Poetry Friday: Portrait of the Son: A Tale of Love

Today I'm sharing a new book that perhaps isn't poetry in the strictest sense but is without a doubt poetic in every sense. 

Portrait of the Son: A Tale of Love by Josephine Nobisso, illustrated by Ted Schluenderfritz, is the newest in Nobisso's "Theological Virtues Trilogy, which also includes The Weight of a Mass and Take It to the Queen. I've collected these books over the years and have loved them for their combination of thoughtful, lyrical prose and stunning artwork. 

                                 

Portrait of the Son, published just last month, is an allegory about a wealthy man with a lovingly curated and valuable art collection. He shares cherished art with his beloved only son, who later leaves to serve as a soldier in a great and terrible war. What happens to the son, a rough portrait of him, the art collection, and a poor old man who seeks refuge in the mansion moved me to tears (as Joi's books usually do.) Schluenderfritz's artwork is exquisite. 

Portrait of the Son is another keeper and I was beyond delighted to add it to our collection. 

Find out more about Josephine Nobisso here, and visit Ted Schluenderfritz's website, 5 Sparrows, for more about his work. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Cathy has the Poetry Friday roundup at Merely Day by Day. 

Bits and Pieces of Our Days: Starting the Coronavirus Diaries

Saturday night we would have gone to Mass, as per usual. Then, on Sunday, we would have been on the road to see Dear Evan Hansen, which my girls and I had been looking forward to for months.

Those were the plans. Before everything started to shift.

At a certain point, when a few things had been canceled and toilet paper was getting scarce, I knew I'd have to be the bad guy, the one who suggested that we not go to an event as packed as a Broadway show. Not a wise move for a family with people in high-risk categories. But just a couple of days after I had that thought, the theater canceled the Dear Evan Hansen run. I didn't have to be the bad guy. The virus is the bad guy.

So here we all are, hunkered down together, working from home, teaching from home, taking French class from home. Nothing feels normal (as I know you all know.)

What did the past weekend look like instead of Broadway and Mass?

Well, I worked, of course. (I feel lucky to already work from home. I will never take it for granted again.) I'm in the midst of The Writer's Jungle Online, one of the Brave Writer classes I teach. (I'll be teaching another one in April. The writing must go on!) I listened to a talk by a priest I'm working with on a book. I mailed some essentials to a friend. I walked the dog. We had to call a plumber on Saturday morning because a bundle of roots somewhere out there chose this weekend to cause a back-up in the bathroom. I turned to God, Atticus, and podcasts whenever I was feeling too anxious. My daughters baked a gluten-free chocolate cake. We had an art session together, and watched an episode of Gilmore Girls.

Because all public Masses have been canceled, we were home on Sunday. It's a sacrifice to not be able to receive the Eucharist, but the Church absolutely made the right decision in light of this public health crisis. And it's a sacrifice that I willingly make for my daughter, my parents, and so many other people who fall into vulnerable categories. (I don't want to become a silent carrier. What if I am right now?) "No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends." And I will willingly lay down my own spiritual comfort and the sustenance I receive from the Eucharist for the sake of my daughter and others.

(I keep forgetting that technically at our ages Atticus and I also fall into the "Stay home, you're vulnerable" category. I'd like to think that his half-marathons and my efforts to take care of myself put us in the "strong, healthy" category, but who knows?)

So, on Sunday we all gathered around the kitchen table and Atticus read the Mass readings for the fourth Sunday of Lent to us. John 9:1-41 is the story of the man born blind. I've written before about the significance of this story for Atticus and me. And as he was reading, he choked up, and couldn't quite finish. Anne-with-an-e took over the reading.

"One thing I do know is that I was blind and now I see.”

I was a little breathless at the scene before me. My husband, filled with gratitude for the gift of his faith, our eldest daughter stepping in to read a wondrous bit of beauty for her dad.

Then I reminded our girls  that before his conversion, their father had thought that he'd like to take the name of the man born blind as his Confirmation name. I don't think anyone spoke for a moment.

Then I was in tears. So many memories flooding over me, so much beauty and so much pain over the years of our marriage, our conversions, our commitments and re-commitments to one another, our newfound commitments to a God who was once a stranger to us both.

And so, on this Sunday, when church buildings everywhere were closed, God lavished graces on five little people sitting around a kitchen table in a small town in Nebraska.

"The Gospel of the Lord," says the priest.
Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ, the people reply.

The Year in Reading

About this time last year, I said I wanted to up my Goodreads game. I joined Goodreads eons ago, then never used it. I'm still not using it a lot. I rarely interact with other people there, and I keep forgetting about the social media aspect of it. I do log most of my books there now, partly because I'm a visual person and I love seeing this little grid at the end of the year. :) 

Some of my favorites from 2019: 

Favorite Fiction: 

Peace Like a River by Leif Enger 

The River by Peter Heller 

How to Stop Time by Matt Haig 

Pachinko by Min Jin Lee 

Compelling stories told in gorgeous prose. Whenever I read Leif Enger, I repeatedly bother people around me with, "Hey! Stop what you're doing! Listen to this sentence." 

Favorite Non-Fiction: 

Maybe You Should Talk to Someone by Lori Gottlieb 

Inheritance by Dani Shapiro 

Why We Dream by Alice Robb

Becoming by Michelle Obama 

In Memory of Bread by Paul Graham 

Insightful, intriguing, and interesting. (And we found a new way to make gluten-free birthday cake, so huzzah.) 

Favorite Spiritual Writing: 

The Thorny Grace of It by Brian Doyle 

Stumble by Heather King 

No one could write like Brian Doyle did. His prose and his insights bowled me over every time. And then there's Heather King — Doyle wrote the foreword for her Stumble; he clearly knew a kindred spirit when he read one. ) I'm so sad that he's gone. I pray that Heather King will be around for a long time to come. 

Favorite Re-reads: 

Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury 

When You Reach Me by Rebecca Stead 

I Remember Nothing by Nora Ephron 

Dandelion Wine touches something in me; it's that nudge to remember that we're really alive, and to ask ourselves what we're doing with that knowledge. When You Reach Me is a little bit of brilliance that I appreciate more every time I read it. I miss Nora Ephron, so I just have to reread her and laugh out loud every now and then. 

Favorite Books Middle Grade or YA: 

The Vanderbeekers of 141st Street by Karina Yan Glaser 

Every Soul a Star by Wendy Mass 

Daddy Longlegs by Jean Webster 

Wolf Hollow by Lauren Wolk 

I love that my daughters (adult and almost-adult) still recommend these books to me. 

Favorite Book About Education 

The Brave Learner by Julie Bogart

And not just because I work for her these days as a writing coach. It's a terrific book full of the kind of stuff that our homeschool has been full-to-brimming with for almost twenty years. I've always smiled and nodded at Julie's philosophies: "Yes, us, too, Julie, us too!" 

Least Favorite Book: 

The Silent Patient by Alex Michaelides 

Oh. Dear. This kind of thing just isn't my genre, I guess. 

~~~~~

What did you read in 2019? 

5 Things You Can Do to Model Joy and Optimism for Your Children

I first posted this over a year ago, but it feels more fitting than ever today, so I'm sharing it again.

~~~~~

It's an ugly world out there. I don't even have to sum up headlines for you -- you can just pick the one that depresses you the most and we'll go from there.

When all the news everywhere seems bad and the future seems precarious, what do we do? And what do we tell our children?

My instinct is to look for the good (which is kind of funny, since by nature I'm a melancholic INFJ, or, in Inside Out Speak, the character of Sadness.)

Things have always been dire. From the time Moses despaired over the ingratitude of the Israelites ("Please do me the favor of killing me at once!") to the first-pope-elect who denied Jesus not once, not twice, but three times, to the Church Militant (which has regularly fallen down on fighting the good fight), to each of us sinners in our fallen state ... the history of humanity is the history of a mess.

But kids are basically optimistic by nature and they're always looking forward to the Next Great Thing, so I like to try to help mine find it. Hope, after all, is one of the theological virtues:

"The virtue of hope responds to the aspiration to happiness which God has placed in the heart of every man; it takes up the hopes that inspire men's activities and purifies them so as to order them to the Kingdom of heaven; it keeps man from discouragement; it sustains him during times of abandonment; it opens up his heart in expectation of eternal beatitude. Buoyed up by hope, he is preserved from selfishness and led to the happiness that flows from charity." (Catechism of the Catholic Church, 1818)

With that in mind, here are five steps on the road to Joy and Optimism, aka Hope:

1. Remind Yourself and Your Kids What True Joy Is 

And it's not the stuff of this earth -- it's not about jobs, cars, money, success. (There is joy to be found here on earth -- witness coffee and books -- but it's not the main event.)

There will always be pain, challenges, and difficulties in this earthly life. Despite the struggles, the constant disappointments, the inevitable suffering, there is the joy that is my faith. It's something bigger than and different from happiness. It's the firm belief and the reason-defying knowledge that there's something more out there -- that He is out there -- and that everything He allows for me is meant for my good.

He is here with me. There's nothing more joy-inspiring than that sure knowledge.

2. Remind Yourself and Your Kids That Jesus Started the Church and the Holy Spirit Is Guiding It -- i.e., He's Got Things Covered

And so I say to you, you are Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church, and the gates of the netherworld shall not prevail against it. Matt. 16:18

Free will, by its nature, allows the existence of evil and evil choices. That has been true since Adam and Eve, and it will be true as long as time exists. There will be many crosses to bear in this life, but we can't lose sight of eternal life, our final, and ultimately our only, goal.

"Hope is the theological virtue by which we desire the kingdom of heaven and eternal life as our happiness, placing our trust in Christ's promises and relying not on our own strength, but on the help of the grace of the Holy Spirit." (CCC 1817)

The gates of hell will not prevail.

What am I doing to help build up the Church, this incredible gift, that Christ gave me?

3. Remind Yourself and Your Kids That Prayer is the Best Reminder 

"Hope is expressed and nourished in prayer, especially in the Our Father, the summary of everything that hope leads us to desire." (CCC 1820)

When facing a trial, when listening to the news, when pondering evil, when healing from pain, when wondering what to do ... pray. Remind your kids to pray. Stop what you're doing and pray. Pray alone, pray with them. Remind them to pray for a strengthening of their own faith, for your family's faith and unity, for all sinners (including ourselves), for the church, for the pope, for the world.

Remind them that prayer drives away hate and strengthens love.


4. Remind Yourself and Your Kids To Be Grateful (Especially When Things Are Going Wrong.) 

It's so easy to complain, and so easy to let our kids see us do it. I fail at this a lot, but when I'm being mindful, I actively search for things to be grateful for. When life is chaotic and I'm exasperated, it's helpful to seek out one tiny part of the situation that I can count as something good (or at least as something that could have been worse.)

For every time I ask Jesus, "Why do You allow ....?" He replies, "This is why, and here's why you can thank Me in the moment."  Or, if He isn't making the "why" of it clear, I can still say "Thank you" anyway. He always has His reasons.

Say all of this stuff out loud to your kids.


5. Look to the Gospel 

The Good News is simply, as St. Augustine said, this:

"Wake up, O man! For your sake God became man!"

When we remember that earth-shattering and humbling fact, then we can stop wringing our hands  and just get to work. Do corporal and spiritual works of mercy. Love our families. Give to the poor. Learn and live our faith.

As Pope Francis said, “Everyone is invited to enter this door, to go through the door of faith, to enter into His life, and to allow Jesus into their lives, so that he may transform them, renew them, and give them full and lasting joy."

~~~~~

Recently, something was going wrong around here (I can't even remember what it was -- nothing horrible, but just something really frustrating) and Betsy said, "Well, there's a bright side! At least we can be grateful for--"

I cut her off and said, "Why are you so chipper about this? I'm so annoyed."

"Hey," she said, "You raised me. I get this from you."

Model and embrace the joy and hope and your kids -- I'm guessing from experience? -- will have no choice but to do the same.

"How I Miss Them."

October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month.

Atticus and I, the couple who married with the firm belief we'd never want children, lost five of our children to miscarriage. Oh, how we wanted those children.

Miscarriage doesn't get easier with practice. I crumpled every time. I needed grace, a God who would let me weep and scream at Him. A God who would let me collapse, exhausted, into His arms and then grant me the grace to somehow keep moving forward. To get up again the next day.

I needed my husband. He was devastated too, but was also my miraculous rock. We needed to cry together, fall apart together, and pick ourselves up together.

I needed my friends. Friends who listened to me, helped me heal. Friends who were bearers of light and love.

And I needed, years later, the beauty of all the stories that came together to become After Miscarriage. In gathering my own stories and those of others who were generous enough to share their lives and the too-short lives of their children, I experienced a new level of love and healing.

Here are the words of a friend, a father who contributed to the book, and they say it all:

If any blessing has come as a result of all this, it is the intense desire to see my children. We Christians believe in the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come. I hope that if I live my life as well as I can and come to know Him more each day in prayer, Our Lord may place me under His mercy, and after the resurrection of the dead, I will be able to embrace my children for the first time and forever. 

How I miss them. 

School Supplies, Serendipity, Ice Cream, and Tears

Last night I told my sister a story she'd never heard before. We were talking about the ways God sometimes seems to drop someone into your life at the right time, and about how beautiful and surreal it can feel, how it often leaves us speechless.

The following story is from ten years ago this week. Anne-with-an-e was 12, Betsy was 10, and Ramona was 4.

Enjoy ... and cry ... and hold on tight to someone you love:

~~~~~

Yesterday we went shopping for school supplies. After picking up a few essentials, and because we were celebrating the fact that none of us had cavities (this was a known fact, not a guess, as we'd been to the dentist in the morning) I decreed it to be an Ice Cream for Lunch day.

We stopped for our treats, and settled down to enjoy them. As the girls were slurping their way through Oreo and Reese's Peanut Butter Cup-laced concoctions, an elderly man approached our table.

"I just wanted to say," he said rather slowly, "that you just have some very nice girls there, and you all remind me of our family a number of years back. We had three girls, too."

I responded with something like, "Isn't that nice?" and said it was kind of him to compliment the girls. Then he went on to say, "I've got kind of a sad story, though ...."

Oh, no, I thought, who are you, and what's coming next?

"We, um," he said, looking troubled. "We lost our youngest daughter to cancer."

Oh, my. I was jolted but managed to relay my sympathy. I asked when it had happened, thinking it must've been years ago.

"Just last month," he said, tearing up. "She was 41. I was there when she died. And it just ...."

He trailed off, as tears filled his eyes. (Mine too.)

"I'm so sorry," I said feebly. I looked at Anne, who was also tearing up.

He continued. "She had the Lord in her life and she told me that. She said she wasn't afraid ... so, you know, that's my consolation. But," he choked, "it just tears you up inside."

"I can't even imagine," I whispered.

The surrealness of this scene didn't occur to me at the time. Somehow it seemed perfectly right that I was sitting there, listening to this stranger who stood next to my table as he shared his grief with a family who was willing to listen.

He shook his head, as if to collect his thoughts, and said, "I just ... I really wanted to stop and say something to you, because I just saw that you look like such a nice, happy family. I saw your three girls talking and laughing, and I thought, 'Why there's Suzanne and Maureen and Ginger!' Just like my girls ...."

He shook his head again, and since I seemed unable to say anything at that point, he finished up by saying, "I just wanted to say that you all just reminded me of our family, and I could tell that you have somethin' special. You know, not everyone has that these days ... it's a rotten world, and not everyone has what you have ... and so, I just wanted to say that."

Through a few more tears, I thanked him. I told him again how sorry I was that he had lost his daughter, and that I appreciated his kindness in taking the time to stop and talk to us.

"God bless you," I said softly, feeling once again that my words were sorely inadequate.

When he left, Anne-with-an-e was crying. I comforted her and said that although his story was a sad one, and that he missed his daughter very much, it was so comforting that they had their faith, and that we have ours. I told the girls I was glad we were there -- glad we could listen to a man who needed to talk about the daughters he loves so much. But, also, his little visit to our table was a gift to me, I said. I was touched that he could see how much we love one another, and touched that he took the time to say it.

When we got home, I told Atticus about it -- about how it felt as if an angel had stopped to talk to us. This angel reminded me of our abundant blessings, our abundant love for one another ... of all that's really important.

Then, Atticus said, "Do you remember that last phone call we got for the Rosary Crusade? It was about a month ago. They asked us to pray for a couple who had just lost their 40-something daughter to cancer."

I had forgotten, but Atticus was right.

Though I can't know for certain, this stranger who had felt compelled to approach an ice-cream-eating mother and her three daughters was quite possibly the man for whom I had prayed anonymously last month.

And once again, I feel awed by and unworthy of the love and mercy of such a God as we have. He intertwines our lives in ways we cannot predict, often do not see, and most certainly cannot fully comprehend on this side of heaven.

Serendipity? Such a lovely and whimsical word for grace.

I Finished A Canticle for Leibowitz

So, I recently finished A Canticle for Leibowitz. I can't believe it took me this long to read it (30-some years? When did you first recommend it, Jack?) Beautiful, horrible, gut-wrenching, and thought-provoking, it delves into the connections among faith, reason, knowledge, science/technology, church, state, and man's ever-predictable penchant for overreaching and destroying himself. 

"Ask for an omen, then stone it when it comes -- de essentia hominum." 

Do you want to discuss? We'll start it in the comments, so as to prevent spoilers, of course. 

(I've got a busy couple of days coming up, so if I don't get a chance to jump right in, please be patient with me...I will get back to the discussion!)

I'll Be On Jen Fulwiler's Show on Friday...

...to talk about her new (free!) ebook, The Our Father, Word by Word. 

A few years ago, Jen put together a series for her blog in which a variety of writers took turns reflecting--word by word, of course--on this ancient prayer. Now, Jen has pulled all the posts together and published them in an easy-to-read ebook format. You can get a free copy of it here, at Jen's website. 

I'll be talking with Jen tomorrow about my contribution, "Name." 

Tune in to The Jennifer Fulwiler Show, SiriusXM satellite radio, Channel 129, on Friday, July 8, at 2:20 central time to join us! 

More details about Jen's show and how to listen are here. 

On Morning Air Today, Talking About the Liturgical Year

I'll be talking with Glen on Relevant Radio's Morning Air at 8 a.m. central this morning. We're going to talk about incorporating the liturgical year into fun, summer activities, such as the bonfire party for St. John the Baptist that we recently attended.

Helpful resources for activities and recipes that we'll talk about:

Catholic Culture

Catholic Cuisine

Books:

The Year and Our Children by Mary Reed Newland

A Continual Feast: A Cookbook to Celebrate the Joys of Family and Faith Throughout the Christian Year  by Evelyn Birge Vitz

Feast by Haley and Daniel Stewart

Feast Day Cookbook by Katherine Burton

~~~

(Photo credit: FreeImages.com)

What Am I Using?

Sometimes in conversations with stay-at-home, homeschooling moms the topic of education comes up. Not our children's, but our educations. And not suspicious, raised-eyebrow inquiries of the, "Are you qualified to teach your children?" variety, but rather those of the "What are you doing with your life?" stripe.

Someone once said to a friend of mine, "You have all this education and you're not using it. It's going to waste."

Ahem.

I have a couple of things to say about that.

Nothing gets under my skin more than the assumption that a mother who is at home with her children is wasting her education. (Well, okay, there are more irksome skin-burrowing issues in the world, I'll grant you that, but this ranks right up there.)

There are a few situations where the assumption may be true. If Mom is lying comatose on the couch in the living room then, yes, we can safely say she isn't putting that Brit Lit class to use, at least not at the moment, but we can't really blame her, eh? Or, if she leaves her little urchins home alone every day so that she can play keno at the local sports bar, then, yeah -- probably not taking full advantage of the many hours she spent in lecture halls. But if Educated Mom gets up every day and after pouring a cup of coffee pours herself into mothering and homeschooling -- jobs which can be plenty thankless some days, thank you very much -- I think we must assume she is using everything she's got. That should include the assumption that her education is valuable in a home where small, barbaric human beings must be tamed, civilized, and taught cursive writing. And don't even get me started on the psychological nuance and skill that must be employed when puberty hits. (That alone is worth a couple of PhDs.) Homeschooling high school? Not for the faint of heart.

Of course, the first thing that springs to mind is what G.K. Chesterton said in What's Wrong With the World: 

How can it be a large career to tell other people’s children about the Rule of Three, and a small career to tell one’s own children about the universe? How can it be broad to be the same thing to everyone, and narrow to be everything to someone? No; a woman’s function is laborious, but because it is gigantic, not because it is minute. I will pity Mrs. Jones for the hugeness of her task; I will never pity her for its smallness. 

There are actually a couple of different things going on with the, "wasting" comments, so we should separate them. First, there's the assumption that being with children all day long is objectively a waste of time and brainpower. Second, there's the idea that throwing a wide net and reaching people outside of our families is far more important than a deliberate gathering-in of those within the walls of our home.

With the first assumption, I have little patience. I can't think of an assumption that devalues children more. Being with babies (then small children, then older children, then teenagers, and...you get the picture) all day can be a great many things, but it has never been a waste of my time or brainpower. Mothering has forced me to become a stronger, more creative, more persevering woman than I have ever been in my life. Thank you, motherhood. You have done what you were created to do.

With the second idea -- that reaching outside the scope of one's home is more important than focusing on what's under my own roof -- I again have little patience and will simply refer you back to Gilbert Keith. Thank you, Mr. Chesterton. I always liked you.

So we return to the question: Has it been a waste? Have I used my education over these many years? Has Atticus used his? I would argue that yes, we have both put our educations to good use, albeit in very different ways. Nothing that led me to the moment when I held my first daughter and realized, with giddiness and horror that Atticus and I were totally responsible for her, was wasted. Not my God-free childhood, nor my college years as a theater major-turned English major-turned dabbler-in-philosophy, nor my conversion, nor my short stint at a particularly challenging time in my life as a Merry Maid. None of it. It all combined and conspired to make me the mother I became, the mother I am still evolving into.

The world will pull us in a thousand directions, and so we must discern shrewdly. There are seasons and years when using one's education predominantly outside the home is right, good, or even best for our families. But putting an education to use in the wider world is not ipso facto the superior choice, it's just more visible. Just as important are the lively interactions and the child-rearing and the education that happens every day in so many homes, hidden though those worlds may be.

Blood is hidden, too. So is a powerful, beating heart. But without them? We would wither and die.

What am I using?

Every hidden thing that I am.

~~~~~

(Photo credit: FreeImages.com)

Fountains of Carrots Podcast: Chatting with Christy and Haley

Haley Stewart and Christy Isinger's Fountains of Carrots podcast is one of my favorites. Haley (Carrots for Michaelmas) and Christy (Fountains of Home) keep me company on a regular basis when I'm cleaning my house, transforming odious chores into something I actually look forward to. I love the variety of guests and topics, and the fact that they relish TV talk.

In Episode 48, we talked about my latest book, You Can Share the Faith, and lots of other things: sharing Christ through relationships, the difference between proselytizing and evangelizing, examples of evangelization gone awry, conversion stories, sticky family situations, and the part that popular culture can play in the life of a person of faith. It was delightful, and I was honored to be the first return guest of the podcast.

So, if you've got some housecleaning to do, or just need to sit down with a cup of coffee and some chatty friends, you can have a listen here.

Thanks, Our Sunday Visitor -- a 34% discount on You Can Share the Faith, and Discussion Questions for Parishes/Book Clubs

Monday's webinar with Our Sunday Visitor went beautifully, thanks to Tracy Stewart (on whom I have officially bestowed the title, "Webinar Master Extraordinaire" with the subtitle, "I can get Karen to use her webcam correctly!") The webinar can still be viewed at this link, if you'd like to see what we talked about. 

And, Our Sunday Visitor is kindly extending to my blog readers the 34% discount they offered to registrants. 

Just go here, to the OSV shop, and at checkout enter the code YCSTF34. 

(Code expires May 27th.) 

Another thing I'm excited about is that OSV has put together a great set of discussion questions for parishes and book clubs. Just go to You Can Share the Faith at OSV and scroll down to the bottom of the page, where you'll find a link to download the free discussion questions. 

I literally teared up (heart on your sleeve much, Edmisten?) when a registrant let Tracy know that they'd chosen You Can Share the Faith for their parish's discipleship group/book club, saying, "It's a great resource for what we would like to see in our parish." Thank you!

Because I Love Both George MacDonald and Books

“As you grow ready for it, somewhere or other you will find what is needful for you in a book.” 
~  George MacDonald

(Photo thanks to Tim Kimberley, Free Images.) 

Five Reasons Lent is Hard on INFJs

ImageChef.com

Earlier this month, my friend Tamara pointed me to Britt Echtenkamp's "What You Should Give Up for Lent, Based on Your Personality Type." It was a fun post, with a quick rundown of the various personality types, a la Myers-Briggs, and related suggestions for Lenten sacrifices.

Anyone who knows me knows I love this kind of stuff. I like taking personality tests, love Art and Laraine Bennett's book, The Temperament God Gave You, and enjoy puzzling out who's what, why we interact the way we do, and how to improve communication and understanding.

No matter which personality test I take (here's a relatively quick one), I always end up as an INFJ, or in temperament tests, Melancholic/Phlegmatic.

Here's a rundown on INFJs. No wonder I always feel weird -- we're 1% of the population.

The above-linked test calls an INFJ "The Advocate." Our life strategy (how we approach situations and achieve goals) is "constant improvement."

Constant improvement.

Maybe you can see where this is going.

INFJs are idealistic. If our approach to life is "constant improvement" it's not surprising we're busy all year. We're constantly analyzing our lives and figuring out what we can and should do differently. We can wear ourselves out with our probing, analyses, plans, and projects. Some years, by the time Lent rolls around, I'm just tired of working on myself. I've been doing it for months, and I'm ready for a break from my idealism.

Yes, Mother Church is a wise, holy, smart mother. She designates certain times of the year to help me with the ebb of flow of all things -- fasting and feasting, prayer, almsgiving, seasons of life. The liturgical year is a little bit of mad genius, the ideal structure for a human life, and I love it.

But INFJs, whose idealism can be a weakness rather than a strength, are occasionally out of sync with mom. When you've been tackling the idealism thing 24/7, chances are that Lent sometimes hits at a terrific time when you're on a roll ("Improving! Looking forward to doing more! Bring it on!"), but other years? You're so sick of yourself you want to scream.

That said, here are the Top Five Reasons Lent is Hard for INFJs:

5. You have lofty ideals about minimalist living. You've spent the last twelve months decluttering and simplifying your life. There's not enough stuff left in your tiny house to dispose of in steadily-moving-bags over forty days. But instead of being pleased by the progress you've made, you feel like a loser because you can't join in the wonderful, idealistic thing everyone else is doing.

4. INFJs tend to zero in on injustice and inequity in the world. Since you worry every day about how many people are starving around the globe, you've worked hard on eating more simply, on sharing with your family what you've learned about planet-friendly foods and methods of growing them. You've exhaustively researched where to buy certain foods,  and you often eat simple meals in solidarity with the poor around the world. But instead of feeling pleased by the progress you've made, you feel like a loser because you're still, by the standards of most of the world, a rich American, and therefore, some kind of fake.

3. This has nothing to do with being an INFJ, but you already do meatless Fridays all year. "Giving up" meat every Friday in Lent is not a challenge, it's a habit. But (here comes the INFJ part) instead of being thankful for the grace to make that small sacrifice year-round and offer it as a little prayer every week, you feel like a loser because "the Friday thing in Lent" is too easy. Therefore, you are a fake. You feel a desperate need to come up with several torturous things to do on Fridays in Lent. And on lots of other days in Lent, too.

2. You have so many faults. This, of course, is why you are in need of constant improvement, and why you're constantly conducting an assessment of your spiritual life. Lent, you tell yourself, is the perfect time to get even tougher on yourself. Therefore, for Lent, you should give up every single pleasure you've ever known so that you may emerge at the end of these forty days a saint. Right? Except you know that you're going to fall down, and you really don't want to give up coffee this year (because your family begged you to never do that again.) Obviously you are a slothful loser who is destined to spend gobs of time purgatory.

1. INFJs are sensitive and are highly concerned with how everyone else is feeling during Lent. You will be quick to tell others that they should pray about what's right for them this Lent, that the Lord will guide them in their fasting, prayer, and almsgiving, that what's right for one person this year isn't necessarily right for another. You will pat yourself on the back for giving such sound, sensitive, spiritually uplifting advice to your friends. Then you will wonder if it was the right advice. Was it too lenient? Too rigid? Have you damaged the soul of your best friend? Clearly, you are a loser who will never live up to her own hypocritical ideals.

~~~~~

Every personality type has strengths and weaknesses. This Lent, just acknowledge them. Stand up in front of God (and maybe more importantly, in front of yourself), and say, "I'm a ridiculous mess, Lord. Help me." And He will. Every year, whether I'm primed for more "constant improvement" or sick to death of trying so hard, I know He'll take the reins and teach me something. And it will usually culminate in posting something like this (from last year) on Facebook:

Feeling so incredibly happy and humbled and blessed this morning. Beautiful Easter Vigil last night and, as always, I cried during the baptisms, receptions, and confirmations, remembering where Atticus and I came from, and where we are now. When the priest (to those being received into the Church) spoke the words, "His loving kindness has led you here," I almost lost it. I could hear the voice of the priest who received Atticus into the Church, saying the same words 15 years ago.

~~~~~ 

His loving kindness has led me here.

I've only recently realized that when people ask me, "What prompted you to go on this quest for Truth that landed you in the Catholic Church?" I should simply say, "I'm an INFJ. I guess I never stood a chance."

Living Differently for Lent

Photo courtesy of Free Images 

Every year, it's the same thing: "What am I going to do for forty days?"

One year I wrote a letter to Lent.

Another year, I made a Top Ten List of things to consider giving up.

And I've shared my monstrously long post about Lenten ideas, activities to do with young children, etc., more times than I can count.

How about this year?

In addition to reliving that old letter and adopting some stuff from that Top Ten list, I'm introducing you to Living Differently.

It's a new website/project/collection/thing of beauty from Alicia Van Hecke, a fellow homeschooling mom and the genius behind Love 2 Learn: Favorite Resources for Catholic Homeschoolers.

Alicia and I are very much in sync in our approaches to sharing the faith. It's been fun to see her new site launch and unfold just as You Can Share the Faith is being published, because one would almost think we'd been working on these projects in tandem. (We haven't, but that's how sympatico we are.) We employ the same vocabulary (uncannily at times) as we talk about similar issues and approaches, about engaging the culture, about reaching out a person at a time, and about nurturing one's own faith and the faith life of the family.

Alicia sums it up this way, on the Intro page of Living Differently:

What I’d like to offer here is a kind of guide, especially for parents and their families, to cultivating ideas, attitudes, and spirituality in their own hearts and in those of their children, that will prepare them for this great task that we are all called to do – to go and make disciples of all nations.

We are so much on the same page that Alicia asked if she could give away a copy of You Can Share the Faith, and I told her I couldn't wait to help spread the word about Living Differently.

So that's what I'm doing at the end of this busy Ash Wednesday. I'm throwing out one more Lenten idea for you, just in case you haven't figured out what you want to do from that Top Ten list.

Here's the idea: Read and pray about one nugget per day from Living Differently. There's more than enough there for 40 days, and I think once you start digging in, you'll want to keep going well beyond Lent. You can start in the sidebar on the left, and work your way through the riches that Alicia is curating.

I'll leave you with my choice of reading for today, from the page, "Be Generous."

I wish you a fruitful forty days in the desert.

P.S. I almost forgot! It's been a long, busy Ash Wednesday. :) Here is the link to Alicia's giveaway of You Can Share the Faith. 

The Shepherd Who Didn't Run: Fr. Stanley Rother, Martyr from Oklahoma

It's a genuine privilege to be part of Our Sunday Visitor's blog tour for a new book from my friend, María Ruiz Scaperlanda. Here she is:

Don't you want to sit down and have a cup of coffee with her?

 Here's a little more about her: 

In the past 30 years, María has been published broadly in the U.S., including the New York Times, Our Sunday Visitor, St. Anthony Messenger, Columbia, and other national and diocesan publications.

Maria’s work as a Catholic journalist has taken her on international assignments in Central America and the Caribbean, the Middle East, and throughout Europe. But perhaps her favorite assignment was covering Pope John Paul II’s historic visit to her native country, Cuba.

Her primary life-time assignment, however, has been as wife to Michael for 34 years, mother to four grown children—and now “Bella" to six adorable grandchildren!

In addition to her journalism, María has written a number of books. Her latest, The Shepherd Who Didn't Run: Fr. Stanley Rother, Martyr from Oklahoma, published by Our Sunday Visitor, tells the extraordinarily moving story of Fr. Stanley Rother, a missionary and martyr who died at the age of 46.

Cover courtesy of Our Sunday Visitor 

A brief summary of the book from OSV:

Fr. Stanley arrived in Guatemala in 1968, and immediately identified with his parishioners' simple, farming lifestyle. He learned their languages, prepared them for the Sacraments, and cared for their needs. Fr. Stanley, or "Padre Francisco" as he was called by his beloved Tz'utujil Indians, had found his heart's calling. 

After nearly a decade, the violence of the Guatemalan civil war found its way into the peaceful village. Disappearances, killings, and danger became daily occurrences, but despite this unrest Fr. Stanley remained hard at work, building a farmer's co-op, a school, a hospital, and the first Catholic radio station, used for catechesis.

In early 1981, his name was on a death list, so he returned to Oklahoma and was warned not to return. But he could not abandon his people, so he went back, and made the ultimate sacrifice for his faith.

~~~~~

Perhaps the best way to introduce you to the book is through a conversation with María. I think you'll find, as I did, that you are touched by María and her spirit before you even get to the first gripping pages of this beautiful book about a holy and inspiring Servant of God.

Q. When and how did you first learn about Fr. Stanley Rother's story? What made you want to write a book about him? 

Karen, I want to begin by thanking you for your interest in my book—and above all, for helping me spread the story of Oklahoma Martyr Father Stanley Rother!  I am so happy to be “here” today. 

The Church of Oklahoma has done a great job of making sure that the story of Father Stanley Rother is passed on from generation to generation. When we first moved to the state, my kids (who attended Catholic schools here) came home talking about the local priest who died in Guatemala—and I became intrigued! I wrote a few articles about Father Stanley for various Catholic publications.  Years later, when the Archdiocese opened the cause and began working on this project, I was invited to be part of the Historical Commission, mostly working with the Spanish documents.  This is the group that collected information on Father Stanley and prepared a report to send to the Vatican requesting to open his Cause for Canonization. 

A year after our work was completed, our group traveled to Guatemala and made a pilgrimage to Santiago Atitlán the parish and village where Father Stanley lived and where he was killed. On that trip I also met our (then) new Archbishop, Paul S. Coakley. And it was Archbishop Coakley who invited me – and commissioned me, to write the book! 

Working on this project and telling the story of this holy man has been such a privilege. Our world is so hungry for heroes!  And this farm boy from Oklahoma who grew up to be a martyr for Christ is so much more than a comic book super hero. He shows us that we are all called to be holy where we are, as we are—and that is true heroism. 

Q. Fr. Rother was from Oklahoma, where you currently make your home. How long have you lived in Oklahoma, and what brought you there? What has surprised you the most about Oklahoma and its people? 

Our family moved from Texas to Oklahoma 22 years ago because my husband Michael came to teach at the University of Oklahoma College of Law.  Michael and I met at the University of Texas Catholic Student Center, so we call ourselves displaced Longhorns living in Oklahoma Sooner-land.  Since you’re in Nebraska, I think you understand what this fiery dynamic really means, especially during football season! 

But since I was not born in either, I will risk offending both Texans and Oklahomans by saying that I think they have more in common than they do differences.  The southwest is such a unique, colorful, friendly world. The people of Oklahoma are generous, welcoming, easy-going. Perhaps it’s living in tornado alley, but it takes a lot to rattle people here! 

Coming from a Hispanic Catholic culture where being Catholic is the assumption, what has been a surprise and a great witness to me is how strong the Catholic Church is in Oklahoma, where Catholics comprise 3-6 percent of the population!  When I hear colleagues talk about their state’s church experience, especially in the two coasts, I am reminded about how blessed we are to be living here. We have a strong and active Catholic community in Oklahoma – and a great leader in Oklahoma City’s Archbishop Coakley. 

Q. What surprised you the most about Fr. Rother's story? 

Stanley Rother was born in Okarche, Oklahoma, a small town northwest of Oklahoma City that was founded by German Catholic farmers. Like other farming towns up and down the middle of the country, the people in Okarche are close and take care of one another. It is here that Stanley Rother first learned the values of generosity, kindness, family-first, hard work, perseverance—and the importance of living out your faith. 

I don’t know if Id’ say this surprised me, but I was certainly amazed by how well and how fully Father Stanley lived who he was—both here and as a missionary in Guatemala.  The soil and the weather may have been different, but just as he fixed the machinery and worked the farm fields in Oklahoma, he did so alongside the Tz’utujil Mayan community in Santiago Atitlán, Guatemala.  In fact, it was this natural disposition to share the labor with them, to break bread with them, and celebrate life with them, that made the community in Guatemala say of Father Stanley, “he was our priest.”

In his words and with his life, Father Stanley lived compassion… or co-passion. With humility and love he became one of them in order to show them – not just tell them – how much God loved them! He was, as my friend Pat used to say, God-in-the-skin for them.

In one of his final letters to the Church of Oklahoma, (the two dioceses that sponsored the Mission where he served), Father Stanley wrote, "Pray for us that we may be a sign of the love of Christ for our people, that our presence among them will fortify them to endure these sufferings in preparation for the coming of the Kingdom."

Q. If you could sum up the message of Fr. Rother's life in just one or two sentences, what would you say? 

Father Stanley Rother is truly a saint of mercy! He fed the hungry, sheltered the homeless, visited the sick, comforted the afflicted, bore wrongs patiently, buried the dead—all of it. He lived Mercy throughout his life—in the seminary, in the farm, in parish work, and of course, in the Guatemala mission. During this Jubilee Year of Mercy Father Stanley’s life reminds me that living Mercy is what God calls each of us to do, right where I am, today!   

Q. What effect did writing about Fr. Rother have on you? Do you have a devotion to this Servant of God now? How did this book writing this book change you? 

My writing is intrinsically connected to my spiritual life. I imagine that you feel this way, too, Karen. And working on this book, in particular, demanded so much of me that it was truly a prayerful experience. 

I confess that for much of the time my prayer consisted of me telling God, “I can’t do this.”  And God patiently reminding me, over and over, “this is my project. You just have to do your part.”  God is so unbelievably patient with me. 

Part of what made this a tough book to write was the timing. During the year I spent researching and beginning to write the book, I had a number of major life events – the illness and death of two close friends, taking care of my father during several health crises—the type of things that drain and derail!  I felt helpless in every direction, including my writing. Finally, a good friend suggested that I simply invite Father Stanley into my crazy life, as it was, that I let him walk with me through all these life events. It was beautiful… and it transformed me. 

When I finally got serious about completing the manuscript I realized that those difficult and painful life events that I went through during the year were precisely what allowed me to have a profound insight and understanding into Father Stanley’s life during that last year of his life -- as he watched the people he loved so much endure suffering and death. 

And the book continues to change me, Karen! Just today I received a letter from a nun in San Antonio who knew Father Stanley and who is delighted to finally have a way of telling people more about the priest she met in Guatemala who transformed her life.  These are all God-things, not about me. 

So I’m reminded again that all I have to do is continue to try to do my part!  

Thank you for allowing me to share his story with your readers, Karen. It’s been a delight to be here today.

~~~~~

Fr. Stanley with parishioners 

~~~~~

I don't know about you, but I love that María invited Fr. Stanley into her pain and her crazy circumstances and what she discovered as a result. 

Fr. Stanley Rother, Servant of God and beautiful soul, pray for us! 

~~~~~

If you'd like to hear what others are saying about The Shepherd Who Didn't Run, you can find a list of all the blogs participating in the tour at Maria's blog.

To find our more about María and her work, go to: 

Our Sunday Visitor

Day by Day with María

CatholicMom.com 

Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. 

Danielle Bean and I Talk Triumphs, Mistakes, and the Patron Saint of Coffee

Danielle Bean has a new podcast! And I got to be a part of it!

I'm excited for her, excited for you to listen, and I was excited for me because Danielle's a lot of fun to talk to. The only downside was that we had to stop talking and get on with our days. (I could have kept her on the phone for hours.)

Danielle now has several episodes of "Girlfriends" available. The fourth and latest is called, "Yell Less, Love More," in which she, as always, offers practical advice and a dose of inspiration for moms. In the last 15-20 min of the podcast, I joined her and we chatted about life, motherhood, work, and having the courage to risk failure. I also did her "Lightning Round" of questions, in which I talked about locking myself in my bedroom to write.

Go here to listen to Episode #4 on Danielle's blog, or here to find it on iTunes.

And don't forget to check out the other episodes of Girlfriends: 

What 'Doing It All' Really Means with Jennifer Willits 

3 Do-able Health Goals for 2016 with Teresa Tomeo

 Overcome Jealousy & Competition with Lisa Hendey

Head over there today and be inspired by the woman who wants to help you "know your worth and find your joy"!

I Wrote Another Book!

Awhile back, I was talking with my editor at Our Sunday Visitor about book ideas. "I'd love to write about the process of conversion, about the things that did and didn't work for me when I was searching," I told her. 

That's how You Can Share the Faith: Reaching Out One Person at a Time was born. 

It's a personal book, with stories from my atheist days and my conversion. But it's not about me. It's about God and the way He worked on me. It's about friends of mine, people who were generous enough to risk sharing stories with me. It's about cradle Catholics, converts, reverts, atheists, non-Catholics, doubters, and seekers; it's about rebellion and love. 

It's about looking around you--in your neighborhood, parish, or maybe in your own living room--and being willing to talk about the changes wrought in you since Jesus came into your life. 

"I want to write," I told my editor, "about what helped me make the leap, and what hampered my next steps. About friends who proved to me that sharing the faith can be as simple as loving someone with whom you profoundly disagree." 

~~~~~

You Can Share the Faith is due out in February and is available for pre-order now from Our Sunday Visitor, Indie Bound, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or check with your local Catholic bookseller. 

Why I Don't Miss Our Old Advents

When I first started blogging, my daughters were 3, 9, and 12, so when I wrote about Advent (as I did in the No-Panic Advent series), I was writing about creating traditions with children. Ten years later, I don't have young children. Two college students and a teenager live at my house.

Advent has changed.

We no longer do the things that were designed to help little ones step outside themselves as they quiver and count down the days to Christmas. Things like daily thank-you notes deposited in the Jesus stocking, or pieces of yarn (for every corporal or spiritual work of mercy) dropped in a manger, to make it soft for Baby Jesus. No one wants to dress up as St. Lucia on her feast day anymore (although, of course we still make that heavenly bread) and there are no fights over who will light the candles on the Advent wreath.

We still have a Jesse Tree, and Atticus still reads accompanying stories aloud to us on the nights when we have dinner together, but schedules are busy, and we inevitably miss days. I don't go back to pick up missed readings anymore. Everyone knows the major stories, the Scriptures that tell the story of salvation history. The Jesse Tree did its job all those years.

Some things, of course, will never change. Chocolate and Advent calendars will always be here, and none of us will ever be too old for our favorite Advent books. But these days, we also talk about who's read the latest installment of Bishop Barron's Advent reflections, about what kind of Advent resolution we've made, about going to confession. The other day we discussed the way Advent Scripture readings focus on the last things, and about whether or not that scares us or reassures us.

Advent with grown (and practically grown) children is Advent with a different flavor.

Advent, a season of watching and waiting -- the season of hope, as a priest in the confessional reminded me in the advent of Advent -- is about pondering what Mary thought and felt as she anticipated the birth of the Christ Child, pondering who Jesus Christ is, and why He came to us.

I've pondered my way through many Advents since I became a Catholic. With the Blessed Mother, I have wondered. I've thought about why God chose me to mother these particular children, and I've asked Him at times whether I am up to the tasks He's assigned me. I've thought about the ways Christ has come to me in the past, the ways He has promised to come to me in the future, the way He always comes.

I'm so grateful for Advent, for the genius of a liturgical cycle that forces me to slow down, think, pray.

Watching my daughters grow into young women who love this time of year, who love God and have claimed their faith as their own, and look forward to creating beautiful Advent celebrations with their own children someday, has confirmed something for me:

I don't miss "our old Advents" because they are still with us. Every Advent we've observed and celebrated is a part of us. All those years of Jesse Trees, Jesus stockings, and yarn in a manger -- the slapdash, stressful years, and the carefully crafted, calmly carried out ones -- shaped us. The Advents of our past gave birth to the Advent we are having right now, this year, this moment.

This season of hope.

God finds new ways every year to help me see that He is nothing but Hope. And that's why I can't miss the Advents of our past. Because Christ -- O come, Emmanuel! -- is always making things new.

Remembering My Lost Babies

October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Month and I'm thinking about the babies Atticus and I lost through miscarriage.

Five losses, and each one shook my foundation ... it never got easier. Miscarriage isn't something one improves on with practice. I was devastated every time, crumpled every time, had to pull myself up and be pulled up every time. Who and what pulled me up? Grace, of course, yes. Prayer. A God who would let me scream at Him, then collapse in His arms, weeping, asking for comfort and for the grace to start over, to try again. My husband, of course, yes. He was devastated, too, but he was also somehow my rock.

And so many good friends. Friends who pulled me up, sustained me, helped me heal. Loving, supportive women, bearers of light and love.

The memories of things that weren't helpful are dimmer, thankfully. Everyone means well, and I always knew that, but we all hear our share of the unhelpful stuff, too, don't we? Words that hurt or seem to blame or that lack all understanding. Part of an imperfect world. I have said my share of stupid and insensitive things over the years, and I can only hope that those on the receiving end of my mistakes forgive me.

If I could offer just a few words about the main things that really helped me heal, and the things that really didn't, I'd say this:

What didn't help: 

1. "It was God's will."

Of course it was, in its way. Everything that happens is either because of God's active will (He made it happen) or His passive will (He allowed it to happen, allowed the problems of a fallen world to unfold.) But in the immediate aftermath of the death of my child, I didn't want to hear that God had chosen this for me. Maybe He did, maybe He didn't -- but I was in a state of shock and grief; I needed to absorb the pain before I could do anything else. Over time, I would slowly come to accept the ways in which God can work all things for my good, but in the first moments, the first hours, the first days, it was too hard. I just needed to cry.

2. "You'll have another baby."

That may or may not have been true. It felt presumptuous to me when people said that. No one really knew, after any of my five losses, whether I'd be able to have another baby in the future. And -- this is the most important part -- even if one could see perfectly into the future and tell me with complete certainty that there was another baby a year, or two, or five years down the road, what mattered most in the moments following my loss was this: no other baby is this baby.

No other baby is this baby. If Atticus died, no one would say, "You'll find another husband." Lost babies are not forgotten objects, easily replaced. Yes, I knew that if I had another baby down the road, I would love it, cherish it. But right now? I wanted this baby, this unique human being, at this moment in history. No other baby would ever be that baby.

3. "At least it happened early, before you really got attached."

I loved my babies fiercely from the moment I knew I was carrying them. Even before that moment, really. I loved the idea of them, the hope for them, the beauty of them, the knowledge that they were the embodiment of the love Atticus and I have for each other. Whether a miscarriage happens on the day of the pregnancy test, or at nine weeks, or at three months, or later, it's hard. Heartbreaking. Awful and confusing.

I was no less attached to my babies when I'd carried them two days than when I'd carried them for nine months. We can't quantify the level of grief a mother should feel based on how old her child was. (As pro-life people, we don't want to go down that road, right? Human beings are not worthwhile by degrees -- human beings are worthwhile, period.) My baby was a baby. I was attached.

On the flip side of the difficult things people said were the things that helped tremendously:

1. "I'm so sorry. I'm praying for you. I love you."

Simple, perfect words. Thank you for saying them. Hugs were welcome, too, as was understanding when I started crying unexpectedly or in public.

2. Listening

Friends who simply let me talk (endlessly, sometimes) about my babies were a treasured gift. Listening to my stories as I sifted through my grief, handing me another Kleenex, asking about my babies' names, listening to my fears and my future plans (or lack of them).... This kind of acknowledgement -- that I had experienced a loss worth grieving -- was so healing. It helped me feel sane and whole again.

3. A Concrete Gesture

Just a card or a note meant so much, even an email (I printed out and saved many of those.) There are so few physical keepsakes of a baby after a miscarriage -- a loving message becomes one of them. I treasured every one I received. My sister gave me a potted mum, something beautiful and alive and growing, an ongoing remembrance. Other friends nurtured my soul through the body: One friend brought an enormous meal, complete with chocolate cake. Another friend brought a bottle of wine. A new friend (someone I hadn't planned to tell, but I spilled after tearing up as we chatted about something else) dropped off a basket of teas and cookies. I didn't expect any of these things, but every one of them touched me deeply.

~~~~~

I remember my babies every day, especially when I ask them to pray for me. Anyone who's ever lost a child knows that we don't need a month officially set aside to remember our children, but the fact that there is one is a beautiful thing. Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Month says, "This was real. This was terrible. I'm so sorry." It says, "You're not alone." 

And as terrible as every loss was, I can honestly say now that I'm grateful for everything I've been through. The children I lost were -- just as my husband and my friends were -- bearers of light and love to me. My babies taught me, and continue to teach me, about surrender, sacrifice, and hope. Each of them taught me a different lesson. They have changed me forever. 

And my lost children, who are not lost to the Lord, are every bit as much a part of our family as Anne-with-an-e, Betsy, and Ramona are. I have a whole family in heaven that I -- God willing -- will see one day. I know they're praying for me. I feel it. They want me to keep slogging through, with the goal of meeting them face to face. And on that day, when I meet God and my children, I will know in fullness and for eternity the thing I cling to in this life, the thing that makes everything else make sense: He is the Christ, the Messiah, the Son of God, and He will wipe away every tear. 

~~~~~

(Photo courtesy of FreeImages.com.)