In Which I Discover a Treasure from Christian Culture

 I am surprised I spotted them.

And even then I hesitated, leaning forward to peer into the yellowed plastic before gingerly plucking them from amongst all the other knick-knacks on the dimly-lit thrift store shelf.

Carefully, carefully I pried open the sides of the brittle package.

Oh, my goodness! No yellowing here! 

The gorgeous dancing couple dressed in vibrantly-hued traditional European costumes delighted my eye and blessed my soul.

I marveled at the details. 

Her flower wreath and long blond braid. His cap with the multi-colored tassels on one side. The netting overlay on her skirt and the jaunty belt cinching his long vest.

I looked for the price tag: $10

Confident that I had already received $10 worth of value from the charming pair, I purchased it and hurried home.

I looked forward to removing them from the ugly packaging and examining them closer. It was only when I tried to free them that I realized the dancers' feet were permanently attached to the base. I turned it upside down and for the first time noticed that it had a label.

And it was in Polish.

I had no idea what it said. 

Nevertheless, a thrill of joy leapt through me as I thought how perfectly the couple would look displayed in my hutch with all my Polish pottery. I hurried over and found them a spot, center stage, my daily reminder that life is beautiful.

Christmas Eve in the Weary World

 Christmas Eve found me motoring from Kansas to Arkansas with our geriatric cat, Cotton, and our middle aged Lab, Esther. I had given Cotton a tranquilizer for the five-hour drive, so she protested meekly but regularly from the carrier in the cargo area of my Ford Flex. 

I made frequent stops at convenience stores because I kept getting drowsy. Each time I had interactions with folks that kept me thinking of and praying for them for several miles after I departed.

At one, I wished a man with an unkempt gray beard and loose fitting clothes a Merry Christmas. 

We were retrieving drinks from the refrigerated cases at the back of the store. "Merry Christmas," he replied smiling. "Are you going to the casino?"

I smiled and told him "No, no, I'm not".

We each still had a door to the cooler open as he proceeded to tell me that he had just gotten off work and that his wife and children had gone away for Christmas, leaving him alone. So he was on his way to the casino to spend the holiday. 

"I'm so sorry," I said, caught off guard by his frankness and not really knowing how to respond.

Unperturbed, he described how the local casino is quite a bit nicer than the other one that he frequented. "You should try it," he said enthusiastically.

He said something else I didn't catch, and we both headed to the checkout counter, my thoughts whirling. Was he happy or sad that his family had left him alone for Christmas? I was waiting behind him when a young female clerk called me to her register.

I wished her a Merry Christmas, and she returned the greeting.

"I have to work, though," she explained. "I won't be able to see my kids till tomorrow."

"Oh, that's awful," I sympathized. "But luckily Christmas Day is just the first day of the Twelve Days of Christmas."

"Oh, that's good," she said. "I've never heard of that." 

Suddenly a young male clerk jumped in beside the one I was talking to and asked loudly, "Are you talking about Kwanzaa?"

"No," I said, feeling like I needed to shake my head vigorously to process all the conversations I had participated in since I entered the store. "I was talking about the Twelve Days of Christmas".

"Huh? Never heard of it," he confessed.

He had heard of Kwanzaa but not the Twelve Days of Christmas. Letting that sink in, I smiled and returned to my car. "Maybe I should try one of Cotton's tranquilizers," I mused.

"Meow," Cotton complained softly.

At my next convenience store stop, I pulled open the ladies' bathroom door to be immediately greeted by a loud bark. I was so surprised that I gasped loudly. A woman's voice sang out from one of the stalls, "It's all right. It's just my dog Rosco. He won't hurt you."

As there were only two stalls, I reluctantly entered the vacant one, separated from the the voice and the bark by one shared metal partition. Would Rosco stick his snout under the wall? I drew in my feet.

"HELLO? IS THIS THE COUNTY JAIL?" the voice next door boomed. "I'm looking for my fiancé. His name is..." The woman gave a man's name. After a short pause, she said, "Oh, ok. I'll call that one". Apparently her betrothed was locked up at a different location.

I exited as quickly as possible, seriously lamenting the loss of enclosed phone booths...and berating myself for not thanking God enough for all my many blessings.

Words to Live By?

Edification. This word chose me last year. Edification and I had a good run with her as my co-pilot while I navigated the rough roads of 2021 with both gloved hands on the wheel. 

We had a conversation going 'most all the time. 

I especially treasure the memory of one of our roadside picnics, complete with a flask of mint tea, elegant chicken salad sandwiches shaped by a tulip cookie cutter, and poetry recitation from Sonnets from the Portuguese in the shade of a moss-laden oak.

Edification is still with me but has moved to the back seat where she reads and occasionally comments on the scenery. 

Yesterday a new word came and claimed me for its companion: propriety. This word leapt out of the page at me as if it were bolded, italicized, and three-dimensional. This does not seem proper behavior for this word--a puzzlement to be sure. At any rate, the reality was that it was just plain type in Wendell Berry's essay, "People, Land, and Community". To quote:

A farm can be too big for a farmer to husband properly or pay proper attention to. Distraction is inimical to correct discipline, and enough time is beyond the reach of anyone who has too much to do. But we must go farther and see that propriety of scale is invariably associated with propriety of another kind: an understanding of and acceptance of the human place in the order of Creation--a proper humility.

Berry is using propriety to mean "the quality or state of being proper or fitting," which is a definition I am eager to explore because it implies a timelessness that we do not get from the understanding of propriety as "the standard of what is socially acceptable in conduct".

Clearly, what is socially acceptable in conduct can and does change dramatically.

"Sad, but so true!" remarks Edification from the back seat, reaching for her dainty but well-worn copy of Famous Shakespeare Quotes.

 This leads me to thinking about limits and right back to the quote above. I don't see how to understand "the quality or state of being proper or fitting" without taking into account the concept of limits.

If I am reading Berry correctly, a proper humility is what helps us recognize the limits.

"Gosh," I sigh to myself, involuntarily squeezing the steering wheel. "Much food for thought in this word." 

"Indubitably," chirps Propriety from the passenger seat.

By the way, in my dictionary, Webster's Third New International Dictionary, copyright 1981, the first three definitions are obsolete usages; the fourth one is the one I want to study; the fifth is the "standard of what is socially acceptable in conduct" one.

Good for Your Soul: Jefferson Davis's Remarks on Robert E. Lee

 

On a whim tonight I decided to check Abbeville Institute's site for something historical to read. I hadn't visited in months, maybe not since last year. I discovered just the right thing to suit me: a speech by Jefferson Davis honoring Robert E. Lee. I didn't read the whole thing. The first two paragraphs were enough. I had a deep need to read about a truly good man. I had been reading Twitter. Enough said? 

This was a double scoop of edification, because Jefferson Davis's own goodness shone brilliantly in his remarks about his friend. Such gentlemen. Shall we have the likes of them again when the rule by the insane predator class is over? ( I started to just say "predator" but felt it was critical for accuracy to go back and add the modifier "insane".)

 I didn't read the whole thing because I have How to Resist Amazon and Why by Danny Caine on the chair beside me. I want to get started on it. And on the other chair I have a gorgeous edition of Kenneth Grahame's The Wind in the Willows, which I started re-reading with supreme delight a couple of nights ago. 

Anyway, here are the two paragraphs I read about the admirable Robert E. Lee:

Robert E. Lee was my associate and friend in the military academy, and we were friends until the hour of his death. We were associates and friends when he was a soldier and I a congressman; and associates and friends when he led the armies of the Confederacy and I presided in its Cabinet. We passed through many sad scenes together, but I cannot remember that there was ever aught but perfect harmony between us. If ever there was difference of opinion it was dissipated by discussion, and harmony was the result. I repeat, we never disagreed, and I may add that I never in my life saw in him the slightest tendency to self-seeking. It was not his to make a record, it was not his to shift blame to other shoulders; but it was his with an eye fixed upon the welfare of his country, never faltering to follow the line of duty to the end. His was the heart that braved every difficulty; his was the mind that wrought victory out of defeat.

He has been charged with “want of dash”. I wish to say that I never knew Lee to falter to attempt anything ever man could dare. An attempt has also been made to throw a cloud upon his character because he left the army of the United States to join in the struggle for the liberty of his State. Without trenching at all upon politics, I deem it my duty to say one word in reference to this charge. Virginian born, descended from a family illustrious in Virginia’s annals, given by Virginia to the service of the United States, he represented her in the Military Academy at West Point. He was not educated by the Federal Government, but by Virginia; for she paid her full share for the support of that institution, and was entitled to demand in return the services of her sons. Entering the army of the United States, he represented Virginia there also, and nobly. On many a hard-fought field Lee was conspicuous, battling for his native State as much as for the Union. He came from Mexico crowned with honors, covered by brevets, and recognized, young as he was, as one of the ablest of his country’s soldiers. And to prove that he was estimated then as such, let me tell you that when Lee was a captain of engineers stationed in Baltimore the Cuban Junta in New York selected him to be their leader in the struggle for the independence of their native country. They were anxious to secure his services, and offered him every temptation that ambition could desire. He thought the matter over, and, I remember, came to Washington to consult me as to what he should do, and when I began to discuss the complications which might arise from his acceptance of the trust he gently rebuked me, saying that this was not the line upon which he wished my advice, the simple question was “Whether it was right or not”. He had been educated by the United States, and felt wrong to accept place in the army of a foreign power. Such was his extreme delicacy, such was the nice sense of honor of the gallant gentleman whose death we deplore. But when Virginia withdrew—the State to whom he owed his first and last allegiance-the same nice sense of honor led him to draw his sword and throw it in the scale for good or evil. Pardon me for this brief defence of my illustrious friend.

Please do read the whole thing here if you have a mind to: Jefferson Davis on Robert E. Lee 

My Lovely Conversation with a Stranger at the Dearing Drive-in

On my way back from getting my hair bobbed and crimped, I stopped at The Dearing Drive-in for a hamburger. I love that place! Their hamburgers are so tasty--the way I remember them when I was a kid in the 60s. It's in an old building that looks like it was originally built as a Tas-t-freez. 

Nothing about its humble origins has been updated, which makes it all the more alluring to me.

A lone picnic table under the front awning offers the only available seating, and all orders are taken at the walk-up window by right friendly folks. An air of mystery pervades the transaction while the ancient sliding screen is in place. 

But that may just be me seeing things through my Catholic lens.

After I placed my order I turned and saw that the gentleman who ordered before me had sat down on one end of the table, on the side closest to the road.  

I considered sitting down on the other bench, so that I would be facing the building with my back to him to wait for my order.

Chastising myself, I decided to engage him in conversation instead. 

I figured I couldn't complain about the disintegration of society if I didn't even make an attempt to talk with this fellow under such easy circumstances.

So I sat and greeted him, and soon we were chatting amicably while we waited for our orders. He explained to me all about the garbage company he drives a truck for. I had no idea there were so many types of dumpsters and garbage trucks. 

When I admitted this to him, he surprised me by saying that he didn't know it either until recently. "I've only been working for this company for five months," he admitted smiling. "I lost my job, But some people get angry when I talk about it."

I grinned and assured him that I would not get angry.

His face lit up. "I was a pipeliner. My wife and I traveled all over the country in our 5th wheel. But Biden put an end to that," he explained matter-of-factly. 

I detected no resentment in his voice or expression. In fact, he seemed almost jolly--happy to talk about driving the garbage truck, how busy he and the other drivers are, and how far afield they travel from their home base on their routes.

"Ah, I see." I told him smiling. "My husband works for the refinery here."

He returned my smile and mentioned one of the contractors at the refinery that is also one of the garbage company's customers.

"YES!" I thought. We can talk about hard things and not lose our composure. I wanted to hug him but restrained myself. (This new-found restraint is one of the gifts of my dotage.)

The clerk at the window hollered that the pork sandwich was ready, so my new friend retrieved it and sat down again. I commented that the sandwich didn't look big enough to maintain a man. He smiled and said that he usually didn't eat breakfast or lunch. "When I started doing that I lost 30 pounds," he exclaimed happily.

"Wow!" I thought to myself. "He's an intermittent faster, too. What a super cool fellow!"

The clerk announced that my double cheeseburger was ready, so I wished my new friend a good day and thanked him for the conversation, feeling enormously grateful for his company. 

I hope I see him again. I want to ask him to tell me some stories from the time when he and his wife were traveling around the country towing their 5th wheel.

The Subtle Art of Not Saying F*ck

Friends, it's time to create our own uplifting expressions for when we are frustrated and inject them generously into the population. My hope is that a surplus of wholesome expressions will drive out nasty ones.

Because, y'all, I am sick unto death of being blasted with the F-word and then the perpetrators hiding behind the excuse that it is "adult language".

REALLY?

So adult means that you retreat to the lowest common denominator and call it good? I thought adult meant that you were conquering your weaknesses and accepting your responsibilities so that you are actually a role model for children. 

Anyway, if the F-word is your go-to expression, it's high time to get over it. It's a lazy way to express yourself--like using "nice" and "very". "F*ck" and all its coarse iterations is overused, worn out, and scummy. Let's categorize it as word pollution and erect billboards demanding its defeat.

My grandparents used expressions like "Land o' Goshen!"; "Holy Hannah!", and "Lord help us and save us". They edified instead of dragging one down. 

But that was a Christian culture.

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.

St. Nicholas and Using Money in a Catholic Way

First,  a most happy and blessed feast of St. Nicholas to you, dear reader!

I was thinking early this morning as I set up our St. Nicholas display that he really gave us a good example of investing money.  If you are unfamiliar with the story, he secretly gave a bag of gold from his inheritance as dowry for each of three poor maiden sisters so that they could marry well.

I use the term investing rather than giving because if you think about it, there is nothing more important to a healthy civilization than establishing good Catholic communities.  And that begins with Catholic families.  Helping these girls marry was a wonderful way of investing that paid interest by furthering Christ's kingdom, which as a bishop he understood perfectly.

Notice he didn't toss them gold so that they could buy a house of their own or go to college or travel the world.  He gave it expressly for marriage.

He imagined the kind of world in which he wanted to live, one where Christ is King, and he put his money where it would work toward that vision.  And though this example involved charity, I want to engage in the same kind of thought process for all our family's monetary transactions.

However, going from the thought process to the reality is where it becomes exceedingly difficult, dare I say impossible?  As you have probably discovered, there is this whole corrupt underworld operating out of sight that does not care about you, your children, or your grandchildren and actually hates Jesus Christ.  It just wants your money.  It doesn't care whether your neighborhood is safe or whether you have access to food that is not poison.   It's like we live in a giant charade.  I truly feel like I go out into the world with sword drawn just to go to the grocery store and the drug store.  I mean, they look like nice places, but they both really, really want to give me a flu shot!  At least that is what I infer from all the signs they post, trying to entice me to get one.

For our wrestling is not against flesh and blood; but against principalities and power, against the rulers of the world of this darkness, against the spirits of wickedness in the high places.

Clearly, Prince of Lies, Inc., is the real owner of many profitable companies.

So it is difficult, but it really does matter where you bank and what companies you support by buying their products.  We can't give up.  

I have subscribed to two different investment advice/education sites over the years, hoping to find help in this matter, but in both cases I unsubscribed after determining their advice didn't fit my vision.  In fact, it clashed with it.  I don't want to invest in the military-industrial complex even if it is the best return on my money.  It's evil.

Recently I subscribed to another site after watching several video interviews with its author, Catherine Austin Fitts.  Here's one of the first one I watched:



Her site, Solari.com, is such a wealth of helpful information that I am still mining its rich archive two months later.  I subscribed on the monthly plan to see whether I would like it.  It's $30 a month.  I will most likely buy an annual membership in January.  No, I don't get any money from mentioning the site, no benefits of any kind.

I am particularly excited about her posts on "Reviving a Local Economy".  I think it would be a fantastic tool for young Catholic families to use to start creating the kind of place they want to live and raise families.  She gives advice on how to extricate yourself from the corruption as much as possible and how to start investment groups to help one another succeed.  Of course, it is not perfect. It is just the most helpful site I have found so far.  It's so helpful that I could keep writing about it for a long time, but alas, the day wanes, and soon St. Nicholas Day will be over.

So that's all for now.

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.

Goodbye Cemetery, Hello Advent

Just a few more days in the month dedicated to the Holy Souls.

We'll start the St. Andrew Christmas Novena on November 30:  You say it 15 times a day from St. Andrew's Day through Christmas Eve:

Hail and blessed be the hour and moment at which the Son of God was born of the most pure Virgin Mary, at midnight in Bethlehem in piercing cold.  In that hour vouchsafe, O my God, to hear my prayers and grant my desires (mention your request) through the merits of our Savior Jesus Christ and of His blessed Mother.  Amen.

THIS IS MY ADVENT PICTURE

I know.  A kitten getting a flea bath is not your normal idea of Advent symbolism, but that is the way my mind works.  Make straight the way of the Lord!  Hair shirts and locusts and honey.  Flea bath.  Same thing.  Advent is supposed to be a little bit uncomfortable, right?

Wishing you much spiritual progress on your Advent journey.

Play Me

While walking down the sidewalk, enjoying a festival in an economically-depressed small town, I came upon the scene in the photo to the left.

I stood there mesmerized while the little girl plunked away at the tired keys.  She obviously had never had a piano lesson, but that did not dampen her enjoyment at all.  It probably heightened it.

I was struck with the idea--so simple--that We Can Do Little Things That Make a Big Difference.

There is the possibility that the opportunity to play this piano will lead to an interest in studying music.  This would undeniably be a great return on the investment of making the piano available to festival goers.  But even if no one was inspired to learn music, what a fabulous expression of goodwill!  I believe that such acts create good returns, even if they appear to be invisible.



Recently I noticed an old and scarred baby grand piano on display in my local community center.  It was roped off, but there was a small placard on it that explained that the instrument had been used to teach piano lessons to local children for 30 years.  I marveled at the remarkable impact this piano most likely has had on our town, probably with immeasurable ripple effects of goodness that have echoed throughout the country.  I am grateful to whomever had the insight to put it on display.  So often we are encouraged to publicly admire the big industrialist.  His impact can be measured in dollars, so he easily gains recognition.

I struggle to remember these lessons.  I have gotten caught up in all the national election hoopla.  Yes, the president of the United States is important.  But we cannot discount the importance of the little local things that we can do.  Locally, we can have a far bigger impact than nationally.  

I have been reminded since the election that even a smile matters.  With all the news about the animosity of different groups, I realized that I was beginning to expect people to be unfriendly to me.  I have been enormously relieved to have my expectations proved completely unfounded.  Representatives of the different groups have gone out of their way to greet me with warm smiles and welcoming eyes--to politely and cheerfully say, "Excuse me," as they pass by me in the grocery store.

I happily return the greeting and remind myself to take a break from the news, even the alternative news, and to make decisions on my own experience.

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.

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.

When Women Don Pants, Men Don Dresses and Other Lessons Carved in Granite

Nature abhors a vacuum, right?

This is my explanation for the growing problem of gender confusion.  I am frequently struck, when confronted by cross-dressing men, at how eagerly they embrace the most beautiful elements of women's traditional attire--the ruffles and laces, etc., that truly set apart a woman's clothing from a man's.  These poor, confused fellows seem to know better than most women of today how much these details help a woman represent her charm and delicacy, her dependence, which a man finds such a delightful counterpoint to his leadership role and helps inspire him to love her as Christ loves the Church.

So my dear lady readers, if you desire to establish the Social Reign of Christ the King in the the Masonic Land of  Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity, forego voting at the polls and instead wear beautiful dresses.  You will be surprised at the marvelous impact you will have as you do your part to restore the order established by God.

+++++++

Just the other day I was tugging two trash cans to the road down my long driveway, when one of the roofers who was working on our house rushed to my assistance and valiantly bore my burdens away.  I had had absolutely no interaction with this man previously.  I simply wore a soft gray skirt and soft rose-colored top with flower embroidery.  That did all my communicating for me.

Of course, in some cases, the dress alone is not enough.  For instance, last week, when my new countertops were installed, I, wearing a dress and apron, expressed concern that the new granite countertop that was supposed to be deep enough to use as a bar, was significantly less so than I had discussed with the contractor.  This caused such a flurry of concerned exchanges among the workers, who so desperately wanted to please me, that within minutes the granite man, Mario, brought me his phone with the contractor on the other end.  Fortuitously, the contractor and I had had an occasion the day before to resolve another countertop issue agreeably by my willingness to accept his expert recommendation over my previously decided upon course.

The way it played out was that he had serious reservations about my choice but told me he would do what I wanted.

"You're the boss," he stated, matter-of-factly.

I immediately assured him that I did not want to "be the boss", which somewhat took him aback.

And since he and the granite man both agreed that my plan for dealing with this issue would be unattractive and less usable, I told them that I would happily defer to them, as they were experts and had far more experience in this situation than I.

This news proved quite hard for the contractor to believe; he kept trying to win me over and explain again why I would be unhappy doing it my way.

"You do not have to keep explaining," I assured him.  "I accept your recommendation.  I trust you and Mario to make the best decision, and I leave it to you and him to work out the details."

Pure shock registered on the poor man's face, as well as on the face of the other workers who had stopped what they were doing to pay attention to this discussion.  The shock soon turned to pleasure, however, and I have reaped the benefits ever since.  More on that later.

And, he was right.  The countertop does indeed look better the way he recommended doing it.

Men long to be respected/trusted.  Women who learn this and act accordingly will find that it smoothes the way in many a thorny situation, and many pleasant things may come their way that otherwise would not.

So, when I talked with the contractor about the bar not being the right size, I could hear the grief in his voice that I was not happy.  He explained to me why it could not be done the way that we had originally discussed, and while I understood immediately the limitations he described, I could not help wailing,

"But I'm so disappointed!" as indeed, I truly was.  I had waited twelve years to address this issue, and now it would not be.

This outburst of emotion on my part apparently completely unglued him, because the next words out of his mouth, uttered with deep distress, were,

"But honey..."  

He rushed on from there, repeating his lengthy explanation of why the original plan wouldn't work and no doubt trying to cover his awkward slip.  I knew immediately that he did not intend to call me "honey".  I suspected that he had, unaware, reverted to how he dealt with his wife.  It had slipped out in the face of being confronted with The Feminine.  He finished his long apology with, "I don't want you to be disappointed!"

Poor man!  There was absolutely nothing he could do to fix it, but it grieved his manhood not to be able to make me happy.  And this is a man who is at least 15 years my junior.  This was not about trying to please me because I was an attractive young woman.  No, the woman he was struggling to please was a past-middle-age mom with graying hair, numerous wrinkles, and excess baggage in the caboose.  Haha!

This is not to say that I don't take a firm stand when necessary.  The very next day, using the authority of my husband because he was not here, I pointed out problems with some plumbing projects.  This critique was magnanimously handled by the contractor, and I can't help but believe that it would have been different if I had not gained his respect in the prior conflicts.

Now, I know that not all men will respond as well as the ones with whom I have had experience.  But in general, I believe they will, because that is the way God made them.

So, dear lady friends, I encourage you to take joy in your womanhood.   You do not need to "wear the pants" to get things accomplished, and in fact, it is better if you don't.

Seek ye therefore first the kingdom of God, and his justice, and all these things shall be added unto you.  (Matt., 6:33)

First and Foremost, a Wife and Mother

Queen Elisabeth of Belgium exemplified the kind of femininity that I admire.

I read about her life on The Cross of Laeken blog and loved the description of how she expressed her affection for her future husband in her letters to him.  This bubbly romance was not reflective of a superficial love.  It was the expression of a fierce love and admiration for him, that continued to grow in their married life.  It is beautifully symbolized by her anger at discovering after his accidental death from a mountain climbing accident, that others had prepared his bruised, broken, and muddy body for burial.  She wanted to render him this last loving service of devotion herself.

I needed Queen Elisabeth's inspiration, as I found myself in somewhat of an identity crisis after I received advice from a finance guru that I should re-enter the work force.   He believes that it's ridiculous for a woman to stay home in "retirement" after her children are grown.

Although I bristled at his use of the word "ridiculous",  I could understand his viewpoint.  I know lots of women do go to work when the children are grown.   In fact, I became painfully aware early in my mothering career that every little milepost in my children's lives was an opportunity, in many people's eyes, for me to go back to work.  But now, apparently, I have no excuse to allow me to stay home and devote my full energy to my career as housewife.

So I spent several weeks considering leaving hearth and home and plunging into the "real world" where what I did every day could be duly categorized and measured in terms of dollars, income taxes, and contributions to the Social Insecurity system.  I realized it would indeed be pleasant to be approved of as a faithful member of the Church of Commerce.  Plus, there are many things that interest me, and it would be great to have the extra income.  I would probably make much better use of my time than I do now.  The discipline would definitely be good for me.

But seriously, the real question for me was not about the value of my returning to the workforce.  It was whether I would be of less value if I chose to continue at home.  Right away I could see a paradigm problem.  I think of myself as a domestic goddess.  Haha!   Wouldn't that term throw the Department of Labor into a tailspin?  I'm sure they just classify me as "jobless" in their grand economy of the gross domestic product, which of course has nothing to do with domesticity.    After many hours of considering what I "produce" in my economy, I concluded that even though I am not changing diapers or homeschooling or ferrying children to piano lessons or baseball practice anymore, I still have a distinct role to play at home.  Just like with all the other stages of my career as a wife and mother, there is a demand for my services.  And I dearly love providing them!

I still research issues in order to offer guidance for the matters upon which my children consult me.  Other times they just want my presence, like the time my then 21-year-old son asked me to accompany him to look at a car he was considering for purchase.  This was on a weekday, during hours that I would have been at work if I had had a job.  He handled the whole meeting with the seller while I stood in the background and marveled at how courteous, confident, and knowledgable he was.  I went with him on the test drive, and he talked to me about his observations of the car's condition and performance.  On the way home we took the scenic route through an attractive neighborhood, and we talked about investing in rental houses.  Later he compared the car he test drove to his Mustang.  He concluded he would rather keep the Mustang.  I don't know how to quantify this two-hour experience with my son for someone who thinks of me as retired.  I can only say that when we got home, I was conscious that we had shared something incredibly important for both of us, and it had nothing to do with cars.

Then there are my parents.  I am free, on short notice, to take them to the doctor and be not only the chauffeur but the second set of ears to listen to what the doctor says and help my parents make decisions on follow-up care.  Right now I am providing all their daily care, but even when they had a hired aide, I still took them to the doctor, stayed with them in the hospital, did their grocery shopping, managed their home maintenance, etc.

My husband, too, can count on me to care for his needs and make home a pleasant place, a refuge for him to return to from his battles in the world.  He is the only boss I have, and the benefits package he offers includes loving me unconditionally.  I love making him happy, and I look forward to being able to devote more time to this project at this new stage in our marriage.

And guess what.  When I asked him if he would like me to return to work, he said promptly and firmly, "No."

So I'll keep on at home and maybe get a framed picture of Queen Elisabeth of Belgium to hang in my living room over the fireplace.