Worth Revisit Wednesday

Trying something new: I'm adding an oldey-but-goodey post to Worth Revisit Wednesday Link-up over at Allison Gingras' blog Reconciled to You.  The post I chose is actually from my other blog,  Catholic Working Mama, but it definitely fits the bill for La Joie Inattendue.  So sweet to re-read these memories from when my twins were barely two!  (And perhaps a good reminder to re-locate those saint baseball cards and introduce them to the younger brothers.  Ahem.)

Read more WRW posts at Reconciled to You and Theology is a Verb!

Giants Meet St. Michael
(originally posted on May 29, 2013)

I never fully appreciated the gift of sacred images and icons until I had kids.  The purpose of oral tradition and visual depictions of sacred history was certainly downplayed in the Evangelical tradition of my own childhood.  In many fundamentalist, "Bible-believing" churches, including the one I attended, a Christian's knowledge of God and faith life come directly from the Bible.  The Bible is the authority.  Unfortunately, this limits the profundity of the Christian faith ultimately to only the literate and so-called educated.  Certainly children of Evangelical parents become introduced to Christianity through the re-telling of Bible stories and pictures they see in Sunday School, but the centuries of thought, philosophy, and Church history are lost when one solely relies on simply reading the Bible; Christian tradition is then grossly incomplete.  That being said, I do not mean to say that the Bible is incomplete, for it is the most complete and sacred Book ever written.  Nevertheless, simple Bible-stories only tell of the faithful heroes who lived in the small window of history recorded and canonized.  What about the scores of saints who lived and died in the faith, and who continue to intercede for us?

I have aimed to tell my twin girls about Jesus and God as early as they could understand.  Whatever interest they show when we are in Mass, my husband and I try to explain.  Most of what they ask is about what they see: stain-glass windows, the images of fish and loaves embroidered on the altar cloth, the statues of Mary and Joseph, and even the Crucifix.  M can recite (as best as a 2-year-old can) the Lord's Prayer, and E can say the Hail Mary.  They understand that Jesus can help them with the challenges of being 2 (sharing, learning to use the potty, and listening to Mom are some of their big prayer requests).  They also know that Jesus heals our boo-boos.  Oral tradition at its best!

But all our explanations about Jesus and His love for us were too difficult for them to apply to their first encounter with a new emotion: fear.  As quickly as their little imaginations had started to develop and invent fun games of pretend princess tea parties, the nighttime imaginations also emerged.  This created an epic bedtime battle (Ironically, it was a Bible story that started it all....I would not recommend reading about David and Goliath before bedtime). I was at my wit's end trying ways to comfort my girls without dragging out a lengthy bedtime routine.  We tried monster spray, a nightlight, we checked under the beds and in the closets.  Unfortunately, despite my theatrics and pleas, a little girl always seemed to end up in our bed at night.  To my disappointment, no matter how much I explained to them that Jesus was watching over them, it didn't sink in.  It was too abstract.

Then an unexpected break.  Another mom from church passed on to us a packet of some pro-life literature.  She also included for the girls a small envelope with 4 saint "baseball cards": each card had an image of a saint on the front and a simple history written on the back.  The images resembled cartoons more than sacred historic icons, but it was exactly their juvenile quality that caught the girls' attention.  The four saints were St. Michael, St. Elizabeth Ann Seton, St. Gianna Molla, and of course, St. Mary.  They listened intently to their stories, but grew especially attached to St. Michael, perhaps because I explained to them that St. Michael chases away the "bad angels".  That night I stuck all four cards on their dresser, exchanged our good-night kisses....and enjoyed an entire night in my bed sans enfant.  The next morning M went directly to St. Michael's card and joyfully announced,  "Mama, St. Michael watching over me!"

Learning about prayer to the saints was one of the prickly points of my conversion.  I was skeptical that prayer to a saint would distract me from my personal relationship with God, or even become an idol in itself.  In my research and discussions with other Catholics, however, I began to understand that prayer to the saints is simply asking them to pray for us, just as I would ask that mother from church to pray that the girls would sleep through the night.  To any skeptical Protestant reading this, let me affirm that God is above all the saints.  Nevertheless, knowing that the saints watch over us and pray for us has increased my understanding of the love God has for His people: not that we would be blessed by only the small number of people who live in the small moment of time as we, but that we would have a team, a cloud of witnesses, so large that it would span generations and cultures.  Saints were ordinary people who struggled with the same sufferings as we do, who overcame, and who speak with Jesus now in Heaven.  How much love does God have for us, that He would give us a family not limited to the living?

The baseball card saints serve as a reminder to the girls that they are not alone at night.  To a two-year-old, Goliath is no match to the image of St. Michael holding his sword high and smiling a goofy, cartoonish grin.  To anyone cognitively limited and/or illiterate (and that pretty much means anyone younger than age 5), icons, artwork, and stories are the window of understanding of God's immense love.  Catholics and Protestants can agree that Christianity is not meant for only those who have the ability to read a Bible.  Stories and images give children and the mentally handicapped access to a holy life.  My girls are learning about how God protects them from all the monsters at night through the images that watch over them.  The images themselves do not protect the girls, but serve as a comforting reminder that they are never alone in the dark.  And that's pretty comforting for the literate Mommy's and Daddy's too.

7 Quick Takes: Milestones

1 
So I wrote a little something. Then the hubby stumbled upon it on Google+, shared it on Facebook, and BOOM. I check my stats and see over 400 views. I know that is small compared to the many blogs I follow, but it was really a big deal for me. I’m super excited, and maybe blushing just a little from the sudden cyber-attention. So thanks for the love. It is really humbling to know so many people read what otherwise would have remained just a rambling monologue in my own nutty brain.

2
A friend of mine suggested that this video would make a nice complement to my post:




Yep.  Pretty much.

3
And then this blog post showed up in my inbox. So much truth! What I loved most was reading that according to some people, four kids isn’t a big family at all….

4
….which made me wonder, why are larger families less and less of the norm? This post from Mama Needs Coffee provokes a lot of thought.  Has the game of debt truly created so much fear of the future?  Jenny makes a valid argument.  It's all about freedom.

5
In other news, the baby’s crawling. Which means there will be CD and DVD cases pouring out of our TV cabinet, books pulled from the shelves, blocks dumped on the floor….

But the little guy is so excited he can do new tricks.

(Proud big sis taught him how to pull himself up to stand.) 

6
Of course, the day when Baby decided to start making his way across the living room floor was also the third day of a brutal cold snap. That particular day the temp never got about 10 degrees. Stuck inside for the third day, wind howling and heat blasting, and wheee! All 4 kids are mobile! But fear not (that's my theme for 2015). Abbey has a great list of indoor activities for the super cold days over at Surviving our Blessings. The Lynch Littles are particularly fond of blanket forts.

A blanket over a crib makes a snuggly little hideout. Good thing the little guy is so willing to share his space. 

7 

Finally, I just wanted to give a big shout-out to the Blessed is She group of writers. The devotionals have been truly inspirational for the daily routine, and I've discovered so much good writing and so many uplifting blogs to follow. Especially during the bleak and bitterly cold days of January, it has been such an encouragement to virtually connect with so many talented and faithful women. You HAVE to check it out. Really.

Thanks to Kelly for hosting 7QT's!  Hop on over and read a few!

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Don't feel sorry for me...

I see you looking at me as I herd my handful of kids into the supermarket.  I know that reaction well.  It usually goes like this: the eyebrows raise, then the eyes look down, and then either a silent whistle or a chuckle to oneself.  The body-language reflects the other all-too-common and maddening comments:

“Better you than me.”

“You got your hands full.”

 “You’re a busy woman.”

All of them are wrought with sarcasm, and I never understand how a passer-by would find these things helpful to say.  Are they trying to evoke some sympathy?

Listen.  I don’t want your sympathy.  I don’t say this out of anger or defensiveness, waiting to pounce on the slightest good intention and label it as misguided.  I REALLY don’t want or even need your sympathy.  And you know why?

Because I am actually happy.

It was completely unexpected for me too.

It may surprise you, but I never envisioned having a large family.  I don’t consider myself someone who is particularly good with little kids.  I used to be completely ambivalent about motherhood.  Sure, I wanted to be a mom.  I guess.  Someday.  But here I am, four children in tow, and you may be feeling sorry for the plight of my overburdened, frazzled, lost sense-of-self life.

Even though I may look less than graceful as I guide my darling little strong-willed versions of myself through the aisles, I am ultimately happy with my lot in life.  The scene at the supermarket may be intensely chaotic, but I have some other more peaceful moments in my day.  Don’t feel sorry for me.  Really.  It turns out I am actually quite happy.

But do you know what I feel sorry for?

I feel sorry that motherhood is considered merely a side show of a woman’s talent and education. 

I feel sorry that our children have become the next measure in the keeping up with the Jones’.  No longer is merely a big home and fast car the signs of success.  Now our kids’ academic load and athletic promise are lumped into the high stake game of comparing ourselves to others.

I feel sorry that any woman with more than two children spaced 2.5 years apart must be either a religious freak, uneducated, or both.  I am sorry that for the sake of choice we have left women feeling so pressured to plan the perfect family, creating yet another measure of success to be compared.

I feel sorry that the high costs of a college education, owning a home, and day care have all bore an overwhelming fear in young couples looking to get married and have kids.   

I feel sorry that there is a mentality that pervades our society, namely the equation that children = burden. 

I feel sorry that I believed all these things for so long and completely overlooked the potential for joy in my life. 

Because for all the responsibilities, worries, and frustrations that come with having kids, I have also experienced a whole new dimension to life’s purpose, and that happiness and love ultimately override the fears.   

So please don’t feel sorry for me.  I should not be the focus of your sympathy.  And even if I may not exactly be smiling right at this moment, please know that I am truly happy.

New Link Up!

Hey, I just linked up with the NEW Catholic Bloggers Network!  Check it out!
http://www.catholicbloggersnetwork.com/2014/09/link-up-to-new-catholic-bloggers.html

7 Quick Takes: Back from Christmas "Break"

(because do parents ever really get a break?)

Welp, it’s back to Ordinary Time….which means back to school, which means back to work for the hubby, which means back to mom vs. four again.  Sigh.  Here’s to some necessary reminiscing of the Christmastide.

1

We traveled to New England for Christmas, spending a few days with my folks and then a few days with the in-law’s.  Our kids thoroughly enjoy seeing the grandparents, and there were beaucoup de presents to be had.  But man, it is a rough trip.  No offense to anyone reading this that may be from Connecticut, but there is ALWAYS TRAFFIC IN CONNECTICUT.  It normally takes eight hours to make the drive, but we have learned to add on two extra hours to our itinerary, because well, four littles, and no matter which route we take, we always seem to end up in a jam somewhere in Connecticut.  At least we can pass the time with the minivan’s DVD player.  Now before you pass judgment, I usually abide by clear screen time limits, but the screen time quota was definitely blown on this trip.  Hey, anything to get us through Connecticut.

2

To further complement the too-much-TV-dilemma, the weather was absolutely crummy.  Certainly not a magical white Christmas this year.  It was too warm for snow, but too drizzly and raw to play outside.  My husband came up with a perfect outing: Bowling.  We found a place that was actually the same alley when my husband was a kid….and judging from the outside, I don’t think they have ever done any renovations since.  But it was so, so fun to introduce our brood to the sport.  And the best part was when the man at the shoe check-in looked at us, four little ones milling around our legs, and gruffly asked (but smiling all the same), “Ahr all these youhrs?  Wha-did-you-do, have ‘em all at once?”  Nothing says old school Boston with a sassy comment and snicker, complete with the notorious accent.  It was awesome.

 

3

We returned home a couple days before New Year’s, which gave us some relaxing time to unpack and unwind from all the driving.  And miracles of miracles, everyone slept in on January 1^st (anything past 7AM counts as sleeping in chez nous).  Despite missing the morning Mass for the Solemnity of Mary, we calmly figured we would just go to an evening Mass.  However, as our minivan approached the church that night we were overcome by a sinking feeling: the parking lot was empty.  We actually drove to two other parishes and there was no evening Mass at either one.  It felt like déjà vu in Connecticut again….driving but not really getting to our destination.  In any case, even though it was not intentional, Happy New Year’s Whoops to us.  At least I got to meet two other lovely ladies at Confession a few days later. 

4

I’ve been reading so many thoughtful blogs regarding the New Year and fresh inspirations, and many writers have chosen a word for 2015.  I have not really been able to decide on one word for the year, but some phrases keep coming up in prayer: Peace amidst the chaos.  Fear not.  What words inspire you for 2015?

5

Looking at little Joseph sitting on the floor playing with a rattle, I can’t help but reflect upon Christmas time last year.  I was barely into the third trimester, but already uncomfortably big and quite self-conscious.  I was also so mentally scattered and anxious.  I endured the obvious-but-never-helpful comments about how large I was getting, the raised eyebrows and I-feel-sorry-for-her looks in the supermarket, and I grumbled incessantly about the pains of pregnancy all the way up until I went into labor.   And here he is this year, spending his first Christmas with his three crazy siblings.  

Of all my kids, he is the best imitator of faces.  I scrunch up my nose at him and he returns the goofy look.  Then he raises his eyebrows and turns his mouth into an “O”.  It is the Cutest. Face. Ever….as if to say, “Just laugh, everything is fine, Mom.”  Oh sure, he has caused me the expected sleep deprivation, he has added to an ever more chaotic experience at meal time, and his cries have rattled me on more than one occasion, but his smiley face and bubbling laugh also remind me that all is well, simply because he is here.  Peace amidst the chaos.  Fear not.  How I wish that was my mantra a year ago, but by God, by His grace, has helped me to sort through my anxieties.

6

Because we didn’t have Christmas in our house this year (we were at my parents’ house), we decided to make our own very special Epiphany celebration with presents.  It was a bit of a spontaneous plan, but it worked out beautifully.  We surprised the kids with a few presents under the tree because  1) we wanted to remind everyone of the story of the Magi bringing gifts to the Baby Jesus, and 2) it was so sweet to see our own kids experience the magic of Christmas in their own home, even if it wasn’t exactly December 25th.  That Christmas morning joy is an intimate moment for families, and I am really glad we decided to preserve it despite all our travels.

 

7

Elisabeth: Mom can you help me with my PJ’s?  The zipper is in traffic. 

Me: Oh, um, OK.  What does “traffic” mean?

 Elisabeth: “Traffic” means it is stuck and can only move slowly. 

And I half expected her to say her zipper was stuck in Connecticut.

Read more 7QT’s at This Ain't the Lyceum !

Midnight Clear

This is a re-print from my other (dormant) blog, Catholic Working Mama.  It's one of my favorite memories of the time leading up to my conversion.  Merry Christmas!

Until I was about 10, I had attended a Catholic parish with my family, attended CCD classes, even had experienced my first Communion and first Confession.  When my father started attending a different church, my family attended fewer Masses until we stopped going altogether.  It was a completely different type of service, as it had a very Evangelical (and I daresay a very anti-Catholic) tradition.  My 10-year-old brain at the time could not comprehend the difference in theology, and all I knew was that a charismatic service trumped a solemn one.  The teaching at my father’s church became my new religion.  

Fast forward to adulthood: about 3 years after we had married, my husband Greg converted to Catholicism, which to me was the worst denomination any true Bible-believer could be a part of.  I was stuck in a dark place, overcome with confusion, anger, and growing resentment towards my husband and his faith.  For at least a year we tried to awkwardly avoid confrontation, but I sought opportunities to fire all my misinformed theological gunfire in an attempt to catch Greg in a trap.  I mistakenly believed that if Greg had rejected aspects of my faith, which is a significant aspect of my identity, he was ultimately rejecting me.  Consequently I had little respect or patience for his newfound faith, and I found myself constantly on the defensive.

But with God all things are possible, even the softening of a Grinch-y heart like mine.  

Two years ago, as we had done in years past, we drove to my parents’ home to spend Christmas Eve and Christmas morning.  The route to snowy New Hampshire passed through quaint New England towns, antique homes adorned with Christmas wreaths, garlands, and white lights.  Greg was visibly uneasy.  He slowed down considerably as we passed through each town, eyeing each church.  I know what he was doing, but neither one of us said anything.  He was looking for a Christmas Eve vigil Mass that he could attend, and thus minimize an awkward interruption of our Christmas morning (and considering my dad’s harsh view of the Catholic Church, this was a sensitive move on Greg’s part).  Each church we passed had a Mass that either started much later than our trip allowed, or had already happened.  I was growing impatient to get to my parents’ home.  And yet, in some sort of Christmas miracle, I sympathized.  I realized that he was trying to discreetly find a Mass and celebrate one of the most important days of his faith without offending my (albeit rather ridiculous) belief system.  As he was having no luck finding a Mass on our way, he said he would go to a midnight Mass in my parents’ town after everyone had gone to bed.

Christmas Eve with my family was cozy and festive.  The fire roared in the fireplace.  My mother’s decorations and my father’s cooking created an inviting atmosphere and a pleasant yuletide aroma.  We ate until we were stuffed, watched some football, and started dozing off while watching a cheesy TV special.  Slowly we each retired to bed.  Greg and I were the last ones watching the TV.  I started to feel bad that Greg would have to wait by himself for another 2 hours until it was time for Mass, and I also started to worry that he would get lost either to or from the church.  I offered to stay awake and go with him.  

At 11:30 we bundled up and snuck out.  It was a cold and clear December night.  Millions of stars sparkled bright and their reflection glistened on the crusty frozen snow.  All was still on the way into town of Jaffrey.  An ice-covered swamp bordered by tall, snow covered pine trees dazzled under the moon’s light.  We didn’t see one car until we approached the church.  The light from inside the building poured out onto the street and revealed a long line of cars parked at the curb.  Families walked close together to stay warm, and greeted others with a strong handshake as they entered.

We were able to find a seat, but there were few remaining.  An usher wearing Carhartt pants, work boots, and a flannel shirt led us up to a pew.  I gulped; it was the second pew from the front.  As much as I had boldly argued the pitfalls of Catholicism with Greg at home, walking up that aisle made me feel meek and timid.  The family already sitting in the pew squished together to make room for us, and greeted us with warm smiles and a kindhearted “Merry Christmas”.  Although they did not know me or my bitterness, their welcoming faces seemed to demonstrate forgiveness.

Each progression of the Mass weakened my presumptions of Catholic Masses as dull and empty; it intrigued me.  Parishioners sung loud, the homily was profound and fiery, and the sign of peace was heartfelt and full of hugs.  Most touching, however, was the serving of Communion.  People of all shapes and sizes, all manners of dress, all ages, and all states of health made their way up front.  The line seemed unending.  Such a genuine display of faith!  I was amazed to see that the priest seemed to know most of people he served, as he gave a knowing smile to young and old.  Not at one point did I feel excluded or unwelcome because I was not Catholic.  On the contrary, the strangers around me shared their joy that I could celebrate the birth of our Lord with them.  

Finally, as we sang the final hymn and we all filed out, a strange and amazing mini-miracle occurred.  I held Greg’s hand so as not to get separated in the crowd, and for the first time in many months I felt connected to my husband.  The months after his conversion had made me feel inferior and confused, but this night I felt united with him.  We continued to hold hands as we walked our way to the car.  The cold air was abrupt yet refreshing, and the clarity of the stars reminded me of the simplicity of the night’s celebration:  on such a starry night the brilliance of the angels flooded the vast shepherd’s fields, and lit the manger where the Holy Family made their shelter.  No theological rants, no complicated relationships, just pure love and adoration.  The midnight clear drove out the darkness that had cloaked my soul for too long.  

The softening of my heart was irreversible at this point.  The moment was too romantic, the stars were too bright, the night was too clear to deny my newfound openness towards my husband’s faith.  

For the next couple weeks, I did my research.  I read books written by Catholic converts, looked up many informative sites on the internet, and found material that directly confronted my skepticism.  Three weeks after that Christmas Mass I sought out the chaplain at the school where I work, and he led me through my first Confession in about 20 years.  Later that morning I had my first Communion at our school’s daily Mass.  When I texted Greg about the monumental decision I had made, he sent me a message back saying he had been in Confession at the same time.  

And a few weeks after that we found out we were expecting.   (We wouldn’t find out I was having twins until several months later… that is, a few weeks after my Confirmation.)

There is a lot more to my conversion story than just that one Christmas night.  I know it was the result of many people praying, and most certainly by God’s mercy and grace.  Our Lord came to the world to bring peace, and that on that Christmas two years ago, He most certainly did: peace to a rocky marriage, peace to a wounded heart, and peace to a family united in Christ.