I’m pretty sure that’s not how Mary said Yes.  At first, I thought maybe it was, that maybe she, like me, smiled and said Yes to God before she really thought about what that Yes would entail. 

“Yes, sure,” I imagine her replying to Gabriel, “I’ll give this Mother of God gig a whirl.  When do we start?” 

What’s false about that image of Mary’s Yes is that it brings her down to my level.  Often, that’s just what I need, to pull my idea of her off the pedestal of dogmas and get it down to my eye level.  In this case, however, I’m not representing her accurately. 

Mary embraced her vocation and encourages each of us to do the same.  Instead of a lukewarm affirmative, she very possibly danced and laughed out loud as she said YES!  I don’t think she hesitated, because in that I think there would have to be doubt. 

If anything, Mary’s Yes shows complete trust in God and teaches me what that means for my life. 

Mary was more responsible in her Yes than I often am in mine.  She would have been well-versed enough to know that the Messiah would be the man of sorrows.  If she wasn’t sure, surely Simeon’s words at the Presentation gave her a bit of a forewarning. 

All the same, she continued to say Yes.  God asked, she replied. 

Don’t you love people you can count on?  Don’t you find yourself inspired by their generosity and willingness? 

God does too, and He gives us Mary’s Yes as the standard to use for our own decisions.  I think of it as a Yes Factor. 

There are three aspects to my Yes Factor which I try to use to be more like Mary when I say Yes. 

Will I grow closer to God by saying Yes? God doesn’t ask us to say Yes to things that take us away from Him.  Sometimes, though, His idea of “growing closer” is a bit different than mine.  There are times when I wish I didn’t have so much “help” with the dishes, because if they were done, I could do something else.  But I can grow closer to God thanks to that small person helping if I take a different view and open myself to an ongoing Yes, as Mary did throughout her life. 

Am I certain about this Yes? Sometimes I won’t be, and that’s OK.  In fact, for me, sometimes that immediate certainty is a red flag, a sign of brashness.  Most of the time, though, I can tell, with a little time, based on the level of peace I have about saying Yes.  It might be an impossible task or an insurmountable challenge, but saying Yes will be the way God carries me through it, which leads me to…

Have I prayed about saying Yes? In some images of the Annunciation, Mary is shown praying.  We should all be inspired by that and learn a lesson from it.  Yes is not to be said lightly, and whether it’s Yes to new tires or Yes to a new job, God’s open to our conversation.  In fact, He wants it.  I try to remember the little things right along with the big things, to talk to God throughout the day as I make the decisions that seem unimportant as well as those that are life-altering.

 
What does your Yes Factor look like?  How can you make those three letters be a chance to grow to be more like Mother Mary?

Copyright 2010 Sarah Reinhard

I did what ever self-respecting book-addicted bookworm does and checked both Amazon and The Catholic Company.  Seeing that it was going to be three to four weeks for shipping, I shamelessly emailed Lisa for the Mary Moore’s contact information, thinking of things I could bribe her with to get a copy sooner.

Lisa Hendey, proving her candidacy for living sainthood, offered me an extra copy she had AND she mailed it to me so I received it prior to a big trip that would give me a rare pocket of reading time.

As it turns out, I didn’t need a big pocket of time.  I read it in a day.

(Part of that was because of unexpected help with my kids, mind you.)

In my defense, I’ll be rereading it, just as soon as I get it back from my sister-in-law and then my best friend.  I’ll be going through it slowly and marking it up on my next trip through it, though I’ve already started thinking about the ideas in it.

This is the kind of book that won’t make it to your bookshelf because you’ll be too busy referencing it.  Then again, maybe it will…but I don’t think my copy will ever get any dust on it.  While the ideas seem easy to remember, there are many of them, and they’re packaged in the kind of short chapters that both busy parents and frazzled readers can appreciate.

Moore writes from the trenches, and she offers ideas that don’t make me roll my eyes.  Reading this book is like having a good friend give you her favorite tips and then offer to watch the kids while you think about them.

Though Moore won’t come over and watch your kids, you may find your approach to raising your kids is a little different after reading her book.  You might, in fact, find yourself renewed and inspired just enough to get you to try some of the excellent tips she gives.

Enjoy this book, and after you’ve read it, stop back and let me know what your favorite part of it was.

Copyright 2010 Sarah Reinhard

Struggling to get them in their winter gear, get the car started, keep the dogs inside, and remember all the essentials, I wondered why I bothered with riding lessons for my five-year-old.  It involved so much work.  It wasn’t cheap.  It messed up my morning routine.

I was standing in the arena beside the trainer and my five-year-old, who were cleaning out the pony’s hooves, when I realized my bad day had dissipated.

I credit the smell of horse.  It has an amazing effect on my mindset so many times, though I’ve only just discovered it.

In that smell is a childhood dream realized, an opportunity in front of me, a smile happening and waiting to be repeated.  When I catch a whiff, I think of my husband’s joy and my own horse-crazy childhood.  Brushing a muddy equine, I find myself relaxing and letting go of the baggage of my everyday life.

In my youth, the smell of horse symbolized the unreachable.  Now, it means family.  My husband and I have been taking our girls to the local stables since our oldest was barely walking. She’s grown up on a pony’s back, Daddy walking beside her.

I have hundreds of pictures of the horse farm we go to and plans to take hundreds more.  Inevitably, we couple our trips to the horse farm with a visit to my grandma, who lives a few minutes away.

The only other time I’ve felt the peace I feel when I’m around horses is during Mass.

There, stripped of my agenda and face-to-face with my Lord, I’m unable to make any excuses.  I can no longer pretend there’s nothing wrong; I can no longer hide from His searching gaze.

Beneath the crucifix, I wonder why He loved me so much.

And then, as I look around at the others joining me at the meal, I know:  because we’re family, the Body of Christ.


Copyright 2010 Sarah Reinhard

In Mass at the beginning of Lent, though, I felt that phrase as a gentle reminder of the fact that life doesn’t just suck.

Three days into the new year, my brother-in-law died.  It was unexpected and it was tragic.

My husband’s sister was the first of her siblings to face this challenge.  All of us reeled, looking at our spouses and wondering.

She isn’t the oldest child.  Her husband wasn’t the oldest of the spouses (or the siblings, for that matter).

So why?  What was the point?

It’s hard for me to look at this event, this pocket of growing pain in our family’s life, and come anywhere close to “Everything happens for a reason.”

But when, sitting beside her at her parish in Louisiana, her priest referred to Lent as a reality check and an attitude adjustment, that I saw beyond the well-meaning emptiness of my current most-hated phrase.

Maybe, what people mean when they offer those five words as comfort is that good can come even from horror.  Maybe what they want to point out to those of us embroiled in grief is that there is great grace in suffering.  Maybe what they intend is not to comfort through cliché, but to point to a greater good.

I often need reality checks.  I just as often need attitude adjustments.  I don’t embrace my vocation as I should and I resist things that are good for me (physically as well as spiritually).

The reality check for me this Lent, though, is the grace adjustment I’ve faced.

My brother-in-law’s death isn’t really mine to claim.  My nieces’ pain and suffering isn’t really mine to comfort.  My sister-in-law’s anger isn’t really mine to explain.

Only One can claim, comfort, and explain.  Only One can hold them and know the pain, the horror, the tragedy.  Only One can carry their burden (and them).

And He’s the One I’m turning to, all Lent long.

Copyright 2010 Sarah Reinhard

Her new favorite phrase is “I do it MYSELF!”  It punctuates every offer of help from me, pierces the air when her big sister leans her way, and sears my patience at every moment of the day.

I’m an old hand at the “I do it MYSELF” mentality. Given the choice of God’s grace and controlling things myself, I all too often choose the latter.

Doing things myself is easier, for one thing.  I know it gets done the way I want it done, and I know when it gets done.  When I do things myself, I don’t have to worry about someone else: about their feelings, their style, their schedule.

But, watching my two-year-old scream after she dumps the fifth cup of water all over her tenth outfit of the day, I am reminded of the wisdom of the Body of Christ.

We are not alone…for a reason.  We are not left to fend for ourselves…for a reason.

It’s no easier for me to trust God’s wisdom and providence than it is for my two-year-old to understand that she really does need my help with whatever impossible task she’s attempting.  It’s as hard for me to say “Yes” with humility and acceptance as it is for my toddler to stop wiggling and screaming while I wipe up the mess caused by her insistence on doing it herself.

God doesn’t expect me to do it all myself.  He didn’t give me the gift of the sacraments and then head back for the celestial chorus of heaven, ignoring my daily frustrations.  He didn’t put my vocation on me and then walk away, laughing as He left.

There is help all around me, though I may have to ask and I will definitely have to say “Yes.”

In that lesson of humility, there’s a lesson in grace…and enough humor to keep me sane while my two-year-old eats the dog food.

Copyright 2010 Sarah Reinhard

I was tipped off to Fr. Emil Neubert’s classic My Ideal: Jesus, Son of Mary because of the many times I saw it quoted in my daily Mary Vitamin.  The quotes pulled me in, made me think, simmered over into other parts of my day.

And, as it turned out, I needed what Fr. Neubert provided in this book.

It’s written as instructions from Jesus and Mary, a style that was, at first, a bit uncomfortable to me.

It didn’t take long, though, before I was captivated.  There is a great deal of wisdom, but, even better for a busy mom who’s always finding herself busier, there are ways to apply the principals in your life immediately.

Take the advice to pray and speak to Jesus.  I tend to nod along with that sort of thing and then promptly forget it.

In My Ideal, Mary says this on page 49:

Speak to Him as if you saw Him.  Is He not in you?  Does He not hear your voice as truly as He formerly heard St. Peter’s, St. Mary Magdalen’s, and St. John’s?  Does He not love you as He loved His disciples; you especially, whom He has given to me, like John, my child of predilection?

Speak to Him directly, without any set formula of prayer.  Tell Him in all simplicity what you are thinking, what you are feeling, and what you desire, just as you would speak about it to a brother or an intimate friend.

At first, you might find yourself nodding along and walking away, but read it again.  (I’ll wait.)

There are tips in that passage – and throughout this whole book – that really changed how my morning prayer time and my middle-of-the-day-in-the-midst-of-chaos prayer pleas sounded.

Not sure how to do it?  Mary mentions, right after the quoted passage, “Do not forget to unite yourself to me in these intimate conversations with Jesus.”

This has, lately, become the book I recommend first to people who ask for a recommendation.  It’s uplifting, even as it’s challenging.  It’s imaginative, even as it’s practical.  It’s packed with material, even as it’s short and quick to read.

After you read it, tell me what you think.  And, while we’re talking books, what’s your favorite spiritual read?



Copyright 2010 Sarah Reinhard

It’s not that I don’t like surprises, as long as they come when I’ve planned for them (like at Christmas).  It’s not that I don’t like to be spontaneous, as long as I have allocated the time for it.

My husband is considerably less rigid than I am in his awareness of time.  Though I’ve argued for years that this makes us late, he maintains that there’s no reason to be somewhere earlier than on-time.

Add to this gentle misunderstanding a couple of kids, and it’s safe to say that, some days, I want to crawl under my desk, curl in a fetal position with a blankie, and suck my thumb until the chaos settles down into order.

Motherhood has done a great deal to make me more flexible, that’s for sure.  Where I used to balk at sudden trips to the store or unplanned meetings with friends, I now barely even protest.  I’ve learned to walk in late with a smile and to share my failures with a laugh.

My inspiration for this change of heart has been the Blessed Virgin Mary.

I’m sure she wasn’t as psycho-organized as I’d like to be, but imagine what disruption Gabriel brought to her life.  She didn’t ask for specifics (aside from wondering out loud how it could happen), she embraced the opportunity.  Rather than complain (as I would) about how much this little development messed up her plans and, really, her life, she offered herself even more.

She had quite a few unexpected challenges in her motherhood – the trip to Bethlehem, nine months pregnant; the flight to Egypt, not on a cozy plane but huddled on a donkey; the slow, painful walk to Golgotha as her Son carried the Cross.

Maybe Mary was a naturally organized person.  Maybe she found the pinpricks of spontaneity so common in motherhood to be a burden.  Maybe she just longed to have an orderly day.  Whether she did or not, Mary is certainly an inspiration for those of us who are still very much students in the flexibility department.

This week, when I find myself resisting the things that just crop up, I’m going to turn to Mary, grab her hand, and let her walk with me.

Copyright 2010 Sarah Reinhard

Easy for me to say, I know.  I’m far more excited to take a hot meal to the stranger from church who just had a baby than I am to serve it to my own clan.  I’m hot with tears over world disasters but strangely cold about the fighting between my own children.

The way I’ve been working on changing this attitude is through a discipline that’s alarmingly old-fashioned.  It reminds me of my grandma’s generation and might well make you roll your eyes.

Don’t say you weren’t warned.

It started when I figured out how much my husband was spending on eating out at lunch, not to mention the unhealthiness of all those cheeseburgers.  Though I knew I’d never get him to eat salads even if I packed them for him, I figured we could, at the very least, save some money packing his lunch.

The problem was that I would have to be the one to pack his lunch.

It’s not just that he’s not a morning person.  It’s not just that he needs as much sleep as he can get.  It’s not just that I’m already up and about and able to remember these things before the sun rises.

It’s that I love him.

Those three minutes I spend most mornings assembling his lunch connect me to his work world in a small way.  They insert my love for him and my appreciation for his commitment despite long and grueling days into the heart of his day.  Sometimes I slip a note in, reminiscent of our courtship, when I’d write him a daily note and leave it for him at work.  Other times, I slip in an extra cupcake or something special.

He doesn’t often tell me thank you with words, and when I forget or neglect to pack his lunch, he’s never recriminating.

I know he appreciates it, though.  I can tell by the way he carefully puts the fork or spoon back in, wrapped in a napkin.  I know from the fact that he always returns the lunchbox to me after work.

It’s something so small, packing my husband’s lunch.  It’s not as much work as the Clean Floor Pickup the kids and I try to do before he gets home, but it is a reminder, ever morning, of how hard we work for this domestic church of ours.  The work is sometimes mundane and unremarkable, but it’s taking us ever closer to our goal: heaven.



Copyright 2010 Sarah Reinhard

Have you heard of the Fairy Tale Novels?

I’m so excited that we’re able to bring you this amazing giveaway this month, just in time for Valentine’s Day (not that I need an excuse to rave about my favorite books, mind you).

So far, there are four books in the series (and I can’t be the only fan who’s waiting impatiently for the next one).  Here’s a bit about each of them:

The Shadow of the Bear

“One winter night as they sat at home, there came a knock at the door.” 
– Grimm

Once upon a time, in New York City, two girls meet a mysterious stranger, Bear, who comes to their door one winter night. 

Who is Bear? Is he a seemingly homeless young man who has an unusual love for literature and poetry? Or is he a thief who hangs with the local drug dealers? Has he befriended the girls for sinister purposes? For impulsive red-headed Rose, Bear becomes their only friend in a hostile city: to shy older sister Blanche, Bear means danger for their family. And what is Bear’s connection to the abandoned church next to their high school, and the unsolved murder of a Catholic priest?

As Bear slowly wins their trust, taking the girls on a surprise trip to the Met and helping Blanche go to her senior prom, Blanche begins to believe that this rough-edged stranger is hiding a heart of gold. And yet, as events unfold, even Rose must admit that Bear is keeping a dangerous secret from them.

A classic fairy tale by the Brothers Grimm comes to life as two very different sisters, timid Blanche and daring Rose, seek to discover Bear’s identity and secret mission in a suspenseful adventure that brings each of them face to face with their own weaknesses and possible death.

Read Chapter One of The Shadow of the Bear.

Black as Night

“… a girl as white as snow and red as blood with hair as black as night…”
– Grimm

Blanche Brier is alone for the summer in New York City, separated from her family.

And her summer job inadvertently brings her a jealous enemy and unsuspected terror.

She finds temporary shelter with seven friars, but it’s not clear to Blanche how she can escape the evil that’s stalking her.

After Bear and his brother, Ben (a.k.a. “Fish”), discover that Blanche is missing, they cut short their European trip and begin to scour New York City looking for Blanche.  But the same malevolence that is lurking over Blanche seems to be hunting them as well.

With the lively help of the seven friars, Blanche struggles to sort out the ominous and apparently disconnected events that continue to build until it seems that all hope is gone. 

Yet during this time, the desires of her heart are being clarified – and so are Bear’s.

A black night.  Honest faith.  Tested love.

Read Chapter One of Black as Night.

Waking Rose

“Once upon a time…” 
– Grimm

“I love him more than poetry… I love him more than song.”

Ever since he rescued her from Certain Death, Rose Brier has had a crush on Ben Denniston, otherwise known as Fish.

But Fish, struggling with problems of his own, thinks that Rose should go looking elsewhere for a knight in shining armor.

Trying to forget him, Rose goes to college, takes up with a sword-wielding band of brothers, and starts an investigation into her family’s past that proves increasingly mysterious.

Then a tragic accident occurs, and Fish, assisted by Rose’s new friends, finds himself drawn into a search through a tangle of revenge and corruption that might be threatening Rose’s very life.

The climax is a crucible of fear, fight, and fire that Fish must pass through to reach Rose and conquer his dragons.

Read Chapter One of Waking Rose.

The Midnight Dancers

Why live in the light, when the night seems so irresistible?

Rachel Durham, 18, is tired of her father and stepmother’s staid morality and pristine prosperity.

The summer of her senior year, she’s more than ready for a walk on the wild side, and the door opens – literally – when she and her eleven sisters (and stepsisters) discover a secret passageway out of their historic home on the Chesapeake Bay.

At night, boys in boats and a forbidden island beckon from the shore, and Rachel and her sisters jump aboard.

The night becomes Rachel’s true world, and her daytime life becomes a disposable mask.

Her puzzled father tries to tow his daughters back into line by enlisting the help of Paul, a med student with a seasonal job juggling at the town festival.

But Paul realizes that simply blocking the girls from their midnight parties isn’t going to solve the family’s problems.

So he embarks on a risky balancing act to gain the girls’ trust – and to make Rachel see that splitting her life between night and light is a dangerous dance.

Read Chapter One of The Midnight Dancers.

I raved about them over at my blog a while ago, but what inspired us to organize this giveaway was hearing about hard times for this favorite author of ours.

Regina Doman is a very special Catholic homeschooling mother, author, speaker, and editor at Sophia Institute Press.  Recently, her 6-year-old son was diagnosed with juvenile diabetes. Unfortunately, her family’s current financial and insurance situation leaves little, if any, room to cover the projected ongoing costs of managing this illness.

Knowing what a supportive community this is, we want to ask you to help, first and foremost, with your prayers.

If you find that you need a gift for a birthday or a Valentine that’s sure to endear you to that avid reader in your life, would you consider purchasing one or more of her books?  It helps Regina’s family most if you buy them through her website, but they are also available from a variety of other booksellers.

We’re going to give away all four of the Fairy Tale Novels, one each to four lucky winners. Leave a comment by January 31, and we’ll randomly draw winners.

Here are other ways you can use your purchasing power to help Regina’s family:

• This month, Hillside Education’s Helping Those in Need page is focusing on Regina’s family. There are some good buys and people can help a struggling family at the same time. The links are small so you need to look closely for the links that say Handmade Items, Books Used, Books new, etc.
• Homeschool Connections will donate 50% of all live courses and $30 for every subscription (recorded courses). People can email homeschoolconnections@gmail.com to let them know to credit their enrollment or subscription to Regina and her family.
• Ask your bookstore, library, youth group, homeschool group, school, and book club to consider buying Regina Doman’s Fairy Tale Novels.  I actually did this over the summer, and my librarian thanked me; it turns out they are always looking for good YA titles (and especially ones they can label Christian, in our area, though I wince when I hear that — these are books that DO NOT shove Christianity down your throat, though it’s so much a part of how they’re written).

Enter your name below and consider growing your library (or the library of someone you love) by purchasing the Fairy Tale Novels!
//

The contest is now closed. Thanks for your participation and generous response to this.

Congratulations to our winners:  Monica (comment #62), Barb Patterson (comment #61), Andrea J (comment #68), and Peggy Cortez (comment #6).

The one-line prayer is one that I know by heart, but which I still love dearly: Incline my heart according to your will, O God.

It’s on the refrigerator door right now because that’s where I need the reminder.  It hits me as I consult my weekly menu, as I open it for a popsicle or to make chocolate milk or to pull dinner together.

Well, it used to hit me.  I had forgotten about it for a while.

The other day, as I was closing my freezer, I tried (with no success) to straighten the pile of pictures and papers on the door.  I rediscovered the scrap of paper, but it had something extra on it:  If I take the wings of the dawn, if I settle at the furthest limits of the sea, even there you’ll guide me and your right hand shall hold me fast.

Who in the WORLD put that there?  WHEN did they do it?

I have NO idea.  Oh, a guess here or there, but those guesses don’t take into account what I know of those women’s handwriting (it was certainly a woman).

But do you think it’s any accident that I found this on the morning when I had prayed for a sign for a special little prayer I had?

Me neither.

Copyright 2010 Sarah Reinhard

I’d like to be, though.  I have great intentions.  I’ll set myself up with resolutions and plans of action and set out to conquer my inflexibility.  I’ll steam along and talk big.

And then I’ll crash and burn.

Just ask my husband.  He won’t volunteer the information, mind you – he’s much too nice a man for that – but he could tell you about how the Reinhard family gatherings would inspire circular conversations of despair in our house.

“What time?” I’d moan.  “Who’s coming?  How long?”

He would shake his head, not even bothering to explain that none of that matters.

“We’re just getting together,” he said again.  (He probably repeated that ten times.)

While I burned up into a ball of frustration, he turned back to his football game.

And then we had children.

It was a gradual change.  First, there was the naptime juggle.  Then there was the feeding and changing sideshow.

Add another child and there were now more unknowns in my life than a whole family of in-laws could present, and they lived with me.

Would there be a middle-of-the-night wake-up?  Would someone be sick?  Would we all wake up nice and pleasant?

Recently, I had a chance to drive somewhere without little voices in the backseat.  As I mused about the landscape and things that needed done sometime, I realized, with shock, that I had become more flexible.

Instead of making a detailed plan of attack, I was putting together a mere outline of events, allowing for the crinkles of life to be part of things.

Lest you think this is just a different name for how I approached things before, let me correct you.  Sick kids, changed plans, spontaneous days:  these things don’t phase me the way they used to, before I was a mother.

In addition to the many other benefits and changes that I’ve experienced, motherhood has also made me flexible.

And for that, I’m thankful.

Now, where’s my planner?

Copyright 2010 Sarah Reinhard

Our parish was having a rare midnight Mass in honor of the January 1 feast of Mary, Mother of God, and I wasn’t missing it.  My husband, perhaps knowing better than to argue with me, agreed.

I was lector that night, and though there was not the fanfare of the Christmas midnight Mass, it was still a challenge not to start sobbing.  I found myself overcome.

I wrote it off as a combination of pregnancy hormones and my usual penchant for being overcome at Mass.

A few hours later, I woke up to go to the bathroom.  There was nothing unusual about this, until I noticed the dripping.

“Bob!”

He groaned.  He rolled over.  He snored and didn’t respond.

“BOB!”

He sat up, but he wasn’t happy about it.

“I think my water broke.”

That got his attention.

But lacking a pool of liquid, he wasn’t convinced.  I wasn’t sure if I was feeling contractions or dinner, so we just went back to sleep.

I’ll spare you the play-by-play, but six hours later, well into the morning of January 1, we were getting to know our first child, the daughter who was born on Mary’s feast.

That daughter turns five this year, and she knows there’s something special about her birthday.  It marks a new year, for one thing, and is a national holiday.  The whole world seems to be celebrating, and there’s no shortage of parties.

We go to Mass to celebrate her birthday, and that’s special too.

But, for me, the most special aspect of her birthday is being linked to Mary in such an intimate way.  For me, my daughter’s birthday is a reminder that even I can be a mother.  It’s a cheer from my heavenly mother, encouragement of the strongest kind.

“You can do it, Sarah,” I imagine her saying to me.  “Even though you never thought you could, you can.”

She smiles at me, and we admire the baby-turned-preschooler.  She turns back and looks over her shoulder, and I follow her gaze.

There He is, and I smile wider.

Once again, Mary has led me to her Son.

I can only say thank you, this year and every year, as I try my best to imitate her “Yes.”

Copyright 2010 Sarah Reinhard

One station replays the Annunciation and then the appearance of the angel to Joseph, reassuring him that he should marry Mary.  The next shows Mary and Joseph arriving in Bethlehem, complete with a marketplace (goats and horses and little kids included) and an innkeeper who made us laugh.  Then we saw the angels appear to the shepherds, out in the middle of a dark field.  We were in the inn when the shepherds came running in with their good news.

And then there was the barn.

In that barn, huddled up with my four-year-old, I realized that the barn – or cave – where Mary had her baby must have been cold.  Now, as a woman who’s been through labor, I can appreciate that maybe she wasn’t concerned with the cold temperature.  Maybe it even felt good.

Bethlehem isn’t as cold as central Ohio in December, and you’re more likely to have rain than snow.  Nevertheless, it was an experience that gave me another picture of that young girl at the manger, the girl who was “full of grace” and chosen by God to bear and raise the Messiah.

In the wonder of holding her baby, gazing at His face and marveling at His existence, her hands were probably chilly and her belongings might have been soaked from rain showers.  Though the animals must have been sharing their heat, it’s unlikely that the place where Nativity happened was as cozy as the play sets around my house would have me believe.

At the manger, Mary must have felt all the wonder any of us feel when we see a new life.  Joseph must have put his arm around her and felt his love for her balloon, his amazement at her blossom, his appreciation for God increase.

And then the visitors came.  Shepherds and probably some townspeople, all wanting a glance at the newborn Messiah, probably wondering, as they walked away, how that baby could change the world.  Mary must have sensed some of these doubts, even as she saw their amazement and heard about the angel choruses.

Mary at the manger: a young girl with the world in her arms.  Mary at the manger: proof that God can overcome odds that men wouldn’t even make.  Mary at the manger: hope for each of us as we struggle through our daily life.

Copyright 2009 Sarah Reinhard

I had been attending Mass with them for some time, but nothing prepared me for that Christmas Mass.  I had smelled incense, heard choirs, and participated in the liturgy before.  I wasn’t exactly an old pro, but I was learning.

In those days, my bedtime was far later than it is now, and so it wasn’t even hard to stay up until midnight to attend.

To see our small church crowded — standing room only — in the middle of the night; to hear the choir pealing out hymns in a way they never did on Sundays; to see the extra candles, the extra servers, the extra decorations — all of this burned it into my memory.

I’m sure I cried at that first midnight Mass, when we rejoiced about the birth of our Savior.  I felt Him come to me, somehow, at that Mass.  Maybe it was in the wonder I felt, for what felt like the first time in years.  Maybe it was in the sudden dropping of my cynicism and my shell of aloofness, in the surprise of the beauty of the Mass.  Maybe it was the realization of what Christmas really is.

All of a sudden, my years of hating Christmas seemed to melt away.  I saw that what I hated wasn’t really Christmas.  I began to realize that Christmas isn’t the shopping and the juggling and the family politics.

Christmas is a birth.

I’m a mother now, and I look back on that first Christmas Mass — celebrated in the middle of a cold winter night — with continuing appreciation.

The magic of Christmas happens, for me, in the Eucharist, in the Baby whose birth continues to change my life and make me better.  I feel the wonder of life around me, amid the music and the incense and the dark night.  I remember giving birth and I remember being a child, believing that Christmas was special.

And now, thanks to a memory that I try to relive every year, I have found the true magic of Christmas.

Copyright 2009 Sarah Reinhard

I don’t blame her.  When I see my children struggling, I can only hold off for so long, especially when I see the frustration turn to anger, the attempts turn to defeat, the clenched jaw turn to tears.

What’s a mom to do?  Do you let them work themselves up until there’s no hope, until they turn away and give up completely?

Our Lady of Guadalupe remains a reminder, for me, of how much Mary loves me.

Do you know the story of Our Lady of Guadalupe?  If not, I encourage you to read the English translation of the Nican Mopohua.  It’s the earliest written account of the apparitions.  The language is old fashioned in places, but it resonates with me.

Rather than a cold and distant woman, perched on a pedestal, we have a young girl – pregnant by the symbolism of the black belt around her waist – who is a mestiza, half Aztec Indian and half Spanish.

The Spanish were conquering the New World in Mexico, and it wasn’t a pretty sight.  There were abuses and many of the Aztecs must have doubted the reality of a kind and loving God.  How could this new God be any better than the bloodthirsty gods they had been convinced to abandon.

And then Mary came, not as a goddess or a deity demanding payment, but as a humble servant, a simple woman, a loving mother.

The symbolism of everything about her spoke to the Aztecs, and it spoke so convincingly that millions of them were converted in the next couple of years.

But what resonates most to me, during this busy season when I’m always juggling too much and failing at nearly everything, is what she said to Juan when he was trying to avoid her in order to get help for his uncle:

“Am I not here, who is your Mother? Are you not under my protection? Am I not your health? Are you not happily within my fold? What else do you wish? Do not grieve nor be disturbed by anything.”

She comes to each of us, no matter who we are or what we have.  Juan Diego was the epitome of a nobody, and he told her so when he failed in his first few visits to the bishop.  “Find someone worthy of this task,” he begged.  “No way,” she replied with a smile, “you’re the perfect messenger.”

And then, when he’s at his wits’ end, knowing that he is letting her down to take care of his dying uncle, she reminds him that there is, in fact, no conflict between their goals.

“I’m here to help you,” she says.  “God loves you, and so do I.  That’s why I’m here.  Won’t you let me help you?”

The real question, as I contemplate this generosity, is how I can let her help me this Advent.  What special challenge am I facing?  What burden am I bearing alone that I could share with her?  What spiritual growth am I denying in favor of my comfortable, perhaps sinful, habits?

Though Advent is halfway over, it’s not too late for me to find her there, right beside me.  It’s not too late to accept that I am, in fact, the perfect person for the mission God has in mind for me.

Copyright 2009 Sarah Reinhard

It’s such an important holy day that it’s a Holy Day of Obligation; we have to attend Mass.

Mother Mary gets not one, but two of these Holy Days of Obligation in her honor, within a month of each other.  The first is on December 8, when we celebrate her Immaculate Conception.

Does your priest remind everyone every year that we’re actually honoring Mary’s conception and not Jesus’?  I understand the confusion.  It’s Advent.  We’re waiting for that important birth.  If we’re going to go to Mass through the week, isn’t it for that birth?  Isn’t it related, somehow, to Advent?

Well, yes, it is.  But…

It takes a while to get your mind around it, doesn’t it?

We are joyful, ecstatic, and positively beside ourselves about that birth in late December.  We can’t wait to rejoice.  We are looking for the star in the sky, just waiting for the first hint.  We are decorating and listening to special music and sending greeting cards near and far.  There’s supposed to be something special in the air and even in the secular realm that flirts with atheism, you’ll catch a smile and a softened attitude.

It seems anti-climactic to take our focus from Jesus to His mother.  Yeah, we love her.  Yeah, she’s great.  Yeah, she deserves a crown and all of that.

But if it weren’t for her, we wouldn’t have all this Advent preparation.  If she hadn’t said “Yes,” there would be no Christmas.  If she were not conceived, we would not have a cause for joy.

This holy day that seems to slip in and surprise me, every single year, is a reminder of my heavenly family history.  It’s also inspiration for my aspirations.  Mary was perfect – preserved from original sin, but not from the harrowing effects of it (death and suffering) – and because of her perfection, she was fit to bear the King.

I sometimes feel like Mary is a distant figure from a remote far-off village in another time and another place.  She can feel like a role model for other people, but not for me.  There’s intimidation in all that perfection.

But when I go to Mass next week, and when I offer myself to the One who gave her to me, I’ll feel it again.

“Only say the word…”

She reaches out her hand…

“…and I shall be healed.”

…and she pats my shoulder, pointing to her Son.  He’s there, right beside her, chubby and cute and begging to be cuddled.

Celebrating the Immaculate Conception requires us to make extra effort.  If all we do is go to Mass, we’ve done all she would ever ask us to do.  Can I do something more for her this year?  Maybe I’ll remember to wear a blue sweater, since blue is her color.  Perhaps we’ll say a Hail Mary around our dinner table, explaining to our girls that Mary was once a baby in her mommy’s tummy too.  There’s a chance that one of the young artists in my life will be inspired to draw and make a card.

But the best gift I can give her is the one I give her Son when I ask Him to take me and heal me at Mass.



Copyright 2009 Sarah Reinhard

It was by way of explanation to a dear sister-in-law who was waxing romantic about my piles of wrapping paper, wrapping paper that I should have put somewhere else, but which I just never have.  She was smiling and starting to feel warm and fuzzy when something compelled me to say it.

I knew I shouldn’t have said it about two seconds after it was out of my mouth.  We were starting to have a “moment,” one that could become a memory, and I stepped on it and squashed it.

As I’ve thought about it, and wondered if apologizing for it would even make a difference, I’ve realized something about myself.

I don’t hate Christmas.

I hate the Christmas-izing of Advent.

Without the cushion of Advent, Christmas becomes one long to-do list for me.  There are gifts to buy, decorations to put up, greetings to send.  The house needs cleaned (to make room for the extra stuff), the kids need primed (that it’s not just about gifts), the dog needs trained (not to eat the extra stuff).

Either I have lost sight of what Christmas really is or I have neglected to properly appreciate Advent.

This year, I’m ringing in Advent with a different approach.  My Christmas shopping will be done, in part because of a stringent savings plan that meant I had to be frugal in ways I’ve never had to before.  My decorating will wait until Sunday before Christmas, when some close friends come over, with all their innocent love of the season, to insert joy and a new tradition into the decking of our old farmhouse.

But, most importantly, I’ll continue a practice I started last year, one of finding the silence of the season.  In the midst of the noise all around me – from the carols blaring everywhere to the communications swirling around my mailbox – I’m going to do something – give something up or do something extra, I don’t know – that will prepare my heart for my Savior.  Call it a gift for the Birthday Boy, one that will seep into every part of my life and leave me embracing Christmas with nothing short of love.



Copyright 2009 Sarah Reinhard

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

I don’t think I owned any pink clothing during my childhood years.  Peach, yes.  Teal, of course.  Purple, without a doubt.  But pink?  Not on your life.

Now that I’m a mom to two girls — girls who have a decided preference for all things pink — I find myself slowly converting, blushing and sputtering.

Maybe it’s a flaw in my character.  I tend to be interested in the things that others are passionate about:  recommend your favorite book to me with a convincing amount of passion, and I’ll probably run right out to the library to get a copy.  Tell me about a movie that changed your life, and chances are, I’ll be trying to find the DVD and subjecting my husband to it.  Have a favorite album?  Just keep quiet.  I have already busted the budget on music this month.

It should be no surprise, therefore, that I’m coming around to the world of pink.  My daughters are passionate and persistent about their love of it.  The pink marker’s usually the first one to go, and my four-year-old asked me the other day how old she’d have to be to paint her hair pink.  (I think I made up a number like 86.)

The color pink has come to represent one of the ways motherhood has changed me for the better.  Though I’ve always liked to think that I’m open-minded, it wasn’t until I started wearing my Mom Hat that I realized how closed-minded I’ve often been.

I was sure, for example, that those parents of the screaming kids must be doing something wrong, before I was the one pinning down the tantruming toddler.  I had no idea sleep was a skill I’d come to pray for my oldest to learn or that car rides would be a special version of purgatory until she was three.

Going through the pink fire of the infant and toddler years with my oldest daughter, I thought I was ready for the second round.

That thought — thinking that I can ever be ready on my own — is one that gets challenged again and again.  Sometimes it’s attacked by a seemingly innocent color and other times by a well meaning comment by a close friend or family member.

I can be ready, but not on my own.  I can come through the battles — pink or not — triumphant, but not because of my skills.  I can love pink, but not by sheer force of will.

I need God’s help and the grace to know when it’s coming to me.  The color pink has become a reminder to pray and let them guide me.

Copyright 2009 Sarah Reinhard

When she was two, she discovered the joy of stickers.  At about the same time, she learned that they stick very well to the car window.  Not only was this immediately gratifying, but it also gave her hours of enjoyment during car rides.

“Horse!” she’d say, until I would respond.  Then she’d move on to the next animal, cartoon character, or shape.

Honestly, it has never bothered me to have stickers on my car window.  To me, those stickers aren’t a blemish on my car or a habit to be broken.

What I see on that car window is hope and optimism.  I see proof that a little girl with an appreciation for beauty rides with me on almost every trip.  I see a changing vocabulary, a growing ability to decorate, and a lingering of childhood.

In the car of my life, I sometimes forget the small touches that make the ride fun.  I scorn loud laughter, dorky jokes, and unfettered enthusiasm for quiet smiles, cool comments, and silence.

Why am I always trying to be someone I’m not?  How can I learn to embrace the beauty in life from my preschooler?

She’s already growing up faster than I can manage.  I’ll leave the stickers on my window for a little longer.  Maybe I’ll even add a few of my own.

Copyright 2009 Sarah Reinhard