Far Beyond Pearls

Allow me to boast about my neighbors for a moment.  They are, hands down, the best neighbors in the whole wide world.  We asked to borrow their animal trailer last summer so that we could bring home Maybelle.  They said it was fine and off we drove, but as soon as we got home, they started loading their own cattle into it.  They loaned us their trailer even though they really needed it themselves that day. Not long after, our local feed supplier told us they had the best hay around and, well, they are really conveniently located, so we asked if they had extra hay that we could buy for Maybelle.  They just gave it to us. This week, again, we asked to borrow one of their trailers.  David found a great deal on used pull-behind tractor implements.  They said yes, but it was way down their muddy driveway.  They got out their tractor and pulled the trailer up so David wouldn’t have to slog through the mud to get it. See?  What did I tell you?  World’s Greatest Neighbors, don’t you think?  We’re pretty lucky to have landed next door to them.

And then there’s Bart. Bart served with David down at Fort Stewart and he was David’s boss for a little while here, too. Bart grew up on a dairy farm, though, and he loves the farm life. He’s the one who hauled Maybelle home and he’s the one who showed me how to milk her and he’s the one who made not-one-but-TWO trips today, with that borrowed trailer in tow, to pick up those tractor toys. He’s always been ready with advice when we ask and help when we need it, and we’re really lucky to have him, too.

Yup, we’re pretty well blessed here. We love our people. I hope they know it.

If you know me, you know I love Lent.  I love this period of quietness, of reflection, of barrenness, even, before the great joy of Easter.  I look forward to Lent all through Advent, when that quiet time of spiritual preparation is overshadowed and even lost in the more commercial preparations for Christmas.  With its days of fasting and days of abstinence, I have to think ahead, to keep our sacrifices always in mind.  And at the end of the quiet days of love and prayer, there is Holy Week.  I think if anybody wonders what it is to be Christian, those three Masses are the very essence of what we believe, of Him that we love.  They are so rich and so powerful, I can just breathe in God.  I have loved those Masses from even before I believed.

But on to those sacrifices.  For Lent this year, I am giving up chocolate, to which I am very attached and of which I just recieved two very nice boxes.  I tucked them away till Easter.  I am giving up being annoyed with my husband, which will be much harder than giving up chocolate.  He knows I’m giving this up and may go out of his way to be irritating, but I will smile sweetly anyway and say a little prayer for him.  Or, at least, I’ll try.  And I’m giving up forty bags in forty days.  I’ve already got six to take to Goodwill this afternoon after Mass and I haven’t even started trying.  I also get to patiently suffer my back pain, which has its own rewards, though I wouldn’t mind giving that one up at all.

I wasn’t terribly happy when I got up yesterday.  I hadn’t slept well the night before, and for much of it, just layed awake, unable to get comfortable around the pain.  So I sat there with my cup of coffee, feeling irritable and thinking I should probably just go say the morning prayers.  I didn’t much feel like it, hadn’t felt like it in some days, maybe even weeks, but my Magnificat was on the desk right beside me, and as I glanced at, buried under a crochet project, a dog collar, and an assortment of papers, I noticed it was already open to that day’s prayers.

I guess God really had something important to say to me.

Be calm, infinitely calm, both in soul and in body.  Do not attempt too much, but what you do, do well and gently.  Quality first, but good quality.  Follow grace in souls; take its step.  It is adagio; often adagissimo, but very sure.  Forget yourself completely – time, studies, health, reputation…  Give yourself utterly, without counting the cost, without reserve, without thought of yourself.  God alone!

We know tht to them that love God, all things work together unto good.  To those with good will; that is to say, those who, submitting and making over their reason and will to the Holy Spirit and allowing themsel ves to be guided by him, invariably arrive at that perfection willed for them by God.  That does not mean that we can sit with our arms folded and leave it all to him.  On the contrary, we must make use of all that divine Providence sends us: reverses, falls even; bearing always in mind the good that the Holy Sprit wants to draw from these things.  given that disposition, the Holy Spirit will never be absent.  He also makes use of reverses to correct our faults and set us on our way again.  Use everything, then, with this end in view; in all weathers, keep you compass pointing to God; make him your aim.

~Dom Augustin Guillerand

Yes, He was definitely talking to me.

Now I’m going to tell you about my back pain so you all can pray for me.

Some months ago, I fell down the stairs.  It was bizarre, really.  I never lost my footing.  I was coming down from tucking in the children and I stopped to pick up a small toy left on one of the stairs.  I’d passed it on my way down,  so it wasn’t out of reach now, but as I bent, it was like somebody pulled a rug out from under me.  I had no sense of being unbalanced, no feeling on instability.  One moment I was on my feet and the next, I landed hard on the left side of my bottom and slid down the rest of the stairs.  Ouch.  I had a big purple bruise and an understandable soreness for several weeks afterwards, but I did recover.

About three weeks ago, a little more maybe, I noticed a dull, achy pain in the bones of my pelvis.  I also had a cold.  It was that Thursday morning, the seventh of January, that I coughed.  That dull ache in my pelvis suddenly yielded to sharp shooting pain that began in my back and radiated down my leg, sometimes as far as my ankle.  I’ve had a few visits with the physical therapist, and my pain no longer extends past my knee, but I’m seeking x-rays of the area, too, just to be sure.  The pain varies in intensity, from barely-there to all-I-can-think-about, and three weeks into it now, I’m just tired.

I see God’s hand in all this, I do, but this is having a detrimental impact on every area of my life.  Squeaky wheels get oiled, even with God, so I’m asking you to please pray for me.

I’m praying for you, too.  I always do.

I never told you this, never told anyone this. It pains me to know that I ever felt this way.

There I was, nearly two years ago, hard-hearted and hurt and angry. David had been deployed for a year already and he’d taken just about the last leave he possibly could. That’s what he always does, but this was a long deployment and he shouldn’t have been away so long. For a few days, we were joyous, but then, like it always does, something happened and we didn’t even speak to each other for over a week. So much anger, so much hurt, so much misunderstanding. He did not leave again on good terms. It was bad enough that when I discovered I was pregnant a few weeks later, I didn’t want to be. I knew what was in store for us in the coming months. I knew how hard his coming home was going to be, and I did not want or need another baby complicating things further.

I wished I wasn’t pregnant. And then I spent the entire rest of my pregnancy praying for that baby’s health, praying that God would not punish my selfishness by taking this baby away from me, praying for forgiveness.

I cried with relief when I first felt him stirring in my womb, and the tears mingled on my cheeks with the tears of pain and longing for a marriage still reeling from the effects of separation.

All the long months, I prayed for my unborn child and I prayed for forgiveness and I wondered how this child would be, who’d never heard his mother laugh, who’d listened all this long time to the beating of a broken heart. I wondered and I prayed and I cried.

When he was born, I did not fall in love with him the way I had with my other children. There is something quieter between us, love, certainly, but also an understanding that I don’t deserve him. I am always grateful that he loves me anyway, but I am also always conscious of the fact that I did not want him. How could he not know that, he who is so intimate with me that we have shared the same body? How do I make that up to him?

Not long ago, in the midst of the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, I turned my face toward the crucifix and I felt myself saying to God, “I wouldn’t mind another child.” I nearly laughed out loud with the joy of it, the pleasure of a simple yes. I will always mourn what was lost by my selfishness, by my no, but I think there is redemption in a yes. I hope He gives me another chance someday. I will understand if He does not, but I still hope for second – or eighth – chances.

Each time I see him, each time I hold him, I wonder at the value of this single human life, this baby boy entrusted to my care against my will. What is God’s plan for him? What lives will he touch? What souls will only he be able speak to? What is hidden in the mists of his future?

I know, with certainty, that whatever else he is, whatever else he may become, he is the one who saves me from myself.

He cries in the night, my baby boy, and I wake and stumble on sleep-heavy feet up the stairs to his crib.  He falls into my arms and I kiss the peach-fuzz head nestled suddenly into the curve of my neck.  We settle together into the rocking chair and he nurses eagerly, hungry not for the milk that flows but for the closeness of our bodies.  He dozes and I lay him gently back into his bed and tiptoe back down to mine, trying to step around the creaky spots in the steps. My head has barely touched the pillow, though, when he calls again, and I smile and rise and return to him, as I do every night.  This time, we come down together, and together we curl up under the big down quilt.  He is getting almost too big to tuck neatly into the hollow formed by my own body, but he makes himself as small and still as he is able and we fit ourselves together anyway.  He lifts his face toward mine for kisses, for carresses, and I oblige because I am powerless against the innocent and unselfish love he bears for me.  The fine hair of his head tickles my nose as I breathe deeply of his scent.  After a time, he sighs deeply and pops his thumb into his mouth.  In moments, he is sound asleep.  I know I will wake for the day long before he does and I can not leave him alone in our big, tall bed, so I carry his limp body upstairs once more.  As I lay him down, he grabs a fistful of blanket and rolls over in his sleep and I return to my bed once more.  It’s been an hour, perhaps more, since he first woke, and I will be tired in the morning, I know, but for now, I am content.  Before I drift off to sleep, I wonder if the infant Jesus, too, woke His Blessed Mother like this and I think he likely did.  I smile in the darkness to think that she wouldn’t have minded this small sacrifice of rest, either.

I’m just wanting to put this information out there as best I can.  My diocese is taking up a collection for this organization, which is described as “the social action arm of the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops”.  Unfortunately, the “social action” includes regular funding of pro-abortion programs.  It looks like next weekend’s special collection is a nation-wide event, and I urge you to consider withholding your contribution.

This seriously undermines our Catholic identity.  Please, please, please: Pass this on!  I have a friend who plans to put a little non-monetary something in the collection basket so that the powers that be know that her lack of support is intentional.  I think I’ll join her.

I know why Catholics don’t believe in the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist anymore.

I got the First Communion prep materials from our parish the other day and I can’t find a mention of it anywhere, just a watered down, “Christ is present in the people, the words, and the bread.” Oh, but the bread is Christ!

I am so sad — and mad — I could cry.

From The Bronze Bow by Elizabeth George Speare:

“I don’t understand,” [Daniel] pleaded.  “But I know that you could save us all if you would. Master!  Why will you not lead us?  There are so many–hundreds–thousands–in Galilee, who only wait for a word.  How long must we wait?”

Jesus did not seem to have heard. He did not move.  Slowly Daniel got to his feet.  As his hand touched the latch, Jesus spoke.  He had risen too, and stood looking after the boy.

“Daniel,” he said.  “I would have you follow me.”

“Master!”  A great burst of hope almost swept him to his knees.  “I will fight for you to the end!”

Jesus smiled at him gently.  “My loyal friend,” he said, “I would ask something much harder than that.  Would you love for me to the end?”

1. We attend a study group on Friday mornings at the church. Since we’ve gotten the cow, I just haven’t been able to get there on time, but last week, I was tasked with the leadership responsibilities. I had breakfast made and in the oven before going out to milk. We had all of our farm chores done by 7:45. By the time we got back in, 9 year old Delaney had all the little ones dressed and fed and ready to go. In the end, thanks to some great teamwork…we made it to the church on time!

2. I invited people over! We had tea yesterday with an older lady from church and the girls’ sweet friend will be sleeping over next Friday night. Sometimes, I get so caught up in my own to-do list, I forget to make time for other people.

3. I got the chicken coop tidied up, laying down a bag of pine shavings, for their deodorizing qualities, and half a bale of straw. There’s fresh straw in the nest boxes and the feeders are a little more elevated to, hopefully, reduce waste. The water is up, too, so that they don’t scratch all that fresh straw into the trough. Most importantly, I found a board to put across the threshold so that they can’t scratch all that new bedding OUT, which they are very wont to do. (Our chicken coop door is the slightly rotted front door of our house, which was replaced some months ago.)

More small successes here!

Jesus said: “Woe to you, hypocrites! You pay tithes of mint and dill and cummin, and have neglected the weightier things of the law: judgment and mercy and fidelity. But these you should have done, without neglecting the others. Blind guides, who strain out the gnat and swallow the camel! Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You cleanse the outside of cup and dish, but inside they are full of plunder and self-indulgence. Blind Pharisee, cleanse first the inside of the cup so that the outside also may be clean. Matt. 23:23-26

Ouch! I am thinking of the image we present to others – the outside of the cup – vs. the reality of our private lives – the inside of the cup. I wonder: How often does our public image mesh up with what we say and do behind closed doors? Not as often as we’d like, I suspect. Wouldn’t it be nice if our public face was our only face?