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Last week, we shared

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

Sweet Dreams – Chapter Five

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

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

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

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

But it was safe and for that she was thankful.

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

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

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

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

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

Father Joe had just smiled, when she told him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello.”

“Is this Mrs. Smith?”

“Yes…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Straight to hell?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She ran her hands through her hair and pulled.

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

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

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

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

Would this nightmare over money ever end?

But motherhood came before finances, she reasoned.

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

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

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

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

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

The school’s secretary remembered her right away.

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

So, that’s where he’s been.

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

“Good news?” What good news?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He slouched down encased in a stony silence.

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

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

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

“That’s not the point.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not fair.”

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

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

“Please, don’t say that Benjamin.”

“It’s the truth, so get over it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She wished.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was no sign of her son.

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

“Hey, what’s up mama?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Please, let me pass.”

They came together and blocked her path.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are khaki pants?”

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

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

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

Please God, help me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He saw her hesitate and shouted, “Go!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright 2009 Katherine Valentine

I’m so happy to announce that my terrific friends over at The Catholic Company have gone above and beyond to make my new book, The Handbook for Catholic Moms: Nurturing Your Heart, Mind, Body and Soul, available for pre-order on their website here.  There is so much I want to share with you about this book, but today I am actually playing “beat the clock” to complete final edits.  Please visit The Catholic Company for an introductory preview of the book and to read what some of those who have already read it are saying.  If you could also share this information on your personal blog or email it to a friend, I would be grateful and indebted to you!

Check out The Handbook for Catholic Moms today.

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

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

You must be silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was in that instant that I heard His Voice.

“Give her a chaplet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Copyright 2009 Nancy Carabio Belanger

I just finished a terrific novel and simply had to pause and share my review with you.  The book in question is Through the Open Window by Catholic author Anne Faye. Here’s what I shared on Amazon:

If you’re looking for a great read that will uplift, edify and inspire you, look no further than Through the Open Window by Anne Faye.

The book’s heroine, Lucy, is looking to lead a simple, contented life employed as a children’s librarian in a new town where she doesn’t know a soul. Beyond her better judgment, Lucy decides to sign up for “NaNoWrMo” – a real world phenomenon called National Novel Writing Month. Committing to the task of writing 50,000 words of fiction during the month of November connects Lucy with Mike, an eclectic (and gorgeous) Art professor who leads the local NaNoWriMo group at Lucy’s library.

As the words of Lucy’s novel begin to pile up towards her goal, we watch her personal story begin to unfold. We learn about the heartbreak and tragedy that caused her to begin a new life. We watch as her growing friendship with Mike has to withstand a few tests and challenges. We see Lucy take timid steps toward a faith life she has dismissed in anger. When a very sad dilemma develops in Lucy’s family, we watch as she must walk away from the life she is just rebuilding.

Ultimately, Lucy’s novel and her own life come to a satisfying conclusion that will have the reader wiping away a few tears and looking for a sequel to this very engaging story.   Author Anne Faye definitely has a way with words and creates characters you will quickly grow to know and love. Hope for more soon from this talented writer!

Purchase Through the Open Window and support CatholicMom.com.

Last week, we shared Chapter Three

• Chapter One
• Chapter Two
• Chapter Three

Sweet Dreams – Chapter Four

Ava Cook had heard the new tenants moving in. Since the apartment was directly across from her place, she hoped that this time the good Lord had sent a tenant that wouldn’t blare music all times of the day and night or she’d find passed-out in the stairwell.

Ava had lived in this building most of her adult life. Although her tiny, three room apartment might be considered sub-standard by today’s need for huge spaces and cavernous rooms, it fit her just fine which was why when the area began to decline and HUD took it over, she had elected to stay. Her small social security check had qualified her among the needy, but more importantly, she felt that this was where God needed her to be. Tenants came and went with regularity, so there was always someone who could use a helping hand or a word of encouragement. People never landed here out of choice.

As a low-rent housing projects went, this one was probably better than most. The state supervisor did a good job of screening applicants. Except for a few low-lives like the man who had just been asked to vacate the apartment next-door, most of the tenants were either elderly, like herself, or were single moms.

Everyone looked after each other. And although there were a couple of teenagers in the building that sometimes made things difficult, like Maria Rodriguez’s boy, Juan, the newest gang member of the Latin Kings, it was safer than most apartment houses in the area.

Ava gathered her patent leather purse and her daily missal, made the sign of the cross, asked the Archangel St. Michael to protect her then stepped out into a dimly lighted hall. The bulb had gone out in front of her doorway. She pulled out a notebook and made a notation. Ava was the unofficial on-site manager. The building supervisor would receive a call as soon as she returned home and heaven help him if he didn’t act on it immediately. Ava was relentless.

The hallway was thick with Mexican spices which meant that there would be a delicious meal delivered when she returned home.  Maria Rodriguez watched over her like a daughter.

Ava wished she could reciprocate and help ease her fears about Juan. Sometimes the boy didn’t come home for days.  Maria worried that he had been killed or arrested. She had tried her best to keep him home and to get an education, but the call of the streets and drug money was too big a lure.

Ava double checked to make certain her door was locked and was about to start down the short flight of stairs to main entryway, when she heard crying.  She paused a moment, tracking the sound. It was coming from the apartment directly across from hers.

She checked her watch.  Mass began in fifteen minutes. She hated to be late, but she couldn’t just take off and leave this poor soul who was obviously in a great deal of distress without asking if there might be something that she could do to help.

She knocked soundly on the apartment’s door while praying the prayer of Isaiah,   Dear Lord, give me an instructed tongue to know the word that sustains the weary.

“Who is it?” a small voice asked.

“Ava Cook. I’m your next-door neighbor,” she announced. “I wanted to stop by on my way out to introduce myself.”

There was a slight hesitation. Ava waited it out.

“Just a minute, please.”

Boxes rustled and were pushed aside. The door slowly cracked opened to reveal a gentle looking woman with brown hair tied at the nape of her neck, a round face and red rimmed hazel eyes.

“Hello.” Ava smiled, working to put the woman at ease. The poor thing looked as though she had been through a war.

“I’m Ava Cook. Apartment 3A.” Ava pointed to the door across the hall.

“Emma Smith,” the woman said with a weak smile, cranking the door opened a tad more.

Ava noted the designer jeans and expensive fitted blouse. Well, one thing was for sure. She certainly didn’t come from around here.

“I was wondering. Do you have any plans for the next hour or so?”

“Plans?” The woman’s brow wrinkled in confusion. She glanced back into the apartment. “I have a lot of unpacking still to do.”

“You can let that go for a while now can’t you? Why don’t you grab your house keys and join me? You look like you could use a good friend in this neck of the woods, and I know just where to find one.”

When Father Joe peeked out of the sacristy this morning, he received a pleasant surprise. Ava Cook was seated in her usual place (third pew on the left) and seated right alongside her was Emma Smith.

Well, I’ll be… Praise God.

He had thought of Emma often since their meeting and wondered how she had fared. There was something special about this woman. He could feel it in his spirit.

He’d seen similar situations play out through his priesthood. The Lord takes an ordinary person, confronts them with a seemingly impossible crisis and then turns their lives into living parables of His grace. Later, their testimonies encourage others during their times of trial.

What do you have planned for Emma Smith? he wondered, adjusting the sleeves to his robes. Must be something exciting, he mused, if the Lord had called in Ava Cook.

He and Ava went way back. It was his first day as the new pastor at St. Gerard’s. The previous priest, Father Kelly had been retired by the bishop. The last ‘amen’ had barely left his lips, when Ava came charging after him, rolling off a list of things she thought he might need to know.

He should slow down when reciting the Penitential Rite. People liked to follow it along in their missilettes and they had barely found the page that morning before the ‘amen’.

And speaking of missilettes… he should order more large print versions. Seniors liked to follow the liturgy and make certain that he didn’t skip any parts like the other pastor.

And…he was not to even ‘think’ about switching from lighted candles to eclectic ones regardless of how much money the Parish Council thought they could save in insurance fees.

She was a pistol, all right.

Over the years, Ava had become his eyes and ears around the parish. If there was a family in need of food, or a husband out of work, Ava made sure that he knew about it.

Just about every morning before Mass, he would enter the sacristy and find a handwritten note from Ava, listing people in need of prayer.

She may be bossy, bordering on overbearing, but she had a love of the Lord and His people that few equaled.

Like so many other soldiers in God’s army, Ava’s compassion was forged in her own crucible.    Ava and her four children had once lived in a small cape cod in the blue collar section of town.  Her husband, a plumber, drank away most of his paycheck, forcing Ava to take a succession of low paying jobs in order to feed the family. One of those jobs was working the graveyard shift on weekends at a diner near the interstate.

That’s where State Trooper, Ted Hawker found her that night. He took her into the back kitchen and with tears streaming down his normally impassive face, told her that there had been a house fire. Her husband had passed out with a lighted cigarette. He and all four children had died in the flames.

Over the weeks and months that followed with the help of people in the parish and others like Officer Ted Hawker, Ava was able to slowly piece her life back together.

Folks took up a collection; gathered furniture and household items and helped her move into the newly completed, once prized, apartment complex that still remained her home today. Meanwhile, Ava continued to work at a collection of menial jobs—salesperson, waitress and house cleaner.

But her days off were always spent at the Elm Street Soup Kitchen. The parish had just begun the mission and was in need of volunteers.

It was a small town. Word had gotten around about Ava’s tragic loss. Street people gravitated to her. Because of her own suffering, they felt comfortable sharing their stories.

And those who sought her out always left feeling hopeful. They reasoned that if Ava could get through all that she had endured then maybe so could they.

Father Joe once asked her why she felt drawn to help others in need rather than giving into grief and despair. Her answer had stayed with him.
“The only way to rise above your troubles is to reach down and lend a hand to someone who needs help more than you.”

Father Joe stepped out onto the altar, made the sign of the cross to signal the commencement of Mass, knowing that Emma was in good hands.

After Mass, the small group of parishioners filed out of church.

“Let me treat you to a cup of coffee,” Ava said after the women had shaken Father Joe’s hand who told Emma that he hoped to see her here again.
The young woman paused for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders. “Why not?  I imagine the unpacking can wait a bit longer.”

Emma followed the strange little woman who had practically dragged her out of her apartment. Ava, not Mrs. Cook, as she insisted being called, reminded her of a hard as nails, bossy grandmother who no one dared disobey.

For the life of her, Emma still couldn’t understand why she had allowed herself to be dragged out of her apartment, but she was glad she had. Sitting in the church pew, watching the ritual of the Mass unfold, she felt centered; protected from the harsh realities that had suddenly become her life. A small miracle had happened.

For the first time in months, she could breathe again without the heavy knot in her stomach. The ritual of the mass reminded her that she was not alone.  She was part of a larger whole.

Now, if she could just transfer some of this peace to her son.

The transition from their home at Shiloh Point to the apartment had not been easy. Benjamin blamed her for everything, as though she had awakened one day and simply decided to make his life a living hell.

This morning’s confrontation had been the worse. She had finally had to tell him that their change of address meant that he could not finish out his senior year at Canfield High. Instead, he would have to attend Madison Central.

“That’s where all the crack heads and druggies go. You can’t be serious.”

He stood dwarfing the living room and for the first time, Emma realized that he was no longer a boy, but a young man. Eighteen in a few weeks.

“Everyone knows that Madison’s just a holding cell for losers. I won’t go there!” he said with finality.

“You don’t have a choice.”

She rubbed the space between her temples where another type of storm was brewing. The headache that she had carried around for weeks was intensifying like a low, forming pressure system.

She looked across at her son whose entire body was geared for battle, she being the adversary.     God, she was tired of the abuse Benjamin kept heaping on her.

His eye narrowed. He pointed a finger like a dagger. “This is all your fault.”

“My fault?” A laugh rippled through her chest and came out like snort. “How do you figure that?”

“You should have found an apartment nearer my old school. This is my senior year. My senior year!” he ranted. “I’m supposed to be having fun. And you expect me to leave all my friends behind and miss out on everything? The parties. The prom?”

She was dumbfounded. Was that all he cared about? Having fun? Couldn’t he see that they were fighting for survival?

“Do you honestly think that I would have moved us here if there had been any other choice? We didn’t have one, Benjamin. None! Zippo! In fact, we should count ourselves lucky to have any roof over our heads.”

She reigned in her anger and lowered her voice. He may look like a young man, but the truth is, he was still a teenager.

“I know this has been hard on you. It’s been hard on both of us, but you have to believe that I’m doing the best that I can.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, you should try harder.”

“That’s not fair. In case you haven’t noticed, I didn’t do this to you. Your father did.”

She laid a hand on his shoulder, felt the muscles beneath polo shirt tighten.

“I’m sorry that things aren’t turning out as you had planned, but since there’s nothing I can do about it, we must try and make the most of it. In a few months, you’ll be leaving for college. Things will be better than.”

“Better? How?  Do you really think that Madison will be dishing out the kind of scholarships that you’re asking me to leave behind?” He gathered his things and stormed towards the door. “Instead of just accepting this, you should be fighting back.”

“Oh, Benjamin…”

“You may be willing to settle for this but I never will,” he spit out, slamming the door behind him.

Emma had been so deep in thought that she hadn’t noticed Ava stop beneath a sign that read, Elm Street Soup Kitchen and Shelter.

“Here we are,” Ava said, waving her over. “Best coffee on the block.”

Coffee at a soup kitchen. Why not? The morning couldn’t get any more bizarre.

She followed Ava through a cavernous room set with rows of eight foot long tables and into a large industrial size kitchen that hummed with activity. A crew was hard at work, getting things ready for the lunch crowd. Doors opened at eleven-thirty sharp.

“This is Emma Smith,” Ava announced to a group gathered around a large metal table. Two middle-aged women dressed in slacks and aprons were chopping up vegetables. The women smiled and nodded a welcome.

“We could always use an extra set of hands,” one of them said. “There’s a sign up sheet over there by the upright freezer if you’re interested.”

“Watch out for Birdie,” a deep baritone voice warned her. A man with grey temples and a broad friendly face extended a hand. “Hi, I’m Rich Tyner. Welcome.”

“This is our Director,” Ava explained.

“And pot scrubber, peacemaker and general handyman,” he added. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Love some.”

He handed her a mug then reached for a Pyrex pot.  “So, tell us, Emma Smith…”

“My friends just call me Em.”

“All right, Em. Did Ava kidnap you off the street or did you come willingly?”

Emma laughed softly “No, I agreed to come.”

“Don’t you mind him,” Ava said, shooting the Director a look of mock offense as she set out a small pitcher of milk and a sugar bowl. “Since you must know, I’m showing my new neighbor around.  She just moved into my building,”

“Is that right?” Rich asked. “Do you have any children?”

“A son. He’s a senior in high school.”

“Well, you and your son are always welcome. Feel free to drop in for a bowl of soup or one of Harry’s secret desserts.”

Rich pointed to a man scooping a yellow concoction laced with chocolate cookie crumbs into  paper bowls and pretended to whisper conspiratorially into Emma’s ear.

“We call it a ‘secret’ because none of us can quite figure out what they’re supposed to be.”

“I heard that,” Harry said and waved a chocolate coated spoon. “You’d better watch it. If you keep ribbing me about my cooking, I just might quit.”

“We can only hope,” Rich joked.

She settled on a tall stool, sipped her coffee drinking in their easy banter.

“I remember my first week at Ava’s apartment house,” a large woman with mocha skin said who had been introduced as Alisha.

Ava rolled her eyes. “You make it sound as though I own the place.”

Alisha laughed. “Maybe you didn’t own it, but you sure did watch out for all of us who lived there. I was alone with three kids to raise. My husband had just died of cancer. I was scared silly. But then I met Ava and we became friends.”

“Alisha lived in the apartment over yours. Where Maria lives now,” Ava explained.

“There was a whole group of us single moms back then. Ava used to pitch in when we needed a babysitter or a shoulder to cry on, and in those days it seemed as though there was always something to cry about. But, somehow, things always worked out.”

“She and her new husband, Jim just bought one of those fancy retirement communities on Route 25,” Ava explained. “But to her credit, she still comes back to volunteer twice a week to be among old friends.”

While the two women continued to reminisced, Emma leaned back, enjoying the warm camaraderie among the group. There were no social lines drawn here.

The homeless men scrubbing pots and pouring boiling water into the steamers were treated as equals by the volunteers who help to prepare the noon meal. All stood on common ground which was the complete opposite of the world she inhabited.

In her world, equality was determined by externals. The size of one’s incomes, the neighborhoods where one lived, the car one drove or the country club where one belonged.

Unlike her friends back at Shiloh Point, no one here had judged her.

When Ava explained that Emma had just moved into her building, the implication was clear. No one moved into the housing project for the view. Only the destitute, the poor sought refuge there.  Emma had closely watched their faces. No one had flinched. No downcast eyes.  What a blessed relief not to have to pretend or feel ashamed of a situation that she had had no control over.

She looked around the kitchen, people sharing laughter and friendship and suddenly wanted to be part of it. And since there was no time like the present, she placed her mug on the counter and walked over to the man named, Harry.

“So, what exactly is that you’re putting into those bowls?” she asked.

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

• Chapter One
• Chapter Two
• Chapter Three

Copyright 2009 Katherine Valentine

Katherine Valentine’s widely read novels explore God’s response to our prayers in times of need. They include:  A Miracle for St. Cecilia’s; A Gathering of Angels; Grace Will Lead Me Home; On a Wing and a Prayer; The County Fair and The Haunted Rectory. All can be found in major bookstores and on-line.

Thirty-third Sunday in Ordinary Time

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• Sunday’s Gospel
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  Solution:  Across:  4.  tribulation;  5.  elect;  Down:  1.  Mark;  2.  Father;  3.  Fig
  
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We will be providing weekly Pre-K lesson plans this year. These do not coincide with the Sunday Liturgy of the Word, but are specifically created for Catholic Pre-K learners.

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• Noah’s Ark
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• God Made Me and I’m Special
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• Creation Day One – God Created Light

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Editor’s Note – A HUGE Thanks to Anne McClure of Catholic Mommy Brain for coordinating this giveaway!

Last week, we shared

• Chapter One
• Chapter Two

Sweet Dreams – Chapter Three

Arlene Fields just couldn’t get Emma and her troubles off of her mind. She and Em had been friends since their two boys had started kindergarten.

Arlene and her then fresh out of medical school husband, Ira had just moved into town and knew no one. She was outgoing, loved people and missed what had once been an active social life. But the offer for Ira to join a highly prized medical team of cardiologists and heart surgeons had been too good to dismiss. She had fully supported Ira’s decision while keeping the growing sense of isolation to herself.

Just when she was beginning to believe that she might very well die of boredom, she had met Emma Smith.

Their first meeting took place at her son, Phillip’s school. It was an open house where parents came to meet and greet the teacher and to learn about the year’s upcoming curriculum. As soon as she had pinned on her nametag and noticed the other women carrying an assortment of cakes and cookies, she was struck with a sharp pang of guilt.

Phillip had been trustworthy in delivering his teacher’s note which asked parents to bring baked goods for tonight’s event. She, however, had not been so trustworthy in remembering to stop at the local Publix Market and purchasing one. Arlene didn’t bake.

Then a woman stepped into line behind her, carrying a large white cake box.

As they neared the refreshment table, she turned to confide to the pleasant looking woman that she had forgotten to bring a dessert and joked, “I hope that doesn’t mean my son will be passed over for monitor duty.”

The woman laughed then side-stepped around Arlene to hand her cake to a supersize lady in charge of the baked goods. “This is from Emma Smith and….” She glanced at Arlene’s name tag. “Arlene Fields.”

The woman opened the cake box and lifted out a beautifully decorated, four layer coconut crème cake.

“Oh, my, this is lovely,” she said, setting the cake in the middle of the display table. “Thank you ladies. I’m certain that the other parents will really enjoy this.”

“You actually ‘made’ that?” Arlene asked, following Emma to a grouping of pint-size chairs.

“I like to bake,” she said with a shrug.

From that day forward, she and Emma were the best of friends. But unfortunately, neither she nor Ira could stomach her husband, Jerry.

In the beginning, the couples had gone out to dinner a few times. But one night on the way home, Ira declared he had had enough.

“Did you hear him go on and on about his new watch. ‘It displays all twenty-five time zones’, he mimicked. “Now, why would I need to know the correct time in New Zealand.

“Besides always insisting that he pickup the check, I’m tired of listening to him go to great lengths to extol about his importance at the bank, or the superiority of his Mercedes versus my Lexus. Then there are the off-colored stories about the members of his exclusive country club.”

Ira shook his head. “Poor Emma. Did you see her studying her wine? She looked like she wished the floor would just open up and swallow her whole. I’m sorry, my love, but count me out next time.”

After that Arlene made excuses whenever Emma hinted that Jerry wanted them to join them for dinner. Finally, she just stopped asking, but Arlene got the feeling that deep down Emma understood which was probably why she always came alone to their holiday parties.

Down through the years, Ira never once inquired why Jerry was absent; so it took Arlene by surprise when this past year he asked if Jerry was coming.

“I doubt it. Why do you ask?”

Ira had been working to untangle the box of Fairy lights that was used to decorate the two potted plants by the front door, paused and looked out into space.

“He’s been on my mind a lot later. I saw him a few weeks ago. Walked right past me without saying hello.”

“Maybe he had something on his mind. You know how crazy it gets for most of us this time of year.”

“Maybe, but he sure was acting nervous. He kept looking back over his shoulder like he was afraid he was being followed.”

Ira went back to the lights. “It was just rather strange, is all.”

When the news came out that Jerry Smith had disappeared along with a great deal of cash, Arlene remembered that conversation. Thinking back, Jerry probably had reason to fear he was being followed that day. He was probably already stashing away wads of cash, she mused, pushing open the glass door with large, etched letters that read, Midway Cardiologists. Ira Fields, Chief Physician.

The two young women who manned the reception desk waved her into their inner sanctum as she stepped through the door.

“Come see what we’ve bought Dr. Simmons,” the girls cried.

They were all huddled around a handsome Monte Blanc pen inscribed with the doctor’s initials. Ira’s colleague, Arnold Simmons was retiring the first of next month and Arlene was handling the retirement party.

She examined the pen up close. “This is lovely. I’m sure he’ll treasure it.”

“You’d better put that away. Arnold is right behind me.”

All three jumped.

“Ira, you scared us half to death,” she admonished.

He planted a warm kiss on her check, enlisting a chorus of ‘aaahhhs’ from the young girls. He smiled good-naturedly.

“Don’t you ladies have something you should be doing?”

“Yes, doctor,” they said in chorus and scattered.

“I have that list of names you need for the invitations,” he told his wife. “It’s on my desk.”

Arlene followed Ira to his office that she jokingly referred to as a study in disorganization; yet she knew that if questioned, he could find whatever he needed in a snap. He handed her a sheet of names, then drew up two chairs. Arlene had overseen similar functions. Ira knew he could trust her to make it a memorable event.

For the next thirty minutes, they discussed the wording for the invitations, flower arrangements (Ira would have preferred there were none. Too, fussy, he said, but she overrode him) and reviewed the luncheon menu, all of which was charted in a brown leather events journal.

In closing, it was decided that Ira would take care of the gift, a set of monogrammed golf clubs.

“I would like to ask Emma to provide the cake,” Arlene said, filing a small leather bound notebook that held all the details inside her tote. “She could use the money.”

“That’s a great idea,” Ira standing to stretch. “Funny you should mention her name. I just happened to think about her during Shachari this morning and offered up a prayer.”

“That’s lovely. Thank you. Em could use all the prayers she can get.”

Ira attended daily services at Temple Shalom and had just been asked to join the Board of Finance. Since synagogues were financed through membership, not by collection plates as in churches, Ira would help to oversee annual dues and the purchase of reserved seats for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

“I still can’t believe the mess Jerry left that poor woman in,” he said with a shake of his head.

“You and me both,” Arlene said, bitterly. “I dropped in to see her on the way over. She was crying her eyes out. The bank served her the final notice on the house. She has ten days to get out or the sheriff will physically remove her and move her belonging out on the street.”

“What’s she going to do?”
”
“I don’t know,” she said, her face tight with concern for her best friend. “I’m really worried, Ira. She has no place to go. I offered her our guest room, but she won’t take it.”

“Have her talk to Sadie Kaufman,” he said. “She belongs to our synagogue. She also heads the social service department here at the hospital. She’s an incredibly sharp woman with a heart of gold. If anyone can help Em find a place to live, she can. She can also connect her with other social service programs.”

“Oh, Ira…that’s a great idea!” She flew out of her chair and planted a huge kiss on his lips.

“Well…” he said, leaning back in his chair with a wide grin. “I should try to come up with more brilliant ideas.”

For the first time since learning of Emma’s problem, Arlene felt a surge of hope. She stuffed the guest list inside her purse, gathered the journal and scrambled out the door, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll catch up with you later. I need to talk to Sadie and find out how soon she can see Emma.”

When Emma got home after another unproductive day of job hunting, there was a message from Arlene on her answering machine.

“Em, I’ve got some great news. I spoke to a woman whose name is Sadie Kaufman. She’s a social worker at the hospital. Ira has known her for years. Anyway, I stopped by her office, and we had a little talk about your situation. I hope you don’t mind. I didn’t give her your name.

“She’s offered to help you file for Public Assistance and sigh up for a HUD housing voucher. Apparently, there are certain apartment houses subsidized by the state that you can rent on a sliding scale basis. But she’ll explain all of that when you call. Her number is 889-6500, extension 2213. I hope this helps.

“Oh…I almost forgot. If I were to purchase all the ingredients, would you be up to baking a cake for Arnold Simmons’s retirement party, but only if you let us pay you. You can’t afford to keep baking cakes for free. Give me a call and we’ll discuss the particulars.”

Emma dialed Sadie Kaufman’s number without bothering to take off her coat.

“You must be Arlene’s friend,” Sadie said in a bright, clear voice that filled Emma with hope. “She wouldn’t divulge your name, of course. So, I’m glad that you decided to call. Now, I understand that you’re experiencing some personal challenges. How can I help?”

How could she help? The offer brought tears to her eyes.

She quickly explained her situation, emphasizing how she had been searching for work but without any luck. She didn’t want the woman to think that she was a deadbeat or just looking for a handout. She wanted above all else to be independent. But at this moment, she couldn’t see how.

“I know how frightening all this must be for you, but don’t get discouraged,” Sadie said with the confidence that comes with years of assisting people in similar situations.

“There’s help out there. You just have to know where to look for it and since it’s my job to know, you’ve come to the right place. Now, let’s start with your immediate needs. How are you on food or heat?”

“We’re all right for the moment. Oil tank is half full and I have about ten dollars left in cash, but there’s food in the pantry. I stockpiled whenever I saw a sale. If my son doesn’t mind eating pasta and canned soups, we’ll be okay for awhile.”

“Tell me about your housing situation. Arlene mentioned that you’re home is coming into foreclosure. How soon will you need to vacate?”

Emma glanced at the big black ‘x’ on the wall calendar. “Ten days.”

“That doesn’t give us much time, but as I told Arlene, there happens to be a unit at the housing projects on Maple Street that’s just opened up. It’s pretty basic, one bedroom…maybe one of you can sleep on a couch…a living room kitchen combo, but it will keep you and your son off the streets. Meanwhile, give me the name of your bank. I’ll see if I can get you an extension.”

Emma relayed the information.

“Since time is of the essence, why don’t we meet at your house tomorrow, say at six? I get off here at five.”

“That would be fine.” Emma gave her the address.

“We’ll fill out some paperwork, and I’ll explain the types of programs that are out there and if you’d like, I’ll set up an appointment with the supervisor at the housing project so we can tour the apartment. How does that sound?”

It sounded wonderful. Someone had just thrown out a safety net. She was no longer in danger of falling off a cliff.

She finally removed her coat, pumped up the thermostat two more decrees. She kept it on sixty to conserve fuel.

A school friend of Benjamin’s would be dropping him off shortly. It didn’t matter that he was eighteen and was just a few months away from graduating high school; she still liked to have a snack ready when he got home.

She removed the remainder of a half gallon of milk from the refrigerator, a canister of dark chocolate from the cabinet, a bottle of vanilla extract and a bowl of sugar. Packaged foods were an enigma to Emma. She felt that everything tasted better made from scratch. With practiced skill, she quickly mixed her special blend of homemade hot chocolate in a saucepan and began to stir.

As the first sweet scent of chocolate filled the kitchen, her mind wandered back to the chance meeting with Father Joe. Could this sudden answer to her most urgent needs had been one of those ‘God-incidences’?

What had Father Joe said? That God often replies to our needs by sending a series of seemingly random events that helps to propel us towards the answers we seek. She heard a car pull into the driveway, followed by her son’s voice. She took down a mug and set it on the counter, suddenly feeling less alone.

One week later, Emma stood in the middle of an empty apartment that reeked of urine and a sickening sweet smell that she couldn’t place, reminding herself that she should be thankful that Sadie had found her a place so quickly.

Sadie took a disinfectant wipe and cleaned off a section of kitchen counter that was thick with grease (at least that’s what Emma hoped it was) and began the laborious task of filing out the endless reams of forms that society’s poor were subject to whenever they asked for help.

Emma tried hard to keep her eyes steady on Sadie, not the bug that was crawling up the wall.

“I think that should do it,” Sadie said, removing her reading glasses to let them dangle from a thick chain.

“So, this is all mine, now,” Emma said, taking a stab at levity, although her mind was locked in dread at having to live in a place that stank and had bugs crawling up the walls. What would Benjamin say when he found out that this was to be his new home?

“Emma…?”

She shook her heard, trying to loosen the tangle of thoughts. “Sorry, I was someplace else.”

“I understand. This is hardly what you’re used to.” Sadie had visited their current home. “But don’t let it get you down. Think of it as a bridge between where you are now and where you want to be in a year or two from now.”

“I wish I knew where that was,” Emma sighed.

“Give yourself some time. Things will work out.”

“Can I have that in writing?” Right now the future was looking pretty grim.

“Don’t look at how far you have to go. Look at how far you’ve already come just in a few short weeks,” she reminded Emma. “When you first came to see me you were about to be evicted and didn’t have a place to stay. You had no financial resources and now you have. And although this is not the Ritz, I’m confident that with your taste, you’ll make it your own. You’ll be surprised what a coat of paint will do. And for those financial needs…”

Sadie pulled out an envelope form her purse. “Here’s your first ration of food stamps. It works out to about sixty-dollars a week. I know that’s not a lot, especially with a teenage son in the house, so I’ve jotted down the address to the food pantry. It’s about two blocks from here. It will help at the end of the month when your stamps run out.”

Food stamps. Subsidized apartments in the less than desirable section of town. Emma walked over to the only window in the living-dining room-kitchen area and tried to harness the sudden surge of hatred directed at Jerry.

He was the one responsible for their having to live here be reduced to accepting food stamps to survive. He was the one who had taken apart their world brick by brick and left them in rubble. He was the one who had abandoned them, leaving them alone to fend for themselves.

Sadie stuffed the paperwork inside a satchel already thick with folders and handed Emma a key.

“This is all yours now,” she said, smiling. “I’ll deliver the signed lease to the agent and have the utilities transferred over. If you want a phone, that will have to be on your dime, but if you can’t afford one, there’s a pay phone in the vestibule downstairs that the tenants use.”

Sadie glanced around the apartment one last time. “Are you going to be all right?”

Emma nodded, forcing back the fear that was growing like kudzu, choking off her air supply.

How would she ever manage alone? It was a terrible shock to discover that at forty-two, she had never opened a bank account, filed taxes or worked out a budget by herself. What if she didn’t have the skills? Yet, she couldn’t fail. She had a son depending on her. With all her inadequacies, she was all he had.

“Thank you for all you’ve done,” she told Sadie, walking her to the door. “I don’t know how I would have managed without your help.”

“My pleasure,” Sadie said, placing a hand on her arm. “I know that you’re scared, but remember the saying that goes, What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger?”

Emma smiled. “Yes.”

“Believe it or not, when this is over, you’re going to find strengths that you never knew you had. You’ll be a better woman for it. I promise.”

Emma felt that might yet have to be proven. Right now, she felt like curling up with a blanket on her living room sofa (which was about to be repossessed along with most of the furniture Jerry had insisted they buy on time) and withdraw from the human race.

But as comforting as that thought might seem, it wasn’t an option. Benjamin had already been abandoned by one parent.

“If you have any questions, you know where to find me,” Sadie said, then disappeared down the hall.

Emma waited until her footsteps faded before giving way to the tears.

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

• Chapter One
• Chapter Two

Copyright 2009 Katherine Valentine

Katherine Valentine’s widely read novels explore God’s response to our prayers in times of need. They include:  A Miracle for St. Cecilia’s; A Gathering of Angels; Grace Will Lead Me Home; On a Wing and a Prayer; The County Fair and The Haunted Rectory. All can be found in major bookstores and on-line.

Thirty-second Sunday in Ordinary Time

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• Sunday’s Gospel
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  Solution:  Across:  2.  widow;  3.  treasury;  4.  condemnation  Down:  1.  scribes;  3.  two
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Pre-K Lesson Plans:

We will be providing weekly Pre-K lesson plans this year. These do not coincide with the Sunday Liturgy of the Word, but are specifically created for Catholic Pre-K learners.

• Moses
• Joseph and His Wonderful Coat
• Prayer – I Can Talk to God
• Noah’s Ark
• Adam and Eve
• God Made Me and I’m Special
• Creation Day Seven – On the Seventh Day God Rested
• Creation Day Six – Animals on Land and Man
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• Helping Hands Chart
• Special Needs Students – Information to Gather from Parents
• Preparing Your Religious Education Classroom

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• Christianopoly File Folder Game: Gospel Matthew 22:15-21 Do you think paying bills and taxes is easy? Here is a game to see how well you can handle the responsibility of good financial stewardship; making the right decisions about the money we have and managing it wisely. This includes being able to pay necessary bills at home, putting aside for the things you want, and taking care of your family. Not only do you have bills to pay, mortgages, insurance, etc. you must pay taxes, make donations and do tithing as well.
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The Catholic Kid’s Guide to Stewardship – Kids are amazing! Show them real need, appeal to their generous hearts, and they will surprise you with their creativity and perseverance in doing good for others. The Catholic Kid’s Guide to Stewardship is based on the seven corporal works of mercy on the belief that even the youngest child can make a difference. The author has collected here some memorable and touching true stories of what kids have accomplished — and are still accomplishing! She centers each chapter on Scripture and the teachings of Jesus, offering passages kids can read on their own or with their families. Also included are idea starters that suggest ways kids can be stewards, depending on their age, gifts, and inclination. Each chapter also contains a Note to Parents and Catechists, emphasizing practical points to watch for or to discuss with children, plus a Stewardship Prayer. The book concludes with a chapter on stewardship resources. Written for ages 9 to 12, The Catholic Kid’s Guide to Stewardship provides inspiration not only for children but for adults as well. An invaluable resource for religious educators and parents!

Last week, we shared Chapter One of noted author Katherine Valentine’s newest inspirational novel.  Join us each Monday as we watch this incredible story unfold.

Sweet Dreams – Chapter Two

Emma stepped off to allow a man with a walker to pass and landed in a puddle of water that ran over the top of her shoes and was now working its way down to her toes. She had never felt more forlorn or scared in her life.

It’s the kind of dreary grey day when the wind seems to penetrate the very soul, Emma was thinking as she trudged downtown. The sidewalks were coated in a mixture of mud and brown slush. The few people who were out, walked hunched over, their heads tucked into their coats like a turtle in a shell.

She pushed her scarf up over her face, more to hide the tears than to keep out the wind.  Normally, she was not given to tears like many women. But lately, it took very little for her chest to tighten and her eyes to grow moist.

She had just finished her fourth job interview this week. With no computer skills and the technical savvy of a bushman, she had long ago given up any hopes that she might snag a job that allowed her to wear her own clothes. In fact, today’s job interview was as low as a woman over forty could go. But she had swallowed her pride and applied as a counter person at Shake and Eats. She had a son to care for.

A boy who was not much older than Benjamin wore a nametag that read, “Bobbie, Store Manager,” and made it very clear by his lack of attention that he was not at all interested in hiring a middle aged woman. His sights were keenly focused on the young blonde filling out an application at an adjacent booth. The girl wearing tight spandex pants and a sultry smile.

Emma seriously doubted that he had even heard her name or anything else that she had said about being reliable and knowing the importance of working as a team. After their short interview, he mumbled something about letting her know within a few days if she had the job, then hustled over to the booth, smiled broadly and apologized for keeping the blonde bombshell waiting.

As she walked along, the wind cutting across her face, she considered overriding her pride and accepting Arlene’s offer to use her spare room, at least until she could find a job. Any job. Maybe she should canvas her neighborhood and ask if anyone needed a housecleaner.  Her neighbors would probably love the idea of having ‘the fallen’ clean their house.

She was quickly running out of options and scared.

The bank had called this morning. They wanted her out by the end of the month. Where would she go?

Her search for an affordable place to live hadn’t gone much better than her job search. Landlords demanded two months rent and a security deposit in advance and an up front, non-refundable fee to run a credit check. Even if she had funds to spare, she wouldn’t have bothered. Her credit score was linked with Jerry’s.

So with no assets, a zero credit score and not having held a job in near twenty years, she was not what landlords considered a desirable tenant.

Oh, God, what would they do? She and Benjamin might soon be homeless.

A deep throated man’s voice interrupted her dark thoughts.

“You look like you could use some time out of this wind.”

A priest swathed in a bright orange stripped hand-knitted scarf, his face chaffed from the cold, was trying to pry a thin layer of ice off a set of stone steps. To his right a large sign read, “St. Gerard’s”.

“You know the church is often called a haven in the storm,” he said with a grin that lifted a set of jowls and emphasized the tiny nest of lines tucked in the corners of a pair of gentle brown eyes. She judged him to be around her age.

“Thank you, Father, but my car is parked a few blocks down. I think I’ll just keep going.”

“I have a pot of tea brewing,” he called. “And a tin of cookies baked by one of the our church’s fine ladies, although….” he did a quick checked to make sure no one was listening, then leaned down and whispered, “In all honestly, I wouldn’t advise the cookies unless you have a very reliable dental plan.”

She smiled. The priest took it as a sign of encouragement and pressed on.

“Perhaps I should introduce myself. I’m Father Joe Lansing,” he said, leaning the shovel against the railing and covering the distance between them with one, lengthy stride.

He removed his glove and extended a hand.     She shook his hand. His grip was firm. His eyes were kind.

“The offer is made in the spirit of friendship, and if I might say without causing offence, you look like you could use a friend.”

She had worked so hard, not to break down.  Not to show emotion in public. But something inside suddenly broken. Frustration, hurt, anger and fear burst in a torrent of tears. She crumbled under its weight and collapsed onto the stone steps in a sobbing mass of despair.

She supposed that if she was to have a total mental collapse, outside a Catholic Church was as good a place as any. Emma had been raised a Catholic, but hadn’t been to Mass in years which suddenly struck her as ironic. The Church she had abandoned was the Church which was now offering her repose.

“My dear lady,” he said. “There, there. I’m sure it’s not as bad as all of that.”

She looked up, tears streaking her face. “It’s worse. So much worse than you can ever imagine.”

“Would you like me to call someone?” he asked, helping her to her feet. “A friend or relative, perhaps?”

His genuinely concerned touched her deeply.  She shook her head and tried to compose herself. “I’m sorry, Father. I…er…there’s no one.”

He pointed towards the church doors and smiled.  “I beg to differ.”

She looked up.  “I’m afraid that He’s not much interested in my problems, either.”

“And how would you know that?”

“I figure that if He cared, He wouldn’t have allowed my life to shatter.”     There was a hard edge to that comment that surprised her.  Did she really blame God for all of this?

“Then you’ve come to the right place.”

“I have?”

“It just so happens that shattered lives are my specialty,” he said, taking her arm and steering her up the steps.

She was too weak and dazed to protest. She followed meekly.

“Be careful here. They’re might still be a piece of ice. I haven’t salted yet.” He opened the thick, wooden door and stepped back to allow her to enter. “Mind if I ask your name?”

“Emma. Emma Smith.”

“Well, Emma Smith, let us have a nice cup of tea and try not to break any caps on those cookies.  I always find that everything seems a tad better when there’s food involved. And as you can see.”  He patted to his pouch.

Emma liked this self-effacing man of God and began to find, if not a ray of hope, a ray of comfort.

He led her into the sanctuary and through a side hallway that connected the church with the rectory. They passed the church secretary, who smiled and nodded as though interruptions were commonplace.

“I turned off your teapot,” she admonished, calling after him as he buzzed by. “If you’re not careful, one of these days you’ll burn down the place.”

“Which is why the good Lord sent you to watch over me,” he countered, making the woman shake her head and smile.

Father Joe’s office was to the right off another long corridor. A bank of tall windows flanked the south wall and looked out over a dormant rose garden that encircled a statue of the Blessed Mother.

“Make yourself at home while I fix us a spot of tea as my Irish grandmother used to say. How do you take it?”

“Just plain, please.” While Father Joe went about making the tea, she studied the walls which were covered with crayoned pictures.

“Be careful. It’s hot.” He handed her a mug then motioned to a set of chairs. “Those are from my little friends down at the shelter.”

“Really?”

“You seem surprised.”

“They’re living in a homeless shelter, yet their pictures are so colorful and…happy.”

“Children live in what St. Catherine of Siena termed, ‘day tight compartments’,” he said, blowing steam off his mug. “They’re seldom plagued by our adult worries. Elm Street Soup Kitchen and Shelter is one St. Gerard’s outreach missions. It’s run by a core of very dedicated volunteers who work very hard to make certain that our guests are as comfortable as possible.”

“I’m afraid that if things don’t turn around for me soon, my son and I might soon be your newest guests.”

With those words, came a new jolt of fear. This was real. They might actually have to live in a homeless shelter. She glanced back at the wall, wishing she could be like those children and not worry about tomorrow. But she had a son. It was her business to worry.

He offered a plate of cookies with heavily blackened edges. “Please, take one if you wish, but I warned you, do so at your peril.”

She declined.

“Smart choice. Mrs. Finley hands me a new batch every Sunday after Mass,” he said, setting the platter on a side tale. “For which I add another Hail Mary to her penance.”

Emma laughed out loud. Father Joe wasn’t like any priest she had ever met before.

“So, tell me, why might you have to live at the shelter?”

She felt heat rising, reddening her checks.  She would never get over the embarrassment of her plight.

“My husband disappeared, along with a quarter million dollars from the bank he used to manage and our joint accounts.  Now, our home is being foreclosed on and I have just ten days to vacate and find a new place to live with no money.”

“I see…” He grew quiet.

“I need a miracle, Father,” she concluded, certain that none would be forthcoming.

“Not all of God’s answers involve miraculous intervention like manna dropping down from the sky, or angelic visitations,” he told her. “Many of God’s responses begin with ordinary people that He sends across our path.”

“Like you?” she asked, smiling.

“I bet you think that our meeting was a coincidence.”

“Wasn’t it?”

It was his turn to smile. “Our janitor went home sick today before he had a chance to shovel the church steps. Now, I knew if I left it undone that slush would turn to solid ice by morning, and I couldn’t risk an elderly parishioner falling and breaking a bone. So, I grabbed a shovel and while attending to the steps, I saw you.”

“So, you’re saying that God arranged our meeting?”

“Something like that.”

“Excuse me Father. I don’t mean this to sound rude, but why?”

“No offence taken. I don’t have an answer to that. Maybe He knew you needed someone neutral to talk to. Maybe He had hoped that you might find comfort here. If I might ask, what religion are you?”

She nodded. “I was raised a Catholic, but I kind of drifted off during college.”

“Maybe God decided to send one of his most charming men of the cloth to woo you back to the fold with jaw-breaking cookies and a mug of weak tea?”

He set his mug aside and grew serious. “Right now you’re consumed with fears and worries of how you’re going to fix this problem. How will you find a job? Or a place to live? Or the money for groceries. Am I correct?”

“That pretty much sums it up.”

“But what if you were to begin an outrageous experiment. The Bible says that God is a provider of those who diligently seek Him. What if you were to return to the Church and daily prayer? What if you were to ask God to bless you richly so you might bless others richly in His name?”

Emma was having a hard time processing a God that wanted her to achieve that kind of success. She had always thought that the most we could expect from God in times of trouble was a comforting word, or the hope that when we died our sorrows in this life would be over.  But a God who activity sought our highest good, then joined with us so we might enrich other lives?  That would take some readjusting. Yet this priest, this man of God was telling her that it was possible.

“It’s a bold prayer,” Father Joe admitted. “And not for the dilettante. Only those who are truly committed to seeing this experiment through should make this contract with God. But I promise you this, Emma…” His eyes grew earnest. “If you will offer up this period of suffering and trial to God for His glory, you will enter into a realm of joy so fulfilling that you’ll awaken each day filled with unexpected ‘God-incidences’.”

“What’s a ‘God-incidence?”

“That’s when God replies to our needs by sending a series of seemingly random events that helps propel us towards the answers we seek.”

“Like sending your janitor home so you would shovel the church steps and just happened to be there when I passed by so you could offer me tea and cookies?” she said, half jokingly.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to blame the Lord for the cookies, but…yes.  I believe that’s exactly the way He set things up. Think on the series of events that had to take place for me to be out front at the precise moment that you appeared, without, any of which, could have mucked up the deal.

“Our janitor could have decided to go home ‘after’ he had shoveled the walk. I could have been called away to the phone. You could have decided to park your car elsewhere.”

Emma was slowly catching the wisdom behind Father Joe’s theory.

“I guess my question is, ‘what comes next’?”

“Ah…that’s the exciting thing about turning your life over to God. You never know when He’ll pull a rabbit out of His hat.”

“But how will I recognize His leading?”

“By just being open. God speaks to us throughout each and every day. Through chance meetings, like this. Through books, newspaper articles, movies. I once had a woman tell me that when she needed retirement funds for her husband that God sent her the idea for a book that sold enough copies to answer her needs. God’s ways are infinite.

“So, Emma Smith. How about handing your troubles over to the Lord, instead of carrying them around by yourself? You never know where He might take you. Besides, you have nothing to loose and everything to gain.”

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

Sweet Dreams – Chapter One

Copyright 2009 Katherine Valentine

Katherine Valentine’s widely read novels explore God’s response to our prayers in times of need. They include:  A Miracle for St. Cecilia’s; A Gathering of Angels; Grace Will Lead Me Home; On a Wing and a Prayer; The County Fair and The Haunted Rectory. All can be found in major bookstores and on-line.

Sarah Reinhard brings us a Mary Moment with Deacon flair!  Sarah and Deacon Tom Fox discuss devotion to the Blessed Mother, including the self consecration to Mary, Louis de Montfort’s True Devotion to Mary, the Madonna House, and Sarah’s column on Our Lady of Combermere.  Don’t forget to contact Deacon Tom at his Catholic Vitamins podcast to get one of the free copies of the “Discerning Your Gifts” brochure.

We close the show this week with a debut of the terrific Popple song Salt and Light from their new CD “Hip Hip Hooray”.  Check out the Popple website and download or order your copy of Hip Hip Hooray today.

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This episode of Catholic Moments is sponsored by CatholicMatch.com, the Leading Catholic Singles Community.  Share your feedback at 206-339-9272, comment here on the blog or email lisa@catholicmom.com.

Links for this Episode:

• Fr. Andrew Gawrych, C.S.C.:
  • The Cross, Our Only Hope: Daily Reflections in the Holy Cross Tradition
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  • The Gift of the Cross: Lenten Reflections in the Holy Cross Tradition
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Many of you join me in my great admiration for the work of this wonderful Catholic novelist.  Katherine Valentine’s widely read novels explore God’s response to our prayers in times of need. They include:  A Miracle for St. Cecilia’s; A Gathering of Angels; Grace Will Lead Me Home; On A Wing and A Prayer; The Country Fair and The Haunted Rectory. All can be found in major bookstores and on-line.

Be sure to join us on Monday morning, October 19 at 10 am Pacific time to begin reading Chapter 1 of Sweet Dreams here on the website.  New chapters will be added weekly as we enjoy this delicious new novel together!  Please tell your book loving friends and join me in thanking Katherine Valentine for this wonderful new addition to the literature she has created.

Sacred Hearts: A Novel

I am pleased to share my conversation with Ms. Dunant and to highly recommend Sacred Hearts: A Novel to those seeking an interesting fiction read with roots in Catholic history and theology.

Please briefly introduce yourself and your family to our readers.

I am a 58 year old woman, a novelist and one time radio presenter for the BBC with two children, both girls, now 18 and 21.  We live in London, but have a small apartment in Florence where I go when I am researching or writing. Though recently my daughters have found it is the perfect place to go without me and with their friends! I always wanted them to grow to learn Italian and love the city so I suppose I should have realized that would do that more powerfully without me! Letting go is maybe one of the hardest bits of being a mother ….

What provided the inspiration for you to write Sacred Hearts: A Novel?

I had become very interested in Renaissance history as a result of researching and writing my novel, The Birth of Venus about young girl painter growing up in Florence in 15th century. That book took me briefly into a convent and it was then I learned that over the next century, as dowry inflation grew, and families were not able to marry all their daughters, an ever increasing number of young women were PUT into convents to be married to Christ. Historians estimate that almost half of all well born women ended up as nuns. An extraordinary statistic!   Of course not all of them entered the cloisters with a vocation.  The more I learned about this,  the more I knew that there was a wonderful novel waiting to be written about both the convents and the women – old and young – inside them.

Can you share a bit of insight on your own faith background and how the writing of this book impacted upon you spiritually?

I was born and raised a Catholic in London and though I stopped practicing as a young adult, I became very interested in both history and art, in which the Catholic Church played such a huge role.  Five hundred years ago, of course Catholicism was not simply a religion, but a whole cultural and political edifice. The role of women in society was profoundly different and as I started to research Sacred Hearts I became fascinated by how some women, sometimes of noble birth but sometimes quite humble, set out to find a way to God through ecstasy and vision.   I studied a number of their experiences and was enthralled by their power and commitment and how in their own way they transcended the deep social constraints of the time to become notable, often admired and influential figures. Of course not all of them found it easy. Some women in convents were deeply unhappy, while others managed to find a way to God through other means, such as music or healing or writing.  Sacred Hearts: A Novel, is about all of them and I have attempted to describe and explore their journeys honestly and give them as much power as my writer’s pen can muster.

The book, along with being tremendously captivating, is also almost encyclopedic in detail.  What type of research went into learning about the lives of 16th century cloistered nuns?  What were some of the most interesting details you learned in the research process?

While I think I always expected to find a contrast between those women who pursued spirituality and those women who genuinely fought against being enclosed against their will, I don’t think I had any idea what creatively and dramatically rich places convent were.  How many young women and children there were inside (novices entered at the age of menstruation at 13 or 14) or how, before the Counter Reformation, how relatively open some of these places could be: how their families were constant visitors, how there were concerts and even plays performed (often written by the nuns themselves) and most of all how deeply important music was. Convents were often famed for their choirs and choir mistresses were arranging and singing some of the greatest spiritual music ever composed by composers such as Palestrina and Rore. There were even women nun composers. My research brought me into contact with an early music group in Britain which as a result of our collaboration went on to record all of the music which is featured in the book. For those who love the work of Hildergarde  of Bingham, please give a listen to “Sacred Hearts Secret  Music” (You can hear examples of it along with the story of nuns music online either at my web site, SarahDunant.com or the group’s website, MusicSecreta.com.)  The sound of these women’s voices, recorded in a 16th century English church (I was there when they did it and it sent chills down my spine) in the very same arrangements that those  16th century nuns would have used is an eerie and wonderful experience.

I’m curious to know if you have had any response or feedback from religious sisters who might have read the book and what they thought of it?

Oh yes, interestingly, I have had responses from a number of former nuns in America and Australia. They all say how fascinating it is to look back 500 years. And how, though many things have changed, some of the atmosphere and emotional dynamic within the convents they lived in were in many ways recognizable. Also I have a friend who is becoming a nun in an American convent as I write this. I have sent her a finished copy of the book (she was very helpful talking to me about it during my research).  I haven’t yet heard from her but I daresay she has her mind on other things as she is just preparing to take her vows!

Please share about your writing process and what it takes mentally and emotionally to so fully immerse yourself in a story like this.  Is there any pain in having to “let go” of the characters at the end of the creative process?

This novel was the hardest I have ever written. At first I found it almost painful to enter the inner life of the characters because so many of them had been given no choice as to the lives they must lead. But of course a good historical novelist must leave behind her 21st century sensibility and try to enter the minds of her characters as they would have lived then. And once I did that they – all of them – become intensely alive for me, from the howling young novice who comes in determined not to stay, through the devout and spiritually novice mistress to the smart and politically  adept abbess.

Now I am on the road talking about the novel and the characters are no longer quite so intensely my own. They are now out there in the world finding a relationship with others. At one level I am delighted and at another a little sad because I had become very close to the incarcerated, as we all were together through all manner of dramas. But for there to be another book, you must let go of the one you have written, or at least let it find its own level. I am not quite ready to do that yet, but in time I hope I will be.

Without giving any “spoilers”, what future do you imagine for Serafina and for Zuana?

I never know what happens after I write the words The End. Yet people always ask me. I suppose I should take it as a compliment because it shows how involved they have become with the characters I have created. The real answer is that their future is for you the reader to imagine. They are your characters too – you now know a great deal about them, in some ways as much as I do and can imagine their future as well as I can (and certainly you have as much right to that imagining).

What I would say is that by the end of the novel both of them have been profoundly changed by their experiences and will have been made humbler by the process. In my own life it is the hard times as much as the good ones that have shaped me. I would like to hope it is the same for them.

Thank you for writing such a compelling story!  Are there any additional thoughts or comments you would like to share with our readers?

No – but I would love to hear from you all. As I say the book now “belongs” to anyone who reads it, and your thoughts would be fascinating for me. You can find me through my website (www.SarahDunant.com) and I try as far as possible to reply to specific thoughts and questions.

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THOMAS MORE COLLEGE RELEASES BOOK BY SCOTT HAHN, ARTIST DAVID CLAYTON TO DISCUSS BOOK ON EWTN

MERRIMACK – This week the Thomas More College of Liberal Arts released a children’s coloring book authored by Catholic writer Scott Hahn entitled God’s Covenant with You.  Hahn is one of the most best-loved Catholic commentators on Holy Scripture and the author of several popular books on the Bible.

God’s Covenant with You is designed to draw children into biblical stories through beautiful drawings that teach the Catholic faith on many levels. The book is a simple approach to the Bible that communicates the Covenant and teaches the Catholic faith on many levels. The book is suitable for children aged 8-12, and can be ordered at www.ThomasMoreCollege.edu/Publications.

Thomas More College Artist-in-Residence David Clayton drew the icons featured on each page of the book.  Clayton will discuss the book and his drawings on EWTN’s show, Bookmark, which will be aired on Wednesday, September 30 at 5:30 p.m., Thursday, October 1 at 1:00 p.m., and Friday, October 2 at 11:30 p.m.

Bookmark host Doug Keck will interview Clayton about his role as illustrator of God’s Covenant with You, which explores God’s covenantal relationship with mankind in what might be describes as a guided walk through salvation history. The text and illustrations explain the roles of Adam and Eve, Noah, Moses, David and Solomon, John the Baptist, and Our Lady in leading us to Jesus Christ and our own covenant with God.

“I have done line drawings in traditional styles which, it is hoped, will do two things,” said Clayton. “First they will support the text in transmitting the joy of the message of the Church by focusing children’s imaginations on the spiritual landscape the book is describing.  Second, coloring the drawings will give children an entrance into the artistic traditions of the Church, so that they may be made aware at a deep level how they communicate the truth through beauty.”

“We are excited that Scott Hahn partnered with David Clayton in producing God’s Covenant with You,” said President of Thomas More College Dr. William Fahey.  “This book applies the fundamental principle of the new evangelization: the intimate association of truth and goodness with beauty. It does much to establish what Pope Benedict XVI has called the ‘culture of the word’ among children.  I am sure Catholics children, parents, and teachers across the country will be touched by this new educational resource.”

God’s Covenant with You is published in Oxford, England by ResSource, an organization led by Stratford Caldecott, the editor of Thomas More College’s journal, Second Spring.  The Thomas More College of Liberal Arts distributes God’s Covenant with You through its publishing imprint, Second Spring Catechesis, which also distributes The Mass Illustrated for Children and Meet the Angels.

All of these coloring books serve to engage the child in a more personal way with the symbolism and beauty of the Catholic faith. The images in these resources suggest levels of meaning, and connections between Bible and Liturgy, in a way that nourishes the child’s sense of mystery and of the sacred – essential for the healthy development of the life of faith and prayer through the difficult years of adolescence that lie ahead.

The Thomas More College of Liberal Arts is a four-year college that provides the rising generation with an education that forms them intellectually and spiritually within the Catholic intellectual tradition.  Additionally, the College has launched entrepreneurial new centers that seek to advance the teachings of the Catholic Church beyond the confines of its campus.  These centers include the Vatican Studies Center, the Center for New England Politics and Culture, and the Center for Faith and Culture in Oxford, England.

Fr. Leo is the author of Grace Before Meals: Recipes for Family Life, one of the few cookbooks I have actually ever read and used!  My personal copy was a gift from Deacon Tom Fox and is autographed by Fr. Leo – I almost don’t want to use it for fear that one of Fr. Leo’s signature recipes will be dripped on the pages, but this book is too good not to enjoy.

Fr. Leo’s talk this morning was very fitting, coming as we commemorate the events of September 11, 2001.  He shared with us that the origins of his Grace Before Meals ministry came about in the days immediately following 9/11, when he and his brother priests were on retreat together.  It was an amazing story, told with wit and energy.  When listening to Fr. Leo or watching him cook, you can’t help but cheer for him – I truly hope that he finds success on network television, where he can share an example of a holy Catholic priest living life to its fullest.  His message this morning also reminded us that gathering with our families around special meals, even the non-gourmet variety, draws us closer to one another and to the God who loves us so greatly.

I hope someday you have the treat of enjoying a home-cooked meal from Fr. Leo.  But in the mean time, you can take advantage of his wisdom by acquiring your own copy of Grace Before Meals: Recipes for Family Life and visiting him at GraceBeforeMeals.com.

View my photos of Breakfast with Fr. Leo at Facebook.

In this Deacon Moment, Tom shares an incident that happened just this weekend when a Eucharistic Minister didn’t give a blessing to two young people coming forward at Communion time. What do you think about this?

Why does a picture need a frame? Is a giraffe still a giraffe if you draw it with a short neck? This week we contemplate frames on Chesterton Moments with Nancy Brown.

In this week’s Mary Moment, Sarah Reinhard shares a reflection on Mary written by her parish priest.

Today’s song:  Let’s Work Together by Gerard Faucheux

Share your feedback at 206-339-9272, comment here on the blog or email lisa@catholicmom.com.

Links for this Episode:

• Jim Merhaut:
  • JimMerhaut.com
  • Your Catholic Family: Simple Ways to Share the Faith at Home, Godparenting for Life
  • LifeLongFaith.com
  • Villa Maria Education and Spirituality Center
• Current CatholicMom.com Contests – Truth for Teens Contest
• SQPN Connect
• CatholicMom.com Book Club
• The Catholic Company
• Lisa’s Facebook Profile, SQPN Connect Page, Plurk, Twitter
• Catholic Mom Logo Store

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