Poetry Friday: A Christmas Card - Written in 1947 by Thomas Merton

Federico Barocci, Nativity, 1597

A Christmas Card - Written in 1947
by Thomas Merton

When the white stars talk together like sisters
And when the winter hills
Raise their grand semblance in the freezing night,
Somewhere one window
Bleeds like the brown eye of an open force.

Hills, stars,
White stars that stand above the eastern stable.

Look down and offer Him.
The dim adoring light of your belief.

(Read the rest here.)

~~~~~

The round up is at Reading, Teaching, Learning.

Read Aloud Role Reversal

Yesterday, thanks to the lovely little bug I've been fighting (Is it a cold? Just a cough? Sinus stuff? Who knows? Who cares? It's finally getting much better today), I didn't feel up to our usual, annual read-aloud of Madeleine L'Engle's The Twenty-four Days Before Christmas. 

We all love this book beyond measure, but my voice just wasn't going to cooperate. So ... grown daughters to the rescue!

Anne-with-an-e and Betsy read it aloud to me yesterday. To Ramona, too, of course, but I sort of selfishly reveled in the fact that my girls were reading to me. Read-aloud Karma, if you will.

That is all.

We will now return to our regularly scheduled reader.

Poetry Friday on the Fourth Sunday of Advent

I've been a little down with a virus, and haven't been getting much done beyond the essentials, but I still wanted to send you over to the round up at Buffy's Blog. Just because I didn't have the energy for a post doesn't mean you shouldn't enjoy some poetry, so I'm sending you wandering.

A few highlights this week:

Jama, as always.

Laura Purdie Salas is never not delightful.

Linda, highlighting UA Fanthorpe (and The Wicked Fairy at the Manger is a must-read.)

Tabatha, of course.

Back later with more....

How a Secular Christmas Song Became Our Song (for Atticus)

from the archives:

We hadn't been married very long and we didn't have much money. It was almost Christmas and although we weren't Christians we always gave each other gifts. The pickings would be slim this year, though, as the budget for presents was non-existent.

Atticus knew that I loved Nat King Cole's smoky voice crooning The Christmas Song. I had described it as "almost perfect." But this was in the days before digital music and mp3 players. I could hear my favorite song of the season only if it happened to come on the radio, as I didn't own the album. Atticus wanted to buy it for me, but our budget was so tight that even a new cassette tape (remember cassette tapes?) wasn't a possibility that year.

It was Christmas Eve, and I had to work. Feeling a little disheartened that we didn't have much to give one another, I was nevertheless looking forward to the meal that Atticus would no doubt have ready when I got home.

When I reached our apartment, I put my key in the lock and thought, "It's awfully quiet in there." I opened the door and found a candlelit room, heard a click, and then Nat's smooth voice. Atticus took my hand and we danced.

My dear, sweet husband had scrounged around our apartment, found a blank tape, and then waited. He had vigilantly stationed himself by the radio all day long as he cooked, waiting to hear and capture that song. He waited and waited some more, and finally hit the "record" button when the coveted song made its appearance.

He captured it; he captured me again. And ever since, when Nat starts to sing, we dance.

An Idea for the O Antiphons from My Girls' Godmother on this Gaudete Sunday

It's Gaudete Sunday! 

And here's something new for this Advent. I've mentioned many times that I have our daughters' godmother, Holly, to thank for the St. Lucia bread that we devour enjoy every year. Holly is so creative and artistic, and this year she surprised us with a sweet new tradition for the O Antiphons, which begin on December 17th. 

She sent chocolate coins, each with a symbol for one of the O Antiphons. 

She told the girls to say the accompanying prayer each day from December 17-23, and to know that she would be praying for them, too. 

Thank you, Holly! We'll be praying for you as well (but you already knew that.)

~~~~~

Updated to add: 

The prayers that Holly used are from Michele Quigley and can be found here. 

Holly found the illustrations for the coins at Catholic Cuisine and the artwork is here.

Feast After Feast!

Two wonderful feast days! 

Today is the Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe. (My personal devotion to Our Lady of Guadalupe began about nine years ago, and is chronicled here.)

Tomorrow is the feast of St. Lucy. Go this post for the recipe for the bread we make every year.

You can't ruin this bread! Don't be afraid of it. If I can do it, you can, too. And you'll be so happy you did. It's beautiful and delicious. And, it will be gone before you can say, "Gaudete Sunday."

Poetry Friday: December, by Gary Johnson

No need to add much commentary here -- just a lovely, lovely poem for this December day. 

December
by Gary Johnson

A little girl is singing for the faithful to come ye
Joyful and triumphant, a song she loves,
And also the partridge in a pear tree
And the golden rings and the turtle doves.
In the dark streets, red lights and green and blue
Where the faithful live, some joyful, some troubled,
Enduring the cold and also the flu,

(Read the rest here, at The Writer's Almanac.)

~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round up is at These 4 Corners.

A Conversation in My Kitchen

It's finals week here for my college girls.

Betsy: You know, Anne, there is such a thing as over-studying. You can study too much, and then the knowledge you've taken in liquifies and oozes out of your ears.

Me: Is that a Michael Scott-ism?

Betsy: No, that's me. I said that.

Me: It was alarmingly Michael Scott-ish.

It's the Second Week of Advent and I'm Not Lamenting Anything

Mind you, I am perfectly capable of lamenting the passage of time. I did it here, when Ramona was six and I wrote a poem about wanting her to never grow up. I worried about it here, when I wrote about homeschooling just one child. I pondered time's passing when I considered what life will be like "When They're Older."

And it's kind of expected when we're in a big countdown such as Advent that exclamations of, "Where is the time going?!" and "It's HOW many days until Christmas?" will ring out. And it's true that I'm regularly taken aback by how fast the days wing by (although if you ask my daughters, that's my natural state of being year round. I say things like, "The other day, when I...." and they correct me: "You mean that time three months ago, Mom?")

Ahem. So, yes, I'm not the one to ask about the sands of time. It's all wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff to me.

Still. I am not immune to the laments, the pondering, the desperate questions about why the timey wimey stuff has to dribble away. Just the other day, a friend of mine (a much younger friend) said that this past year seems to have zoomed by and I gave her an urgent, "Just wait! It gets worse every year!" (Further proving that we all become the people we were once extremely annoyed by.) She immediately dubbed me the Debbie Downer of the gathering, and she was right.

But this Advent, I'm living my "No Panic" advice (I always try to, but you know I'm not perfect -- witness this post from the original No-Panic series in which I talk about scrounging up tights at the last minute and grumbling about the gift bags not being on sale.)

This Advent, I'm trying not to: 

• Analyze how quickly time is passing. I have a predilection to analyze everything, so it's always a sacrifice to force myself not to analyze. 
• Live in the past. Christmas with older offspring is different from the way Christmas was when my girls were little. I don't want to focus on that because these days offer their own gifts. 
• Worry about the gift choices I've made, the presents I've already wrapped, the stuff I've already shipped ("Will she like it? Did I do enough? Will he think that's stupid?" Stop it, already, Karen.) 
• Worry about having a Christmas card that brilliantly summarizes our year or our lives ("Should I have taken a family photo instead of slapping those three snapshots into a collage?" Again with the Stop It.) 
• Berate myself for not baking for everyone I know. (I never bake for everyone I know. Am I a Grinch? I don't know, but I also don't know how this idea got started that we all have to bake for each other and take baked goods everywhere we go and give them to everyone we know. I mean, if we're all busy baking for each other all the time, then when will we find time to sit down and drink coffee? All that baking and all that tastefully-arranging-treats-on-a-plate is exhausting. And it leaves us less time to read Kristin Lavransdatter.) 
• Think that everyone should be like me. Do you love to bake for everyone you know? Do you find it fun and relaxing? Do you enjoy arranging things tastefully on plates? And delivering said tasteful stuff to me? I'll take it. 
• Waste time on the small stuff. And other than Jesus, it's pretty much all small stuff. 

This Advent, I am trying to:

• Notice time, but not be controlled by it. 
• Love the moment I'm in. There are so many to love. While it's fun to reminisce about what Christmas was like when my girls were tiny, or when I was first Catholic, or whatever, it's also bliss to revel in this moment, these ages, all this stuff that is right in front of me. 
• Watch and wait. 
• Bake. A bit. Gingerbread houses. Lucia bread. Things Ramona wants to learn how to make. 
• Read all of our favorite Advent books. 
• Pray. 
• Notice. 
• Love this wibbly wobbly timey wimey world that passes us by too quickly and not soon enough (which reminds me of this old post, in which not-quite-five-year-old Ramona told me why "earth is the specialest planet.") 

So, it's the second week of Advent. Have you noticed? 

"As Long As the Candles Are in the Window, I'll Be Here."

After confession this weekend ... after some pondering of conversion (past and ongoing) ... after reflecting on what a gift the season of Advent is ...

From the archives:

Mrs. Patterson.

She was our speech coach when I was in high school. A sweet, grandmotherly sort, who hovered and cooed and generally let us know we were loved. We were talented. We were terrific. We deserved a Christmas party, and she threw one at her house over Christmas break every year.

She had a lovely, grandmotherly house, too. Her Christmas lighting was simple: candles in the windows. Electric candles, yes, but the effect on on me was magic. Subtle and cozy and lovely ... they beckoned. And, once inside, in the Patterson fold, she confirmed that beckoning: "When you have all graduated, and gone off to college, you can always come back to visit me. If you drive by my house when you're home for Christmas, I hope you'll stop and see me. As long as the candles are in the window, I'll be here."

I never did go back after I graduated. I remember driving by her house once or twice, to see if the candles were still in the windows. They were, but even then I wasn't one to drop in unannounced. Oh, I believed her when she said we could. But somehow I didn't think I could.  My day had passed.  The candles still whispered magic to me, but the magic of her home already seemed a lifetime ago, and I knew I couldn't recapture it. I was already, I thought, a different person.

Sometime later, I heard that Mrs. Patterson had died. Cancer, I think. I cried a little, thinking of her sweetness. Her light. Her gift of hospitality. Her sincerity.  I never drove past her house again because although I hadn't taken her up on her invitation, I couldn't stand the thought of those bare, dark windows.

And now, in these days of Advent, as we are waiting for His coming -- waiting to celebrate His birth, and as we contemplate His final Coming -- I think of the candles that still call to me. The flames I really do return to, again and again.

In the confessional.
In Holy Mass.
Flickering next to the tabernacle.

As long as the candles are lit, He will be there. Waiting.

For Mrs. Patterson. For you. For me. And this time around, when I feel like a different person, I know that it's true

The magic of Jesus beckons, and I will never be the same.

Poetry Friday: Merton's Advent

(Photo thanks to FreeImages.com)

I think I have shared this poem every Advent for the past few years, but it's so lovely I can never resist it. 

Advent

by Thomas Merton 

Charm with your stainlessness these winter nights, 

Skies, and be perfect! Fly, vivider in the fiery dark, you quiet meteors, 

And disappear. 

You moon, be slow to go down, 

This is your full!

The four white roads make off in silence 

Towards the four parts of the starry universe. 

Time falls like manna at the corners of the wintry earth. 

We have become more humble than the rocks, 

More wakeful than the patient hills.

(Read the whole poem here.) 

More of Merton's Marian Poetry can be found here, at the University of Dayton. Their page on Mary is here. 

~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round up is at Booktalking. 

Quote for the First Tuesday in Advent

"We always want this thing or that thing, and even when we have Jesus Himself in our breast we are not satisfied. Yet He is all that we could possibly desire..." 

~~ St. Francis de Sales 

The First Week of Advent

Advent is my favorite liturgical season. I love the newness -- a new church year, a fresh start, a time to deepen our relationship with Christ. 

And we've started decorating. The Advent wreath is on the dining room table, the nativity set is on the mantle. On Thanksgiving Day (we usually travel, but were at home this year), as we were listening to The Splendid Table's Turkey Confidential (Ramona's favorite thing to listen to on Thanksgiving Day -- beats a parade), I did a quick-change on the artwork above the mantle. I've done this for the last couple of years. It starts out looking like this: 

Then, some burgundy colored fabric. Staples. Pretty easy, even for me. 

Then it looks like this: 

Then I add a beautiful printable from Lesley Austin/Small Meadow, set up the creche, and ... it's Advent! 

Grateful

What, you were expecting a turkey? 

Happy Thanksgiving!

So grateful for so much.

May your day be filled with every good thing (including coffee.)

Advent Starts This (Gulp) Sunday

Good thing I'm not the type to panic about Advent and Christmas preparation.


Go here for a rerun of my marathon (and no-panic) Advent post.

Poetry Friday: This Magic Moment by David Kirby

I have a poem delivered to my Inbox every morning, thanks to Poets.org and I'm always grateful for the beauty this sleek little package adds to my day. I consider, at times, what a mess the internet can be -- the ugliness it puts on display, the unkindness that can be spread, the fights that are started on its playgrounds, the temptations it can stir up in us to prove to the whole world that we are right and they are wrong.

But then, but then ... it can also do this.

It can bring me a poem a day. Gently drop off a bit of loveliness, a dash of magic.

And I love it for that. Because you can never have too much coffee (no, coffee's not mentioned in the poem -- that's my addition),  too much poetry, or too much magic.

This Magic Moment
by David Kirby

Poetry does make things happen. A friend says, “I wanted
to let you know that my stepfather is chattering like
a schoolboy about a poem of yours on my Facebook page.
This may not seem like much to you, but this guy has been
giving me a hard time since I was two. You built a bridge
between people who never understood each other before.”
How’d that happen? Magic, that’s how. I know the poem
....

(Read the rest here, at Poets.org.)

~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round up is at Tapestry of Words.

The Twenty-one Balloons: A Quick Review

Ramona and I just finished reading The Twenty-One Balloons, which we both found delightful. Written and illustrated by William Pene du Bois in 1947, it won the Newbery Medal in 1948, and has endured to become a classic. 

Set in 1883, the novel is part science, part fantasy, part light social commentary, and partly appealing to introverts ("As you know," says Professor William Waterman Sherman, near the beginning of the story, "I was a teacher of arithmetic for forty years. Forty years of being surrounded by a classroom of healthy prankish students. Forty years of spitballs. Forty years of glue on my seat, Sal Hepatica in my inkwell, and other devilish tricks. Long about my thirty-sixth year, I started yearning to be alone.") 

Professor Sherman builds a fantastic balloon home in which he plans to travel around the world. (Cue the Jules Verne references! Cue Up talk, and Dug imitations!) The introduction tells us that Professor Sherman's travels will take him to the Pacific island of Krakatoa, and that he will somehow be involved in the volcanic explosion that really did take place in 1883. How did he end up there? And how did he escape? 

Lots of unschoolish detours to take with this book -- the science of hot air balloons (though Ramona and I occasionally got a little bogged down in some of the descriptions of the inner workings), diamonds, mentions of the salt mines of Poland and the crystal caves of Bermuda, which had me sending Ramona to Google. Volcanos, the history and geography of Krakatoa ... plenty to talk about and explore on top of a good read. And it made us hungry! You'll have to read the book to find out why. 

My favorite quote: 

"It seems strange to me that mechanical progress always seems to leave the slower demands of elegance far behind. With all of the peace and spare time on this lovely island, why should any part of your lives be speeded up?"

I once took a hot air balloon ride and it was lovely. Now I just need to figure out how to get Ramona in a balloon one of these days. A quick Google check for companies and prices tells me that I'd better start the savings fund now.  :)

Poetry Friday: April Day in November, Edinburgh

It is decidedly not an April day in November here in Nebraska, where it was an unseasonable three degrees below zero when I woke up this morning. But, I can imagine, feel, grip, remember, and dream of the kind of day that Norman MacCaig wrote about in "April Day in November, Edinburgh." We've had those days here; today is just not one of those days, but that's okay. 

And, too, I can imagine, feel, grip, remember (in a fascinatingly powerful genetic memory sort of way) and dream of Edinburgh itself, which I will probably never see, at least not until I see it from heaven's vantage point. But that's okay, too. Because today I have these words, this poem, and a new-to-me poet to love. 

April Day in November, Edinburgh

by Norman MacCaig

The sun punches through the cloud gaps

with strong fists and the wind

buffets the buildings

with boisterous good will.

Bad memories are blown away

over the capering sea. Life

pulls up without straining

(Read the rest here, at The Writer's Almanac.) 

~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round up is at Keri Recommends. 

Homeschooling Just One

That's what I'm doing this year for the first time ever.

Yeah, sure, in a way I had just one "student" when we first started homeschooling. Anne-with-an-e was seven years old, Betsy just four. Anne was (I'm sorry, sweetie) my experimental student. I tried out different methods on her, tinkered with ideas, approaches, math curricula.  But Betsy was always there, soaking in the atmosphere, listening to the books, playing with the manipulatives, eating the cookies. I never felt that I was homeschooling only one daughter -- we were living a homeschooling life together.

But, now that my older daughters are out in the world, taking classes from other people, I am finally, truly, homeschooling just one child. Anne and Betsy don't need me, which is really great in its way. There's real fulfillment in knowing that my daughters were well prepared for the stage of life they're living now. And, there's relief in knowing that their academic work is their business. (I couldn't answer a Chemistry question if you paid me in chocolate and coffee. Truly, Anne's Chemistry homework is a mystery to me on a par with the Trinity. Intricacies unseen, combinations that produce whole new entities ... it boggles my mind. If it isn't explained on a Jesse Pinkman level, I don't understand it.)

And that leads me to the present, in which I am homeschooling only one daughter. Over the summer, I wondered about how this year would proceed: What would it be like for the two of us to be on our own? Would we get bored with each other? Would we feel as if we were rattling around the house, waiting for others to join us? Or would we dig in, full of anticipation and excitement, ready to tackle hundreds of projects and take on every academic challenge?

The answer is (as it always seems to for me) in the middle. Yes, we miss Anne and Betsy, but Ramona and I have settled into The New Normal and we are loving it. There's a delightful balance to our days. There are outside activities (a weekly art class, another monthly art class, piano lessons, choir), as well as group activities that we both participate in (her writing group, swimming weekly with other homeschoolers.) And then there are the treasured days when we don't have to leave the house -- we tackle math, read aloud, read aloud, read aloud, write, read poetry, participate in NaNoWriMo, watch Food Network together, make carrot cake, learn about extracting DNA from saliva (hmmm, was it deliberate that I followed up the food references to the saliva reference?), create art, and crafts, and minions.

Sometimes we can even plan activities or outings that work with Anne and Betsy's schedules as we did last Friday when we made a last-minute plan to see Big Hero 6 together (review from Ramona coming soon), or getting to daily Mass together.

Yes, I'm homeschooling just one. But it's a rich, full life.

And we love it.

Ramona, at the end of summer. 

Saturday Watercolors

Ramona has been into watercolors lately, so I joined her. Can you tell which is which? (I like hers better.) 

Poetry Friday: An Autumn Reverie

Today's poem is a sad, lyrical, beautiful one by Ella Wheeler Wilcox. It's about grief and loss, and these things are especially on my mind today -- tonight I'll be appearing with Donna-Marie Cooper O'Boyle on her new EWTN show, talking about miscarriage. We filmed this episode of Catholic Mom's Cafe months and months ago, but the topic is timeless.

Donna and I talked about miscarriage, grief, loss, and healing. We talked, too, about "a peace too wonderful to understand" (the last line of Wilcox's poem).

I think my favorite lines from the poem are:

And I have waited for these autumn days,
Thinking the cooling winds would bring relief.
For I remembered how I loved them once,
When all my life was full of melody.

For more details from Donna about the show, which airs tonight at 6:30 Eastern time, see her blog.

An Autumn Reverie
Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Through all the weary, hot midsummer time,
My heart has struggled with its awful grief.
And I have waited for these autumn days,
Thinking the cooling winds would bring relief.
For I remembered how I loved them once,
When all my life was full of melody.
And I have looked and longed for their return,
Nor thought but they would seem the same, to me.

The fiery summer burned itself away,
And from the hills, the golden autumn time
Looks down and smiles. The fields are tinged with brown—
The birds are talking of another clime.
The forest trees are dyed in gorgeous hues,
And weary ones have sought an earthy tomb.
But still the pain tugs fiercely at my heart—
And still my life is wrapped in awful gloom.

The winds I thought would cool my fevered brow,
Are bleak, and dreary; and they bear no balm.
The sounds I thought would soothe my throbbing brain,
Are grating discords; and they can not calm
This inward tempest. Still it rages on.
My soul is tost upon a troubled sea,
I find no pleasure in the olden joys—
The autumn is not as it used to be.

I hear the children shouting at their play!
Their hearts are happy, and they know not pain.
To them the day brings sunlight, and no shade.
And yet I would not be a child again.
For surely as the night succeeds the day,
So surely will their mirth turn into tears.
And I would not return to happy hours,
If I must live again these weary years.

I would walk on, and leave it all behind:
will walk on; and when my feet grow sore,
The boatman waits—his sails are all unfurled—
He waits to row me to a fairer shore.
My tired limbs shall rest on beds of down,
My tears shall all be wiped by Jesus’ hand;
My soul shall know the peace it long hath sought --
A peace too wonderful to understand.

("An Autumn Reverie" is in the public domain.)

~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round up is at Random Noodling this week.

Bits and Pieces of Our Days

Whither has October fled?  It's gone missing and I'm left wondering if one of my favorite months met all her obligations before she took off for a year's sabbatical.

At least one obligation was clearly fulfilled -- October brought us, as it has for twenty-one marvel-filled years now, the birthday of Anne-with-an-e.

I'd never before bought a daughter a margarita for her birthday, but I can no longer make that claim. And she likes my favorite red wine, too. Yes, I am a good homeschooler indeed. I know how to teach all the important stuff.

~~~~~

Ramona and I are still on World War II. So far we've read The Winged Watchman by Hilda van Stockum, Lois Lowry's Number the Stars, The Little Riders by Margaretha Shemin, and Ian Serraillier's Escape from Warsaw (which I wish still bore its original title, The Silver Sword.)

We read Snow Treasure, which I usually include it in the WWII bundle of books, last year because it was a book club pick. I'll leave it up to her whether or not she wants to reread it this year.

I also have a stack of picture books -- we've read Always Remember Me: How One Family Survived World War II, and in the next week will pick up The Bracelet, So Far from the Sea, and
The Yellow Star: The Legend of King Christian X of Denmark. 

Lots of good geography stuff happening as we read these books, too.

~~~~~

What am I reading these days? The epic and wonderful Kristin Lavransdatter. Granted, I am only one book into the trilogy (I almost typed "three-book trilogy" ... more coffee, anyone?) but I have already dubbed it Wonderful and More.

What am I watching on the laptop these days, while I work out? Gilmore Girls. It is wonderful in a different way, and strangely connected to Kristin.

The winner of After Miscarriage is...

...Elizabeth Lemme.

Elizabeth, please email me or contact Elizabeth Petrucelli (through her Facebook link here) with your mailing address.

Thank you to Elizabeth Petrucelli for sponsoring the contest, thanks to everyone who entered, and thank you to all of you for your support for this book.

For those of you who are currently in the midst of the grief of miscarriage, you have my heartfelt sympathy and empathy, and my ongoing prayers.

A Quote For All Saints Day

"As the world must be redeemed in a few men to begin with, 

so the soul is redeemed in a few of its thoughts, and works, and ways to begin with: it takes a long time to finish the new creation of this redemption."

~~ George MacDonald 

Poetry Friday, Cruella, Lucy, and Wyld Style

A snippet of this Halloween at the Edmistens: 


Halloween At Our House
by Karen Edmisten

Lucy Ricardo,
Cruella de Vil --
These are the people
You'll see if you will

Come to my house
On Halloween night.
They'll dish out the chocolate,
Not give you a fright,

Unless fakey red hair
And wigs scare you to pieces...
Then do plan on screaming
And tossing your Reese's.

(The fur coat's a fake,
There's no need to protest
And Vita-Meata-Vegamin's
Really the best.)

Ramona's cool get-up
Is Lego's Wyld Style
But I just keep calling her
("Mom!") Wild Child.

Atticus carefully
Plans out the route,
Scopes out the best candy,
And finds all the loot.

My costume, as usual,
Will be the bomb.
I'm gonna go dressed
As a homeschooling mom.

~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round up is at Teacher Dance.  Happy Halloween!

More Resources For Healing After a Miscarriage (aka, This Is What I Love About the Internet)

Since I've been posting over the last week about giving away a copy of After Miscarriage, a couple of things have come up that I want to share:

Cecilia's lovely site, Magnolia Sweet Healing, offers women in need a free copy of my book. I'm so touched that this ministry is generously funded personally by Cecilia, and I am immensely grateful for her help in getting the book to women who need it.

Conceiving Hope has a resource page that is huge and helpful. Check it out here.

Contest Reminder: Giving Away a Copy of After Miscarriage

Head over to this link for details on how to enter.

Our Minion Pumpkin is Done!

We used this example as our model. So fun! 

A Minion Pumpkin With Ramona is...

... still in progress. 

We are listening to the Despicable Me 2 soundtrack and painting. Great morning.
I love homeschooling. 

Poetry Friday: Called (aka, waking in the night with a child....)

This is a lovely little poem about rising in the night to answer the call of a child, and it reminded me of the one I wrote on the same idea, "Thirteen Ways of Looking At an Interruption."

May you not hear a distress call tonight, may your home be filled with peaceful slumber this weekend, and if you do hear that call, may you answer it with math, grace, and whatever else helps.


Called 
by Lisa Gluskin Stonestreet

and I go

down into it, the hall again
(streetlights, blinds)

all the same all the dark

down into it and do what must be done

(Read the whole poem here, at Poets.org.)

~~~~~

Cathy Mere has the round up at Merely Day By Day.

I'll be talking with Al Kresta today about After Miscarriage

I'll be on "Kresta in the Afternoon" today from 4-5 p.m. (central time), talking about miscarriage, and we'll be taking calls during the hour, too.

~~~~~

If you are interested in finding about more about After Miscarriage, you can read about it here, or here, at Franciscan Media's website.

There is also a giveaway of the book in progress: go to this post for all the details.

For more posts and discussion about miscarriage, go here.

Not God's Type: My Type of Book

Not God's Type: An Atheist Academic Lays Down Her Arms by Holly Ordway is a story of love and resistance.

It's a tale I know well. So many similarities: the attraction to and influence of C.S. Lewis, the encounter with Aslan, the lure of poetry and beauty, the stubborn refusal to, as Lewis said, lay down our arms. There was the intellectual thirst to investigate, grasp, comprehend, the need to find real and concrete answers. The relentless search for truth, wherever it led. There was the stop at the Episcopal Church before reception into the Catholic Church, and the recognition that this is not the end of the journey, that surrender is not something now in the rearview mirror but something that is asked of us every moment that we continue down this road.

It was uncanny, at times, to read Ordway's story, as there were many moments that echoed my own experiences -- at times she even quoted the same poems that touched me in my conversion process, with perhaps the most powerful echo ringing from John Donne:

Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.

Not God's Type is a beautiful book. I hesitate to say much more about it because Ordway's story doesn't need to be dissected. It is a story -- a reality -- that you should simply breathe in, and you don't need me to tell you how inhale deeply of clean, clear, fresh air.

A Favorite Old Picture from (in a way) the Early Homeschooling Days

This was our backyard (I miss that yard!) two dwellings ago.

Anne-with-an-e (in the Cinderella gown) was about four and a half, and Betsy was almost two.

Although this was before our homeschooling days actually began, this picture (I love this picture) captures the essence of homeschooling in the early years -- what I wanted it to be, what I strove for, what it was at its best.

Giveaway Details: After Miscarriage: A Catholic Woman's Companion to Healing and Hope

Elizabeth Petrucelli, author of All That is Seen and Unseen, has been hosting a contest this month and After Miscarriage will be her final giveaway.

To enter to win After Miscarriage, you can simply leave a comment below, on this post (as simple as, "Pick me!") Your comment can be anything, but please be sure to leave some contact information (Facebook page, Twitter, Google +, a blog, your email address -- anything that will allow us to get in touch with you if you win!)

Comments on this post will be accepted until October 31st at midnight. A winner will be drawn at random from the comments on November 1st.

I hope that you never have a need to read After Miscarriage, but if you have experienced the loss of a baby, please know that you have my fervent prayers. If you have never suffered a miscarriage, you might consider entering the contest in order to win the book and give it away to a friend who may be in need.

Thanks for your interest in and support for After Miscarriage, and thank you, Elizabeth, for hosting the giveaway in this Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month.

Poetry Friday: Louis Jenkins

I recently ran into one of Atticus's old students, married now, with children. Atticus knew her when she was a gangly eighth grader, when he taught in a small town not far from where we live now. Ramona and I were in Target, looking for paper plates, when I heard, "Mrs. Edmisten?" I turned around and saw a confident young woman but for a brief flash I also saw a kid -- the sort of smart, sweet, kind, funny kid who makes Atticus's job easy.

She and I started the game Louis Jenkins describes in "Old Friends":


Old Friends
by Louis Jenkins

There's a game we play, not a game exactly, a sort of call and
response. It's one of the pleasures of living for a long time in a
fairly small place. "You know, they lived over by Plett's Grocery."
"Where that bank is now?" "That's right." "Plett's, I'd almost
forgotten. Do you remember where Ward's was?" "Didn't they....

(Read the rest here, at The Writer's Almanac.)

~~~~~~~~~~

The round up is at Today's Little Ditty.

Four Things About Today -- Pancakes, Flooding, Atticus, and Wine

1. My college girls were on fall break today and we were all having a leisurely morning so I decided to make pancakes for everyone. Pancakes, and chatter, and laughter and delight. And suddenly I had a flashback to the old days.

Homeschooling three girls, no one needing to rush off anywhere. Just us Little Women. Sigh.

Those were lovely days.

Sweet and bitter and bittersweet is this growing-up business.

2. Due to some poor plumbing (which is not worth explaining, and which seems to be a recurring theme in my life), a clogged shower drain caused an inordinate amount of flooding in our bathroom and -- eeek! Spillover! -- into our laundry room. There was much clean up, the borrowing of a shop-vac (thank you Danae!), much drying out of carpet, lots of laundry and drying of towels and rags, and there was gratitude for the help of my college daughters (who should have been enjoying their day off but instead helped me clean up messes.) We all had a wonderful talk at the end of the day about how God provides. It wasn't the day we'd all looked forward to -- relaxed and lazy and recharging stuff. But if we had to have flooding, the timing was as good as it could be, given the rest of our week's plans, if that makes sense. I told my daughters that it was sort of like the times when there suddenly seems to be extra money, and my first thought is, "Great! Extra money! What shall we do with it?" Then something goes wrong and the "extra" money is needed to repair or replace something. It's always tempting to gripe, "Hey! I had plans for that money! Why did that stuff have to go wrong?" instead of saying, "Thank you, Lord, for how nicely You provided for that repair."

This was not the day I'd planned to have, but in some way it must have been the day I needed to have.

3. The Difference Between Atticus and Me: I was still doing some clean-up downstairs and Atticus said he'd make pizza for dinner. I stressed, "You don't have to cook!" and he said, "No, I need to relax -- I want to cook to wind down after all this mess."

Cook to wind down?  Oh, sweetheart, we are so different.

4. Danae, thanks for the wine you provided along with the shop-vac. It's about to be enjoyed.

A Response From a Priest to My Post, "Dear Father, Deacon, and Anyone Else Who Has Ever..."

I got some wonderful comments on Wednesday's post and today a priest friend of ours left a comment, too. His comment deserves its own post. 

Disclaimer:

I know and love Fr. Scott but there is no bias in my recommendation that you read his comment. It's just that he's a wonderful priest with valuable insights. His thoughts are always worth reading.

Second disclaimer:

We never deliberately plied him with pie. We just like pie.

In response to the post, Fr. Scott said this:

A great post, as always! This one’s stuck with me for a few days. 

Speaking only for priests, I wonder if I can offer a suggestion to those who have posted comments. Priests are guys. We’re almost always unmarried and almost always have no experience with fertility beyond what we read or from the people we encounter. We are pro-life, pro-family people. Think, though, what most unmarried non-fathers know about fertility—almost nothing. Think about how couples are different the second time that they are pregnant from the first time. Experience gives perspective and understanding. We don’t generally have either. In particular, young priests are zealous and excited about being priests, but they've got a lot to learn and in a lot of areas. Most of their friends are their age, too, and with couples often putting off even the desire for children later and later, young priests often don’t know many people who have lost children or struggled to get pregnant. If they do, this subject is only recently something people seem to talk about, and often not something people bring up to us. What we rely on is experience gathered from people around us. It doesn’t take long, I don’t think, to see how so many people struggle with fertility and pregnancy, but we need time and experience to see this. So, here’s my suggestion. Just tell us. But, don’t do it right after Mass or in passing. Like everyone else, we receive criticism better when we trust the people giving it. Invite us over for dinner, ply us with coffee and pie, and then bring it up. We become priests because we want to be involved in the lives of the people around us, so involve us (and I reemphasize the pie...).  

In my own experience, the early friendships I made as a priest were incredibly formative. Luckily—and gratefully—people had the goodness to do exactly what I’ve suggested. As a result, I treasure those friendships, in general, and the trust they give, in particular. In short, my friends who have been willing to share their struggles with me and let me share my struggles with them, have helped me to learn how to be a better priest.  

As it turns out, Atticus makes a killer coconut cream pie. 

Thanks, Fr. Scott, as always. For everything.

Poetry Friday, Sort Of

If you have the chance 

To see Lemony Snicket

Know that he's worth

The price of the ticket. 

          -- Karen Edmisten 

Confession the First: We didn't actually pay for a ticket. The event was free.

Confession the Second: I have read only the first book, The Bad Beginning, in A Series of Unfortunate Events.

Confession the Third: I would never have gone to see Lemony Snicket (because I had not even finished the first book -- I did that just last night) aka Daniel Handler, nor would I have planned to stand in line for 90 minutes in order to have my newly-purchased copy of a book I've never read signed by the man, if not for the fact that my two older daughters and the son of one of my best friends loved A Series of Unfortunate Events. This combined love, which spans the ages -- from a nine-year-old boy to 18 and 20-year-old young women -- led me to think that a road trip could be a fun thing and would be a good excuse to drink a lot of coffee at night.

Confession the Fourth: I did not have late night coffee. I grabbed a Coke for the drive home because I do not trust McDonald's to have freshly brewed coffee at 9:30 p.m. and, alas, McDonald's was the most convenient stop. I do not, in fact, trust McDonald's for much of anything, but no one can really mess up a Coke too badly, unless they add far too much ice. Which they did.

Confession the Fifth: My favorite part of the night may in fact have had nothing to do with Snickety happenings. I was extremely tired, and our eta home was about 11:15 p.m. My daughters had promised to talk and sing loudly on the drive home so that we'd all stay awake. I requested that they sing "Frozen."

What I really meant was that I wanted them to sing "Let it Go" but I was tired and the request came out, "Sing Frozen." So they did -- as in, they belted out the entire soundtrack* starting with the movie's opener, the Norse chant of the ice workers, and finishing up with the reprise of "For the First Time in Forever."

I think my favorite rendition was when Betsy and Ramona did "Love is an Open Door," complete with the overlapping duet parts.

But back to Lemony Snicket, because, theoretically anyway, he is what this post is about.

Daniel Handler is a thoroughly entertaining presenter and if you get the chance to go to one of his book signings, you most certainly should.

But do plan on something better than McDonald's coffee for the drive home. And be sure to take my girls with you to keep you awake.

~~~~~

*Except the trolls' song, which apparently does not make a home in the brain as do all the other songs.

~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round up today is at The Miss Rumphius Effect. 

On Relevant Radio In a Few Minutes

We'll be talking about miscarriage, support, and healing on Morning Air at 7 a.m. central time.

Dear Father, and Deacon, and Anyone Else Who Has Ever...

... made an assumption.

First of all, the Ginormous Disclaimer:

I know that 99-Point-A-Gigantic-Decimal-Value-That-Means-Almost-One-Hundred-Percent of priests and deacons are sensitive men of God who do not make hurtful assumptions, and even if they occasionally do, they do not make them to demolish anyone. They do it because they are human, as the rest of us are. And we've all made assumptions that could be hurtful to someone we don't know well. So, we're all guilty of this in one way or another. I've been on both sides of this hurt.

But recently I received a comment on my post, A Good Catholic Family, and it broke my heart.

The commenter (who has had nine miscarriages) said:

We were leaving the chapel and walking behind a mom and her six kids. The deacon saw them and said, "Oh how wonderful, what a blessing your children are!" He looked at me and my two kids, turned away and said nothing. 

"Ouch" doesn't begin to describe what happened here. I had something similar happen after my fifth miscarriage, and it took everything in me to hold myself together in the moment and get through it. I told myself that the person reacting to me didn't know me, and didn't mean to be hurtful but I was living with some intense grief, and grief magnifies everything.

The commenter went on to say:

I sometimes feel that the clergy and the Church treat large families as being more holy or blessed than small families. It can be very lonely, especially as a homeschooling mom where the more kids you have the more you seem to be valued in the group and within the Church. 

I know this whole thing gets tricky to even talk about because this stuff leads to defensiveness on both "sides." But there are no "sides" when it comes to large families and small families. There are merely realities.

And since, when we are faced with the visible reality of many kids vs. few-or-no kids, we cannot possibly know what the invisible reality is, we also cannot possibly make a judgment about what's going on in a family, and why would we? It's really none of our business. As I pointed out in "A Good Catholic Family" there are struggles (and losses and pain) in all families -- large, small, and everything in between. Large families have to put up with rude comments about their visible fruitfulness, and their openness to life has often led to miscarriage and other loss in their families, just as it has in the families that have remained small. And there are struggles for those who are single, struggles for those widowed, or divorced, or .... you get the picture. Life is a struggle. For all of us. Let's look for the places where we can build each other up, not judge each other down.

The final hurt this commenter recounted was this:

Another homeschooling mom of six pointed to my children and said,"These aren't your only two?"

Again, I can only sputter that, having been on the receiving end of such things, it, it, it ... hurts when someone assumes she knows why I have the children I have. Please don't assume. Dear Father, Dear Deacon, Dear Acquaintance, Dear Homeschooler, Dear Fellow Catholic, Dear Me (as I always need my own advice) ... don't assume.

Instead, befriend. Listen. Understand. Be Kind. We're all fighting great battles. Do we really need to fight each other?

**********

Updated 10/13/14: 

Here's a follow-up post highlighting a comment from a priest. 

Ramona the Photographer

She took these as she was jumping on the trampoline and I find them absolutely delightful. 

And this one was on the swingset: 

Poetry Friday: George Bilgere Ruminates on Unwise Purchases

George Bilgere, oh, how I love you. For lines like this:

a woman who has always dreamed of becoming
the kind of woman the man I've always dreamed of becoming 
has always dreamed of meeting.

That's from "Unwise Purchases." It looks like a longish poem for Poetry Friday, but you'll zip through it because it's so personable, as a Bilgere poem is and should be.

Read it here, at The Writer's Almanac.

~~~~~~~~~~

The round up is being hosted today by the blithesome Jama Rattigan at Jama's Alphabet Soup.

I Forgot My Cardinal Rule of Homeschooling (Or, The Sun'll Come Out Tomorrow)

(photo credit: FreeImages)

Last week, Ramona and I had a Bad Math Day.

Ah, math ups and downs.

It was just one of those days. Her mood plus + my mood + math did not equal relaxed homeschooling.

Those days will happen, I know that. I don't expect a perpetual state of soma-induced happiness simply because I have dubbed our homeschool a relaxed, unschoolish one. We still have goals and deadlines. We're human beings not homeschooling machines, and no matter how many years I've been at this, or how many kids I've graduated (only two, so I'm no expert), we're still learning. We still break down and are in need of repair some days.

So, math was particularly challenging for her that day and in a different mood that would have been fine. But the combination of the challenging math/mood/gloomy weather had us both out of sorts. Crabby.

On a different day, I would have set math aside for awhile (or even for the day.)

On a different day, she would have risen to the challenge despite how hard it felt.

On a different day, under a different combination of circumstances, we would have been on a mountaintop instead of slogging through a mucky valley.

But this wasn't a different day. It was her bad day, and my dogged determination to make her do something that she wasn't up to that day. When I finally realized that my pushing was making it worse, not better, I pulled back. We took a break. She went and got some rest. A hot shower. A new start to the day.

We were both better for it. I left math alone for a day or two. This week, she has flown through the math lessons. This week has been a great one.

I know there are nay-sayers to an approach like mine: "How will they ever learn to do what's hard if they aren't pushed when things are a challenge?"

That's a valid question. I can say this: I homeschooled my older girls in the same way -- taking into account their humanity and mine, our collective needs, the reality that we all have bad days. And so far I haven't ruined them.

I think, too, that this is actually an authentic, adult, real-world way of dealing with certain problems. Obviously, there are things in life that can't be set aside. I don't ignore that, or teach my children to ignore it and through those things, we proceed. Essentials. But who among us hasn't said, "I need a good night's sleep and I'll tackle this tomorrow," when what's at issue is a non-essential (such as the timing of a single math lesson)?

Regarding my older girls, who are now subject to outside deadlines, classroom rules, and externally imposed requirements, I have seen them take on the real world (if we can even call college the real world) with commitment and responsibility, so I'm concluding that my methods did not teach them to set aside every little thing that is asked of them on a bad day, even if they feel like pulling the covers over their heads and going back to sleep. They get the difference between what they feel like doing and what they truly need to do.

I think my relaxed homeschooling approach taught them that freedom and flexibility are marvelous things to grow up with, and that there's plenty of time later in life to deal with the world's essential schedules and requirements. (See #1 through #9 in this post.)

Ah, math.

Math is not our favorite thing around here and because it doesn't come as easily to any of us, it's the one area I tend to really worry about. But I have found, time and again, that the more I worry and push, the uglier the whole thing becomes. When I stick with tried-and-true methods and remember that there's a reason I love relaxed homeschooling, that I can make certain allowances and learning still happens and thrives, we're all better off. Kind of a natural soma, if you will.

O, Brave New Homeschool that has such methods in it!*

~~~~~

*I'm mixing allusions and metaphors. Sorry. It's my way. I consider cohesion in a blog post to be a non-essential.