal to Christ for His strength and guidance. The words to the prayers can be found in the Bible. Just as Christ on the cross told his disciple to take His mother as his own, so, too, do we. Mary is not dead, so we are not talking to a dead person. She is much more alive than we are, and just like we would ask our sister or friend or own mother for prayers and guidance, we can ask Mary the same. For many, Mary is the only mother they can truly rely on. We can never love Mary more than we love Jesus, and what's more, we can never love her more than He does. We do not place her above Him, we do not worship her and we do not 'pray' to her the same way we 'pray' to God. In her humility, Mary said herself that she is the handmaid of the Lord, so as such, she is in the position to serve Him by serving us in our daily needs. Further info and explanations can be found <a href="https://biblestudyforcatholics.com/catholics-pray-mary-saints/" target="_blank">here</a> and <a href="http://www.usccb.org/prayer-and-worship/prayers-and-devotions/mary/index.cfm" target="_blank">here</a>. </i><i>Devotion to Mary is NOT required of Catholics, but I believe from my own experience we are sorely missing out if we don't cultivate it. </i><i>On a more personal note, I didn't used to have any sort of devotion to Mary and in fact felt sort of strange about the high place she held within the Church. However, as I've grown to understand the exact belief (which is widely misunderstood as people do not feel the need to look for the truth), and have developed a devotion, I have witnessed many miracles that God has allowed through her intercession, including the miracles which occurred almost one year ago, on the birthday of my youngest, which happened to be the feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe. To HIM be all glory.</i><br />
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<br />Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09135613529782522372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1300845695671521056.post-36853228828307788382018-03-22T06:55:00.000-07:002018-03-22T10:37:15.432-07:00That Time God Took Away My Ability to Write<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span id="docs-internal-guid-06141dd1-4e03-1b74-666b-7c5cc9294646"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As an introspective and emotional person, I have always found solace in writing. Growing up as the sixth child of seven in a very busy, and </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><strike>sometimes</strike> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><strike>f</strike></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><strike>requently</strike></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> always loud home, when I would lose myself in the chaos, it only took putting ink to paper to find myself again. I filled journals with my thoughts, poetry, tears. It was how I handled the difficult or major things. I never felt much of a need to write down my feelings otherwise. This practice served me well as I grew, and I carried it into my adult life. As I contemplated marriage, had babies, moved. As my husband lost jobs, I lost babies, we lost family... I wrote. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-06141dd1-4e03-9fde-0a6c-472fb1e575a2"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Writing is my outlet. Whether it’s good writing or not, gibberish or coherent, it allows me to freely and safely express myself, my deepest longings, thoughts and fears. Through it I unpack, sort through and face it all, and I am more apt to transition to a place of healing from the painful things, or a better understanding of anything major. Writing out what’s in my mind and heart has always been much easier than speaking it, and has served as the means by which I am able to process life as I see it.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-06141dd1-4e03-dfe3-4165-bba901935af5"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">This past December I had my seventh baby. I was three and a half weeks from my expected due date and suddenly was facing high blood pressure, <a href="https://www.webmd.com/baby/tc/hellp-syndrome-and-preeclampsia-topic-overview" target="_blank">HELLP</a> syndrome and an induction. I had a scare an hour after my baby was born where I was unresponsive for some time, and in that time I had somewhat of an interesting experience I am still trying to understand. The whole twenty-four hour + event left me raw, exhausted to my bones, and completely unable to process anything the way I normally would. Moreso, I was unable to write. Anything. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht5yonCee74VuN2uv_UGg7n5JmaipjOTbRSha0cpnLTyVGQvU3ahTpunXghwPcJvZNvAxO5lDDjzOjO1eB-GvS8RC4xtF-WNlA10xIXkDhXsHvwAQhfHrBe7YzEXtnCCFzObH2H4Hv7vU/s1600/20180322_094442.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht5yonCee74VuN2uv_UGg7n5JmaipjOTbRSha0cpnLTyVGQvU3ahTpunXghwPcJvZNvAxO5lDDjzOjO1eB-GvS8RC4xtF-WNlA10xIXkDhXsHvwAQhfHrBe7YzEXtnCCFzObH2H4Hv7vU/s320/20180322_094442.jpg" width="320" /></a><span id="docs-internal-guid-06141dd1-4e04-4e31-15e4-6d46778a15ca"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was quite numb for the first two months after. Emotion spilled out less than a handful of times, briefly, but even then I could not write. I remember lying in bed one night, balancing my baby on my legs, staring at her and crying. She had just recently become less of a stranger to me, and I was marveling at her beauty, our growing bond, and the grace of God. It was one of only a few times I had been able to look at her without numbness at that point.</span></span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-06141dd1-4e05-2578-c237-830a570a05b1"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">It wasn’t until the next day or so that I realized something. I had been striving for several weeks to somehow write an article about my labor that I didn’t remember, and I had been completely unable to. I’d start, then stop. Erase it all. Begin again. There were too many holes, too many gray areas. There was too much I felt but couldn’t express. Too much sifting through murkiness, only to end up with hands as raw and empty as I felt inside. I was grieving hard the fact that I could not write, that I couldn’t go through the process I normally do. I hadn’t been able to journal at all about it, and could not take from that what I needed to write the article. What I realized was that the Lord had been whispering to me in various ways all this time to come to Him. To find my outlet in Him. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-06141dd1-4e05-719b-d898-1cd227f0e72f"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">I didn’t have an ‘aha’ moment with that or even a great spiritual event afterward leading me to my state of ability to write. Nothing like that. It was a slow progression over the next week or so, realizing that though I usually prayed a</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline;">nd</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"> wrote (and often wrote my prayers as my means of processing), this time, with this, the Lord wanted me to pray only. To come to rest at the foot of His cross and abide there for a time. I didn’t have anything I needed to be able to process otherwise and there was no way of obtaining it without that time with Him. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-06141dd1-4e05-b4f7-b2a4-24e69ca5b4d1"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">When I finally surrendered to that idea, putting aside my notebook and my laptop, something in me started to crack open. Whenever I felt any sort of pain or became aware of the lingering numbness within me, I consistently returned to Him. Again and again, I prayed and cried, and I felt reassurance dawn over and over, tip-toeing ever so gently into my heart. Pieces of the puzzle began to take shape, their smooth edges fitting just so with others. The ones that were still hazy with jagged edges unable to be clearly defined had to be set aside. I had to accept that I would never have the whole picture. But what I did have, I was able to take from. I was able to write about my feelings, my ordeal, and from there I was able to form the article I eventually ended up submitting to a magazine.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-06141dd1-4e06-1899-b5c5-7df9568bf875"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Now I am 14 1/2 weeks out from having had my precious baby. I don’t necessarily feel healed completely. But I do sense a shift in direction on my path. I suspect that in the next few weeks and months, more things will present themselves to me to sort through. What I went through was no small thing and </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am learning more and more how dangerous HELLP syndrome is and could have been for me and my baby. Although</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I am more able to function and deal, some days are harder to grasp the light of than others. Some days still leave me somewhat raw. But I know that no matter what, any ability I have...to heal, to write, to laugh, to love, comes from Him and Him alone, and I am nothing...I can do nothing, even write my feelings...without Him.</span></div>
</div>
Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09135613529782522372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1300845695671521056.post-36095353289427781032016-10-16T07:08:00.004-07:002016-10-16T17:57:33.664-07:00Pregnancy And Infant Loss - You Are Not Alone<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibcpNhFi26qTgyVyP_tw0f_4A2x1oDuS0cbG7eIlB1vPb0BY21Fzru8-gUgMtLwmpd4LgnKJd5iQ-l7JIKRFhWw326Tvb_A7hFTWE5J0JnFCw-1X1fJgicQBBAy6mHt52TBiHevv4VqkA/s1600/pregnancyandinfantloss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibcpNhFi26qTgyVyP_tw0f_4A2x1oDuS0cbG7eIlB1vPb0BY21Fzru8-gUgMtLwmpd4LgnKJd5iQ-l7JIKRFhWw326Tvb_A7hFTWE5J0JnFCw-1X1fJgicQBBAy6mHt52TBiHevv4VqkA/s320/pregnancyandinfantloss.jpg" width="194" /></a></div>
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I have six children. Six precious, amazing gifts who grow
older each day and still continue to set my heart ablaze with their wide-eyed
wonder, their sincerity, their crazy antics, and their unconditional love. But I also have two other little souls who I never got to
meet. Lost early in pregnancy, their
sweet faces never got to see this side of the womb. I never got to hold them, or kiss them. I never got to sing them a lullaby or watch
them grow up with their siblings. One
might say that I should focus on the six here with me, and not ever think of
those other two who stole my heart and then unknowingly shattered it to pieces.</div>
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But they’d be wrong.</div>
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Now, I don’t live my days wandering from room to room,
wringing my hands and crying for my lost babies. We live our life pretty normally-
homeschooling, playing, reading, weekly Mass, bedtime routines, prayer. We snuggle close and
push each other away. We love and we
fight. We visit friends and family, celebrate holidays. Sibling rivalry is the theme of most days,
especially as the kids get older and grow into their own identities and personalities,
desperately trying to snatch one more square inch of personal space to
themselves. Our household atmosphere is very much like one might expect a large
family’s household to seem. Loud.
Chaotic. But definitely full of love.</div>
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<br /></div>
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So why the mention of the other two? Where are they in this
dynamic?</div>
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</div>
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My children know there are two children missing from our
family photos. They know they have a
brother and a sister praying for them in heaven. One was the twin of my second oldest. One would have been born after my
fourth. Sometimes my children randomly
mention these lost siblings of theirs, and in their innocence, still convey a
level of grief most adults these days can’t begin to understand. Some days, it jars me. It strikes me in moments when my older son runs
through the house, his shadow not followed by another kid with his same face. Or when he has a distant look in his eyes just after he tells me he’s been feeling lonely. Or when a niggling feeling in the back of my
mind says there is someone else not gathered with us for school in the mornings
or family prayer in the evenings. It
sneaks in as I stumble over the number of children in our family when meeting
someone new. It rushes through me some
days, in moments of despair, and I remember the ache, the loss, the empty
spaces in the photographs of our family where those children would have been. Don’t get me wrong, most days, that ache is a
dull drumming deep within me, buried enough so that I am capable of going about
my life in a relatively normal manner.
But the other days (thankfully numbering less than they used to) still
come in waves, the familiar grief depositing itself within my heart.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The truth is, no matter how many babies I have, there will
always be two missing from our dynamic. There
will always be an ache deep in my heart for the loss experienced not just by
myself, but my children and husband as well. And there will always be tender parts of my
womb where those two little souls were once being knit; unseen and untouched, they are not so much
physical as they are mental, spiritual even.
They were the site of my babies’ first moments of life, the source of
attachment to me, their mother. They were
where God Himself began to knit them tenderly, knowing them far deeper than I
ever would or could.</div>
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<br /></div>
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A few years ago we named our babies. Someone asked me why. My response was that it brought us a little
more closure; some comfort, but even then I knew there was something much
deeper to it. We named our babies
because they lived, however briefly.
They lived tucked inside the secret of my womb, part of me. They had a value and a purpose. God knew them. I knew them, even though I didn’t even
realize it until they were gone. We
named them because they were ours, even for a short time, and because they
deserved to be named. A name gave them a
huge piece of their identity, surpassing that of ‘those babies I lost,’ or
‘my miscarriages.’</div>
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It’s their memory which reminds me to have hope, even though
we live in a cultural climate thick with the darkness of deception. One deception is that children are an
afterthought and can be thrown away; destroyed if we don’t want them. Just like that. We live in a culture of death. We live in a time when the world has turned
its focus inward, instead of extending its capable hands outward to welcome
even the most innocent and vulnerable creatures into. We live in a society who scoffs at families
with more than 2 or 3 children, and thinks of lost babies as a taboo
subject. Because abortion and child abuse
and neglect are so looming, the uncontrolled loss of a child seems to mean
almost nothing. So when a woman is
grieving her loss, there are few who will validate that loss, and support the woman.</div>
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This month is dedicated to, among other things, pregnancy
and infant loss awareness. But even with a whole month dedicated to it,
it is still not often openly discussed. I
think it is important in a society which views babies as a commodity and grief,
taboo, to recognize that women are often left by the wayside to struggle
through the aftermath of their loss in silence, because the subject of such a
loss is not important enough for others to acknowledge. But grieving mamas need help navigating those
murky waters. We need to be told that
our baby is important, that our loss is real.
We need encouragement and support and understanding. We need shoulders to cry on, listening ears, prayers,
meals. We need our space, too, of
course. And we need time. We don’t need people telling us to move
on. We don’t need friends and family
abandoning us because they feel it’s been too long to still be grieving. We need to be able to
be vulnerable in our grief while feeling protected. We need to talk, and no matter how long after
we lost our child, we need to be allowed to keep talking, to remember them, to
acknowledge their place in our family. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Statistics show that one in four women lose their
baby in pregnancy or infancy. One in four! If you
know someone who has lost a child- and it’s likely you do, please, reach out to
them, let them know you are there for them, and mean it. Even if you don't know what it's like to lose a child. Acknowledge their baby’s life, however short
it was. And allow them to shuffle
through their grief at whatever pace they need to go, with the freedom they
deserve, without expectations placed on their already-burdened shoulders. Let them lay their hearts bare, no matter how
uncomfortable it is for you; let their brokenness bless and change you. Help them carry their cross. In doing so, you
diminish the stigma that often overshadows grief, and you break the cycle of indifference. You bring love in a time of pain, and hope in
a time of despair. Think about it. You very well could change not just their life and your own, but the entire world. </div>
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PS. If you are reading this and you have suffered a loss and would like me to pray for you, please leave a comment or find my email <a href="http://thelongestlabor.blogspot.com/p/contact.html">here</a>. I would love to pray for you. You are not alone!</div>
Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09135613529782522372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1300845695671521056.post-90240342184653970022016-09-16T09:26:00.002-07:002016-09-18T15:16:37.702-07:00On Not Having Enough ________to Homeschool, Jesus, And His Little Flower<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I just don’t know how
you do it.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I get the
statement all the time, usually followed by, “I could never homeschool, I don’t
have enough-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "impact" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">PATIENCE<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "impact" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">TIME<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "impact" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">KNOWLEDGE<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "impact" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">MONEY<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "impact" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Less often I
hear, “<i>I couldn’t be around my kids that long each day and not kill them,</i>” but that’s another subject for another time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The truth is…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I could
never homeschool either.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I can’t do
it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">At least...not without
the Lord.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">You see, any
“wins” I have in this homeschooling journey are not because I have super human
powers. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Any
perfectly-executed days with no fighting, everyone doing their work, everyone
getting along and finishing everything is not because I made it happen.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’m just
like you. I have lots of short-comings,
lots of failings. I’m an imperfect,
sinful, tired mama just like you are.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And if I’m
being honest here, <i>most</i> days do not
look anything like the picture-perfect life that is in everyone’s mind when
they think about their goals for homeschooling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">More often,
there is chaos.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">More often,
there is crying and whining (sometimes from the kids).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">More often
there are unsharpened pencils and lost notebooks and taking twenty-five minutes
to complete a task that really should've only taken ten.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The coffee
isn’t strong enough, the hours aren’t long enough, and my patience isn’t the
bottomless well I would love for it to be.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And….<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As long as I’m
being honest here…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Homeschooling
for us isn’t just a choice. It’s not the
“superior alternative” to brick and mortar schools I painstakingly researched
and took on as a “martyr” for the good of my children’s education and future. Far from it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Do the grave
issues which define the modern public school education play a factor in the
overall decision? Of course they do. But they aren’t *the* factor for this choice,
and this is not so much a choice as a <i>calling</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The choice here was not '<i>will I homeschool as opposed to send my kids
to school'</i>, but '<i>will I answer the call
which God has so obviously- sometimes blaringly- pressed upon my heart</i>?'<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Until two
years ago, I was pretty happily sailing along in our homeschooling
journey. Yes, of course, there were bad
days. Many, many, MANY bad days. The questions of my ability or desire to even
continue cropped up in even the easiest of moments. But we had *just* finally settled into a
decent routine, were happy with our chosen curriculum, and I felt like I was starting to get the hang of things, finally after five years. I felt grounded in this decision and at peace
with our path. I was feeling proud of
myself. Almost a little too proud.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And then
life got caught up in a whirlwind of so many different things, as life is wont to
do, and I fell pretty hard, flat on my face.
I was exhausted. I was beaten down. I was depressed. I couldn’t imagine going through one more
year with my children at home all day long, in my personal space, depending on
me to educate them, some of the littles needing far too much more than I thought
I was capable of providing. I was
self-focused but in all the wrong ways.
Then the self-doubt crept in. Am
I even equipped to do this? Won’t I be
failing them if I attempt to continue down this road? The questions eventually turned into statements and I had
pretty much all but convinced myself that I was completely inept and that it
would be best to send my kids away to school.
I remember telling my sister that I no longer felt called to homeschool,
and as any good sister and friend would do, she dug into my statement and made
me think more with logic than with my emotions and heart. With a few short and simple questions, she
unpacked all of the junk I had swirling in my brain, challenging me to discern
if it really was that I was no longer being <i>called,</i>
or if it was that I was just trying to take the helm back from the Lord and
steer this ship on my own.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Thank God
for wise little sisters is really all I have to say about that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">At this
point, we had already looked into sending the kids to a local Catholic
school. Our parish was willing to help
us with tuition and we had heard from the principal that they just needed us to
come for a meeting to discuss. However,
encouraged by some very prayerful and holy women who didn’t even know what I
was angsting over or praying about, I started a novena to St. </span><span style="background: white; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Thérèse</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">.
I knew that this was a very serious, life-changing decision to make, and
I couldn’t see through my emotions, exhaustion and self-doubt to really make a
rational one. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy-oZQD2VsSqlsjfJ2DmPoj7u4v-5ZwlqNbAMPlLHlYc9P3vOHuZFjNjYwVShpT8ENbLLz8N_2qQZBsAzLEPNoqphmXO4y8EDXAWjU806joASQ38rihaJjpqoyFoCEJfWOp05IqN3Qw1Y/s1600/lavender-roses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy-oZQD2VsSqlsjfJ2DmPoj7u4v-5ZwlqNbAMPlLHlYc9P3vOHuZFjNjYwVShpT8ENbLLz8N_2qQZBsAzLEPNoqphmXO4y8EDXAWjU806joASQ38rihaJjpqoyFoCEJfWOp05IqN3Qw1Y/s320/lavender-roses.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I asked St. </span><span style="background: white; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Thérèse</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> to intercede for me. To join me in my pleadings to the Lord, to
offer prayers on my behalf to our loving Father to give me an answer. If this was still my calling, I asked St. </span><span style="background: white; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Thérèse</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> to send me a rose. But not just any rose, a lavender rose, one
of the most beautiful and expensive and fairly rare roses there are. Hardly anyone knows that they are a real
thing. I didn’t tell anyone what I had
asked for, not even my husband. I wanted
to make sure that if I got my answer, that it was authentic and
unadulterated. Only then would I know
for sure it was from the Lord through St. </span><span style="background: white; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Thérèse</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">, the little flower of Jesus.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Suffice it
to say that I got my rose, and in a most unexpected way! </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">And I
knew.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I just knew that all of the
thoughts, all of my self-doubt and even all the encouragement to stop
homeschooling from well-meaning people who really just don’t understand- all of
that was for naught.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It was a
distraction.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It was a trick.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The truth is
no one has enough patience, enough time, enough knowledge, enough money. No one is equipped to do this thing called homeschooling. Not without the proper
focus and the proper truths laid as the foundation can any of us actually make it work – and I mean
any of us, not even the most seemingly put together, perfectly organized, public-speaking,
book-writing, workshop-running homeschooling enthusiast there is.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And what is
that proper focus?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">What are
those truths you are supposed to lay as a foundation for your homeschooling
life?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Here are just
a few:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I can do all things through Christ Who
strengthens me. (Philippians 4:13)</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The Lord is my Shepherd, there is
nothing I lack. (Psalm 23:1)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I waited patiently for the Lord to
help me, and He turned to me and heard my cry. (Psalm 40:1)</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></i><i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Entrust your works to the Lord, and your
plans will succeed. (Proverbs 16:3)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And let perseverance be perfect, so
that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing (James 1:4)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We know that all things work for good
for those who love God, who are called according to His </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">purpose. (Romans 8:28)</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Commit your way to the Lord; trust
that God will act. (Psalm 37:5)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Trust in the Lord with all your
heart, on your own intelligence, rely not. (Proverbs 3:5)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And there
are so, so many more truths you can find if you only seek Him out. And not just for your homeschooling life, but
for your daily life outside of homeschooling.
None of us on our own has anything that we need to make it through, but take
heart! We can find all we need in Him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’d love to
say that our year after answering this call one more time went splendidly. It
in fact did not. I was battling depression and anxiety, I was still recovering
from some emotional trauma I had experienced the previous year, I was still
feeling very much exhausted and depleted.
But we spent our days reading, having fun with a different approach to
learning with yet another new curriculum, being gentle with each other, and
praying. The kids did very well, their
portfolios were found to be impressive by their evaluator, and we not only
survived another year, we thrived. But there
were still LOTS of days where everyone was fighting, kids whined about not wanting to
join in lessons, pencils weren’t sharpened on time, notebooks were most
definitely misplaced, and the antics of the two littlest who are not
school-aged made for some very disruptive entertainment. I was self-focused in many moments. The coffee was still
not strong enough; the hours still not long enough, and much of my plans and
ideas for our year were thrown out the window on day three. This year has again started much in the same.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But if I
remember those truths I mentioned earlier, the very foundation of our homeschooling journey is
that God is with us, God will bless us, God will uphold us and all we have to
do is put our trust in Him. On our own,
we have nothing. But with God, we have
everything, and when we get out of the way to let Him steer our ship, we are guaranteed
safe passage, even through these ever-murky waters of our homeschooling journey.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>Jesus, I
trust in YOU.</i></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">St. </span><span style="background: white; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Thérèse</span></i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>, pray for us! </i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09135613529782522372noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1300845695671521056.post-18080397557324163682016-05-20T10:03:00.000-07:002020-05-01T10:51:59.675-07:00Uncharted TerritoryI've crossed into uncharted territory. Never in my vocation of motherhood have I ever been here. It's strange, new, exciting. And...sort of terrifying. I'm almost unsure what to do with myself. <br />
<br />
Where am I?<br />
<br />
I've found myself in the part of this longest labor of motherhood where I am not nursing. I am not pregnant. I do not have a newborn. <br />
<br />
For a little over twelve years, those three things have been my life. But now... Now my baby is almost two. In the blink of an eye, her cooing and grunting have turned into actual words, her wriggling has turned into running, and her small hand lets go of mine a lot more than it used to. <br />
<br />
And my arms are empty more often than they have ever been.<br />
<br />
It's strange here in this place. And I'm quite unsure how I feel.<br />
<br />
There have been moments over the last twelve years when I've longed to have my body back to myself. To sleep more than a few broken hours during the night. When I've felt so completely "touched out" and run down that 'heaven' to me was five minutes completely alone hidden in my closet eating a donut that I didn't have to share, while simultaneously resting my eyes. But never in those moments did I actually understand or even dream of the reality of this one. <br />
<br />
How long will I tarry here in this place? Will there ever be another baby for me? Or..is this just the beginning of a new stage in my life?<br />
<br />
If you don't know this by now, my husband and I are open to life. While the last year has seen me in some devastating places emotionally and physically which led us to opt to abstain at times, it was not a permanent decision and was always governed by open communication and prayer. There very well could be another baby. But there hasn't been so far, and this is where I am right now, floating on these unfamiliar waves, wondering if they're taking me back to the shoreline that I've been so used to, or further out into unknown depths. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVLK1FZlFbzxgYhzATpW8KNdZWW0-KR57_YLAJS-_lnJlKtmDUx-3JwpvkylfgYVitHltJT0YUBEvePVA6BWAq1kpCVE8sQL6oDzcVAqTRPUGYNt8uwEF_uY2km3zZo6UCa3-YewRLf9M/s1600/MePeter16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVLK1FZlFbzxgYhzATpW8KNdZWW0-KR57_YLAJS-_lnJlKtmDUx-3JwpvkylfgYVitHltJT0YUBEvePVA6BWAq1kpCVE8sQL6oDzcVAqTRPUGYNt8uwEF_uY2km3zZo6UCa3-YewRLf9M/s320/MePeter16.jpg" width="240" /></a>My sister just had a baby a few days ago. I got to see him when he was twelve hours old. I held him and focused on his sweet face serene in slumber. He was swaddled up in his little cocoon, abiding there in his perfection, completely unaware of me. I never saw his eyes flutter, much less open. In the last year or so, holding other people's newborns has not lent that well-known "twinge" of longing I usually feel when my own babies have gotten just a little too big. I have not felt that I necessarily <i>wanted </i>another baby, but was content to love on someone else's and hand them right back. To be honest, at that moment, I still did not feel that twinge. Don't get me wrong, I was instantly in love with this little boy, his smallness, his soft skin, the sweet smell of new baby, and the promises he embodied for my sister and her family. Holding him gave me such joy. But this joy was only partially mine, and most of it I had to give back. So I laid it down along with him, in the little bassinet in the hospital room. And then I left.<br />
<br />
I went home to my own brood, to my sweet little two year old who came running to me, screaming "Mommmmm" and covering me with kisses as I walked in the door. I kissed her soft hair, smoothing a wispy curl between my fingers, and drank in her scent as deeply as I could. This is my life now, and every moment will continue to change, moving me along gently- and sometimes not so gently- into the next. Whether it carries me back out to deep waters where I will be holding and nursing another sweet new babe of my own, or keeps me along the shoreline, resting content holding someone else's, it matters not. Right now, my journey looks quite different than it has these last twelve years, but I trust in its purpose, and in mine.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09135613529782522372noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1300845695671521056.post-6173019994654548542015-09-16T10:45:00.002-07:002016-05-23T04:08:52.090-07:00Trust<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRbBdikwYUDRhpGCZ8BBMoN8DO0dQBFEtSCKLL50NOkqCPwIEIm310nMSGCwitSGk-4E2MvHBI59fdlr3wO2KrmkZ09ytZBT1kwQceXmtVXt-1PdBsuGR-feilan99fxeMJ_a3bBtqeSs/s1600/boat_lost_in_a_raging_sea_by_shyline-d8y545i.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRbBdikwYUDRhpGCZ8BBMoN8DO0dQBFEtSCKLL50NOkqCPwIEIm310nMSGCwitSGk-4E2MvHBI59fdlr3wO2KrmkZ09ytZBT1kwQceXmtVXt-1PdBsuGR-feilan99fxeMJ_a3bBtqeSs/s320/boat_lost_in_a_raging_sea_by_shyline-d8y545i.jpg" width="230" /></a>A thousand times I've felt the weight of my laboring through this season of my life, felt its jagged edges scrape against me, the burden of carrying six souls through this world, hoping that they make it relatively unscathed. Hoping that they are not marred too much by its ugliness, and in particular, not by the failings of their haggard, desperate mother.<br />
<br />
A thousand miles I've tread the path in stark silence, memories aching to be expelled, worries drowning out my inability to just do the next thing. Just staring into blank space. With joyful feet around me, kid-noise echoing, and I, too unwell to even crack a smile through my pain.<br />
<br />
I wrote once that I used to think God made a huge mistake in giving mothers just two arms to care for their babies. I wrote this at a time in my life where that weight and the shifting grief within me over a life I had to let go of, was heavy on my mind. When the few children I had then already felt like too much for me, and I wasn't sure if I was capable of living the life I was called to. <br />
<br />
<i>Motherhood</i>.<br />
<br />
Of course I could live it. Of course. But could I live it <i>well</i>?<br />
<br />
I look behind me and see the tiny toes in the sand which follow their mother's path out to sea, to the raging waters of this life where the world is vast and often dark, the depth of knowledge and understanding and love not quite known.. Those little toes stepping lightly into the weathered boat made in the crooks of arms encircling, trusting and seeking and ready. And I, unable to shove off, to let go. To take their small hands in mine and set sail.<br />
<br />
I cry out: <br />
<i><br /></i>
What if I lose sight of the beacon? What if even in the calm, angry gray clouds threaten on the horizon, and I become lost? What happens to these babies of mine?<br />
<br />
The Lord's answer:<br />
<i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>Ah! But I do not make mistakes, and it only takes two arms to clasp your hands in prayer. Stop wringing them in worry, stop faltering upon the shoreline and focusing on the horizon, imagining things that have not yet even come. My lighthouse looms, always in the peripheral, the light of My Love a clear direction even against the raging waters. The silence is for rest, rejuvenation. It is not for staring into the darkness, seeking out the jagged edges felt sweeping past raw feet in the surf. Never mind those. Never mind the hastiness and urgency welling up inside. Let go and realize that the I, the One who made those babies and called them out to sea, also made you, their mama, strong enough to bring them safely back to Me.</i><br />
<br />
<br />Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09135613529782522372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1300845695671521056.post-60914269251745315992015-09-03T04:44:00.000-07:002018-05-13T12:31:28.433-07:00A Mother's Love<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxQG5t0ciDeGxuDf84p3UQn4TueY3WtNmxLN4Kl8Dv-SlH8CIU1qz2kQg_BVTpu3G5DQNOLszr2mL6WPrF1qL1wXGzLADMXfqyg3n-_kRg5x4lhuGD-0f5uJw5UURk_pob7wea0bklCTo/s1600/Mothers-love-their-children-animals-20186514-619-480.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxQG5t0ciDeGxuDf84p3UQn4TueY3WtNmxLN4Kl8Dv-SlH8CIU1qz2kQg_BVTpu3G5DQNOLszr2mL6WPrF1qL1wXGzLADMXfqyg3n-_kRg5x4lhuGD-0f5uJw5UURk_pob7wea0bklCTo/s320/Mothers-love-their-children-animals-20186514-619-480.jpg" width="320" /></a>Dear Mama,<br />
<br />
The other day when I visited you, I climbed into the recliner, smooshing myself in next to you, and laid my head against your chest. Instantly transported back to my childhood, I sighed deeply as the familiar comfort of your scent washed over me. I listened to your breathing, to your heartbeat and there was something so tangible about the love emanating from your body as you let me squeeze your sides like I used to, and you rested your cheek on the crown of my head.<br />
<br />
I listened to your voice as you talked to my sister, reverberating through your body, into my ear, like music. You were all around me then, just like when I was small. As you patted my back, I remembered the rhythm from another time, perhaps the long hours you carried me as a baby, walking the hall in the wee hours of the morning, <i>shoosh-shooshing</i> me back to sleep. I felt that if I could just stay there, all would be right with the world. <br />
<br />
Mama, I almost cried then, as I realized how much I miss you. How much I wish that I could climb not just into the chair beside you, but into your lap, into your arms as often as I wanted, as much as I needed. I realized how old I am and how, at 33 years old, I don't think I've ever felt more helpless than I do right now, and yet I know that you can't walk the halls cradling me, comforting me in the same way you used to do. I realized, as I looked up into your face, my eyes tracing familiar lines as you talked, that you have grown older and yet you are still the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. <br />
<br />
I cradle my babies now, my own number six almost always in my arms, and I wonder if they'll still want to sit with me when they're grown, and if it will comfort them the way it does now as babes, the way it did me just the other day as I folded myself into your embrace and listened to your heartbeat and voice. I hope that if they do, I can comfort them at a rough time in their own life, the way you did me the other day, when you let me climb into the recliner next to you and fill my empty places with the rhythm of your love.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09135613529782522372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1300845695671521056.post-75838835600690141382015-07-22T13:55:00.002-07:002016-05-23T04:12:12.261-07:00The Treasure of NurslingsIt's these moments that paralyze me. But not in a bad way. I want to stay in this moment forever. Not move. Not even dare breathe. Drink it all in.<br />
<br />
I'm nursing my baby and I want to freeze time.<br />
<br />
She is my number six and she just turned a year old. I can't decide how I feel about it. Do I need to feel anything at all?<br />
<br />
Her big brown eyes keep closing, opening. Closing once more. She grabs gently with her tiny fingers against my skin. The other kids want my attention, I can tell, even if they aren't daring to open my bedroom door again. But I'm hiding out in this room, the hum of the AC in the window, the entire measure of the moment with a single thought: <i>Stay right here</i>.<br />
<br />
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I tried earlier to get her to sleep. Noise in the house and a barrage of constant interruptions kept her from making that last slip into peaceful slumber. She had been on the cusp but wouldn't unlatch or she'd fitfully wake and reach out for me with her pursed lips and desperate cry. It continued on and on like this and there was no getting past it. I had no choice at one point but to let her stay up, let her play, hope she got tired again soon.<br />
<br />
After lunch, she had had it. She was in my arms and nursing in the living room. I moved back to the bedroom once more to see if she'd finally let sleep steal her away. As I listened to her breathing change, her small chest rising and falling ever more slowly, I realized that yes, this would be that moment. I stroked her forehead and watched her face change.<br />
<br />
In this season of life, I don't think there is anything sweeter than the
slow fluttering of the eyes of a nursling as she tries to steal one
last look at her mama, the soft cooing and that sweet gentle smile as
she drifts off to sleep at my breast. <br />
<br />
And I can't help but wonder if she will be my last. Will she be the last baby I nurse to sleep? Will these be my last moments with her in this part of our relationship? How soon will it change? This one feels different somehow, our moments together more weighty; the urgency to slow down and treasure them, fierce. It wasn't quite the same with my other babies. With them, there was more of an urgency to break away, to be impatient. To get the job done, tuck them in, roll away and dash. Much to do, other kids to take care of.<br />
<br />
She has changed me. <i>Time</i> has changed me.<br />
<br />
As I review the last year, gone far more lickety-split than the first years of my other babes, I am convicted. I'm convicted to slow down. To focus. To watch. To treasure. This season of my life is fleeting. Fast. Some day too soon, she will have nurslings of her own. And I will have but memories, dusty in my mind.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09135613529782522372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1300845695671521056.post-67825754374512016272015-06-25T09:22:00.002-07:002015-06-25T09:40:06.082-07:00Shoes By the Door<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNAeJj1ujIses0qEdrxUYL-iOIaPf9O1cv9bf_gdfwOIOATP9m-x7OAm-mjYNKh8sJfyaf9EzcPQEtrlisVpfykq7eGwtF9dEfRNc_TdScx2dea55pcy-JuQ3gDX7ihDAh0emHPy99m-A/s1600/shoes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNAeJj1ujIses0qEdrxUYL-iOIaPf9O1cv9bf_gdfwOIOATP9m-x7OAm-mjYNKh8sJfyaf9EzcPQEtrlisVpfykq7eGwtF9dEfRNc_TdScx2dea55pcy-JuQ3gDX7ihDAh0emHPy99m-A/s320/shoes.jpg" width="320" /></a>The kids wanted to go to Bass Pro Shops on Father's Day. After the eternity of digging out all our shoes from the pile by the door or tracking a stray match elsewhere in the house, we ventured out into the merciless heat to make the 20 minute trip up there. As usual, once arrived and before we got out of the minivan, I voiced our regular "<i>what we expect</i>" spiel, which usually goes something like this:<br />
<br />
<i>"Remember, kids, we expect you to be quiet and calm. You need to respect other people's space and their right to not have craziness and noise around them. We are representing big families and Jesus. Show the public how awesome both are!"</i><br />
<br />
Or something along those lines..<br />
<br />
Honestly, this actually works about 98% of the time. There's something to be said for offering an outline of your expectations JUST before you want them carried out. If I had said anything when we got into the vehicle to leave, by the time we got to our destination, all would have been forgotten, lost in the excitement of getting out of the house and all the shiny things to be found.<br />
In any case, this trip proved to be, for some of the kids, in that other 2%.<br />
<br />
By the time we got to the checkout where the nine year old was buying himself a froggy doodad (<i>not official fishing lingo</i>), I was D-O-N-E.<br />
<br />
The kids had asked if they could spend their dollars on something. "Something" led to picking out nine different things and not being able to decide which ONE they wanted.<br />
<br />
And then...there it was...<br />
<br />
<i>"Are they all yours?"</i><br />
<br />
GAH!<br />
<br />
I sighed really loud and rolled my eyes away from stranger, pretending to focus on helping the kids pick their one item, but really just cursing low underbreath.<br />
<br />
I was livid, really. For so many reasons. I took the two babies in the stroller and left. I didn't abandon hubby, I did ask if I could take them to the car while he had the big 4 at the checkout and he said yes. They had finally picked out their loot and were somewhat quiet again.<br />
<br />
Mind you, they weren't even loud or crazy as they chattered and chose their items. I have serious issues when we go out. Everything they do, the decibels of their noise, it all seems <i>to me</i> to be so much MORE when out in public. As if I'm constantly aware of the scrutiny we get as a big family. As if we actually are constantly under said scrutiny. It agitates me. I sometimes freak.<br />
<br />
And there is the problem.<br />
<br />
It's not really them, it's me.<br />
<br />
I think about this fact, that I probably wouldn't be so agitated if I didn't care so much what other people think.<br />
<br />
And then I started thinking about how it's not just the general public with their unfiltered thoughts and their self-imposed "right" to say whatever they want to anyone at all. It's even within my own social circle. I recently had a discussion with a friend about how she feels she is judged by big families for NOT having one. We are both Catholic and it's interesting to me that in the same arena she feels judged for not having a big family, I feel judged for having one. I can't even tell you how many Catholics asked me after having my fifth if I was "done." Like the fact that they graciously brought me a meal while I was recovering lent them license to ungraciously ask me such a thing. But not only did they ask, they then went on to talk about why they could never have more than the two or three they have. Like having to dig out 8 pairs of shoes instead of 4 to go out somehow equals mission impossible. That projects onto me.....how?<br />
<br />
<br />
In any case, I was sitting here thinking about it for a minute and in case there is some lost soul who wandered here to read, I just wanted to encourage you (and this is as much to myself as to you):<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
DO NOT BE AFRAID.<br />
DO NOT WORRY WHAT OTHERS THINK.<br />
<br />
You may wonder, <i>which is right, a small family or large one?</i> <br />
My answer is this: When we are steadfast in prayer and desiring to do what God wants with our family life, NOTHING else matters. Not that nosy stranger at the checkout, not the generous meal-making mama who comes over after you've had baby #2...or baby #8. Not Catholics with bigger families or ones with smaller ones. When you are following the designs of God's will for your life and as a Catholic, the Spirit-inspired teachings of the Church, you are doing exactly what you need to be doing. Everything else is just white noise. Our lives are meant to be lived for eternity, not here on earth. Meaning while we spend our days growing, raising and loving our babies- however many we have- if it's all for the Lord, if it's all for God's glory, that's all that matters. </blockquote>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
When we stand before God to answer for our lives, being able to say we followed <i>Him</i> instead of the world will be HUGE. What following the Lord looks like in your life may be different than what it looks like in mine. Your pile of shoes by the door might be larger or smaller. Neatly ordered and matched, or strays lost somewhere within the belly of your home. And that's ok. How boring would the world be if we were all called to have the same exact family size and dynamic? God is a god of order, but He isn't a bore. We aren't measuring our worth by the number of shoes by the door.<br />
All of our families vary in so many ways. As long as we are chasing His plan for our lives, the number of children matters not.<br />
<br />
There is no point in having one or two kids and then stopping <i>just to appease the world</i>. What does this teach your children about following God's will instead of the ways of the world? There is also no point in having a dozen or more <i>just because you can/feel you should</i>, without also grounding their souls in the Lord. Quality trumps quantity every single time.<br />
<br />
Live life for the Lord, not the world, and you are always right.</blockquote>
</blockquote>
</div>
Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09135613529782522372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1300845695671521056.post-65041537088135923262015-05-27T08:47:00.003-07:002015-05-27T11:42:08.674-07:00A Big Family. Is It Worth It?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I divide my children into two categories: my first litter and my second. My first litter is the older four and there is no more than a year and a half between each of them. Then, there are three years between the youngest of that litter and the oldest in my next, separated by a miscarriage and many months of serious mental health issues.<br />
<br />
So I look at these two in their vastly different places and stations in my life. The older four, while still young, are pretty independent. The youngest of them will be 6 in a few short months. The second litter is comprised of a 2 1/2 year old who is ON from sunup to sundown, and a very needy 10 month old who still is almost exclusively breastfed and doesn't know how to sleep through the night yet. I <strike>wonder if</strike> am convinced<strike></strike> she and her older brother are in cahoots.<br />
<br />
So is it hard? <br />
<br />
Definitely.<br />
<br />
Is it worth it?<br />
<br />
Eh...<br />
<br />
Am I a terrible mother for not even knowing where to begin in answering that question? It's weighty and depending on what kind of mood I'm in, if I've had my coffee or- God forbid- a shower, the answer could vary moment to moment, day to day.<br />
<br />
I look at those cherry-sweet faces and I ask myself all the time, <i>what if I hadn't continued to be open to life after my miscarriage? What if I let my fears overrun me, crowding out my deepest desire to please the Lord and serve Him in whatever way He asked?</i> I can only think of another question: <i>does it even matter?</i><br />
<br />
They are here. And I love them.<br />
<br />
It's a <i>long labor of love</i>, this parenting gig. Whether you have 2 or 4 or 6. When you let God design your family, when you shirk all worldly thoughts and maybe even some acknowledgement of your own feelings and capabilities as you measure them, when you just BE for a moment without all the control and pretense, you can't ask yourself questions like this. You just can't.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Because it really doesn't matter.</span></div>
</blockquote>
</blockquote>
</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<br />
You have to just do the next thing. Change the next diaper. Nurse that baby. Push those chubby toes out of your face at night. And just <i>be</i>. Keep going. Labor away.<br />
<br />
Time goes by, regardless. Sometimes it passes at a yawning, groaning, aching pace, and sometimes it flits by in a flash, chasing after a future always out of grasp. Sometimes it is comprised of lost babies, empty arms, foggy mind, and sometimes it's full of little hands to hold, nurslings, round bellies, full breasts.<br />
<br />
Time teaches you, heals you, grows you, regardless of its contents. It isn't really a measure of contents anyway, so much as <i>allowance</i>.<br />
<br />
Allowance for things you may not plan. Allowance for life to crack you wide open, and for the mighty hand of God to piece you back together in the manner He sees fit.<br />
<br />
And really, if I think about it, if I sit down in the quiet (which, incidentally, is a rare find around here), I can tell you that yes, definitely. It is indeed worth it.<br />
<br />
<br />Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09135613529782522372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1300845695671521056.post-29175791493562238812015-03-17T11:33:00.002-07:002018-03-22T10:45:03.156-07:00Stripped Bare<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWTveDQGWt8wdWeIQ44ptfV05hEnqF5HrDFCMlj1iBXUyvMwTXigyi0T1LcrbjIN5ldkg7vP3y0epMc1XYQc1egyDG63moVtn7TqWB0kKr93sUj-Gg3W49XBDBFSdN1iOW2OmPMHEh890/s1600/carryingcross.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="120" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWTveDQGWt8wdWeIQ44ptfV05hEnqF5HrDFCMlj1iBXUyvMwTXigyi0T1LcrbjIN5ldkg7vP3y0epMc1XYQc1egyDG63moVtn7TqWB0kKr93sUj-Gg3W49XBDBFSdN1iOW2OmPMHEh890/s1600/carryingcross.jpg" width="320" /></a>Life can be difficult. <br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>[Duh.]</i><br />
<br />
When you're facing something that is difficult, human nature often makes you feel a little afraid.<br />
<br />
You look down the long, dark corridor and reach into the space beside you, hoping there is a hand with which to cling. When it's the corridor of labor, as in to bring a child forth from your body, hopefully that hand is your husband, your midwife, your doula, someone who loves your heart and is trustworthy in the feat of guiding you through. It makes it easier. Somehow, you are not so afraid. When someone is with you, each step forward is much less scary.<br />
<br />
In life, it is much the same. But...sometimes there isn't a hand there. Sometimes you just have to have faith that though you see no hand to hold, nothing tangible to cling to, you can walk through the corridor and come out on the other side unscathed. Because even though there is no human hand to hold, Christ is there holding not just your hand, but your whole life. Every breath. Your feet, your movements, your meager steps, each counted and upheld by the same hands and feet which were pierced through to save. <i> To save YOU.</i><br />
<br />
Jude, a dear friend of mine, recently told me that my current life-state sounded so much like Lent, she wondered what Lent actually looked like for me. That was even before Lent began!<br />
<br />
I try not to complain but I feel like I have a lot lately. I am weak.<br />
<br />
<i>But in my weakness, Christ's strength is made perfect</i>.<br />
<br />
Ya know, every mama gets to that point where enough is enough is enough. It's one thing after another and in this long labor of raising children and keeping a home, there are bound to be a few<s> moments</s> years of rough patches, where things just keep rolling along, gathering momentum, pulling in anything and everything in its path.... One big gigantic snowball looming and ready to roll over and crush you.<br />
<br />
I'm at that point of throwing my hands up and shaking my fist at the sky. But....BUT last night, I remembered Jude often encouraging me to just surrender. SURRENDER. So I did. Palms up, in my kitchen, I surrendered.<br />
<br />
The moment was heavy and broken. Shards of my life weighed me down. I was attempting to pull out a plastic cup which got lodged in the garbage disposal. This, after retreating from a battle I didn't even begin with the hot water heater which was leaking all over the laundry room floor, soaking blankets and other random clothes awaiting wash. That, after spending the last three days cleaning up puke and washing my hands a thousand times because my two boys have been sick with "THE PLAGUE," one currently at the hospital. And ALL THAT after the last two years of other devastating and difficult things. Don't get me wrong, I know everyone is battling so much. I know this. I'm not an exception. I'm not saying my issues are bigger or more terrible than those of anyone else.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>But even Christ needed help carrying His cross.</i><br />
<br />
So there I am, trying to dislodge this cup which was the proverbial straw for me, and I felt like I might explode. I am in the middle of this dark corridor of life, crying out into a vacuous space, and I hear a voice telling me to just surrender. <i> I am being stripped bare.</i> A lodged cup or a busted hot water heater, or even sick kids puking for 3 days is NOT the end of the world. This I know. But those little things on top of the larger things that remain a constant, they were just too much at that moment.<br />
<br />
<i>Strip me away, Lord. Strip me away.</i><br />
<br />
So last night, my dear friend Jude lends me some really beautiful words. Words that soothe; balm to my soul. <span class="null"> </span><br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="null"><span style="font-family: "catholicschoolgirls intl bb";">"<i>Try
to imagine that you are tending to Our Lord as he makes his way through the
narrow streets toward Golgotha. Be Veronica...with every puke sheet you wash,
every bottom you wipe, every drink of water you offer...tend to Jesus in His
Passion.</i></span> </span><span class="null"><span style="font-family: "catholicschoolgirls intl bb";">
<i>Imagine Our Blessed Mother and how her heart was aching to see his open
flesh and dripping blood. Imagine how she, too, must have felt that God, Her
Father in Heaven was stripping her, like you, to bare bones that first Lent.
Imagine how she must have felt that she could not bear one more moment. But,
she did. And, so will you. You are a STRONG WOMAN, Rebecca."</i></span></span></span></div>
</blockquote>
Being stripped bare is no joke, people. And if you are unwilling, it can be all the more painful and messy. But as I look around my house, disheveled, filled with germs, laundry piling up, broken things to be fixed, and as I look into the deepest darkest corners of my heart, my life, my personality, broken <i>me</i> to be fixed, I see a mess, yes... but it's a beautiful mess. All this stripping down to bare bones is teaching me something. Everything. I have to conform my sufferings to Christ's sufferings and continue down this dark corridor of labor, of life. <br />
<br />
My friend had a few other words for me which gave me pause. Made me think. Ushered in a new perspective.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
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<br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span style="font-family: "catholicschoolgirls intl bb";">“</span><span class="null"><span style="font-family: "catholicschoolgirls intl bb";">You ARE
truly the Cyrenian; helping Jesus to carry His cross. It is good that you
surrendered. He WILL provide the grace for you to persevere and because you are
willing to accept that grace, you will make it through.”</span></span></i></span></blockquote>
<i>I </i>am helping Christ carry <i>His</i> cross?<br />
<br />
Apparently I am. And I have no doubt that He is indeed giving me grace. I have no doubt on that dark day when Jesus was crucified, Simon the Cyrenian was given multitudes of grace. That his selfless act of helping a broken Christ to literally carry the weight of the world up a mountain was more for <i>his</i> benefit than Jesus'. Simon himself was being stripped bare, even though he could not know this. What an amazing gift to a poor sinner to suddenly without notice be given the opportunity to carry Christ's cross!<br />
<br />
Life can be difficult, yes. The sufferings we experience, be they marathon sickness or broken appliances, losing a loved one to cancer or rejection of family, are all meant to gift us with grace. To draw us to Christ. To bring us home. In our weakness of being stripped bare, we are made new and Christ's strength is seen. Do not run away from suffering. Stop living your life trying to avoid every single uncomfortable thing. Pick up that cross and allow yourself the gift of suffering, the weakness and humility, the hardship. There is a point to it. When the gray skies clear and the heaviness has rolled away, there is light. A purpose. A hope. <br />
<br />
So step forward into the darkness! Trudge on! Labor away! You. can. do. it. He will give you grace and you WILL make it through.<br />
<br />
I promise.<span class="null"><span style="font-family: "catholicschoolgirls intl bb";"><i> </i></span></span><i><span style="font-family: "catholicschoolgirls intl bb";"> </span></i><span style="font-family: "catholicschoolgirls intl bb";"></span><br />
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<br />Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09135613529782522372noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1300845695671521056.post-65310505334885244112015-01-22T12:54:00.001-08:002019-01-18T08:41:56.323-08:00Supporting Other Mothers, Even Post-Abortive Ones <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWRcMxm1po5gUqPPFDAzRxzBK2ZjsH2-WbrWm7DhmfmPkaaFbwM63klccwBbvNAJtVKpbOrWfo7JcPrjU1YXHTCSiEIHxteIqdmeLD2ZAO-Vzn7GCHtCpfjImPrVhBHZD_vp_DbSOg4z8/s1600/womensupport.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWRcMxm1po5gUqPPFDAzRxzBK2ZjsH2-WbrWm7DhmfmPkaaFbwM63klccwBbvNAJtVKpbOrWfo7JcPrjU1YXHTCSiEIHxteIqdmeLD2ZAO-Vzn7GCHtCpfjImPrVhBHZD_vp_DbSOg4z8/s1600/womensupport.jpg" /></a>Every year the media makes a grave mistake in ignoring or sugar-coating the mass of people who descend upon the Nation's capitol in peaceful protest of the 40+ year old decision which legalized abortion on demand. Every year. They attempt to distract and redirect; utilizing the very tool of the Prince of Darkness which brought that decision about in the first place: LIES. They do this and yet, it's like in Horton Hears a Who...the small rise up; we call out, <i>"We are here! We are here! We are here!!"</i><br />
<br />
I myself have never been to the March for Life. Every year I think about how amazing it would be to go and have that experience; stand in solidarity with my fellow pro-lifers and pray the rosary as I walk, to meet new people and speak with them on this deep, difficult topic. I think how amazing it would be to crest that hill and look back and take in the sight of the sea of people, moving together as one body; braving the cold and the anti-life protesters, joining together for the same righteous cause: <i>sanctity of human life</i>. One of these days, I tell myself. One year, I will have no needy babies whom I can't leave at home and I will be able to attend and immerse myself, and possibly my older children, in the experience. Some say it's very emotional and spiritual. I don't doubt it. I don't doubt that when hundreds of thousands of people gather for a just cause, for the Lord, for mercy and opposition toward evil, that it isn't an amazing and rich experience. <br />
<br />
When I volunteered at a pregnancy center in Harrisburg a few years ago, my life was changed. I thought I was there to help women, young girls, in situations where having a baby was less than ideal. I thought I was there to give out information, listen, encourage, teach. But amidst all of that, something else took place. <i> I was encouraged. I learned</i>. My eyes were opened. I saw the hearts of some of these women who were just trying to make it alone. I saw the dynamics between women and their partners, boyfriends, husbands who were just as scared as the women were to welcome another baby. I saw the neediness of the "least of God's people," and my heart grew in compassion and understanding for them. I spoke with women who had had abortions; women who deeply regretted them, but found themselves facing another pregnancy and wanting to do what was right, despite how hard it was for them. I saw their fear and their resolve. I saw their strength to turn away from past behavior. It changed me indeed.<br />
<br />
They say that if we want to know what life is really about; we just need to immerse ourselves in situations where we'll see it up close. While I was with the center, I wrote <a href="http://motheringgodschildren.blogspot.com/2012/01/mock-letter-from-post-abortive-mother.html">this article</a> on my other blog. It was my hope that people would read it and have some small understanding of what many post-abortive mothers feel. That they could come to the same understanding I did when I worked at the center: that most women who seek abortions aren't doing it to be evil. They are broken, just like the rest of us, only maybe in a different way than most of us. They are in need of love and support and forgiveness. I hoped that other pro-lifers would understand that we shouldn't approach these women in anger, but surround them in peace and love and understanding instead. Especially the women who <i>do not</i> feel remorse. It's one thing to think these things in your head, to know them in your heart; it's an entirely different thing to put that into action, to actually face those women and let love do all the work.<br />
<br />
Down here in the trenches of motherhood, we all need encouragement and support, even and <i>especially</i> post-abortive mothers. Aborting a baby does not take away the title of Motherhood. We become mothers the second our babies are conceived. Nothing changes that. <br />
<br />
Today I pray not only that there will come an end to abortion, but that we as pro-lifers will seek out more ways in which we can move as one to support post-abortive mothers, to reach out to them and extend the Love of Christ, the forgiveness and compassion He so selflessly extended to us as He hung on that cross on Calvary.Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09135613529782522372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1300845695671521056.post-60163692274327527242015-01-21T12:26:00.002-08:002017-09-16T05:40:40.544-07:00Motherhood Is The Longest Labor<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNtnPM8FCRI5funtzLCFkdfsVA6k2Q9HWUoFlOdsbsw7K7FFThGok8oF5-yKvwP0Ao8hJoTwdUoPIxsno304MZ2WOkOgbKfr9GREdn8-jYvajy-lNfw0ZE4oQ5RLTfiMh4Hixw1JSLQd8/s1600/KidsChristmas2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNtnPM8FCRI5funtzLCFkdfsVA6k2Q9HWUoFlOdsbsw7K7FFThGok8oF5-yKvwP0Ao8hJoTwdUoPIxsno304MZ2WOkOgbKfr9GREdn8-jYvajy-lNfw0ZE4oQ5RLTfiMh4Hixw1JSLQd8/s1600/KidsChristmas2014.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They who I labor for</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The Lord has blessed me with babies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lots and lots of babies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s also given me a somewhat-introspective
personality, and the desire to convey my thoughts to
others, in order so that they may grow in understanding of themselves and
of the Lord’s will for their own lives. (Specifically as it pertains to motherhood, but other aspects of life as well.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
love to not just sympathize with others, but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">empathize</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To
commiserate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To encourage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to cry with people as well as laugh. Sit and ponder, as well as dance and sing. I
want to go deep, and then deeper still on the important things in life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The truth is we all have our little
nuances.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all have our
distractions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all have the things
that seem so big and so blaring in our minds every single day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <i> </i></span><i>Facebook. Television.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Music.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our jobs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shopping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Food</i>.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But those things, while aspects of our life here on earth,
do not indicate to ourselves or to anyone, or most importantly to God, that we
are really <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">living</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that’s what this is about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to really live.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to live and I want to be a light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Especially to other mothers, other
parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to let my light shine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not because I think I’m so important or
special; but because I’m not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m just
like you. I’m just like every other mama on this earth, going through the
parenting tunnel, trying to do my best.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Sometimes I have good things to say. Other times, I’m just a shout in
the void.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">But here I am anyway,
trying.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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The inspiration for this blog came from a piece I’m working on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I say piece but I’m hoping it’s a manuscript. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m hoping that in the midst of homeschooling,
chaos, coffee and laundry, I can etch out the parts of motherhood that really
mean something important enough to share.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But not just share- make a difference.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I spent the last ten years of my life being
told that I can’t make a difference.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That my attempt to share my little light with people was my trying to be
controlling, or my trying to change people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That what I had to say didn’t matter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I spent this time with negative people who were always downing me, my
words, my desire to help or console or encourage, and I started to believe
them. I started to believe all of it- I have nothing new to share, nothing
important to say. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t save
anyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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The truth is I don’t want to save anyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s not my job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My job is to be a light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> To serve. </span>It’s such a simple concept, one we were
taught even as wee ones in Vacation Bible School.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We sang it loud with the song, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This Little Light of Mine.</i>”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While making sheep-shaped soaps to go with
our wooden shepherds and elbow-macaroni Crosses, we were taught to be
servants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were taught to have
compassion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To bring others to Christ.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Motherhood has given me that platform, to rise up with my
light and draw others into the light of Christ in our vocation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
Motherhood is in fact the <i>longest labor</i> of
our lives, and we need to encourage each other through it.</div>
Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09135613529782522372noreply@blogger.com2