I launched this blog on Jan. 24 because it was the Feast of St. Francis de Sales, patron saint of journalists and writers. This is a special day for me, not only because of my blog-iversary but because it’s my professional feast day, having worked in the Catholic press in one form or another for just about 33 years. (How did I get this old?!?)

In my very first blog post, I shared one of my favorite prayers, written by St. Francis de Sales. This one used to hang on the mirror in my bathroom as a daily reminder, and it has made it into at least one of my books, maybe more. I’ve lost track. Here it is again:

Do not look forward in fear to the changes of life;

rather, look to them with full hope that as they arise,

God, whose very own you are,

will lead you safely through all things;

and when you cannot stand it,

God will carry you in His arms.

Do not fear what may happen tomorrow;

the same everlasting Father who cares for you today

will take care of you then and every day.

He will either shield you from suffering,

or will give you unfailing strength to bear it.

Be at peace,

and put aside all anxious thoughts and imagination.

                                                                        — St. Francis de Sales

 

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Have I mentioned that I really appreciate your patience with this constant bouncing around? Thanks for hanging in there. I’m starting to wonder if maybe the universe is trying to tell me something.

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This was the first time I’ve seen my sister and brother-in-law and two nieces in three years! How crazy is that? Siblings should not go that long between visits, but getting back and forth between Austin, Texas, and upstate New York can be expensive and time-consuming when you’re dragging two or three kids in tow, so it doesn’t happen very often. But when it does….look out!

I truly cannot describe for you just how much fun we had this weekend with aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews all together for hours and hours on end. Plus, if I did, I’m sure you’d think less of me. I haven’t played musical chairs in decades — and never with a margarita in hand while twirling around to Jimmy Buffet’s “Margaritaville.” And I don’t know how long it’s been since I jumped in a pool to splash around like a kid, as opposed to the sedate wading I typically do while holding Chiara these days.

We laughed, we ate, we sang, we ate, we did the locomotion in a conga line around the pool. Let’s just say, if Dennis ever wants to blackmail me, he just needs to go to the video tape. Yes, we have a video tape, a looooong video tape.

Here I am (below) last night with all but one of my Pearl River cousins (only my godchild was missing) just minutes before my sister and her family left for who knows how long. Even then, just before the tears set in, we were still trying to cram in a few more antics to recapture the very close childhood we all shared growing up — more like siblings than cousins. A very good childhood indeed.

And here is the woman at the center of our show, my grandmother, known as E-ma to all, who will be 96 on New Year’s Day. She continues to amaze us with her agility, her determination, her support and her love. That’s four generations right there: My sister, Tricia; my brother, Fred; my dad, Sal, and me. Sitting down is E-ma with five of her nine great-grandchildren. Underneath is a photo of her with all of her grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and a few extra cousins who are like grandchildren.

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I watched as Chiara and Olivia sat there drawing hearts and lines and happy faces. Then, within a few minutes, the drawings began to fade. As soon as I saw it, all I could think of are those Buddhist monks who spend hours, sometimes days, creating sand mandalas only to sweep them away after they are complete, dismantling their own hard work in a fraction of the time it took to create it.

Now maybe that concept is a little esoteric for the preschool set, but there is something very Zen-like about a toy that encourages children to perfect a little drawing only to watch it disappear moments later. It’s a lesson in detachment, one that certainly would come in handy during the school year when the kids come home with backpacks filled with papers that accumulate on countertops and end tables until I judiciously file the “keepers” in the art box and bury the rest in the trash when no one is looking.

Imagine working hard on something — painting a picture, knitting a sweater, creating a scrapbook — only to have it vanish into thin air right after you finished it. I’m thinking of writing my next blog post on the Aquadoodle just to see how it feels, only you’ll never get to read it. If a blog entry disappears before uploading, does it make a sound?

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Every once in a while since late last night she would say, “After I wake up will it be time for cake…After I get dressed will it be time for cake…After my nap will it be time for cake.” By the time dinner rolled around and the cake was sitting on the counter taunting her, it was all she could do to maintain control. She could barely eat dinner because she was so focused on that cake.

Now she’s in bed, talking about her new birthday toys (the biggest of which is a “recycled” doll house of Olivia’s that we took down from the attic and dusted off). But still, dancing through her head, is a vision of the Blue’s Clues birthday cake that I have promised to make for our Friday family reunion with my sister and her family. It’s going to be a long few days between now and the arrival of the big paw print cake.

Here’s one more birthday photo of Chiara in yet another princess outfit that Olivia helped her put on. There’s something about this photo that I just love:

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This morning we hit the 10:30 a.m. Mass at our parish. The stifling humidity in our un-air conditioned church could have made for a very unpleasant experience, but our pastor gave a homily so brief it must have broken some sort of preaching record. It wasn’t just brief; it was really good. That’s pretty hard to do. He was able to say in one minute what many other priests can’t seem to say in 15 minutes. Reflecting on the parable of the weeds sown among good seeds, he talked about how God allows good and bad to co-exist alongside each other, open always to the possibility that change could come about at any point along the way. God always sees the potential in all of us, even when we don’t see it in ourselves — or in others.

If you read my previous post about discovering our true selves, then you know I like this idea that we all have the potential to become what God intended us to be, no matter how young or old we may be. But I especially like the notion that the weeds in today’s parable are there on purpose, or that they may even have a purpose other than the typical destruction we attribute to weeds. After all, look at dandelions. To the person with the perfectly trimmed lawn, they are are a blight, but to a child, they are beautiful flowers, and to the gourmet, they are delicate salad. It’s all in the eye of the beholder, and, fortunately, our Beholder sees all of us with very generous eyes, as if we, too, are all flowers in the making.

There’s one more reason I like this weed parable translation: It gives me the perfect excuse for letting my garden grow wild for at least another day or two.

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We had lots of giggling and screaming and little girl politics, which can rival anything going on in the presidential campaign these days. People often think that girls are so much easier than boys. The reality is that girls are just different than boys but certainly no less challenging. When it comes to boys, what you see is what you get. There are no hidden agendas, no whispering, no hurt feelings. Girls may not be as loud — although these girls certainly held their own — but they are just as active in their own ways.

Between splashing on the slide and eating pizza and cake and watching movies and eating popcorn (lots and lots of eating), you would think that our five slumber party girls would have crashed on their sleeping bags in 10 seconds flat, but, as is often the case with sleep overs of any kind, sleeping wasn’t really the point. As midnight approached and one girl was cold and one was hungry and one was hot and one wanted her mom, Dennis and I had to take off our fun party faces and put on our serious parent faces. Eventually we just had to tell them, No more talking! Or whistling. Or humming. Or singing. Period. They slept until sunrise and then were right back where they left off while I made pancakes and smoothies.

I think it was a good birthday weekend for Olivia, though. Hopefully these are memories that are going to stay with her for a very long time. I know I won’t soon forget this weekend, especially when Chiara turns eight and asks for the same.

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For the past two nights, I have found my jaw tensing up as I try to understand the high-speed Scripture readings in an accent that I cannot place other than to say that it’s from the British Isles. Last night I actually had to take out the printed version of the reading from the Book of Amos because I had no idea what the woman was saying. There was no reflecting, no letting go of stress, no spiritual moment because I was so distracted by the accent. Today’s reading in honor of the Feast of St. Thomas the Apostle is a little better, but I think that’s only because I know the reading so well I’m not hanging on her every word.

So, if you do decide to give Pray-As-You-Go a try, and I recommend that you do, please just bear with them until they locate the lady with the soothing voice and calm demeanor. Click HERE if you want to pray, or if you think you can tell me what kind of accent this is. You will hear a musical selection, an introduction by a male voice, and then Eliza. And, for the record, I love Pygmalion and Eliza Doolittle. I just don’t like them mixed with my Scripture.

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This past weekend was the Feast of Saints Peter and Paul, and my pastor began his thoughtful homily with 10 words that have stuck with me:

“Believe as Peter. Preach as Paul. Love as the Master.”

It was an inscription someone wrote to him when he was ordained a deacon in Rome. I really like it though — so succinct and yet so full of clarity and challenge. In fact, I jotted it down in a journal so I wouldn’t forget it, seeing as these days I’m so forgetful that yesterday I almost returned my own books to the public library by mistake. Yes, it’s been that kind of week, and it’s only Tuesday.

Earlier this spring I did experience a kind of connection with Paul’s story in the readings of the Acts of the Apostles. The “Pray-as-You-Go” podcasts I frequently download were focusing on  Acts, and I was really struck (so to speak) by Paul (then Saul) and his role in the stoning death of Stephen (Acts 8:1), the brazenness of his attacks on the Church, the courage of the people who continued to preach despite the threats to their lives, and then Paul’s eventual and stunning conversion.

And while I love the “many parts, one body” aspect of his letter to the Romans and, of course, his treatise on faith, hope and love in his First Letter to the Corinthians, I’ve kind of always been hung up on the “wives be subordinate to your husbands” thing in his Letter to the Ephesians. I know, I know, you’re going to tell me I need to look beyond the literal meaning or the time he was living in or the people he was preaching to. Doesn’t matter. That’s a pretty tough line to get past, especially when you have to sit through it in a church filled with all those smiling husbands.

But, in keeping with the theme of this Jubilee Year, I will open my mind to the possibility that I could learn a lot from Paul, although subordination will not be high up on my list.

“Believe as Peter. Preach as Paul. Love as the Master.” A tall order, but our ultimate calling nonetheless.

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