Of Trads and Deconstructionists

A few years ago, I got a little bug to start a blog which highlighted all the negative things I've been experiencing in my traditional community. It was going to be sort of tongue-in-cheek, but focused on the many true reasons why the traditional communities sometimes get a bad rap. It was to be called, "Clutching My Pearls," after the silly phrase people use when they're making fun of trads. 

Funny, right?

Well, I decided not to do it after all. I realized that if I did that, I might be tempted to fall into the same mindset as deconstructionists, because, truth be told, I was coming from a place of hurt. I have had trad friends hurt me. Trad priests, and the higher leadership have also hurt me or let me down. There have been traddies who hurt my children, too.  I didn't want to align myself with all the many minds out there that deconstruct generally good things solely because they have been hurt by them. 

Here are just three reasons why:

1. In my experience, the main objective of the deconstructionist (in this sense), is to destroy stuff in order to make themselves feel better. It's the weaponizing of strong feelings in order to tear down someone else. When you're hurt by someone over and over, it's understandable to want to find a place where your feelings have a voice, but it's easy to fall into the false mindset that you're doing something about your pain by deconstructing that person or group. Trying to destroy someone isn't really productive in any sense; it is literally destructive. 

2. It's a dishonest and fruitless way to heal. It's not only a false narrative about an entire group of people, it's also not a genuine path to healing. Usually, people don't find healing when their MO is to deconstruct. They end up in an echo chamber, which illuminates their pain and magnifies the imperfections and sinfulness of other people. It also isn't healthy, and it certainly won't incite healing. If anything, it'll just perpetuate a cycle of anger and pain. I've noticed a rising theme of anger within the deconstructionists, and a lack of peace. This is not a healthy path to healing. Deconstructionists usually paint these blanket pictures of what they perceive is the cause of their pain, when most of the time, the truth is that it's one person who happens to be such and such a way, or it's one small group, not the entire group of whatever category they fall under. For me, I could easily deconstruct the traditional Catholic world as a whole, but it wouldn't be productive, nor- most importantly- honest. It's important to not place blanket statements on a group of people, especially when you know for a fact that not every single one of "them" are that way. 

3. Aligning myself with the same mindset of deconstructionist would be to cut myself off from the truth, goodness, and beauty found within our faith. One example I've seen of this would be the saints. I've seen people completely deconstruct the saints. Like totally rewrite their story, spreading a false narrative about the reality of their saintly lives, perhaps in order to quell some growing guilt in their own life, perhaps to water down the faith, and spread doubt within the minds of those still searching or still unsure. I don't know the reasons. However, it's one thing to recognize that NONE of the saints were perfect, and many led sinful pasts before becoming saints. It's totally different to put a slant on their lives that questions their sainthood entirely, when we have so much in the way of proof, tradition, and teaching to honor the original belief about them. 

Listen, I'm somewhat of a "trad life refugee" myself, having experienced a well of hurt and pain, judgment, control, pretense, (and gosh, the unhappiness, what's with all the unhappiness?) coming specifically from some of the people (including priests!) who identify as trad Catholics.... I get it. I've been betrayed, abandoned, and let down by people I thought I could trust within the traditional community, because of radical beliefs or superior attitudes, or just plain brokenness which, in trad communities is sometimes twisted into virtue, and weaponized. I just don't believe that "deconstruction" is the way to go, and I think I'd say this even if my trauma was deeper than it is.

To my fellow Traditional Catholics who have suffered at the hands of the trad community: Don't be a deconstructionist, tearing down the beauty of the traditional faith because of the ones who have hurt you, and painting it into some warped picture because of your trauma. It isn't everyone who aligns themselves with trad life who are that way! I'm still a trad in many ways (most specifically, being open to life), and I am not that way....At least I hope I'm not! 😉

And don't leave the faith! Sort out what is actually true (for instance, veils are NOT about keeping the guy creep behind you from being distracted by your uncovered hair), and find your ground within the actual teachings of the Church, the lives of the saints, and most importantly, Jesus Christ in the Eucharist- the source and summit of the faith. Yes, I'm aware that this process can also be somewhat of a deconstruction of its own making, but the goal is Truth (which you have in the Catholic Church, the fullness of God's Truth), not searching for an outlet for your pain.

Remember: Always view it from the humble lens of LOVE for Him Who is LOVE. The traditional Catholic life is very beautiful if you shut out all the noise and opinions of extremists and liars, and listen to the Holy Spirit within you as you search for the Truth.  

 And...if you have been hurt, my inbox is always open. ❤️‍🩹 

 

 

 

 

 

Letting Go Of Our First-Born

 

Our oldest child has flown the nest. 

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.

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? No. Did I give her enough attention? Probably not. Did I love her enough? How do I answer this one? 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 trying 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 of it. 

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. 

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 trust in God, 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.

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 (The Virgin with Angels, or Song of Angels) which used to adorn her wall, is now at her new place. Almost everything was bare.

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.

And I realize that my responsibility as her parent has changed some, but has not completely diminished. I'm still immersed in this longest labor. I'm still here to worry over her, to pray for her, to guide her on a moral path. 

And she knows that no matter what happens, she can always come back home.

Safe and Sound

    There 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: Safe and Sound, by Capital Cities. 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. 

Fast forward to just a few weeks later, when I ended up being induced 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. 

But we were indeed safe and sound.

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, “take my hand, mommy, and we’ll be safe and sound,” 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. 
  
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. 

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, “even if we’re six feet underground, I know that we’ll be safe and sound.”  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 will 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!

 

A Book is Born!

I write this post not to advertise for myself, but to praise God for His infinite mercy, patience, and love.

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.

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. 

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 me for what I write. I want people to love God for what I write (or in spite of it)." 

I desire to always feel this way.

In any case, if you are so inclined as to purchase a copy, you can do so, here: The Longest Labor.  Or, if money is tight, but you really want to read this book, please email me.

To Him be all the glory.

Deo Gratias!

No Beads? No Worries!

Can't find your rosary?

No problem!  Babies have teeny tiny toes which are perfect in lieu of those lost rosary beads. 

Hail Mary.....

Of Prayer Shawls, Government Mandates and the Battle Within The Church

In God's name, let us go on bravely.  ~ St. Joan of Arc

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.

Jesus, I trust in You. 

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.

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 right now.

Acts of Spiritual Communion have their merit, true, and I try to make them frequently, especially during Mass, but they do not replace 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.

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.

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 first, 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.

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?

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?

We are the Church Militant, 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, The Spiritual Doctrine of Sister Elizabeth of the Trinity:

"When they tried to console her at being no longer able to receive the Blessed Sacrament, 

she said, 'I am finding Him on the Cross; it is there that He is giving me life.'"  And this was 

followed by my further attempt to encourage:  Hang in there my sweet, fellow Catholics 

longing for our Beloved.

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 souls? 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 "live for something than die for nothing."  We are to be living this life only to reach the promise of Eternal Life.  But, we could die an eternal death because we didn't take care of our souls.  And in reality, perhaps the General's words should have been, "die for something rather than live for nothing." 

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.  We are in the midst of battle.  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!  

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.

Oh...And my new battle cry?  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 seeking the ruin of souls.

Leaving God at the Altar

My youngest, Miss Sicky Sickerson 

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.

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.  

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.  

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.

It's frustrating, to say the least.  But it's also humbling.

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: 

"A married woman must often leave God at the altar to find Him in her household care."

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.  

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.  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.  

I choose the former.







PS.  A few quick notes, practical and spiritual 😇  : 

Practical: In my desperate search for how to best attack the Noro 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. 

We bought several things: 

(NOTE: these are NOT affiliate links and I didn't necessarily order these products all from Amazon) 

*Purell Multi-Surface
*Lysol Max cover; hubs chose garden after the rain scent which is not too offensive
*Clorox Healthcare w/Hydrogen Peroxide, cleaner and also wipes  
*Germstar Noro hand sanitizer 

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.


Spiritual: (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 The Final Battle blog.  If you need some inspiration about forgiveness in your marriage, I hope you will find it here.

All The Things Pale in the Shadow of Christ's Cross

So 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.

I am taking inventory of all the things:

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.

How since then, it seems like one thing after another keeps tumbling down upon us.

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.

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...

Then I look up.

I look up and I see this:

Jesus.

On His cross.

And I think to myself, Gosh... How long have we faced what we have and it hasn't been our doom? How long has He held us up with the very same strong hands that were nailed to that rough-hewn tree?  

All the things pale in the shadow of Christ's cross.

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.

The only thing I could say is that it's been by God's grace alone.  

In reality, sometimes I start to hesitate, slow my pace, but I am continuously, gently called back, back to the way of the cross.

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.

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.

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.





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:

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.




I'm praying for you. Please pray for me!

Overcoming Trauma: To Jesus Through Mary

I 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.

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?

It was traumatic.  And that's ok.

Incidentally, I recently read a quote that said, "other people don't get to decide when you move on from your pain or trauma."  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 themselves the permission to do so?

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 scary.   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.

I once wrote about the feeling of standing on the brink of insanity.  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 fullness of God's truth 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.

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.

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 no child left behind 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!



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:

The rosary is a gift given to us as one of many 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 here and here.  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. 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.

That Time God Took Away My Ability to Write

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 sometimes frequently 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.

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.

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, HELLP 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.

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.

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.

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 and 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.

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.

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 I am learning more and more how dangerous HELLP syndrome is and could have been for me and my baby.  Although 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.