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Salon Reflections by Sarah Reinhard

Sarah Reinhard — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 16:00:25 +0000

I sat in the chair, one I hadn’t occupied for far too long, and enjoyed the feel of being pampered a bit. Never mind that I hate having my hair straightened: this was adult conversation, and my hair was finally cut and styled. The idea of a week without desperate ponytails was almost too good to be true.

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?

My New Favorite Color by Sarah Reinhard

Sarah Reinhard — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 16:00:48 +0000

In the last four years, I have come to a realization that I have a new favorite color. Though I tend to like all the colors, favoring for scarlet and gray during football season, I feel almost guilty confessing that I’ve started to almost like the color pink.

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.

Car Decorations by Sarah Reinhard

Sarah Reinhard — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 21:00:40 +0000

I never have a problem finding my car in a parking lot, despite it being a popular make and model. I have my four-year-old to thank for that.

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.

The Rosary as a Song by Sarah Reinhard

Sarah Reinhard — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 15:00:32 +0000

I love to sing, though I won’t claim to be able to carry a tune in a bucket. My kids and I sing in the car, and we make up silly songs of our own, and that’s as far as I thought it would ever go.

Then I discovered Susan Bailey’s “Mary Queen of Peace Sung Rosary,” which you can sample at www.sungrosary.com.

At first, I was hesitant. The rosary is hard enough without making it into music! But one day, when I was particularly stumped and stumbling, trying to pray my morning rosary, I turned it on.

What happened was different than what I had experienced before. As the music streamed through my ear buds, I felt myself calming down. I was focusing on the prayers in a new way, because they were different now that they were sung.

Yes, it’s repetitive. Yes, if you’re like me and you sing on the go, it requires that you know the mysteries (if you purchase the guide that goes with it, you can use that to help you; the art in it is beautiful). Yes, it’s a different way to pray the rosary, and it takes a while. But sometimes, different is just what’s needed.

Sometimes, different takes things to a whole new level.

The sung rosary has helped me appreciate, even more, how singing is praying twice.

Copyright 2009 Sarah Reinhard

Learning to Pray by Sarah Rienhard

Sarah Reinhard — Fri, 23 Oct 2009 15:00:40 +0000

I’ve been Christian most of my life, though I tend to count the last eight years with a different weight, since becoming Catholic was more intentional than the Christianity of my youth.

Now, don’t go thinking that we didn’t pray. Don’t think that we didn’t read Bible stories. Don’t think that it was any different than it will likely be for my children.

It’s just that, now that I’m an adult, things are different. For one thing, there’s the deposit of faith that I’ve found via the Catholic Church. For another, I have a different level of interest than I did as a child.

One of the biggest hurdles I continue to face is that of prayer.

What, exactly, is prayer?

To some, it’s conversation with God. To others, it’s a chance to present a laundry list of requests. To still others, it’s an opportunity to complain. To me, it’s a changing vista of experience that involves all of that and more.

When I’m at Adoration, nestled in the silence, prayer is often a letter. When I read back over what I’ve written to God in my prayer journal, I find His touch in the words and phrases.

In the early mornings, prayer takes the shape of five mysteries, divided into groups of ten, in the rhythm of the rosary. Every morning, while making my coffee and preparing lunches, folding laundry, and puttering around the house or nursing a hot cup, I show up for the School of Mary*. Some mornings, I don’t get farther than just knowing the words. Other mornings, I’m able to eke out a gradual realization of the wonder of whatever mystery has caught my attention. (If I’m lucky, I can pay attention to all of them, but it’s safe to say that the norm is one out of five.) By my calculations, I’ve advanced to about halfway through second grade.

In the rosary, I have found the path to prayer. Sometimes, it’s the lifeline I need to give words to my despair, my frustrations, or my anger. Other times, it’s a way of connecting with a Savior who seems distant and unreal. When I walk through the mysteries with Mary, I find comfort and a challenge to continue.

The rosary has taught me that Jesus was human and that he struggled. It’s led me to an appreciation of what God really gave us when He gave us His Son. I’ve learned that praise can be as simple as a smile at the thought of the joy in heaven when Mary said Yes to God’s offer.

The classroom of the rosary feels demanding some days. My “I don’t WANNA” voices clamor for something — anything — else. My natural resistance to authority insists that God knows my heart and thoughts — why go to all the trouble?

And that brings me to the most important lesson I’ve learned about prayer, thanks to the rosary: persistence. God does know my heart and my mind, and that’s why it pleases Him even more when I integrate set prayer into my life. It’s a sacrifice of time — probably the toughest kind in my life.

But, when I’m holding Mary’s hand in the morning, I find myself talking to her Son throughout the day and keeping His way in mind.

*See John Paul II’s apostolic letter “The Rosary of the Virgin Mary,” paragraph 1

My Favorite Rosary Resources by Sarah Reinhard

Sarah Reinhard — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 15:00:41 +0000

Though I feel very called to pray the rosary — even as often as daily — I’d be lying if I told you I found this easy.

It’s not.

I struggle. I resist. I forget.

Often, I get distracted and other times, I hurry through it.

I’ve tried avoiding it, and I’ve used the excuse that I’m no good at it, but it keeps coming back around as something I just have to do.

And so, over the years, I’ve accumulated a pile of resources that help me in praying the rosary. I’ve found that in the struggle to pray the rosary, there’s also beauty in trusting that God will take what I give him, just as I take the pictures my four-year-old draws for me. I cherish her artwork, and I’m sure Mary and Jesus treasure my imperfect prayers the same way.

In case you struggle with the rosary too, here are a few of my favorite books and resources.

Rosary Meditations for Real Life, by James M. Hahn – I have to be honest with you: I know Jim. I “met” him through the wonders of life in the same Diocese and because of the Catholic blogosphere. His book always tops my list of rosary resources, though I hardly ever have a copy long enough to dog-ear it: I end up giving them away as quickly as I get them, to friends or associates who struggle with the rosary. He offers an approach to the rosary that’s unlike any other I’ve found: he looks at it in everyday life AND he gives you a phrase to insert into each Hail Mary, which keeps me focused on what I can relate to and helps me from going mechanical during the prayers. It’s an approach that speaks to me. He has some free downloadable material at his website, though I recommend just buying the book.
The Scriptural Rosary – This is another resource I end up giving away, though my current copy’s getting nice and worn-in — it’s a little blue book — the link above is an awesome online resource, but you can find a printed version from any of your favorite Catholic bookstores or even on Amazon. For every Hail Mary, there is a verse from Scripture. It helps me to stay focused in much the same way that Jim Hahn’s book above does.
RosaryArmy.com – Have you ever been here? No? Well, from instructions on how to make all-twine knotted rosaries to downloadable rosaries (even the scriptural rosary!), this is THE site for everything rosary. Though I’ll probably never be crafty enough OR coordinated enough to make my own rosaries, I love this site. Go check it out.
Mondays with Mary, by Meredith Henning – I have only recently discovered this book, but it has earned its place on my desk. It’s a collection of celebrations — complete with crafts and recipes and appropriate prayers — for Mary’s feast days. You might think this is a bit off-topic for a post about rosary resources, but sometimes I find it helpful to slip into my devotion through “the back door,” and I gain inspiration from related materials. This is one such resource.
The Glories of Mary, by Saint Alphonsus Liguouri – I spent months reading this book, and I’m glad I read it slowly. It’s a classic for a reason, and I’m pretty sure I could have just opened it to any page and read. It is also on my desk and is a reference for any moment when I feel like I just can’t do it, whether it’s praying a good rosary or struggling through my daily life.
The Rosary: Keeping Company with Jesus and Mary, by Karen Edmisten – This is one of my favorite books of all time. Don’t let my enthusiasm turn you off, though. You’ll find instructions on the how’s and why’s of praying the rosary, but you’ll also gain insight into a convert’s bumbling and enthusiasm for this devotion. Give yourself a treat and read this book during October and see if it doesn’t help your rosary prayer life.
Sung Rosary, by Susan Bailey – This is something completely different. Of the list of resources I’m sharing, this is one that has me by the short hairs. At first, I thought it was a little weird to sing the rosary, even though I do love to sing. Then I found myself at a rosary impasse, just unable to do it well one more day. I flicked on my iPod and turned on the Sung Rosary. WOW! Sometimes, just having Susan’s voice in the background is enough to calm me down. And when I’m out walking the dog and belting out the prayers, the whole concept of singing as praying twice hits home in a whole new way.

What are your favorite resources? Share them in the comments, and let’s spend this Month of the Rosary encouraging each other to embrace this devotion with greater enthusiasm!

The Hardest Prayer I Have to Say by Sarah Reinhard

Sarah Reinhard — Fri, 09 Oct 2009 15:00:55 +0000

It was early January of this year when I realized, without a shadow of a doubt, that I HAD to say the rosary daily.

At first, it was sort of fun, in the way all new adventures are.

And then reality set in.

I have to pray this EVERY DAY?!?!?

Let me shatter any illusions you may have of me as a poster child for piety. I battle myself as much as the next gal, and though I try to blame any number of things for my difficulties, I think it comes down to a general resistance to what’s good for me.

Because, at the heart of it, the rosary is good for me.

It’s hard. Not only is it a mammoth of a prayer (there is no such thing as “only 20 minutes” in my life), but it’s asking me to be coordinated.

If I’m anything, it’s a klutz. My friends and family members know better than to put me at the cutting board in the kitchen — I don’t care how good your knives are, I’ll find a way to sever a finger.

How, exactly, am I supposed to keep track of which Hail Mary I’m on while holding a string of beads while saying a prayer while meditating on the mystery? I mean, I can barely tie my kids’ shoes!

But, in early February, after the novelty of this new personal prayer mandate wore off, when I realized in my slow way that my excuses were just that, I also saw, with something like clarity, that here was a challenge I could embrace.

For someone who loves puzzles and difficult reading, isn’t the rosary just the prayer equivalent of the ultimate in devotions?

Well, yes, it is.

But it’s also more than that. In the rosary, I’m reaching out and reaching up, and Mary is leaning down to grab my hand. I think I must feel her grip in the ability I have, some days, to deal with whiny people and the impossible juggling act I set myself up for.

Though I am imperfect in my praying, there’s a lesson in accepting the strides I can make, in trusting God to lead me where He wills, in loving Mary enough to listen to her request to pray the rosary.

Life isn’t about being perfect in my eyes, and I need a reminder as often as I can get one.

In my daily rosary, I get that reminder, and so much more.

Maybe you struggle with the rosary too. Maybe you feel a pull to it, but find that pull an impossible contradiction. Maybe you just can’t find the time.

Let me offer you my encouragement and my Mother’s hand. Take hold of that hand and close your eyes. Do as much as you can, and open your eyes to see her Son smiling at you.

Tears as a Gift? By Sarah Reinhard

Sarah Reinhard — Fri, 02 Oct 2009 19:00:24 +0000

A while back, Deacon Tom Fox wrote a column in this space called “The Gift of Tears.” I’m a dry-eyed gal most of the time, and I have always prided myself on that trait.

Nothing says “practical farm girl” quite like dry eyes.

Then I started going to Mass.

I certainly didn’t mean to turn into a blubbering mess. At the time, I was a tough know-it-all college graduate, and I was only there because this good-looking Prince Charming of mine insisted that he had to go before we could go on a date.

My ego and I often don’t fit in the same room at the same time, and I had to go to Mass to find out what all the fuss was about.

And I found tears.

Not just sniffly, polite tears. Not just leaky-eye tears. Not just moisture-and-trickle tears.

No, what I found were gallons of tears, buckets of tears, oceans of tears.

It seemed that every pain I’d been storing up came out while I was sitting at Mass over the next few years. I could ignore my hardships, until I was in a pew facing that altar. I could be a total nightmare in my dealings with people, but I couldn’t fake it in front of Whatever-it-was at Mass.

I thought — I hoped – that everything would change when I officially became Catholic.

I was wrong.

To this day, I’m often overcome at Mass, especially at the response “Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed” (which I wrote about here).

Over the years, I’ve come to see the tears as healing. Slowly, Jesus is washing away my past pains, my current challenges, my future failings.

Like water wears down the rocks and turns them into the sand of a beach, Jesus has been turning my hard heart into a soft place to rest, and I hope, someday, when I look there, He’ll be on a beach towel, waving me to come and join Him.

Yes, tears are a gift, the very best kind.

Celebrate the Rosary with this Giveaway!

Sarah Reinhard — Thu, 01 Oct 2009 19:01:52 +0000

It’s the Month of the Rosary, and thanks to a group of generous sponsors, we have an October Rosary Giveaway! To enter, you must leave a comment on this post with a valid email address (which won’t be published or shared) before Midnight PST on Saturday, October 31, 2009. (Even more new items added since the contest began!) We’ll draw random winners and announce the name over the weekend.

Rosary Meditations for Real Life, by James M. Hahn

The Rosary: Keeping Company with Jesus and Mary, by Karen Edmisten

Mary, Queen of Peace sung rosary book and CD, by Susan Bailey

Rosary Army Rosary Making DVD

Rosary made with natural rhodonite 7-9 mm tumbled pebbles.
The medal is 1″ long, the crucifix is 2″ long, very beautiful.
It’s strung on 49 strands of stainless steel flexible wire with stainless steel crimps.
Made and donated by Ruth Tucker

The Rosary Workout e-book, by Peggy Bowes

Note – Peggy Bowes has generously offered a discount for our CatholicMom.com readers! The coupon code is MARY (all caps) and can be entered during checkout for a $1.00 discount. This makes the ebook price just $8.95 and does not affect the money given to St. Vincent de Paul (10% of the retail price). The code is valid until October 31st.

Rose Petal Rosary in St. Therese Box
Donated by Rosary.com

Update: Our winners have been drawn and contacted. Your prizes will be sent soon. Take a look at our other CatholicMom.com contests for more great chances to win!

Praying in the Kitchen by Sarah Reinhard

Sarah Reinhard — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 15:30:50 +0000

Most mornings find me cradling a cup of coffee and holding a rosary or a prayer book. I’ve tried praying at other spots in my house, but nothing seems to inspire the calm and quiet that my kitchen table does.

It’s six feet long and scratched. It’s made of long planks and there always seems to be some hard-to-reach dirt somewhere in the cracks and crevices.

It has a history, that table, and it seems to embrace me as I sit in one of the mismatched chairs in the early mornings.

My mother-in-law once told me the story of the table, and I sometimes find myself musing on it as I pray. As she tells it, the table was made in payment for work my husband’s father had done on a man’s car or tractor (I can’t remember which). The work was almost done, money was tighter than ever, and the possibility of grocery money had to be looming large before her. Then the man came and said that he just didn’t have the money, but that he could have a table made.

I’ve only known my mother-in-law for ten years, but I can just picture her response to this. Inside, she must have been enraged. Her kids needed fed! On the outside, though, she must have been the perfect picture of grace and composure. Maybe she mentioned how hard it was to fit her six kids — two of them brawny teenage boys — around their small kitchen table. Maybe she smiled, hiding her fuming in the way that people seem to have forgotten nowadays.

Our old farmhouse is the home for the old family table. It saw all of my husband’s siblings through their teen years. It’s the only table the younger ones ever knew.

My kids are adding their own embellishments to the table, though I have been impressed at how well it’s made and how well it’s holding up to their “love.” Everything wipes right off, from paint to markers to spaghetti.

Some mornings, sitting at that old table, I find my wrist resting in a crumb of dinner or a pool of paint. Other mornings, my coffee and my prayer plans are left at the table as I deal with life’s unexpected moments, from soothing a child back to sleep to making a forgotten lunch. Still other mornings find me finished early and opening a blank notebook, pen in hand, to try my hand at a habit nearly forgotten.

It seems right to begin my days in the kitchen, and not just because my coffeepot is there. Some days, the kitchen is headquarters for my life. Other days, it’s a place I rush into and out of, headed in a flurry to other places and activities.

Those prayers — at the kitchen table, at the start of my day — remind me that I can’t do any of it alone, whether it’s a slow-in-theory day at home or a crazy-in-practice day of go-go-go.

Becoming “That” Mom by Sarah Reinhard

Sarah Reinhard — Sat, 12 Sep 2009 00:06:57 +0000

I was minding my own business, really, talking to a mom friend and pushing my toddler on the swings.

I didn’t ask the little boy to come up to me. I didn’t even smile his way.

But he did come up to me. He wasn’t shy at all, and he even smiled as he asked me to push him on a swing.

“Is your mom around?” I asked him, hesitating. It’s not that I didn’t want to be friendly, but I wasn’t sure about this. We live in the country, and I have no idea what the unwritten rules are for pushing a strange kid on a swing.

“No. Hannah’s here.”

He was undeterred. I looked at my mom friend, who lived in the neighborhood, and she shrugged.

I shrugged back and figured it would be OK.

I lifted him up and put him in the swing. I started pushing him and turned back to my friend.

“Hey!”

Apparently he wanted me to talk to him too.

But when I turned to him, I saw, instead, a new face by the last remaining swing.

“Push me too!” the new guy said, holding up his arms.

I didn’t even ask him about his adults. I just put him in the swing.

And they did, in fact, want me to talk with them. We talked about why living in a pineapple on the bottom of the sea might be uncomfortable, how big sharks get, and a few other important items I have since forgotten.

When the babysitter came to retrieve Boy 1 and the mom (or was she an aunt?) came to get Boy 2, I smiled. They smiled back, and didn’t seem to mind at all that some strange woman was pushing a blonde girl and their boys. In fact, they thanked me.

I can’t help but laugh. Never once did I ever picture myself as that mom. You know, the one with the gaggle of kids around her, some of them hers but most of them not. I never thought of myself as a magnet for people under age five or as attractive to the preschool set.

That day, at the playground, I had a glimpse, once again, at the many ways the gift of motherhood has made me a better person.

Next time, I only hope that I’m on swing duty so I can have some more of those enticing conversations!

Copyright 2009 Sarah Reinhard

The Perfect Purse by Sarah Reinhard

Sarah Reinhard — Fri, 28 Aug 2009 15:00:12 +0000

Lately, I find myself constantly on a quest for the perfect purse. I check out other people’s purses and wonder if their handbag is really better than mine. I have to restrain myself from asking if I can lug it around for a bit, try it out, see if it has the bells and whistles I think I need.

The irony in this is that I never used to carry a purse.

Before I had children, everything important fit in my pockets. Sure, I’d lug a book with me, but that didn’t require a purse if we were going on a car trip. And was it really, truly, a purse if its only purpose was to tote my latest read?

With the advent of marriage and then diaper bags came the inevitable parade of purses. Sippy cups and snack bags don’t fit in my pockets the way my ID and keys did in the days of yore.

I tried out the wallet-purse combo that fit into the diaper bag. I tried out the bigger-than-my-baby purse-diaper-bag. I tried out the little-bit-of-this-and-that contraption.

And I find myself still searching.

In the ongoing search for the perfect purse, I often find myself lacking. All of a sudden, one day, the bag I’m using seems so big, or, on other days, the new one is waaaaay too small. When the carrying capacity of my purse exceeds the toddler on my hip, isn’t it time to change things around a bit?

There’s a lesson for me in the fact that I just can’t find a perfect purse.

I often lug around things I don’t need in the imperfect purse of my soul: regrets and hurts, bitterness and anger, insecurities and fears. After a while, I don’t notice the weight. It’s not until I dump the contents of my soul and give it a good thorough cleaning (like at confession), that I notice all the extra weight I was carrying.

With my purse — and soul — emptied out, it’s easy to see how much of that stuff isn’t needed. Do I really need five pens and twelve ponytail holders? Should I really lug around that hurt from six years ago and the anger from six minutes ago? Does the zipper keep the junk in or the toddler out?

Perhaps what’s keeping me from finding the perfect purse is the same thing keeping me from the perfect peace: my own limitation in following God’s will.

Copyright 2009 Sarah Reinhard

The Breaks by Sarah Reinhard

Sarah Reinhard — Sat, 15 Aug 2009 02:22:42 +0000

Sometimes you have to do things you just don’t want to do. Sometimes you have to deal with people you just don’t like. Sometimes you’ll work your tail off for…nothing much. My mom used to call these sorts of scenarios “the breaks.” I’d gripe about this or that hardship in my twelve-year-old life, and she’d reply, “That’s the breaks.” What was most annoying was the smile she often had in her voice, an upbeat note that made me suspect that what was “the breaks” to me was not quite so bad for her.

As if doing something you just don’t want to do or dealing with people you just don’t like isn’t bad enough – then you have someone who is rubbing it in your face! I don’t think she intended that (although I have no proof). But learning how to deal with Mom’s reply of “That’s the breaks” sure prepared me for the less nice versions I get now.

I’ve been reflecting in the last day as to whether Jesus always liked the people He was around. I concluded that if He didn’t, none of us would know. He gets paid the big bucks – he is, after all, our Messiah – to be our example. When he said “love your neighbor as yourself,” I’m pretty sure that’s my clue.

But then I’m reminded of how a grown-up once told me that you can love someone without liking them. Maybe Pontius Pilate is an example. What about the guys holding the whips at the scourging? Or Judas Iscariot?

Jesus was fully human, so I can’t just write Him off as the Messiah who doesn’t know what I’m struggling with. No, He’s in touch with the breaks as much as any of us are. He’s been there, done that, got the t-shirt. When I go to Him, asking for help doing the things I just don’t want to do, dealing with the people I just don’t like, working my tail off for no good reward, He understands. He doesn’t brush me off and tell me to deal with it. He doesn’t shrug and say “That’s the breaks.” He doesn’t ignore my pleading.

Instead, He gives me strength. He points me to the cross, the ultimate in the breaks. He reminds me of His Passion. For that matter, He reminds me of the thirty years he spent just being an ordinary human being, there in Nazareth, working as a carpenter, dealing with people day-to-day.

The more I return to sit at His feet and the more I give to Him to help me carry, the better I will deal with the breaks. The more I pray, the more I can persevere. The more I follow his example, struggling though I may be, the closer I get to being the person He wants me to be.

Yeah, that’s my kid by Sarah Reinhard

Sarah Reinhard — Fri, 31 Jul 2009 13:41:36 +0000

Did you look around at me when you heard the shrill scream after my daughter bit her finger this morning? Yeah, that’s right, it’s my kid who interrupted the homily, and it was my kid who was chowing on Cheerios right out of the gate. I don’t mean to be defensive; I just want you to know. I get defensive when I’m at another parish, but not at home. At home, I get comments afterward about how her happy noises are inspiring, how the moms never even heard her, how her laughs are well-timed for the consecration. At home, I find myself distracted when she’s not with me and feeling like I’ve lost a limb or some other vital part of my body. At home, I feel as safe and as comfortable as I do with family, and isn’t that just what it is?

But…to travel is to take this warm fuzzy feeling and to test it for all it’s worth. One weekend, we got glaring looks at a parish with a cry room because we weren’t in it with our happy infant. The guy in front of us could have had a checkerboard on his back, it was so stiff. Now, in charity, I prayed for him and asked God to help him with his back problem. It wasn’t until passing the peace that I got the hint about my daughter being the cause for his back problems. And the older couple across the aisle…I had to practically go to confession after I allowed the look they shot us to distract me from Heaven on Earth and think about how lonely it must be to not like children in Mass.

Not that I’m a fan of misbehaved children, and not that I’m trying to raise one (and hopefully more) that are like that. Not that I don’t hear what people are saying when they try to tactfully talk about food during Mass. Not that I don’t roll my eyes myself and struggle with my own tongue’s scathing comments (because there’s a plywood board in my eye, you see, and before I can remove it, I have to remove that foot from my mouth).

I tell the young mothers in our parish that they have an important role in bringing their infants, toddlers, and difficult children to Mass week after week. (And daily Mass at our parish is blissful – the crew often tells me “ah, she’s a CHILD; we love to have her here!”) On the one hand, they are setting an important example for other people, including those who don’t yet have children and those who do already. It takes courage to take on that hour, and it exhibits nothing less than trust in God some weeks! But it also reminds those around us just how children are. They aren’t quiet all the time, and they don’t sit still all the time. My daughter often waves at the people kneeling innocently unawares behind us, and we can’t correct it out of her (and in some ways, isn’t that the sort of friendliness and family-ness that we’re looking for?). It gets those other people in Mass used to kids, and it puts the words “we are family-friendly” into practice. It sends all the kids in Mass an important message too, and it puts more of “their own kind” there with them. It also sets them on that path to Heaven, and isn’t that our ultimate goal for them?

So stay strong! Yeah, that’s your kid making all the noise. As Father Pat says, they’re talking to the angels. And who knows what the angels are saying back?

Copyright 2009 Sarah Reinhard

Dandelions as Our Model by Sarah Reinhard

Sarah Reinhard — Fri, 24 Jul 2009 16:00:41 +0000

While I was mowing, I couldn’t help but reflect on the success of dandelions in my yard. I mean, they’re EVERYWHERE! A few weeks ago, they were bright yellow punctuation marks to the lush green of our nothing-fancy lawn. Babs would point to them and sniff her “flower” sign, and we rediscovered the joy of bright yellow dandelions. We would pick her one, and she would consider it and then carry it around with nothing less than pure and utter joy. She would point to another one, and another one, and another.

I wonder now if she might have already thought of what struck me as I mowed them last week. You see, last week they were transformed into puffy white bombs, which hold as much allure to her as the bright yellow flowers. When I mowed the inch-tall grass and the five-inch-tall dandelion stand, the air was awhirl with dandelion puff. The little girl inside me was twirling around and just enjoying the moment. The critical gardener wannabe, though, was choking and getting grumbly. Those seeds were headed EVERYWHERE! Mowing was not helping matters (nor was my enthusiastic toddler, who marched to every single one of those puff bombs and helped them spread their weedy selves to the far reaches of the yard).

We need to be more like dandelions, don’t you think? Dandelions are EVERYWHERE. They aren’t afraid of whether they’ll fit in or how they’ll look. They just go, and do, and try it out. Have you ever noticed how they keep coming back? There’s no Round-Up strong enough, no fierce chemical that will keep them away. No sirree. They are here to stay, and the chemical companies will stay in business in their futile attempt to get rid of them. With all of our technological advances, we still have dandelions, and they’re here to stay, and they’ll keep coming back.

Dandelions have extremely high proliferation. Each of those little puff bombs must have 100s of tiny seedlings—so if only one or two gets to an ideal place to take root, and there are 100 dandelion puff bombs, that’s 100 new dandelions. (Cranky Gardener Voice has started really grumbling now!) What if we stuck to things long enough to have a high proliferation? What if we tried 100 times before something took root? Life is full of failure, and while it may only take us one seedling to take root, we may have to have the patience to find that one seedling.

Patience and persistence seem to be a theme with our friendly dandelions, and I can’t help but feel that I could improve to be more like them in my life.

Copyright 2009 Sarah Reinhard

The Old Farmhouse of My Soul by Sarah Reinhard

Sarah Reinhard — Fri, 17 Jul 2009 21:06:42 +0000

Living in an old farmhouse takes care of my free time. There’s always something, and whatever you have to do always leads to two other problems. Putting in windows? Ah, well, lookee here, we have a joint problem. Need a new tub? Not before that floor gets jacked up and reworked. I’ve lived here enough years to have adopted an attitude of reluctant humor about the whole thing, but I’m still not used to the fawning “oh, an old farmhouse, you must love it there” responses of people who don’t have any idea what they’re talking about. Love it? Well, yes, the location is ideal, although we’d tear the bleeping thing down if we could afford it.

Nothing’s level, nothing’s finished, and we keep finding more junk. Just when you think it’s whipped and taken care of, there’s something else. All that needs done is larger than my mind can embrace, so I think of it in terms of bite-sized chunks, knowing that I may well be retired with great-grandchildren before the larger goals are accomplished.

All of this, stated in a spirit of humor and please, know it’s not with any sort of complaining (at least I have a roof!), made me think this morning of how God must look at me and waver between laughter and hysteria. One minute, all this progress – new kitchen floor and the brand-new windows are washed up – and then, WHAM! Off I go, on my path of sin and wandering. Next minute, we’re doing better, really on the right path – plans on the floor for the bathtub to go in, scaffolding set up outside for attic work – and BOOM! No fear, but she’s just started something crazy again and has rammed into something, causing complete and utter havoc.

All these plans, all these hopes, all very well. If only the floors were level and the furnace installed. If only the attic wasn’t full of birds and the upstairs was insulated. If only I could let go and let God and leave the rest to him!

Copyright 2009 Sarah Reinhard

Only Say the Word

Sarah Reinhard — Fri, 10 Jul 2009 20:19:08 +0000

I am kneeling. There’s a squirming child somewhere nearby. If she’s not on my lap, she’s sitting right beside me. Her sister is whispering to me, or looking through my purse, or reaching for something on the other side of me. And yet, in spite of the distractions in the pew with me, I feel the familiar lump in my throat.

C’mon! I shout in my mind. No crying!

And then it happens.

As I start to respond with the congregation, the lump lets loose.

“Lord, I am not worthy to receive You, but only say the word and I shall be healed.”

It’s a rare Mass that doesn’t have me shedding some tears. My husband once passed me my daughter’s Cabbage Patch doll when I was sniffing at the end of Mass and things were looking hopeless. That doll’s dress saved me from certain snotty embarrassment.

Sometimes, it’s a well-chosen hymn. Other times, it’s a baptism. Usually, it’s just a regular old Mass.

I have a hard time explaining it. I’ve been crying in Mass since before I believed there was anything important happening. Is it a recognition of the Great or of Truth or of Something Bigger Than Myself?

Maybe. I’d like to think so, anyway.

Even during Masses when I’m feeling pulled together, ready for the action, prepared for the miracle, I find myself somehow surprised when I kneel right before Communion.

“Lord, I am not worthy to receive You, but only say the word and I shall be healed.”

I know I’m not worthy. Oh boy, do I know it. I yell at my kids, my husband, my friends, myself. I whine and complain about things that I should see as blessings. I sin and then, without blinking, I sin again.

And that’s a good day.

It’s not the recognition of my own unworthiness or even the realization that He doesn’t care that I’m not worthy, that He embraces me despite my unworthiness.

I think, after years of feeling tears course down my cheeks as I say this phrase, that it’s the healing I know is coming that makes that lump blossom in my throat. It’s knowing that my arms are wide open, and so are His. It’s knowing that I’ve been going along, not looking back or around, but when I come back, on my knees, He always offers me the same healing, the same peace.

“Lord, I am not worthy to receive You, but only say the word and I shall be healed.”

He says one word, and I’m all better. And in that series of moments, I can only cry. I can only bare myself, offering Him the little I have, and ask Him to do with it what He will.

And He does. With a word, I am healed.

Copyright 2009 Sarah Reinhard

Temporarily Small

Sarah Reinhard — Sun, 31 May 2009 12:00:12 +0000

Something jarred me today, and I realized that although I hear the word “no” a lot (and sometimes in very strange contexts, proving she doesn’t understand it quite yet), and even though I feel my patience level tested anew each day, and even though I use the phrase “going to the potty” and first-person plural regardless of whether I’m conversing with an 18-month-old or an 18-year-old – despite all of this, she’s growing fast.

Yesterday, she was born. Today, she’s toddling and pondering how to run. Tomorrow, she’ll leap away from me, and before I can blink again, she’ll be starting milestones I’m not mentally ready for, like the various graduations and first days and all of the things that involve the Big World. My test, I’m always reminded, is ongoing.

And my child is only temporarily small.

I can’t help but think of the role model I look to, Mary. Was Jesus really a toddler? Yes, I know the answer; I know the answer I’m supposed to know. But I haven’t really thought about the reality of potty-training Christ. I hadn’t considered a bundle of jumbles and smiles and stubbornness. Even if he was a perfect child, he had to be a boy to some extent, which involves some measure of mud under fingernails and exploration in the Great Out There.

I feel, on the one hand, like I have a lot in common with Mary. On the other hand, what kind of person gets asked to be the mother of God? I’m guessing that it’s someone who’s a lot different than me!

What faith, to say yes to a proposition which no human mind could really have understood? What patience, to look for your son, who’s the Savior of the world, the long-awaited Messiah, for three days and then find him back where you started? What courage, to be the first disciple? What strength, to stand at the foot of the cross? What hope, to stand in front of the empty tomb?

As a fellow mother, I look at Mary and think, “ah, there’s my hero, someone to look up to, someone who went through what I’m going through and did it with flying colors.” Sometimes, if I’m not careful, that voice in my head gets the megaphone and trumpets out “You can’t be like that, you’re not the mother of God.” Sometimes, I forget that this Toddler-tron phase is temporary, just like the sleepless nights and the nursing and the labor pains. All of the difficulties passed, and so did the little joys that always get stomped under the complaining.

I’m trying to remember that my child is only temporarily small.

Someday, there will not be a small head on my shoulder, representative of a weight I can contain within my two arms and keep safe by sheer willpower. Someday, and the day is coming so soon!, I will have to let her go into the Big World, and I will have to pray harder than I ever have.

If she was small longer, I might lose every shred of sanity. But if she grew faster, I might not have time to savor any of the joy.

Copyright 2009 Sarah Reinhard

Aiming for Mary

Sarah Reinhard — Sun, 24 May 2009 12:00:39 +0000

Celebrating Mary’s motherhood has become a celebration of my motherhood. The obligation of Mass has turned into a thanksgiving for a blessing I didn’t think I wanted. Through our shared feast day, I have come to know the Blessed Mother with a whole new appreciation.

I was never going to get married or have children. There were two main and many other underlying reasons I would have cited, had you asked me all those years ago. All of those “reasons,” though, led back to one thing: my lack of hope.

Reason #1: Why get married when marriage was obviously such an outdated proposition – and one that only left pain when it didn’t work out? My own family was evidence of this, and all around me in the wider world, it seemed that the only marriages that lasted were of my grandparent’s generation, and that was only because they didn’t know any better.

Reason #2: Why bring a child into a world such as ours? I didn’t need to look far to find support for this argument. There was heartache everywhere: rise in crime, increasing abortion rates (people not wanting their children), split homes. The world, as I saw it, was a hostile place. I often thought it was too bad that I was in it.

My reasons were shattered slowly, and my hard heart was softened by the touch of three mothers: my sister-in-law, my mother-in-law, and the Blessed Mother herself.

First, I watched a couple bury another son with grace and dignity. I watched a woman arrange the funeral for her daughter’s son, her grandson. I watched the funeral director with tears streaming down his face. I sat beside the man I would someday marry after he carried himself there, and I watch him still struggle with what was the third small white casket for his family.

Surely, in this grief, there was despair. And yet, what I took away, what I still learn from that experience, was hope. Everyone cried, yes. And then…they comforted each other. They held on to hope. They continue to hope.

Then there was a Mother’s Day Mass the year before I became Catholic. My relationship with my own mother was very fractured at that point, and I was in the midst of a five-year period in which I did not talk to her or communicate with her at all. It was at Mass, as Father was talking about the love Mary has for each of us, how she holds us and comforts us, that I found myself sobbing, shaking and hiccuping and crying in great gulps. I had to go to the back of the church and I was unable to come back in. Afterwards, I was unable to tell anyone what came over me. I didn’t know myself. Looking back, I think Mary must have touched my soul, and my hard heart must have softened enough to let the light of God’s love shine just a bit onto it.

Motherhood is a gift to me now. I am so blessed to be on both ends, receiving and giving. My relationship with my mother has been mended for some years now, and I’m surrounded by other mother-figures in an almost endless community of saints-to-be. Our Blessed Mother walks with me and comforts me so very often.

In this month of May, with two daughters who were born on Marian feasts, I find myself viewing my struggles with a more humorous eye, rolling my eyes at my dramatic moments, and finding inspiration in a humble approach to the hardest job I’ll ever hold. When I see those daughters of mine, I remember that I’m aiming for Mary in my vocation: to be a little more like the Mother of God each day, drawing closer to Jesus and better cooperating with the grace of God.

Copyright 2009 Sarah Reinhard

The Calm of the Rosary

Sarah Reinhard — Sat, 09 May 2009 00:00:34 +0000

I used to think praying a daily rosary was too hard, but I got started with it anyway. I’m glad I did, too, because it turns out that it’s one of the best therapies a high-strung Type A personality could happen upon!

There’s definitely room for improvement in my rosary-praying. Often, I get distracted at some point, or I lose count, or I don’t meditate well on the mystery. I agree that it’s better to pray one good decade than a hurried rosary. The thing is, I need the whole thing. It takes five decades of whatever I can give it to get me in a state of mind that makes life bearable.

I find that praying the rosary is a way of slow breathing my inner self to a state of calm. In going to Mary for her intercession, I think of how my daughter comes to me sometimes and just lays her head on my shoulder, for what seems to be no good reason. So many times, that’s what I’m doing with the rosary. I’m going to my Mother, and I’m laying my head on her shoulder. She does what I do: she reaches over and pats my back, and the effect of this is to give me strength and courage to face my day.

It’s not like I’m battling dragons or saving the world in my daily encounters. But, like everyone else, I am called to be Christ to all I meet, and that can be bad enough for me. I have to bite my tongue, or ponder long and hard before I shoot out a scathing email, or pray and reflect before making a decision. I have to step back from my first inclination to fly off the handle and remain calm in the heat of the moment.

So the rosary is really like a secret weapon I have to deal with the challenge of everyday life. In the repetition, I find the rhythm of life—and not just any life, but Christ’s own life! In the prayers themselves, I find the comfort of the words—I’m asking Mary, who is Up There, to pray for me, and if anyone has God’s ear, it’s Mary! In the discipline of praying a rosary, whether all at once, or scattered throughout my morning, a decade here and a decade there, I find a routine that points me to my purpose. In the mysteries, I am daily reminded of what that purpose is and who my model is supposed to be.

Copyright 2009 Sarah Reinhard