Dear Son

Life together is a grand adventure, isn’t it? You and I.

Your enthusiasm and glee make me soar over the cold cups of coffee, the bed piled with laundry in desperate need of folding, the constant crumbs on the rug. You daily resurrect the child in me and pull every silly voice known to mankind out of my lips.

Mouth cracked open in your best smile, you reach out to touch my face with drool-dripping hands. I let you smear it and finger-paint your joy across my cheeks.

My face. It looks so different now, baby boy, since having you. Rounder, maybe, though the baby weight is mostly gone. Maybe it’s just more stretched, more open, more weathered. More than anything, I pray it’s more loving and generous and true. I look at those girlish pictures from barely a year ago and I see a reservation, a narrowness in my eyes and smile that you pruned and carved away as you entered the world and I broke in the delivery room and was made new.

You’re my best little bud. You halt your scooting across the floor; your head bobs up and your blue eyes mirror mine and my grandfather’s–no one else has blue eyes in our families. Looking at me, those eyes of yours shine with a greater purity and dependence than I can fathom possessing. You smack your lips, stick up your chubby arms and squeal. I bend for the millionth time, but you make it the first time.

Together, we’ve read your favorite board book countless times over. Charming rhymes and illustrations about Blessed Pier Giorgio Frassatti. “I’m joyful in the mountains, the sky is bright and blue . . .” I can rattle it off at the drop of a hat regardless of whether the book is physically present. Without fail, your busy body grows still, your dancing eyes focus, you stare at the pictures while your mind rests in the familiar cadence of the words. The words of joy capture your innocent heart. You are joyful.

In you I already see an exuberance, a passion, a fire that exceeds mine. Your range of emotions is vast, entertaining–at times I wonder if you’ll turn out to be the third Son of Thunder. The ups and downs are tiring at times yet a source of awe to your daddy and me. You are delightfully determined, adventurous. Stubborn. You don’t really enjoy cuddling and to fall asleep is to be defeated. You’ve achieved most physical milestones before the “average” age and love nothing more than showing off to your father every time he comes in from work.

Your father. Oh, how you adore him. You are a mama’s boy, but any time he enters a room, you only have eyes for him. You instantly try to engage him, waving your hands, making sounds very close to “Hey! Hey!” And when your daddy responds, you’re ecstatic. You intuitively know he comes up with the most fun games, the most daring feats of alacrity and scrapes with danger that would make me nervous if I didn’t know that boys must be boys in a way mothers will never fully understand. So I stand back in the shadows and watch the two of you transform into a living Norman Rockwell portrait–authentic, absorbed–in absolutely everything you do together.

Interiorly, I know we named you well. Your patron, Adrian of Nicomedia, an imperial guard turned fearless convert and martyr, surely possessed a similar fire that beats in your little heart at such a young age. I know it’s highly likely your personality will morph and shift over the months and years, and perhaps you’ll turn out on the more sedate and introverted side, but for now, you seem to be quite the choleric-sanguine baby and your largely phlegmatic parents wouldn’t have you any other way.

To name your child after a martyr would seem morbid from the outside. But such are the times that God sent you into the world, my precious son. My mother’s heart would do anything to keep you from suffering, and yet in Faith I know suffering is the fire through which saints emerge. And in spite of all my weakness and sinfulness, I want you to be a saint. More than anything. Your father and I and millions of others feel the times will only darken. Yet you are such a light. You were created by Sovereign Love and His plans for you are beyond anything I could comprehend.

I want to hold you in my arms forever, my lips smooshing your chubby cheeks as I exclaim “Octopus!” and all your other favorite words that I know will make you laugh. I want to snuggle and nurse you all the days of my life and watch your little hand curl and uncurl close to my breast as your lashes flutter and you surrender to milk and to sleep. I will never be able to avoid the reality that to love you so much is gashing, gaping vulnerability. Something you will never know quite in the same way I do, darling, even if you’re blessed to have children of your own one day. You’ll love them as a father but I love you as a mother and in my mind there hardly a greater joy or a greater possibility for future suffering in my heart. I don’t have the strength to do anything other than embrace the present moment with ardent gratitude and pray for God’s grace to accept with docility whatever His Will holds for you, your daddy and me and our family in the future, come peace or tribulation–and we pray and hope for peace even as we prepare for otherwise.

He knows best, little son. His Will is perfect. He loves you more than my poor weak heart ever could. I daily entrust you to His care, to the protection of the Blessed Virgin Mary. You were likely conceived on the traditional feast of her Immaculate Heart; you were born on the feast of Our Lady of Fatima; you were baptized on her feast as Mediatrix of all graces. She wants you, my baby. She is your mama. Your name means “Sea” and she is your star. Maris stella. If I can but teach you to love her and to submit to God’s Will in all things, to be pure and brave and faithful in little things, then I will be at peace no matter what comes. I sense in my soul that my opportunity for sainthood lies in you, in your daddy and in our family. I beg for graces to be faithful to the end. I love you with all my heart, sweet Adrian, and always will, and I bend and kiss your head as you lay sleeping quietly on my chest.

Around here (and pondering largeness of heart)

Mary, sipping from her faithful giant red cup of water

A very blessed feast of good St. John Bosco to you all! I just have to say that Lena has been churning out her most exceptional blog posts ever . . . really. And this was one of the most exceptional of her exceptional ones. My heart echoes every word, but of course only her words could put it that way to begin with.

I’ve been reading these posts of hers daily. I currently have a copy of Butler’s Lives of the Saints traveling towards me from the distant Amazon, for the purposes of increased spiritual reading, but Our Lord is unexpectedly providing me with my sister’s amazingness in the meantime. (Not that her amazingness is unexpected.)

Inwardly, I’m determined I’m going to submit all these posts somewhere once she’s gone to the convent and helpless about the fate of her former possessions 😉 Not many people have sisters like I do . . . no offense to any one else’s sisters, of course.

Please do follow Ut Cum Electis Videamus if you already don’t! You will be so blessed! 🙂

So yes . . . Around here. Two little words, such a lot that they can encompass.

So much has been on my mind: all these different vicissitudes of a person’s life that ebb and flow with strength and color, but are too much to post about. However, lately, my life has been one of rhythm (mostly) and work.

Getting up at 6 every morning is something to mention. The wonderful Dash has to do it for school 5 days a week, and I couldn’t exactly let him do it alone when I could (ahem, should) be acting upon the Heroic Minute already. The greatest benefit of it? Getting downstairs before everyone else (after Dad has left for work). Being the one to open the blinds, turn on the lamps, “wake up the living room,” and pray alone for a while. Essentially, I give Our Lord one paltry inch of effort; He bestows on me a mile of blessings.

This morning, I was offering my usual assortment of morning prayers, and meanwhile there was a gorgeous sunrise occurring over our backyard. (It was cold this morning, somewhere in the 20’s . . .) Skyward, there were striations of orange, pink and lavender, the sharp silhouette of a flying crow; and below, there was all this glimmering early sunlight that rose up over our deck, pushed through the living room windows, and spilled onto the carpet and couches.

I felt so grateful for the silence and stillness, the time to pray alone, and the opportunity to be joining with The Dash in the Heroic Minute. And then I looked up at the image of the Sacred Heart and had a moment of self-knowledge. (By which I mean the real kind . . .) O Lord, I can do this for the love of another human being, through the spirit of mutual assistance, but so far I haven’t proven myself willing to do it just for the love of Thee; not for very long. I’m sorry.

And yet, how good God is: He knows intimately my weakness and has provided me a pathway to growing in yet another virtue through this courtship. I am so undeserving of His gentle love towards me.

The Propers for St. John Bosco

Mass this morning was at Sarasota with Fr. Bartholomew. The Propers for St. John Bosco are distinctly beautiful. Lena wrote about this topic so eloquently, but I have to parrot her just a little, now that she’s taught me how to feel about St. John Bosco. If it weren’t for him, if it weren’t for his holy passion towards the formation of Godly young men and the orders and traditions that sprang from that, our family really might not have Fraternus–we really might not have the Latin Mass as our foundation and joy. What a thought.

But back to the Propers. Don’t you love the Introit?

God gave to him wisdom and understanding exceeding much, and largeness of heart as the sand that is on the sea shore. (Psalm) Praise the Lord, ye children: praise ye the name of the Lord.

The Gospel:

And Jesus calling unto Him a little child, set him in the midst of them, and said: Amen I say to you, unless you be converted, and become as little children, you shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven. Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little child, he is the greater in the kingdom of heaven and he that shall receive one such little child in My name, receiveth Me.

And the Offertory . . .

Come, children, hearken to me: I will teach you the fear of the Lord.

How I desire to have St. John Bosco’s largeness of heart and his zeal for childlike souls! I pray that, God-willing, I will be given that great blessing of being a mother, to have the joy of rearing and forming children in the fear of the Lord, after his example.

Segueing from this thought: Yesterday, in a fit of zealous spontaneity, I raided my mother’s bookshelf as a way of additional vocation preparation.

Aren’t these self-taken photos mortifying?

We and Our Children; Your School of Love; Designing Your Own Classical Curriculum; Ten Ways to Destroy the Imagination of Your Child.

We and Our Children: How to Make a Catholic Home filled me with particular excitement. The first two sentences of the back cover blurb are more enticing than a dark chocolate bar. Quite seriously.

How does one develop a space for one’s children free from the worst aspects of the surrounding culture? How to foster a spiritual life where children can develop a vision of God, themselves, and the world, and an approach to Him through prayer and the habits of daily life?

Do tell me!!!

This volume was published in the 50’s, back when the Old Calendar/Latin Mass was still the norm, and I would naturally expect a more traditional tenor for the book . . . the very first page had me.

If we must face the fact that death is inevitable (and we certainly must) and that eternity begins right on its heels, then to imitate the saints is not impractical, but quite as practical as it is possible to be . . . And when you realize that the spiritual life thrives in proportion as we cultivate the life of God in our souls, then to attempt a spirituality like the saints’ is the only kind of living that makes sense.

The table of contents informs me that this book will be much-beloved by me as I eagerly anticipate the possibilities of my future vocation. This is my favorite paragraph so far, taken from the first chapter:

That he is loved by God is very easy for a child to believe. He is hungry to be loved, and it is a hunger God planted in him. His reaction to the knowledge of God’s love is perfect faith. It is no accident, nor is it a matter of taking advantage of his emptiness of knowledge. The virtue of faith is his at the moment of Baptism, infused into his soul by the Holy Spirit. What we see happening in our children when we introduce the revelation that there is a God and He loves them, is inevitable. It is the first movement in them of the divine virtue of faith, responding to the word of God. It slips into the life of a child so easily, so without fanfare or excitement, that we hardly notice that it has happened.

The other books intrigued me for their similar themes, though they fall slightly more onto the homeschooling side of things than the domestic church side. Designing Your Classical Curriculum particularly interested me, due to the fact that the co-op at which I tutor is built off the Classical Trivium method of learning (grammar, logic/dialectic, and rhetoric).

Moving on . . .

Today, the last day of the month, is traditionally my day to redo all my calendars, and have a look at my schedule for the upcoming month; I love getting organized (although that implies that I generally have some disorganization to climb out of . . .).

I also took the time to plan and organize my materials for next week’s co-op class. I used lots of color-coordinated Sharpies and felt quite happy 🙂

The remainder of today will involve me rounding up my brother and his mind for a waltz through grammar and more of Enemy Brothers (hopefully). The guys will be off to Fraternus and the Donellan ladies will have a blissful reunion with our beloved Little Men.

Lena and I’s TLM prayer group has been reading through A Map of Life, and for our last meeting we read and discussed Sheed’s incredible passages on the Holy Trinity (along with a lot more . . .). I think it’s been making me contemplate the Holy Trinity much more lately . . . every time I bless myself, in particular . . . which can’t be a bad thing . . .

In thus setting down some of the elements of what God has revealed to us of His own innermost life (i.e., the Trinity of Persons), it is clear that the mystery remains, but it is mystery in the sense indicated earlier in this chapter–the reconciliation remains invisible to us, but it is rather the invisibility that comes from too much light than from sheer darkness. Thus it is an invitation to the mind. Already, the mind is freed by it from the awful weight of God conceived as solitary in infinity, with no adequate object of His infinite love. And new richness comes into our contemplation of human nature: thus human fatherhood is an immeasurably greater thing as a shadow of the Divine Fatherhood than it could ever be in its own right: the human soul is only the more like to God for its faculties of intellect and will, since in God Thought (i.e., the Son) and Love (i.e., the Holy Ghost) not only exist, but. subsist as Persons: and the Unity of the Church takes on a new immensity when Christ proposes as its model the Unity of the Triune God.

I listened to a talk by Fr. Ripperger the other day on fasting . . . a clarion call for the upcoming holy season of Lent. It has strongly re-motivated me to cultivate this virtue. Do find it on Sensus Traditionis and listen to it . . . and don’t forget to comply with the requirements of Penanceware afterwards 😉

I recently realized that, next week, The Dash and I will already be at 5 whole months of courtship! How is that even possible?!? I am so blessed. Our good God is teaching me every day, through this man, how to grow in largeness of heart.

Have a lovely remainder of your day! And let’s all keep praying for Baby Isaac’s complete miraculous healing . . . Mater amabilis, ora pro nobis.

 

Getting Paid to Play (Vignettes from Babysitting)

Lena and I were out of the house for a round of babysitting earlier with our four favorite munchkins.

While our family of six is probably considered large by current standards (though compared to the majority of homeschooling families at our parish, we’re small!) we’re still definitely out of the “kiddo” stage, and have been for a while . . . my baby sister is twelve going on seventeen, and my twenty-first birthday is almost upon me already. My memories of scooping up little siblings are pretty dim . . . I have one gloriously vivid memory of my brother spitting up all over me as I was holding him up in a fun game of “airplane” . . . but now they’re all growing up.

So that’s why I consider myself endowed with great “fortuosity” (to quote The Happiest Millionaire) to not only be able to belong to a parish practically bursting with little ones who like to play peekaboo from over the edges of the pews, but also to be able to drive up to a nearby house stocked with four adorable blue-eyed, blond-haired little kids, spend a few hours “camping” with pillows and blankets in all sorts of cramped places they decide on . . . and get paid for it.

To our delight, these kids honestly think my sisters and I are the best thing since lightsabers (or stuffed baby foxes, or the Green Bay Packers, or yogurt, depending on who you ask) and the littlest guy in particular never fails to show great resentment when his mother shows up again. I think he’s planning to marry me in about twenty years, since he consistently clamors for us to “play family”: “I’ll be the daddy, and you can be the mommy!”

“Truly wonderful, the mind of a child is,” exulted Yoda once, and I can only agree. Children have the most delightful imaginations and thought processes possible. Earlier, I was sitting on the carpet with the oldest boy, who’s around seven years old, and we were shuffling cards together. I was explaining to him that the reason I always come with my sisters (in other words, that my sisters never come without me) is because I’m the one who drives.

After mulling over this for a moment, he grins behind his glasses. “You know how to drive?”

“Indeed I do,” I chirp.

He processes this, then continues shuffling cards while looking at me curiously. “Are you still in school?”

“I’ve graduated, actually!”

The biggest grin known to mankind emerges. He giggles in the way only a seven-year-old boy can and wrinkles his nose. “Have you married anybody?”

Later on, we were all in the kitchen talking about my birthday, and they announced gleefully that if I time-traveled ten years, I’d be as old as their mother.

Then there was the Battery-Powered Lantern War in which the baby girl and her next oldest brother were both inexorably intent on the exact same piece of Chinese plastic. Tantrums. The little three-year-old guy was trying to be patient; as in, he would say once with a voice of honey, “Hey, do you want the other lantern?”

“No,” the child calmly replied, her chubby hands glued to the toy.

“BUT THAT ONE IS MINE!” he would roar. Wash, rinse, repeat about five times.

I wiped the baby girl’s nose and by some miracle got her interested in multicolored board books while her brother retreated, vindicated, with his lantern.

“Dis red,” she announced calmly, immediately forgetting the existence of lanterns altogether. “Dis pink. Dis orange.”

One time when we were at their home, it began absolutely pouring down with rain and wind. The baby girl stood at the window, entranced. I picked her up and pointed out the window. “See the rain?”

“Rain,” she echoed.

“God makes the rain,” I instructed as any dutiful Catholic babysitter would.

“God, rain, rain, God, God, rain, rain, rain,” she chanted.

Again . . . fortuosity. Getting paid to play with the children whose angels gaze on the face of their Father in Heaven. God is good . . . and, having run out of things to write about, I’m wrapping up this post and going to bed!

Also, as it is technically still the 28th at the moment, a blessed feast of St. Augustine!