Tired ... and grateful

Wow, I'm exhausted.

In the past month or so, I've been in and out of the hospital a whopping 7 times with kidney issues, and I have the mounting bills on the kitchen table to prove it. The kids all have their individual issues (impending school change, ongoing occupational therapy for SPI, and poor sleep patterns, respectively). And hubby has been suffering through intense scrutiny at work while simultaneously ripping his hair out so the upcoming men's conference will run smoothly.

On top of it all, hubby took a much-needed retreat to Steubenville this past weekend, leaving me to wrangle los tres hijos on my own. Mommy. I wasn't jealous. Really. Just a bit put out at having to hold down the fort on my own while he had a fantastic time basking in the presence of God a couple thousand miles away. Without me.

Retreating to my folks' place is usually a welcome remedy for occasional single parenthood, so, naturally, I jetted down the I-5 corridor for back-up. Had everything transpired the way I thought it would, there'd be nothing to write. As it was, here's the highlight reel, in no particular order:

• Arrived an hour later than expected due to: 1) having to turn around to rescue the kindergartener's favorite blanket from school; and 2) potty breaks.


• Baby threw up on me and his eldest sister within two hours of arriving at folks' house.


• Baby woke up three times the first night, then proceded to hit his chin on the old fashioned wooden crib my mom provided, and bled from the mouth for the next 15 minutes on himself and me. Did I mention this happened at 5 a.m., when no one else was awake?


• My younger sister's yard was getting some long-awaited TLC from my dad and brother-in-law while she was working, so Mom and I watched 6 kids ages 6 and under for most of Saturday. At least I talked Mom out of taking them all to a parade (!).


• Baby wouldn't nap without me either day. Weird, strange, not normal. But at least I got a little nap out of it (although my arm fell asleep and I couldn't move it for fear of waking him).


• Night #2 was better, but youngest daughter decided to pee under the bed during play time Saturday, then in the bed at naptime the same day. Did I mention she is over 4 years old?


• Mass on Sunday was a fiasco for me. I wasn't feeling so hot -- tummy trouble with sweating and some nausea. Why did all the kids (with 4 other adults readily available) have to gravitate to me? Sorry, I just can't hold 50+ pounds worth of wriggling baby and child, no matter how much I love them, and feel engaged in the Mass ... especially when I feel like I am going to throw up at any given moment.


• Couldn't enjoy our post-Mass brunch because I kept having to use the facilities.
  

Anyway, I had hopes to have some rest balanced with productivity this weekend, but it just wasn't meant to be. I didn't get any of my summer organizing projects or thank you notes from my time in the hospital finished, either. I was trying to be patient, loving, kind, and Christ-like. But instead, I was cranky with my Mom. I was grumpy with the kids. I felt resentful toward my brother-in-law for dumping his kids on me and stealing my dad. I ate too much Kirkland trail mix. And ice cream sandwiches. And steak. Did I mention there is always good food at my parents' place?

But you know what? Overall, it was a successful trip. Despite the less-than-ideal circumstances, I was able to eventually tweak my attitude to recognize the positive aspects of it all (we had gas money to get to my parents' place; baby had food to eat even though he threw it up; we had a working washer and dryer and running water to clean up all the soiled laundry; my sister and her family actually attended Mass with us - hello!; I realized how much my parents love me and my kids in spite of ourselves, etc.) I even remembered to offer up my suffering (read: minor inconveniences) for others and certain intentions.

To top it all off, I had the presence of mind (can you say, "Thank you, Holy Spirit"?) to ask my parents, who are apt to oblige such requests, to please pray over me before we left. With everything that's been going on these last couple of months, I have been feeling more and more like I've been swimming upstream and not making any headway with anything.

Of course, it took .5 seconds after they annointed my head and hands for me to start blubbering like a baby. I did feel the presence of the Holy Spirit, and felt much better afterward, and, eventually, profoundly grateful to God for providing me with parents who believe in the power of prayer. They not only pray for me, they will pray with me and over me. That's pretty dang awesome.

BTW, hubby had a phenomenal retreat. He beat us home by about half an hour. And he brought me flowers.

Thanks, God, for all Your good gifts.

I guess I'm a twit ...

I know what you're thinking.

Twitter? Really? Verus Catholic Matris is on Twitter?

Yes, well, I was skeptical myself, but in the spirit of JPII's exhortion to use the "new media" as a tool of evangelization and encouragement, I am now a "twit" ... or a "tweeter" ... or ... whatever the term is, it doesn't sound very flattering!

I'm hoping to provide sometimes helpful, sometimes humorous, mostly heart-felt one- or two-liners to the masses. Or maybe just a coupla folks.

At any rate, the allure of tweeting, for me anyway, is that you must stick to 140 characters only. For a busy mom with very little disretionary time to blog (see: no posts for past 6 months), it's a welcome outlet that also requires some discipline.

Check out: http://twitter.com/RealCatholicMom God bless!

Are you a Survivor?

I'm a survivor. Are you?

If you were born on or after this date in 1973, you "survived" your biological mother's government-granted right to choose whether you would be born ... or not.

This past Sunday, I was at the Oregon Right to Life Roe v. Wade Memorial Rally with friends from church, my husband, and my three children. An estimated 6,980 other pro-lifers joined us in the cold (but thankfully not rainy) Pioneer Courthouse Square to commemorate those we've lost.

Distracted a bit while trying to keep my children warm and occupied, I couldn't help but think about those who weren't there - who couldn't be there - the 50 million who have died since Roe v. Wade passed in '73. When the bell tolled over the loudspeaker 50 times, one for each million pregnancies terminated, I couldn't stop the tears from streaming down my cheeks. 50 million. It's a staggering number, almost too many to wrap my brain around. Dr. Frank Rosenbloom's speech provided welcome yet astonishing perspective on the matter, indicating that, among other statistics, we would have to fight the war in Iraq for 75 thousand years to account for the number of lives lost to abortion.

Those touched by abortion weighed heavily on my mind. Not just the dead babies, mind you, but the mothers, fathers, grandparents, siblings, teachers - you name it - any person who was (or would have been) connected to the aborted child. It goes to show that abortion's destructive impact on our society is far greater than we can imagine.

I applauded Esther Ripplinger, founder of Oregon's Silent No More, for addressing the crowd in such a personal way; I prayed her story of post-abortive reconciliation and healing would inspire others traumatized by abortion to seek the help they need.

One of the neatest surprises that day was that my parents were there, unbeknownst to me. My husband had taken our youngest daughter for a "look-around" walk, and, amazingly, my mom's friend spotted David in the crowd. It was such a tremendous blessing for me to be able to share the experience of the rally not only with my precious children, but with the two people who took me into their home when I was just three weeks old, the result of an unwanted pregnancy who was desperately wanted by people who couldn't have children of their own. I took a moment to ask God to bless my biological mother for not caving in to any pressure she might have felt, post-Roe v. Wade, to abort me. I could have been one of the 50 million, but thanks be to God, I survived. I'm pretty sure my parents feel the same way. :-)

Perhaps not surprisingly given our "blue" state status, no media other than The Oregonian deemed the event worthy of coverage, and even they had to be "fair and unbiased," running a pro-choice-centric photo with the story. No matter. I know that I know that I know that I know that The Truth is not a matter of democratic vote, to paraphrase Pope Benedict the 16th. The 7,000+ of us who kept vigil that cold Sunday afternoon know that there was a huge rally in Portgland, Oregon, and, more importantly, we know why we were there.

Oh Me of Little Faith

My third child turned 6 months on Christmas Eve. Although he was born two and a half weeks early, Noah's development has been right on track; that is, except for one thing - he hadn't rolled over, one of those developmental milestones that usually occurs around four months. I anxiously waited and waited and … it just wasn’t happening.

Now, I heard testimony from eyewitnesses that he rolled from his tummy to his back not once, but twice while I was performing at the Oregon Symphony's Gospel Christmas concert December 13th. When my parents told me what he had done, I was incredulous: “No way! Not while I was gone. He wouldn’t do that to me!” Having recently quit my job to stay home full-time with Noah and his 3-year-old sister, I was supposed to be the one to see these milestones now – not a babysitter, not his grandparents, not his sisters, not his dad – me! And anyway, he had been on my parents’ blow-up mattress, not the floor, and they probably helped him to roll over, so it didn’t count, right?

Over the next several days, I watched the poor kid like a hawk. Every time it looked like he was going to roll over, I grabbed the camera and waited. I spent a lot of time waiting. The more days that passed, the more I determined my parents were exaggerating the alleged incident. I brushed it off as a non-event.

About a week later, my eldest daughter came running into the kitchen from the bedroom where she was playing with her brother. “Mommy, Mommy!” she cried excitedly. “Noah rolled over!” I put down the bottle I was washing, cocked my head, and squinted suspiciously at my daughter. “Are you sure?” I asked. With an excited cadence, she replied, “Yes! He was on the ground with his jungle friends (breath), and then he was grunting a little bit (breath), and then he kind of kicked his leg or something (breath) and then he rolled over onto his tummy!” Scanning my face intently and picking up on my disbelief, Ava let out a deep sigh and closed her eyes purposefully. “Mommy,” she said, opening her eyes again. “He rolled over. I. Am. Not. Lying.”

At this point, I walked back to the bedroom to see if it could possibly be true this time. Sure enough, there was the little guy, drool flowing from his smiling face onto the mat beneath him. He was on his stomach. But, I thought, hadn’t I put him on his tummy to begin with? Hmmm. I wasn’t convinced.

There were more “incidents” over the next couple of days that, conveniently, I didn’t see. The whole thing begged the question – if a baby rolls over in the home and his mother doesn’t see it happen, does the baby really roll over?

One night at dinner, the girls, my husband and I were enjoying our meals when my husband glanced over my shoulder at our son, who was playing quietly on the floor behind me. David nonchalantly mentioned, “He did it again.” “What??!” I shrieked. At this point, everyone knew what “it” meant. They knew I didn’t want to hear about “it” unless I saw “it” for myself. I dropped to Noah’s side on the floor and said, “Honey, did you roll over? I didn’t see it! How come you won’t roll over for me?” He smiled at me and drooled.

The whole thing couldn't have been more unfair. At this point, everyone except me had seen Noah roll over. I wondered if it was logical that all my family members could be wrong about this. I began to accept that I was probably in denial; Noah most likely had rolled over. I just didn’t want to miss the blessed event, so denying it was my coping mechanism. It made me think of Thomas, the doubter, who had been absent when Christ appeared to the apostles after his Resurrection:

“The other disciples kept telling him, "We have seen the Lord!" But he told them, "Unless I see the nail marks in his hands, put my finger into them, and put my hand into his side, I will never believe!" (John 20:25)

Was Thomas jealous of his friends? Frightened to consider the truth? Why didn't he believe them at their word? Sure, a baby rolling over for the first time isn’t on the same playing field as a dead person walking around and appearing to his friends, but it was a big deal in my little world. Our family situation was much different when the girls were babies, and I hadn't seen either of them roll over when it first happened, either. And, frankly, I was too exhausted at the time to care as much as I did now. I wasn't going to miss it this time around, too!

Finally recognizing my lack of faith, I determined to quit being jealous and suspicious of everyone around me who had experienced what I so desperately wanted to see. I decided that it would happen for me when God appointed.

New Year’s Day, we spent time at my aunt’s beautiful home in Damascus. After a wonderful Filipino feast, we sat in the comfy recliners watching one of the football games on television. At least, I think the guys were watching the game. For my part, I was watching my son play, as I had so many times before. Less than five minutes had passed when, sure enough, Noah flipped his little self over and was now on his back, staring up at me.

“Noah!” I exclaimed. “You did it! You rolled over! And Mommy saw it! It’s the first time!” I picked up my son and gave him a big hug as he smiled at me. With my cheek against my son's, I looked with eyes shining over at my husband, who knowingly smiled back at me. “It’s the first time I saw it,” I said.

It has to be God

What was supposed to enrich my family’s Christmas season began as a strife-ridden car ride across town.

Our humble yet spunky church choir, of which I am a member, finally secured a slot to sing for this year’s Festival of Lights at the Grotto. Hoping to provide my three small children with a tangible experience signaling that, even on December 29th, the Christmas season was in full swing, I finally cajoled my husband into making the concert a family affair. “Friends from church will be there,” I reasoned. “They can help you with the kids if they get squirmy.” Little did I know that actually getting to the experience itself was the trial we would endure.

The day started off well enough. I organized my music early on, telephoned my choir director to ensure she’d bring copies of music I didn’t have, got the girls dressed and ready to go, and got dinner rolling sooner than normal. This was going to be a joyous and enjoyable evening for our family.

Despite my best efforts, events conspired to keep us helplessly behind schedule: my husband arrived home later from work than I expected; the girls dawdled mercilessly at the dinner table; the baby took a longer nap than usual (side note: why does this always happen when we have somewhere to be?!), I needed to print out driving directions to the venue, etc. As I coaxed my neglected hair into a pony-tail holder and thanked God when my nylons didn’t run, I wondered why singing in a concert clear across the Portland Metro Area at 7 p.m. on a Monday night was a good idea. Our choir was due in the Grotto’s holding room at 6:30 sharp to collect missing music, begin warm-ups, and ask St. Cecilia to intercede for us so the concert would go well.

After the baby awoke, was dressed, pooped all over and was dressed again, we hit the garage nearly half an hour behind schedule. Upon opening the van door, a putrid waft of indiscernible stench smacked our nostrils so forcibly that my husband determined to locate the culprit. I am not proud to say that I popped my left eardrum because I yelled so loudly for my husband to “STOP IT!!!! We have to LEEEEAAAVE!” So much for comfort and joy – my husband was rightly peeved with me because of my outburst, and I couldn’t hear out of my left ear.

My family was finally on our way, but we had quite a way to go. Traffic was moving well until we got to Portland proper; it seemed to crawl more slowly the further east we traveled. 6:30 p.m. rapidly came and went. I started doing deep breathing exercises to calm myself and sighed, “Forget warm-ups.” My poor husband couldn’t possibly have coped with my arpeggios and our children’s voices in such a small space. Rats. So, I can’t hear out of my left ear very well, and I can’t warm up my voice, I thought. Anxiously sipping my herbal tea, I began to pray.

Interestingly, I immediately thought of the Divine Mercy Image of Jesus, and the message of the image – “Jesus, I trust in You.” Surely Saint Faustina wasn’t thinking of comforting souls navigating nasty traffic jams when she originally conveyed this message, but I kept saying it over and over in my mind: “Jesus, I trust in You.” If the King of the Universe cared about the number of hairs on my head (Matthew 10:30), couldn’t He also care that I make it in time to sing His praises tonight?

Finally, at 6:43 p.m., we pulled into the correct parking lot, and mercifully, there was a spot close by. I decided to leave my purse under my seat in the car since I didn’t know if there would be a secure place to stash it inside. My husband corralled the kids as I slushed through the newly-melted snow toward the Grotto. The cold night air seemed amused with my attempts to hurry inside as it relentlessly stung my cheeks and iced my nose.

Once in the holding area, events began to blur. Where in the world was our director? It appeared she must be imprisoned on I-84 as well. I shakily joined in with my colleagues (several were missing, no doubt battling traffic) who were already warming up: “Unto us a child is born – come let us adore.” Seven minutes to show time, and our director arrived. I quickly grabbed the music I didn’t have, then remembered I left the three-hole-punch in my purse in the van. I groaned. It was too late to go back and retrieve it. The festival coordinator gave the signal, and we were quickly ushered out a side door. Immediately, the blast of winter cold again enveloped me. Chilled to the bone, I wondered why I hadn’t worn a longer skirt and a warmer jacket. Inside the chapel, we were directed to leave our belongings in an alcove as our audience looked on. Up on the marble altar, lights as bright as three Christmas stars shone upon us, blinding our view into the chapel.

Soon after the first downbeat of the opening song was given, I felt myself relaxing slightly, cautiously reveling in the amazing acoustics of the space. With a sound such as this, could the audience possibly know that the furious winter storm of the past several days had kept us from practicing together? Song after song, the sound God helped us create amazed me. Balancing the hole-punched and the non-hole-punched music kept me humble, though. I worried it would all come crashing down to the floor. I made several mental mistakes and silently berated myself. But the beautiful music continued to flow. Toward the end of “O, Holy Night,” I realized the copy of music I borrowed was missing the last two pages. The piece had been ripped apart at page 9. I looked over at my neighbor’s music and sang on.

We reached the final song, with my solo. My mouth and throat felt like they had been swabbed with cotton balls – dry and tired– not exactly ideal conditions for singing. And yet, I purposefully locked eyes with my choir director, steeled my nerves, and the words from “Night of Silence” miraculously filled the chapel.

Afterward, my toes frozen in my high heels, my heart relieved and my soul soaring, it hit me: this has to be God at work, because never in a million years could I, nerves completely frazzled, senses thoroughly assaulted, physical body completely unprepared, have produced anything close to resembling beauty. And yet, laid out over the course of half an hour or so of sound, there it was: music – beauty – God. It was unmistakable. This ultimately beautiful experience, the trials and challenges that preceded it – all had been possible, I realized, only because God was present throughout and allowed things to happen the way they did. We had to glorify Him, because there was no way it could have been us.

It reminded me of the story of Gideon’s Army (Judges 7). The Lord told Gideon to send almost all of his soldiers home so that there would be no mistaking God’s hand in Gideon’s sound defeat of the Midianites. And what about the Christmas story itself – it really made no human sense! A young Jewish girl, pregnant with the son of the Most High God? How many times had God stripped away all my comforts, expectations and plans, only to bring forth something infinitely better than I could have possibly imagined?

Internally, I marveled at His wonders, among them, the gift of music - the gift of my wonderful choir family. The gift par excellence – Jesus Christ present in the Eucharist in the tabernacle at the front of the chapel. And there in the cold pew, snuggled close together, my children and husband had been sitting together, listening as best they could … my family, my own special gift from God.