I sent the following text message to a friend, not so much to console her, as to console myself:
Julian of Norwich said, “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”
She responded with the following:
“Julian of Norwich was hallucinating in her tiny cell and anorexic probably. But if that is what it takes to have a good attitude….”
This is why one must have friends. She knows what I need.
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I’m playing in Lisa Hendey’s sandbox at CatholicMom.com today! Do go read my serious response to the Great Christmas Tree Chainsaw Massacre.
Check it out here.
I came home from an afternoon of errands and some quiet time writing when it suddenly hit me: it’s January 31st.
So, you might ask? The problem is this: it’s January 31st and I still have the Christmas tree up, tilting in a corner of the living room, waiting for my son to come home from college to pitch it out.
I lost my mind, in that crazy psychotic way that I tend to lose my mind when I do, and since there were no witnesses (having my children witness this kind of meltdown in the past has sent them whispering about me to each other, and possibly, if they read this, to a group message on their phones).
Today’s meltdown happened because I was sick of looking at the stupid tree, and, not having any other recourse, attempted to pull it out by myself.
What was I thinking? It’s an 8 foot dried up tree. I’m a 5″7 chubby middle-aged momma.
I was not going to have that. No. No way. So I took matters into my own hands. There’s a small chainsaw in the garage. How hard could it be to use? I’ve seen my husband and my son wave it around and bring down trees.
I can do that. I’m sure Helen Reddy was singing a chorus or two in my mind when I had that bright idea. The plan was to hack the tree in half, and haul off two manageable sections. That didn’t happen.
What did happen was slightly reminiscent of that time I went skiing down the Zugspitze on my face. Then, I had snow in my underwear from sliding about 100 feet, face first, after taking a tumble.
Today, I ended up with pine needles in my underwear, hair, and, inexplicably since I was wearing boots, the inside of my socks. It was probably because I learned my technique from Leatherface.
Nevertheless, I’m a pretty resourceful broad and I took care of business.
Just don’t ask Otis.
This is Otis. He’s a funny dog — likes to have his picture taken. Seriously.
He poses.
Anyway, we’ve always thought he was a mutt with a lot of lab mixed in there, but he has such a charming demeanor and personality that we decided to have that DNA test done to discover what kinds of breeds contribute to his sweet gentle nature.
The results are back, and here’s the scoop:
Lab mix with American Stafford Terrier mix
also in his parentage: Kerry Blue, Border Terrier, Dogue de Bordeaux, Pharaoh and American Eskimo Dog
Guys! You have to watch this documentary. It’s an amazing story that goes behind the scenes of that crazy, dare I say it, insane period of time when Jeremy Lin was burning up the basketball court and helping the New York Knicks break out of a losing streak.
I review it over at CatholicMom.com today. Here’s an excerpt:
Jeremy Lin’s story inspires. He overcomes failure, racial stereotypes, and the insecurity that leads to poor performance on the court. Although an excellent player, he misses opportunities to play on powerhouse teams in college, and then, when he does get picked up by an Ivy League school, gets passed over in the NBA draft.
Director Leong takes us behind the scenes to his childhood, interviews family and friends, former coaches, and Lin himself. The result is a beautiful story of multigenerational dreams, persistence, and ultimately, a trust in God’s perfect plan. We’re treated to Lin singing his favorite Disney tunes along the way, and a self-deprecating humor that reveals a great deal about his character.
We also see him hit a low point, as he fails to make his mark on two professional teams before being given one last, desperate, chance for success with the New York Knicks. He questions himself, “How am I going to be myself with everyone looking?” It emboldens him to play with abandon — to play for God, not himself.
I hope you go on over and read the rest here.
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Dawn’s first light shivers
through half-opened blinds,
creating new patterns
on our old blanket.
The rise and fall of your chest
tethers me to the moment
tighter than the memory
of your warm embrace.
I get up anyway
and make the coffee.
An aubade is a morning love song when lovers part…this isn’t strictly an aubade, but it’ll do. I wanted to capture the ordinariness of a longtime marriage in the old blanket, the warmth of physical intimacy, the sacrifice of loving service. I’ll try a few more in the coming weeks.
The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together. Our virtues would make us proud, if our faults whipped them not. And our crimes would despair us, if they were not cherished by our virtues.
All’s Well That Ends Well
William Shakespeare
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I’ve got like this holy corner on my desk. It didn’t start that way. There was probably a rosary, maybe two, thrown in there out of the way, with a couple of loose crucifixes for twine rosary-making. A holy card joined the collection, then another, and finally, I threw it all together in a little basket.
I’m pretty sure I need a bigger basket.
I assure you I didn’t start out to be a collector of holy cards and other tiny religious objects — it just kind of caught up with me, not unlike my 50th birthday. It just happened. One day I was a carefree, spiritually messy 20-year-old, and then, BAM, I’m a 50+ year-old church lady, posting about holy cards and secretly (and diligently) praying novenas for your salvation. Yes, yours. Don’t worry, I got your back.
As if that wasn’t enough, I have a traveling collection of holy cards that spill out of my journal. Those are my go-to cards, let’s call them my essential prayers and devotions.
I was at my parents’ for a nice visit over Christmas, and my dad came out of the bedroom with a pile of cards, whining about feeling like his morning devotions were getting out of hand and shows me a handful of cards. I pretty much called him a lightweight and showed him my little collection in my journal.
My mom, the greatest straight man I’ve ever known, sucked her teeth and judged us. Hard. She got up and disappeared into their bedroom and came out with the epic collection, full of tattered cards and laminated ones in addition to pamphlets of novenas and plastic colorful rosaries. She wins.
Am I scaring you a little? Yeah. I’m a little amused that it has come to this, too. But relax, it’s good. I like it. It makes me feel good, this prayer thing. You could give it a try, too.
In years past I’ve left a Christmas Carol here for you, or maybe, my favorite clip from A Charlie Brown Christmas — you know the one -Linus reciting the story of the Nativity of Our Lord.
When my kids were very tiny, we used to tell them the story of Christmas using the sturdy resin nativity set we had. The kids would play with the pieces, marching the Magi across the living room, placing the ass and the cow in the makeshift stable we created. They’d move Joseph and Mary throughout the living room, too, until they found the manger and Jesus was born! And the little lambs, with the iconic shepherd carrying a tiny lamb on his back, were always placed near the front, close to the baby Jesus.
One year when one of our kids was months old, John and I actually participated in a live nativity at our parish.
When the kids were older, we read from the Gospel of Luke, and then eventually, they’d read it themselves. Did you ever wonder what was going on in Bethlehem outside the stable? They often asked.
This year, Elizabeth Scalia has given us a beautiful insight into what that moment might have been like. From the frightening sounds of the unknown in the night, to the raw reality of a shepherd’s life, to the tender invitation to come closer. Because really, isn’t that what Christ wants from us? For us to come closer?
Read this moving story…it starts with the shepherd tending to a wounded sheep, and then, it explodes with amazing imagery:
My little cousin and I watch as my uncle washes away the blood, and examines the wound. He is making that odd breathless noise—halfway between a gasp of surprise and a sigh of regret—that he always makes when an attack has been thwarted. My uncle, after all, is nearly forty; an old man long past the charms of making his bed upon the chill earth at night; disenchanted with stargazing while wolves in the dark distance howl, or creep in silence, just beyond our sight.
Read the rest of Elizabeth Scalia’s “A Shepherd I Will Remain” here. It will become a classic story you’ll want to share. I promise.
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another cup of coffee 
