Today’s Readings

Scripture: Lectionary # 501. Fri. of 33 week. I Macc. 4:36-37.52-59. I
Chronicles 29:10.11.11-12.12. Luke 19:45-48:

Jesus in many ways is similar to the prophet Jeremiah who had a very
special calling from the Lord to confront kings and religious leaders.
Jeremiah also suffered very much and pleaded with God whom he was convinced
had duped him! Jesus cries out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken
me.” Today we see Jesus confronting with his justifiable anger the money
changers within the temple. Jeremiah had done the same for other reasons
and said it is useless to fake homage to the Temple and then behave
immorally. “The Temple! the Temple! the Temple!” Jesus uses the
expression of “My house is a house of prayer, but you have made it a den of
thieves…Zeal for your house has eaten me up.”

Perhaps, we as believers, can take the first part of that expression and
think about it in reference to our prayer life and our desire to worship
and honor God with reverence and devotion. “My house is meant for a house
of prayer.” We are encouraged by this saying to respect sacred places like
synagogues, chapels, and mosques. Even today, when we think people are
civilized, crimes are committed agains these houses of prayer. They are
desecrated, burned, destroyed. We therefore must cherish these places that
are rather accessible to us. We often know of others who have found a
sanctuary to be a place for calming oneself and for finding some peaceful
space to just “be.” On some Catholic campuses one can see students
gathering to pray and worship God both as friends and as individuals. This
helps others to think about God and to do the same with respectful behavior
and with prayer.

In religious communities there is usually a chapel for the praying of the
Divine Office or for the Mass, but religous brothers and sisters also have
a space in their own room for prayer–a favorite corner with an icon or a
candle and maybe a Bible nearby or a spiritual reading book. With Advent
fast approaching us, we may wish to look into whether we have a sacred
space for our personal prayer and whether we may find some prayer time to
visit a Church and pray there. The quiet atmosphere will help us in our
preparation.

Finally, here is a thought from Cardinal Newman: “May God support us all
the day long, until the shadows lengthen and evening comes and the busy
world is hushed and the fever of life is over and our work is done.
Then in His mercyhmay He give us a safe lodging and a holy rest and peace
at last.” Amen.

Find more great family recipes and meal planning assistance at Dine Without Whine

Apple Rosemary Roast Pork
Makes 10 servings

3/4 teaspoon rosemary
3 teaspoons marjoram
3 teaspoons thyme
5 pounds pork tenderloin, smoked
1 2/3 bottles hard apple cider
5 large granny smith apples
2 red onions
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup flour
1 1/4 maple syrup

1. In a small bowl, mix together rosemary, thyme, marjoram, salt, and pepper. Rub herb mixture over tenderloin. Place in a container, and pour hard cider over roast. Add water until pork is completely submerged. Cover, and refrigerate 6 to 8 hours, or overnight.

2. Preheat oven to 325 degrees F (165 degrees C).

3. Place roast in a roasting pan, elevated from the bottom, and pour marinade around the meat. Bake for 1 hour in preheated oven

4. In a large bowl, mix apples and onion. Put mixture around and on top of roast. Spoon brown sugar over entire pan evenly. Place roast back into oven, and continue to cook for 1 hour more, or until meat reaches 160 degrees F (70 degrees C). Transfer roast, apples, and onion to a serving platter.

Root Beer Float Cake
Makes 12 servings

1 package white (vanilla) cake mix
1 3/4 cups cold root beer divided
1/4 cup vegetable oil
2 eggs
1 8-ounce container whipping cream

1. In a mixing bowl, combine dry cake mix, 1 1/4 c. root beef, oil and eggs.  Beat on low speed for 2 minutes.

2. Pour into a greased 13×9 inch pan.  Bake at 350 degrees for 30-35 minutes of until toothpick inserted near the center comes out clean.

3. Cool completely on a wire rack.

4. In a mixing bowl combine the whipping cream and remaining root beer.  Beat until soft peaks form.  Frost cake and store in the refrigerator.

Find more great family recipes and meal planning assistance at Dine Without Whine

My wife’s first reaction was, “Oh this isn’t the right time.” And my reply was, “There’s never a right time. We can go look and if it doesn’t work — we won’t do it.” Well heavens, you know you’re not going to drive 90 miles and look at a lonely, sweet-faced, and confused little 8 pound dog and not have your heart go out to want to help it.

Sure enough – Muffin came home with us. At first, she seemed to like spreading out in the middle of my outstretched legs when I sat in my easy chair. Then she took to wrapping up in a small ball on a pad near Dee’s chair at her computer. It didn’t take long: we began to bond — and even our dear sweet Holly, a miniature Schnauzer who has been with us for 11 years – she reluctantly began to adjust.

However, there is likely some sort of an emotional wound in Muffin. It’s probably the fear of being left alone. And the way she manifests this is that she will follow me around — walking within inches of my heels.
If I stop quickly – she will almost bump into my leg. And if, not thinking, I step back up without looking – Muffin is often there. We’ve had some episodes of squeaks of pain or yelps of surprise. Yes, it can drive you crazy if you let it.

What I think is that Muffin is continually looking up at me as I walk. In dog language, she’s asking, “You’re not going to leave me are you?” But when you look into her eyes, what she’s really asking is, “Do you love me?” Holly dog is fully aware of our love for her — so she doesn’t ask about our love. She just knows the ways and times that we express love to her. But Muffin is wounded.

I’ve seen the ‘Muffin Wound’ in children from time to time. Worried and unable to be separated from parent or guardian, they cling and have to be right where you are. Sometimes they can’t entertain themselves. I’m not a doctor nor a trained counselor so I can’t offer any sage words about this type of situation. But as a deacon, I’ve found that it happens in adults too.

One time, we had a visiting missionary priest. He was telling us about the most common questions from those who are mentally challenged are:

AM I GOOD?

DO YOU LOVE ME?

WILL YOU BE HERE TOMORROW?

And then – the priest turned to the crucifix – and he repeated those words.

If you are carrying a Jesus wound… or a Church wound… or any wound that leads you to ask if you are loved… I’m so sorry. Keep looking at the cross — because in your healing, you will come to find the answer to whether you’re loved. His name is Jesus — and He loves you very much.

Happy Thanksgiving. A Blessed Advent. Pray for me… because I’d like help with a few of my wounds. I’ll be in prayer for you.

Copyright 2009 Deacon Tom Fox

The conversation turned to family matters.  One stylist mentioned, off-handedly, and rather critically, how hard it would be for the family of her client if anything happened to her client.

“Can you believe how much she does for them?  They have NO IDEA what it’s really like.”

I was going to keep quiet.  I was going to just nod.  I was going to focus on the enjoyment of having awesome hair, but I couldn’t.

My mother-in-law is about the same age as the woman who had just left, the woman who was watching her grandkids, cleaning for her kids and helping them with their household management.  And, though we try to find ways to compensate (in money or in services of our own) my mother-in-law, I found myself feeling guilty for having a mother-in-law who delights in that service and offers it often.

I found I couldn’t keep quiet, though it wasn’t just because of guilt.  Why do we feel like our vocations are “over,” that we are “free” somehow when our children are adults?  According to many of the empty-nesters I’ve talked to, kids are more work once they’re adults (or at least more worry).

I hear people joking, all the time, about all the things they’ll do once the kids move out at age 18.

But I have most needed parental guidance and support since turning 18.  I have found a host of parental figures, many of whom have been dubbed versions of “Grandma” and “Grandpa” for my children, and in their wisdom and encouragement, I have discovered just what it is to be a parent.

It surely isn’t something that ends because the child moves out.

Watching my mother-in-law flit from one house to another, doing dishes as a secret act of service or picking up a child from school or just calling to say she’s been praying, I wonder if life wasn’t a little easier for her when her six kids were under one roof.

In those days, she could pop them in the tub, pull them aside, and know the intricacies of their personal dramas.  Though there were plenty of other challenges, not least of which was an abusive, alcoholic husband, I think she finds herself looking with new appreciation and wonder on the little hands and feet of her grandkids.

What would I do without a mother-in-law who was so involved in my life?  Would it be a taste of reality…or would it be a taste of a life devoid of her lovely brand of love?

Copyright 2009 Sarah Reinhard

Today’s Readings



Scripture: Lectionary # 500. Thurs. 33 week. I Macc. 2:15-29. Psalm
50:1-2.5-6.14-15. Luke 19:41-44:

Jesus weeps over the holy city of Jerusalem. He is envisioning the
destruction of the holy Zion by the Romans. It will be devastating and
cause such sorrow that has not been seen before by Jesus’ people. It is
also the culmination of his journey up to Jerusalem. Now he will have his
last week that starts with joy but will end with his suffering, death, and
resurrection. The disciples are being called to enter into the deepest
mysteries of Christ as they follow him during this coming week of his life.
We are disciples of Jesus so as we come to the final days of this week and
next week we realize we are ending another liturgical year. The readings
are chosen because they help us to reflect on the “last things”–or as we
have seen, on the eschatology of the Evangelists who are struggling with
the same things we do when it comes to the death of Jesus and what this
means for us as committed Christians. We should take some time to reflect
on the past liturgical year and assess how we have done with our
participation in the liturgy, our attention to the words of the Gospels and
the readings. We can also tune up for the season of Advent by carefully
reflecting on these eschatological readings that we will be hearing this
coming week. Renewal, self-examination of our spiritual life, and prayer
are themes for these next days.

Here is an excellent insight from Fr. C.Stuhlmueller on the weeping of
Jesus taken from his Jerome Biblica Commentary on Luke: “Luke draws his
imagery and language from Jeremiah. The Greek verb for weep (klaio)
registers great emotion at departures (see Acts 21:13); with deep interior
agitation (Phil.3:18; I Sam. 1:7); because of shame and regret (Luke 7:38;
Lamentations 1:16); in mourning for the dead (Mark 5:38; Luke 7:13:32)).
Seldom does Luke reveal such anguished emotion in Jesus, The occasion is
Jesus’ first glimpse of Jerusalem since his boyhood episode (Luke 2:41ff).
It calls to mind the agony in the garden where Jesus sweats blood and
water. Amen.

I am always amazed at how different the same weather conditions feel to different people and at different times.  One Christmas, visiting family near St. Louis, we were encouraging our son to play outside in the 45 degree sunshine.  His Aunt, however, was cautioning the cousins to “come in from the cold”.  I chuckled to myself, envisioning the folks in St. Paul who would be wearing shorts and drinking coffee outside in such a temperature.  Likewise, the first 40-degree day in the fall feels frigid, while it is a joy in March.

No matter how a certain temperature feels to us, or how we feel about it, it has been assigned a number to which the red strip of mercury rises in any thermometer in the world.  80 degrees in Baghdad may be a cool breeze while 80 degrees in Northern Canada is a miracle.  But 80 is still 80.  Likewise, 40 in the spring and fall in the Midwest is the same number.  We recognize that it is just our experience of the temperature which change.

This is true also of the Truths of our faith, and indeed certain moral truths contained in the Natural Law.  It has always been wrong to steal from someone, for example.  CS Lewis in Mere Christianity notes that a man caught stealing will not try to defend the act of stealing itself, but try and explain why the act he committed is not really stealing.  Perhaps he was just borrowing, or taking money that was owed to him, or perhaps the one he was taking from didn’t need it as much as he did.

We have always had people who have committed bad acts and made excuses for it.  Ever since the Fall, at least.  But today we have a new phenomenon.  Today people are committing bad acts and insisting they are not bad.  Our Holy Father called this moral relativism.  Moral relativism goes like this: what I believe is true for me, is true for me.  You are free to believe whatever is true for you.  It’s a big problem because it denies reality.

Let’s take moral relativism to the point of ridiculousness, going back to the weather for a moment.  Personally, I hate cold weather.  So, in March when it is still below freezing, I decide it is time to start gardening.  Who cares if I’m in Minnesota? It’s March, for heaven’s sake!  For me, spring starts in March.  So, I go out in my cute new gardening boots and my spring rain coat and try to plant some seedlings.  It’s kind of hard to dig into the frozen ground, but I persevere until the frostbite begins to set in through my flimsy gardening gloves.  I come into the house bewildered.  Why is this not working? It’s March! And for me, March means gardening.  Maybe I have the wrong color gloves…

Ridiculous? Maybe. But that is what many people are doing today when they decide to toss moral absolutes out the window.  Look at abortion.  How many women are in anguish and have no idea why?  They were told that they were having a simple procedure that would solve a problem.  But yet, after the initial feeling of relief, they begin to be filled with anger, sadness and sometimes self-loathing.  One post-abortive woman I know went to a psychologist to help deal with these feelings and when she brought up the abortion, he told her to “just get over it”.  Abortion was “okay for me”, some of these women say, so this pain must not be coming from the abortion.  So they figure it is others’ judgment of them, or the lack of a current relationship, or maybe that they are just simply a bad person.  The wrong diagnosis prevents the right kind of healing.  Once the women I described above realized what her real problem was, she found mercy and healing and is a great voice for women today.

If getting it wrong with moral issues is bad, getting it wrong in regard to God is even worse.  There was a huge study done on youth and religion a few years back by researchers out of North Carolina.  They found that the Christianity of teens, of most denominations, bore little resemblance to real Christianity.  The researchers coined the term, “Moralistic Therapeutic Deism”, meaning teens largely saw God as some far-off being who told them to be nice to each other and was on call for when they needed him.

This is a big problem.  If Jesus is the Way, the Truth and the Life, if no one comes to the Father except through him, what happens if you boil him down in to some hippie surfer dude or just my personal cosmic butler?  Salvation is at stake, folks.

Further, since we are made in God’s image, if we get God wrong, we get the human person wrong.  Back when he was Cardinal Ratzinger, Pope Benedict pointed out that proper worship of the divine is necessary for healthy human life.  We humans are wired for worship.  If we don’t worship God, we will fall into the worship of perishable things, or worse, worship of ourselves.  As these things are not the eternal source of goodness and life, they will always leave us feeling empty.

So today, even though it is October, I will try to accept the fact that there is snow on the ground in my back yard.  Maybe I will even take the lead of my preschooler and fight moral relativism with a few snowballs.

Copyright 2009 Libby DuPont

This is obviously a hot topic these days as everyone wonders what to do about the Swine Flu vaccination.  In this post I share an interesting perspective with you:  a medical doctor answers the question, “Will you give it to your children?”  You may be surprised at his answer.

Copyright 2009 Kelly the Kitchen Kop

Today’s Readings



Scripture: Lectionary # 499. Wed of 33 week. II Macc. 7:1.20-31. Psalm
17:1.5-6.6-8. 15. Luke 19:11-28:

Yesterday the reading from I Maccabees was about the heroic martyrdom of
Eleazar, an elderly Israelite who is a martyr. Today we have from II
Maccabees a more powerful story of a mother and her seven sons who are
martyrs. The narrative seems similar to what the early Christians wrote in
what are called “martyrologies.” Both Eleazar and the unnamed woman are
powerful models of courage and commitment to their belief in God as Creator
and Redeemer. God is a person for them; not a cosmic force–that is too
impersonal for men and women of the Bible. Eleazar is more involved with
the rituals of the Israelites and laws of purification whereas the example
of the mother and her sons is totally focused on their personal recognition
of a God who created them in the image and likeness of God. She and her
sons give their lives for the beliefs; they would rather die than break the
commandments God has given them. The mother is a source of great strength
for her children. They become martyrs for their convictions and fidelity to
their Personal God. Themes of creation, redemption, and even resurrection
are present within this dramatic narrative.

We see there is a type of unity between the deutero-canonical books of the
Alexandrian Jews and the Christian writings about the martyrs. The early
Church fathers and mothers insisted on the unity of both testaments and
that the God of the Old Testament is the God of the New Testament. Only
superficial reading of the bible makes people say that the God of the Old
Testament is a God of wrath; the God of the New is a God of love. Paul
challenges us to think more deeply than a superficial hasty reading of some
parts of the Bible rather than seeing the revelatory mysteries and
salvation history in the light of the whole of the Scriptures. Paul tells
us the “gifts of God are irrevocable.” He explains this in the section we
saw a few weeks ago dedicated to the gifts God has given to the Jewish
people. See Romans chapters 9-11.

What can we take from the readings from Maccabees? A lesson about fidelity
at all costs even of one’s life and the courage to become a martyr. We
will not be called to this in our lives, but we do know of modern day
martyrs from the Holocaust, from Rwanda, from those who died under
Communism. The innocent victims of the wars going on today are also
martyrs and have the same courage and dedication that the earlier martyrs
had. We need such powerful witnesses in a world that is filled with greed,
lust, and hate. Amen.

Was Mary an activist? I believe she was the most profound and powerful activist of her day. She not only supported her Son’s ministry, she presented his message to the world – twice. The first time was at his birth and the second time was at the Wedding Feast of Cana. Her words “Do whatever he tells you.” wasn’t just to the servants, the words were to all of us. She was the behind the scenes activist who not only listened to her son’s teachings but lived them. From the moment she found out she was pregnant to her assumption into heaven her life proclaimed the Good News of her son.

There are no written documents of the life of Mary especially during Jesus’ public life or even when he was captured but as a mother I know where and what Mary was doing. The day Jesus was taken before Pontius Pilate I believe she was right there in the crowd – standing helpless yet being there for him as best she could. She followed him throughout the streets of the city that terrible day. I know she had to suffer as she watched her child – her son – suffer. Mothers’ most unbearable pain is not their own – but their children’s pain. I cannot imagine nor do I wish to experience Mary’s pain as she watched her son beaten, spat upon, defiled in public not only by those who hated him but also those who once called him teacher.

At the cross, Mary didn’t run scared like many of his followers. She stood there, weeping, wanting so much to take away his pain and knowing she could not. It had to be the most horrendous moment in her life.

After Jesus’ death, when He was laid in her arms Mary once again, held her son to her heart and then kissed Him. Much like she did the day he was born only this time it was her final good-bye. This time he did not gaze into her eyes for comfort nor was she able to protect him from the world outside her arms. So often in our world, so many mothers have their lifeless child placed in their arms to kiss their final good-bye. It is a bond that Mary holds with all mothers whose children’s lives have been taken from them either through natural death, starvation, war and killings. It is a sisterhood that all too many women share.

I often wondered what it must have been like for all those apostles who ran away from Jesus at his moment of need when they walked into a room as they gathered after Jesus’ death and saw his mother sitting there. I doubt Mary said anything – she didn’t have to – her presence alone spoke volumes. How humiliating for these men to encounter her, knowing of their own cowardice. They knew she stood at the foot of the cross while they hid. She answered God’s call and became the action of her faith.

Did Mary demand answers from them? Did she scream at them for deserting her son? I believe Mary sat quietly in the room and as each apostle entered, she opened her arms to them, hugged and cried with them. She forgave as her Son forgives; as God forgives.

As I finished my rosary this morning, Mary continues to sit with me as I begin to write yet another letter to my representatives about injustices because of the war. Mary often helps with my thinking – my words. Often I get ideas while praying the rosary. She along with her son teaches me how to live my faith in action not just in prayer. I’m a life long student and Mary – well she has been and always will be my mentor, a wise woman helping me on this journey of my motherhood.

(From Morning Coffee With Mary; Motherhood Mary and Me by Susan Handle Terbay)

Copyright 2009 Susan Handle Terbay

The Higgins brothers’ background in photography, as evidenced by their use of the Chiaroscuro technique, in which faces emerge from darkness into light, emphasizes the theme of light that is central to The 13th Day. Character’s faces emerge from shadowed darkness, to black and white, to muted color and as they respond to the heavenly messenger portrayed in blinding light. This technique may not appeal to those who prefer a traditional portrayal of this story, yet it has a haunting quality achieving an arresting emotional impact. Interestingly, not only are Our Lady and the children flooded with light and color, but those who come to accept the apparitions also take on a tinge of color. Clearly, this technique evokes the phenomenon of rainbow light that washed over the eyewitnesses in Fatima on the 13th of August 1917

The portrayal of Our Lady is breathtaking, and there is a stunning ‘holy card moment’ pausing to show the traditional portrait of the three children kneeling at her feet at the base of the shrub oak. The high point of the film is the miracle of the sun, showing the brilliance of its colors, its wildly erratic movement, and its menacing plunge towards earth, terrifying tens of thousands of witnesses. The film captures this with intense realism, focusing on the intensity of terror and joy felt by the witnesses. The 13th Day shows in passing the Third Secret of Fatima, where a figure in white (assumed to be Pope John Paul II) ascending a hill amidst the devastation of famine and war towards a cross where he is shot.

The musical score is lush, adding tenderness to the rare moments of innocent joy what is a somewhat unsettling film. Hints of Allegri’s “Misere” add a touch of transcendence to the emotional soundtrack, and it is one of the best features of the film.

The young Portuguese actors who play Lucia and Francisco convey a mixture of simplicity and emotional strength for their roles as innocent souls entrusted by Our Lady with the most critical and terrifying of secrets. Jacinta is seen for the innocent six year old she was and has a minor role.

The vivid visions of hell and trials endured by the children are harsh for younger viewers, though profoundly important to the story. One forgets that the Fatima children accepted suffering for the sake of sinners, and the filmmakers remind us that Lucia and her cousins were immediately put to the test with their family members. Children dealing with broken families and schoolyard violence might welcome a film which shows children who see through the darkness into the light of heaven. In fact, all children raised in today’s Godless public square would benefit from the message, which calls them to lift up their eyes to heaven where a loving Mother awaits their prayers. Two generations of Catholics, who have been raised on ‘Catholic lite’ CCD programs, need a wake-up call on what it means to be the Church Militant. In the face of a darkening world landscape, The 13th Day is just that.

The 13th Day reminds viewers not only of the message of Fatima, but of the price paid by the young visionaries so honored by Our Lady, and draws striking parallels between hostile governments and media of 1917 and persecution of the Church in our own time. It is a somber film for a sobering message. Recommended for age 8 and up. No language or nudity, but scenes of hell and children being persecuted may be disturbing for younger viewers.  Highly recommended.

Purchase The 13th Day and Support CatholicMom.com

Copyright 2009 Leticia Velasquez

What with the perverse, modern-day interpretations of our constitutional guarantee of expression, one can only imagine the damages he will try to collect for being held in contempt of court simply because he flipped off the judge.

For now, Mr. Kellett sits in a McHenry County, Ill., jail, where one might hope he is learning a hard – if not overdue – lesson on the importance of civility. Or not.

Mr. Kellett was cited for contempt over the weekend during his preliminary hearing for a burglary charge. Prosecutors say he broke into the home of an acquaintance and tried to bash his friend over the head with a flashlight.

The guy sounds like a gem so far, which is what makes the vulgar gesture thing such a surprise.

Judge G. Martin Zopp ignored one profanity on the part of the accused, who used profanity to amplify his answer when asked whether he had legal counsel. Apparently “no” was not sufficient to explain his lack of an attorney; therefore Mr. Kellett employed an all-purpose modifier.

But then, the defendant went too far. Asked to raise his right hand to be sworn, Mr. Kellett instead raised his middle finger. I suppose it’s possible he misunderstood what it means to “swear in” a defendant, but more likely, he was “sticking it to the man.”

Turns out “the man” was Assistant State’s Attorney Patrick Kenneally, who asked Judge Zopp to find Mr. Kellett in direct criminal contempt for his rude and disrespectful action.

Obviously, Mr. Kellett is a punk, but that’s not the point. Unfortunately, his action is only a symptom of the larger societal issue of rampant incivility and the all-too-common use of profanity and vulgarity in public.

It would be easy to make the media the scapegoat for this cultural trend, and in fact, television in particular has helped eliminate the idea of “polite company” in which one would avoid certain words or phrases. From “Family Guy” to “Cops,” MTV to “Saturday Night Live,” profanity is only tacitly “bleeped” out for the sake of propriety, and more often these days, it is not.

Then again, our public officials and pop-culture icons also promote the use of vulgarity in public. Members of Congress and the executive branch have now famously used the same riveting vocabulary word as this 24-year-old suspect, Ivy League pedigree notwithstanding.

Still, we might hope the hallowed halls of justice echo the civil tones of a civilized people, but that’s sadly not the case. Thanks to our overly casual culture, it’s typical for local jurisdictions to post guidelines on their Web sites with such basic requests as “shoes must be worn” and “no bare midriffs” in court. Perhaps McHenry County will now post guidelines on how to respectfully raise one’s hand to be sworn in.

We ought not to need a laundry list of guidelines to tell folks how to behave civilly. From the U.S. Capitol to the school playground, the rules of civility already are well-known and need only be honored in order for American society to be lifted up.

Bravo to Mr. Kenneally and Judge Zopp for using Mr. Kellett’s disgraceful behavior as an example of what they will not tolerate in court.

Now let’s hope someone doesn’t win this punk a chunky settlement on the grounds he was only expressing his opinion about being arrested on charges of ripping off a friend.



Copyright 2009 Marybeth Hicks

As I read more about Patrice and her music, that’s when I realized just how inspired she was. Patrice sits at the piano and plays. The music you hear on the CD is improvised. Patrice admits that some of the songs do stick and she can come back to some of the songs. Others are simply spoken through her and are never heard again. This improvisational style is the key thing that sets this album apart for me. Many of the tracks on this album are very melodic and its amazing when you realize that many of these songs were played in a one hour sitting.

I have tremendous respect for Patrice’s fresh approach to music ministry. She does play for services and out in public, in fact I know she was at a conference in Dallas recently. I am personally of fan of improvisation and to hear this album to know the story behind it reminds me that all music is a gift. I feel like sometimes music ministers get so caught up in the recording process that they sometimes lose the energy and the spirit that brought them into music in the first place. Patrice’s music is a reminder to me as to what it means to be filled by the Spirit.

Reviewed by Rob Ayoub

Today’s Readings

Lectionary # 498: Tue of 33 week
Scripture: II Macc.6:18-31. Psalm 3:2-3.4-5.6-8. Luke 19:1-10:

Zaccheus is wealthy because of his expertise in collecting taxes in the
city of Jericho. He however has been searching and looking for someone or
something that would give him passion for living. Jesus is now in Jericho
and Zaccheus aware of this desires to see this unusual person who not only
speaks well but has some extraordinary powers of healing people. Realizing
that he is amidst a large crowd following Jesus, he is not able to see
Jesus because he is small in stature. He runs ahead of the crowd and finds
a biblical sycamore tree (one that is more like a bush than our lofty
sycamores that are unable to be climbed). His extra effort pays off, for
we have seen that Jesus is a great observer. He notices this crafty man and
summons him to come down and to have dinner with Jesus in his house. The
man is overwhelmed and says he will give people back twofold whatever he
may have made for himself in some of the taxes he has collected. His
confession and firm purpose of amendment are sincere and he does have an
evening with Jesus. Finally, he has some passion in his life and can go on
doing good for people rather than living off of them through taxes he
collects.

We see that Jesus calls this person by name unlike the blind person who
was healed on this same journey near Jericho. His hospitality and change
of attitude is a good model for our own openness to finding Jesus anew each
day. Jesus’ saying at the end of this event is memorable: “The Son of Man
(Jesus himself in his total humanness) has come to search out and to save
what was lost.”

Fr. John McKenzie a popular scripture scholar from the middle of the last
century enlivens the scene for us by saying, “The story of the dignitary,
small of stature, who climbed a tree to see the distinguished visitor and
was called down liek a small boy is told with humor.” We too all need to
at times fall back into our “inner child” and climb up a tree in order to
get Jesus’ attention and maybe be invited to a banquet with the
Lord–perhaps we have this opportunity each day in the Eucharist if we wish
it. Amen.

For the fun of it, I started crafting my own commencement speech for the kids for when they finally leave home.

Children, for you will always be our children, we hope you will treasure your innocence. It is often not recognized as the gift it is until it has been eroded entirely. It came with you when you were born and we have shepherded you to this point as best we could, knowing that this lightness was important and beautiful and easily blown out by the world.

We hope you will recognize that your life is sacred. We have known this since before you were born.  When you were small, we wrapped you in blankets and kept you warm, fed you good food and took delight in exposing you to beauty and truth and joy.  Now you are grown. You must shepherd your own faith, mind and body. Do not abuse your body, mind or spirit. To protect yourself, pray daily. Be kind. Stay close to the sacraments; they will keep you strong.

Recognize that every second we draw breath, is a gift for each of us. Recognize that we are called to be examples to each other in all that we speak, write, think and do, but that because no one looks as good under a microscope or viewed through a magnifying glass, be charitable to others when they are being scruitinized.  It is better to be kind than to appear clever.

Be engaged in your own life. The memories you cherish about adulthood and growing up won’t be the times you spent playing video games or watching television or surfing the net.  They will contain stories about people and places and doing things; fishing and getting skunked, or eating an extra ice cream cone, watching the fireworks on top of a car or hiking into the mountains and seeing an eagle, snake or just the world differently. Real live involves seeing family and feasting with others. It’s hard and fattening and bubbling over and messy. The computer world is very pristine, neat, easy and controllable, but a life filled with virtual victories and face book only friends is a virtual life, ephemeral and wasting.

Try things that are hard, that you are not naturally good at doing.  Take on challenges, then do what is expected and more.  Be enthusiastic.  People will appreciate and remember your energy even more than your competency. Take classes from people in love with their subjects. Read everything you can. Vote. Volunteer in some capacity somewhere on a weekly basis. Avoid becoming seduced by your own talent. You can do this if you laugh well, laugh often, and most of all, are able to laugh at yourself.

Be unafraid to taste new things, to listen to new music and to go new places.  Welcome new people into your life and listen to others.  They often have fine ideas worth hearing. Seek out friends that will build you up and be honest at the same time. Just remember, if you want astonishingly good friends, you have to be one.  If you wish to live a life without regrets, you must govern your mind, heart, body and spirit now, and seek all that is good. You must also know what is good and if you don’t know, start asking. Say when your heart is troubled or your spirit is low, those that love you will hear and provide comfort.  Be ready to return the favor.

When a child asks you to play, say yes. When dessert is offered, take it and say thanks. When you see someone needs help, give it. When someone asks for prayers, pray. These are the hallmarks of a well feasted life.

You are entering adulthood. You have and always have had, our permanent love and prayers. Don’t forget that when you leave, you will take part of us with you and we miss that part that is you, so call home.

Finally, if you want an extraordinary life, you can’t give a mediocre effort. A full life involves a fully invested heart. Be open to God with your whole life and I promise your life will be overflowingly full.

Copyright 2009 Sherry Antonetti

This Marine arrived in Afghanistan last week. I hope the following column honors him, his own mother, all who serve in the armed forces, and those they leave behind at home. I commend their honor, courage and commitment.

Infinite, Always Faithful, Love

You’re pregnant. You’re ecstatic. You call everyone you know. No one in the history of the world has ever had more urgent news.

You wait nine long months. Your baby boy arrives home and your infinite love overtakes him. No one in the history of the world has ever had a more beautiful baby boy.

He is yours, all yours. Oh sure, you must pretend to share him with the rest of the family, but in your core of cores you know he is all yours. You care for his every need. You are his entire world. What did you ever do to deserve such a love? You can’t recall, but you gratefully accept the gift. And you nurture the son.

From midnight feedings and bedtime stories to all that’s in between, you care for your son. You protect him. You shelter him from harm. You watch with astonishment as he grows and takes his first steps.

Years pass, memories etch. Your little boy is no longer a baby; he must go to that place called school with those children called friends. And you must do the grownup thing and let him go. You watch with apprehension as he boards the school bus.

As every season unfolds, your little boy unearths more of the world. He discovers basketball. No one in the history of the world has ever steered the ball down the court better. You watch with excitement as he swishes his first three-pointer.

And then come the girls. Ups and downs and turnarounds lead his heart to places where you can no longer protect him. You want to protect him, to keep him from harm, but now you must only advise, knowing he must do these things on his own. You watch with helplessness as his heart breaks; you send up thanks when his heart mends.

You consider yourself most lucky as you observe the circle of friends he has chosen. You feel the tug on your heartstring stretching a bit more as he embarks further away from you, but you trust his friends and you trust him. So it’s OK.

High school years fly by. You sit on bleachers in high school gyms, football stadiums, baseball diamonds and around quarter mile tracks. You hold your breath, you cheer, you live and die in the seconds it takes for him to catch that pass or to score that 1000th point. You are his biggest fan. No one in the history of the world is as special as your son.

You watch with pride as your boy-turned-man walks across the stage to accept his diploma. You step aside as he drives off to college. You understand when his choice detours and he returns home because no one in the history of the world has ever loved a son more faithfully.

And then he decides to become a Marine. A Marine. Your mind has a difficult time surrendering to this. Your baby, your son, turned Marine? It was one thing when he played soldier, but to be a Marine?

Ups and downs and turnarounds lead him to places where you can no longer protect him. You want to protect him, to keep him from harm, but now you must only watch knowing he must do these things on his own. He must go to that place called Afghanistan with those friends called Marines. And you must do the grownup thing and let him go. You watch with apprehension as he boards the plane.

Before you know it, the heartstring stretches across an ocean. You eagerly anticipate your Marine’s phone calls, letters and e-mails, for you know that beneath those dog tags beats the same heart of the baby you carried beneath your heart for nine months – the best heart in the history of the world.

You must step back. You have protected him and sheltered him from harm for as long as you could. It’s your son’s turn now to protect and to shelter a nation. It’s your turn to wait again…and to pray…until the day your baby boy arrives home and his infinite love overtakes you.

Semper Fi! God bless our troops.

Copyright 2009 Maureen Locher

Last week, we shared

• Chapter One
• Chapter Two
• Chapter Three
• Chapter Four
  

Sweet Dreams – Chapter Five

Emma was slowly growing accustomed to her new surroundings. Things may not be as she would wish, but they were a far side better then they were. At least she no longer had to worry about where she and Benjamin were to live.

And when she grew discouraged, she reminded herself how far she had come in just these past few weeks.

She glanced around the kitchen where she had been baking since her son left for school this morning. She scrunched up her nose. All right, it wasn’t the Ritz.

A brown stain was forming in the ceiling which meant that Maria Rodriquez’s sink was leaking again. And Mr. Timberman next-door had kept her up past midnight with the television blaring. Medicare didn’t cover hearing aids, he had told her.

But it was safe and for that she was thankful.

She pulled out a mixing bowl and thought about her new set of friends at the soup kitchen. She volunteered there twice a week making pastries. It had quickly become her favorite time of the week. Everyone was always so encouraging and cheerful. It was a balm to her soul, especially on the days that she let the devil in to taunt her with fears about the bleakness of her future.

“Keep your mind on the present,” Ava once counseled. “St. Francis de Sales once put it…

“Have no anxiety about tomorrow, for God Who reigns today will rein
tomorrow. Either He will shield you from adversity, or if He allow it to come upon you, He will give you unfailing strength to endure it. Be at peace, then, and put aside all anxious thoughts and imaginings.

“Let the Lord worry about what’s down the pike.  He’s responsible for you, just as you’re responsible to your child. You wouldn’t let Benjamin go without the things he needs and neither will God abandon you in your needs.”

Emma held that thought tight to her heart. And as Ava had predicted, God did not abandon them.  He had provided her with a job! The Main Street Deli had given her a weekly standing order of a dozen fruit pies. It wouldn’t make her rich, but it would pay the utility bill with a little left over for an occasional movie matinee. She knew how much Benjamin enjoyed the movies.

Father Joe had just smiled, when she told him.

“A God-incidence,” he said and she agreed.

Surprisingly, the apartment’s closet size open kitchen was working out quite well. She had moved the long, maple kitchen table in front of the small row of cabinets to use as an island.

Emma sprinkled a soft coating of flour over the pine surface made smooth by decades of use. She loved this piece of furniture that had meant more to her than all the Thomasville pieces that Jerry had insisted fill their home.

It had belonged to Aunt Emma, her name sake who had shared her love of baking with her as a child. Whenever she rolled out pie dough or mix a cake on its scarred wooden surface, she would think of her standing in a flowered housedress and white apron, her eyes as soft as a dove as she shared a special recipe or a technique. Emma’s wooden recipe box was filled with her aunt’s cooking secrets.

The pie recipe that she was now using had been her Aunt’s.

Taking the heal of her hand, Emma gently flattened a ball of dough, as she mused how things had come full circle. The pies that Aunt Emma had taught her to make right at this table now provided her with a small income.

She had been baking for hours, lost in these sweet childhood memories when the phone rang. She dusted the flour off her hands but still managed to leave a white smudge on the receiver as she lifted it to her ear.

“Hello.”

“Is this Mrs. Smith?”

“Yes…”

“Mrs. Smith, this is Principal Tate at Madison Central High. I’ve just been informed by our attendance office that your son, Benjamin is missing from class.”

“Missing?” Slivers of fear stuck in her throat. Jerry had been missing.

Dear God. If Benjamin wasn’t in school, where was he?

“In fact, Benjamin hasn’t attended classes for the last three weeks.”

“Three weeks?!” she exploded. “And you’re only calling me now to let me know?”

“In fact, we tried to call you several times. But your answering machine isn’t working.”

The machine sat beside the phone. On a hunch, she slid open the case and exhaled in frustration. The tape was missing. Suddenly, it became clear.

“Mr. Tate, I have no idea where he is, but I can assure you that I will know by the end of the day.” Anger fueled by Benjamin’s deception burned hot. “I can also assure you that I will get an explanation about where he’s been all this time.”

The call ended with Principal Tate extending an open invitational to assist her if there was anything that he could do to help.

She thanked him and hung up, vacillating between concerns for Benjamin’s safety and blind fury. Deep down, however, she really wasn’t too surprised.

Benjamin had made it very clear that he hated Madison and the kids that went there. They had argued about nothing else since the move. Not that she could blame him. This was his senior year. He had worked hard to maintain a perfect 4.0 average and was up for a full scholarship to Penn State which he was in danger of loosing with the school change. The courses he needed to complete in compliance with Penn’s admission requirements were not available at Madison.

She sank down on a kitchen stool. This was partly her fault.

She had tried to find a way for Benjamin to remain at Canfield High. She had contacted Mr. Sands, the principal and pleaded with him to allow Benjamin to finish out his senior year. There was only five more months until graduation, she reminded him. His classes were set. It wasn’t as though he was taking up another student’s place. He was a good student. But her pleas had fallen on deaf ears.

“Mrs. Smith,” he said with the infuriating tone of one speaking to the mentally impaired. “You originally moved to this area because we have the top rated schools in the county, am I correct?”

She had never liked the short, myopic, man with the Napoleon complex who felt his position as principal of Canfield High reflected his superior academic skills when in fact, it simply reflected his grandfather’s influence as the District Superintendent.

Since the question was a rhetorical one, she didn’t bother answering.

“Everyone would like to see their child take advantage of our wonderful academic environment,” Sands droned on. “But rules are rules and must be maintained. If I made an exception for your son, I’d have to make the same exception for others. You, do see where I’m going with this, don’t you?”

Straight to hell?

But loosing her temper would not have helped Benjamin’s cause. Instead, she took a deep breath and in her most pleasant voice, reminded him of Benjamin’s fine academic record, and his chance at a full scholarship.

“Mr. Sands, my son’s entire future rests on his ability to finish out his senior year here and complete the course requirements for Penn State. Can’t you find it in your heart to let him stay?  No one other than us need to know.”

He tilted his head forward, zeroing in on her face over his reading glasses. His expression was that of having swallowed something foul.

“You are wrong, Mrs. Smith. Very wrong because I would know.”

With a dismissive wave of his hand, he went back his paperwork. “Now if you don’t mind, I have other things to attend to.”

There really wasn’t anything else she could have done.  Or was there?

A half dozen empty pies shells lined the counter waiting to be filled with the berries she had purchased fresh this morning at the farm stand just outside of town. She had fingered her rosary all the way out. The car was coughing and spitting more than usual lately and there was certainly no extra money to have it repaired.

She ran her hands through her hair and pulled.

Car repairs, utility bills and food stamps that never made it to the end of the month. Hadn’t she enough on her plate without Benjamin taking off for parts unknown?

Frustration, anger, disappointment merged. She needed to throw something. She looked around. Tears formed behind the lids, realizing that there was nothing in the entire apartment that could be spared to a fit of rage.

If she was a woman who swore, now would be the perfect time to let it rip.

Her eyes settled on the row of empty pie shells. More tears. If she left them at this stage, they’d all be ruined which meant that she would have to begin from scratch and loose any profit that she had been counting on.

Would this nightmare over money ever end?

But motherhood came before finances, she reasoned.

“Wait until I get my hands on you Benjamin Smith.”

She washed her hands and grabbed the car keys.  The question was…where should she start looking?

A familiar heart arrhythmias kicked in. She slipped into a sweat jacket, trying to ignore the uneven rhythm. One of these days, when she had some extra money, ha, ha, ha…she would get it checked out. But for now, she forced herself to stay calm. Anxiety only made it worse.

She stepped out into the hallway and paused to utter a quick prayer for help although she was pretty certain that God had better things to do with His time that find a truant teenager.

Then the strangest thing happened.  On the wings of the prayer, she felt a sudden urge to call Canfield High.  She closed the apartment door, ignoring the strange notion and kept heading down the corridor, but the thought persisted. Finally, she headed back to her apartment and dialed the school.

The school’s secretary remembered her right away.

“How nice to hear that you’re up and about Mrs. Smith. I hope you’re feeling better. Benjamin was just saying this morning that you’ve come down with a terrible case of the flu and that’s why you haven’t been in to fill out his paperwork.

So, that’s where he’s been.

“We’re so thrilled about your good news,” the secretary continued.

“Good news?” What good news?

“Imagine your late Aunt leaving you all that money so you could buy back your old home.  I bet you’re thrilled to be out of that terrible apartment house.”

At three o’clock, Emma was standing in front of the school, leaning against the rusted car that Benjamin hated along with everything else about their new lifestyle while working to keep her temper in check. She hadn’t bothered to change from the sweats covered in flour or the stained apron. She had been too busy baking so they wouldn’t be sitting in the dark.

The dismissal bell sounded. Students poured out of the main doors. She spied him as soon as he stepped out of the front entrance. She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “Benjamin! Over here!”

He looked up. The color drained from of his checks as he tucked his head down and headed over.

“You are soooo busted,” Emma said, opening the passenger side door to the rusting sedan. The hinges squealed. She remembered the can of   “Two and One” oil in the backseat. She had forgotten to oil them.

“Nice car, Mrs. Smith,” a group of boys snickered.

“Thanks for embarrassing me in front of my friends,” Benjamin hissed. “Are you happy, now?”

She slammed his door. “About as happy as I was when Madison’s principal called to say that you had been missing for three weeks. And we won’t even get into how the answering machine tape had been removed and the number of jobs that I might have missed because of it.”

“It’s not like anyone would have hired you,” he snapped.

“Watch it. You’re on very shaky ground,” she warned. Her temper had been stretched to the limit.

He slouched down encased in a stony silence.

Neither spoke a word on the ride home, but once they walked through the apartment door, Emma tore into him.

“Where do you get off lying your way back into Canfield? Did it ever occur to you that someone would eventually find out and then what?  If Mr. Sands had discovered your little scheme, he would have had you charged with criminal trespassing. Now that would look great on your college application, don’t you think? I’ve also discovered that it would be in his right to charge us a fee for the days that you’ve attended. Where did you expect that money to come from? And we won’t even get into how worried I was when Mr. Tate called and said that you had been missing for these past three weeks.”

Benjamin fired back.  “Some school you want me to attend. It takes them three weeks to figure out that I’m missing.”

“That’s not the point.”

“No, it’s not,” he said hotly, slamming his books across the kitchen table, sending a nest of empty pie tins rattling to the floor.

“Madison is filled with losers. I want to be somebody and that’s not going to happen if my diploma reads, Madison High.”

“I know you’re disappointed,” she said, softening.

Her heart ached for her son. None of this was his fault, really. Like her, he was a victim of circumstances. His father’s disappearance. Their plunge into poverty. The policy at Canfield. It was horrible. All of it.

But a part of her wondered if it wasn’t time that he learned that not everything in life was always fair, and that sometimes, we simply had to make the best of the hand that we’ve been dealt. Granted, it was a hard lesson for a boy so young, but she would be remiss as a parent if she didn’t teach him that we must face life challenges, unlike his father who had elected to run.

“I’m disappointed for you, too, but that doesn’t mean that because life has thrown you a curveball that you’re out of the game. There are other schools. Other ways to meet your dreams.”

“Like a state college?” he snarled. “It’s not just about courses. It’s about making contacts. Dad knew that. That’s why he always said to aim for a top school.”

“Your dad said a lot of things that have proven false,” she said and instantly regretted the comment. She had made herself a promise never to speak negatively against Jerry. He still was the boy’s father.

“So, you want me to accept this, is that what you’re saying?” he challenged.

“I’m saying that your focus should be on what’s in here” She thumped her chest. “Not a particular college. There are lots of entrepreneurs who had made it big and who never went to college.

“Instead of seeing this as a negative experience, why not view it as an opportunity to turn it over to God and see where He takes it?  With His help there’s no limit to what you can do, with or without a prestigious college education.”

“You sound like one of those street corner evangelists,” he said in dismissal. “I don’t know what’s happened to you. You never used to be religious. Pretty soon you’ll be dragging me to that stupid church of yours, or want me to help out at that soup kitchen you spend so much time at, surrounded by other losers.”

“Is that who you think? That I’m a loser?”

“I think that you’ve accepted all of this. But I never will.  I will go to Penn State no matter what it takes because, unlike you, I will never just lie down and die.  One day I will be rich.  Filthy rich because in the end that’s all that matters.”

“Benjamin! You can’t really believe that?”

“Oh, can’t I?  Money rules the world, mom. More importantly, it allows you to chart your own destiny, and I can assure you that when I’ve made it, I will never have to count on anybody every again. Not you. Not dad. No one.”

At that moment, it was like staring at Jerry. He had that same look whenever she had suggested that money was not the standard that should be use to measure one’s life. Regrettably, she saw now that she should have been more forceful in defending her belief.

For years, she had passively stood by and ignored how her husband had tried to define their family by a stream of luxury cars, enormous home, exclusive country club memberships. Look what it had gotten him? He had abandoned his family.  He was wanted by the law as a felon. She would not let her son travel down the same path to destruction.

“There is more to life than money,” she said, emphatically.

“Said by the woman who now bakes pies for a living,” he sneered. “How many do you need to meet this month’s electric bill?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Fair. You want to talk about fair?  Life in this dump is not fair.” He kicked the wall. “It’s pathetic and I won’t accept it. So, if I have to lie to get what I want, I will do it.”

With a sense of defeat, she sank into a chair. Had he learned nothing from his father’s past sins?

“Please, don’t say that Benjamin.”

“It’s the truth, so get over it.”

“Benjamin!” He had crossed a line. She would not allow him to speak to her this way.

“Don’t you take that tone with me! I’m not the villain here. It was your father that left us in this fix, not me, and in case you haven’t noticed, I’m trying my best to get us through this.” She regretted the words as soon as they left her lips.

“Well, apparently your best isn’t good enough,” he yelled back.

She had had enough. Having compassion for the way he was hurting was one thing. Allowing him to be rude? That she would no longer tolerate. She jumped out of the chair and pointed a finger in the direction of their only bedroom. Emma slept on the couch.

“Go to your room and stay there until you can be civil again.”

“I don’t have to listen to you,” he snarled.  “I’m eighteen. I’m not a minor anymore. ”

“As long as you live under this roof, you most certainly do,” she said, fueled by a sudden burst of red, hot anger. How dare he speak to her that way? Hurt or not, she was still his mother and he would respect her.

“And you will finish out your senior year at Madison. I’m sorry, Benjamin. I know it’s not fair, but I don’t make the rules.”

“The hell with you! And the hell with this place!”  He scooped up his backpack and tore out of the apartment.

She raced after him. “Benjamin, come back here!”

He bolted down the hall and shoulder slammed the front door then disappeared.

Great, you really handled that well, she thought, rubbing her forehead.

Where had she gone wrong? Why couldn’t she get through to him, make him see that his father’s lifestyle was not something to be emulated, but pitied? It was shallow and hollow and without substance, certainly not the kind of life she wanted for Benjamin.

She headed back to her apartment, closed and double locked the door, then leaned her head against its cool metal frame, wishing that she could afford a bottle of wine. Right now a tall, glass would be most welcomed. Instead, she settled for a cup of tea. She filled the teapot, set it on the stove and waited for it to boil while her anger slowly ebbed like an outgoing tide.

Why had she allowed her temper to get the best of her instead of focusing on how much Benjamin had been made to endure these last four months?  His dad’s disappearance. The move. A new school during his senior year.  Even at eighteen, it was a lot to handle.

She also worried about college. His heart was set on attending Penn State which was only a reality if he received a full scholarship and that would only happen if he was reinstated back at Canfield.

But even then, there would be traveling expenses and money for books and non-essentials. It would mean more sacrifices, but she would find a way to cover it.

If  Benjamin received just a partial scholarship, however,  there was no way she could make up the difference. Financial aid was not an option. Government officials were watching her closely to see if she had access to the bank’s missing money. She had already been informed that if she needed to apply for financial aid for college tuition, it would be a nightmare. She would be required to produce a ream of paperwork that verified their former lifestyle was no longer applicable and that there was no off shore bank accounts.

She wished.

She waited for the water to boil and went back to baking. There were still four more pies that needed to be baked.

As she measured out flour and lard, she consoled herself with the thought that the best thing for Benjamin right now was to be given time to cool off. He’d be back when he had calmed down. Then they’d talk. Makeup.

The kettle sang. She poured her tea, carrying it back to the table and took several sips before setting it a safe distance from the work area. Using a pastry blender, she began to work lard and butter into the flour, watching for little beads to form.

While she worked, she rehashed their conversation again and again. First berating herself for allowing her temper to flare. Benjamin was just mouthing off to show his deep hurt. Then quickly vacillating onto the deep hurt she felt at his indifference for how hard she had worked to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table.

Granted it wasn’t the kind of lifestyle that he had grown up with; the one he felt entitled to, but she had kept them together. They were a family, even if a fractured one.

She slipped the last pies into the oven making certain that the edges didn’t touch; set the timer then grabbed a sponge and began to scrub down the work area.

Benjamin had been right on one count. She should have been able to care for him better. If only she had refused to give in to Jerry’s ‘there’s no need for you to work. I make more than enough’, she would have had a career, been able to keep their home, then Benjamin wouldn’t have been made to leave Canfield.

It was a useless train of thought, she realized since there was no undoing the past, but it persisted until she felt herself sliding into a dark, funk.

She went about restoring order to the tiny kitchen while keeping a steady eye on the stove’s clock. She’d give Benjamin his space; let him blow off some steam as long as he was safely inside the apartment before it got dark. The surrounding streets were dangerous and Benjamin was hardly street wise.

As the late afternoon ebbed into dusk, she felt the first stirrings of concern and began to make calls to his friends. None had seen him. Did they know where he might have gone? No, but they promised to call if he showed up.

When the clock registered seven, concerned turned into full blown worry. She rummaged through her purse, found the car keys and headed out. Hoodlums and miscreants appeared like cockroaches along the business district after dark. If that’s where Benjamin had gone, he was certain to be tagged as an easy target.

Fortunately, the Buick was parked just outside. The area around the apartment house wasn’t much safer. She climbed in and locked the doors. Main Street was just four blocks over but there was no way she was hoofing it by foot.

She cruised her way along Main Street at a crawl, but it was nearly impossible to make out anything in the darkened spaces. Behind her, impatience drivers blared their horns. Finally, she found a parking space under one of the few lighted streetlamps and as much as she hated it, decided to set out on foot.

Most of the buildings were boarded up. The few that remained were closed and gated after dark. Except for the raised voices of those gathered on corners, an eerie silence had settled along the avenue punctuated by the muffled sound of her footsteps.

She scoured the diner and the video arcade. She’d even peeked into the hamburger place where she had applied and found herself wondering what had she been thinking, working here at night.

Except for the girl who had beaten her out of the job and was flirting with the young manager, the place was empty.

Pockets of light became further spaced apart as she drew to the end of the main thoroughfare. Most of the streetlamps had either burnt out or had been shot out. Either way, the town was in no hurry to replace them.

She had bravely checked out both sides of the street, showing Benjamin’s photo to those who didn’t look too frightening while intermittently, shining a flashlight into cavernous holes while praying that she wouldn’t uncover a drug deal going down or something worse.

There was no sign of her son.

Her car was parked about a half mile further up the road. She decided to head back, formulate a new plan.

“Hey, what’s up mama?”

Two youths stepped out of the darkness. One wore a skullcap and had a gold tooth. The other was dressed in baggy jeans and a black tee shirt that was tied with a red “rag”.  He looked vaguely familiar.

The taller of the two with the gold tooth circled round with a swagger, eying her up and down. “You ain’t from ‘round here, now are ya little lady?”

“Maybe she’s lost and needs an escort home,” his friend offered, folding his arms across his chest to study her more closely.

Fear tightened like a noose. Suddenly, it was hard to breathe.

This section of the street was completely deserted. They were standing near a darkened alleyway.  She eyed it nervously.

“Please, let me pass.”

They came together and blocked her path.

“The lady wants to pass,” they laughed, pushing their faces close against her check.     They smelled of liquor and something sweet and sickly that she couldn’t place.

“I’ve been looking for my son,” she explained, forcing her voice to sound normal.

She must let them see her fear.  She reached inside her pocket and withdrew Benjamin’s photo.  If she could divert their attention, she might be able to make a break for it.

“He’s about this high,” she leveled a shaky hand a few inches over her head. “Blonde hair. Stocky build. His name is Benjamin. He was wearing a dark blue pullover and khaki pants.”

“Juan, you seen any dudes wearing ‘khaki’ pants?”

Juan? That’s how she knew him. He was Maria Rodriquez’s son.

The revelation brought a new flush of fear. She knew he was prone to violence. Maria was terrified of him, and Ava had bared him from the apartment building.

“What are khaki pants?”

“White folk’s sense of style,”    Juan laughed.

“But this little lady has lots of style.” His friend grabbed a fistful of her hair and forced her head back. “I think we should get to know each other a little better.”

“Let me go!” she reached back, trying to free his hand.

Please God, help me.

“Let me go, or I’ll start screaming!”
They both laughed.

“Ain’t no one going to come to rescue you here.” He tightened his hold, bringing tears to her eyes. “Ain’t that right, Juan?”

“My man’s speaks the truth. There ain’t no one along this entire street that cares what we do to you.”

“Yes there is,” a deep bass voice sounded.

Her capture pushed her away and reached inside his back pocket for a knife.

“Donny?” she cried in surprise, breaking free and racing to his side.

Donny sometimes helped out at the soup kitchen when he wasn’t propped against a doorway, liquored up. But as much as she appreciated his intervention, he was hardly a match against these two. Donny was reed thin and constantly wheezed with the slightest exertion due to his two-pack-a-day cigarette habit.

“You serious man?”  Juan laughed. “Put away the knife,” he told his partner. “I could take him with one hand tied behind my back.”

Donny wedged himself between Emma and the men. “Get out of here, Miss Em.”

She paused, reasoning the unlikelihood of him coming out alive in a brawl with these twos.

He saw her hesitate and shouted, “Go!”

Adrenaline overrode reasoning. She took off on the run, squelching the temptation to turn around when she heard Donny yell out in pain. Halfway down the street, she spied a phone booth. She yanked the folding door open, dumped her purse full of coins on the metal shelve and placed a call to 911.

“Hurry, please. They’re going to kill him,” she told the dispatcher.

“Ma’am, I want you to stay put until the officer arrives. There’s a squad car in your area with an ETA of five minutes.”

She hung up and sprinted towards her car. Five minutes would be too late for Donny.

She slid into her car, gunned the engine and headed back, not really sure of her plan, but knowing that she couldn’t just stand idle by, waiting for a cop to show up while they pummeled Donny senseless.

For the first time, she was grateful for the old clunker which felt more like an armored car. The hoods didn’t notice the car until she was on them. She ran it over the curb, the headlights catching the threesome wrestling on the ground.

She leaned down hard on the horn, hoping to scare them away.

Donny looked up. Surprisingly, he was holding his own.

Join us next Monday for the next chapter of Sweet Dreams by Katherine Valentine.

• Chapter One
• Chapter Two
• Chapter Three
• Chapter Four

Copyright 2009 Katherine Valentine

Searching through the cemetery today was like looking for a needle in a haystack. There were no headstones – only plaques on the ground. It was a painstaking process to brush the leaves off of each stone so that we could read the names, searching for one that might be familiar. We only looked through one section. Amazingly, we actually did find my husband’s great-grandparents. He was so excited to find the burial place of these people he had never met! He took a picture of our children next to the stone.

This search for our ancestors only leaves me wanting to know more. We have pages and pages of information – names and dates and places of birth for people going back to the 1600s, yet that is all we know. It is amazing to think that if any one of these people wasn’t in this listing, my husband and I and our children would not be here. It took that particular combination of genes and parental influence to create each one of us. Good or bad, these people have contributed to who we are. They each played a part in God’s plan. Yet, we know so little. They lived and breathed and worked and loved and raised their children. Their lives mattered, yet their stories are lost forever.

Walking through cemeteries also always reminds me of my own impending death. This week’s Gospel (Mark 13:24-32) speaks of the end of time: “But of that day or hour, no one knows, neither the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father.” The same holds true for our own personal deaths. None of us knows the day or hour that will be our last. Tomorrow is never guaranteed. All we have is today to make the most of. How we choose to use that gift of time is of vital importance.

As I wiped the leaves off of those grave markers today, I knew that many of those people had not been thought of in years. They had long since gone to their eternal destinations. I offered up a silent prayer for their souls. I know that one hundred years from now, I, too, will have been forgotten. To this world, I will be just a name and dates on a gravestone. Yet, like those that came before me, I, too, am part of God’s plan, made to know, love, and serve Him. I pray to fulfill that role well and to make the most of the time that He has given me.

Copyright 2009 Patrice Fagnant-MacArthur

“Today, if you hear His Voice, do not harden your hearts…” Hebrews 3:15

Have you ever heard God talking to you? He does, you know, and He longs for you to listen. Sometimes, we’re so preoccupied with going here, doing that, that we don’t hear it. His Voice gets lost in our grocery lists, our work responsibilities, while driving the kids to music lessons, and while packing lunches. Others hear Him, but ignore what they hear. But how can you listen, and really hear the Holy Spirit for yourself?

You must be silent.

This doesn’t just mean turning off your iPhone or the TV. Getting rid of all external noise is a start, of course, and very necessary. But to really listen for God, you must also still your mind. Think about God, and think about how much He loves you and wants to talk to you. Be really, truly silent—with your ears and your heart.

St. Therese, the Little Flower, was good at this. She knew the importance of quieting the mind and listening for His Voice. Sometimes we are so busy talking to ourselves or hearing unimportant chatter of the day from electronics or people around us that we aren’t letting God get a word in edgewise.

Sometimes, though, God speaks to you when you least expect it, and aren’t even prepared for it. This happens a lot to me!

On a grey winter day, in the silence of my car, God told me He had a plan for me: I was to write a fiction book for Catholic preteens, and it would be about St. Therese, my dear friend in Heaven. I was excited, but I had many doubts. Would this be a book kids would want to read? Could it actually be published? What if I got some information wrong about St. Therese? I have to admit that I was plagued by doubt. As many do, I questioned the Voice.

God and St. Therese (who is wonderfully persistent!) had other ideas, however. Because I listened to Him, God made so many wonderful things happen in one year. I know that St. Therese was praying for me during this time, interceding for me and giving me new ideas while I wrote, nudging me along. Last month, I celebrated the one-year anniversary of Olivia and the Little Way, when God made my writing dream come true. In one short year, I’ve had three printings, a Catholic Press Association book award, met hundreds of wonderful, faithful people, and have thousands of readers and fans of my little book. Amazing. And to think it is all because of a Voice.

I love going to book signings and meeting my readers. They tell me their stories about St. Therese, their grandchildren, their parents, their teachers, their children. I’ve been told I have a friendly face, and I like to think that I am approachable. It must be true because people tell me, a person they have just met, their personal stories all of the time! I love to listen. They love to tell. There’s something about St. Therese that brings out so much love in so many people. Some of them have much emotion when they talk about her, and some start to cry. “Little Therese,” as she liked to be called, has had such a powerful impact on so many people.

At one particular book signing this past spring at a church, I sat and chatted with parishioners about my book and St. Therese. The day was very long, and, being human, I started to get hungry and a little tired. Anyone who knows me knows that when I get hungry, I can get a little…crabby. Usually all it takes is a handful of cookies or crackers and I’m back to my old self. At this book signing, I was starting to feel the effects of a long day. I stood up and straightened up the books and St. Therese chaplets on the table, then started to rummage through my purse for a quick snack. While I was doing this, a very old woman came up to the table. Elderly and frail, she stopped and looked at me.

“I do love St. Therese,” she said, her eyes red and brimming with tears.

I sat down, smiled, and asked her to share her story.

She began a halting explanation of how St. Therese had touched her life in many ways. As she spoke, I couldn’t help but notice that the frail woman had not bathed in a long time. While she was talking to me, a parishioner came up beside her and offered to treat her to a copy of Olivia and the Little Way. She was delighted to accept, and was very grateful.

I signed a book for her and watched her hobble away. I felt very saddened because I knew she was poor, but I felt very happy too that she had a loving friend in the parish. She lingered by the church and stared inside while I watched her quietly, feeling something in my heart I could not explain.

It was in that instant that I heard His Voice.

“Give her a chaplet.”

The Voice was as clear as day. It was the same one I had heard before, and I smiled. I glanced at the table, which held books and chaplets with pink rose beads.

“Give her a chaplet,” the Voice said again, very insistent.

I reached over and collected a chaplet and the instruction card that I make to go with it. I approached the lady and held both of them out to her.

“Excuse me, Ma’am, these are for you,” I said.

The look on this lady’s face was sheer joy as I placed the items in her wrinkled hands.

“Oh, thank you! Thank you!” she cried.

“Thank you for coming to talk to me and sharing your story,” I said. Then I thought to myself, You’ve given me so much more than what I have given you.

Listen to His Voice. Do what He wants you to do. Be still and hear what He wants to say to you and you will be amazed, as I was and still am.



Copyright 2009 Nancy Carabio Belanger

Prayer: The Jesus Prayer: “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”

Music: “Spirit of Life” written and composed by Carolyn McDade (hymn #123 in the Unitarian Universalist hymnal, Singing the Living Tradition), performed by Susan Bailey.

Special links:
Frederica Mathewes-Green
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Susan would enjoy your feedback. Share your stories, your prayer requests. Write to her at susan@gvonline.net or call the feedback line at 206-600-6940. Support her ministry by visiting her Purchase page to buy books and CDs.

Copyright 2009 Susan Bailey

That is our way of life is it not.  We as humans label and define each person and situation we are involved with as a weed, unwanted, troublesome, and useless or as something we want and desire.  Those labels come from judgments.  Who among us is able not to judge?

“Stop judging, that you may not be judged.  For as you judge, so will you be judged, and the measure with which you measure will be measured out to you.”

Matthew 7:1

How difficult is it in our lives to just let others be without making a negative comment about it.  Why do we so often fail to see the inner beauty in others?

As moms we have absolutely no problem seeing through the unwanted behaviors of our own children and seeing their inner beauty.  Especially when others point out our children’s faults, we retaliate quickly with his/her best traits.  We can easily see through the troublesome unattractive qualities due to the immense love we have for them.  It’s the people we do not love that we find are unwanted, unattractive and many times troublesome.  We don’t want people in our lives that are so different from ourselves that we cannot understand them so we create a distance with our judgment of them.  We don’t want people in our life that appear to have a different set of beliefs from ourselves because they may question our beliefs and then we have to defend ourselves so we distance ourselves in self preservation.  We fear what we do not understand, what is very different and then we create a distance to keep us “safe” from the weeds of this world.

God sees the mushrooms as another flower, another creation of beauty with a necessity to His creation of nature.  Not one creation He has made is useless, unwanted or troublesome in God’s eyes.  Not one plant, NOT EVEN ONE PERSON!  God sees through the unattractive characteristics even past our sins, bad choices and wrongful desires.  God sees the good qualities the ones that are easy to love.  God can see all of this because His love is unending, unwavering and eternal for every one of His creations.  We are His children and He loves us even more than we love our own.

Our children learn from our words but they learn more from our actions.  If you have disdain for another person or love your child knows by your body language and the way you treat that person.  If you desire to keep a distance your child will pick up on all of your cues.  We teach our children even the lessons we don’t want to pass on.

Today contemplate for a few minutes who are the “weeds” you encounter in your daily life?

Is it the homeless guy you try to avoid eye contact with holding the sign at the exit ramp?  You could instead make eye contact, smile and just say a prayer for him; he was once a child too.

Is it the check out girl with the pierced everything and you just can’t understand why she would mutilate her face like that?  You could smile and just say thank you without judgment.  She was some one’s child once too.

Is it the power hungry, money driven people, bosses, co workers and others you have met that just don’t get what life is all about?  You could pray for them to find God in simplicity and show them a simple smile to show friendship, they were children once too.

We were all children and had mothers, like us, that would defend us to the death.  We are still children of God and he sees that there are no weeds.  Let us try to love as God loves us, to see as God sees us and know there are no weeds just beautiful flowers like mushrooms that grow all about us.

Copyright 2009 Lori Hadorn-Disselkamp