He is Risen! Alleluia!

What a glorious day! Great joy! I just want to share one thing from a terrific homily this morning, which Father Marty says he borrowed from Pope John XXIII. "On the third day, John and Peter run to the tomb. Easter morning finds the Church running toward Jesus!"

What a magnificent image, the Church of the new age running toward Jesus! May the good Lord see fit to spur me on always, ever running to Him!

Iraqi Archbishop Found Dead

Chaldean Catholic Archbishop Faraj Rahho of Iraq has been found dead. You can read about it here and here

May his soul, and the souls of his companions, through the mercy of God rest in peace, and may Perpetual Light shine upon them, amen.

May we all also offer prayers for our Iraqi brothers and sisters in Christ at this assault on their shepherd.

The Monastic, Domestic Life, Part 2

What brought my attention to the article by Rev. Rolheiser was the following which was posted to my local homeschool group's email list:

What is a monastery? A monastery is not so much a place set apart for monks and nuns as it is a place set apart (period). It is also a place to learn the value of powerlessness and a place to learn that time is not ours, but God's.

Our home and our duties can, just like a monastery, teach us those things. For example, the mother who stays home with small children experiences a very real withdrawal from the world. Her existence is definitely monastic. Her tasks and preoccupations remove her from the centers of power and social importance. And she feels it.

Moreover, the demands of young children also provide her with what St. Bernard, one of the great architects of monasticism, called the "monastic bell". All monasteries have a bell. Bernard, in writing his rules for monasticism told his monks that whenever the monastic bell rang they were to drop whatever they were doing and go
immediately to the particular activity (prayer, meals, work, study, sleep) to which the bell was summoning them. He was adamant that they respond immediately, stating that if they were writing a letter they were to stop in mid-sentence when the bell rang. The idea in his mind was that when the bell called, it called you to the next task and you were to respond immediately, not because you want to, but because it's time, it's God's time. For him, the monastic bell was intended as a discipline to stretch the heart by always taking you beyond your own agenda to God's agenda.

Hence, a mother rearing children, perhaps in a more privileged way even than a professional contemplative is forced, almost against her will, to constantly stretch her heart. For years, while rearing children, her time is never her own, her own needs have to be kept in second place and every time she turns around a hand is reaching out and demanding something. She hears the monastic bell many times during the day and she has to drop things in mid-sentence and respond, not because she wants to, but because it's time for that activity and time isn't her time, but God's time.

This was apparently taken from an article in the Seattle archdiocese's newspaper, The Catholic Northwest Progress. Not wanting to post the material secondhand so-to-speak, I went to their website, but its search function wasn't operational. So I Googled and found the link I gave in my previous post to another article of Rev. Rolheiser's on the same theme. However, upon more reflection, I decided to post this quote, because I think it more directly addresses our lives as homeschooling mothers.

A second reason I decided to post this quote was reading Flying Stars this evening. Nancy C. Brown talks about accepting life's interruptions cheerfully! Note to self: I'm to live a monastic life, not a moanstic one!

The Monastic Domestic Life

About 12 years ago Kimberly Hahn spoke in Des Moines, Iowa. She related a story about holding the baby while trying to cook dinner with a toddler clinging to her legs and how she thought of the cloistered nuns going into prayer about this hour and said to God, "Wrong vocation, Lord! Wrong vocation!" She was kidding, of course. But we moms do have our moments!

So it was with great interest that I read this about how our lives as mothers at home can be truly monastic.

Happy Lent!

Rudy's Daughter, Too

March 1st. I still remember the snow on the ground, lawns buried in icy whiteness, and sidewalks that were navigated with peril. I remember awakening at 6 that Thursday morning to sounds in the living room: my mom sitting on the davenport in her nightgown and robe sobbing, two police officers standing there--strangers let in on an intimate moment, witness to the pain. My 17 year old brother was there, too, and as he saw me amble in he grimaced as if to say, "You don't want to come in here! Go back to bed!"

I saw my brother's look and ran right past him to my mom. Ignoring the policemen I asked her what was wrong. "I'll tell you later," she said through her tears. But I was persistent, and she too weak to fight me. "Your father's dead," she said at last.

What does that mean to a 7 year old? "Your father's dead." It would not be until later that evening that it would sink in, that my mind would finally try to grasp the meaning of the words. And then it felt as if I would die, too. "Never coming home" was too big a reality to take in, and as I contemplated exactly what that meant, that I would never see my daddy again, I became hysterical with grief, feeling that my very heart was being pierced and I could not survive.

Over the next few years I would have moments again of that unbearable grief. I was a latch-key kid of a single mom and my brother had moved away, so alone at home I would pray to God to please let it all be a mistake and please let my daddy come walking through the door. I would remember his last words to me, and remember how he sounded, and what it was like to climb into his lap. I had been his princess.

Then the memories of his person faded and one day I realized that I could no longer recollect in my mind what his voice sounded like. A new loss, to not be able to recall that sense of him alive, but with it I gave up wishing for his return. Eventually the overwhelming sorrow subsided.

I determined to be strong in life and did not grieve again for many years. I've often been told that I think like a guy, that is, I'm analytical, methodical, a problem-solver. It took me many years to ever let myself be vulnerable, especially to love. Still, I was extremely rational and fought off feelings of sadness, dismissing the loss as being "a long time ago."

A freedom of middle age has been to learn to honor my memories. No longer do they threaten anguish against which I must defend myself. No longer do I listen to my internalized elders--or others--telling me not to weep, not to feel the sadness. No, today I allow my tears. No little girl should have to lose her father, although many of us do. No little girl should have to grow up so fast, although I did. In many ways, I became the father I didn't have. But on this day, on March 1st, I let myself be the daughter again, the daughter mourning the loss of her daddy.