Blessed Be the Womb that Bore Thee...

Young Mother Nursing Her Child, Mary Cassatt

and the breasts that gave thee suck!

I inadvertently titled my last two posts with the same first word--blessed--so I thought I would go for three in a row.

Women have breasts and wombs!

Really!  It's in the Bible repeatedly.  Apparently God knew how confused mankind would become in these latter days and made sure to give us clarity on this concept.

So repeat after me:

Women have breasts and wombs!

Don't you feel better?  I do.  It's because the truth shall set you free.

If you don't have breasts and a womb, you're a MALE.

So easy!

I was reminded of the importance of this distinction again on the Solemnity of St. Joseph in the epistle from Ecclesiasticus:

The God of thy father shall be thy helper, and the Almighty shall bless thee with the blessings of Heaven above, with the blessings of the deep that lieth beneath, with the blessings of the breasts and of the womb.  (italics mine)

Clearly these things that set women apart are highly-valued by God.  I'm so glad to be a woman!  I'm especially glad to know that I am a woman and not to have the burden of trying to convince myself and others that I am something I am not, like a man or a boy or even a cat.  Some people are really doing such things.

In reality, it's earth shattering when you spend some time thinking about why God made women the way that He did--that He lavished our bodies with the means of blessing--and knowing that He has a particular order to His design for our lives.  Yes, God is all about order, not confusion, even in the most basic things like gender.

Thinking about that, I finally understood why this trend of photographing women with their arms crossed in front of their chests always bothers me.  They are denying the blessings of the breasts and the womb!  They are assuming a "tough guy" attitude and saying "no" to being nurturing.  I saw it most recently on a billboard advertising the services of a woman lawyer.  It's been popular also with teenage girls on sports teams but also graduation pictures, etc.

What really needs to go in those arms is a baby...

a nursing baby.  I thought I better clarify.  People have such a hard time with reality these days.

My Vacuum Cleaner Meditation

I lugged my parents' vacuum cleaner out on the front porch yesterday to empty the dirt from the canister and clean out the beater bar, which was full of hair, both my daughter's long hair and umpteen swatches of my mother's gray hair from a recent hair cut.

I have to say that being able to see the vacuum's contents is a good lesson in humility.  That's why, as a Catholic housewife, I recommend this kind of vacuum over one with a bag.  Pondering the contents yesterday on the porch, I wanted to run.  I didn't actually see them, but I knew that somewhere in that depth of dirt, skin flakes, hair, bits of leaves, and food crumbs, lurked my Dad's fingernail trimmings, several of which I noticed while wielding the clippers, were lined with fecal material.  Yes, I had definitely waited too long to trim his nails.

I have come to the conclusion, after much contemplation, that family member's poop really is a defining element of my life, as well as possum poop, dog poop, cat poop, chicken poop, and cow poop.  There's much to be contemplated in this revelation.  I aim to get to it.

Turning my attention to the beater bar, I used a pair of scissors to pry loose the long hair and then pulled it and the gray hair and some dust/dirt balls out.  My stomach turned.  I was watching myself and thought, "What right have you to be disgusted?  Imagine what gruesome grit Christ deals with from your sins."

"Truly," I answered myself,  "the housewife's calling is a continuous calling to die to self."

I remembered also that hair is a symbol of the pride of life.  Ah.  Such lessons I am given in my daily duties!

Assessing my housewifely career so far, as near as I can tell, it doesn't get easier.  Just like the beater bar wrapped round with both my daughter's and my mother's hair, I am called to clean up daily the poop of the circle of life.  And to do it joyfully, whether it's from my parents' accidents or rogue possums.

This I am working on.  As I told Emma after being repulsed by finding possum poop in my bedroom, "I tried to embrace this trial joyfully and imagine myself smiling, but instead the loathsome visage of a hissing possum popped into my head."

No wonder God keeps sending me more poop.

++++++

I always knew that as we age, we return to our infancy, but I never expected that in caring for my parents, I would constantly have these moments where I am catapulted back to my children's infancy and youth--like when I lean into the car to fasten one of my parents' seat belts, I have these jarring, yet pleasant, flashbacks of buckling my children into our blue Dodge van.  Or when I bend over to wash Dad's pee from the front of the toilet and mop up the resulting puddle on the floor, I see vividly my own son as a toddler, butt cheeks squeezed hard together, standing on tiptoe trying valiantly to aim perfectly into the toilet.

Fiona Aids My Missionarying Efforts

When the painter showed up on Monday, he couldn't find the paint for Emma's bathroom.  So I went out to the garage with him to see if we could locate it there.

As we were sorting through the collection of paint cans, he talked to me in Spanish, and I talked to him in English.  In between we smiled at each other, as neither one of us knew what the other one was saying.

I decided to open the garage door nearest to the paint cans so we could have more light.  My friend, Alfredo, looked at me and said, "La vaca?"

I laughed.  I do know the Spanish word for cow.

Apparently he had heard the story from Fernando, the other painter, about Fiona getting in the garage to enjoy a luncheon inside a 25-lb dog food bag, and he was concerned.

"Yes,  I told him.  I'll close it as soon as we're done."

He replied with a sentence that included "la vaca," "ocho," "rancho," and "Monterrey," complete with hand motions that depicted milking a cow.

"You milk eight cows at your ranch in Monterrey?" I asked.  "He nodded enthusiastically, smiling hugely.

"Wow!  I said.  Thinking to myself, "that's a lot of milk" and remembering the Spanish word for cheese, I asked him, "Queso?"

This provoked a long and enthusiastic response with more smiling.  I have no idea what he said, other than it was a positive response to making cheese with all that milk.

We found the right paint.  I closed the garage door, and we went back in the house.  I decided to show him my butter molds.  He was very happy to see them.  I have three wooden ones and one set of silicone molds for roses and leaves.  He told me the Spanish words for rose and leaves--rosa, la hojas--and had me repeat them three times.  It was great fun!  I got some butter out of the refrigerator and told him, "butter."

He repeated it.

Then he went away smiling to his work.

Soon the tile man, Mario, arrived.  He is the one who picked up the Cristero picture a few weeks ago. I found out that he is from Honduras.  He speaks pretty fair English, so I asked him whether Alfredo is Catholic.  Mario asked him.

He translated.  "He is Catholic, but he is not very religious.  He doesn't like to go to Mass very much."

"Tell him I want him to come to my church.  We have the Mass of the Cristeros!  The same one they were willing to die for, not the new one that is feminized."

Mario complied, and Alfredo smiled at me.  I ran and got a chapel veil.  I put it on and showed Alfredo.  "We wear mantillas," I told him, because I thought that idea might help convey the reverence to be found in the old Latin Mass.

His expression changed to one of emotion.

"Si?" I asked him.

He nodded and said something to Mario.

"He says he will come," Mario told me.  I grabbed an index card from my desk and wrote down the address for St. Jude's and gave him my phone number.  I asked Mario to tell him that he could text me when he got to the church, and I would introduce him to a Spanish speaker.

Later I thought with remorse what a weak plan that is, but I am entrusting this deficiency to the care of Our Lady of Guadalupe.

The contractor, Alex, arrived about 4 that afternoon, and he and Mario and Alfredo worked until at least 6.  I knew they were tired and had a long drive ahead of them.  Emma had just baked a batch of chocolate chip cookies, so I offered them coffee and cookies.

They readily accepted, and I invited them to sit at the kitchen table.  I served them their coffee and cookies, and we had such a nice visit.  Afterward, as they were preparing to leave, they spotted our wooden tortilla maker on the counter.  This provoked a stir of excitement among the men.

Alex asked, "You make tortillas?" somewhat incredulously.

"Yes," I replied.

"Do you use corn or flour?" he asked.

"We used to use flour," Emma told him.  "But since I am allergic to corn and wheat gluten, now we use cassava flour."

This segued into a lengthy conversation about the book, My Heart Lies South: The Story of My Mexican Marriage, by Elizabeth Borton de Trevino.  (My favorite edition is the 1972 with epilogue.  The epilogue is well worth the hunt for this out of print edition.)  Mario said that he would like to read it.  I quickly wrote down the title and author for him.  The book is a fabulous accounting of Catholic family life and culture in 1930s Mexico.  I just ordered two more copies, that way I can give him one if he doesn't order it before I see him next.  And I've got four copies of the Cristero movie, For Greater Glory, Spanish edition, on the way from a third party seller on Amazon.  I am especially hopeful that the movie and the book will help Mario, as when I asked him, "Are you Catholic?" he told me that he goes "to the Christian church, Lakewood."

"Joel Osteen's church?" I asked him, disheartened, as this place is otherwise known by me as the headquarters of "Prosperity Gospel, Inc."

He nodded in the affirmative.

"The Catholic Church is the only one established by Jesus Christ," I told him.  Then I smiled at him and dropped it.  I figured less is more in this case.  I know that one bit of information was of utmost importance to my conversion.

So far my missionarying from home efforts seem to be going well.  It is truly enjoyable work and gives me much food for thought when I consider how it has expanded my understanding of the Catholic term, "domestic church."  I'm really grateful for this opportunity I have been given to share my faith in a way that melds so perfectly with my state in life.  Deo gratias! 

Thanks in advance for any prayers you can lend for these dear souls.

Our Lady of Guadalupe, pray for us!

St. Therese of the Child Jesus and Holy Face, pray for us!

Four Angels Round My Bed

Crib of the Infant Jesus, 15th Century.  Metropolitan Museum of Art

Every night when I put my mom to bed, I say this prayer:

God bless this house from roof to floor
The twelve apostles guard the door.

Four great angels round my bed
Two my feet and two my head.

Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John
Bless the bed that I lie on.

Sometimes I am really tired and say the meal blessing without realizing it, which prompts my mother to giggle, which makes me laugh, which makes it harder to remember the prayer I am supposed to be saying.  Usually she'll prompt me after I make a few false starts.

Anyway, in trying to learn more about the prayer, I discovered that the most common version goes like this:

Four corners to my bed,

Four angels round my head;

One to watch and one to pray

And two to bear my soul away.

Apparently the one I am saying is an amalgamation of several different prayers, but we like it that way, so I am okay with that.  The way I learned it from a children's prayer book includes this ending:

Now I lay me down to sleep, 

I pray the Lord my soul to keep, 

If any danger come to me, 

Sweet Jesus Christ deliver me.

And if I die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.

The Crib of the Infant Jesus photo above reminded me of the prayer.  I saw it in the Met's twitter feed and was immediately enchanted.  Here's the description of the crib from the museum's web site:

Miniature cradles for the Christ Child were popular devotional objects in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries and were venerated, especially in convents, where they were often presented to women taking their vows. This splendid cradle comes from the Grand Béguinage of Louvain, Belgium, established for lay women in the twelfth century. It is decorated with carved representations of the Nativity and the Adoration of the Magi on either end. The biblical family tree of Christ is illustrated on the embroidered coverlet.

There are eight other photos, including close-ups of the head and foot board carvings.  Take a look.

A Real Roses Rosary

My husband took this picture for me last Sunday after mass, and I have eagerly been awaiting the Feast of the Most Holy Rosary to share it with you.

The rosary was made of rosebuds by my husband's schola buddy, Mickey Rios.   He is gifted that way.  He buys and arranges the flowers for the altar every week.   I was lucky enough to be sitting close to the front of the church where I could admire it.  The red of the roses against the white marble stood out like drops of blood on new-fallen snow.

Ave Maria. . .

Behold Thy Mother, Knitting

"During the Fourteenth Century, paintings of the Madonna and Child began to introduce imaginative suggestions of the domestic background of the Holy Family. A few of them show Mary knitting."

So begins an excerpt from A History of Hand Knitting by Richard Rutt, that is featured in the spring edition of Knitting Traditions. This publication overflows with wonderful articles on historical knitting. I especially enjoyed the story of a 16th-century glove that was knitted by a princess and given as a token to her true love. But "A Mother's Care: The Knitting Madonnas" is my favorite. It is illustrated with a stunning photograph of Ambrogio Lorenzetti's "The Holy Family", taken by Christoph von Virag.

The copy below does not come near von Virag's quality in depicting the painting's rich color. It also does not show the top of the frame, which forms a gable over the Holy Family's home.

The Holy Family by Ambrogio Lorenzetti, c. 1345
Abegg-Stiftung Collection, Riggisberg, Switzerland
"Mary knitting in the round with four needles."

I longed to see all the examples that the author mentions. Here's what I found:


Madonna dell'Umiltà by Vitale degli Equi, c. 1353
Museo Poldi Pezzoli, Milan
"Mary is shown knitting a floral pattern in two colors, three or more needles."


Altarolo by Tommaso da Modena, before 1349
Pinacoteca Nazionale, Bologna
"Mary knits in the round on five needles."
According to the museum's English translation, the knitting Madonna is the third scene in the central area of the piece. See a detail photo here.

The Buxtehude Altar by Master Bertram of Minden c. 1400,
It's from the right wing of the altarpiece painted for the Benedictine nuns of Buxtehude.
"Mary is knitting a crimson shirt on four needles."

Seeing these Knitting Madonna paintings reminded me that Mary is not only our Mother, she is our model for domestic happiness as expressed so perfectly in this poem:

The Housewife's Prayer

by Blanche Mary Kelly

Lady, who with tender word
Didst keep the house of Christ the Lord,
Who didst set forth the bread and wine
Before the Living Wheat and Vine,
Reverently didst make the bed
Whereon was laid the Holy Head
That such a cruel pillow prest
For our behoof, on Calvary's crest;
Be beside me while I go
About my labors to and fro.
Speed the wheel and speed the loom,
Guide the needle and the broom,
Make my bread rise sweet and light,
Make my cheese come foamy white,
Yellow may my butter be
As cowslips blowing on the lea.
Homely though my tasks and small,
Be beside me at them all.
Then when I shall stand to face
Jesu in the judgment place,
To me thy gracious help afford,
Who are the Handmaid of the Lord.

Christ, the Christmas Rose

These last few weeks I have spent a lot of time studying Christmas music lyrics. I realized for the first time that Christ is referred to as a Rose. I always thought that only Mary was associated with this symbol. Two of my favorite pieces feature this symbolism. The first one is translated from German. The second one is translated from Italian. Here are excerpts:


Lo How a Rose E'er Blooming

Lo how a rose e'er blooming
From tender stem hath sprung
Of Jesse's lineage coming
As men of old have sung
It came, a flow'ret bright
Amid the cold of winter
When halfspent was the night.

Here is the link to the YouTube that I featured in my first Lo How a Rose E'er Blooming post. It's still my favorite.

Gesu Bambino

When blossoms flower e'er 'mid the snow
Upon a winter night
Was born the Child, the Christmas Rose
The King of Love and Light.

Here is a link to a YouTube video of Luciano Pavarotti singing Gesu Bambino with Joan Osborne. It is especially nice because he sings the Italian, and she sings the English. I apologize for Ms. Osborne's inappropriate dress.

Yesterday, when I was thinking about writing this post, I got an e-mail letting me know that a longtime friend of Emma's had opened an online stained glass shop. When I looked at her items, I found the beautiful rose that you see at the top of this post. It would be a lovely reminder all year long of Christ, the Christmas Rose.