Look out world - Megan's coming!

I just couldn't do it. I could not bring myself to accompany Megan to the airport this afternoon. I was too afraid I'd fall apart, make a scene as I watched her disappear into the blur of travelers inching their way through security. I'm not normally a falling apart kind of person and the thought of it happening unnerves me, so Jim took her by himself. Megan was okay with it. She really was. She is very excited about her new adventure and this wonderful opportunity as a Belmont Abbey College student to study abroad with Franciscan University in Gaming, Austria. She intends to blog about her travels here.

We hugged good-bye in the kitchen, she as beautiful as ever and composed, me in tears. Suddenly, she seemed oddly mature. My last minute attempts at motherly advice whirled behind her like dandelion fluff on the wind as she headed out the front door, backpack slung on one shoulder and her new Vera Bradley tote in hand. "When you're in Vienna, ask Aer Lingus if they will check your luggage all the way back to Dulles on your return trip." There I was, already thinking about her coming home. What a ridiculous thing to say, now before she's even arrived there. "If for some reason your phone doesn't work, e-mail me or Facebook me the first chance you get. Maybe you'll see an internet cafe nearby."  

"Mom, ohh-kaay," she smiled.

All four of my kids have traveled internationally. As college students, Katie and Erin each spent a semester in Europe. And yes, I cried when they left home. Every time, I cry. It's not that I don't want them to go - okay, okay, there is a part of me that begs, "don't go!" - it's just that I suffer from terrible separation anxiety. And now my baby is going. Megan shares everything with me and she always seems to need me more than the others do, so it is just a little harder this time.

I do know she will treasure this experience all the days of her life and I am truly grateful for this opportunity. She will grow in wisdom, in friendship and in faith. I can't wait to hear all about it.

World Over Special - 04-20-12 - Rep Paul Ryan on Morality of the Federal...

A Time to Dance

A little more than a year and a half ago I started a prayer group for moms, like me, who are either empty-nesters or quickly moving in that direction, or have at least one child post high school. Our fledgeling group of 8 moms has now evolved into a monthly book club. Our most recent selection was Left to Tell: Discovering God Amidst the Rwandan Holocaust by Immaculée Ilibagiza, a survivor of the 1994 Rwandan genocide. In many ways the book was indeed an inspiring story of great faith amidst sheer horror, but reading it also left me feeling cynical and depressed. Aware of the atrocities still taking place throughout the world today, I felt my faith in humanity slipping away.

But then I read this article containing the video below.

I love, love, LOVE this video. I don't know if I'm overly sentimental, but it made me smile and cry at the same time and dance! And it made me think about how all these people from all across the globe are God's children. And how He loves ALL of them.

I think this guy, Matt Harding, may be doing more for world peace than any world diplomat or UN official ever has. He is a missionary of joy!

Just take a look. If this doesn't lift you up, I don't know what will:

And take a peek at the outtake video, too:

Pray for Those Who Persecute You

Below is a copy of last Sunday's homily written and preached by Deacon Paul Ochenkowski, a fellow parishioner and permanent deacon assigned to St. Veronica Catholic Church in Chantilly, Virginia. Deacon Ochenkowski's words are markedly stirring and particularly poignant given today's highly disappointing SCOTUS ruling on the constitutionality of the Affordable Care Act (Obamacare).  

I will allow the good deacon's words speak for themselves (posted with his permission) : 

HOMILY:

Solemnity of the Birth of St. John the Baptist

Sunday, June 24, 2012

            Well good evening/morning, brothers and sisters.  Today we mark the Solemnity of the Birth of St. John the Baptist, as well as the first Sunday in our two-week Fortnight for Freedom.  The fourteen days from June 21—the vigil of the Feasts of St. John Fisher and St. Thomas More—to July 4, Independence Day, are dedicated to this “fortnight for freedom”—a great hymn of prayer for our country. Our liturgical calendar celebrates a series of great martyrs who remained faithful in the face of persecution by political power—St. John Fisher and St. Thomas More, St. John the Baptist, SS. Peter and Paul, and the First Martyrs of the Church of Rome. Culminating on Independence Day, this special period of prayer, study, catechesis, and public action will emphasize both our Christian and American heritage of liberty. Dioceses and parishes around the country have scheduled special events that support a great national campaign of teaching and witness for religious liberty.

            Today, we mark the birth of St. John the Baptist, a martyr, and a man who certainly did remain faithful in the face of persecution by political power.  John lived in the Holy Land in the time of two kings, both named Herod, two civil rulers both of whom had a depressing record of meddling in religious affairs.  He was born during the reign of Herod the Great, famed for expanding the Second Temple, and infamous for slaughtering male infants in a desperate effort to eliminate the Messiah.  This Herod also regarded his Jewish religion so little, that not only did he regularly violate its Fifth Commandment during his murderous reign, but he played politics using religion, building temples to false gods to curry favor with the Roman emperors who now ruled the Holy Land.  St. John the Baptist survived the Slaughter of the Innocents, and outlived Herod the Great.

            But Herod the Great divided his kingdom upon his death, and bestowed the rule of Galilee upon one of his sons, also named Herod.  This second Herod, also known as Herod Antipas, would eventually take up an adulterous relationship with Herodias, wife of his half-brother, Philip.  John the Baptist, in the meantime, had grown up to become the precursor, the forerunner of the Messiah: the voice crying in the desert.  And it was this great and holy man, who as an adult, would have his famous encounter with this second Herod.  Herod would follow the depressing customs of his murderous father, and like him, also meddle in religious affairs.  We know that even though he regarded John the Baptist as a holy man, he feared him and had him arrested for denouncing his relationship with Herodias.  And of course we know how Herod set his own trap, how in a drunken swagger in front of his house guests, promised anything to Herodias’ daughter, Salome—who demanded the head of John the Baptist.

            The life of John the Baptist—from his escaping the Slaughter of the Innocents at the hand of Herod the Great, to his execution on the order of Herod Antipas—shows us graphically the importance of freedom of religion, shows us graphically what happens when civil rulers meddle in religious matters.  And despite everything, John the Baptist remained faithful and strong in the face of persecution by political power.  

            In a week and a half, we will mark the Fourth of July, the great celebration of American freedom.  Americans of the Revolutionary generation had grown up in an atmosphere of abusive use of power by their British colonial overlords.  The great revolutionary John Adams wrote to the equally famous revolutionary, Thomas Jefferson, these chilling words:  “Power is always at war with liberty.”  And so it is.  And recognizing this, the revolutionary generation sought to ensure liberty and to restrain the abusive use of power. 

            In the constitutions they wrote, religious freedom was guaranteed in very plain and unmistakable language.  Here in Virginia, on June 29, 1776, just days before independence, with British power crumbled away and Virginia’s last royal governor, the odious Lord Dunmore, fled back to Britain, Virginia put in place the first constitution of the Commonwealth of Virginia, the first of six constitutions that would serve to govern this state.  Fairfax County’s own George Mason wrote the Bill of Rights that has been a part of every constitution this Commonwealth has had since then.  And Mason included a powerful article on religious freedom.  It says, in part, “all men are equally entitled to the free exercise of religion according to the dictates of conscience.”  Mason goes on, “No man shall be enforced, restrained, molested, or burdened in his body or goods, nor shall otherwise suffer on account of his religious opinions or belief.”  Fifteen years later, in the Bill of Rights of the U.S. Constitution, the first words of the First Amendment said a bit more tersely, “Congress shall make no law regarding an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof.”  No official church—no forced taxes collected from everyone to support an official church whether you believe in its teachings or not; and freedom of religion.  Freedom of religion is guaranteed—and yet that ideal is sometimes not observed.

            America’s colonial tradition was one for the most part of powerful and persistent anti-Catholicism, a sad tradition that wove itself into the fabric of America.  The Puritans of New England, even when times were hard and food was scarce or expensive, always made a point of eating meat on Fridays—just to prove to themselves their own anti-Catholicism.  Neighboring Maryland, founded as refuge for repressed English Catholics, was in the late 1600s stripped away from its Catholic owners, the Calvert Family, and not returned to them until they converted to Anglicanism.  Catholicism there was banned and went underground.  On the eve of independence, only two of the thirteen colonies allowed Catholics to worship freely—little Rhode Island and Pennsylvania.  And even in those, Catholics had various restrictions placed on their ability to vote or hold elective office. 

          

            Despite the guarantees, these problems persisted throughout our history as an independent nation.  And a pattern has emerged:  overt anti-Catholicism is then accompanied or followed by laws which reflect that anti-Catholic sentiment.  There have been three periods in American history where this has occurred.  Up through 1840, Catholics were few and far between.  In 1840, Catholics were the 7^th largest Christian group in the United States.  But then, between 1840 and 1860, some 2 million Irish and 1.5 million Germans fled Europe and came to these shores.  Among them were millions of Catholics, so much so that by 1850, Catholics had become the largest Christian group in America, a position we have held ever since.  These millions of Catholics were faced with unspeakable bigotry.  Despite guarantees of freedom of religion, government intruded itself into religious matters.  Public schools taught religion, not the occasional prayer in public schools I remember from my young childhood, but classes in religion—specifically, Protestant theology.  The Church responded by establishing hundreds of Catholic schools to make sure our little ones learned the faith of Holy Mother Church.  Anti-Catholic riots also broke out in Boston and Philadelphia, in which churches and convents were destroyed or damaged, and priests and religious were roughed up or attacked, and most horribly, the Blessed Sacrament desecrated.

            Following World War I, there was a second time of anti-Catholicism.  The revived Ku Klux Klan made vicious anti-Catholicism one of its sad and sorry hallmarks.  And once again, anti-Catholic laws followed anti-Catholic sentiment, and there was more government interference.  For example, the state of Georgia actually passed a law which enabled the sheriff of any county in Georgia to enter any convent in his jurisdiction, uninvited and without a search warrant, to try to ascertain if any women were being held there against their will.  When Al Smith, a Catholic from New York, ran for president in 1928, more anti-Catholicism appeared.  Smith was portrayed as an agent of the pope, and one North Carolina minister observed, “I fear Catholicism more than I fear communism.”  When Smith was defeated, a sick anti-Catholic joke made the rounds, a joke which had Smith sending a one-word telegram to the Pope, a telegram that supposedly read, “Unpack.”

            Some of us in this room are old enough to remember the election of 1960, when John F. Kennedy ran for president.  Anti-Catholicism erupted then, as well, most notably in that year’s West Virginia primary.  But since then, especially in the wake of the Civil Rights movement, I’ll bet most of us thought that anti-Catholicism had been largely put to rest.  I know I sure did.  But like those earlier generations of heroic Catholics, we, today, are faced with what several recent authors have dubbed “The New Anti-Catholicism,” calling it “the last acceptable prejudice” in America.  The anti-Catholic sentiments that appear in some journals, have, for example, attacked Blessed John Paul II in horrifying terms, and show quite graphically this new anti-Catholicism.  But unlike the first two periods of anti-Catholicism, which developed primarily out of ignorant hatred of two waves of largely Catholic immigration, modern anti-Catholicism comes from opponents of the Church’s stand on its eternal principles, on its stand against modern secular humanism and the culture of death.  You know the secular humanists’ program:  same-sex marriage, abortion on demand, and euthanasia—the whole sad, sorry list.  And because the Church holds firmly to the inerrant truth in the face of these horrors, the result has been a new outbreak of anti-Catholicism and renewed efforts by government to exercise its influence where it does not belong—in matters of religion.   I think there can be little doubt that our generation of American Catholics is one of those that will be privileged to confront overt anti-Catholicism and government meddling with our beliefs, just as our heroic forbears did in the 1840s, and in the 1920s, those courageous men and women who remained faithful in the face of persecution by political power.

            The life of the saint whom we honor today, St. John the Baptist, is a powerful example of what happens when civil authority meddles with religious affairs and obtrudes itself into religion.   And so, we all pray, that during this Fortnight for Freedom, the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops will succeed in all its efforts to have the Health and Human Services ruling reversed, so that American Catholics are free to practice their faith as Holy Mother Church teaches, not as government dictates.  We, too, must remember the words of Our Lord, recorded in the fifth chapter of the Gospel of St. Mark, to “love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”  And so we must, but we also must never compromise with evil, and must ever keep our eyes on the right.

             As we approach the Fourth of July, we should pray that the words from the 25^th chapter of the book of Leviticus, those inscribed on the liberty bell, which rang out to mark American independence so long ago, may once again ring true for every American:  “Proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof.” (Lev 25:10).   

~ Deacon Paul Ochenkowski

 

Always Ourselves We Find in the Sea

for whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
it's always ourselves we find in the sea.
e.e. cummings

I am a beach baby, having lived a stone's throw from Fire Island National Seashore on Long Island from the moment I was born until my family packed up and moved south in October 1971. I was 11 years old. No one warned me of how terribly I would miss the beach once we settled in the Piedmont region of North Carolina. Our new home offered a beauty all its own - rolling hills gently reaching higher into the majesty of the Blue Ridge Mountains to the West, with the great Smoky Mountains rising just beyond. And a landscape dotted by herds of cattle and miles of farms; even a field of cotton at the end of our road.

I had taken for granted that my mother could just pile her babies into the family station wagon for a short 15 minute trek to the seashore (Google Maps says 8 miles - 13 minutes from our old home). As we welcomed our first Carolina summer,  I soon discovered that it would take at least 4 hours by car to reach the ocean. Needless to say, our summer mornings digging in the sand, chasing the waves before returning home for a quick lunch and a welcomed nap had sorely ended. Instead my parents would drive to the South Carolina coast, rent a hotel room or cottage and there we stayed for a few days or a week. It didn't happen very often, but it did satisfy that deep longing to allow the sand to tickle my toes and feel the heat of the salty sun on my back.

When you are born and raised near the sea you can never quite rid yourself of that ache to return again and again after life leads you away from it. Every summer I long for it - the briny air, the tumbling, crashing surf and the gull's cry. That's why almost every summer for the past seven years, Jim and I have loaded up our big Ford van (aka Big Bus) with all things necessary for a week (and then some) of beach living and head down to the most beautiful coastline in the world (in my humble opinion) - Hatteras Island National Seashore in the Outer Banks of North Carolina.

Over the years we have rented cottages in the Hatteras communities of Avon, Rodanthe, Salvo and Waves. Glimpsing the great Atlantic for the first time as we rumble along Highway 12 each June always sends a thrill through my veins like nothing else can and no matter how stifling hot it may be outside, we flip off the air conditioning and open the van windows. I allow the breeze to carelessly tousle my short, silver locks. From here on out, it's a "beach-do" for me. I am restless and eager to sink my toes into the slick, cool sand as the waves wash over my feet then recede into a dizzying, whirling rush of sea foam.

Hatteras Island beaches are pristine and wild despite the oodles of visitors that are drawn to its shores each summer. Hurricane Irene certainly left her mark. Rodanthe doesn't look quite the same. We spied some of the damage to a few of the cottages as we passed by on our way to Waves two weeks ago. In fact, Irene carved out a new inlet severing N.C.12 near the Pea Island National Wildlife Refuge, requiring a new, patch-work bridge to be built over it. It made me think about the temporariness of things, of life in this world and the incredible force of nature.

There were two days during our recent stay when we avoided the beach altogether after a few feeble attempts to stick it out. While walking Holly on the beach with Jim one morning, the wind pelted us with stinging sand, as the waves furiously pounded the shore, one atop the other in a marvelous show of audacious bravado. We turned back toward the house after only a few minutes. (Holly was drenched in sand - from her pointy, little Dachshund nose to the tip of her little tail - giving her the appearance of a snow dog. Poor thing!)

The sea was unruly that day and electrifying. I remember my dad liked to visit the beach right after a storm passed when the ocean was crazy wild rendering swimming too dangerous. I suppose I am very much like him. What is it about seeing nature unleash such sheer power? Are we fascinated by our inability to tame the beast? Do we delight in our puniness? I guess for different people it's different things. For me it's all of these things and probably more. Gazing out over rough seas exhilarates me, when all I can utter is, "Wow!"

I lose myself as I relinquish all to the tempest only to discover a truer version of myself standing there in front of my God. All masks blown clear away, no pretenses - just a foolish, little girl and her God in all His glory.

Rodanthe on Dwellable

No Worse for the Wear

Jim and I are in our early-to-late fifties. (I'm early, he's late.) We are in that wonderfully peculiar place of parenting adult children. I've often expressed the anguish of bidding them farewell as they grow up and move out.  But our kids continue to come and go, rendering our nest anything but empty.

Yet life is different. Very different. Two of our adult children are continuing their education locally and although they would love to be out on their own, economically, it behooves them to live at home. (One is subletting an apartment for the summer, but will return home in August, until the next phase of her life works itself out.) Our youngest returns home from college for summer breaks and at other times throughout the year. They are expected to help out with a few chores, and respect the rules of the house, but basically they come and go as they please. They generally don't need permission to stay out late with friends, but they do need it to borrow the car. They don't need to be home for dinner. They don't need a whole lot other than a roof overhead and food in the refrigerator. Unless I'm feeling especially kind, I no longer do their laundry, but I do grant them use of the washer and dryer and the laundry detergent. I've mothered them from diaper-hood to adulthood and everything in between. At times they have made me want to pull every hair out of my silly little head, but they have always been and continue to be my joy. 

They've grown into very likeable adults. I love our conversations over freshly brewed coffee or sipping a full bodied cab sav in the evening. I enjoy our shopping sprees and cooking ventures. They - especially my daughters - have become my dear friends.

I realize they won't be hanging around forever. After all the bitter-sweet milestones marking each of their journeys - kindergarten through college graduations, learning to drive, trips over-seas, a variety of employment opportunities, and marriage and motherhood for one - I am slowly realizing that a part of me is actually looking forward to their full independence, to their living on their own, working and raising families - or heading off to wherever God may be calling them. So, I guess you can say that nearing the empty nest is not quite as bad as I had previously expected. (And gosh, who knew how much fun grand-parenting could be? Being a Nana is positively the bees knees!) However, none of the kids is allowed to move more than a few hours away. My heart and soul would miss them too much! Seriously though, it could certainly happen. I now know that there comes a time in a mother's life when it is right - good - for her children to venture out on their own. It is good for them and for her, too.

I recall the early days of marriage, when I telephoned my mother to whine and wonder how my dear husband could be so plain unthoughtful, insensitive - so, well, selfish. No, I do not remember exact circumstances, but they probably related to things like tracking mud through the house or leaving his stuff lying all over the place, or forgetting it was our anniversary. (Okay, this one I do remember - at least he didn't knowingly and maliciously plan to go on that camping trip. He honestly forgot that it was our special day!) There were times, after some silly argument, when I childishly implemented the dreaded silent-treatment, stubbornly refusing to give in for days. I even remember several years ago blubbering to my former spiritual director about how annoyed I could get with my husband. He listened attentively to my long rant. When it was over, I expected something like a gentle pat on my head accompanied by a terribly sympathetic, "Oh, you poor dear."  I was shocked to hear instead, "Wow, you must really be hard to live with!" Bam, hello! My director's words were definitely a much needed wake-up call, no matter how much I hated hearing them.   I am also well aware that I am far more capable of driving my husband up the proverbial wall than he is me. But interestingly,  something has changed now that we've been together for over 27 years. Those little things really don't matter so much. They still occur, those frightfully petty little annoyances. But so what? Life has provided us a more mature perspective. We are wiser and know it is foolish to waste time dwelling on those pesky, little things. We've stopped making mountains out of mole hills.

We're stronger now than ever before. Together we are able to enter this new season of life. Together we realize that we can let them go, our kids, and our lives will continue to be fruitful and meaningful.

Because lying there, hidden behind all the boo-hooing that comes with severing the apron strings; underneath the aching blow of letting our children go, we've discovered a surprisingly delightful, wonderful phenomenon. It is a sweet, soothing balm. A new and better and deeper affection for one another. I am certain the seeds were planted on the day we wed and have been nurtured strong over the years by the grace of the sacrament.

It is a bit like we are falling in love all over again, only far better because we are so well connected - our souls really are one. We are older, but seem young again. We find more time to be alone together. Moments of intimacy have become more spontaneous.We are more relaxed, more mellow. We have become more merciful, more forgiving of one another. "I'm sorry" slips off the tongue more readily, more easily. We've emerged through perhaps the toughest part of marriage pretty much unscathed. No worse for the wear, as they say. 

Perhaps this renewed love is our reward for all the sleepless nights with little elbows poking our ribs and pudgy feet in our faces. For surviving teething and croup, countless childhood colds and flu, ear aches, potty training and how many trips to the ER? For (happily) surviving periods of biting cold, soaking rains, and unbearable heat over countless years on soccer fields and carting kids all over kingdom come. For refereeing too many sibling squabbles, enduring all that teenage drama, putting up with missed curfews and teaching them how to, gulp, drive. It hasn't always been smooth sailing. Like all the families I know, our lives have been peppered with moments of frustration and sorrow, but God has also graciously filled many of our days with joy and celebration, too. All embraceable moments.

I am truly grateful for being no worse for the wear and for continuing to share this adventure with my beloved friend, my dear husband. I am eagerly anticipating all that the future holds for us - stiff joints and all. May God grant us many more years - many more opportunities - to grow in faith, love and trust and may He be praised!

Please remember to pray for those couples who, after raising children, are seriously struggling to stay together and those whose marriages tragically succumb to the hardships and challenges they have faced over the years. God love them. God bless them.

You Say I am Intolerant

For several reasons a same-sex union contradicts the nature of marriage: It is not based on the natural complementarity of male and female; it cannot cooperate with God to create new life; and the natural purpose of sexual union cannot be achieved by a same-sex union. Persons in same-sex unions cannot enter into a true conjugal union. Therefore, it is wrong to equate their relationship to a marriage. - USCCB, Between Man and Woman: Questions and Answers About Marriage and Same-Sex Unions

Lately I have felt persecuted, not by the usual culprits from afar - you know, the ones you hear on the nightly news or read about online who make snarky comments about your faith or criticize your beliefs - or make fun of the pope. No, lately I've actually felt targeted by a few of my friends and relatives whom I love and admire, and by acquaintances with whom I hold the utmost respect. It makes me very sad and sorry for the rift in our friendships that, at least for now, seems inevitable. Although I sincerely hope not.

It is all because, to me, the redefinition of marriage to include same-sex unions is as absurd as claiming the earth is flat. I really do believe that marriage should be reinforced, not redefined. And they, my dear, beloved persecutors, do not agree. They have as much as said so, on Facebook posts, Twitter tweets and the like.

I know I'm not perfect, but I have prayed often for the grace to love. And I have tried from early on to do just that. From time to time, throughout my life - mostly while young and single, I had friends who were gay. Not just acquaintances, or classmates, or co-workers, but friends. I hold fond memories of one college friend in particular. Ben (not his real name), was a little bit shy but terribly witty, positively attractive and a very, very talented artist. He was one of those sweet, suffering souls who loved deeply, sometimes too deeply it seemed. If he was hurting, I would lend an ear. We dined together in the dining hall, chatted about life, and art and I even trimmed his hair once or twice. I couldn't have loved him more if he had been my own brother. Just because he was gay, I wouldn't have treated him any differently.

But that was then.

And now? What about now with thirty years separating us and a lifetime of experience, of marriage and raising children and of growing closer to God? Has the broadening of my understanding of the Church's teaching on marriage and family made me less loving toward those who do not embrace these same teachings? Has acceptance of these tenets, which my very core knows as truth, rendered me closed-minded, hateful, judgmental, politically incorrect and un-hip? Would I now turn away from my gay college friend, avoid him altogether or sling insults at him? No. I know I would love him still, despite feeling ever so strongly that marriage is a sacred bond between a man and a woman instituted by God, and that no one - not even our government - has the authority to redefine it. And it saddens me that the truths I have come to embrace are in danger of slipping away - not solely due to gay marriage laws, but by the proliferation of divorce, sexual promiscuity, pornography, contraception and abortion. I know all too well that for too long the institution of marriage has been eroding and over the years too few public warriors have been defending it with little or no reinforcements. Their voices often have fallen on deaf ears. Yet, there are many behind the scenes, sweating it out in the trenches, who have heeded the call. By entrusting themselves and their families to the teachings of Christ and His Church and living them, they are fighting the good fight - maybe not perfectly, but with conviction and with love. They are the true warriors along with countless holy parish priests and religious.

The world is cruel to those who it deems different; to those it does not understand. Hatred exists in many degrees; in many fashions. We have seen it, heard it, witnessed it too often - most of us very likely have been subjected to it at one time or another. We have been ridiculed because we are too fat, or too thin. We are poked fun of because we have special needs, we talk funny or we appear odd. Perhaps we do not speak English fluently or at all. Maybe we're too poor, or too smart or too dumb. We may be too old or not old enough or not yet born. We're too conservative or too liberal. Maybe we're gay or maybe we're not. Maybe we're just too religious or not religious enough. But we all bleed when we're cut; we all feel pain - physically and emotionally. We have all suffered at the hands of others and it is wrong. It is cruel; it is sinful. Most of us, I'm sure, have even been the instigators of cruel jokes and name-calling at times, yet, all of us are imbued with the potential to make a difference in someone's life; to love - to be Christ's hands and feet. To lift others up when they are down. To share joy and sorrow. No matter how similar or how different a person is, we are called - commanded by God - to love. Everyone.

And one of them, a doctor of the Law, putting him to the test, asked him, "Master, which is the great commandment in the Law?" Jesus said to him, "'Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with thy whole heart, and with thy whole soul, and with thy whole mind.' This is the greatest and the first commandment. And the second is like it, 'Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.' On these two commandments depend the whole Law and the Prophets." (Matthew 22:35-40)

He never ceases to love any one of us, his children, but that doesn't mean our sinful lifestyles are acceptable to Him. He constantly calls us to repentance. We know from reading the gospels that Jesus hung out with sinners all the time, because they (we) are whom he came to save. He ate with them, conversed with them, taught them, and in His infinite mercy forgave them and told them to go and sin no more. 

Some folks get all uptight about Christians being too judgmental. They don't want to be associated with their overly judgmental brothers and sisters(granted some do fit the bill). "Who are you to judge? You're not God!" Of course, they are right,  we are not God - it is not our place to judge a person's soul ... but what of his actions? Jesus gave us the tools to recognize sin in our lives and in the lives of others, too. We were given guideposts (e.g., the 10 Commandments, the Precepts of the Church, the Beatitudes, Holy Scripture, the Sacraments, teachings of the saints, papal encyclicals, prayer, etc.) to help us recognize when we're on the right path and thankfully, when we're about to veer off. Because He loves us and desires our union with Him in Heaven, He has supplied the tools we need to get back on track. Charity compels us to desire Heaven not only for ourselves, but for others, too, and our Christian duty is to help them get there. Tolerating and approving any sin simply because it makes someone happy is not love.

Ah, but you see, that can't be right. The Catholic Church has it all wrong! We, Catholics, have been duped by over 2000 years of the workings of the Holy Spirit! By accepting and fully believing all that Mother Church teaches - (and I do or else praying the Nicene Creed every week at Mass makes me a liar) - I have closed my mind or lost it. I am naive, intolerant, and, sadly, not progressive. Worst of all, they claim that the Church has made me an irrational, homophobic hate-monger. 

Really? Hmm ...

It is not unjust to deny legal status to same-sex unions because marriage and same-sex unions are essentially different realities. In fact, justice requires society to do so. To uphold God's intent for marriage, in which sexual relations have their proper and exclusive place, is not to offend the dignity of homosexual persons. Christians must give witness to the whole moral truth and oppose as immoral both homosexual acts and unjust discrimination against homosexual persons. The Catechism of the Catholic Church urges that homosexual persons "be accepted with respect, compassion, and sensitivity" (no. 2358). It also encourages chaste friendships. "Chastity is expressed notably in friendship with one's neighbor. Whether it develops between persons of the same or opposite sex, friendship represents a great good for all" (no. 2347). USCCB, Between Man and Woman: Questions and Answers About Marriage and Same-Sex Unions

St. Thomas More, pray for us!

Isaac Welcomes Summer

There shall be eternal summer in the grateful heart.

~ Celia Thaxter

In summer, the song sings itself.

~ William Carlos Williams

Summer afternoon - summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language.

~ Henry James

Love is to the heart what the summer is to the farmer's year - it brings to harvest all the loveliest flowers of the soul.

~ Unknown

Then followed that beautiful season ... Summer ...

Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape

Lay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood.

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The summer night is like a perfection of thought.

~ Wallace Stevens

In winter I get up at night

And dress by yellow candle-light.

In summer quite the other way

I have to go to bed by day.

~ Robert Louis Stevenson

My Mom and the Lost Art of Letter-Writing

My family treated me to a lovely brunch at Mon Ami Gabi yesterday afternoon. Not only a Mother's Day treat for me, but for Katie, too, who is an incredible, loving mama to her two little ones. I was spoiled with lovely cards - a few sentimental, one tear inducing and one with spot-on humor, and sweet gifts, too. My husband even bought me this. Funny how he seems to be getting more romantic after 27+ years together. But he also bought me this, and then later admitted it was only because I really wanted one to vacuum the dog hair off the sofa. He said it doesn't really count as a Mother's Day gift. He's right, I would have bought it - or one like it - anyway.



My parents on their wedding day,
Oct. 12, 1946



I thought a lot about my own mother yesterday. I love her so much and marvel at what an incredible woman she is and always has been. People can hardly believe she is 88 years old. She lives on her own (I do worry about that sometimes), drives herself around town to shop, to go to doctor's appointments, or to the hair salon, and to church every week. She is stylish, artistic, creative, an awesome cook and has a flair for decorating. She is loquacious and fun. These traits she has passed on, like precious gifts, to her children - my brothers and sisters and me. Between the seven of us, we all share some aspect of our mother's talents, her out-going personality (not me) and most importantly her deep faith in God. She calls me Honey Bunny and reminds me that I live too far away.

I know that, sweet Mama. I know. But you remain in my heart always.



Mom with my brothers, Paul & Jim



I am grateful for the convenience and immediacy that cell phones provide, allowing us to chat often and sometimes for hour long spells in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week. But part of me misses composing lengthy letters to her filled with anecdotal sketches of my days with kids in tow. I miss, too, finding letters from her in my mailbox, those deliciously perfumed infused musings about the latest family news and those darling xoxo's at the end of each note. We do send greeting cards including brief, peronal notes, or copies of recipes, or newspaper clippings to one another, but much too seldom. We have allowed e-mail to rob us of ... well, perhaps of the permanence and purposefulness that letter-writing affords. E-mail tends to be comprised of brief, little snippets here and there (albeit friendly and loving, too). Letter-writing takes time and effort. Our letters, our thoughts and feelings, can be tied up with string and kept in shoe boxes and visited for years to come - even long after we have left this earthly life.



Mom and her kids, June 2010



There's something to be said, too, about a person's penmanship. My mother's is beautiful, careful and belongs to her alone. It is as unique to her as the color and shape of her eyes or the way she laughs. I sometimes run my finger over her carefully inked words sensing her presence in some peculiar way, although we are separated by over 400 miles. You see, it's not just what she writes that stirs me, but how her words look; how they flow across the page in smooth, precise, old-Catholic-school-girl strokes. E-mail, texting and chatting via social media does not and cannot satisfy my need to sense my mother's (or anyone's) presence. Electronic messages can be deleted at the push of a button, a click of the mouse, or the touch of a finger, disappearing forever into the black hole of cyberspace. (If it's true that messages can be retrieved long after hitting the delete forever button, I'm certainly not tech savvy enough to know how to do it.)

As I've been typing this post, I keep thinking about the movie, "You've Got Mail" and how Meg Ryan's character, Kathleen Kelly, describes how electrifying it is to see and hear those titular words pop up on her computer screen announcing that messages have been delivered to her inbox (and now with smartphones and tablets, you don't even need a laptop or desktop  - my how we've evolved in 15 years!). Yet, how exciting is it to walk down the driveway to the mailbox, open it up and see that there is a real, honest-to-goodness letter waiting there? You've got mail! Real mail, to see and to touch and to smell. And to read again and again until you tuck it away in a shoebox for safe-keeping, so that someday your grandchildren will be given a marvelous treasure, a piece of their great-grandmother's heart to see and to feel and to ponder.

My mom and I will continue to communicate via all our sundry electronic devises. I'm not ready to throw them out the window just yet! Admittedly, I would miss our phone conversations and the ability to share photographs instantaneously or to type a quick, "Hello, I miss you." But one of these days I will dig out that lovely stationery from the box I've been storing in my closet, find a pen that feels just right and sit down to write my mother a long, detailed missive about my day or week. And maybe she'll read the words in my not-so-perfect penmanship and sense that a part of me is there with her, sitting comfy-cozy on the sofa next to her. And maybe I'll include a favorite new recipe, or a picture from a magazine of new chair I'd like to buy for my living room , or perhaps even a real photograph of her great-grandchildren.

Great Gramma Bea and baby Isaac, June 2010

The Rabbit Chaser

I knew Rocky long before I met him or knew his name. His owner walks him along the path behind our house about the same time every morning. I pegged Rocky as some sort of hound due to his deep, prolonged baying, almost like a howl. I hear him most every morning as I am pouring my first cup of coffee or sometimes waking my own little, drowsy-headed hound, Holly, whose own bark sounds nothing like her bigger hound cousins. Because she is a dachshund, her bark -- yap-yap-yap -- is characteristic of small breeds and can certainly grate on one's nerves if not controlled.

I was told a few weeks ago that Rocky is a Treeing Walker Coonhound. He looks much like this:



Photo courtesy:  http://www.akc.org/breeds/treeing_walker_coonhound/

 It was evening; my son, Kevin, had just arrived home from his community college classes and was preparing his dinner. I had eaten earlier with my husband who was now helping our daughter and son-in-law with a project in their apartment. I heard Rocky's distinctive barking and didn't pay too much attention to it at first. But it continued, non-stop. I was a little annoyed, wondering why his owner would allow him to stand there and simply bark away like that. In the meantime, Holly, who was going a little nuts, proceeded to yap excitedly. From our deck, the branches of trees partially obstructed my view of where Rocky was standing, but I could tell that the owner was sitting on the ground and that Rocky's much quieter, and much more formidable, 'dog-brother' was accompanying them, as is customary. I learned later that the other dog's name is Ollie and that despite his very calm, quiet demeanor, he isn't very nice to strangers. He looks a bit like a Mastiff - but I'm really not sure of his breed - perhaps he's a mixed breed. Whatever he is - he is big and bulky. From my kitchen window I could plainly see that Rocky was baying at a rabbit in our neighbor's yard. The rabbit sat hunched down, frozen - perhaps pretending to be garden statuary in an attempt to fool the foolhardy hound. Suddenly, the rabbit dashed off lickety-split into the woods with Rocky at her heels. From the open window, I heard wimpers of pain from the owner; the female owner - the wife of the man who normally walks the dogs. I called to Kevin as I rushed by him, "C'mon, we need to help that lady. Her dog is loose and she's hurt!" I hurried over to where the woman was struggling to get up and  asked if she needed help. She was visibly shaken and her hand was bleeding. "He pulled us through the fence when he saw the rabbit and I just couldn't control him!" she cried, almost apologetically. She was attempting to call her husband on her cell phone, but was so rattled that she could hardly remember his number. I spoke to her gently hoping to calm her nerves. As I moved closer to her, she backed away. Puzzled, I wondered if she was frightened of me. Finally, she explained that Ollie - who appreared so well-behaved - was really not very nice. She was just protecting me. She worried, too, that Rocky would not come back, "Once he's gone, he's gone! I'll never get him back now." I told her about Jake, the beloved Foxhound mix we had when our kids were young. He was the same way. It was nearly impossible to call him home once he escaped. I asked her if Rocky would come to me if I offered him a treat. "Oh, yes!" she said, "that might work!" By this time, Kevin had joined us with a small Holly treat in hand. The "dog lady" handed him a large leathery treat she had fished from a small pouch strapped around her waist. Kevin had no trouble apprehending a very friendly and affectionate Rocky, who seemed to care less about the treat offered him. Rocky greeted me, too, tail wagging and head nudging my hand begging for a good scratch behind his ears. By this time the woman had managed to reach her husband by phone, tearfully explaining the ordeal. He, I assumed, was on his way to meet her, so Kevin handed Rocky back over to her. She assured us that she could manage both dogs despite the pain ... and the embarrassment. She thanked us profusely and turned to make her way back home with Rocky, nose to ground sniffing away in grand hound style, and Ollie, who honestly didn't seem to give a damn.

As my daughter, Erin, and I were heading out to do some shopping a few nights ago, the "dog-lady" walked up from behind our house. She handed me a not-too-small, white gift box filled with chocolate chip cookies that she had baked for Kevin and me. She was beaming. She smiled wide and her eyes sparkled. The cookies - that we soon discovered were quite delicious - were her offering of thanks. How sweet and kind of her!

Attached to the box, a note read:

To the Kind Lady and Her Son,

     Thank you so much for rescuing me the other day when my crazy hound decided to chase a rabbit. I don't know what I would have done without your help.

      I keep telling people it must have been quite a sight to see as the three of us went through the fence. People often ask me, "who is walking who" - no question that afternoon Rocky (the Rabbit Chaser) was in total control.

      Anyway you were wonderful to help me. I hope you like chocolate chip cookies. They are my way of saying Thanks!!

                                                You have made a friend for life!

                                                  Debbie and Doug
                                                  (Ollie & Rocky)

This morning, I could hear Rocky along the path behind my house and as I peered out the kitchen window, there hunkered down in the grass of my neighbor's yard, were two rabbits as still as stone. Doug and Ollie gazed at the rabbits as Rocky called out to them - aarooh, aarooh, aarooh. I headed out to the deck and picked up Holly to keep her from yapping at them as they meandered by. A short while later, Holly and I could hear Rocky baying off in the distance at some other family of rabbits or maybe at our neighborhood fox or resident deer. I imagined, Ollie, standing there, fierce and distiguished and bored, patiently waiting to mosey along.




Holly watching for Rocky & Ollie and maybe a rabbit or two.



My sweet Lovies



6 days old





2 years old in 2 days!