The subject of forgiveness has come up in my life a lot lately. Especially on the anniversary of the terrorist attack on September 11, 2001, it is important to remember that forgiveness is the only way through the anger, frustration and pain the comes with the horrific acts that were committed that day. It also applies to us, personally, to the hurts inflicted upon us by family members, friends...anyone during our entire lifetime.
There have been times when people have almost gone postal on me when I say I forgive bin Laden for what he did on 9/11. I do. I forgive him. I also love him.
I can say these things because, as a Catholic Christian, I am called to love everyone, not just the people who are easy to love. But what is love? Love is wanting only good for the person, not bad. It doesn't mean they are a nice person; it doesn't mean their actions are acceptable...it just means you no longer wish evil on them.
After the events of 9/11, which did not affect me personally, but did affect several family members and acquaintances of mine, I began to ponder this...whether to forgive...how to forgive. Forgiveness is not an easy thing, but, ultimately it is a decision and not a feeling. It is a decision to say to the person who hurt you, "I break the bond that anger, resentment, frustration and pain have forged between you and me. I am no longer connected to you." It is releasing them from your life so they no longer have any power over you.
Think about this: someone murders a man's wife. He spends all his time cursing the murderer and harboring anger and resentment toward him. The anger stresses the man and he starts to become ill because of it. In effect, this man is allowing the murderer to kill him as well. He is giving the murderer power over his life. If this man makes the decision to forgive, he releases the murderer from his life forever and can go on living a relatively normal life. His pain will still be there, his loss is still there, and the murderer has not, himself, changed or been affected in any way. Yet this man's life is no longer consumed with anger and he may be able to then experience joy. What better way to honor his wife's memory than to go on and live a productive, peaceful life?
Shouldn't we all be able to do this? Catholic Christians are called to forgive. How can we not forgive, when God is there, waiting for us in the confessional; just waiting to forgive us our sins at any moment? How can we not forgive when Jesus forgave the men who were hammering the nails into his hands, even as they were doing it?
The anger of unforgiveness is destructive. The ironic thing about it is, it only destroys the person who won't forgive. St. Maximillian Kolbe said, "Love alone creates." Loving--hoping only for the good of the person--is healing. The ability to love and forgive are graces from God that are both healing and freeing.
In those times in my life when I was unable to forgive, I simply prayed for the desire to forgive. In those moments when I was so wounded and in pain, I prayed the words of Psalm 51:
A clean heart create for me, God;
renew in me a steadfast spirit...
Restore my joy in your salvation;
sustain in me a willing spirit...
My sacrifice is a broken spirit; God, do not spurn a broken, humbled heart.
(Ps 51: 12, 14, 19)
Forgiveness is far from easy. Sometimes, in our woundedness, we need divine assistance. But the act of asking, of opening our hearts to the possibility of forgiveness can result in a healing and the freedom that comes with it.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
An Open Letter to Fr. Corapi
You don't know me, but I love you. You taught me almost everything I know about my Catholic faith. When my children were little and my husband worked nights, I would truck the kids in and turn on the TV and there you were, preaching to me. Because of you, I am now an educated Catholic in love with my faith.
I learned a lot from you. I learned how to pray, I learned about spiritual warfare and resisting temptation and I also learned the most important lesson, which is to be obedient to Holy Mother Church.
Well, many years have gone by since you kept me company at night when my husband was working at his job. We cancelled our cable and I stopped listening to your preaching, but I have always carried with me the lessons I learned from you.
Tuesday, after the announcement from your order that there may be evidence that you have broken your priestly vows, and after I had a good cry, I realized that I am still learning from you. Here are the things I have learned in the past few days:
That, although my family prays for priests on a daily basis, we need to step up the prayer, because all priests seem to be under tremendous attack, especially of late.
I learned that, although we are all sinful in many ways, the Holy Spirit can and does still use us for good despite our sinfulness. All the teachings you taught me are still valid even though you may have been living a sinful lifestyle while preaching to me.
And the most important thing I learned recently is that the Church goes on despite the sins of mankind. Jesus told us this was the case and, over and over it has proven to be true. The Church is both a sign and a sacrament. She is not merely a fellowship. Your actions and circumstances have underscored that for me today.
I cannot judge whether or not the charges against you are true or false. That is between you and God. I do know that you have been ordained a priest forever and it breaks my heart to see you in street clothes and referring to yourself as 'John.'
Father Corapi, the Lord has brought you to your knees in the past and it seems that He is doing it again. I am not presuming guilt or innocence, but the Lord is allowing you to be publicly humiliated for a reason. This time, reach out to Him in humility and allow Him to heal you. There are thousands of people praying for your conversion. Do not waste the prayers of those who love you. Many of us are faithful Catholics because you brought us deeper into our faith. We are here for you now and we hope that you will benefit from our prayers and petitions just as much as we have benefited from your preaching.
With love from your spiritual child,
AnnMarie
I learned a lot from you. I learned how to pray, I learned about spiritual warfare and resisting temptation and I also learned the most important lesson, which is to be obedient to Holy Mother Church.
Well, many years have gone by since you kept me company at night when my husband was working at his job. We cancelled our cable and I stopped listening to your preaching, but I have always carried with me the lessons I learned from you.
Tuesday, after the announcement from your order that there may be evidence that you have broken your priestly vows, and after I had a good cry, I realized that I am still learning from you. Here are the things I have learned in the past few days:
That, although my family prays for priests on a daily basis, we need to step up the prayer, because all priests seem to be under tremendous attack, especially of late.
I learned that, although we are all sinful in many ways, the Holy Spirit can and does still use us for good despite our sinfulness. All the teachings you taught me are still valid even though you may have been living a sinful lifestyle while preaching to me.
And the most important thing I learned recently is that the Church goes on despite the sins of mankind. Jesus told us this was the case and, over and over it has proven to be true. The Church is both a sign and a sacrament. She is not merely a fellowship. Your actions and circumstances have underscored that for me today.
I cannot judge whether or not the charges against you are true or false. That is between you and God. I do know that you have been ordained a priest forever and it breaks my heart to see you in street clothes and referring to yourself as 'John.'
Father Corapi, the Lord has brought you to your knees in the past and it seems that He is doing it again. I am not presuming guilt or innocence, but the Lord is allowing you to be publicly humiliated for a reason. This time, reach out to Him in humility and allow Him to heal you. There are thousands of people praying for your conversion. Do not waste the prayers of those who love you. Many of us are faithful Catholics because you brought us deeper into our faith. We are here for you now and we hope that you will benefit from our prayers and petitions just as much as we have benefited from your preaching.
With love from your spiritual child,
AnnMarie
Monday, February 21, 2011
Breaking Up Is Hard To Do...
Joe called me from the store today, for clarification on something I asked him to pick up on the way home. Mobile phones never work properly in this particular store. He called once and he couldn't hear me. He called again and I couldn't hear him. Then he called a third time. "Your breaking up," I tell him, but a few seconds of clarity come and I give him the info he needs.
A couple of hours later, I hear Genevieve tell Bella, "Mom and Dad broke up on the phone today."
A couple of hours later, I hear Genevieve tell Bella, "Mom and Dad broke up on the phone today."
Friday, February 11, 2011
Feast of Our Lady of Lourdes
In the Jubilee year of 2000, we were able to go on a very short pilgrimage to the Marian Shrine in Lourdes. Although we had three children at the time, Noah and Isabella were toddlers, so we decided not to take them, since it would be a difficult trip. Joe and I just took Charlie with us. Charlie was 9 at a the time and since he has autism, we were, of course, hoping for a miracle, but willing to take any grace God would grant us on the trip.
Charlie's autism was exacerbated by some food intolerances he had to gluten, casein, soy, chocolate and corn. When these foods were in his diet, it was almost impossible for him to get any sleep and they caused laughing fits that could sometimes last for 15 minutes. Needless to say, he was on a very restrictive diet and so it was quite a challenge to pack the proper food for him. This was part of the reason we needed to make it a short trip.
Joe had worked for Swissair for many years and the previous year his department was dissolved and everyone lost their jobs. One of the benefits negotiated in the severance package was that the former employees would be able to use their flight benefits for a year after being let go. We were using these benefits, but a caveat was that we had to fly standby.
When we arrived at O'Hare Airport there must have been a run on tickets to Paris, because there were no seats open on any of the airlines we were able to fly on. I, of course, started to panic. Joe went over to the flight attendant and told her where we were going and why. She was very sympathetic and tried to get us on a flight. No luck. Finally, she talked to another attendant at an airline that doesn't honor our standby tickets. It turned out that there were plenty of seats open on their next flight to Paris, and, miraculously, he let us on the plane, no questions asked.
We had about 10 hours to spend in Paris until the high speed train left for Lourdes. Disney's The Hunchback of Notre Dame had recently been released and it was Charlie's favorite movie. So, when we emerged from the Metro station and the cathedral loomed in front of us, it was touching to see the look of joy on his face. We spent hours in the cathedral, looking at the stained glass windows. Charlie was in awe. He enjoyed being there, bathed in the colorful light of the windows, gazing up at their beauty. We were also fortunate enough to go to confession and Mass at Notre Dame. After a brief break for dinner and to shoot over to the Eiffel Tower (how could we be in Paris and not see the tower??), we went to the train station and headed down to Lourdes. It was an overnight trip and early in the morning we arrived in the mountains and stepped off the train at Lourdes. Although it was the end of June, with July just days away, there had been a cold snap and there was a bit of a chill in the air. I was so thankful we had bought Charlie a sweatshirt while we were in Paris. He needed it.
The baths at the shrine were just opening so we headed straight there. They are separated by gender, so Charlie had to go with Joe. There were several women ahead of me on line, so I sat tight until it was my turn. Joe and Charlie, however, went right in. When I came to the head of the line, I was amazed at the efficiency of the whole process of bathing in the miraculous spring water which, at the direction of the Blessed Virgin Mary, was discovered by St. Bernadette a century and a half earlier. The people assisting pilgrims were all volunteers from different countries. They worked together in pairs, but didn't necessarily speak each other's language. You would think that this would make the process confusing, but it didn't. There was a lovely spirit of cooperation there that underscored the holiness of the shrine. The first thing we pilgrims needed to do was to remove all of our clothing. By holding up several sheets, the workers were able to allow us to do this in a completely modest way. Once I had disrobed, the women assigned to help me brought me over, sheets and all, to a bathtub that was carved out of the rock at the base of the hill. At the far end of the tub, there was a statue of our Blessed Mother. They told me that I should get in the water and I could submerge myself if I liked, but Mary's instructions were to 'go and wash in the spring,' so they said I could splash some water on my face and wash as well. Then they said they would wait for me to pray and if, as an act of faith, I wanted to touch the statue and ask for Mary's prayers, I was welcome to do that. Given that the water was absolutely frigid, I decided not to dunk myself. But I did pray for a healing for Charlie and asked that the Lord heal anything in my family that needed to be healed. Then I sloshed through the water to the statue. In a gesture symbolic of my trust in the prayers of the woman who bore Our Savior, I put my hand on her heart and consecrated my family to the Sacred Heart of Jesus through the Immaculate Heart of Mary.
When I was done, I went back outside and sat on a bench to wait for Joe and Charlie. I was surprised that they weren't out yet, considering that they went in before me. After what seemed like an eternity, they emerge from the men's area. Joe looked stressed. I asked him what happened. He told me that there was a little 'accident' and it took longer than usual.
Here is what happened. When they went in, there were two men assisting them. Joe explained as best he could to them men about Charlie's autism, since neither spoke English or each other's language. Charlie got undressed and Joe was hoping to help Charlie just step into the pool, or put a little water on himself, since it was way too cold to spend any amount of time in there. But, Charlie was a little boy and it was cold and he was naked and so Charlie did what any cold naked, slightly wet boy would be inclined to do. He peed. Not on the side of the bath tub...into the bath tub. My son peed into the holy water at Lourdes. Anyone who knows me would say that they were not surprised. Honestly, our last name should be Murphy, given all the crazy, outlandish things that happen to us... But I digress. Only one of the men saw Charlie. He tried to tell the other man, but there was a language barrier. Finally, Joe told me, after much gesturing and frustration, the first man hold his finger in the air like he just got an idea and says, "Peepee." The other man, looks at him and says, "Oh, ho, peepee!" And everyone was on the same page. Joe and Charlie had to wait while they drained the tub, scrubbed the tub and then refilled the tub. After that they just washed Charlie with a bit of the water and Joe took him out.
After the polluted bath incident, we went to adoration, which was held under a large tent in a beautiful meadow. We walked around a bit to orient ourselves and then headed to the town for lunch. I can't remember what Charlie ate,, but I do remember we were running low on his food, so I must have found something at the restaurant that he could have. There was a Eucharistic procession that evening and we took Charlie and prayed. When Our Lord in the Blessed Sacrament passed by, I heard myself pray, "Jesus, son of David, have pity on my son." Those desperate words, originally spoken by blind Bartimeus, were a comfort to me.
We stayed in a lovely hotel overnight and the next day headed back to the shrine, this time avoiding the baths. There was an English Mass in a conference center that we decided to go to. At the time I was still learning about my faith and didn't know about many of the feast days. That particular day happened to be the Feast of Corpus Christi, the Body and Blood of Our Lord. Later, I would learn that this feast day is a powerful one and we would decide to have our children receive their first holy communion on this day in the Church calendar. But as far as I was concerned, on that day in the mountains of France, 11 years ago, it was Sunday Mass. There were very few pilgrims there, but about four priests presiding. So, it was Joe, Charlie, me and several elderly people at this Mass. One of the priests kept looking at us during Mass. Not in a weird or rude way, but in a loving, fatherly way. When it came time to receive communion, Joe and I made a snap decision to have Charlie receive. Charlie's first holy communion was scheduled to be at our parish later in the summer, but we thought that it would be special to have him receive Our Lord at the shrine with us. The priest that was looking at us came over to us at communion time and gave Charlie communion. After I received, he touched me on the arm and said, "If you need anything, please let me know." I thought that was sweet of him. After Mass, as we were leaving I thanked him for his kindness. He told me that, in Ireland, he was in charge of all the families with autism in his diocese. "Your son is a profound gift from God," he said, "Never forget that." I never got his name and I still regret it, but this compassionate priest remains in my prayers.
After Mass, we were all hungry. We went for a little walk around town and then settled on a friendly looking cafe for lunch. Charlie, who had very few words at the time, actually said to us, "I want pizza." Now, Charlie knew that he couldn't have pizza, but he made the tremendous effort to ask for it anyway. Joe and I thought about what to do. Joe finally said, "Let's just give him the pizza as an act of faith. If he has a reaction, we are here with him and we'll take care of him." So Charlie ate a personal sized pizza for lunch. When he was done with that, he asked for another. We obliged. After the second pizza, he asked for chocolate cookies. Lots of language for this little guy! We left the cafe and found a bakery and got Charlie some chocolate cookies. That night, he slept peacefully. The next day, he was fine. Still had autism, but no reactions to the foods he ate the day before. We went to the grotto one more time before our train left. While we were there, Charlie took the empty bottle from the water he had just downed, went over to the spigot for the Lourdes water, filled it up and drank it all. I'd say he got his fill of Lourdes water that day!
We took the high speed rail back to Paris only to find out that there was an air traffic controller's strike and we couldn't get out. So, we went back to the cathedral and took the tour that brought us to the roof. The view was spectacular, but, as I have a deathly fear of heights, I didn't enjoy it as much as the guys. Charlie was thrilled to see the gargoyles up close, though. That night, we stayed in what was probably the last hotel room in Paris and spent some time calling around to figure out how to get out of Paris with the strike going on. I re-read the literature that came with our rail passes and realized we could take the high speed train to Belgium for a small fee. There was no strike in Belgium! So, the next morning, we stopped for an early lunch at a Parisian McDonald's (the burgers were so much better than in the US, but, ironically, not the fries) and hopped on the train to Belgium. At the airport, we quickly realized that there were a lot of other people who had the same idea as we did. I began saying the rosary and asking for God to help us get home to the two little ones who were waiting for us at their grandparents' house. Joe went to check out the flight situation. They put us on a waiting list for the next flight out. It didn't look too good. There was a connecting flight due that would fill up the plane. I continued to pray. Finally, several minutes before the flight began to board, Joe found out that the connecting flight wasn't going to make the connection and we would get on the plane after all.
At home, we cautiously began to add foods to Charlie's diet that were on the forbidden list. No sleepless nights, no giggle fits. Within a couple of months he was off the restrictive diet but retained it's benefits. Maybe it's a coincidence. I like to think it was a gift from God.
Several months after our pilgrimage, I checked on Charlie in his room and he was crying softly. I wrapped my arms around him and asked him what was wrong. He said, "I want Lourdes." I told him that maybe someday we would be able to go back there, then I asked what was it about Lourdes that he missed and he put his hand on his heart and said, "Lourdes, spirit." That was all I could get out of him, but I think he had a very profound encounter with the Holy Spirit on the Feast of Corpus Christi at the Shrine at Lourdes. It was at this same place where the Holy Spirit sent His spouse to work through a simple, humble peasant girl to make a call for conversions. And I hope and I pray that someone may hear the story of my sweet, simple child and his experience at Lourdes and their faith might be strengthened by it.
Charlie's autism was exacerbated by some food intolerances he had to gluten, casein, soy, chocolate and corn. When these foods were in his diet, it was almost impossible for him to get any sleep and they caused laughing fits that could sometimes last for 15 minutes. Needless to say, he was on a very restrictive diet and so it was quite a challenge to pack the proper food for him. This was part of the reason we needed to make it a short trip.
Joe had worked for Swissair for many years and the previous year his department was dissolved and everyone lost their jobs. One of the benefits negotiated in the severance package was that the former employees would be able to use their flight benefits for a year after being let go. We were using these benefits, but a caveat was that we had to fly standby.
When we arrived at O'Hare Airport there must have been a run on tickets to Paris, because there were no seats open on any of the airlines we were able to fly on. I, of course, started to panic. Joe went over to the flight attendant and told her where we were going and why. She was very sympathetic and tried to get us on a flight. No luck. Finally, she talked to another attendant at an airline that doesn't honor our standby tickets. It turned out that there were plenty of seats open on their next flight to Paris, and, miraculously, he let us on the plane, no questions asked.
We had about 10 hours to spend in Paris until the high speed train left for Lourdes. Disney's The Hunchback of Notre Dame had recently been released and it was Charlie's favorite movie. So, when we emerged from the Metro station and the cathedral loomed in front of us, it was touching to see the look of joy on his face. We spent hours in the cathedral, looking at the stained glass windows. Charlie was in awe. He enjoyed being there, bathed in the colorful light of the windows, gazing up at their beauty. We were also fortunate enough to go to confession and Mass at Notre Dame. After a brief break for dinner and to shoot over to the Eiffel Tower (how could we be in Paris and not see the tower??), we went to the train station and headed down to Lourdes. It was an overnight trip and early in the morning we arrived in the mountains and stepped off the train at Lourdes. Although it was the end of June, with July just days away, there had been a cold snap and there was a bit of a chill in the air. I was so thankful we had bought Charlie a sweatshirt while we were in Paris. He needed it.
The baths at the shrine were just opening so we headed straight there. They are separated by gender, so Charlie had to go with Joe. There were several women ahead of me on line, so I sat tight until it was my turn. Joe and Charlie, however, went right in. When I came to the head of the line, I was amazed at the efficiency of the whole process of bathing in the miraculous spring water which, at the direction of the Blessed Virgin Mary, was discovered by St. Bernadette a century and a half earlier. The people assisting pilgrims were all volunteers from different countries. They worked together in pairs, but didn't necessarily speak each other's language. You would think that this would make the process confusing, but it didn't. There was a lovely spirit of cooperation there that underscored the holiness of the shrine. The first thing we pilgrims needed to do was to remove all of our clothing. By holding up several sheets, the workers were able to allow us to do this in a completely modest way. Once I had disrobed, the women assigned to help me brought me over, sheets and all, to a bathtub that was carved out of the rock at the base of the hill. At the far end of the tub, there was a statue of our Blessed Mother. They told me that I should get in the water and I could submerge myself if I liked, but Mary's instructions were to 'go and wash in the spring,' so they said I could splash some water on my face and wash as well. Then they said they would wait for me to pray and if, as an act of faith, I wanted to touch the statue and ask for Mary's prayers, I was welcome to do that. Given that the water was absolutely frigid, I decided not to dunk myself. But I did pray for a healing for Charlie and asked that the Lord heal anything in my family that needed to be healed. Then I sloshed through the water to the statue. In a gesture symbolic of my trust in the prayers of the woman who bore Our Savior, I put my hand on her heart and consecrated my family to the Sacred Heart of Jesus through the Immaculate Heart of Mary.
When I was done, I went back outside and sat on a bench to wait for Joe and Charlie. I was surprised that they weren't out yet, considering that they went in before me. After what seemed like an eternity, they emerge from the men's area. Joe looked stressed. I asked him what happened. He told me that there was a little 'accident' and it took longer than usual.
Here is what happened. When they went in, there were two men assisting them. Joe explained as best he could to them men about Charlie's autism, since neither spoke English or each other's language. Charlie got undressed and Joe was hoping to help Charlie just step into the pool, or put a little water on himself, since it was way too cold to spend any amount of time in there. But, Charlie was a little boy and it was cold and he was naked and so Charlie did what any cold naked, slightly wet boy would be inclined to do. He peed. Not on the side of the bath tub...into the bath tub. My son peed into the holy water at Lourdes. Anyone who knows me would say that they were not surprised. Honestly, our last name should be Murphy, given all the crazy, outlandish things that happen to us... But I digress. Only one of the men saw Charlie. He tried to tell the other man, but there was a language barrier. Finally, Joe told me, after much gesturing and frustration, the first man hold his finger in the air like he just got an idea and says, "Peepee." The other man, looks at him and says, "Oh, ho, peepee!" And everyone was on the same page. Joe and Charlie had to wait while they drained the tub, scrubbed the tub and then refilled the tub. After that they just washed Charlie with a bit of the water and Joe took him out.
After the polluted bath incident, we went to adoration, which was held under a large tent in a beautiful meadow. We walked around a bit to orient ourselves and then headed to the town for lunch. I can't remember what Charlie ate,, but I do remember we were running low on his food, so I must have found something at the restaurant that he could have. There was a Eucharistic procession that evening and we took Charlie and prayed. When Our Lord in the Blessed Sacrament passed by, I heard myself pray, "Jesus, son of David, have pity on my son." Those desperate words, originally spoken by blind Bartimeus, were a comfort to me.
We stayed in a lovely hotel overnight and the next day headed back to the shrine, this time avoiding the baths. There was an English Mass in a conference center that we decided to go to. At the time I was still learning about my faith and didn't know about many of the feast days. That particular day happened to be the Feast of Corpus Christi, the Body and Blood of Our Lord. Later, I would learn that this feast day is a powerful one and we would decide to have our children receive their first holy communion on this day in the Church calendar. But as far as I was concerned, on that day in the mountains of France, 11 years ago, it was Sunday Mass. There were very few pilgrims there, but about four priests presiding. So, it was Joe, Charlie, me and several elderly people at this Mass. One of the priests kept looking at us during Mass. Not in a weird or rude way, but in a loving, fatherly way. When it came time to receive communion, Joe and I made a snap decision to have Charlie receive. Charlie's first holy communion was scheduled to be at our parish later in the summer, but we thought that it would be special to have him receive Our Lord at the shrine with us. The priest that was looking at us came over to us at communion time and gave Charlie communion. After I received, he touched me on the arm and said, "If you need anything, please let me know." I thought that was sweet of him. After Mass, as we were leaving I thanked him for his kindness. He told me that, in Ireland, he was in charge of all the families with autism in his diocese. "Your son is a profound gift from God," he said, "Never forget that." I never got his name and I still regret it, but this compassionate priest remains in my prayers.
After Mass, we were all hungry. We went for a little walk around town and then settled on a friendly looking cafe for lunch. Charlie, who had very few words at the time, actually said to us, "I want pizza." Now, Charlie knew that he couldn't have pizza, but he made the tremendous effort to ask for it anyway. Joe and I thought about what to do. Joe finally said, "Let's just give him the pizza as an act of faith. If he has a reaction, we are here with him and we'll take care of him." So Charlie ate a personal sized pizza for lunch. When he was done with that, he asked for another. We obliged. After the second pizza, he asked for chocolate cookies. Lots of language for this little guy! We left the cafe and found a bakery and got Charlie some chocolate cookies. That night, he slept peacefully. The next day, he was fine. Still had autism, but no reactions to the foods he ate the day before. We went to the grotto one more time before our train left. While we were there, Charlie took the empty bottle from the water he had just downed, went over to the spigot for the Lourdes water, filled it up and drank it all. I'd say he got his fill of Lourdes water that day!
We took the high speed rail back to Paris only to find out that there was an air traffic controller's strike and we couldn't get out. So, we went back to the cathedral and took the tour that brought us to the roof. The view was spectacular, but, as I have a deathly fear of heights, I didn't enjoy it as much as the guys. Charlie was thrilled to see the gargoyles up close, though. That night, we stayed in what was probably the last hotel room in Paris and spent some time calling around to figure out how to get out of Paris with the strike going on. I re-read the literature that came with our rail passes and realized we could take the high speed train to Belgium for a small fee. There was no strike in Belgium! So, the next morning, we stopped for an early lunch at a Parisian McDonald's (the burgers were so much better than in the US, but, ironically, not the fries) and hopped on the train to Belgium. At the airport, we quickly realized that there were a lot of other people who had the same idea as we did. I began saying the rosary and asking for God to help us get home to the two little ones who were waiting for us at their grandparents' house. Joe went to check out the flight situation. They put us on a waiting list for the next flight out. It didn't look too good. There was a connecting flight due that would fill up the plane. I continued to pray. Finally, several minutes before the flight began to board, Joe found out that the connecting flight wasn't going to make the connection and we would get on the plane after all.
At home, we cautiously began to add foods to Charlie's diet that were on the forbidden list. No sleepless nights, no giggle fits. Within a couple of months he was off the restrictive diet but retained it's benefits. Maybe it's a coincidence. I like to think it was a gift from God.
Several months after our pilgrimage, I checked on Charlie in his room and he was crying softly. I wrapped my arms around him and asked him what was wrong. He said, "I want Lourdes." I told him that maybe someday we would be able to go back there, then I asked what was it about Lourdes that he missed and he put his hand on his heart and said, "Lourdes, spirit." That was all I could get out of him, but I think he had a very profound encounter with the Holy Spirit on the Feast of Corpus Christi at the Shrine at Lourdes. It was at this same place where the Holy Spirit sent His spouse to work through a simple, humble peasant girl to make a call for conversions. And I hope and I pray that someone may hear the story of my sweet, simple child and his experience at Lourdes and their faith might be strengthened by it.
Friday, December 24, 2010
A Miraculous Birth
I remember what I was doing on December 23rd, nine years ago. I was frantic over my son, Charlie, who had left our house and was lost to us for over an hour. Charlie has autism and back then he had a serious elopement problem. It was, needless to say, a most upsetting time for a mother. What made it worse was that I was pregnant at the time and it had been a very difficult pregnancy; so much so that we thought I lost the baby on two occasions. So, I was worried about Charlie and I was worried about what the stress would do to the baby.
Charlie had sneaked out of the house while we weren't looking. It was an unseasonably warm night and he was wearing black sweats and no jacket. He ran in the direction of downtown St. Charles and the reason we knew this was because Joe went to his favorite place, the candy store and some people there said they saw a kid of his description running toward town. I stayed home and called the police. The kids prayed. It was agony not being able to go out there and look for him, but the police needed me home so they could come by and pick up a current picture.
I start getting cramps, which makes me worry about the baby. I have no recourse but to pray, which I do, but I also think about all the scary things that might be happening to my precious son. A half hour goes by. I know that Joe is downtown searching for him because he calls on his cell phone. I tell him to try the Santa house because Charlie was asking to go there. More time passes. I am freaking out. I call the police and ask them why no one has come yet to get the picture. They explain to me that they are pretty sure they found him and they will be bringing him home soon. As I hang up, Joe calls and tells me he found Charlie. "The police did, too." I tell him. "I know," he says, "we both walked in at the same time." Apparently, Charlie made his way into a restaurant and told them he was hungry, so they fed him popcorn and candy canes until they could figure out who he belonged to. I am so relieved, but a wave of pain floods my body. "It's the stress," I think. I pray in thanksgiving for the safe return of my son, and also for the life of my baby, who has had so many challenges already.
The next day is Christmas Eve. We go to my parent's house where my brother and his family and our friend, Fr. Beekman are spending the day. I have some mild contraction-like pains in the afternoon, but I chalk it up to false labor. I am due in 5 weeks, after all. I inform Joe, who defers to my judgment. Throughout the day, the contractions become a little more frequent, but they are not intense. I promise myself I will go to the hospital after the kids are in bed, just to get checked out. So, I go on with the day. I help my mother prepare dinner. I cut up cheese for the antipasto, I fry the calamari; everything is going smoothly. After dinner, Fr. Beekman comes up to me and whispers in my ear, "You're going to have that baby tonight." he says, conspiringly. "What?" I feign ignorance. "I know you're having contractions," he chuckles, "have you timed them?" Honestly, the thought never occurred to me, I was so sure I was in false labor. So, I time them. Oh, my! Twenty minutes apart!
I tell Joe. Then I tell my mother, who is incredulous. "You've been in labor all day and didn't tell me?" Well, I didn't want to throw a monkey wrench into the day if I wasn't sure...anyway, it's false labor.
We tell the kids I am going to the doctor for a little while and will probably be back soon. They are fine with that because they are happily playing with their cousins.
We get to the hospital about 9:30 p.m. One of the first things they do is ask me what I ate. "Hmm...let's see," I think aloud, "a lobster tail, some calamari, shrimp scampi, salad..." "That sounds delicious! What restaurant did you go to?" asks the nurse. "My mother's house!" I exclaim.
The nurses check me out and determine that I am, indeed in full blown labor. By now the contractions are about 15 minutes apart. I feel like an idiot, not realizing that this was labor at my fourth child. My doctor is not working on Christmas Eve, so they contact the on-call OB. She is not familiar with my pregnancy and since I am 5 weeks early, she tells them to give me a drug to stop the labor. My mother's intuition switches on. I refuse the drug. "This child has been trying to get out ever since she went in," I tell them, "If she wants to be born, let her be born." Just to cover themselves, they make me talk to a neonatal nurse who tells me all the bad things that could happen if I let me baby be born before her due date. I listen and then, once again, assert that I want the labor to progress.
Joe leaves to tell my parents that they will be getting one more Christmas present than they thought, and to get the kids pajamas so they can stay at my parents' house for the night. After he leaves I have a fleeting sense of guilt that I am in the hospital and not with my kids. I also planned to have Christmas day at my house, so my mother will have to go and take all the food out of my refrigerator and cook it for everyone. "So much more work for her," I think, wistfully.
My labor continues and I pray the rosary as I breathe and work through the mild pain. The contractions are not all that intense and so I lay quietly in the dim room praying, offering up my prayers for the baby, my family and those who have no one to pray for them. After Joe returns, the doctor shows up. It is now close to 1 a.m. She checks on me and lets me know she is not too happy about the fact that I want to have the baby. I am at 7 cm so she lets me go for awhile. Finally she decides to break my water and the contractions come hard and fast. The doctor corrects my breathing technique. Apparently I am not doing it to her satisfaction. I want to smack her, but I bite my tongue because I know it would just cause problems for everyone if I reacted in anger. Finally, I get the urge to push. The doc, for some reason, is not ready for me to push. Huh??? Telling a woman in labor not to push is like telling a sick person not to vomit. You can't stop it! It controls you! It has a mind of it's own! "Mmmm...pushing!" I manage to blurt. "No, you are not in a good position for that," she says, "I want you to scoot up more and bend your legs more before you push, so breathe through this one." I glare at her and push anyway. I can feel the baby move down. She yells at me to move into position. I feel another huge contraction coming, so, although it's excruciating even to move, I quickly do what she wants just before the bad pain hits. I am so angry at this woman that I channel the anger into the push and the baby pops right out. I hear everyone yell in surprise, and then I hear the doctor making all kinds of surprised exclamations that include taking the Lord's name in vain, so I won't repeat them here. I get nervous. "Is she OK?" I ask. No answer. "IS SHE OK??" I yell. "Yes, the baby is fine," says the doc, and I hear a lusty cry. Relieved, I lay back and tears begin streaming from my eyes. All the stress, anger and worry is being released in each tear and I feel at peace. They let me hold my beautiful Angelina Rose. So tiny, she is! But she has the face of an angel. Then I hear the doc say, "This is a miracle...a miracle." When I ask what she means she tells me, "This placenta is completely compromised. I have never seen one in such bad shape. I don't know how this child survived even till now, but I would bet if she weren't born right this very minute she would have been a stillborn." I look at the clock. 2:51 a.m. Merry Christmas.
Then I look down at my little beauty and tell her all about how she has an older brother who has autism and ran away and put Mommy in labor so that she could live. God knew that Angelina would need to be born just at this time, on His birthday. So He used Charlie's disability in such a way that it saved His sister's life. Angelina was born on the first day of Christmas and Charlie's birthday is January 6th, the twelfth day of Christmas. My two Christmas babies, connected in a spiritual way that could only have been orchestrated by the Author of Life Himself.
There is God's Christmas story that He wrote for all mankind, but for some reason He allowed us our own very special Christmas story. And, like the Blessed Virgin Mary, I will keep all these things in my heart.
Charlie had sneaked out of the house while we weren't looking. It was an unseasonably warm night and he was wearing black sweats and no jacket. He ran in the direction of downtown St. Charles and the reason we knew this was because Joe went to his favorite place, the candy store and some people there said they saw a kid of his description running toward town. I stayed home and called the police. The kids prayed. It was agony not being able to go out there and look for him, but the police needed me home so they could come by and pick up a current picture.
I start getting cramps, which makes me worry about the baby. I have no recourse but to pray, which I do, but I also think about all the scary things that might be happening to my precious son. A half hour goes by. I know that Joe is downtown searching for him because he calls on his cell phone. I tell him to try the Santa house because Charlie was asking to go there. More time passes. I am freaking out. I call the police and ask them why no one has come yet to get the picture. They explain to me that they are pretty sure they found him and they will be bringing him home soon. As I hang up, Joe calls and tells me he found Charlie. "The police did, too." I tell him. "I know," he says, "we both walked in at the same time." Apparently, Charlie made his way into a restaurant and told them he was hungry, so they fed him popcorn and candy canes until they could figure out who he belonged to. I am so relieved, but a wave of pain floods my body. "It's the stress," I think. I pray in thanksgiving for the safe return of my son, and also for the life of my baby, who has had so many challenges already.
The next day is Christmas Eve. We go to my parent's house where my brother and his family and our friend, Fr. Beekman are spending the day. I have some mild contraction-like pains in the afternoon, but I chalk it up to false labor. I am due in 5 weeks, after all. I inform Joe, who defers to my judgment. Throughout the day, the contractions become a little more frequent, but they are not intense. I promise myself I will go to the hospital after the kids are in bed, just to get checked out. So, I go on with the day. I help my mother prepare dinner. I cut up cheese for the antipasto, I fry the calamari; everything is going smoothly. After dinner, Fr. Beekman comes up to me and whispers in my ear, "You're going to have that baby tonight." he says, conspiringly. "What?" I feign ignorance. "I know you're having contractions," he chuckles, "have you timed them?" Honestly, the thought never occurred to me, I was so sure I was in false labor. So, I time them. Oh, my! Twenty minutes apart!
I tell Joe. Then I tell my mother, who is incredulous. "You've been in labor all day and didn't tell me?" Well, I didn't want to throw a monkey wrench into the day if I wasn't sure...anyway, it's false labor.
We tell the kids I am going to the doctor for a little while and will probably be back soon. They are fine with that because they are happily playing with their cousins.
We get to the hospital about 9:30 p.m. One of the first things they do is ask me what I ate. "Hmm...let's see," I think aloud, "a lobster tail, some calamari, shrimp scampi, salad..." "That sounds delicious! What restaurant did you go to?" asks the nurse. "My mother's house!" I exclaim.
The nurses check me out and determine that I am, indeed in full blown labor. By now the contractions are about 15 minutes apart. I feel like an idiot, not realizing that this was labor at my fourth child. My doctor is not working on Christmas Eve, so they contact the on-call OB. She is not familiar with my pregnancy and since I am 5 weeks early, she tells them to give me a drug to stop the labor. My mother's intuition switches on. I refuse the drug. "This child has been trying to get out ever since she went in," I tell them, "If she wants to be born, let her be born." Just to cover themselves, they make me talk to a neonatal nurse who tells me all the bad things that could happen if I let me baby be born before her due date. I listen and then, once again, assert that I want the labor to progress.
Joe leaves to tell my parents that they will be getting one more Christmas present than they thought, and to get the kids pajamas so they can stay at my parents' house for the night. After he leaves I have a fleeting sense of guilt that I am in the hospital and not with my kids. I also planned to have Christmas day at my house, so my mother will have to go and take all the food out of my refrigerator and cook it for everyone. "So much more work for her," I think, wistfully.
My labor continues and I pray the rosary as I breathe and work through the mild pain. The contractions are not all that intense and so I lay quietly in the dim room praying, offering up my prayers for the baby, my family and those who have no one to pray for them. After Joe returns, the doctor shows up. It is now close to 1 a.m. She checks on me and lets me know she is not too happy about the fact that I want to have the baby. I am at 7 cm so she lets me go for awhile. Finally she decides to break my water and the contractions come hard and fast. The doctor corrects my breathing technique. Apparently I am not doing it to her satisfaction. I want to smack her, but I bite my tongue because I know it would just cause problems for everyone if I reacted in anger. Finally, I get the urge to push. The doc, for some reason, is not ready for me to push. Huh??? Telling a woman in labor not to push is like telling a sick person not to vomit. You can't stop it! It controls you! It has a mind of it's own! "Mmmm...pushing!" I manage to blurt. "No, you are not in a good position for that," she says, "I want you to scoot up more and bend your legs more before you push, so breathe through this one." I glare at her and push anyway. I can feel the baby move down. She yells at me to move into position. I feel another huge contraction coming, so, although it's excruciating even to move, I quickly do what she wants just before the bad pain hits. I am so angry at this woman that I channel the anger into the push and the baby pops right out. I hear everyone yell in surprise, and then I hear the doctor making all kinds of surprised exclamations that include taking the Lord's name in vain, so I won't repeat them here. I get nervous. "Is she OK?" I ask. No answer. "IS SHE OK??" I yell. "Yes, the baby is fine," says the doc, and I hear a lusty cry. Relieved, I lay back and tears begin streaming from my eyes. All the stress, anger and worry is being released in each tear and I feel at peace. They let me hold my beautiful Angelina Rose. So tiny, she is! But she has the face of an angel. Then I hear the doc say, "This is a miracle...a miracle." When I ask what she means she tells me, "This placenta is completely compromised. I have never seen one in such bad shape. I don't know how this child survived even till now, but I would bet if she weren't born right this very minute she would have been a stillborn." I look at the clock. 2:51 a.m. Merry Christmas.
Then I look down at my little beauty and tell her all about how she has an older brother who has autism and ran away and put Mommy in labor so that she could live. God knew that Angelina would need to be born just at this time, on His birthday. So He used Charlie's disability in such a way that it saved His sister's life. Angelina was born on the first day of Christmas and Charlie's birthday is January 6th, the twelfth day of Christmas. My two Christmas babies, connected in a spiritual way that could only have been orchestrated by the Author of Life Himself.
There is God's Christmas story that He wrote for all mankind, but for some reason He allowed us our own very special Christmas story. And, like the Blessed Virgin Mary, I will keep all these things in my heart.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
To Be Six Again...
The other day the bag of mini-marshmallows the kids convinced me to buy at the grocery store was sitting out on the counter. Genevieve comes into the kitchen, picks up the bag and sniffs the outside. He little face lights up and her eyes grow wide. "Mom? I LOVE the smell of marshmallows! It's so sweet and...GLORIOUS!" She gives me a quick hug, then skips out of the kitchen.
Wouldn't it be great if we all saw the world through the eyes of a six-year-old? Everything is AMAZING to a six-year-old. That attitude would foster a lot of gratitude in the world, wouldn't it?
Next time I am feeling grumpy or ungrateful for the blessings I have in my life, I'm picking up a bag of marshmallows and taking a big whiff...
Wouldn't it be great if we all saw the world through the eyes of a six-year-old? Everything is AMAZING to a six-year-old. That attitude would foster a lot of gratitude in the world, wouldn't it?
Next time I am feeling grumpy or ungrateful for the blessings I have in my life, I'm picking up a bag of marshmallows and taking a big whiff...
Monday, July 19, 2010
The Reaction
We have been so busy lately. The other day I took a few minutes and laid down on the bed. Genevieve comes in the room, sees me and, with a running start, tackles me on the bed. I wrap my arms around her in a great big hug. "Oh, Mom!" she says, "You are SO overreacting...and I don't even know what that means!!!!!"
After the belly laugh I got out of that one, I had some energy to get a couple of things done. Kids always seem to give us what we need...even if we do overreact now and then.
After the belly laugh I got out of that one, I had some energy to get a couple of things done. Kids always seem to give us what we need...even if we do overreact now and then.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
My Youngest is 6
Today was Genevieve's 6th birthday. She celebrated by dressing herself in patchwork shorts and a multi-colored polka dot top. Festive! We began the day with a breakfast of whole wheat toast slathered in Nutella and coffee with caramel syrup. Our family is a coffee family. All my kids have been coffee drinkers (decaf, for those of you who are horrified) since they could hold a cup. It wasn't the the most nutritious breakfast, but perfect for a 6-year-old's birthday. Then she went outside and jumped on the trampoline with the neighbor kids for what seemed like hours. Genevieve requested eggrolls for lunch and she helped me get them into the oven. That is all anybody wanted. They were saving up for dinner, which, as requested, was baked ziti, meatballs and eggplant.
All day, Angelina pampered her sister. She has such a generous heart and wanted to make the day special for her baby sister. She woke up early and helped me wrap gifts. A few days ago she woke up at the crack of dawn and asked Joe to bring her to the dollar store so she could get Genevieve a gift. She had been saving up for awhile and finally amassed enough coins to buy a surprise for her sis.
Instead of reveling in the pampering, Genevieve decided she would cater to Mom today. So, she read me a story. I also got lots of extra hugs and snuggles, as well as a specially made snack of tea and nuts and craisins. She even used the fancy teapot.
After dessert of a home made ice cream cake (layers of Snickers and chocolate ice cream with chocolate animal cracker crumbs in the middle) that melted at a rate which defies all science, she opened her gifts. She only got a few today, because we had an early "family" birthday party for her the weekend of Angelina's first communion. But she was happy. She got a bright green ball from Angelina, some hair pretties from Bella and some art and craft supplies from the rest of us. Once the presents were opened, the girls ran downstairs to cover themselves with finger paint.
After the kids were ready for bed, and after we had said the rosary, Genevieve entertained us with her, ummm...unusual talents. She stuck her shoulder blades out so far that they looked like wings (no one else in the family can do this), she stuck her tongue up her nose (no one else in the family wants to do this) and she wiggled her ears. After the show it was off to bed for everyone.
It was a simple day, but a happy one. I hope the joy she felt today will be etched in her memory forever. It will be in mine.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Father, grant me dissolution...
Angelina will be receiving her first holy communion on the Feast of Corpus Christi at Sunday Mass in our parish. We have been preparing all year and she is getting excited. To get ready, Angelina will first receive the sacrament of confession and then her first communion. The other day, we were studying and I asked her what does the priest do during confession. She stands up, puts her right index finger in the air, clears her throat and exclaims, "He dissolves you from your sins!" Did I mention she is the Yogi Berra of the family?
So, we go back to Illinois for my nephew Jonny's first communion. Angelina's godfather, Fr. Beekman, is pastor of several parishes about 90 minutes away from where we will be staying. He generously offered to take the drive out and hear his goddaughter's first confession. It needs to be very early on Saturday, because he has obligations all the other time we will be out there. We get to IL on a Thursday night. The kids don't sleep very well on Friday because they are overtired. We wake up at the crack of dawn on Saturday and meet Fr. Beekman at a restaurant for breakfast. The kids are like zombies. We haven't seen him in over 2 years and they sit in a stupor when he walks in. Because they are so tired, breakfast is very subdued.
After gorging ourselves on eggs, hashbrowns and every other breakfast food known to man, and several trips to the restroom, we head over to the church. It is not yet 9 a.m. and Angelina is very sleepy. Her cheeks are bright red, which happens when she is tired. She looks a bit nervous. Fr. Beekman reminds her of the special words to say when you are too nervous in confession: "Father, help me, I'm stuck." I give her a kiss and she follows Fr. B into the confessional. I kneel down in front of the tabernacle and pray for my family while I wait. I hear the door open and Angelina walks out. "How'd you do, sweetie?" I ask. She bursts out crying. I am shocked. "What's wrong?" I ask. "Nothing," she bawls. "If there is something wrong I need to help you fix it...please tell me," I say, wondering what in the world could possibly be upsetting her. Then I give her a a long, silent hug and she calms down enough to whisper, "I forgot..." "Yes?" I prompt. Then she sobs, "I FORGOT MY PENANCE!!!" Oh! The poor thing! The exhaustion made her feel like it was the end of the world. "Would you like me to go ask Fr. Beekman?" She nods. I go into the confessional and tell Fr. B what's going on and he tells me her penance. I go back to where she is waiting and tell her which prayers to say. She smiles a teary smile and then goes into the pew and kneels down.
Today she is no worse for the wear. Angelina is working on a thank you note to her godfather and she says she wants to go again soon to confession. Next time, we'll get more sleep.
**For clarification on what on earth the sacrament of penance is, click on the title of this post.
So, we go back to Illinois for my nephew Jonny's first communion. Angelina's godfather, Fr. Beekman, is pastor of several parishes about 90 minutes away from where we will be staying. He generously offered to take the drive out and hear his goddaughter's first confession. It needs to be very early on Saturday, because he has obligations all the other time we will be out there. We get to IL on a Thursday night. The kids don't sleep very well on Friday because they are overtired. We wake up at the crack of dawn on Saturday and meet Fr. Beekman at a restaurant for breakfast. The kids are like zombies. We haven't seen him in over 2 years and they sit in a stupor when he walks in. Because they are so tired, breakfast is very subdued.
After gorging ourselves on eggs, hashbrowns and every other breakfast food known to man, and several trips to the restroom, we head over to the church. It is not yet 9 a.m. and Angelina is very sleepy. Her cheeks are bright red, which happens when she is tired. She looks a bit nervous. Fr. Beekman reminds her of the special words to say when you are too nervous in confession: "Father, help me, I'm stuck." I give her a kiss and she follows Fr. B into the confessional. I kneel down in front of the tabernacle and pray for my family while I wait. I hear the door open and Angelina walks out. "How'd you do, sweetie?" I ask. She bursts out crying. I am shocked. "What's wrong?" I ask. "Nothing," she bawls. "If there is something wrong I need to help you fix it...please tell me," I say, wondering what in the world could possibly be upsetting her. Then I give her a a long, silent hug and she calms down enough to whisper, "I forgot..." "Yes?" I prompt. Then she sobs, "I FORGOT MY PENANCE!!!" Oh! The poor thing! The exhaustion made her feel like it was the end of the world. "Would you like me to go ask Fr. Beekman?" She nods. I go into the confessional and tell Fr. B what's going on and he tells me her penance. I go back to where she is waiting and tell her which prayers to say. She smiles a teary smile and then goes into the pew and kneels down.
Today she is no worse for the wear. Angelina is working on a thank you note to her godfather and she says she wants to go again soon to confession. Next time, we'll get more sleep.
**For clarification on what on earth the sacrament of penance is, click on the title of this post.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Endless Journey
We couldn't get back to IL for Christmas this year, so we decided to go in January. We booked Amtrak for the first time, because I didn't want to drive 8 hours in the snow. As I clicked the "purchase" button I wondered if this was a good idea, but I went ahead anyway, risk-taker that I am.
The station we were going to in IL, wasn't equipped to accept checked bags, so we had to do all carry ons. Me, Joe, 5 kids, 3 duffels, 1 pullman, 3 backpacks and 1 suitcase arrived at Union Station, at 7 a.m., in anticipation of the 7:45 train to IL. Joe was going to stay just long enough to get us onto the train, because he had a flight to California a bit later in the day. The best laid plans...
We get to Union Station and drag our bags to the waiting room, then I go to the ticket counter to get my tickets. When you make reservations on Amtrak, all you get is a bar code to print out, then you have to get the tickets the day of your trip. When I get up there, the ticket guy tells me the train isn't scheduled to depart until 9:30 a.m. ARRGGHH!
I go into the waiting room and break the news. We decide to take the kids out for breakfast and then come back. "Be back here at 8:45 or you'll miss the train," the ticket guy tells me. We have an hour and a half at this point. So we rush out to Cascone's and order breakfast. Now, when we are at home, and whether the kids eat cereal for breakfast or bacon and eggs, it always takes, like, 2 hours. I am constantly yelling at them to hurry it up. We get into Cascone's, order, and the kids are completely done by 8:00. What the??? So we stretch the time out by making them drink every last drop of the huge mugs of cocoa we ordered and then taking them all to the restroom, one by one.
We get back to Union Station by 8:45. The ticket guy says, "10:15." Ten fifteen!!!! I have an hour and a half with five very tired kids in a now, very crowded waiting room (note to self: if the train is late don't go out to breakfast or you will not get seats in the waiting room) with all that luggage. Lord, help me! Joe had to leave or he was going to miss his flight. I found a couple of seats next to each other (OK, what really happened was I made the kids squeeze in until the woman, who had PLENTY OF ROOM to do so, moved down a bit). Then I got a chair that was hiding in a corner and brought it over and sat in it. Bella made a bed out of the duffels, covered herself with jackets and took a nap. The girls took out their drawing supplies and got to work. Noah read and Charlie busied himself by studying all the other people waiting right along with us. They were SO GOOD! I was even able to play my new, hand-held Yahtzee game that I got for Christmas and thought I would never use. It was pleasant and the time went rather quickly. At 9:55, a voice came on the PA. All it said was, "10:55." I get up to see what's going on, but the grate to the ticket window is closed and the ticket guys have magically vanished into thin air.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! Lord! I am with 5 children! They are tired! I cannot believe that they are not cranky! But I KNOW it's coming! Make the train come now! Pick it up and bring it here! Please!!!!!"
It is good that most people cannot see what you are thinking. So, while the above outburst is happening, privately, in my brain, I hand out bagels. Again, the children are well behaved. They sit. They eat. They throw their garbage in the can without having to be reminded.
At 10:55, and unusual thing happened. As if on cue, everyone in the waiting room got up, picked up their stuff, and formed a line that began at the door to the tracks. The kids and I dragged all our stuff and stood on line, too. Charlie started to get antsy. Poor guy. I couldn't blame him. But I was armed with lots of chewing gum and I wasn't afraid to use it. The gum calmed him down. Noah and Genevieve begin to bicker. The usual "he/she's touching me" stuff. Honestly, I can't blame them...they have been awake for over 5 hours at this point and they are tired. We stand there..and stand there. I look at my phone. 11:30. "If I drove," I think, "I would have been close to the Mississippi by now."
We wait some more. I find myself sighing a lot. Finally we see someone come into the door from the track. More people follow. There is no announcement, but all of a sudden a guy in a blue hat appears and starts taking tickets. Wahoo! We shuffle up to the door with our bags and onto the icy walk that is very long and will take you to either a very slick stairway down to the platform or an elevator. I opt for the elevator. We wait for the elevator. The elevator doesn't come. We wait some more. I panic. What if we miss the train because we are waiting for the elevator? Finally, it shows up and we get down to the platform. There is a conductor right there. We drag our bags over to him and I ask him where we need to be if we want to go to Chicago. He points toward the end of the train. "See that vary last car? That's where you want to be." Of course...of course it is. So we haul butt down there and the conductor relieves us of the heavier bags and we go up top to find a seat. Finally, at 12:10 p.m., the train departs.
The ride was really pleasant. The train wasn't crowded, so we had double seats all to ourselves. I played Yahtzee all the way through Iowa and got a high score of 416..all right! The kids drew, read and snacked. Angelina made a bed out of a sweatshirt and a jacket and napped most of the way.
When we got to the station, the door was frozen shut and the conductor had to kick it in, but other than that the landing was fine. I call my Dad and let him know we are there. He tells me he will be there in 5 minutes. It was a cold 5 minutes. He calls me again. "I can see you...can you see me?" I look all around. Can't see anyone. The place looks deserted. "Look over here!" he yells. WHERE? We keep walking and dragging the bags until I hear someone yelling. I hang up the phone and look up. He is standing right there. Whew!
Our visit was good. Didn't get to see everyone we wanted to, but the kids saw their cousins and friends and had lots of fun.
The train home was scheduled for 3:50 p.m. We picked up some fast food to bring for dinner and the train actually arrived on time... a good sign! We get on the train and the conductor tells me to get seats downstairs because the majority of the ones upstairs are full. I look around. There are 12 seats total. Six have no one in them, but one of those has a briefcase in it, like someone left it there to save their seat. "Sir," I say to the conductor, "It looks like there are not enough seats." He ROLLS HIS EYES at me. I try to be polite. "Um, I am traveling with 4 minors and an adult with autism and we really need to be together." He presses his lips together and then emits an exasperated sigh. "Those are the seats I have," he says firmly. "OK, I tell you what," I say, sweetly, "I will go find an empty seat upstairs and let the kids stay down here, but understand that there will be 4 minors and an adult with autism unsupervised for 7 hours to Kansas City." A man appears behind him and says, nervously, "You want me to start shuffling people around up there?" At this point I think the conductor is going to blow. Then Bella comes to the rescue. She asked around and the briefcase doesn't seem to belong to anyone in the car. So I give the briefcase to the exasperated conductor and we take the seats. He puts the briefcase in with the other bags and leaves. "Great," I think, "It's probably a bomb and it is about 3 feet from me and my kids...what a way to go." Then I say my usual prayers of protection for the kids, but with a bit more fervor this time.
The ride home was not as blissful as the ride there. The car was hot and the kids made about 2,487 trips to the bathroom, which was, conveniently, just outside the door. At least one of the kids wanted to get up every 26.4 seconds and I couldn't get through one Yahtzee game without being interrupted by a child doing the pee pee dance. But we survived. The train was only 9 minutes late into Union Station. By the time we pulled into the garage, it was close to midnight and everyone was so very happy to be home and sleeping in their own beds. I am sure the conductor was happy we were home, too.
The station we were going to in IL, wasn't equipped to accept checked bags, so we had to do all carry ons. Me, Joe, 5 kids, 3 duffels, 1 pullman, 3 backpacks and 1 suitcase arrived at Union Station, at 7 a.m., in anticipation of the 7:45 train to IL. Joe was going to stay just long enough to get us onto the train, because he had a flight to California a bit later in the day. The best laid plans...
We get to Union Station and drag our bags to the waiting room, then I go to the ticket counter to get my tickets. When you make reservations on Amtrak, all you get is a bar code to print out, then you have to get the tickets the day of your trip. When I get up there, the ticket guy tells me the train isn't scheduled to depart until 9:30 a.m. ARRGGHH!
I go into the waiting room and break the news. We decide to take the kids out for breakfast and then come back. "Be back here at 8:45 or you'll miss the train," the ticket guy tells me. We have an hour and a half at this point. So we rush out to Cascone's and order breakfast. Now, when we are at home, and whether the kids eat cereal for breakfast or bacon and eggs, it always takes, like, 2 hours. I am constantly yelling at them to hurry it up. We get into Cascone's, order, and the kids are completely done by 8:00. What the??? So we stretch the time out by making them drink every last drop of the huge mugs of cocoa we ordered and then taking them all to the restroom, one by one.
We get back to Union Station by 8:45. The ticket guy says, "10:15." Ten fifteen!!!! I have an hour and a half with five very tired kids in a now, very crowded waiting room (note to self: if the train is late don't go out to breakfast or you will not get seats in the waiting room) with all that luggage. Lord, help me! Joe had to leave or he was going to miss his flight. I found a couple of seats next to each other (OK, what really happened was I made the kids squeeze in until the woman, who had PLENTY OF ROOM to do so, moved down a bit). Then I got a chair that was hiding in a corner and brought it over and sat in it. Bella made a bed out of the duffels, covered herself with jackets and took a nap. The girls took out their drawing supplies and got to work. Noah read and Charlie busied himself by studying all the other people waiting right along with us. They were SO GOOD! I was even able to play my new, hand-held Yahtzee game that I got for Christmas and thought I would never use. It was pleasant and the time went rather quickly. At 9:55, a voice came on the PA. All it said was, "10:55." I get up to see what's going on, but the grate to the ticket window is closed and the ticket guys have magically vanished into thin air.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! Lord! I am with 5 children! They are tired! I cannot believe that they are not cranky! But I KNOW it's coming! Make the train come now! Pick it up and bring it here! Please!!!!!"
It is good that most people cannot see what you are thinking. So, while the above outburst is happening, privately, in my brain, I hand out bagels. Again, the children are well behaved. They sit. They eat. They throw their garbage in the can without having to be reminded.
At 10:55, and unusual thing happened. As if on cue, everyone in the waiting room got up, picked up their stuff, and formed a line that began at the door to the tracks. The kids and I dragged all our stuff and stood on line, too. Charlie started to get antsy. Poor guy. I couldn't blame him. But I was armed with lots of chewing gum and I wasn't afraid to use it. The gum calmed him down. Noah and Genevieve begin to bicker. The usual "he/she's touching me" stuff. Honestly, I can't blame them...they have been awake for over 5 hours at this point and they are tired. We stand there..and stand there. I look at my phone. 11:30. "If I drove," I think, "I would have been close to the Mississippi by now."
We wait some more. I find myself sighing a lot. Finally we see someone come into the door from the track. More people follow. There is no announcement, but all of a sudden a guy in a blue hat appears and starts taking tickets. Wahoo! We shuffle up to the door with our bags and onto the icy walk that is very long and will take you to either a very slick stairway down to the platform or an elevator. I opt for the elevator. We wait for the elevator. The elevator doesn't come. We wait some more. I panic. What if we miss the train because we are waiting for the elevator? Finally, it shows up and we get down to the platform. There is a conductor right there. We drag our bags over to him and I ask him where we need to be if we want to go to Chicago. He points toward the end of the train. "See that vary last car? That's where you want to be." Of course...of course it is. So we haul butt down there and the conductor relieves us of the heavier bags and we go up top to find a seat. Finally, at 12:10 p.m., the train departs.
The ride was really pleasant. The train wasn't crowded, so we had double seats all to ourselves. I played Yahtzee all the way through Iowa and got a high score of 416..all right! The kids drew, read and snacked. Angelina made a bed out of a sweatshirt and a jacket and napped most of the way.
When we got to the station, the door was frozen shut and the conductor had to kick it in, but other than that the landing was fine. I call my Dad and let him know we are there. He tells me he will be there in 5 minutes. It was a cold 5 minutes. He calls me again. "I can see you...can you see me?" I look all around. Can't see anyone. The place looks deserted. "Look over here!" he yells. WHERE? We keep walking and dragging the bags until I hear someone yelling. I hang up the phone and look up. He is standing right there. Whew!
Our visit was good. Didn't get to see everyone we wanted to, but the kids saw their cousins and friends and had lots of fun.
The train home was scheduled for 3:50 p.m. We picked up some fast food to bring for dinner and the train actually arrived on time... a good sign! We get on the train and the conductor tells me to get seats downstairs because the majority of the ones upstairs are full. I look around. There are 12 seats total. Six have no one in them, but one of those has a briefcase in it, like someone left it there to save their seat. "Sir," I say to the conductor, "It looks like there are not enough seats." He ROLLS HIS EYES at me. I try to be polite. "Um, I am traveling with 4 minors and an adult with autism and we really need to be together." He presses his lips together and then emits an exasperated sigh. "Those are the seats I have," he says firmly. "OK, I tell you what," I say, sweetly, "I will go find an empty seat upstairs and let the kids stay down here, but understand that there will be 4 minors and an adult with autism unsupervised for 7 hours to Kansas City." A man appears behind him and says, nervously, "You want me to start shuffling people around up there?" At this point I think the conductor is going to blow. Then Bella comes to the rescue. She asked around and the briefcase doesn't seem to belong to anyone in the car. So I give the briefcase to the exasperated conductor and we take the seats. He puts the briefcase in with the other bags and leaves. "Great," I think, "It's probably a bomb and it is about 3 feet from me and my kids...what a way to go." Then I say my usual prayers of protection for the kids, but with a bit more fervor this time.
The ride home was not as blissful as the ride there. The car was hot and the kids made about 2,487 trips to the bathroom, which was, conveniently, just outside the door. At least one of the kids wanted to get up every 26.4 seconds and I couldn't get through one Yahtzee game without being interrupted by a child doing the pee pee dance. But we survived. The train was only 9 minutes late into Union Station. By the time we pulled into the garage, it was close to midnight and everyone was so very happy to be home and sleeping in their own beds. I am sure the conductor was happy we were home, too.
Friday, October 9, 2009
You Must Become Like a Child
I went to NY for a week in August, to see my grandmother, who is 87. She had a lung removed about 9 years ago and we had just found out that the remaining lung has a malignancy. I hadn't seen her in 3 years, so I wanted to go, and I brought 2 of my kids.
I had planned on making a vacation of it, and seeing everyone I ever knew since birth, but when I saw Grandma all of that went out the window, and I just spent the time with her, mostly.
She is not getting a lot of oxygen, due to the lack of a lung, so she has developed some dementia. Thankfully, she remembers people, but she forgets events. She still lives alone, due to the fact that all her children live very far away and she refuses to budge. She does have Mary, a wonderful woman who comes every day for a couple hours to bathe her and do some housekeeping, as well as keep her company.
We went over there every day for hours and just sat with her. When we would arrive, the door would be wide open.
"Grandma," I would say, "You have to keep the door locked."
"But I like it open."
"What would you do if a thief came in the door?" I ask.
She looks up, waves her hand in the air, smiles and says, "Hi!"
"Not the proper response," I sigh.
"Well," she says, "I don't have anything worth taking!"
"OK, let's try another approach. What if a murderer came in the door, then what would you do?"
She thinks for a moment, cocks her head to the side and says, reluctantly, "I guess I should keep the door locked."
Over the week I worked with her on that, asking all the time if the door was locked, why did it need to be locked, etc. She did pretty well by the end of the week. I don't know if she is still doing it, though.
She used to be pretty high strung, before the dementia. Now she is as happy as a clam and nothing phases her. She is like a baby, in that way. Once, we came over in the evening and she was sitting in her usual place; the comfortable chair in the corner, by the TV, with the cat at her feet. She was watching an infomercial about room heaters.
"Grandma?" What are you watching?"
"What am I watching?" she asks, incredulously.
"It is an infomercial. Do you know what that is?"
"Infomercial? No."
"It is big long commercial."
"A commercial!" she laughs and slaps her knee.
"Do you want to buy that thing?" I chuckle.
"Me? Nooooo," she says.
"Then why are you watching it?" I ask.
She shakes her head and gives a toothless grin. "Why am I watching it?"
She enjoys eating. Her favorite is Entenmann's crumb cake. We replenish her stash and the kids get hooked on it. We decide to eat our way through NY, because the kids have never had authentic NY food. We get take out from my favorite childhood burger joint. We get pizza. We go out for Chinese food.
"I can't eat much," she says as we settle in at the table in the Chinese buffet.
She gets a small plate of food and polishes it off immediately.
"Let me get you some more," I offer.
"OK," she says, "Some more chicken...and some egg foo young."
"I'll be right back," I say. Then she calls over her shoulder, "Fried rice!"
One night we had coffee and I put some French vanilla creamer in it for her. My Uncle Tom is a top-notch baker and he had left a chocolate mousse cake, so I cut her a piece. "Uhmmmmm...I love this cake...this is SO delicious. What did you put in the coffee?" She smacks her lips. "Mmmmmm." We should all enjoy our food as much as Grandma does.
The night before we had to leave I have a conversation with Grandma.
"You know we've been here for a whole week, Grandma."
"A whole week," she answers, nodding.
"I am so glad we came, but we have to go home tomorrow."
"Home? But I am so used to you being here now... Stay!" she says, slapping her leg.
I can feel my throat closing as I whisper, "I wish I could, Grandma, but you know I have to get back home so Joe can work and I can take care of the kids."
I go into her kitchen and cry. I wish I could take her home with me and take care of her, but that is an impossibility.
The next day I wake up early, with Grandma on my mind. We were going to breakfast with my childhood friend, Denise, and her family, who patiently put us up in their house for a whole week. I decide to make a quick stop at Grandma's before breakfast and then spend the rest of the time there between breakfast and our departure for the airport. We pull up in front of the house and immediately I sense something amiss. It looks empty and Mary should be there at this time, but there is no car in the driveway. I go up the stairway and knock. While I am waiting I notice a neighbor walking over.
"They took her away in an ambulance just a little while ago."
"But...but she was fine when I left her last night," I stammer.
"Well, I don't think it was very serious, because they didn't have the siren on, but I thought I should come out and tell you." I thank her and then call my Aunt Andrea, who lives in New Jersey and is Grandma's primary care giver. She tells me she is on the way to NY and which hospital Grandma will be in. I find out later my grandmother has been diagnosed with pneumonia. I don't know how she can possibly survive that with one lung.
When we get to the hospital, Aunt Andrea is asking Grandma about the Do Not Resuscitate order. "I know you have one at home, but do you want one for this hospital stay?" Grandma cocks her head to the side and ponders. "Mom, do you understand? Do you want them to revive you if your heart stops?" she asks, with tears in her eyes. "Natural," Grandma answers. "I am ready to meet Jesus."
My Aunt and I both burst into tears. "Why are you crying?" she scolds, "I am ready." She grins, "Hey, what do you expect? I'm 87 years old...I'm pushing 90 here!"
And then it hits me. Scripture says you must become like a child to enter the kingdom of heaven. This is what God has done for my grandmother. What a gift. She is exactly like a child. And she is there with arms wide open, embracing both life and death.
Miraculously, she made it out of the hospital. One day I call her to chat.
"When are you going to come to see me? You live so far away. When do I get to see your kids?" she asks.
"Grandma, I was just there for a week, with Noah and Bella, remember?"
"A week?"
"Yes, remember we had Chinese food and burgers from the Good Steer? You loved the cole slaw. I got you extra cole slaw," I reply, wistfully.
"Burgers? We did?"
"Yes, Grandma; we did. And we had fun." I remind her.
"We had fun," she says decidedly.
"I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it." Luke 18:17
I had planned on making a vacation of it, and seeing everyone I ever knew since birth, but when I saw Grandma all of that went out the window, and I just spent the time with her, mostly.
She is not getting a lot of oxygen, due to the lack of a lung, so she has developed some dementia. Thankfully, she remembers people, but she forgets events. She still lives alone, due to the fact that all her children live very far away and she refuses to budge. She does have Mary, a wonderful woman who comes every day for a couple hours to bathe her and do some housekeeping, as well as keep her company.
We went over there every day for hours and just sat with her. When we would arrive, the door would be wide open.
"Grandma," I would say, "You have to keep the door locked."
"But I like it open."
"What would you do if a thief came in the door?" I ask.
She looks up, waves her hand in the air, smiles and says, "Hi!"
"Not the proper response," I sigh.
"Well," she says, "I don't have anything worth taking!"
"OK, let's try another approach. What if a murderer came in the door, then what would you do?"
She thinks for a moment, cocks her head to the side and says, reluctantly, "I guess I should keep the door locked."
Over the week I worked with her on that, asking all the time if the door was locked, why did it need to be locked, etc. She did pretty well by the end of the week. I don't know if she is still doing it, though.
She used to be pretty high strung, before the dementia. Now she is as happy as a clam and nothing phases her. She is like a baby, in that way. Once, we came over in the evening and she was sitting in her usual place; the comfortable chair in the corner, by the TV, with the cat at her feet. She was watching an infomercial about room heaters.
"Grandma?" What are you watching?"
"What am I watching?" she asks, incredulously.
"It is an infomercial. Do you know what that is?"
"Infomercial? No."
"It is big long commercial."
"A commercial!" she laughs and slaps her knee.
"Do you want to buy that thing?" I chuckle.
"Me? Nooooo," she says.
"Then why are you watching it?" I ask.
She shakes her head and gives a toothless grin. "Why am I watching it?"
She enjoys eating. Her favorite is Entenmann's crumb cake. We replenish her stash and the kids get hooked on it. We decide to eat our way through NY, because the kids have never had authentic NY food. We get take out from my favorite childhood burger joint. We get pizza. We go out for Chinese food.
"I can't eat much," she says as we settle in at the table in the Chinese buffet.
She gets a small plate of food and polishes it off immediately.
"Let me get you some more," I offer.
"OK," she says, "Some more chicken...and some egg foo young."
"I'll be right back," I say. Then she calls over her shoulder, "Fried rice!"
One night we had coffee and I put some French vanilla creamer in it for her. My Uncle Tom is a top-notch baker and he had left a chocolate mousse cake, so I cut her a piece. "Uhmmmmm...I love this cake...this is SO delicious. What did you put in the coffee?" She smacks her lips. "Mmmmmm." We should all enjoy our food as much as Grandma does.
The night before we had to leave I have a conversation with Grandma.
"You know we've been here for a whole week, Grandma."
"A whole week," she answers, nodding.
"I am so glad we came, but we have to go home tomorrow."
"Home? But I am so used to you being here now... Stay!" she says, slapping her leg.
I can feel my throat closing as I whisper, "I wish I could, Grandma, but you know I have to get back home so Joe can work and I can take care of the kids."
I go into her kitchen and cry. I wish I could take her home with me and take care of her, but that is an impossibility.
The next day I wake up early, with Grandma on my mind. We were going to breakfast with my childhood friend, Denise, and her family, who patiently put us up in their house for a whole week. I decide to make a quick stop at Grandma's before breakfast and then spend the rest of the time there between breakfast and our departure for the airport. We pull up in front of the house and immediately I sense something amiss. It looks empty and Mary should be there at this time, but there is no car in the driveway. I go up the stairway and knock. While I am waiting I notice a neighbor walking over.
"They took her away in an ambulance just a little while ago."
"But...but she was fine when I left her last night," I stammer.
"Well, I don't think it was very serious, because they didn't have the siren on, but I thought I should come out and tell you." I thank her and then call my Aunt Andrea, who lives in New Jersey and is Grandma's primary care giver. She tells me she is on the way to NY and which hospital Grandma will be in. I find out later my grandmother has been diagnosed with pneumonia. I don't know how she can possibly survive that with one lung.
When we get to the hospital, Aunt Andrea is asking Grandma about the Do Not Resuscitate order. "I know you have one at home, but do you want one for this hospital stay?" Grandma cocks her head to the side and ponders. "Mom, do you understand? Do you want them to revive you if your heart stops?" she asks, with tears in her eyes. "Natural," Grandma answers. "I am ready to meet Jesus."
My Aunt and I both burst into tears. "Why are you crying?" she scolds, "I am ready." She grins, "Hey, what do you expect? I'm 87 years old...I'm pushing 90 here!"
And then it hits me. Scripture says you must become like a child to enter the kingdom of heaven. This is what God has done for my grandmother. What a gift. She is exactly like a child. And she is there with arms wide open, embracing both life and death.
Miraculously, she made it out of the hospital. One day I call her to chat.
"When are you going to come to see me? You live so far away. When do I get to see your kids?" she asks.
"Grandma, I was just there for a week, with Noah and Bella, remember?"
"A week?"
"Yes, remember we had Chinese food and burgers from the Good Steer? You loved the cole slaw. I got you extra cole slaw," I reply, wistfully.
"Burgers? We did?"
"Yes, Grandma; we did. And we had fun." I remind her.
"We had fun," she says decidedly.
"I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it." Luke 18:17
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Gimme a Hand
We were eating dinner tonight and all of a sudden I see a black, shiny hand on the table. I look around and everyone's hands seem to be accounted for. "Who's the gorilla?" I ask. Everyone looks at the hand, which begins to tap Noah on the shoulder. Genevieve starts to grin. It is her FOOT, with a black leather glove on it.
Deep in the recesses of my mind, I have a fleeting thought. Something about table manners. But it goes away when I burst out laughing. Everyone joins in. Noah is laughing the hardest, because she is right next to him. "Hey, Genevieve," he giggles, "Snap your fingers!" Then Joe caves and puts a fork in the "hand." She is wiggling it all around. Needless to say, the rest of dinner was far from calm.
But we had fun.
Deep in the recesses of my mind, I have a fleeting thought. Something about table manners. But it goes away when I burst out laughing. Everyone joins in. Noah is laughing the hardest, because she is right next to him. "Hey, Genevieve," he giggles, "Snap your fingers!" Then Joe caves and puts a fork in the "hand." She is wiggling it all around. Needless to say, the rest of dinner was far from calm.
But we had fun.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Music to My Ears
Today, after he got home from school, Charlie crashed on his bed and hummed the entire Dance of the Hours, by Ponchielli.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
I'd Rather Roast the Chicken
Bella told Joe and I a joke today:
What's the difference between roast chicken and pea soup?
Anybody can roast a chicken!
What's the difference between roast chicken and pea soup?
Anybody can roast a chicken!
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Woe at Walmart
We were at Walmart for 3 hours. I brought the 4 younger kids with me. I talked the entire time. Here is what I said:
OK, everybody our of the car..lock the doors...I said lock the doors...where is Genevieve?..Genevieve, come here...yes, you can sit in the cart...where is that thing I was returning...darn! it's in the car...back to the car, kids...no, we should all go...stay by the car...no, we cannot get Subway for lunch...where are the bandaids...stay close to the cart...don't touch that...Halloween costumes?..well, we can look...(sees a provocative nun costume with a mini-habit)...oh, my! let's not look, after all...yes, the candy looks good...six weeks until Halloween...we don't need candy yet...remember I said you can have a yogurt as a treat...yes, you can get the chocolate kind...don't touch that...don't touch that...OK, let's pull over...what did I say you can touch in the store?..very good...NOTHING...NOTHING means NOTHING, remember...stay close enough to touch the cart...oh, for Pete sakes, I forgot to get the hand soap refill...this way, kids...I said this way...where's Noah?..let's stay together...yes, Genevieve, you can get out of the cart...let's look for paper plates...not those...here are the ones we use...Dad needs a rake?...are you sure...call Dad...you need a rake...a metal rake?..OK, got it...no, you may not hold it...let me put it in the cart...you can pick out yogurt now...watch the rake...yes, I said chocolate is OK...one each...someone is coming, get behind me...watch the rake...no, you may not have new toothpaste until the old one is running out...let me look over here...where is Genevieve?..get out from behind that clothing rack...I said get out...come over here...OK, I am putting the yogurt back...no, you do not come over here and expect the yogurt...Noah, Bella, go put this back and meet me at the check out...thanks for helping...put the heavy stuff on first...watch the rake...Noah, Bella, over here...Noah take the rake...NO TWIRLING THE RAKE...don't put the shampoo on top of the light bulbs...the bread..the bread!..OK that goes on last...thank you for helping load the cart, Bella...let me find my debit card...the rake stays STRAIGHT UP AND DOWN...stay by the cart...hold onto me...I need to get the keys...watch the rake...the bread goes in the car last...buckle up...now, please...when we get home please help unload...yes, I did put the yogurt back...did you behave?..maybe next time...OK, everyone take a bag...these things go inside the house...come out after you put them in...Noah! Bella! Genevieve! Angelina! I said come back out!...yogurt after lunch...PLEASE wash your hands NOW...yes, with soap...
OK, everybody our of the car..lock the doors...I said lock the doors...where is Genevieve?..Genevieve, come here...yes, you can sit in the cart...where is that thing I was returning...darn! it's in the car...back to the car, kids...no, we should all go...stay by the car...no, we cannot get Subway for lunch...where are the bandaids...stay close to the cart...don't touch that...Halloween costumes?..well, we can look...(sees a provocative nun costume with a mini-habit)...oh, my! let's not look, after all...yes, the candy looks good...six weeks until Halloween...we don't need candy yet...remember I said you can have a yogurt as a treat...yes, you can get the chocolate kind...don't touch that...don't touch that...OK, let's pull over...what did I say you can touch in the store?..very good...NOTHING...NOTHING means NOTHING, remember...stay close enough to touch the cart...oh, for Pete sakes, I forgot to get the hand soap refill...this way, kids...I said this way...where's Noah?..let's stay together...yes, Genevieve, you can get out of the cart...let's look for paper plates...not those...here are the ones we use...Dad needs a rake?...are you sure...call Dad...you need a rake...a metal rake?..OK, got it...no, you may not hold it...let me put it in the cart...you can pick out yogurt now...watch the rake...yes, I said chocolate is OK...one each...someone is coming, get behind me...watch the rake...no, you may not have new toothpaste until the old one is running out...let me look over here...where is Genevieve?..get out from behind that clothing rack...I said get out...come over here...OK, I am putting the yogurt back...no, you do not come over here and expect the yogurt...Noah, Bella, go put this back and meet me at the check out...thanks for helping...put the heavy stuff on first...watch the rake...Noah, Bella, over here...Noah take the rake...NO TWIRLING THE RAKE...don't put the shampoo on top of the light bulbs...the bread..the bread!..OK that goes on last...thank you for helping load the cart, Bella...let me find my debit card...the rake stays STRAIGHT UP AND DOWN...stay by the cart...hold onto me...I need to get the keys...watch the rake...the bread goes in the car last...buckle up...now, please...when we get home please help unload...yes, I did put the yogurt back...did you behave?..maybe next time...OK, everyone take a bag...these things go inside the house...come out after you put them in...Noah! Bella! Genevieve! Angelina! I said come back out!...yogurt after lunch...PLEASE wash your hands NOW...yes, with soap...
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
He's No Jerry Lewis...
We started school today. All of our books aren't in, but we have the majority of them, so I decided to just start with what we've got. Last night I filled out the white board that we have hanging in our dining room. I wrote a welcome sign, the date and what I've decided is our new school motto. The kids are learning French, so I chose the French equivalent of "no pain, no gain." I wrote "Il faut casser le noyau, pour avoir l'amande." Literally translated, it means, "You have to break the shell to get the almond."
Noah saw it first and asked Joe what it meant. Joe doesn't speak any French, so, of course, he made his answer up, based on what the words looked like to him.
He looks at the words, "Il faut casser le noyau, pour avoir l'amande," and says, "I'll fight Caesar, Noah, until you pour the lemonade." What a wiseguy.
So, this morning I am giving the usual start-of-the-year lecture on how the kids need to try their best, blah, blah, blah, and the kids are all giggling. Of course Noah told them what Joe said. So now our new school motto is: "I'll fight Caesar until you pour the lemonade."
I guess it could be worse. It could be any one of the following:
I'll play video games until my eyes fall out.
I will misbehave until you put me up for adoption.
I will ignore you until you fade away into nothingness, never to return.
So...I guess the new school motto isn't so bad, after all. Thanks, Joe.
Noah saw it first and asked Joe what it meant. Joe doesn't speak any French, so, of course, he made his answer up, based on what the words looked like to him.
He looks at the words, "Il faut casser le noyau, pour avoir l'amande," and says, "I'll fight Caesar, Noah, until you pour the lemonade." What a wiseguy.
So, this morning I am giving the usual start-of-the-year lecture on how the kids need to try their best, blah, blah, blah, and the kids are all giggling. Of course Noah told them what Joe said. So now our new school motto is: "I'll fight Caesar until you pour the lemonade."
I guess it could be worse. It could be any one of the following:
I'll play video games until my eyes fall out.
I will misbehave until you put me up for adoption.
I will ignore you until you fade away into nothingness, never to return.
So...I guess the new school motto isn't so bad, after all. Thanks, Joe.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
D'oh!
Charlie ate 6 donuts today.
We got a dozen Krispy Cremes and each child ate one. Stupidly, we left the box on the table. Now there are 2 left.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
He's Quick!
I went to make chocolate milk recently and when I opened the pantry I found that Charlie had eaten all the rest of the Nesquick out of the container with a spoon, which was still inside the empty container.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Seven Weeks
The new job Joe had just wasn't doing it for our family. It was no one's fault. They couldn't pay him what he had been making and the commissions were taking way too long to come in. I could see his frustration every day when he would get home from work. I prayed. What else could I do? I had cut our budget to the core.
One day he calls me from work to tell me that he was approached by a company, let's call them Company W, to interview for a position. I encourage him to go for it, so Joe starts the interview process. Several days later, he gets a call from Company L, asking him to interview for a job at their company. We can see God's hand in all this, so he goes for both W and L jobs. He has a series of 3 meetings with W and then we wait. In the meantime, he has a phone interview with L and then they call him and ask him to write a proposal of what he would do should he get the job. Perfect timing. The kids and I had planned to go back to IL to visit during the week Joe had to do the writing, so he would have peace and quiet to concentrate on writing.
When we are in IL, I have the chance to visit a wonderful priest; let's call him Fr. Skinny. Fr. Skinny is one of those priests who totally understands that as Christ's representative here on earth, he should minister to more than just the people who show up at his church on Sundays. He tells me to come out and he will do a Mass just for us. Charlie and I make the drive to his church. He just remodeled it and he shows us around. It is absolutely breathtaking. When you walk in, you are definitely aware that you are in the presence of God. We assist at Mass. After Mass Fr. S anoints me with holy oil and prays over me that Joe and I will prosper and be fruitful. "I am your spiritual father," he says, "and I impart upon you my fatherly blessing on your marriage, family and finances." I start to cry because I know that God is working through him and these blessings come straight from heaven. He prays for any healing that may be needed for those on my family tree and then he anoints and blesses Charlie. After all that, we go to lunch. "It's on me!" he proclaims. I protest. "Am I your spiritual father?" he asks. "Yes," I say, reluctantly, because I can see the trick he is using. "Then I bind you to obedience. I'm paying and that is that," he says, with an impish grin.
When we get back to my parent's where we were staying, they get a call that they have a showing the next day. They have been trying to sell their house for quite some time and are feeling rather frustrated. We all clear out the next morning and give the realtor time to do his thing. When we come back the get a call from their agent that the people loved it and will be making an offer. My parents are ecstatic. Quietly I whisper a prayer of thanksgiving. Fr. S's blessings were meant for my whole family, after all. The next day we go look at a townhome my parents have had their eye on. They make an offer and it is accepted. Everyone is happy.
The kids and I head back to IL and a couple of weeks go by with no word from either company on the jobs. Joe calls company L, his preferred choice, and asks them what is up. They get back to him right away and set up a phone interview with one of the owners. I e-mail everyone we know and ask for prayers. The interview went well. We continue to wait.
In the meantime, I ask everyone at church to keep praying. One woman, Terry, who I barely know, approached me each week after Mass to let me know she is still praying. Our pastor even checks in on how things are going. The church secretary, all the Knights and women from the ladies' auxilliary are praying for us as well.
One day, a letter arrives from Company W. Uh oh. Letters aren't good. I call Joe and he tells me to open it and read it to him. It is a rejection letter. Well, he tried his best and that is all I could possibly have asked of him. As I am reading the letter all of a sudden I am infused with peace. In my heart I can hear a voice whispering, "He didn't get this job because I have something so much better in store for you." There it is, my favorite bible verse from Jeremiah 29:11-14, happening right here, right now. God is so good.
We pray, we wait...
One day I get a call from the Ladies' Auxilliary to sub at Bunco. A night out for me? I am SO there! During the day I say my usual prayers for Joe to get a better job. "If he is going to get this job with L, please give me a sign; let me win the big prize at Bunco." Then I feel guilty. Did I just test God? I don't know. So I apologize to Him and go put my lipstick on and flat iron my hair, so the other Bunco women don't run away screaming when I show up.
I thought Bunco started at 6. It was 6:30, so I steal away into the church sanctuary to spend some time with Jesus. I am so tired of praying for the job that I just bask in His presence and remain silent. Then, I go play Bunco. I wound up losing half and winning half the games. I did get 3 Buncos, though. I had no idea if this was good or bad, being a newbie. When it comes time to award the prizes, they ask if anyone has gotten more than 5 Bunco's. Silence. Four? More silence. "Three?" they ask. I put my hand up. "I got three." They all shout, "You are the big winner of the night!" I won $33. But, more than that, I had God's assurance that all would be well.
Joe gets a call from L. They are flying him to L.A., to their corporate headquarters, where he will be expected to do a presentation for 6 of the top honchos. Oh, my... Joe spends hours working on the presentation, perfecting it. Everyone keeps praying. The kids and I are going to daily Mass and offering it up for Joe. Friends of ours in IL have been going to daily Mass at 6:30 a.m. for our intention as well. I feel like the world is storming heaven for us. I pull out the big guns; I ask my grandmother and my Great Aunt Lena to pray as well.**
The big day comes and Joe goes to L.A. The kids and I pray all day. He calls late in the afternoon. "They can't make a decision today. One of the people who was supposed to be at the interview couldn't make it, but they will let me know this week." The waiting is just excruciating...
The next day he gets a call from HR at L. They want to set up a phone interview with the founder of the company. He calls and talks to Joe for about 10 minutes. Joe calls me and tells me he seems like a real nice guy. I almost can't hear him, I am so weary. I pray more and berate myself for not trusting as much as I should. The reading at Mass recently was about how Lot's wife looked back. I feel like Lot's wife. "Just look forward," I remind myself. Joe calls again. They want him to stop by the KC office that afternoon to meet the person who has the job temporarily. "OK," I say, "and then they want you to meet the owner's Aunt Cloris, with the mustache, who has a Yorkshire terrier named after her late husband, Fred. After that you need to meet Keith, the kid who bullied him in the 3rd grade and then Stella, his nanny, who made him eat every vegetable on his plate or no dessert." We both laugh, glad to break the tension for a few seconds.
I had to drive to Kansas that day and there was a detour on the way home that took me right past Company W. "Don't look back," I hear a small voice whisper in my heart. I think of Lot's wife and I resolve to quit worrying. I decide to just pray in thanksgiving for the new job, even though we haven't heard yet.
The next day is a long day. I keep calling Joe. "Anything?" "Not yet," he answers patiently. Finally, that afternoon, he calls and says he got a verbal job offer from company L, contingent upon verifying his past employment. The company pays 100% of all benefits and they have a bonus program. Actually, every small complaint he had about any other company he has ever worked for is non-existent in company L.
That night, we go out to eat (something we haven't done for over a year), on the advice of a good friend. "Kill the fatted calf, baby!" she urges. She is right. This has been such a long and painful journey, full of uncertainty. We have been uprooted from our home, we have suffered financial blows, but God has remedied all of this.
It was seven weeks from the time company L first called to the day they offered Joe the job. 49 days. I think of 40 days in the desert and how Jesus fasted the whole time. This is what my family and I have been through. Only I haven't handled it so well. I need to trust more, which is why God probably keeps putting me in these situations. Someday I will learn that lesson...
At Mass the next Sunday our pastor congratulates Joe on the job. I look for Terry and tell her the good news. She bursts out crying. "Oh, God is so good!" she proclaims.
Yes, He is.
** For those of you who are freaking out at the thought of asking a dead person to pray, here is what I have to say on that: They are not dead! They are alive in Christ and are closer to Him than we are here on earth. For those of you who balk at asking someone to pray rather than going straight to Jesus: do you ask your mother to pray for you? Do you pray for others when they ask you to? Well, you better stop all that, because that is not going directly to God, is it? Look, in the bible Jesus takes the advice of His mother (wedding at Cana, remember?). Why would He give this example for nothing? No one is more powerful than God, but it doesn't hurt to have your friends (in heaven and on earth) asking Him for help, either. Squeaky wheel gets the oil, after all...
One day he calls me from work to tell me that he was approached by a company, let's call them Company W, to interview for a position. I encourage him to go for it, so Joe starts the interview process. Several days later, he gets a call from Company L, asking him to interview for a job at their company. We can see God's hand in all this, so he goes for both W and L jobs. He has a series of 3 meetings with W and then we wait. In the meantime, he has a phone interview with L and then they call him and ask him to write a proposal of what he would do should he get the job. Perfect timing. The kids and I had planned to go back to IL to visit during the week Joe had to do the writing, so he would have peace and quiet to concentrate on writing.
When we are in IL, I have the chance to visit a wonderful priest; let's call him Fr. Skinny. Fr. Skinny is one of those priests who totally understands that as Christ's representative here on earth, he should minister to more than just the people who show up at his church on Sundays. He tells me to come out and he will do a Mass just for us. Charlie and I make the drive to his church. He just remodeled it and he shows us around. It is absolutely breathtaking. When you walk in, you are definitely aware that you are in the presence of God. We assist at Mass. After Mass Fr. S anoints me with holy oil and prays over me that Joe and I will prosper and be fruitful. "I am your spiritual father," he says, "and I impart upon you my fatherly blessing on your marriage, family and finances." I start to cry because I know that God is working through him and these blessings come straight from heaven. He prays for any healing that may be needed for those on my family tree and then he anoints and blesses Charlie. After all that, we go to lunch. "It's on me!" he proclaims. I protest. "Am I your spiritual father?" he asks. "Yes," I say, reluctantly, because I can see the trick he is using. "Then I bind you to obedience. I'm paying and that is that," he says, with an impish grin.
When we get back to my parent's where we were staying, they get a call that they have a showing the next day. They have been trying to sell their house for quite some time and are feeling rather frustrated. We all clear out the next morning and give the realtor time to do his thing. When we come back the get a call from their agent that the people loved it and will be making an offer. My parents are ecstatic. Quietly I whisper a prayer of thanksgiving. Fr. S's blessings were meant for my whole family, after all. The next day we go look at a townhome my parents have had their eye on. They make an offer and it is accepted. Everyone is happy.
The kids and I head back to IL and a couple of weeks go by with no word from either company on the jobs. Joe calls company L, his preferred choice, and asks them what is up. They get back to him right away and set up a phone interview with one of the owners. I e-mail everyone we know and ask for prayers. The interview went well. We continue to wait.
In the meantime, I ask everyone at church to keep praying. One woman, Terry, who I barely know, approached me each week after Mass to let me know she is still praying. Our pastor even checks in on how things are going. The church secretary, all the Knights and women from the ladies' auxilliary are praying for us as well.
One day, a letter arrives from Company W. Uh oh. Letters aren't good. I call Joe and he tells me to open it and read it to him. It is a rejection letter. Well, he tried his best and that is all I could possibly have asked of him. As I am reading the letter all of a sudden I am infused with peace. In my heart I can hear a voice whispering, "He didn't get this job because I have something so much better in store for you." There it is, my favorite bible verse from Jeremiah 29:11-14, happening right here, right now. God is so good.
We pray, we wait...
One day I get a call from the Ladies' Auxilliary to sub at Bunco. A night out for me? I am SO there! During the day I say my usual prayers for Joe to get a better job. "If he is going to get this job with L, please give me a sign; let me win the big prize at Bunco." Then I feel guilty. Did I just test God? I don't know. So I apologize to Him and go put my lipstick on and flat iron my hair, so the other Bunco women don't run away screaming when I show up.
I thought Bunco started at 6. It was 6:30, so I steal away into the church sanctuary to spend some time with Jesus. I am so tired of praying for the job that I just bask in His presence and remain silent. Then, I go play Bunco. I wound up losing half and winning half the games. I did get 3 Buncos, though. I had no idea if this was good or bad, being a newbie. When it comes time to award the prizes, they ask if anyone has gotten more than 5 Bunco's. Silence. Four? More silence. "Three?" they ask. I put my hand up. "I got three." They all shout, "You are the big winner of the night!" I won $33. But, more than that, I had God's assurance that all would be well.
Joe gets a call from L. They are flying him to L.A., to their corporate headquarters, where he will be expected to do a presentation for 6 of the top honchos. Oh, my... Joe spends hours working on the presentation, perfecting it. Everyone keeps praying. The kids and I are going to daily Mass and offering it up for Joe. Friends of ours in IL have been going to daily Mass at 6:30 a.m. for our intention as well. I feel like the world is storming heaven for us. I pull out the big guns; I ask my grandmother and my Great Aunt Lena to pray as well.**
The big day comes and Joe goes to L.A. The kids and I pray all day. He calls late in the afternoon. "They can't make a decision today. One of the people who was supposed to be at the interview couldn't make it, but they will let me know this week." The waiting is just excruciating...
The next day he gets a call from HR at L. They want to set up a phone interview with the founder of the company. He calls and talks to Joe for about 10 minutes. Joe calls me and tells me he seems like a real nice guy. I almost can't hear him, I am so weary. I pray more and berate myself for not trusting as much as I should. The reading at Mass recently was about how Lot's wife looked back. I feel like Lot's wife. "Just look forward," I remind myself. Joe calls again. They want him to stop by the KC office that afternoon to meet the person who has the job temporarily. "OK," I say, "and then they want you to meet the owner's Aunt Cloris, with the mustache, who has a Yorkshire terrier named after her late husband, Fred. After that you need to meet Keith, the kid who bullied him in the 3rd grade and then Stella, his nanny, who made him eat every vegetable on his plate or no dessert." We both laugh, glad to break the tension for a few seconds.
I had to drive to Kansas that day and there was a detour on the way home that took me right past Company W. "Don't look back," I hear a small voice whisper in my heart. I think of Lot's wife and I resolve to quit worrying. I decide to just pray in thanksgiving for the new job, even though we haven't heard yet.
The next day is a long day. I keep calling Joe. "Anything?" "Not yet," he answers patiently. Finally, that afternoon, he calls and says he got a verbal job offer from company L, contingent upon verifying his past employment. The company pays 100% of all benefits and they have a bonus program. Actually, every small complaint he had about any other company he has ever worked for is non-existent in company L.
That night, we go out to eat (something we haven't done for over a year), on the advice of a good friend. "Kill the fatted calf, baby!" she urges. She is right. This has been such a long and painful journey, full of uncertainty. We have been uprooted from our home, we have suffered financial blows, but God has remedied all of this.
It was seven weeks from the time company L first called to the day they offered Joe the job. 49 days. I think of 40 days in the desert and how Jesus fasted the whole time. This is what my family and I have been through. Only I haven't handled it so well. I need to trust more, which is why God probably keeps putting me in these situations. Someday I will learn that lesson...
At Mass the next Sunday our pastor congratulates Joe on the job. I look for Terry and tell her the good news. She bursts out crying. "Oh, God is so good!" she proclaims.
Yes, He is.
** For those of you who are freaking out at the thought of asking a dead person to pray, here is what I have to say on that: They are not dead! They are alive in Christ and are closer to Him than we are here on earth. For those of you who balk at asking someone to pray rather than going straight to Jesus: do you ask your mother to pray for you? Do you pray for others when they ask you to? Well, you better stop all that, because that is not going directly to God, is it? Look, in the bible Jesus takes the advice of His mother (wedding at Cana, remember?). Why would He give this example for nothing? No one is more powerful than God, but it doesn't hurt to have your friends (in heaven and on earth) asking Him for help, either. Squeaky wheel gets the oil, after all...
Sunday, June 28, 2009
School Is Never Really Out...
We were driving in the car yesterday when I overheard Noah and Bella in the back seat, discussing the Shakespeare plays they have read. They both agreed you should never read Hamlet or MacBeth before you go to sleep because they will give you nightmares. They both think A Midsummer Night's Dream is weird.
Bella: How could one guy write all those plays?
Noah: I don't know. He had a good imagination. But then there is always the Baconian Controversy...
Bella: Huh? Wha...?
Noah: The Baconian Controversy. The theory that it was not William Shakespeare, but Sir Francis Bacon that actually wrote all the works.
Bella: Bacon? Wasn't he a science monk? Oh, wait a minute, that was Roger Bacon.
I was proud of the kids. They held their own mini lit class in the car. AND they retained some of the stuff we discussed during the school year! Wahoo! The dream of every homeschool mom!
Now I'd better go brush up on my Shakespeare...
Bella: How could one guy write all those plays?
Noah: I don't know. He had a good imagination. But then there is always the Baconian Controversy...
Bella: Huh? Wha...?
Noah: The Baconian Controversy. The theory that it was not William Shakespeare, but Sir Francis Bacon that actually wrote all the works.
Bella: Bacon? Wasn't he a science monk? Oh, wait a minute, that was Roger Bacon.
I was proud of the kids. They held their own mini lit class in the car. AND they retained some of the stuff we discussed during the school year! Wahoo! The dream of every homeschool mom!
Now I'd better go brush up on my Shakespeare...
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