Tuesday, April 22, 2014

Happy Easter

The week before Easter is a busy one for Catholics. Palm Sunday finds us singing Hosanna! as we enter the church with palms behind the priest, remembering Christ's triumphant entrance into Jerusalem on the back of a humble donkey. There is Holy Thursday Mass when we commemorate Jesus washing the feet of his 12 disciples. On Good Friday we read the Passion, as on Palm Sunday, and there is a procession with a wooden cross up the center aisle of the church. Then, at last, comes Holy Saturday night and Easter morning.

My son Berto had his feet washed, with 11 other members of various parish ministries, on Holy Thursday. He was very nervous about it, but Matthew and I told him to imagine Christ washing his feet and to reflect on something in his life with which he would like Jesus' help, or to think of someone he believes could use Jesus' help (can't we all?). Before he and I left for church, we read in John what Jesus told his disciples after cleansing their feet, "I have given you a model to follow, so that as I have done for you, you should also do."

I smiled at Berto as he sat on the altar steps in bare feet, one of just two children seated in the twelve chairs there with their white basins, pitchers and towels beneath.

"Mom," he said afterward. "Looking around, I realized that I have young feet." Then he chuckled.

It's not what I hoped he would get out of it, but oh well.

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On Good Friday I prayed a lot and took deep breaths every few minutes as I studied. I would be narrating the Lord's Passion that night at Mass, and it was my turn to be nervous to the point of feeling faint. And so I prayed for courage and understanding and for God's blessing so that I could glorify his name. I asked for Mother Mary to be with me. I asked Jesus to hold my hand.

Dear friends have told me I have a childlike faith. Perhaps that is my gift. I don't have stellar understanding. I do not write brilliant faith posts. I talk far too much when I should really be silent most of the time. But I have a childlike faith in and immense love for Christ Jesus, and so I asked him to hold my hand as I read of his Passion and crucifixion. When there were moments of silence during the narration, I pleaded, Don't leave me now. Keep holding my hand.

He did, though he suffered through it all for us, and I was merely reading about it. I was amazed; I always am. I am anxious and restless, praying to the Holy Spirit for courage, until I stand behind that ambo to read. My legs might tremble still, but I can speak clearly and, by the grace of God, help to impart understanding of His Word.

Ana served that night, and on the way home we were both feeling joyful, though perhaps we should have kept it for Easter. We were simply grateful to serve. I asked her how it felt to go to the back of the church with the deacons to bring Holy Communion and to be one of the first to venerate the cross and told her she did a wonderful job. She told me that when I read it was as if Jesus was speaking.

I didn't respond to that right away. It seemed impossible since I am a woman, but it choked me up nonetheless. And all I could think of was how I felt exactly the same way when I listened to my dad reading the Bible during my childhood.


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Throughout this year numerous people have come up to Matthew and me at church and told us how much they enjoy watching our kids altar serve, particularly Ana. She always has a broad smile on her face when she is up in the sanctuary or on the altar steps, and her joy is contagious judging from the many comments made to her parents. Berto is much more stoic and dignified, and that is his special way of serving.

On Holy Saturday one mother in the parish said, "What has made my year is your daughter. That's where it's at: singing altar servers!"

She was speaking of the way in which our Ana girl had belted out the hymn, Table of Plenty, while waiting with Berto and the deacon on the steps for the gifts to be brought forward.

Matthew and I had noticed it, too. Our little girl had her mouth wide open in praise and was moving her head about with gusto as she sang the chorus:

Come to the feast of heaven and earth

Come to the table of plenty!

God will provide for all that we need

Here at the table of plenty!

She was so in the moment that Matthew and I had to laugh, though silently of course, and we glanced over at our friend Adolfo next to us, and he was also grinning. She was certainly doing her part to spread the joy of Easter!

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Every year I'll try to share a song of Keith Green's. I was raised on his music, and he is still my favorite gospel singer and a very talented pianist/songwriter as well. He wrote several songs based on Jesus' parables, such as the Prodigal Song Suite, and they are all beautiful, so enjoy.


There is a Redeemer by Keith and Melody Green


Happy Easter, readers and friends!

Monday, April 14, 2014

# 3 Three Funny Things

My little Danny Sammy, standing with chin up and hands on hips, often repeats to our Berto, his big bro, "We are dudes!"

Berto taught him this mantra, because although Danny and Ella Boo are fantastic friends who play house all the day long (and terrible enemies), Berto wanted Daniel to know that guys are very different from girls. You know the old saying: they're made of snakes and snail goo and sharp rocks and puppy dog fleas and cool machinery, or whatever that old rhyme says.

So when the girls and I cry at the end of the movie Hachi, and Berto is rolling his eyes and Daniel is looking bewildered and completely insensitive, it's a, "We don't cry...because we're dudes. Right, Daniel?" Same thing goes for squeals over pretty clothes on shopping trips - their mantra is spoken with the same kind of thanksgiving and relief.

And Daniel always responds proudly to his hero, "Yeah, we are dudes!"

One night it morphed into something more in keeping with the times. While putting Danny to bed, I tried to ease Ella Boo's fears about an upcoming, special trip for her uncle's wedding by calling to her, "Mama and Papa will keep you all safe. It's going to be fun, and all you girls are going to be flower girls. Just think about that!"

"All of us?" asked Daniel.

"You're not a girl, Danny!" replied Booey from the other room, giggling.

"No," he said. "We're going to be flower dudes!"

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We pray Our Father in the car on the way to school each morning. During one hard week I added a personal plea of, "And may God help Mama to understand, because I feel like I have no understanding, so may he help me grasp some truth!"

And Analisa said simply and immediately, "Jesus is the truth."

"Oh, Ana..."began Berto in typical exasperation.

"No, you know what?" I interrupted cheerfully. "That may be just what God wanted me to hear this morning. Jesus said I am the way, the truth and the life. And he also said out of the mouth of babes!"

"Out of the mouth of babes?"

"Yes, Berto - like children, babies."

"Oh!"

I started laughing. "Berto, you thought Jesus meant out of the mouth of hot chicks?"

He grinned at me

I merrily laughed it up all through car line. God had blessed me with a simple answer and humor through my children. It was going to be a brighter day.

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We're getting ready to paint our house for the first time in eleven + years. There's just one problem.

Handprints.

There are muddy handprints all over the storage cupboards above the back patio. Years ago, on a post-rainy day, Berto and Ana stuck their hands in the fresh, lovely mud in the yard, and with not a papa or a mama in sight, they went up and down the back wall of the house and the cupboards, laughing and laying down their childish signatures in brown, gooey, prolific glory.

We heard them, and we caught them red-handed. Matthew wanted to be mad but couldn't, because I started giggling and became infatuated with the little handprints as their sheepish faces looked up at ours. I somehow convinced Matthew not to attempt to wash them away. They dried in the brutal desert heat, becoming frozen in time.

Our friend Ryan, a painting contractor, left these clay marks of childhood alone the day he power-washed our house. Yet he and my husband warned me that we need to paint those cupboards, or they will stick out like a sore thumb on our newly painted home.

Our house has aged. Berto and Ana have grown. But those handprints haven't changed. Every once in a while I notice them and smile.

So I'll take a picture. Then we may have all the kids dip their hands in the green trim paint and sign the cupboards afresh. Because, hey, if I ever achieve sanctity (which is about as likely as my kids remaining children forever), I might become the Patron Saint of Grumpiness as Berto suggested, but I'm also a good candidate for the Patron Saint of sentimental fools.


This post was based on Clare Law's blog, Three Beautiful Things. I always enjoy visiting her site, because I never fail to be reminded to enjoy each day and to take the time to relish all the silly, cute, sweet, unusual and beautiful things my kids do. It's all about accumulating the laugh lines and the memories.

Monday, April 7, 2014

Watch Your Kids ALWAYS Around Water: A Lesson Learned

It's that time of year again. Arizona ranks behind only Florida in the highest number of child drownings each year in the US.

I live in Phoenix, and it is very difficult to find a home without a pool. My husband and I know this, because we set out to find a pool-less home when we moved to this dusty town, and one time as we were considering moving to a larger home (ha!), that is what we looked for again: no pool. It was a serious challenge.

Why did we not want that luxury? Because they are hugely expensive to maintain and serious water hogs. Also, there are a multitude of public pools here. But the most vital reason was because I was absolutely terrified that I would one day get distracted, and one of my children would manage to get to the pool unsupervised.

I was terrified. I still am. I've read the stories, Just today I read an article from Sunday's newspaper about a non-profit, water-safety-awareness group started by a mom whose son drowned in the family pool. She didn't think it could happen to her, even though she had read the stories, too. Now she does everything she can to let parents and children know that it CAN  happen, but it positively CAN  be prevented.

Even though our family took the precaution of having just a simple backyard, knowing my easily distracted nature, it can still happen. It almost did happen to us at a pool party.

We went to an end-of-season party for my son's football team. The party was being held at the home of one of the families. They had a pool with no fence or gate. I was nervous right away. I always am, because my kids, although having taken swim lessons with the city, do not have the opportunity to practice swimming at home. Our youngest two do not technically know how to swim yet. They have learned only basic water safety while overcoming their fear of water.

I knew what I would do. I would go in my bathing suit even if I was the only parent to do so. I would sit by the pool the whole time, my youngest within arm's reach. I would follow those kids everywhere, and if one of them ventured out of sight for even an instant, I would look toward the pool first.

But I made an error. My husband and I decided to bring an inflatable dragon pool toy, one which we very rarely used, to the party for the kids.

This is a good time to point out how dangerous inflatables are for kids who do not swim on their own.

Of course, we forgot it in the car, but then I remembered, mentioned it to my husband, and then the kids started to beg for it. Matthew, circumspect man, said that they didn't need it, that I shouldn't get it because they had been having fun without it. But my whole dumb idea was to say, well...why did we bring it then?

I wish I had listened to my husband, because, apparently, the reason we brought it was so that I could, through my own foolish pig-headedness, be taught a valuable and frightening lesson.

I made the kids get out of the pool and follow me to the car. Then we went back to the backyard, and someone blew up the toy for us. Danny Sammy stayed on the pool steps. I shoved in the large inflatable dragon, and Ana or I helped her little sister Ella onto it. Right when it reached the middle of the pool, the damn thing capsized, and my little daughter splashed into the pool beside her swimming big sister.

I stood up. Ana grabbed her little sister and tried to force her up back onto the bobbing dragon. I don't remember doing anything useful in those terrible, slow moments except for yelling at Ana to grab Ella.

Good heavens, can you imagine? Why didn't I just jump in?

My beautiful, extraordinary and slender daughter Ana kept her younger sister afloat and attempted to swim her to the pool edge. Finally, my heart slapped my brain awake; I kicked off my shoes and jumped in to save my precious daughter....or should I say daughters?

I didn't realize that the water was deepest there in the middle; I couldn't touch the bottom. It caught me completely off guard as I grabbed Ella and tried to keep our heads up out of the water. I finally shoved her over and onto the lip of the pool and pulled my own self out.

And all I could say was thank you, thank you to my Ana girl over and over and apologize to Ella as my soaked cover-up and hat dripped about me.

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I have my penance to pay, because when Ella remembers that terrifying incident, she doesn't recall Mama jumping in to save her at the last moment so much as she remembers her big sister keeping her afloat for what seemed to all of us like an eternity.

It broke my heart one time when I reminded her that I had in fact pushed her out at last, and she said, "No, uh-uh - Ana saved me."

"Ana did save you," I agreed. "And I'm so grateful to Ana for keeping you afloat. I wish I had just jumped in right away instead of hesitating. Why did I hesitate? But I did finally jump in and push you out, remember?"

"No, Ana saved me," she reiterated, shaking her head and crossing her arms.

Berto, irritated, lectured Ella. Ana looked around at us with her sorrowful, soulful, saint-like face and gently tried to get Ella to see what Mama had done, too. But what can I say? I deserve no recognition. It was all my fault in the first place.

And I can only thank God with my whole heart that Ella was not seriously harmed by my foolishness and slowness. She will always remember her big sissy holding her up in that deep, unforgiving water, and I will always remember the lesson I learned.

So, please: whether you live in Milwaukee, San Diego, Tampa or Phoenix, please, please watch your kids around water at all times. Enroll them in swim lessons. And don't ever use inflatables for children who don't know how to swim.


The scary tale of how a very dear family friend almost drowned as a preschooler is found in The Hand-Dug Pool And The Day I Drowned

For the story of how my big sister Annie saved me from drowning in our flooded creek, click
HERE.