The Father Brown Reader

I am reading Nancy C. Brown's

The Father Brown Reader right now. It's delightful! Krazyglue couldn't put it down last night, after I told him how much I enjoyed the first story. Nancy Brown has taken 4 favorites of G. K. Chesterton's mystery stories featuring the unassuming and wise Father Brown (no relation--LOL!) and adapted them for children. Her craftsmanship in doing so is superb! And the illustrations by Ted Schluenderfritz are just perfect for this volume.

I have already purchased two for Christmas gifts, and you can order autographed copies for those on your list by visiting Nancy Brown's blog Flying Stars. Be sure to see her November 23rd blog entry entitled Why is Chesterton for Children?

Imagine your kids telling your relatives how much they enjoy Chesterton!

Call Me Old-Fashioned...

I still remember preparing for my First Holy Communion. The nuns insisted that we hold our open hands palm to palm, fingers pointed up. "Don't be lazy like some adults," they admonished, as they forbade us to interlace our fingers. It was made very clear that receiving Jesus was the best thing that could happen to us, and that our prayerful posture was the least we could do to show Him reverence. But I confess, I eventually became one of those "lazy adults."

And then came the challenge of keeping active children focused at Mass. For many years, I held the nursling, while Krazyglue (my DH) helped the toddler keep interested by redirecting his attention and explaining quietly what was happening. We brought religious kids' books for the next one up, in his "church bag". It was when they were starting to pray the Mass with us, that I remembered my training and instructed them to fold their hands in prayer just as I had as a young girl. "Fingers pointed to heaven," I told them.

Fingers pointed to heaven... That was almost the title of this post, because that is the habit that we still have, and never a Mass goes by that I am not glad for it! Through the years it has minimized all sorts of fidgeting, and most importantly, prevented sibling wars over, "He's touching me!" or, "He keeps leaning his hands on my part of the pew!" Oh yes, occasionally I still have to remind them to point their fingers to heaven, as they get sloppy from time to time. It's actually a very good thing, too, because those whispered words serve as a reminder to us all on why we're there: the Mass points to heaven and the Eucharist gives us the graces we need along the way. We're supposed to be praying the Mass, and our hands -- fingers pointed to heaven -- keep us attentive to the task. Old-fashioned? Maybe; but definitely worth doing!

Why Connie's Daughter?

I love my mom. And I haven't had the privilege of telling her that in person in 31 years, as she died at Thanksgiving when I was in my very early twenties. When I was too young to know much and thought I knew everything. My dad had died when I was seven and so my mom and I were very close. I was her "spittin' image" and proud to be "Connie's daughter." But as often happens with mothers and daughters, we grew apart when I was in my teens.

My mom was troubled at that time, and so I set out to make a life of my own. I was determined to not make the same mistakes that she had; this was something in which she'd encouraged me at every turn. Along the way, I shed the identity of "Connie's daughter." I was my own person, or so I thought.

My first son was born in December of the year following my mom's death. Wow, I never knew...I never knew what it must have been like for my mom to be a mom! My appreciation of her has only grown through the years. I have a lot more kids than my mom; I think she'd have really enjoyed her grandchildren! I know she would have adored my husband.

It's been years since anyone has called me "Connie's daughter." Probably most of my moms' friends have now joined her at the heavenly banquet, so there's really no one save a couple of distant aunts and uncles who might think of her when seeing me. But I think of her often. I am deeply grateful to my mother for handing on the Faith, and especially giving me a love of Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament. I'm so glad she shared with me her passion for literature and good music! She was a connoiseur of the English language; maybe there's a gene for that: my eldest was an English major and two more of my sons aspire to be writers.

Calling myself "Connie's daughter" is a way to pay tribute to my mom. It's a way to make her more present and to acknowledge the role she has had--in life and in death--in shaping who I am. It seems fittng as I embark on blogging to once again embrace being Connie's daughter.