Miscellania on Mardi Gras. 2012.

I'm thrilled (that's the best word I can find) that it's the Eve of Lent. After all the noise--internal and external and online (whatever online is)--I'm ready to keep some serious silence. After thinking it over seriously, though, I have decided to actually try to write more here at the Philosopher Mom. Writing is not chatter for me--it breeds silence and recollection. It's a Lenten discipline.

Good-bye Facebook. (But these posts will still show up automatically!)

I'm trying to empty my head of all the loose threads: hence, the Mardi Gras Miscellania post.

1. As I was kneading some bread (you have to have good bread for Ash Wednesday), I listened to a fabulous interview on Ancient Faith Radio with Warren Farha, the owner and founder of Eighth Day Books. He had some interesting things to say about the advent of the electronic book. "Knowing" him as I do through his lists and lists of books, I don't think he's just being self-interested: He suggests there are serious theological reasons to resist throwing out the hardcovers and converting to Kindle. "We are incarnate. Our liturgy is a bodily experience." He's saying that, as human beings, we don't just encounter ideas or words in our minds or "spirits," but we encounter them in our flesh. There's something very physical about my memories of books in my life--certain covers, pages that smelled a certain way, spending an afternoon browsing along my parents' bookshelves. Some of the most forceful lines I ever read--the most formative lines--I encountered because I picked up a book and thumbed through it. I think he's on to something.

2. Getting ready for Lent. Every year, I think of at least 26 sacrifices that would be so good for me to make. Every year I end up violating even the three or four I choose to keep. Am I ready for failure again? Yes! Bring it on. Because: Did you get a load of St. James this morning? Holy Lenten failures, Batman!

3. I found this wicked cool schedule of readings in the Church Fathers. There's even a Church Fathers Readings LITE for moms like me. Check it out!

4. Does anyone know where I can get a good dose of Irenaus of Lyons? A dear friend (the same guy who told me to read Cassian) assigned him next, and it turns out that Irenaus is just not that accessible.

5. Homeschooling has been a blessing this year. Far from isolating us, it has given us a sort of home and community ready-made for us here in CT. I'm hoping to have some time to organize my thoughts on Ages of Grace and other various curricula I've been working with. Suffice it to say: do not let anyone tell you that homeschoolers are alone or without support. Sometimes you have more options and more company than is actually good for the children! When strangers ask me if I'm going to "keep doing this," I can only reply, "I hope so, with all my heart."

Time to slice strawberries and defrost that fabulous Red Velvet Cake.

Have a blessed Mardi Gras and a glorious beginning to the Great Fast. Here's Thomas Merton's poem of the Christ Child going into the desert to start you on your way.

The Flight into Egypt - 1944

Through every precinct of the wintry city
Squadroned iron resounds upon the streets;
Herod's police
Make shudder the dark steps of the tenements
At the business about to be done.

Neither look back upon Thy starry country,
Nor hear what rumors crowd across the dark
Where blood runs down those holy walls,
Nor frame a childish blessing with Thy hand
Towards that fiery spiral of exulting souls!

Go, Child of God, upon the singing desert,
Where, with eyes of flame,
The roaming lion keeps thy road from harm.

Image: StudiObrien.

Pillars of Salt.

"Just the place to bury a crock of gold," said Sebastian. "I should like to bury something precious in every place where I've been happy and then, when I was old and ugly and miserable, I could come back and dig it up and remember."

Sebastian is Evelyn Waugh's tragic bright young thing in the brilliant Brideshead Revisited. His remembering becomes worship, and he clings to his irrecoverable childhood (famously in the form of his teddy bear, Aloysius). I thought of him after a conversation about remembering. We were remembering the places where we were happy: particularly college, when the world was ours and what we did with our freedom was do things that felt holy.

For 4 years, I belonged to that small sub-population at the Catholic University of America that exists mostly in the Top 5 Catholic colleges: Thomas Aquinas, Christendom, Steubenville, the University of Dallas, and... well, praise be to God, there are more than 5 now. Here is a taste:

It's just so true.

It is possible to go to Confession weekly, attend Adoration every day, say the entire Liturgy of the Hours with your dearest friends, study the Great Books and the Doctors of the Church, and be so wrapped in a world that feels comfortingly sanctified all the time.

Get this: There is nothing wrong with that. Those college years are years of intense formation. Looking back at my habits of being, I'm starting to think that I was such a cute little puppy. Have you ever watched little puppies playing? There's a reason they play. If they don't play at being big dogs (and even sometimes think that they already are big dogs), they will never get to become big dogs. If little monkeys don't get to imitate their parents, they do not survive in the wild to become the parents of new little monkeys. My Ana Therese--now 21-months old--plays intensely at dancing, mothering, and praying. I don't grudge her this time of formation, because I know it's crucial to her growth into a young woman who knows she is loved and is capable of loving. The mother delights in her children's play. Our Father delights in our play at pleasing Him.

However. We grow up.

Eventually, the Catholic girls have to leave that bubble. We graduate (sometimes only after several degrees), we enter the workforce, we marry and have children, or we enter a religious order. We grow, and even if our daily lives continue to include the Sacraments and the prayers of the Church, that comforting feeling they once gave us will leave.

I remember when I was first married and jumped out of that puppy life. I was disoriented. Where was my structure? Where was that control? Had it all been pretend? I went into mourning, because I had become so attached to that formation period. I didn't want to take my final vows and move into adulthood. Several years into childbearing, I felt like I had completely lost myself--that Catholic girl who constantly read the Fathers and prayed for hours in the chapel was gone.

She was not gone, but she was invisible. The visible reality of my sanctity, it seemed to me, collapsed under the demands of my adult vocation. Graduates of that formation period have several reactions to the change: Some old friends have declared that all of our prayers and sacrifices were a farce. Because the farce was exposed, it had nothing enduring to offer. It was fun, but now we are beyond all that. This is not true.

It mistakes the path for the summit. It mistakes the stream for the source.

When a seed is buried in the earth and watered, it cracks wide open. It grows pale and the shell rots. The root slowly reaches down for stability, and the shoot pierces that barren earth. The years of playing at sanctity were the seed, and they have fallen away. The girl who lived as a seed is no longer a seed, but is broken and growing up. I reach for the Sun because I died.

My days do not look now like they did when I was 22, or 24, or 27. It does not mean that I'm starting all over again every time a new child is given or a new crisis strikes. When I am able to sit in a church for an hour in silence, it is water to my soul. When I can get to the Sacrament of Confession, I am complete and whole and healed.

I can no longer brag that I say the entire Rosary every day (the 3-year-old cries), wear a mantilla to Mass (the babies tear it off), fast every day of Lent (angry mommies are a near occaision of sin for children), and have read all of Benedict XVI's encyclicals. Instead, I boast in the strength of Christ, because soon He will be all I have.

It is easy to mourn the "glory days." I still hear old men exclaim, "College! The best years of my life!" They were beautiful years, but not the best. This is better, because it is closer to home. I'm not a puppy any more (more like a juvenile!), and I want to be a big dog.

Nativity 2011.

The Word was made flesh and dwelt among us. We have seen his face.



And we hope to see Him again. Merry Christmas to all! Joy and peace and all that is good, true, and beautiful.

~The Philosopher Familia

Miriam and a postcard from the volcano.

Yesterday, the Scientist Dad stayed home from the university so that I could go meet with a priest for spiritual direction and Confession. It was blessed.

This afternoon, as I sliced red peppers and whisked together the curry, 3-year-old Bella queried:

"Miwiam, why dost (she really says dost) Mummy have to go to Kerfeshun?"

The Mother Superior responded, "Well, Belly, sometimes Mommy is a Bad Catholic. So, she has to go and tell the priest, who is really Jesus just for a minute, that she was a Bad Catholic. Then she is a Good Catholic again, until she does something else bad. Then, if she wants to be a Good Catholics again, she has to go back and tell Father."

Yes. That just about sums it up. It's simple. Baptism: We are all good Catholics. We get lazy, we drift, we fall asleep on the watch, we sin. Bad Catholics. The fix is simple: if we want to be good again, we just tell father.

I loved the "if," which reminds me:

I'm finishing Lucy Beckett's A Postcard from the Volcano, a fabulous crash course in 20th-century history, the Western canon, and... well, all of Western philosophy. (I have raved about her In the Light of Christ, a more formal introduction to the canon.) Not to give it away, but one of the main characters, originally a convert to Catholicism, ends up spending three years without the sacraments. He attends Mass, sitting in the back row, but never reconciles with the Church. In effect, a Bad Catholic.

Max's dearest friend, Adam, questions him: Why has he stayed away so long? His affair had ended, his 18 months of the lusts of the world had ended, tragically in an abortion. Why had he not confessed, been absolved, and returned home? Max's answer is poignant.

During his time of "real life," in the world of sex, drugs, and jazz (no rock 'n' roll in pre-War Germany), he had found himself feeling alive, feeling unhappy, but electric. His lover would tell him, "You're not really a Prussian bureaucrat who only likes Brahms. You just look like one, talk like one, work like one. Take it all off with your clothes." And he did. He even felt relief when she had the abortion--although he also immediately left her--just because he wouldn't be tied down to her forever.

He tells Adam he is uncertain now--after it all--of who he is, what he believes, even of God's interest in him. Confession seems too certain, Mass only a fragment of his self. How can he confess a sin he enjoyed, a sin that he felt relief at?

Adam listens--and this is good--but then brings Max back to the simplicity: "Now listen to me. Eros is the only sickness for which we volunteer. You are anwerable for what happened between you and Eva, in a way that she's not, or not yet--no one knows... Your reaction to the abortion shows that you know [there was hardly any connexion between you]. It also shows that you understand the self-indulgence, the distance rom God, of the whole thing. You understood this all along. The fact that Eva didn't understand helped you to hide from the fact that you did."

Adam continues, "What I would like you to do is this. Tomorrow is Sunday. The village Mass is at nine. Come with me half an hour early and make your confession to Father Stanislaw. He's a good man--not that it matters what he's like. Tell him the simple facts. Be given absolution. be given Communion. Pray for your child. Pray for Eva. And for me."

And that is what they do. Then Max takes the train back to Breslau and realizes that he can once again play Bach. "Adam had restored him to a place where the truth was steady."

That's what Confession does. The sloth of sin and the the grime of accumulated falls make the world spin. Reality is unsteady. Was it really so bad? Did I even mess up? Does God really care?

The only clarification is in absolution. When you want to be a Good Catholic again, after you fight through all that grime and grasp the rock, the light breaks through.

I can play Bach again.

Miriam has the instinct, if her vocabulary is a little reminiscent of the 1950's CCD teacher. Mommy was, for a little while, a Good Catholic again. And I found that the truth was steady.

Come to think of it, I think Miriam's ready for her own First Confession. Next month.

Image source.

Feminine Genius: We know D.R.A.M.A.

Dorothy Day and Mother Teresa: Girls are OK.

(First, a note! Some commenters on "Abstinence in Marriage: Que Pasa?" were unceremoniusly dumped into my spam folder. Sorry! Now you're published, as you should have been long ago. Y'all are brilliant.)

After confirming that I "really have three girls," the next insight offered me by most strangers is, "Oh, your poor husband."

The third apothegm runs along the lines of consolation to the downtrodden, "Oh, well, don't worry. Girls are so much easier than boys."

If I have allowed the conversation to get this far, I am obviously too weary to deflect their advances with humor. Either that, or I have become so accustomed to the inane babblings of the pre-schooler mind that two or three more idiocies aren't likely to bother me.

But, really, people. Girls are easier than boys? Have you spent much time with a 12-year-old girl? Have you spent much time with any woman between, say, the ages of 10 1/2 and 51? I hear echoing in my head, "The days are coming, sayeth the Lord, when I shall strike the land with doom."

We are sugar and spice for about 5 years, then fade into a sweet sort of lemon-zest dessert, and then. Just plain lemon juice.

Poor Miriam. She's had a brilliant 5 weeks (almost) of homeschool. She's had a brilliant childhood, in general, to be honest. She's smart. She's gorgeous. She's good at almost anything (except opening doors or jars). She is sweet and eager to please.

But oh, the drama.

Today the world fell apart. I asked her to narrate for me (just me! her mother!) the miracle of the multiplication of the loaves and fishes. She knows this story (we've been reading it since she could talk!), she loves to narrate (she's been talking since she was 10 months!), and she has memory like glue (when she was four, she memorized an entire Dr. Seuss book!).

But today, she froze. She couldn't even begin. Because I was asking her to do something different: "Just tell me the story."

"Mommy, I can only think if you're writing it down!"

"Miriam, I'm not going to write this one down. I'm helping Belly build her Lego house, and this is also an important way of telling for you to learn. Just tell me."

Tears. A full-out fit. Neither of us backed down. But what struck me was her (ir)rationale: "Mommy, it's too embarrassing!"

Embarrassing is her code word for: I might mess up. I'm going to make a mistake. It's not worth trying, because I can't do it perfectly.

It's the same reason she won't try her new bike: I might mess up. I might get hurt. It's not worth trying.

It's the same reason she won't play the new piano song: I might mess up. It's not worth trying.

Embarrassing.

This runs deep in the family: It's too hard. Our over-achiever front belies a deep insecurity: What if I mess up? It's better not to try.

I remember piano pieces I refused to learn, races I refused to run, classes I quit, and professors I never went to for help. All because of this fear, paralyzing and ugly. The woman hates to be wrong, but even more so to be caught being wrong. I don't mind a mistake that no one can see, that I can fix on my own (Spanx, anyone?), but oh! to be seen in my imperfection. That makes me throw a fit.

So, today's drama was less about my daughter than about me: I can see with a magnifying glass into her soul, even at the moment she feels most alone.

And that, too, is a mark of a woman. We hate to be caught in the fault (as do men), and all those hormones and intensity of feelings can make us cry and fight and throw ourselves to the floor in despair. But that intensity also gives us--poor children of Eve--the possibility of that deeply personal bridge: I know you. I have been where you are. I will be there with you again.

I want to try to teach my daughter, poor little daughter of me, to take that drama all locked up inside herself and let it out. Let her recognize that her struggle goes on in the hearts of so many others. Let the drama breed, not more drama, but womanly compassion and a fierce devotion to the weakest souls still in the grip of that struggle. Let her drama and fear of embarrassment translate into understanding and gentleness.

The feminine genius, without which the world could not be saved.

Image source: Dorothy Day and Mother Teresa.

Image source: The Repentant.

If you came this way.

Here is Eliot for Thursday. Ten years ago, I was studying in England and coping with being abroad for 9/11. I will always think of England as "the end of the world" and of Eliot as my voice of those days.

From "Little Gidding," No. 4 of 'Four Quartets'

"I. .... There are other places

Which also are the world's end, some at the sea jaws,
Or over a dark lake, in a desert or a city—
But this is the nearest, in place and time,
Now and in England.

If you came this way,
Taking any route, starting from anywhere,
At any time or at any season,
It would always be the same: you would have to put off
Sense and notion. You are not here to verify,
Instruct yourself, or inform curiosity
Or carry report. You are here to kneel
Where prayer has been valid. And prayer is more
Than an order of words, the conscious occupation
Of the praying mind, or the sound of the voice praying.
And what the dead had no speech for, when living,
They can tell you, being dead: the communication
Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.
Here, the intersection of the timeless moment
Is England and nowhere. Never and always."

Image source.

Teaching the Kids, Part I

I've written about my reasons for homeschooling before: I believe in togetherness, respect for individuality and contemplation, personal attention, integrity of life, letting children care, and giving children time to be children and parents time to be parents. This is not to say that these principles can't be found in other education systems, but I truly believe that homeschooling gives us the time --raw minutes and hours -- to focus on childhood and learning. And I get to design my own uniforms (check out the painting to the right! I think I'll go for ridiculous lengths of red robes this time!). Just kidding. I'm lucky if we're all dressed by 11am.

Seriously, though, it's time for me to think about homeschooling again: goals, theories, and practical decisions. It's that time of year when mothers and fathers everywhere turn to thoughts of, "OHMIGOSH! It's the middle of July! It will soon be AUGUST!" Walmart was Back-to-School ready last week. Writing is how I process and make decisions, so here it goes.

Now, we must begin with a confession: School is fun for me. I love to pour over the books and possible curricula, I love to make maps and timelines, and I love love love to practice Gregorian chant and purchase beautiful art prints. This is because I am a nerd: Facebook is my crack, and books are my stiff drink at the end of a long day.

You do not, however, have to be a nerd to homeschool. You may hate graphs and charts. Lists of books and the course syllabus for 1st grade Math may give you hives. You may have flunked Algebra I. You are still the best teacher for your child (especially in the early elementary years) simply because you are Mom or Dad. If you can read Little Bear, you can teach first grade.

So, as I write about my decisions and thought-processes over the next few weeks, please don't think I'm especially suited to teaching my children. I'm not. I yell at them daily, I lose my temper. I love books; I'm not so good at housecleaning. I'm really good at finding saints' biographies; I'm not a saint myself.

The only qualification I have to teach my children is this: They have been entrusted to our care by their Creator. He who puts us to the task will give us the strength to do it: if we are called to educate them at home, we can. Period. Those are qualifications I share with every parent out there, nothing special to see here, folks.

First Friday.

The madness of the move!

I was convinced that today was the first Friday in July, but found it to be the second. I was sure it was Saturday, but then it was Friday. The second Friday.

I woke up thinking I was in Georgia, but I was in CT (I'm still not ready to try and spell that).

I dressed thinking I still lived in the woods, but Todd reminded me that our bedroom window looks into ... the neighbor's bedroom window. Oops.

It is good to be here and to start what we hope to be our life in a permanent location (Deo gratias), but we are all a little disoriented. So, instead of a blog post weighing the responsibilities and gifts of a Roman Catholic using an Orthodoc curriculum; instead of a post contemplating the meaning of mortal sin; instead of wondering about the human condition, its application to 3-year-old angst, and the repercussions of sleeplessness on my NFP charts...

I give you, TS Eliot:

Here is a place of disaffection

Time before and time after

In a dim light: neither daylight

Investing form with lucid stillness

Turning shadow into transient beauty

With slow rotation suggesting permanence

Nor darkness to purify the soul

Emptying the sensual with deprivation

Cleansing affection from the temporal.

Neither plenitude nor vacancy. Only a flicker

Over the strained time-ridden faces

Distracted from distraction by distraction

Filled with fancies and empty of meaning

Tumid apathy with no concentration

Men and bits of paper, whirled by the cold wind

That blows before and after time,

Wind in and out of unwholesome lungs

Time before and time after.

~"Burnt Norton," s. III

Myself and not myself: Bringing back skepticism.

The postpartum depression diagnosis introduced me to the world of psychotherapy and psychoanalysis. I went, curious but reluctant. I associate psychology with Freud and Jung, not bad men, but perhaps superficial men.

On the other hand, I know self-knowledge has always been an important part of the Judeo-Christian tradition. If we do not know our true condition, how can we undergo that transformation, that metanoia, from misery into joy? So much of our human suffering is rooted in isolation: from others, from creation, and from ourselves. Redemption begins when the divine life bridges those chasms between us: knowledge and love of all that the Father has created makes us at once more like God in his knowing and in his joy. Depression healed.

And so, I began the sessions with a secular psychologist with a mixture of apprehension and hope. At that point in my struggle, my basic instinct was, "Why the heck not? Self-knowledge tells me: I need help!" I had no idea what to expect or what that help would look like.

The beginning sessions were familiar: Know thyself.

Naming my demons (only figurative demons; she is, after all, a secular psychologist!) was the order of the day. Anger, envy, self-hatred... We examined various situations I found myself in, and I tried to uncover hidden emotions or "narratives" that were expressing themselves in depressive thoughts and behaviors.

All good. It was even fun to spend an hour every week just examining my conscience, even if the doctor couldn't absolve my sins.

But then.

I began to notice that we were hitting a wall. Every time I would regale her with a story of angry feelings, she would listen and say, "Good for you!" I would mention that I told my husband I felt angry: "Good for you!" Hidden anger was bad. Expressing my anger was good, she explained, because I would name it for what it was. It would no longer have the power to depress me or manifest itself in chronic pain.

Then she counseled me: "You need to tell Todd (or person x, y, or zed) that you feel angry. Don't try to explain it or fix it. Just tell him and ask him to know your anger with you. Be transparent."

"I don't want to always be angry," I said. "I hope to someday receive all these stresses of life with more grace. More graciously."

She smiled and fretted, "Oh, dear."

The message was: This anger is your self. Receive yourself. Express yourself. Do not allow anyone or any religion or any code to suggest that your experience of yourself is untrue or deficient. It is what it is. Be. Any attempt to transform yourself will mean more pain, more depression.

Again, this all sounded vaguely familiar. There is that strain in Christian thought, too: God accepts us as we are. We come to him broken, and he sees our brokenness and has mercy.

She, "Have mercy on yourself, just like you believe God has mercy on you."

My self. My experience. My truth.

So, I bit the apple. I took that fruit and ate it.

It was death. Not to be too dramatic here, but that self-affirmation almost literally the death of all love. Once I started down that path of "express your anger," "receive all your emotions as gifts," I felt great. It felt good to just let it all out, like a 3-year-old at the end of a long grocery trip. "You make me feel trapped! I feel rage! Don't take this personally, it's not your fault, but dammit am I angry with you!"

That is not love.

You see, I began to notice that the "truth of my experience" was that I expressed my feelings and let it all just hang out precisely when love called for discretion. The truth of my experience was that I stayed silent and failed to express joy exactly at those moments when charity demanded I speak. The truth of my experience of self is that myself is unreliable, weak, and destructive. Left to myself, everything I touch will turn sour, because I touch with both love and hate, joy and anger, healing and cruelty.

Because myself is fallen. That is the truth of myself. My sweet, lovable, sister Ass self --and I do love myself, both with a perverse and a true love-- is in desperate need of more than herself.

I returned to the psychologist's office one last time before we moved away forever.

I gave her a biography of Teresa of Avila, who knew both light and darkness and chose the light. And I said, "I believe suffering is an essential part of the human condition. I cannot escape it."

"Good," she smiled.

"And I believe I can be changed. I can in future receive suffering more graciously because of the life that is in me."

"Oh, dear," she fretted and shook her head. We parted in disagreement. I'm sure she's expecting to land right back on another leather couch within months. I may. I may not.

I do not believe those hours on her couch (yes! I actually sat on a leather couch!) were wasted. In fact, in a sense I found myself. But instead of naming myself holy, I named myself wretched. Along with acceptance of my wretchedness, I rediscovered my true and unfailing hope. The fulfillment of hope is not in me, but in something outside of myself.

How is it that any therapy --without reference to repentance or transformation-- could touch and heal the effects of that original wound in my soul?

I reject the idea that myself is immutable, unchanging, something I can abase only at my peril. I am more than pop-psychology can affirm; the psychologist has no idea how fearfully and wonderfully I am made. I turn instead to the Author of myself, who is not myself. He is greater. He is the awful, awesome, loving Father, who alone is perfect and who alone is holy. The eternal Word, the Logos, the Crucified One who lives and through whom all things have their being. The Paracletus, the Comforter, and Spirit. The three in one and one in three.

I reject self-actualization in favor of being a creature. I'd much rather my being be written by him --a God like the God of the Scriptures-- than by me. A healthy self-skepticism alone allows me to freely--and without any fear--submit once again to his healing touch.

A self-skeptic's Bibliography:

Frederica Matthews-Green, "Self and Skepticism" podcast

Peggy Noonan, John Paul the Great

The Sayings of the Desert Fathers

Blaise Pascal, The Pensees

Holding pattern.

We're gearing up for another major move in the next few days--this time from MA to NH for a month. Then it's down south to central CT, where the Scientist Dad has landed a cushy professorship (doesn't that sound grand?). We're hoping and praying that this move is a move toward home.

Meanwhile, the madness of planning, packing, and sorting has descended. The kids are a little discomforted, I'm relapsing into stress-mode, and it's hot. We're in holding pattern, just waiting and counting down the days.

At first, I was just sad. Western MA has got to be one of the most beautiful places I've been blessed to live. I don't want to leave, even for the golden egg of a tenure-track position. Then I was angry: What the heck? Another move? Then mad at myself: And why is this bothering me so much? I chose this life. Suck it up, Momma!

I'm still sad and mad, but starting to feel the anticipation of a new life. The idea of really being able to set down roots somewhere (even in suburban CT) is so appealing. That restless, insatiable desire of the heart for a real home is giving me the strength to keep packing.

In the wee hours, I try to turn that desire and exhaustion to heaven, our final home. It's not that hard to do: it is a common (and possibly universal) human tendency. We long for home.

As we approach the end of the Easter/Pascha season and the great feasts of the Ascension and Pentecost, the whole trajectory of the Christian mystery comes into view. The long, dark Lent and the radical light of the resurrection -- they've all pointed to this moment when the Lord rises into heaven to receive his crown. The fruit of this mystery is hope: And hope does not disappoint.

I haven't seen much of our new home in CT. I have heard good things, but am still stepping into the unknown. Another death: another resurrection. "Eye has not seen, ear has not heard, what God has prepared for those who love him."

Happy Birthday, Ana Therese!

Dear Ana Therese,

One year ago, I was induced at 39 weeks.

We chose to induce in the hopes that you would be smaller than your sisters at birth.

You weighed 10 lbs. and 10 oz.

Our biggest yet. And our happiest Cinco de Mayo ever.

But next time (Lord willing), I think we'll induce at 38 weeks.

Happy birthday, Big Girl!

My Top 5 (I mean, 6!) Guys.

I had so much fun contemplating my top 5 gals last week, that for the past few nights Ana and I have turned our thoughts to compiling another list: the top 5 men in my formation. This one was much harder, both because Ana decided to start sleeping for seven hours (less quiet time to contemplate) and because there are so many men around. It's raining men! I had to allow for one more, since... who can choose between priests and who can possibly not include the Pope? So, in no particular order, here's what I came up with:

The Top 6 Men in my Formation (minus Super-formators Jesus Christ the King of Glory, Todd, and my father)

1. Fr. Richard John Neuhaus. The late, great Neuhaus was probably the first Catholic intellectual I really got to know well. I started reading his Public Square early on in high school and devoured his books and longer articles in college. His political thought in particular (for example, see American Babylon) helped me to navigate the perils of formative years spent in Washington, DC. His meditations on death--told with reverence and wit--and the irreplaceability of each human life are challenging as well as supremely hopeful and comforting. And finally, the group of people he gathered around himself so as to make their thought available and present to the Church in America has in turn provided endless riches in all things Catholic (and simply Christian). A Chestertonian, into-the-breach-men, sort of love for God and the Church. At his death, I felt I had lost my grandfather.

2. Sheldon Vanauken. This is one odd duck, but A Severe Mercy, which I read at least twice yearly through high school and college, probably formed my understanding of human love and suffering more than any other book (aside from Jane Austen's novels). It is the story of his devotion to the beloved Davy and their conversion to Christianity; it ends with her early death from cancer and his grief. Although he himself was an unfinished work at the time he wrote, his language and poetry taught me what to look for in a man's love: it is only a gateway for divine love.

3. John Paul II. Well, duh. I can't even begin. So, I'll let this piece from the opening of Veritatis Splendor speak for him:

"Called to salvation through faith in Jesus Christ, "the true light that enlightens everyone" (Jn1:9), people become "light in the Lord" and "children of light" (Eph 5:8), and are made holy by "obedience to the truth" (1 Pet 1:22)."

He was (and is) what he preached, and we saw the Truth in him with our very own eyes. Joyful obedience. Fervent devotion. Total gift of self. These were all the phrases he embodied. He is now a dear friend, bringing many of my petitions before the Father for me.

4. C.S. Lewis. He's always been there. From the Narnia books in my childhood, through the Abolition of Man and Surprised By Joy, Until We Have Faces and The Space Trilogy--everything I read of his clarified and articulated the truths of orthodoxy for me. I would say his writings were my first foray into logic and philosophy in high school. He, along with Neuhaus and Chesterton, set the standard for clear thinking tethered happily to reality.

5. Fr. Robert Schlageter, OFM. For twelve years, he was the chaplain at the Catholic University of America and helped transform so many young lives. I listened to his preaching--always gentle--and received his admonishment in Confession for four years. He grew more bold in proclaiming Christ as time wore on--more bold and more loving--and he always encouraged me in pro-life work (even when it was hardly the glamorous or acceptable thing). Urban legend has it that he would find porno VHS's in boys dorm rooms and make the lads smash them up then and there.

6. Fr. Dennis Billy, CSsR. A dear friend of my father's from college, and now a dear friend of the family. We were blessed to have him at our wedding, as well as for a little private Pre-Cana at Mt. St. Alphonsus. He told us, "The world puts a lot of pressure on young married couples. Put your trust in Christ, and He will be your foundation." He was right. He gave me a blessing once right in the middle of a crowded restaurant. A priest for the Lord.

Honorable Mentions (oh, so many!)

~Evelyn Waugh

~GK Chesterton

~Blaise Pascal

~Fyodor Dostoyevsky

~St. Augustine

My Top 5 Gals.

There was a super-cool meme going around last week: Your Top 5 Catholic Devotions.Because of the summer virus, I never got around to it. But often in the wee hours, I play around with my own "Top 5" lists. This one has been revised numerous times and will continue to shift, but here's my best shot at

The Top 5 Women in My Formation (minus Super-Formators Mom and the Blessed Virgin--that's too easy!

(If you want to play, please leave your top 5 in the comments box, or post them on your own blog and link back here. You can use your awesome mother or the Sweet Mother of God; I just had to limit myself!)

1. Elisabeth Elliot. A Protestant missionary whose first husband, Jim Elliot, was martyred in the Amazon jungle in 1956, Elisabeth Elliot was probably the biggest influence on my young, pre-Catholic spiritual life. As an eleven-year-old, I devoured her Shadow of the Almighty and Through Gates of Splendour, both of which cover the story of Jim and his companions, as well as A Chance to Die. The zeal for God and His Word made an enormous impression on me and encouraged a lasting love of the Christ who "calls us apart" and asks us to pay the price for His Crown. Passion and Purity, when I was about 13, confirmed in me a love of the Christian sexual ethic that I still believe saved me endless heartbreak in high school.

2. Edith Stein (Teresa Benedicta of the Cross). Where to begin? I think I encountered her in my senior year of high school, as I was deciding to major in philosophy. At the time, I was sure I would become a nun, and her story captivated me. Because of her, I wanted to study phenomenology, the meaning of which I couldn't (and still can't) really grasp. Again, she was a woman of total integrity. Like Elliot, she believed that a life worth living was a life totally given over--no half measures. At first, she was convinced this meant a total devotion to philosophy, which led her inexorably to a total devotion to Truth, which she suddenly found was a Person, was Love. Since I was now Catholic, I needed someone who went beyond Elliot and Stein provided this for me. She continues to challenge me each day, even though I did not follow her footsteps into the convent.

3. Sr. Anna Wray, OP. No link available here! Sr. Anna, who I mentioned in the last post, showed up during my first week at Catholic University. I had never had a friend before of my own age who loved Christ (and was a total dork about philosophy). She was flame. She began a weekly adoration hour of praise music, followed by a short sermon from the friars, silent prayer, and Confession. She was also my dearest friend. We discerned together, prayed together, fasted together, and I listened to her talk philosophy (I couldn't always follow her). She, soon joined by many other young women, taught me that we cannot do this alone. Total gift of self is not just something I can do all by myself. I need the example of those holier and more zealous than I. "Losing" her to the convent was a wrenching experience, but also one of the most beautiful gifts I ever could give to God (and it made room for Todd!).

4. Therese of Lisieux. Ah, Therese. It's been a long, long road. When I first read Story of a Soul in high school, I was a little befuddled and even turned off. She was so ... drippy. But she has a habit of hanging onto one. A friend and I later joked that, instead of being our "Little Flower," Therese was our "Little Weed." I started to pray for her help in early college and entrusted Todd's conversion to her. It was highly effective. The woman pulled no punches, even sending me numerous snowstorms (she loved snow) and roses on various and appropriate occasions. I began reading her autobiography yearly, and ever since have been completely hooked on her Little Way.

5. Laura Ingalls Wilder. I had to dig back into the early childhood influences, since Miriam is almost to this point in her little life. It was a close call with Little Women, but the Little House (so many "littles"!) books certainly influenced both my imagination and hopes for the future. I couldn't imagine a memory or play without some reference to life on a farm, in the woods, on the prairie, or in a family. Charles and Caroline's marriage was so beautiful to me, as was the children's love of learning and the hard work of daily life. Surely that had something to do with where I am today.

Runners-Up (because I can't stop!)

~ Clare of Assisi

~ Mother Angelica

~ Kari Beckman

~ Ann Hartle

~ gosh, there are so many more ...

Miriam's Credo.

With the general craziness surrounding a Big Trip for the Scientist Dad, getting ready for school to begin, and finding all Miriam's kindergarten (wow.) supplies, philosophy has been left in a dusty little corner in my brain.

Fortunately, Miriam has not allowed her little metaphysical inclination to rest. She has been busy concocting a brand new heresy, which she will combat when she becomes a Dominican (they've been bored ever since the Albigensians disappeared).

I took the time on our morning walk to listen carefully to her formulation of the new Creed.

"Believe!
in God the Father Almighty
the Baker of heaven and earth,
and in Jesus Christ,
his one, our Lord,
who was received by the Holy Spirit
bored of the Virgin Mary,
and died.
He ascended into hell. (I think we missed something important here.)
He will come again... (distracted by pink flower)
I believe in the Holy Spirit
the Holy Catholic Church
the communion of saints
the give-ness of sins (is that givenness?)
the resurrection of buddy

and life again, Amen."

I asked her to start the decade, and she complied:

"Our Father, who art in heaven, yellow be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth, as it is in heaven..."

Other than the obvious implication that God is material (yellow?), she got that one right. It's funny to me that she will probably have to re-learn many prayers as she gets older.

Because I didn't become Catholic until my teens, I never had the difficulty of learning my child's version of a prayer only to discover that's not what the prayer really says after all. Many cradle Catholics I know still sometimes exclaim, "I never knew the Church said that!" Really, though, I think they must have been told or at least heard it a million times.

We must have the humility to recognize that we may not have picked up everything there is to know along the way. Human learning is cyclical, as Laura Berquist says: We must constantly re-learn and re-examine the same thing. Or we will never know it. Like Miriam's Credo.

Where we've been...

Miriam gleans wisdom from Sr. Beatrice, OP. "Mommy! She is named for Saint Beatrix Potter!" Well... sure.



Two philosophy moms--one spiritual, the other biological. Sr. Alexandra and I take a turn.


...revelling in the spousal love of Christ. Sr. Anna, OP, took her final vows--for all her life--on July 24th.

(These are the Dominican Sisters of St. Cecilia. I was in college with the three pictured here.)

What I was thinking...

... after the Oath of Office:

"The unconscious democracy of America is a very fine thing. It is a true and deep and instinctive assumption of the equality of citizens, which even voting and elections have not destroyed."

~GK Chesterton

All Saints Day 2008

Here is Miriam's hallows get-up. She saw a clip of the movie "Therese" a few weeks ago and immediately determined to be Therese for trick-or-treat. She loved the habit so much, she wore it to Mass this morning--much to the delight of our Monsignour!

The Second Child

Poor Isabella. Today alone, she has been tossed on the waves of Miriam's whim over four times. In order, she has been:

Piglet.

Hen.

Babbity Bumble.


















and the Baronness.
.

Here's what she thinks about that.

Miriam has a disclaimer.

Miriam paints. As she paints, she usually enters into a sort of trance and sings a happy stream-of-consciousness song. Sometimes I have no idea where she gets the lyrics.

This morning:

"I have a disclaimer.
And if you have a baby, she is sick.
I need something to do for you.
You will take care of her all
and she will get better
and Peter Pan
But what will you do?
God on high stepped down into time
and wrote a story
for everyone
You and I were made to...
are painting.
We'll stay here.
Hey, let's get my other paints!"

Open the windows

Growing up in the rural north, I never experienced the "silent summer" brought on by air-conditioning. My mother had the windows open at every hour of every day--unless a great and gusty gale came through the mountains. The sounds of summer became un-heard background music.

But down here in the Deep South, in metro-Atlanta, we keep those windows shut tightly for four months. The hum of the blessed AC drowns out summer sounds.

And last week we opened the windows. Now I am sitting at the dining room table in the dark--I hear anxious squirrels chattering, endless varieties of crickets and cicadas chirping, and a flock of geese flying north to my parents' house. The air comes in cool and clear. It reminds me of the wisdom of the prophets and of the Church--a time without intensifies the joy of time with.

After a summer of having a newborn, illness, heat, and the grief that comes with the cruelty of heresy--I am overjoyed to open wide the windows. Let in the cool air and praise.