Dreams Worth Keeping: Two Suckling Pigs, a Goose, and a Duck

"We need red solo cups, paper plates, napkins, a tablecloth, and a lot of lunch meat for sandwiches," my mom advised me shortly after learning that my sisters and some members of their families would be joining us for a five-day Christmas visit.  Some of them will be sleeping at Mom and Dad's house and some at ours, but Emma and I will be preparing both houses.

"And canned biscuits.  Lisa and her children like canned biscuits," she added, thinking hard.

My dad started telling me about how he wanted me to order hickory nuts and how delicious they are. By the next day he had been shopping for nuts online and discovered Black Walnuts coated in dark chocolate.  He asked me to order them.  His face would light up like a child's every time he mentioned them.  So far that has been two to three times a day.

"They're going to go pretty fast once everybody finds out how good they are,"  he confided to me, grinning happily.  "Make sure you order enough."

Where were my thoughts?

I began dreaming of pig roasted outdoors on a spit with all the menfolk gathered round in the heady smoke, talking and laughing and speculating on the doneness of the meat.

And I dreamed of succulent goose and duck.  I could see them each in a roasting rack in my oven, dripping juicy goodness into the pan.

And I dreamed of moving our dining room table into the living room in front of the fire and placing silver goblets of wine and heavy tankards of ale at each place, and...

I don't actually own any silver goblets or heavy tankards, but I imagined them just the same.

And purple cabbage and collard greens and sweet potatoes and cranberry salad.  And dogs under the table!  Flickering candlelight and ancient Christmas carols playing in the background with all my dear ones gathered round about.

Dear Baby Jesus in his manger at last.

O the giddiness, the tingling, the soaring anticipation of the Feast of Christmas!

I grew restless to begin.

So this morning Emma and I bundled up in sweaters, jackets, hats, and gloves and hurried to the farmer's market to arrange for the procurement of the desired delicacies.

First stop, the duck and goose booth.  We decided on a ten-pound goose and an eight-pound duck.  We put down a deposit and were instructed to return to the market early Christmas Eve morning to pick up the freshly-slaughtered birds.

Next we visited the pig man.  I've bought pork from him many times before but never a whole pig.  I arranged with him to pick up two suckling piggies--a 15 and a 16-pounder--at the market on Christmas Eve morning when I pick up the birds.  He said he would send me a picture of the lil porkers so I would know what to expect.  He promised to put a coin over each of their eyes because he feared I would be disturbed by their missing eyelids, which for some reason are removed during the butchering--surely a most creepy practice.

Maybe crispy-fried pig eyelids are a delicacy somewhere and they sell 'em separately to make more money!  At least they left the pigs' heads on.  I wouldn't want any headless pig.  That would ruin the whole dream for me.

Our business with the pig man completed, Emma and I sampled juicy sweet Satsumas at a booth across the way.  We bought ten, and we also bought a bag of Navel oranges from another vendor.  I plan to put some in everybody's stockings.  Then we found these delightful long and thin sausages that I thought would be great in the stockings too.  So we bought an assortment of those and added them to our bag.  We stopped at several other booths for individual little gifts.  Such great fun!

Unfortunately, we couldn't linger, as we had to hurry home to give Grandma and Grandpa lunch.   While I did that, Emma worked on decorating the rest of the gingerbread cookies she had baked for St. Nicholas Day.  Seeing her handiwork along with all the goodies we had brought home from the farmer's market made me think, "This is good.  This is very, very good."

I am looking forward to lighting the pink candle this Sunday and the fasting of the Ember Days next week.

And contemplating the fullness of time.

Come, thou long-expected Jesus!

Fixing Our Gaze on The Immaculate Conception

A most blessed Feast of the Immaculate Conception to you!

In this clip from The Song of Bernadette we see Bernadette fixing her gaze on the beautiful lady who has been appearing to her at Lourdes.  In answer to Bernadette's request to learn her identity, the lady responds, "I am the Immaculate Conception."

Watching Bernadette in the opening scene as she knelt there on the ground, I was impressed by the purity of her expression as she looked upon the most pure Virgin.  How rare it is to see that kind of innocence today!  And I thought about the Catholic concept of custody of the eyes and what a daily battle we must fight to practice it.

It's frightening, but much of what we should guard against today, we may not even be aware that we see.

Let me explain.

I just finished reading a transcript of a Solari Report podcast on entrainment technology, a form of mind control.  In it, Catherine Austin Fitts interviews Adam Trombly, a scientist/physicist, about how this technology is used and what you can do to minimize its influence on your life.

Basically, the entrainment relaxes/pleasures you and puts you in a state of openness to suggestibility.  The suggestibility part is where they implant the subliminal message they want you to act upon.  Entrainment is used surreptitiously in all kinds of media--dvd's, cd's, radio, movies in the theaters, etc., but it seems television paved the way for the others starting way back in the 1950s.

Maybe I've finally discovered why Catholics accepted the New Mass in 1969.  They had been lulled to sleep by gathering in front of the TV at home instead of kneeling in front of the Immaculate Conception and the Crucifix.

John Senior was so right when he admonished Catholics to "smash the television," in his classic book, The Restoration of Christian Culture.

Of course now the television has morphed into all kinds of different screens that we must guard ourselves and our children against.  We haven't done such a good job.  Just look at how we fell for the notion that public school children needed computers in the classroom to be able to keep up with technology and compete in the modern world.

After reading about entrainment techniques, I firmly believe that the so-called "snowflakes" are a product of it.  Previously I had thought it odd that Hillary Clinton had called on pop singers to boost her campaign.  But now I understand that their music and videos are powerful vehicles for entraining listeners.  The raw emotion from the melting snowflakes finally makes sense.  At first I thought it was all the coddling they received in school and a lack of critical thinking skills.  And, of course, a lack of the True Faith.

As I thought more about the idea of how we, like Bernadette, should "fix our gaze" on the Immaculate Conception, I became aware of the double meaning, as "fix" also means to repair.  We do need to constantly fix our gaze by avoiding as much as possible the things the world wants us to see.  And we must pray the Rosary, which Our Lady gave us as the most efficacious weapon for our battles against the world, the flesh, and the devil.

The Rosary, with its beautiful mysteries, gives us lovely pictures to contemplate and incites the imagination to holy thoughts, which makes us more human, more alive, more able to create.  All this is in direct opposition to the sounds and images that the world wants us to consume.  Look around, and you will see the results--zombie-like people who are consumers, not creators.

Interestingly, entrainment technology takes advantage of God's design for our brains.  As  Mr. Trombly explained it, "Entrainment technology basically is the technology that exploits a neurological function called frequency following response. And, frequency following response was discovered in the earlier part of the 20th century and in terms of this type of entrainment was a matter of when the brain hears a repetitive pattern.

"It can be a repetitive pattern of words, it can be a repetitive cadence of rhythm, or in modern times it can be a repetitive acoustic sound coming across the loud speaker. It can be in a certain wave form, a certain frequency, the brain will follow that sound. The brain will follow that sound whether it’s monaural or binaural or surround sound; the brain will fall into rhythm with that sound." 

My conclusion from that explanation?  

God hard-wired our brains for the recitation of the Rosary with its repetitive pattern of words and repetitive cadence or rhythm!  Without fixing our gaze on the Immaculate Conception and praying the Rosary, we leave ourselves open to conquest by the Powers of Darkness, the enemies of Christ.

Three Steps to Follow

Fix your gaze  
Pray the Rosary and
Entrain your brain to follow that sound to Heaven.

Advent: The Cross and the Crib

The painting of the Sacred Heart commissioned by Gabriel Garcia Moreno for the consecration of Ecuador

The aftermath of the presidential election revealed to me in a startling way how desperately this country needs to be Catholicized.  How much better the Catholic way when faced with situations one finds disagreeable: practice resignation and embrace one's cross!

Instead, it seems as if the country has been taken over by toddlers in their terrible twos.  Such whining and temper tantrums I've never before witnessed on a national scale.

The experience shone a light on my own weaknesses in this regard and gave me pause.  How often, I, too, whine and complain!  And how unattractive it must be for those around me!

Consequently, on St. Andrew's feast I decided to start saying St. Andrew's prayer, O Good Cross, every day in addition to the St. Andrew Christmas novena during our Advent wreath prayer time.  The idea of being led to both the cross and the crib by St. Andrew is one I hadn't considered before now.  I find it enormously helpful, and it has given me reason to be thankful for the Trump protestors.  May their unhappiness work toward their conversion and the establishment of the Social Reign of Christ the King.

In the Cemetery

For  the last four years or so, Emma and I have gone to pray the rosary in the small Catholic cemetery nearest our house every day during November.  It belongs to a rural parish that was established early in the 20th century by people of Czech descent.  We can see the tiny brick church across the hay fields to the west of us as we walk and pray.

We have grown to cherish our time in the cemetery each year.  It is so peaceful there, and often a refreshing breeze washes over us as the setting sun glints golden on the surrounding fields.  Here we have the comfort of the community of the dead, many of whom died before Vatican II and so professed the same Faith as we do.  We love reading the Old Country names.  I am particularly fond of "Frantiska" and "Zofie".  

Along with the joy we experience in the cemetery, we feel keenly the sharp stab of exile.  We gaze with longing at the little church and wish that we could go to mass so close to our house.  To be able to go to daily mass and rosary--what bliss!  We have driven 2 hours roundtrip on Sundays for the last 12 years to be able to assist at the traditional mass.   In desperation several years ago we tried going to mass at the little brick church.  We hungered for Catholic community--to live our faith daily among those who shared it.  The experience was so shocking that we never returned.  That novus ordo mass sharply illuminated for me how formative the traditional mass is.  Ever since, whenever I remember our experience, the word "hootenanny" pops into my mind.  It's far more accurate than "lack of reverence."

I firmly believe the old dead at the cemetery would feel the same way we did if they were allowed to return to their little brick church.

Happily, on All Souls Day, we met an older couple at the cemetery who belong to the parish.  Emma asked them if they would like to join us in praying the rosary, and they agreed.  So most days this month they have met us there, and we have walked and prayed through the cemetery together.  It has been truly lovely to have their company.

From them we learned that there is a new Polish pastor and that he asked the parishioners if the old altar and altar rails were stored somewhere--a hopeful sign.  Sadly, these fixtures, along with many beloved statues, were shipped off to Mexico after the new mass was introduced in 1969.

Our rosary companions told us that one parishioner managed to save the large Sacred Heart of Jesus statue that used to stand at the front of the church on the epistle side.  He carried it home and has kept it ever since.  Now he is quite elderly, and rumor has it that he is wondering if it is safe to bring it back. But the "praise band" now occupies the spot where the Sacred Heart used to stand.  I thought about how that displacement was true on so many levels in the novus ordo.  The day we learned this story, we added to our rosary the intention that the Sacred Heart statue be returned to its rightful place and that the "choir" would return to the long-vacant choir loft.

Let us pray hard for the restoration of the Church.

May

This month has been tumultuous for me.  Kind of like paddling my canoe over Niagara Falls.  Lots of roaring and wild descents and outrageous bumps.  That's why I haven't written anything since last month.

I realized yesterday that I totally missed the Ember Week.  :(

And I wonder if life is really supposed to be this hectic, so draining--if I am doing it wrong.  It feels wrong.  That's for sure.  But I can't figure out how to do it differently.  I just keep paddling furiously and reminding myself that most everyone is doing the same.  

I am enormously grateful for my paddle.  I grip it tightly, knowing that despite my trials I am supremely blessed.

A young 20-something friend told me, "At least your life is defined."  Ostensibly, because I am married and have children and know what my duties are, I am in a far better place than he, who is still single and living at home, not knowing if he will find someone to marry, etc.  This is a common concern among my young traditional Catholic men friends.  Much worry is devoted to it and rightly so.  However,  after much pondering, I have to say that although those particular questions have been answered for me, they only bring a new set of questions: Whom will my children marry?  Where will they live?  Will I be able to have regular, in-person, interaction with my children and grandchildren?  Or will they live far from me?  Will there be anyone nearby to take care of me in my old age?  Will I die with the sacraments?

And yet, I know that we should not be solicitous for tomorrow.  Behold the birds of the air...the lilies of the field...

We have the Blessed Mother, too, and her assurance, "Am I not here, who am your Mother?"

Furthermore, we know that God chose for us to be born into this time, this horrible post-Christendom time.  Knowing this I feel a grave responsibility.  Am I doing God's will?  I think He has put a lot of confidence in me to bring me into this world in the dread year 1960.

All of these uncertainties--my young friends' and mine--are symptomatic of the destruction of Catholic culture.  So I think every day about what I can do to restore it.  Is not Christ telling us, as he told St. Francis, "Restore my Church?"

Speaking of the destruction of the Church, I was astounded to learn that "Catholic" Match allows you to choose which of the Church's teachings you believe.  I guess calling the service Heretic Match wouldn't be as lucrative.

Modern Life Is So Disjointed  

I spend enormous amounts of time and energy trying to navigate Western medicine for my little family.  I think that is why May has finished me off.   My little engine was already running on fumes.

My dad was hospitalized again this month, this time for a week, and his discharge paperwork included a list of about 20 doctors who saw him during that time, several of whom I am supposed to make appointments with for followup visits.  For the life of me I can't understand why nephrology and urology are two separate specialties!  How dumb is that?  For that matter, why is gastroenterology its own thing?  Why not put those three together into something halfway sensible like an "output" specialist?

After Dad was discharged I canceled two pre-existing appointments with specialists because he needed time to recover from being in the hospital.  He was so weak and disoriented from being there that he fell two times within 24 hours of coming home.  Unbeknownst to us, he spent an entire night on the bedroom floor, freezing under the ceiling fan.  After that he was really confused and thought he was on a boat.  Plus, the hospital managed to let him get another bedsore on his heel, so I needed to get him to the podiatrist to have the dead flesh cut out.

When he was in the hospital, I was making daily hour-and-a-half roundtrips to visit him while trying to keep everything going at home, including taking care of my mother and preparing for Emma's senior recital reception and graduation after-party, and the arrival of relatives for those events.  Thank goodness my sister Beverly came in from Birmingham and took over with Mom.

We got through all that only for our dog to begin a serious decline.  Poor old Cowboy!  His hips refused to keep doing their job, and almost every morning I would find him lying against the back door in his own waste because he had been unable to get up to go to the bathroom in the yard.  Eerily, it was kind of like the night my Dad spent on the bedroom floor.  When I helped Cowboy up, he could walk, but his rear legs would splay out, making him stagger like a drunk.

Finally, my husband Herb dug a hole behind the barn and took Cowboy on his last walk after we each took time to say goodbye.  I watched the old Black Lab's agonizing progress down the sidewalk and beside the barn until he turned behind it to dutifully follow Herb.  Such a sad, sad day!   It was really the end of an era.

We bought Cowboy's mom, Cocoa, and aunt, Genevieve, as newly-weaned pups for Nathaniel and Emma in 1998.  We kept one puppy from each mom:  Cowboy and Spats.  We had to put Spats down last year.  I made the mistake of trying to hold out with him and let him die naturally at home.  Emma and I ended up having to heave him into the back of the car and haul him to the vet to be put to sleep.  I have to say that dying at home at gunpoint on your own grass is the more merciful experience.

When Herb took Cowboy, Emma and I busied ourselves cooking.  I asked her to choose some music for us to listen to so that we didn't hear the gunshot.  She chose a YouTube playlist.  It was all very upbeat music to distract us from our grief.  Strangely, just as Herb returned from his death duty, Danny Boy came on, and my tears began anew.

Surely June will be better.

O Sacred Heart of Jesus, have mercy on us!

Forget the Election and Celebrate Catholic Thanksgiving

From the movie "Babette's Feast"

Editor's Note: I got the idea and the historical background for this post from reading Dr. Marian Horvat's "The First Thanksgivings Were Catholic."

If you, like I, really detest the whole Puritan/Pilgrim party that is foisted on us every November, right when Catholics should be preparing for Advent and Christmas, your chance to fight back with a holiday that is truly meaningful is coming up: Saturday, April 30.  That's the day the second Thanksgiving was celebrated, in Texas, with Holy Mass and a great feast.  Even better, according to "The First Thanksgivings Were Catholic," after the Mass, the expedition leader, "Don Juan de Oñate, took formal possession of the new land, called New Mexico, in the name of the Heavenly Lord, God Almighty, and the earthly lord King Philip II."

Now that's more like it! 

May Catholic men rise up in the spirit of Don Juan de Oñate and renew the effort that Catholic missionaries began so valiantly long ago, establishing outposts of the True Faith in the midst of our  pagan land.  Why waste time worrying over which narcissist will be the next president of the United States?  It's just another distraction at this point.  Plus, should Catholics aspire to getting back to America's Masonic roots and its godless Constitution as "conservatives" propose?

No, we must build from a solid foundation; we must establish a Catholic order, replacing Lady Liberty with Our Lady of Guadalupe, and it is not going to happen with anyone who is "electable" in the present system.  

The first priority is establishing the Social Reign of Christ the King in our homes and in our communities.  That will provide the rich soil from which the seeds of good government may burst forth and flower.  Catholic mothers, with Rosary in hand, must form Catholic citizens.   And it can start with simple things like celebrating Catholic Thanksgiving on April 30 and again on September 8, the day on which we celebrate the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary in a month rich with Marian feasts, when the real first American Thanksgiving was celebrated in Florida by Spanish Catholics.

And by all means invite your non-Catholic friends.

I highly recommend watching Babette's Feast.  It seems the perfect artistic representation of the difference between celebrating Protestant Thanksgiving and Catholic Thanksgiving, and not only that, it is a truly beautiful movie that will uplift and inspire you and increase your sensus Catholicus.

In the Spirit of Fraternal Encouragement: A Music Detox

John Cuddeback, a philosophy professor at Christendom College, has invited his Bacon From Acorns blog readers to join him in listening to only a select few "classical" music pieces for two weeks.   I think it is a grand idea!  It offers a reset of our emotions and an opportunity to get to know several beautiful pieces intimately.  Read his post linked above to get his list of recommended pieces, overflowing with musical antioxidants.

Mr. Cuddeback does not include any Gregorian chant because of its intended use as liturgical prayer, but here I must lovingly disagree.   Are we not to pray without ceasing?  And is not the home our domestic church?  I think it would add greatly to the efficaciousness of the "fast" to listen to one piece of chant every day for the two weeks, especially if you did it first thing in the morning to help set the tone for the rest of your day.  Aside from the graces to be gained,  it would also give our parasympathetic nervous systems, so overloaded with the stimuli of modern culture, a rest, as Gregorian chant appeals directly to the intellect, not the passions.

Need more inspiration?  Here are two things I read today that I found immensely edifying.

Twelve Latin Chants Every Catholic Should Know:  This is great for narrowing down the choices, and it gives a little background with each chant.  Well, actually I lied.  It didn't help me narrow the choices.  With each description I was sure that I would finally decide on THAT piece, only to read the next description and decide that it was THE ONE.  Maybe I shall start at the top of the list and listen to each piece for two weeks until I have absorbed each one into my being.

Feeding Our Children Liturgical Garbage:  Jeff Ostrowski, who holds a Bachelor's degree in Music Theory, explains in a short Views from the Choir Loft blog post why we should listen to the best music and provide it for our children.  He shares some stellar quotes, too.

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!

An Exciting Evening with the Disturbing Mary Poppins

Crazy girlies!

I went with Emma and some of her friends to the musical version of Mary Poppins last night in Houston's Theatre Under the Stars. I had no particular interest in seeing the show, other than realizing that I desperately needed to get out for an evening, and going somewhere with Emma and her friends always rejuvenates me. They're amazingly sweet and, as you can see in the photos above and below, crazy funny.  It's a special treat to do things with them.

Aaron and Angela ham it up after the show.

Michelle had spent the night with us.  She and Emma really pitched in to help me so that I could go, taking care of all the grandparents' evening rituals for me while I directed a crew of furniture movers until 6:15.   Talk about cutting it close!  The show was to begin at 7:30 and was a 45-minute drive away.  And I had to change clothes first.  If it hadn't been for Emma and Michelle steadfastly encouraging me to go, I would have given up and collapsed on the couch.  It had been a really long day in a series of long days.

Thanks to Emma Jo Go-go's high-speed driving skills we zipped in and out of traffic, narrowly missing a stalled vehicle in the middle lane of Hwy. 90 and skirting major congestion with two fire trucks at the scene of a burning vehicle on I-10, where we briefly shot toward the closest exit but then ricocheted back to our former lane when it was apparent we could get by the disaster relatively quickly.

I'm convinced Emma's guardian angel rocks a jetpack.

Michelle was following us in her car, poor baby!

"Come on, Mich," Emma would whisper under her breath when she lost sight of her in one of our fantastic maneuvers.  We arrived at the theatre with the warning bell signaling ten minutes till showtime.  By then I felt like I had already had enough excitement for the evening and was ready to go back home.

The usher directed us to take one flight of stairs to get to our seats in the mezzanine.  I should have asked her to define "flight".  My leg muscles turned to silly putty by the time we reached our destination.

"You've got to be kidding me," I thought, as each new stairway appeared before me.

Finally we arrived at the mezzanine and found our seats.  We met Angela and Aaron there.  I dropped into my chair and anticipated an evening of light entertainment.  Unfortunately, I could never get into the show.  I was constantly trying to figure out why much of it made me uncomfortable.  I don't know if it was because I was so tired or what, but I couldn't come to a conclusion about it as a whole, other than something was not right about it, and there were a lot of things that really disturbed me.  One of the things was the occult-like symbols that were flashed in the background when Mary Poppins put some kind of spell on the children.  I think it was to get them to go to sleep.  I tried to focus on the symbols to see if I could recognize anything definitely of the occult, but I couldn't.  Casting a spell of any kind was serious enough to grab my attention, though.

I searched my memory trying to find if I had ever read anything about the author of the book or the original story itself, something that would help me understand my discomfort.  I realized I knew nothing other than the Disney movie, and I haven't seen it in years, certainly not since I have developed a Catholic worldview. I kept thinking, "Who is Mary Poppins?  Nothing is ever explained about her or her unusual relationship with Burt, the chimneysweep.

Then there was this song, "Anything Can Happen if You Let It."  I felt like it was conveying a twisted message, but I couldn't quite pin it down.  One line of it that really caught my attention was Mary Poppins' praising of free thinkers.  I couldn't understand the rest of the song, other than the refrain.  I looked up the lyrics this morning.  It promotes being open minded to the point of being able to "see the world more upside-downish," so that you can "turn it on its head then pirouette it."  Hmmmm.

After reading the lyrics, I decided to just google Mary Poppins and occult.  I found a post on the Women of Grace site that explains that the author of Mary Poppins, Pamela L. Travers, was into the occult and theosophy.

Although the Disney film (which Travers apparently hated) was clean, her books are quite dark and mixed with many occultic elements from magick to reincarnation, all of which came from her association with theosophy. 

Needless to say, things started making a lot more sense.  Clearly, the musical draws more from the book than the Disney movie, not that I'm making a case for Disney.  I'm definitely not.

One of the things that really bothered Emma was Mary Poppins' saying that she was "practically perfect." There was a song about this idea, and Emma and I talked about it on the way home.  In the Women of Grace post, there is a quote which addresses this issue: Mary Poppins as the Great Exception:  Helene Vachet of the Theosophical Society’s Quest Magazine clearly describes the theosophical meaning behind much of the symbolism and story of Mary Poppins.

“Mary Poppins, one could say, resembles a guardian angel, demon, or cosmic being who comes from time to time to visit Earth,” Vachet writes.

The sky and wind bringing Mary Poppins to Cherry Tree Lane refers to a “walker of the sky” described in theosophic writings as a siddhi, or spiritual power to which a yogi joins himself to “behold the things beyond the seas and stars” and to “hear the language of the devas”.

Travers’ Mary Poppins is referred to in the books as the “Great Exception,” which Vachet says means that “she has gone beyond the evolution of humanity and her life now stands in contrast to those who have not yet reached this stage.”

My goodness.  And at first I thought Mary Poppins was just a lot of fluff!

Now that you know all the background, you can really appreciate this picture from St. Cecilia Cathedral in Omaha, Nebraska, that I found in the March 14, 2016 online edition of Omaha.com. 

Are you starting to "see the world more upside-downish?"  Apparently this display of Mary Poppins is just to celebrate "culture."  It puts me in mind of a parody of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary into Heaven.  I'm sure it's just a coincidence, though.

Striving to Be Catholic in the Land of the Green Dragon

One can be a citizen of the USA (that is, CUSA) and be a Catholic, and most CUSAs are Americans. One cannot be a Catholic and an American. To be an American is to believe in American principles before the teachings of the Church, or in other words to accept the Enlightenment ideals as superior to the teachings of the Faith.  ~ David Wemhoff, "Joseph Ratzinger's American Mind"

Although I do not agree with Mr. Wemhoff's contention in the full article that the Conciliar church has not changed doctrine, I heartily agree with this quote.  It sums up all that I have figured out in my studies over the last few years.  Listening to two of Wemhoff's interviews on how Americanism was purposely inserted directly into the circulatory system of the Church, finally helped me see how John Courtney Murray, an American Jesuit priest and "theologian", was able to get Religious Liberty approved at Vatican II, an idea that had always been condemned by the Church.  The interviews are based on Wemhoff's book, John Courtney Murray, Time-Life, and the American Proposition.  I haven't read the book, but the Amazon description of it is helpful background for listening to the interviews.  Here's a portion of it:

In 1941, Franklin D. Roosevelt gave his famous "Four Freedoms" speech. In that speech, FDR set forth a vision for the reengineering of societies around the globe. The means was psychological warfare, involving the manipulation of ideas, words and symbols to divide target societies and convince these societies of the ideology that formed America. The most important society America targeted was the Roman Catholic Church. Media mogul Henry R. Luce, founder and publisher of enormously influential magazines like Time and Life, used the CIA's doctrinal warfare program to turn the Catholic Church into a promoter of American ideas. This struggle reached its culmination at the Second Vatican Council with the promulgation of the document Declaration on Religious Liberty.    

The first interview I listened to was this one, "David A. Wemhoff on Henry Luce and the American Century."  Chilling.

The second interview that I listened to was this one:

The introduction by host Peter Helland is slow going, but once Wemhoff starts talking, it's good.  One of the more startling revelations he makes is that John Courtney Murray actually wrote "The American Proposition" speech for Luce, a fact that lends credence to the assertion by one of the Time reporters who covered Vatican II that John Courtney Murray was part of a conspiracy.

The American Proposition speech set forth the American principles for a good society based on no established religion.  I found it interesting that it was delivered in 1953, the same year that Cardinal Ottaviani, head of the Holy Office, delivered his speech on the Duties of the Catholic Confessional State, which directly contradicted the principles of The American Proposition.

Reading Solange Hertz's, The Star-Spangled Heresy: Americanism finally wove the last threads together for me into a recognizable pattern, as she lays out the sordid history of the heresy of Americanism from its beginnings in revolutionary America among the Catholic hierarchy.  I thought I knew a good deal about that, but I truly was shocked by the quotes she used from these so-called Catholic churchmen.

It's quite disheartening.  However, it is a great advantage to know the problem.

Without a Catholic confessional state, we do not serve Jesus Christ.   We must recognize Him as King, and the Church He established must be free to ensure His reign over our affairs and provide a check on the government.  If we do not serve Jesus Christ then we serve Mammon.   That is why everything revolves around money in America and why it does not matter who gets elected to office.  The founding principles of America are in direct contradiction to Catholic doctrine.

In the very heart of the Passion He [Christ] was pleased to show us “democracy” in action, manipulated by the instruments of Satan. Pilate, turning to the people in hopes of saving the Prisoner he knew to be innocent, asks, “What, then, am I to do with Jesus who is called Christ?” And they answered, prompted by their leaders, “Let him be crucified!” (Matt. 27: 22-23) and elected Barabbas. Thus was our Lord’s death demanded and ratified by Jews who had espoused the democratic process, preferring human rule to God’s. Let there be no mistake. The real objective of the liberty, equality and fraternity touted by the forces of humanism is always the death of God.  ~ Solange Hertz, The Star-Spangled Heresy: Americanism

I've really benefitted this Lent from doing the Total Consecration to Mary according to St. Louis de Montfort while also reading The Star-Spangled Heresy: Americanism.  It's made the contrast between Catholicism and Americanism much clearer to me.  True freedom lies in Holy Slavery to Our Lord through His Blessed Mother.  It is not in the American idea of freedom, which is of Satan.  (The American founders met in a Boston tavern called The Green Dragon, which Daniel Webster called the “Headquarters of the Revolution”.  It was the seat of Massachusetts Masonry's Provincial Grand Lodge, according to Mrs. Hertz.)

I will close with a gorgeous recording of Ave Maris Stella.  Saying that prayer every day is a requirement of the Consecration.  I have found that if I sing it, it will come to me on its own frequently throughout the day.

From the Vape Shop to The Mystical City of God

No, I haven't taken up vaping.  My mom has.  Weird, I know.  But she had been using these funny little metal cigarette-shaped e-cigarettes (sorry if I don't use the correct terminology) that had to be constantly recharged and were always having issues because they were such poor quality.  "Smoking" these things helps Mom with her anxiety, so she would get frantic when she didn't have one ready to go.  I would spend ten to fifteen minutes a day checking on e-cigs, trying to get them to charge or making sure they were charged.  It was nuts.  So my son suggested that I get her set up with a nice one that has a tank that you fill up with "juice".  Desperate to be done with the irritating e-cigs, I purchased an Aspire Nautilus tank and a hot pink Eleaf iStick battery last June, and she has been one happy vaper ever since.   She affectionately calls this rig "my puffer."  I call it her peace pipe.  I generally refill the tank every other week, and I charge it every night.  Super easy.

Except for the rare problem: Last Thursday I couldn't get the tank open to refill it.  I actually rubbed the skin on my hand raw trying to twist the thing loose.  With the prospect of no vaping, Mom started to panic.  She dug out this box of mini cigars that she had tucked away, and I quickly lit one up for her.   Then I busied myself with trying to charge one of the old e-cigs.  I  realized I needed to make an emergency run to the vape shop.

The vape shop I patronize is a friendly place with a team of ever so helpful young men at the ready to answer my latest question and/or mix up my juice order.   One of the guys leapt to my assistance as soon as I walked in.  I described the problem, and he immediately wrapped the tank with a piece of rubbery stuff and used some pliers to turn and open it   I was so excited!  And enormously relieved.  Then I went and sat at the juice bar to await my order being filled.  I asked for a recommendation on a pre-mixed juice for an 82-year-old grandma who doesnn't like fruit flavors.

The answer was "Cowboy."

"Fine," I said.  "I'll take three bottles."

They were busy, so I had to wait a while.  This is when my discomfort began, because not less than three people shared a story, amid uproarious laughter, of giving a child an energy drink as a form of lighthearted "revenge" on the parent.  I was keenly aware of being from a different culture from these poor people.  I looked hard at each storyteller and tried to see what had happened to them in their life to cause such thoughtlessness.   I began to feel sad and disheartened.  Finally I got my three bottles of Cowboy and checked out.

Once home, I discovered that my order of the new English edition of The Mystical City of God by Ven. Mary of Agreda had arrived.  I sat down and began reading Volume 1.

Immediately I was immersed in a world where the love of God was the highest priority.  It was almost a shock after the vape shop.   I soon noticed that tiny moisture droplets were stealthily creeping down my cheeks.  This seems to happen to me whenever I experience a deep moment of connection with the Faith.  It's tears without crying.  I actually think it's more like a signal to me to pay closer attention, kind of like how a hunting dog points when it spots a bird.

When I read that Ven. Mary died on Pentecost,  at the hour the Holy Ghost descends, and that several people heard her last words to be, "Come, come, come," I just wanted to suck the whole contents of the book inside myself in one great draught--my version of vaping, I guess.  What a balm for my troubled soul!   I thought of my friends at the vape shop and how different they would most likely be if they had been born into Christendom like Ven. Mary.  And I deeply regretted not making an attempt to charitably propose an alternative viewpoint to their acceptance of doing harm to a child for their own entertainment.

Photo Credit:  Tradition in Action

Yesterday, I wanted to read again about Mary's dying on Pentecost, but I couldn't find it in the book.  So I decided to google it.  I saw several results concerning her 500 bi-locations to America to convert some of the Indians of the Southwest, including Texas.  I read a 3-part series of articles on Tradition in Action about this, her work as "The Lady in Blue".  And I thought, "Dear Mary of Agreda, we have a whole new tribe of Indians in need of conversion in Texas!"  I was particularly thinking of my dear "Indians" at the vape shop.  I was a little startled at that point, remembering how I refer to my mother's "puffer" as her peace pipe and that the juice that was recommended to me is called "Cowboy".

God really does have a sense of humor.

On My Refrigerator: Handy Dandy Guide to the New Religion of Vatican II

I was cleaning out a kitchen drawer on Tuesday and discovered this long-lost treasure that I had clipped from one of Fr. Zendejas' "blue papers" several years ago, before he left the SSPX and became a Resistance priest.  I had thought of it many times and wanted to review it but could not remember where I had stashed it.

My heart thrilled with its re-discovery!  "Look what I found!" I crowed to Emma.  She immediately whipped out her phone and took a picture for safekeeping.   She knows too well that just because I find something doesn't mean that I won't lose it again.

I began seriously looking over the list last night and started typing it up in chronological order, so I could see the process better.  That's when I realized that a really important change was not even on the list, that being the new rite for Episcopal Consecration, which was instituted in 1968 at the same time as the new rite for Priestly Ordination.

As for the last item, I'm not sure what Fr. Zendejas was trying to say about the New Evangelization of 2013, as John Paul II and Benedict XVI had touted it during their reigns.  I'm guessing he was trying to communicate something about Bergoglio actually implementing the things that JPII and BXVI only dreamed of.  But that is only a guess.

It's quite heartbreaking to ponder the individual items on this list, especially when you know that most Conciliar Catholics have no idea that their religion is not the same one as practiced by Catholics before Vatican II.  Maybe this list can rectify that.  It's a great outline for starting an investigation into what happened to the Church.  I recommend the sedevacantist site, Novus Ordo Watch, as a solid resource.  But by all means, read far and wide.  To get you started, here's a link to NOW's extensively documented post on the new rite of episcopal consecration.

Pushing the Spiritual Reset Button & Paying Attention to Promptings

I struggle mightily with getting caught up in the daily affairs of living in the world.  In caring for my dear ones I get emotionally tired and give in to my weaknesses, like spending too much time researching things on the internet or texting a friend, when my poor mother is sitting there lonely and dying to engage me in conversation.

Life seems to swirl by in this confusing tornado of appointments, bill-paying, shopping, and cooking.  But not nearly enough cleaning.  Disorder.  And then I take up blogging again.

I really should be cooking breakfast right now.  So I will get to the point.

Recognizing that I need to get back on track, this morning I went to traditionalcatholicsermons.org to listen to some sermons.  There I found information on a new English edition of the book, The Mystical City of God by Venerable Mary Agreda.  This has got to be the third or fourth time in the last week that this book, with which I was previously unfamiliar, has been brought pointedly to my attention.  I determined that I will order it today and begin reading it.  Here's the link:  http://www.neemcog.com.  Then I skimmed through the list of sermons and found this one on spiritual reading by Fr. McGuire, "How to Read Spiritual Books Profitably."  At one point he talks about pushing the reset button on the GPS of our spiritual lives and "re-calculating" our direction.  Perfect.  Maybe you need this too.

May God bless you.

And God Laughed at My Plan

As a follow-up to Yes, Dad, I am Guilty, I thought you might enjoy this post I contributed to another blog a year ago, before I started taking care of  my parents full time.


I started off Monday with a great and holy plan.

I would give myself a one-day silent retreat using the book, The School of Jesus Crucified.   Well, at least until it was time to take my dad to his cardiologist appointment at 5 pm.   It had been a busy and emotionally draining couple of weeks with family and other out-of-town guests visiting, and I thought this little retreat was just what I needed to restore my peace of heart.   I said my morning prayers then launched right in on the book.   It was fabulous, and I got pretty excited about the spiritual progress I was sure to make.

I had read and meditated for about a half an hour when the phone rang.  It was my mom letting me know that her home health aide did not come to work.  My mom has been confined to a wheel chair ever since she had a stroke two years ago.  I called the aide, but she didn't answer.  I left a message.   Then I cooked bacon and eggs for Mom and took it down to her house.  Dad had eaten cereal.   I greeted him on the front porch.

I *think* he greeted me as well, but frankly, I can't remember for sure because the next words out of his mouth changed the whole focus of my day.

"Wendy, I'm out of cigarettes, and I've been out since yesterday at noon," he said, getting directly to the point as he handed me an empty L&M 100s package.  I figured the information about how long he had been out was to help me understand the urgency of the situation.  "And look at this," he added with deep concern, holding up his beloved little dog to me.  "Cherokee's got a giant tick on his leg.  He needs to go to the vet."

I looked at the tick.

"Dad,"  I said,  "That is not a tick.  It's some kind of tumor."

"It is so a tick!  Look.  Feel it."

I pressed the soft, black sphere and looked at how it was attached.  "It's not a tick, Dad," I contradicted.  "A tick's body gets big, but only its head burrows in.  This thing is connected to the skin all the way around."

"Will you make him an appointment and take him to the vet?" my dad persisted.  "Today?" he added.  Dad can still drive, but if he does he is not eligible for home health services, which he needs.  So no more driving.

"Yes," I sighed as I felt a dark cloud gather over my head.  I imagined the Vet's office with the walls papered in annoying posters about vaccinations and neutering.  Big Pharma rules there too.  Ugh!    Clearly, God had a different plan for my day!

I went inside and gave Mom her breakfast, got her dressed, washed the dishes, and started a load of laundry.

Then I went home and got my purse and headed to the Tobacco Shack.  I had really been primed for silence and prayer.  I felt the resentment monster crashing through my soul.  A knot tightened in my chest.   And then the guilt.  I pulled into the drive-through of the cigarette place and saw a sign that said that it didn't open until 9.  I had ten minutes to wait.  I decided to fill up the car with gas.

I left the driver's door open as I pumped the gas.  When I finished and went to get in the car, I noticed a bright green praying mantis on the roof.  I thought bitterly, "Oh, funny.  I wanted to pray and now here's this praying mantis.  Too weird."  I shooed him back so he wouldn't get squished when I closed the door.  I drove into the grocery store parking lot and parked, waiting for 9:00.  As I glanced out the driver's door window, the praying mantis leaped onto the driver's side mirror.  He turned his queer triangular head and peered at me.  I studied him and marveled at his construction--all the joints in his legs and the searching way he turned his head when he looked at me.  I recalled something that I had read that morning about how God gave us creation so we would know how much he loved us.  As I pondered this thought and gazed at him, time stood still.  Then the mantis raised up on his hindmost legs and then plunged forward, galloping along the top of the mirror.  The sheer beauty of it caused me to gasp, and tears trickled down my cheeks.

"Thank you, God, for the attitude adjustment," I whispered.

Back home with the precious cigarettes, I  called the vet to make an appointment.  I felt relieved when they said they couldn't take him until the next day.  Later, when I went back to my parents' to cook their midday meal, my mom said, "I gave your dad the tweezers to pull out that tick."

"What?" I asked in disbelief.

"But he couldn't get it," she finished.

"Mom!  No!  It's not a tick!" I had a mental image of me doing a face palm and thought, "Watch it, Wendy.  Remember your attitude adjustment.  But I could feel the frustration coming back.

Later, zooming down the highway to my dad's cardiologist appointment, he confided that he had painted the "tick" with fingernail polish.

"Okay, Dad," I sighed, totally defeated.  

And I reviewed my day and the retreat that God had planned for me and what a failure I was.

The next morning my parents' home health aide called and said, "You can cancel that appointment with the vet.  They already looked at that lump when Cherokee had his shots.  They said it was a fat deposit and not to worry about it."

That night, after I had put my mom to bed, my dad called me into his office where he was playing his millionth game of Solitaire on the computer.  He said, "Wendy, you were right about the tick.  I was wrong.  I'm sorry."

My heart melted, and I hugged him tight.

"I love you, Daddy.  It's ok."

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.

Missing Pope Pius XII

I've been watching YouTube videos of Pope Pius XII and studying pictures of pre-Vatican II Catholic life.   Such dignity, beauty, and grace.  Talk about longing for the good old days!   While watching a video about Pius XII's death in 1958,  it occurred to me that my husband was so blessed to be born in 1957.   I never thought about that before.   It was kind of a shock to me to realize how so much destruction could take place in just my husband's lifetime.  

 I also watched a video on the canonization of St. Maria Goretti in 1950.  It showed her siblings and her mother in attendance.  The crowds in St. Peter's Square!  Unbelievable!  Wall to wall, honoring her for purity.  

Reading for Conversion II

I've got a carrot cake in the oven, so I thought I would try to blast out a post, lest I fall off the blogging wagon once more.

I think my dad may be making progress towards conversion. Thursday at breakfast he told me that he had run into the word "sentient" and that it had been a long time since he had seen it. I thought I knew the definition but wasn't sure, so I googled it right then. I had it wrong. This is what the dictionary said:

able to see or feel things through the sensesMan is a sentient being.There was no sign of any sentient life or activity.

I asked him where he read it, and he told me that it was used in the physics book he is reading, The Road to Reality: A Complete Guide to the Laws of the Universe.   The book qualifies as a tome:

Definition of tome in English:

noun

chiefly humorous

A book, especially a large, heavy, scholarly one:a weighty tome

The Amazon description pegs its weight at 4 lbs.  And it is definitely scholarly.  My experience of it with Dad has indeed been "chiefly humorous."  When he was doing the prep for a colonoscopy last month--the one where you drink the gallon of nasty stuff, and it gives you death by diarrhea--to save energy he parked himself on the toilet to await the process completion.  As he finished each glass of the Liquid Plumber, he would call me for a refill.  The first time I paused before entering and asked him to please cover himself with something.   He has no discernible sense of modesty.  He said, "Ok.  I'm ready."  I walked in to find him butt naked except for the strategically place Road to Reality.  Then yesterday he had a doctor's appointment.  He can't dress himself because of his arthritis, although he does manage to put on his underwear.  Other than his boxers, his daily attire is his robe.  So when he has to wear real clothes, I dress him.  I entered his room to get him ready and found him waiting for me: sitting on the foot of the bed in his boxers, legs crossed, reading Road to Reality.  He looked so cute!

Boy, did I digress or what?  Back to "sentient."  I read aloud the paragraph with "sentient" in it.  I skimmed through some other parts too, trying to figure out if the book was anti-religion.  I hit upon this one paragraph that included a sentence stating that science without morals was a bad thing.  SCORE!  I was so happy!   I read that sentence aloud, and we discussed it briefly in the light of the book we recently finished, A Song for Nagasaki.  Dad agreed with me.  So now I know that Dad and I have something to build upon.

I mentioned that I missed having a read-aloud book going, and Mom and Dad both agreed that they missed it too.  I asked Dad what he wanted me to read next.  He asked for something about Alaska.  We talked about Jack London and The Call of the Wild and also London's book The Sea Wolf, which we had discussed when I read it in the sixth grade.  Strange to think about us still discussing books 43 years later.  I had been planning on reading With God in Russia to them to continue the Catholic in WWII theme but didn't know if choosing only Catholic books would wear thin with Dad.  That's why I asked him what he would like to read next.  So I guess we'll go to Alaska and maybe then slide over to Russia.  I want to read the companion book to With God in Russia also.  It's called He Leadeth Me.

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The carrot cake's done, and I need to make the frosting.

A most blessed Feast of Christ the King to you all!

Women Waiting for Marriage: It's Hard to Know What to Do

So I heard recently about an eligible bachelor with a high income and a stable job history, a young man who is intelligent and amiable and wants to marry but with this one twist:  he seeks a bride who earns a high income as well.  He is not Catholic but still I was surprised.  Is this a thing?  Am I that out of touch with the modern world?

I checked in with my husband.

"Honey, did you ever consider how much money your future wife would make as part of the criteria for finding the right one?"

His face contorted.

"What?" he asked, as if I had just asked him if he had ever considered marrying a Martian.

"No," he answered definitively.

I explained why I was asking, and he too was surprised.  "I never heard of that," he replied, shaking his head in disbelief.  He didn't say it, but I could tell he was thinking, "he needs to man up".

The next day I heard about a son-in-law who left his wife every time they had a new baby or made an expensive purchase like a car.  He has a fear of responsibility.  Maybe that's what is at the heart of the problem with the other guy.

I didn't need another reason to appreciate my husband, but these stories did cause exactly that reaction.

I'm not so sheltered that I am unaware that the majority of married households are made up of two wage earners.  It's just the idea of a man who already earns an income that is more than enough to support a wife and family comfortably, screening potential spouses based on income-producing ability, never occurred to me.   What a complete inversion of the traditional household economy!

The traditional Catholic world is steeped in its own controversies regarding women and careers.  I know plenty of trads who vehemently disagree with the idea of a woman attending college.  They are mostly single young men, insisting that women should stay home and learn domestic skills until marriage.  I also know others, mostly worried parents, who insist that women need to prepare to support themselves for life, to not expect that they will ever find anyone to marry.   I know wonderful, pious young ladies in both situations.  I spoke with a lovely young Catholic woman recently who told me that her traditional Catholic parents had witnessed so much divorce within their own Catholic families, that they advised their girls, growing up in the 1980s-90s, to become self-sufficient and not to become attached to the idea of marrying.

Me?  I think college today is grossly overrated as a means to a career, and I dislike it in general because it is so flagrantly anti-Catholic and ridiculously expensive.  I would prefer women find other ways to support themselves.  I know that not every home situation is ideal for a woman to remain in until marriage and that it is often the case that she has already learned all that she needs to know about keeping house.  I do think that something is lost when a woman becomes financially independent that will make it more of a struggle to let her husband lead the household if and when she is able to marry.  I also think that her husband, knowing that she is capable of earning a good salary, could be tempted to take advantage of this when things get tough, instead of, as my husband says, "manning up" and doing what's necessary to support the family.   Yes, I know that there are situations where the wife works, and she and her husband have worked everything out where it does not cause a strain on the marriage.  I'm just speaking in generalities and with the idea that we're talking about traditional Catholic homes with several/many young children.

Life is full of struggles, isn't it?

What times we live in.

On a lighter note, maybe the answer lies in promoting participation in wife-carrying contests like this one in Houston.  Enjoy!