Journey Toward the Sacraments

Press suit. Check. Shine black dress shoes. Check. Purchase white satin tie and arm band. Check. Cut hair, charge camera batteries. Check and check. Stock up on paper goods, plan menu, order cake, boutonniere and balloons. Check, check and check.

Plant, weed and generally beautify yard after a long and dormant winter. Check. (Okay, this one is still ongoing….)

‘Tis the season?   No, not that season…the favored season among many, which generates lists, traditions and rich memories as well… The sacramental season:  When grace and mercy are amply bestowed by our loving Father upon first communicants and confirmandi throughout dioceses across America.

The season of photos  capturing grace filled moments of the conferring of the sacrament, which will undoubtedly decorate shelves in lovely frames for posterity. The season of when family members enjoy the camaraderie of the cooking, the baking, the decorating, the general preparing. And yes, the season when Moms and Dads of these blessed first communicants and confirmandi stress and generally place importance on the unimportant…..or the not-as-important.

As the Mom of a little one on the brink of receiving sacramental graces, I am certainly ‘guilty’ of, shall we say, overaccentuating the, well…… the fluff.  Not that a little organization isn’t helpful when it comes to the shade of blue with which your little First Communicant’s gift is beribboned; the style of cutlery… (clear or white?) with which your guests enjoy the celebratory meal; the agonizingly oh-so-exact placement of your child’s photo on the invitation; the labeling of the coffee urns as ‘decaf’ and ‘caffeinated’ or the….. Wait; did I say ‘organized’? Hmm, what I really mean is …. well, overboard.

How about a revised “to do” list? One that is actually meaningful in the deeper context of the awe inspiring sacraments about to be received by our children and one which may inspire all of us as parents and catechists to a deeper understanding of the sacramental graces?

Lately, in our homeschool, I have chosen to pare down and subscribe to the ‘less is more’ ideology.  Overextending into many resources with hope that marinating the kids in sheer volume…well, that  tends to be counterproductive for them, as well as for me.

Discussion around just a few literary jewels that truly speak to us.

Time carved out for deep, thoughtful conersations.

Writing and projects around a few classic pieces of literature or a few aptly chosen parables from the Bible.

Praying the Rosary… we are all well aware that it is the source through which abundant graces are received.

So, yes, well within my Mom ‘job description’ is directing my family’s minutiae….the essential and the extraneous.  I am blessed to be living this vocation of Motherhood and recognize the immense requisite of micromanagement expertise daily granted me by our Lord.

While the preparation for The Big Day will remain paramount on my to-do list, I will say with conviction that what-does-not-get-done will be forgotten as my husband and I witness perfection in our son’s receiving of the Sacrament on That Day.

Copyright 2013 Christine Capolino

Activity versus stillness. Sound versus silence. Society versus solitude. I still, now for fleeting moments, still, have a measure of control over the feeling, the tenor, the rhythm of my children’s days.

There is a distinct, absolute, tangible widening between my vision of a harmonious family life and our real life day-to-day journey. The ebb and flow of home-comings and goings. The hectic pace required to meet volunteer commitments, timely arrival at rehearsals, practices and team events. In our homeschooling journey, we are truly blessed to spend much of our life’s journey, many of our days, together. Living, learning, immersed in our shared schedules. Yet, as the boys grow ever more independent, the actual time we spend together, be it involved in academic or leisure pursuits, inevitably shrinks. Maintaining a balance becomes ever more vital. And ever more challenging.

We, Moms, are efficiency experts. Checklists abound. Deadlines are met; daily and, yes, yearly educational goals are accomplished; volunteer work is done; dinner is served. Yet, we, Moms, also strive for a quality in our lives that has nothing to do with checklists and goals met.

We know that none of this could be embarked upon without guidance. We cannot do it alone. We are meant to do it alone. We need our Lord and Savior. We need to know Him. To seek Him. And blessed us! His omnipresence is reassuring and revitalizing. And redemptive.

All we need do is whisper a quiet prayer. A few words of gratitude. A few words seeking patience. A few words offering a burden to a soul in purgatory; a soul who has no one. A few words which will envelop us in peace, in comfort, in the softness of the Lord’s love. A few words which will allow us to continue in our daily work, our daily graces, in our vocation of motherhood.

For we know we are blessed. We are grace-filled. During this season of repentence, during any season of our lives.

Copyright 2013 Christine Capolino

Passing Time, Filling Time

As we leave Ordinary Time to enter the season of Lent, we ready our homes, our families, our souls. The window washing, the pinning up of the handmade crosses and sentimental Easter décor,  the burying of the “Alleluias”….Those are the easy details.

Readying spiritually?  So many ways. So many.  And quite difficult.

We ready the soul by attending confession, of course. The cleansing and refreshening, the grace filled clean slate given by our Lord as always, gives us new opportunities, new beginnings.

Prioritizing weekly Stations of the Cross, another. Reading the Good Book, those scripture verses specific to new beginnings, to salvation, to repentance, to sacrfice.

We grow older with each passing minute, each passing year, each passing Lenten season. Our children, too. I intend to try, try, to live  each passing day with an awareness, not of losing time, as in a sieve. But of gaining time. Of  filling time intently, purposefully.  I am blessed with time.

I intend to observe more. Involve more. Notice more. Participate more. Perhaps not get to everything on my checklist.

Because this is the checklist of life.

When the season is over, when The Most Precious Gift ever has been given us, the gift of Love, the gift of Salvation, the gift of Eternal Life, will I feel as if I have earnestly attempted to live as one worthy?   I can only hope so. I can only pray so.

Friends, at Lisa’s sugeston, I  am humbly offering a link up at my blog. “Memoir Mondays” has been incredibly inspirational.  I’d be honored, my blogging friends,  if you  clicked over for details and  joined in the weekly hop:  http://campfiresandcleats.blogspot.com/p/about-memoir-mon.html  Thank you and a holy, memorable and fulfilling Lenten season to you.

Copyright 2013 Christine Capolino

This is Not About Resolution

Okay, maybe it is. Sort of.

This is really more about attempting small changes in life so that a habit is reformed,  a goal is adjusted, a project more thoroughly committed… …hmm, I suppose that Is the meaning of “resolution?”

<sigh> Another new year’s resolution read, huh?

I do hate that term though: New Year’s Resolution. You too? It’s just way too intimidating.

When writing is your art, it can be extremely gratifying to finally say what you meant to say. And quite often, after you say it, you realize so many others have already said it and most of them have said it better. Yes, much is already out there about resolving for a new year: To get out of debt. To exercise more. To be more fill-in-the-blank-with-a-vituous-quality.

I’m thinking, though, of a streamlined point, a  focus on one area.

How about just that? “single minded”

One. Decisive. Purposeful. Perspective.

That’s what I am hoping for this year….Who an I kidding? This day.

When the world demands our attention for so much, when the world comes crashing down, think focus.  Think, purpose. Think, single minded. Getting it done for His glory. All, in His service.

~ Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing, you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect. Romans 12:2

Remember, now is not a forever grace. But it is an amazing grace. The needs of our day are great. But God is greater. I have all I need for today.

Let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfector of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him, endured the cross. Hebrews 12:1-2

Copyright 2013 Christine Capolino

Elizabeth: A Holy Land Pilgrimage

A gem in the crown of quality Christian offerings from Bezalel Books, Elizabeth: A Holy Land Pilgrimage, will inform you,  captivate you,  inspire you.  If only it didn’t have to end.

Mrs. Dickow’s colorful, yet realistic characters will grip and endear you. Their flaws are our flaws. Their strengths, our strengths. They struggle to relate to each other and to live fully Christian lives, honoring the Lord and each other as much as possible. Feeling, at times, as if they have failed the ones they love and feeling failed, themselves. Yet recognizing the blessing of being the Lord’s servant at all times.

Page after page, you will ask yourself how the author could possibly know you so well. Your innermost thoughts, your soul. Being immersed in the lives of Beth and Luke as well as Beth’s newfound friends in Jerusalem, The Goldfarbs and a few other caring souls, will serve to enrich and enlighten us all.

So too, the author draw us into her protagonist’s journey of the soul through her descriptions. The vividness describing the historical settings as well as attention to minor details, such as the layout of Beth’s Jerusalem apartment, create a novel which rivals any on the bestseller list. Plot surprises, also, will keep you rivetted to  Elizabeth: A Holy Land Pilgrimage far into the night.

Our story begins as Beth, feeling underappreciated by her husband and four kids for far too long, plans an adventure, a pilgrimage, in Israel, a place whose history has appealed to her as her “fascination with the Jewish roots of their faith was unquenchable.”

Beth’s midlife, solo quest does offer peace of mind and relaxation. Equally important though, as she walks in the footsteps of Christ to Golgotha and as she humbly relives and relearns her Faith, are the friends she meets along the way.  Friends who have known each other but a short time, yet display true compassion in the face of adversity and an honest comfort level as well. You too, may close the book wishing that you had friends as loyal (and fun) as our heroine Beth, and her new but lifelong friends, Miriam and Rachel.

“Resources and Reflections” at the end of Elizabeth: A Holy Land Pilgrimage will equip the reader with further information around our Jewish beginnings, such as the many names of God,  Sabbath traditions and recipes for traditional Jewish dishes such as falafel and Tabouli.   Incredibly practical and also within this section, Mrs. Dickow furnishes Biblical references and a handful of prayer suggestions to coordinate with various chapters.

Looking for a beautiful Christmas or advent gift? A gift to honor the Year of Faith? Celebrate the gift of true friendship and the gift of our Faith with Elizabeth: A Holy Land Pilgrimage.

Once you have enjoyed Elizabeth: A Holy Land Pilgrimage, you will want to delve into Mrs. Dickow’s other titles. Among them: Our Jewish Roots and  Reclaiming Your Christian Self in a Secular World: A Women’s Bible Study .

Please visit the beautiful www.BezalelBooks.com for more information, to peruse their lovely offerings, or to request Cheryl Dickow as a speaker at your upcoming event.

Order Elizabeth: A Holy Land Pilgrimage and support CatholicMom.com with your purchase

Copyright 2012 Christine Capolino

Of Lingering-Firefly Summers and Crackling-Fire Winters: The Extraordinary

As we enter this beautiful, full, rich, prayerful time of year, as we look to understand our faith deeper and to engage our children in the rituals we cherish, as we ready our homes to deck our halls and ride the wave of story,  creating memories, immersing in the season……..who is there?  

For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. Matthew 6:21    

There are backyard barbeques on crystal summer days. Charbroil and hickory wafting to seemingly endless summer sky, creating forever an imprint of happiness, bliss.  Of togetherness. Of safety.

Emerald grass, lemon yellow marigolds and neon pink petunia-trimmed. Lawn chairs, neatly arranged earlier, now haphazardly strewn. Yanked by eager friends joining burgeoning, lively conversations.

A day, lingeringly, gratefully, spent with friends sans daily rigor. Heightened by comfort, familiarity, ease. Love.

There are Sunday afternoons slogging through wintry woods to a frozen pond deep within. Ice skates flung over shoulders and bumping with each step. Bright sun, radiant at eye level. Yet hiding behind full beauty of firs and leafless beauty of maple, oak. There is the anticipation, the newness of the adventure. But more so, the reveling in now.

The walk. The talk. The silence in between. The being-together.

And festive casseroles await in best china on hand embroidered linens. Aroma of roast beef, garlic mashed potatoes, buttered asparagus waft throughout the house. We enter and bring frosty January air with us. But only briefly. For candles and dimly lit inviting den, leather Queen Anne chairs straddle cracking fireplace, casting welcome glow on shelf after shelf of inviting tomes.

There is a high pitched hearty laugh here; the murmur of quiet, deep conversation there; the scrape of a pot, the multitude of sounds made by those comfortable, enjoying life. Appreciating life. Thankful for Life.

Keep open house. Be generous with your lives. By opening up to others you’ll prompt people to open up with God, this generous Father in heaven. Job 8:21

What makes these cherished memories? The timing. The feeling. The reasons.

We are guests in treasured ones’ lives. They are guests in ours’.

These loved ones who create these memories, who decorate these memories. Many gone. Most long gone. Called Home to their Eternal Reward.   At the time, were they cherished? Was I grateful? Cognizant of how truly blessed I was? Am?

Live generously and graciously toward others, the way God lives toward you. Matthew 5:48

            These angels the Lord sends our way?  Some for a moment, some a season, some a lifetime.

The ones who make the ordinary extraordinary. The ones who decorate our memories. The ones who teach us what special is.

The people, the laughter, the Light, the Word. The ordinary. The good and bad. They are with us along the journey for it all.

And, for this blessing, we thank God.

Copyright 2012 Christine Capolino

Lengthening Shadows, Heaven on Earth

O Lord my God, you are clothed with splendor and majesty, covering yourself with light as with a garment, stretching out the heavens like a tent. He lays the beams of His chambers on the water; He makes the clouds His chariots; He rides on the wings of the wind.   Psalm 104: 1- 35

Foggy mist breathing and rolling toward shoreline as dawn slowly meets our corner of the world.  Mauve and coral fingers reach, stretching from the east, brightening the morning.  Illuminating the water lilies curving skyward, the majestic mountains.

The rhythmic swell of cicadas. The sun dappled sandy beach. The towering old growth pines –  they landmark our haven in the Adirondacks.  And have, for decades.

By dusk, calm settles over the camp, kids’ giggles and splashes reigned in after a day of memory making.  As day draws to a close, a regal Old Glory is carefully removed from flagpole up by route 9, where a constant swoosh of cars, a downshifting of trucks, wanes.

Shadows lengthen from our island in lake’s center, stretching to shore.  Scattered lights pop on,  spilling glowing yellow stripes across lake’s surface.  Patterns dance and flow onto the sand.  Campfires are spotted around lake’s perimeter. Flames shooting; sparks snapping. Glassy lake, reflects.

Friendships form and cement.  A few staccato laughs, but mainly hushed conversations over marshmallow roasting.  All the while, aromas of pine, cinder and promise weave itself into our hair and sweatshirts,  ending a perfect  August day.

Months later, crowds have thinned and temperatures, plummeted.  A few crimson and rust leaves dot the maple trees.  Most splatter, though, in nature’s heaps on the ground.  Canoes and rowboats are stacked behind cabins.  Docks and floats, safely stowed, too.  Waiting for the calendar to point toward summer.

Winter settles into the range. It’s not the shrill of motorboats, but the rev of snowmobiles that echoes across our peaks.  Ice envelops our brambles in a blinding display. Dangerously beautiful.  The island we swam to during an endless summer is now our destination on skis and snowshoes. Snow piles are higher than cabins and branches scramble to form a delicate patchwork.  The shadows that we sought for reprieve on sun-drenched July days, we now eschew in a frigid February.

For by Him, all things were created, both in the heavens and on Earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities. All things have been created by Him and for Him. Colossians 1:16

Copyright 2012 Chris Capolino

Little Bighorn Battlefield

These hushed woods once echoed with the rumble of rickety wagons chock full of gold ore. Mining towns, never built to last, set as stunning jewels in precarious mountain slopes, endure.  Just as the spirit of the rugged individuals who carved  communities in the wilderness, endures.

Tilted rock formed deep within the earth eons ago, panoramic and picturesque. Landscapes of granite. Postcards of stone.

By day, the Yellowstone River’s mist on our skin. Bugling elk, mountain goats wary of our intrusion.

By night, glittering constellations over velvety backdrop.

Dipping our feet in an icy alpine creek after a long arduous climb.  And down, we still must traverse. Brief respite by a hidden glacial waterfall; we must be the first, ever to have found this slice of heaven on Earth. We must.

Motoring from sea to shining sea. Mapping out the adventures, the sites, the magnificence. It is breathtaking and we  have a sense of can-we-really-be-here about the whole adventure.

Snapping picture after picture. Until our memory card is filled with nearly eight hundred of them. Holding and immortalizing the hikes, the sites, the signs, the history, the starts, the stops. The drenching rain on an Old Faithful evening, the sun illuminating Abe’s face on a Mt Rushmore afternoon, the playful splashing on a rocky Pacific morning.  And, oh yeah: The rocks. When your hubby is a rock hound, a geologist through and through, the roadside outcroppings are a marvel. We take it in too, as well as the sometimes lengthy science lessons. We learn and we love.

The Moments.

Building  campfires,  creating marshmallow s’more concoctions. In these eight thousand miles and seventeen states. Collages  of morning dew in West Glacier,  mundane interstate stops in Idaho, creekside tent pitching in the Dakotas and the just-being-togetherness on the journey.

And the stories. The hardiness of the pioneer spirit back then.  And now? Life on the range and the farm? It is a world away and out of our realm. Those quintessential cowboys and cowhands? They’re not just of song and story. Their work is hard and honest, and quite cerebral. And the children of the range? They don’t play  little league; rather, they aspire to score high roping a calf or guiding their stallions around a haybale obstacle course in Cody Wyoming.  Rodeo capital of the world.

The human drama unfolding on the prairie a century and a half ago? Across the mighty Mississippi to the Rockies.  Triumph? Or tragedy? Yes, this then one hundred year old country of ours wrote a sad chapter in our history.

Tolerance, virtuous behavior and grace demonstrated toward our fellow man? Not terribly much of that witnessed on the western frontier.

What about  our American “heroes?” The Son of the Morning Star epitomized underhandedness; he was no hero. Truth: Custer earned this Lakota nickname, silently attacking at dawn, decimating  villages of unsuspecting, sleeping, peacful people. Mothers, babies, elderly.

What’s that, some may say? He was only following orders?  Decades later, my Dad heard those echoes too, as an Army Infantryman in the Pacific Theater. In quiet, humble villages throughout the Phillipines in the 1940s, those under the flag of the rising sun were only following orders to overtake peaceful Manila.  It was heard too, throughout Europe. Those who donned the swastikas were  carrying out instructions. Nothing more. I suppose this is how some justify man’s inhumanity to man two generations removed?

            For you have been called to live in freedom, not freedom to satisfy your sinful nature, but freedom to serve one another in love.   Galatians 5:13

The Lakota Sioux have a saying:  “There is no death. There is only a change in worlds.”

Are we truly t-h-a-t different from those called ‘savages’ by the white man? By those who wished to own the land? By those who wished to rule and change? By those who thought themselves quite superior? Who came to this new land to escape brutality and suppression themselves?

And here’s a challenge:  How my husband and I respond to our nine year old, our sweet altar server and choir boy, as he states with firm conviction, “There is a special place in hell for General George Armstrong Custer!”  after touring Little Bighorn Battlefield, scene of the ‘last stand.’ The bloody rampage between the cavalry and the Plains Indians in June, 1876. And yes, the spot where Custer met his infamous demise. Just one week before our country’s bally-ho, the over the top centennial celebrations.

Truly, may God bless Anerica.

And to our twelve year old, who replies to his brother, “A special place. You got that right, dude.”

How hard it is not to just agree. Not to condemn. Very hard. At any age.

            But with you, there is forgiveness, so that we can with reverence, serve you.    Psalm 130:4

As you stand in this place and absorb  the inextricable connection of the beauty and the legends to the violence and the abuse.

As you look from the tilted battlefield monuments and the headstones in this already searingly hot Montana dawn and you see tears streaming down the faces of those around you on the ranger-led walk.  Then you realize that you, too have tears.

Because this is it. This is t-h-e cowboy and Indian show-down. This patch of grass encapsulates the West for so many the world over and draws more foreigners than Americans.  They want to live and breath it as well. Well, we live and breath the shame.

This is not your toddler playing with inch high plastic figues. Half donning colorful headdresses, wielding tomahawks. Half in spiffy painted-on cavalry uniforms, even spiffier, shiny muskets. This time it’s real and the last one standing is the one who lives.

Well, unless he wears the headress and a name honoring the Earth and then he simply wins a place in a dusty reservation. Rocky soil, unworthy of livestock. And most of his family,  gone.

Surely goodness and kindness shall follow me all the days of my life and I will live in the house of the Lord forever.   Psalm 23:6

Our family journey is now in the past.

We expected the good –  visions of our America, natural history, happy snippets of time.

We expected  the bad -  occasional cheese-y tourist traps and occasional family bickering, of course.

What we didn’t expect is the ugly. That we’d come face to ugly face with our condeming selves as we dipped into these tragic pages in our American story.

What is the true ugliness here? Is it the raw mistreatment and inhumane acts or is it us? Standing in judgement?

            For thou, Lord, art good, and ready to forgive; and plenteous in mercy unto all them that call upon thee.   Psalm 86:5

Copyright 2012 Christine Capolino 

~As for me and my house we will serve the Lord.~

Not All Heroes Wear Capes

One of my favorite Biblical passages. We all know it. A simple, beautiful verse from Joshua. A path of service and generosity of spirit? It clearly assigns value to these. Yet when this path is chosen on a “full time” scale, it is denigrated by our current culture of materialism, self centeredness and mothers seeking fulfillment within careers outside their homes.

The condescending views expressed this year by a certain Democratic spokesperson on motherhood? Not even worth addressing, as doing so provides credence to the feminist agenda. Being a Catholic woman is my value, my worth. And quite simply, I am blessed.
Titles? Awards? Pay increases? No, not any more. Those are in the past. It’s all much greater than that now. It’s largely unseen. And unnoticed. But it’s bigger.

I don’t look to be fulfilled by looking beyond my home. It all happens here. Everything important, and unimportant. And I’m thankful for the glimmer of humility bestowed upon me by our Lord that I see it.

While I steer the boys’ academics daily, orchestrate the minutiae of their social calendars and sports schedules and manage the home keeping in its entirety, my husband is the power behind it all. His encouragement at home, his dedication at work, well, cliché as it sounds, make our family journey possible. His quiet willingness to carry the burden of our family’s financial necessities? Recognizing this treasure is the most valuable gift.

A man of knowledge uses words with restraint, and a man of understanding is even tempered. Proverbs 17:27

On a recent Sunday, my husband opened the magazine section of our New York newspaper, eager to reach the article detailing “family day trips” to one of our travel destinations this summer. Initially assuming that the story might supplement the wealth of information I have been gathering for our westward journey, he was consequently quite dismayed to discover that the piece was not in the slightest a family vacation guide, but more a pseudo ad for a Mom-and-Dad-can-relax-on-the-beach-we’ll-take-the-kids-off-your-hands-and-keep-them-busy-beading-swimming-boating-playing-with-lanyard-for-a-full-day-so-you-don’t-feel-guilty-because-they’re-having-fun-too ‘camps.’
“Who in the world would buy into THIS?? This isn’t a family trip….this is glorified daycare!”

That’s my man.

He gets that our kids’ lives, our lives, are passing as a car speeds down the highway. Trees and telephone wires ablur. These precious, fleeting days? He wants to be with them, not just with them:

He sends regrets to a family wedding rather than hire a babysitter for our children.

He holds the consequences for undesirable behavior even though it makes him the most unpopular person around.

He prefers family-movie-based-on-that-novel-we-just-finished-night to let’s-go-out-with-another-couple-night.

He is gratified and proud from behind the scenes when the bat cracks the ball, the basketball is sunk, the square roots are learned, the scripts are memorized, the chords are mastered and the curtain calls are taken. And when attempts fail, he is there with the shoulder, the eraser, the net.

He’d love nothing more than just a little quiet after an endless day at work. But “Daddy, guess what?” trumps his downtime.

He witnesses, as coach as well as Dad, as his child reaches down to help a fallen opposing team member from a muddy soccer field rather than scoring that goal, easily within his grasp. Because he’s modelled for his son the score that really matters.

And no, this is not the All Sunshine and Unicorn All The Time Channel. We, too, have bottomless laundry baskets; short tempers; volunteer commitments which impose on family time; algebra, science research and Latin grammar that require reivew. We too, occasionally place pizza orders out of desparation, wondering h-o-w it got to be 6:00pm. And we show up at the little league field feeling pretty darn together, to find that we have given our son his uniform from last year for his weekly game.

But we pray for patience and for focus on what matters, rather than getting bogged in the mire of what doesn’t. Alongside the man who keeps his family going.

Daddy: A word. whispered-with-reverence and full of hope. Daddies are building cathedrals, really. Of both defining moments and the ordinary, which will weave themselves into the brightest of snapshots in their children’s tapestry of memories.

Copyright 2012 Christine Capolino

Dwelling in Scripture in addition to well chosen literature during the season. For the reading is not just reading. It is Jesus.

Illuminating the twelve votive candles for our Friday evening Stations of the Cross devotion.
Living simply. Trying to, anyway.

Then there’s the giving up. Following through on this…. makes me want to, well, give up. Which makes me wonder: Who I am following?

Which I’d say, is the point.

My family has long term, anticipatory plans on Shrove Tuesday. Don’t we all begin, of course, with The Ash Wednesday Clean Slate?

Now, though? Husband and kids are doing well. They’ll continue to do well. I know they will. Mostly I stray. And mostly, I am proud of the loves of my life who subscribe to the “real-men-do” philosophy: Real men do say the rosary. Real men do depened on scripture and fasting and repentance.

Like entering the desert of our souls. Like walking with Jesus into the dark, unrelenting wilderness for forty days. Like becoming aware of our ragged spirits and begging mercy for the dark night of our souls.

Is Lent about forming and renewing? Or forfeiting? Is one more important than the other? And what does it say about me that I just can’t stick with what I planned to renounce?

Possibly that I need to empty the soul more to know the filling of God? And possibly, that a failing Lent really isn’t — once I come to this realization?

My almost tweleve year old offhandedly commented on Ash Wednesday that he s-h-o-u-l-d give up his habit of complaining. “But,” he claims, “Giving up sweets is just so much easier, you know?”

Hmmmmm. After little more than a decade here in this life, he already gets that. Forgoing treats is just plain simpler than addressing the struggle with the internal. With ridding one’s self of the difficult day – to – day struggle with the devil. Coming face to ugly face, with sin.

Does the emptying of the soul, the cleansing through the grace of confession, come only when we know how empty we truly are?

Jesus is doing everything. He is the one going to Calvary. And it seems that the least I can do is know the hole of my sin. Because isn’t knowing our sin and receiving absolution of our sin knowing our God more? Doing His work more?

I want that; that’s my goal.

That greatest gift.

Copyright 2012 Christine Capolino

It is Mom’s wake, here in my reverie. And it is three years on the journey since that day.  It was wintry. It was brutal and hostile. Sleeting and frigid. But you know this.

When you lose one you love, one who walked with you on life’s journey longest and loved you most, loved you unconditionally…well, you know.

You know the day suits the mood, the very core of the reason we are here. You know it is as if those we love can only be mourned on the most foul and wretched of days charted within our climes. You know this.

And so I remember. Perhaps the best place to begin is a lifetime ago with the richness, the fullness, the oftentimes emptiness of  need, a lifetime ago and just off the boat. But, the  plentitude of happiness, found.    Of a hard early life in lower west side tenements; of a military base during The War; of five children, children-in-law, grandchildren and great children.

Pinned to the coffin: many memories. Some, fresh. Others, faded.  A tangible trail of symbols.  A handful, represent a life so long passed that reaching back to their stories seems near to impossible. All, house stories that  are limitless.

And the pictures. The books filling the tables; the collages lining the perimeter of the room.  Standing like sentinels, guarding, yet kimdly spilling the story of a life well lived and well loved. Of grace filled days.  Pictures that now conjure memories, with the speed, the rush of a car moving down the highway. Trees, telephone wires, houses ablur.

And in these memory-laden tomes, there are Christmas mornings. There are Adirondack lakeside cabins. There are birthday boys and birthday girls, party hats askew. There are whipped confections, candles poking through, moments away from toddler manhandling. There is Dad, wielding an enormous camera contraption, flash bulbs huge and blinding. There is Mom, good naturedly corralling little people for birthday fun.

In another memory book, there is laughter and there are lingering summer suppers in our postage stamp sized Queens yard. Small dimensions, big love. Citronella candles burn to stubs as sun has dipped below horizon, oh, hours ago. Bright moonlight fills the sky and hushed, familiar voices mingle. Some in staccato laughs; some in serious debate; all in good nature, throughout. Pitchers, by now empty of libations. Platters once brimming full with grilled tidbits, shared on our newly-Dad-constructed patio, under spreading maple. Lawn chairs now haphazardly scattered,  having fit friends into conversations. Children darting, squealing and firefly catching. Evening, winding down.

We thought these days would always be.

And then, in yet another, there are those shots from way back. Those are yellowed and curled and indistinct, yet clear as right now. Black and white and grey. Unlabelled and undated, on a pier somewhere in California.

Dad in Army issue, looking younger than I have ever known him. Ever. Looking determined, and dare I say, fierce. And yet, posing for this very shot, expectant and cautious. A soft heart and a bright mind. But as a youth and shipping out again, weary.

Mom, even younger. Looking very Maureen O’Hara, in a lower-west-side-daughter-of-Irish-immigrants-way that only first generation gals can muster, without even knowing. Until perhaps a lifetime later, when scrapbooks are perused and expressions examined.

As if she just finished the talk. The “You-will-come-home-and-we-will-have-a-life” talk.  And as you know by now, he did. And they did.  And it was some life.

And you can almost hear, if you time tunnel back into this moment and if you really listen, the mournful strains of “Sentimental Journey,” plucked out by a makeshift band at battleship’s starboard side. A haunting ballad. But then, is there one more appropriate? Those on board and on dock, preparing to ship out. into the blue Pacific. For some, it is the last they will see of their families, their country. Others will come back, spared. But changed. The Greatest Generation, indeed.

Yes, hundreds of lives touched, held within these pages, here on a table in this room, where we celebrate this one life and where we celebrate all these lives. Some, touched in a big way, walking side by side on life’s journey. Some touched fleetingly.   All important.

And now, my children have no earthly grandparents; all of them are “our special saints,” my youngest states. When one of my children becomes wistful, wishing Grandpa “could be here with us,” as when we toured the World War II Memorial in DC, the other says, “He IS here with us.”

We take a picture of our boys sitting side by side on the Memorial ridges engraved “Leyte Gulf” and “Manila.”  For this is where their grandfather was two generations ago, before most of the people respectfully and wistfully wandering the Memorial, were even born. Without a doubt, they know, my boys truly know, that they will meet again in Heaven and share Eternity.

During the prayer service on the final night of Mom’s wake, my oldest, then eight, wished to share a memory with all the others. Among all those story fragments swirling around the room spun by friends, neighbors and family, he felt comfortable that one of many memories of his Nanny was worthy of being shared. That the telling of it would not diminish it, but allow it to grow stronger.  He talked of silliness of a song, and was I proud when he did, that so many times over the years, his Nan sung off key. She bore the brunt of his hysterics to this oft-requested melody. Being a good sport about it, welcoming it.

And there were so many, many more. A vigil of remembrance. And isn’t that what a wake should be?

So it is, we find, that at our lowest and most broken, amid the laughter and the sadness, we are led to  realize: we all will emerge. Eventually. Our brokenness made whole by our Lord’s beautiful gifts of grace and hope. Enveloped within our Catholic doctrine of Eternal Life, we embrace an end which is only the beginning.

As my youngest offhandedly commented recently while perusing our family scrapbooks, in a way that only the young possess, noting  the many faces, smiling, solemn, youthful, elderly, who have  gone to their Eternal Reward, “We’ll meet them all again. All the people we love now, and will love but haven’t even met yet, when we each  get there.”

Copyright 2012 Christine Capolino 

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A tradition as simple as the lighting of the stately lavender tapers, ring of purples and pink, each boy eagerly anticipating leading the nightly prayer. Or reciting the scripture verse. And do they ever read this verse with care, as their first Advent morning utterances refer to who lights or reads or conducts the prayers on this ice-kissed, tree-glowing, soft, warm evening.

Bible readings, daily, while creating, coloring and hanging heartfelt, handmade ornaments on our Jesse Tree. Crayolas, green and red ribbon spools, shreds of construction paper swirls, splayed, amid Jesus’s family tree. Our family tree. Intensity around these people, these every day heroes of our Faith. These people from whom we draw strength and courage and knowledge.  Some trusted God implicitly and from the beginning. Some turned their backs on God. All were forgiven by God.

The ways in which to connect our faith to our families’ daily lives during this liturgical season, any liturgical season, really, are plentiful…and often illuminated by our children, who at times, infer the obvious, with an ease that we, as parents, can miss, in our zeal for planning “just the right” lesson or connecting “the most perfect” piece of literature with a feast day or a saint study we are undertaking.

There are stories, Bible stories, fiction, that my family has not only read, but lived and “tried on.” They are staples and they have led to more discussion, more depth, more meaning than I can describe. Than I can contain. Afternoons of discussion around one passage? Yes. And isn’t it wonderful? Meaningful. Life altering. Life enhancing.

In C.S. Lewis’s classic jewel, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, doubtless, the quintessential allegorical portrayal of Christ’s valor and divinity, the stirring parallels between the tenets of our faith and the characterization and setting in the tale foster deep study for every age. Isn’t it exciting when our kids immediately connect the characters—the four children to the four writers of the Gospel?  Or when they relate the selfless acts of courage and humility, laced with strength of character by the hero, Aslan, to the essence of Salvation?

And what kid wouldn’t find the untamed Herdmanns in The Best Christmas Pageant Ever an absolute scream?  What’s better than listening to your seven year old ruminate on Imogene’s bold questioning?  “You know, she makes good points Mom!” Which of course, cause him to add Herod to the family’s running timeline of world leaders and events, after doing some reading up on this “bad guy,” wondering, “Yeah, who he was anyway?”

This Advent, let us allow the Holy Spirit to guide. This Advent, let us watch. Let us all be blessed with the guidance to slow. To wait.  To immerse in the story of our Faith.  To watch for our Lord. For He can be found in the most surprising and the most mundane of places.

He authors our destiny. He gives strength. He is the Reason.

Copyright 2011 Christine Capolino

Activity versus stillness. Sound versus silence. Society versus solitude. I still, now for fleeting moments, still, have a measure of control over the feeling, the tenor, the rhythm of my children’s days.

There is a distinct, absolute, widening between my version of a harmonious family life. The ebb and flow of home-comings and goings. The hectic pace required to meet volunteer commitments, timely arrive at rehearsals, practices and team events. In our homeschooling journey, we are truly blessed to spend much of our life’s journey, many of our days, together. Living, learning, immersed in our shared schedules. Yet, as the boys grow ever more independent, the actual time we spend together, be it involved in academic or leisure pursuits, inevitably shrinks. Maintaining a balance becomes ever more vital. And ever more challenging.

We, Moms, are efficiency experts. Checklists abound. Deadlines are met; daily and, yes, yearly educational goals are accomplished; volunteer work is done; dinner is served. Yet, we, Moms, also strive for a quality in our lives that has nothing to do with checklists and goals met.

We know that none of this could be embarked upon without guidance. We cannot do it alone. We are meant to do it alone. We need our Lord and Savior. We need to know Him. To seek Him. And blessed us! His omnipresence is reassuring and revitalizing. And redemptive.

All we need do is whisper a quiet prayer. A few words of gratitude. A few words seeking patience. A few words offering a burden to a soul in purgatory; a soul who has no one. A few words which will envelop us in peace, in comfort, in the softness of the Lord’s love. A few words which will allow us to continue in our daily work, our daily graces, in our vocation of motherhood.

We are blessed. We are grace-filled.

Copyright 2011 Christine Capolino

The lake that captures western sun and turns glassy waters pink like salmon as day draws dusky. That captures eastern sky with new day’s brightness, flourishing crystal waters as an orange never-used crayon. That dawns with possibility and newness. Each day, as if untouched.

The lake that sees summertime memory making. Whose permanence is landscape to our memories. The backdrop for so little, yet so much:  Horse shoe clinks. Badminton swishes. Dock jumping. Fledging friendships begun over sand castle building. Catching first fish. Rowing first boats. Grilling quiet dinners.

And yes, even the mosquito bites, the sunburns, the poison ivy, the late afternoon, sans-nap toddler, tantrum-ing and rife with wriggling, wet sandy bathing suit.

For memories, like life, we find, even here in this perfect haven, are punctuated with the good, the bad. Those light, airy, happy and those etched with tinges of sadness or regret. Because our yesterday and our today are not all sunshine and unicorns.

The lake that mirrors staggering old growth pines from island to shore. Alone. Unrippled. Undisturbed. Perfect. We dub it Tom Sawyer Island, our island in lake’s middle.

And even in the weeds, beauty. Rooted dozens of feet below surface in muddy, silty lake bottom. Lily – pad clustered flowers. Delicate mauves and lucent yellows. Pinks, pastel and radiant. Greens, lush and lime-y. Radiance brimming as we approach and admire up close their inviting newness in screeching, clunky rowboat. God’s gift to us, these nature’s decorations. These petals curving skyward. Giving homage it seems, to the Lord. To their creator.

And the summer sounds, the-unnoticeable-elsewhere-yet-intensified-here soundtrack of the lake. Canoe and paddler rhythmically slicing glassy waters. A widening V disappearing, reappearing. Whose continuous beat, it seems, if set to metronome, would not falter.

The insistent cicadas. Grabbing us, pressing into our consciousness, forcing us to notice. Throbbing. Louder, thicker. Their near hysteria, unremitting, garnishing our senses. An awakening to the ever presence of God’s creatures. Even the insects we deem unappealing. These creatures, at the lake, our lake.

And above, azure skies hold chunky, ragged-edged clouds of pure white. Sailing, racing almost. Casting silhouettes of pine, of birch, of long necked Canada geese ashore.

Our lake is storybook. A storybook that is real. As real to us as deadlines, as commitments, as taxes, as ever present life, as eventual death.  And so, we create intermission in our lives, a schedule-less time out to touch this realness and live the lake’s story summer after summer.

With those who matter most. Discovering what matters most.

Even on days not idyllic, not picture perfect. When storms threaten and drizzle lingers. Days whose dawns hold sticky grey-ness and a promise for dullness ahead. Whose afternoons hold a harsh word for which we eventually ask forgiveness or offer forgiveness. On these days too, even on these days, it is a place where eternity is glimpsed.

It is a place whose stories will be lived and relived in many times and places: Southward on I -87 as we wind homeward the Saturday bookending our week. On Tuesday evening two years from now after baseball practice, over an uneventful spicy chili and crusty Italian bread dinner. Over our Thanksgiving feast a half dozen years from now, pumpkin pie and simmering cider fragrances wafting throughout dining room.  Or Christmas Eve a decade from now, tree adorned and Adirondack ornaments admired once again, as my boys settle into home after an autumn away at college. During tuxedo fittings where one son is groom and one, best man, two decades in the future. And perhaps as their own children, the same ages my boys are now, trick or treat together, flit around playgrounds together, perhaps even swim to our island or cast fishing lines together.

Our lake is the closest place to Heaven that there is on Earth.

 Copyright 2011 Christine Capolino

As is my custom when presented with confrontation: Step 1, I crumble. Step 2, I complain to my husband. He, of course, eagerly spouted the whole “pen is mightier than the sword” thing. Well, I came face to ugly face with this might. Words in all their power. Combined with cyberspace’s immediate, censor-less and ego feeding pull.

The tongue has the power of life and death. 1 Corinthians 12:10

The cause célèbre?

My opinion on the US government’s handling of Osama bin Laden’s extermination? No. I’m no military expert. Not even close. My Dad, who served in the US Army Infantry during the Great War, held, oh, vehement, is a pretty good word, opinions on all things War. You know what I mean if you, too, are the daughter of a military man. However indelible the effect this has had on developing my own rather strong thoughts, my opinion is certainly not worthy of public viewing.

My pro- or anti- take on The Royal Wedding? No. As a typical 16 year old girl in 1981, I tuned in and devoured every detail of the Charles and Di spectacle. However, as a middle aged Mom of boys in 2011, the Wedding of the Year did not even begin to peak my curiosity.

What’s my focus now? Not tulle, lace, horse drawn carriages, lengthy bridal processions.

Life is lived around here between slicing apples into turtle sized bites, one just rescued from certain death crossing a busy road bordering our development. And the supplying of a desperately needed Tupperware for grubby, muddy little boy hands to house a beetle, cricket or worm. (And where DID those dollar store bug houses go? You know, the ones stashed before the endless winter from which the northeast is finally emerging? The ones designed for just this very purpose?)

And generally coasting through our brimming and busy days around my older son’s (aka Hamlet) restlessness and indecision in Act IV and my younger son’s (aka Egeus) egotistical tirade in Act I of  “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” Throw in ratios, circumference, Earth science reference tables, Paul Revere’s midnight ride, CYO division coordinating paperwork, self imposed writing deadlines, cleats, mitts, a bottomless laundry basket, always-dueling John Wayne impressions and inexplicably multiplying piles of legos and it’s clear why being absorbed in a soon-to-be-princess’s glide down the aisle of Westminster Abbey didn’t quite make it onto the schedule last week.

If I had girls, I am convinced we’d have tuned in. Pass the tea and scones, princesses. And would that not be squealingly, giddily delightful?

What of the smashing references to “Jesus Christ, Our Lord and Savior,” during the unavoidable blurbs of royal wedding oversaturation on The Big Day? What Catholic didn’t feel proud ownership to this awesome Truth broadcast the world over?

And, well, could it be my thoughts on the beatification of our beloved Papa on Divine Mercy Sunday? Too-soon or perfectly-timely? No, again. This man who shepherded my generation to adulthood? This savvy, brilliant wordsmith and scholar who is the personification of charity, mercy and tolerance? Who tirelessly evangelized millions in his travels to 29 countries in two and half decades as Pontiff? Argue? Why? He’s already a saint in my book.

Nope. None of the above.

The issue at hand is one which I naively thought had been beaten, tortured and put to rest. Sarcasm and sanctimony permanently wrung out of the now ragged and tattered white flag. Silly me.

The issue? Motherhood.

A stay at home, homeschooling Mom (yes, me) revels in the blessings bestowed upon her. Realizes and is humbled that this is her calling. Looks to Our Lady for guidance. Prays for a modicum, even a morsel, of the patience and tolerance that Our Lady effortlessly epitomizes. Just a glimmer of her grace to be bestowed upon me.

Did this stay at home Mom offer an opinion on Moms who work outside their homes? Debase? Undermine? No. Not unless one interprets the statement that my husband and I value our lives and the being there-ness of parenthood more than we value a second income. Not unless one assumes that I purposefully did not include, as was suggested by several readers, a shout out to “Mothers who manage it all,” who “work outside the home.”

This was intended to be a reflection on Mother’s Day. My reflection.  Musings on the journey of Motherhood. My musings.

Here’s the thing though: I don’t miss it. Working. For pay. I don’t want it back. I don’t seek to be fulfilled by looking beyond my home and my family. Is this too provincial? Too June Cleaver-backwards? That I choose to stay home and not only like, I love, revel in, am passionate about, feel blessed by, what I do? That I am called to tend my home, and not part time? That I maintain that the best living and learning happens in the heart of my home? Despite the strides for “equality,” I say, “Take THAT, twenty-first century! You can keep the norms and expectations of our times. Leave me out of it.”

Judge not and you will not be judged. Condemn not and you will not be condemned. Luke 6:37

I could provide percentages of children who are raised by day care providers versus children who are raised by a parent as their full time care giver. I could enumerate studies which claim children who are raised in day care are at a disadvantage spiritually, academically and emotionally. Are these studies slanted toward one “side” or the other? However the facts stack up, it is not an option for my husband and me. The life we give our children has inspired them to unfold gradually into the people the Lord is calling them to be. Thankfully, God is not done with us either.

The family is the first school of living and the influence received inside the family is decisive for the future development of the individual. Blessed John Paul II

-  Message for World Day of Peace, 1998

The feminist agenda is harmful to women. It’s harmful to children and families. It’s harmful to the future of our country.  I work for Him. This is my calling.

Are my family and my homeschool brimming with charity, energy and momentum? Waves of productivity and swells of creativity? How about Thoreau-like jaunts into the woods to immerse in our art? Picture perfect? No way. It is not all sunshine and song.

No, my life is real. It’s unkempt and cluttered, disheveled, sometimes undone, burnt, unvacuumed, late, unmet, unwashed, wounded, weeds-poking-up-through-patio-cracks, and just plain, lacking something, sometimes. But what it doesn’t lack is the love. The purpose. The rhythm. The certainty that this is my choice. It is where I prefer to be. And not part time.

Stepping off a ladder to the top of one’s career or tipping a pay scale not in one’s favor may seem anonymous, unrewarding. To many, an affliction. But it is not. It is not a disease that many feel causes them to be erased. Ironically, it is the cure.

Whatever your task, work heartily as serving the Lord and not men. Colossians 3:23

Copyright 2011 Christine Capolino

Words. Blame. Explanations, woven:  No, I don’t mean that… Wait, let me explain… But, I hope you understand that…

All of these, futile. The let’s-start-at-the-beginning-and-work-things-out resolve, oft refuted. There is no bridging; no fixing; no making the hole, whole. Unless the guidance of the Holy Spirit is requested. Begged, really.

And what to do until the Lord’s intercession is accepted? How to follow where the Holy Spirit leads? Continued prayers. For reparation. For guidance. For healing and connectedness. For oneness with the Lord.

And live a life that is honorable, that gives glory to God. Give much; expect little. Minds free from judging. Hearts free from burden.

God will salvage the charred ruins. He will redeem. In time.

Sing Him songs. Belt out hymns.

Translate His wonders into music!

Honor His holy name with Hallelujahs, ye who seek Him.

Keep your eyes open for God.

Watch for His works.

Be alert for signs of His presence.

Psalm 105:1

Copyright 2011 Christine Capolino

The burying of the Alleluia.

The reading of Scripture as well as one or two meticulously chosen pieces of literature in which to dwell during the season. For the reading is not just reading. It is Jesus.

The illuminating of twelve votive candles for our Friday night Stations of the Cross devotion.

Living simply.

Then there’s the giving up. I just can’t seem to follow through on this one. Which makes me want to, well, give up. Which makes me wonder Who I am following? Which, I’d say, is the point.

As a family, we “give up” for Lent. We have beautiful, long term, anticipatory plans on Shrove Tuesday. My husband and kids are doing well. They’ll continue to do well. I know they will.

Mostly I stray. And mostly, I am proud of the loves of my life who subscribe to the “real-men-do” philosophy. As in, real men do say the rosary and real men do need the crutch of scripture and of fasting and of repentance.

Like entering the desert of our souls. Like going with Jesus into the dark, empty wilderness for forty days. Like becoming aware our ragged spirits and begging mercy.

Is Lent more about forming and renewing or forfeiting? Is one more important than the other? And what does it say about me that I just can’t stick with what I plan to renounce? Possibly that I need to empty the soul more to know the filling of God?

My almost eleven year old offhandedly commented on Ash Wednesday that he s-h-o-u-l-d give up complaining. “But,” he claims, “Giving up sweets is just so much easier, you know?”

Hmmmmm. After little more than a decade here in this life, he already gets that forgoing treats is just plain simpler than addressing the struggle with the internal. With ridding one’s self of the difficult day to day struggle with the devil. With coming face to  face, ugly face actually, with sin.

Does the emptying of the soul, the cleansing through the grace of confession come only when we know how empty we truly are?  It seems that Jesus is doing everything. He is the one going to Calvary. And it seems that the least I can do is know the hole of my sin. Because knowing your sin and absolution of your sin is knowing God more. Loving others more.

I want that. And that’s my goal.

Acknowledging. Cleansing. Grace-filled and deserving. The greatest gift.

Evening

Here dies another day
During which I have eyes, ears, hands
And the great world round me
And with tomorrow begins another
Why am I allowed this?

 

G.K. Chesterton

 

Copyright 2011 Christine Capolino

And so I remember. Four and a half decades of memories. Where to begin? The fullness, the richness and the plentitude of happiness.

This is my Mom’s wake, here in my reverie. And it is two years on the journey since that day.

It was wintry. It was brutal and hostile. But, you know this. When you lose one you love, one who walked with you on life’s journey longest and loved you most unconditionally… you know.

You know how the day suits the mood, the very core of the reason we are here. As if those we love can only be mourned on the most foul and wretched of days charted within our climes.

And the pictures. The albums that fill the tables, the collages that line the perimeter of the room.  Standing like sentinels, guarding, spilling the story of a life well lived and well loved. Of grace filled days. Words lovingly and patiently spoken.

Pictures that now conjure memories, with the speed, the rush of a car moving down the highway. Trees, telephone wires, houses ablur.

There are Christmas mornings. There are Adirondack lakeside cabins. There are birthday boys and birthday girls, party hats askew. There are whipped confections, moments away from toddler manhandling. There is Dad, wielding enormous camera contraption, flash bulbs huge and blinding. Mom, corralling little people.

In another memory book, there is laughter and there are lingering summer suppers. Citronella candles burn to stubs as sun dips below horizon, oh, hours ago. Bright moonlight fills the sky and hushed, familiar voices mingle. Some in staccato laughs; some in serious debate; all in good nature, throughout. Pitchers, by now empty of libations. Platters empty of grilled tidbits, shared on our newly-Dad-constructed patio, under spreading maple. Lawn chairs now haphazardly scattered, fitting friends into conversations. Children darting, squealing and firefly catching. Evening, winding down. And we thought these days would always be.

And then, in yet another, there are those shots from way back. Those are yellowed and curled and indistinct, yet clear as right now. Black and white and grey. Unlabelled and undated, but on a pier, somewhere in California. Dad in Army issue, looking younger than I have ever known him. Ever. Looking determined, and dare I say, fierce. And yet, posing for this very shot, expectant and cautious. A soft heart and a bright mind. But as a youth of 24 and shipping out again, weary.

Mom, even younger, looking very Maureen O’Hara. In a-lower-west-side-daughter-of-immigrants-way that only first generation Irish-Americans can muster, without even knowing. Until perhaps a lifetime later, when scrapbooks are perused and expressions examined. As if she just finished the talk. The “You will come home and we will have a life” talk.

Well, he did. And they did.

And you can almost hear, if you really listen, the mournful strains of “Sentimental Journey,” plucked out by a makeshift band at battleship’s starboard side. A haunting ballad. But then, is there one more appropriate? Those on board and on dock, preparing to ship out. Into the blue Pacific. For some, this is the last they will see of their families, their country. Others will come back. The lucky, the spared. But changed. The Greatest Generation, indeed.

Yes, hundreds of lives touched, held within these pages, here on a table in this room, where we celebrate this one life and where we celebrate all these lives. Some touched in a big way; some fleetingly. All important.

So, my children have no earthly grandparents; all of them are “our special saints,” my youngest states. When one of my children becomes wistful, wishing Grandpa “could be here with us,” as when we recently toured the World War II Memorial in Washington DC, the other says, “He IS here with us.” And we take a picture of them sitting on the ridges engraved “Leyte Gulf” and “Manila.”  This is where their grandfather was two generations ago, before most of the people respectfully wandering the Memorial, were even born. Without a doubt, they know, truly know, that they will meet again in Heaven and spend eternity.

During the prayer service on the final night of Mom’s wake, my oldest, then eight, wished to share a memory with all the others. Among all those story fragments swirling around the room spun by friends, neighbors and family, he felt comfortable that this memory of his Nanny was as worthy as the others’ of being shared. This was one of many small thought that would carry him through days, years ahead, when thinking the myriad of thoughts around his Nanny and what she means to him. He shared silliness of a song, that so many times over the years, his Nan sung off key. She bore the brunt of our hysterics to this oft-requested melody, being a good sport about it, welcoming it.

So, it is amid the laughter and the sadness that we know we all will emerge, eventually. All of us, broken. And yet made whole by our Lord’s beautiful gifts of grace and hope. Enveloped within our Catholic doctrine of Eternal Life, we not only accept, but look with anticipation.

As my youngest offhandedly commented while perusing our family scrapbooks, noting the many smiling faces of all who have gone to their Eternal Reward, “We’ll meet again all the people we love now, and will love but haven’t even met yet, when we get there.”

Copyright 2011 Christine Capolino

“Well, who wouldn’t?”

Banter between my ten year old and his almost eight year old brother, as we prepare for a much loved, comfortable Advent ritual.

May be a tradition as simple as the lighting of the stately lavender tapers, ring of purples and pink, each boy eagerly anticipating leading the nightly prayer. Or reciting the scripture verse. And do they ever read this verse with care, as their first Advent morning utterances refer to who lights or reads or conducts the prayers on the ice-kissed, tree-warmed, love-filled, evening.

Or these words may be heard during the tumble out the door to Mass, where my oldest will be serving and my youngest sings in the children’s choir. Or they may possibly linger in the air above the kitchen table as we plan, paint, craft, bake and wrap handmade ornaments, peppermint confections, and other specialties created with time, love and care for those angels who have touched our lives.  Those angels the Lord sends to us, some for a season, some a reason, some a lifetime…an aunt, a granddad, a neighbor, an acquaintance.

The ways in which to connect our faith to our families’ daily lives during this liturgical season, any liturgical season, really, are plentiful…and often illuminated by our children, who at times, infer the obvious, with an ease that we, as parents, can miss, in our zeal for planning “just the right” lesson or connecting “the most perfect” piece of literature with a feast day or a saint study we are undertaking.  Blogs, books, sites, all brimming, full, teaming with answers to perfect ways of celebrating the O Antiphons, of creating the most glistening and meaningful Jesse tree, of delightfully becoming one with a thematic unit authored by Tomie dePaola, all abound.  They burst with creativity, with pure genius.

But, how about choosing just a few rituals and enjoying, immersing, absorbing those:

The nightly lighting, reading, reverence around our Jesse Tree or Advent wreath. The special advent book, read and loved and so inviting, it is as if, as you enter the story, you try on a warm pocket of air. We may do well to try on these rituals and just be.

These are stories my family has not only read, but lived and “tried on.” They are staples and they have led to more discussion, more depth, more meaning than I can describe.

In C.S. Lewis’s classic jewel, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, doubtless, the quintessential allegorical portrayal of Christ’s valor and divinity, the stirring parallels between the tenets of our faith and the characterization and setting in the tale foster deep study for every age. Isn’t it exciting when our kids immediately connect the four children created by this Catholic apologist to the four writers of the Gospel?  Or when they relate the selfless acts of courage and humility, laced with strength of character by the hero, Aslan, to the essence of Salvation. As, undeniably, Lewis’s protagonist IS quite simply, the depiction of Jesus Christ. The deep levels of discussion around this title and within the characterization, setting and plot of the entire Narnia series are, of course, boundless.

And what kid wouldn’t find the untamed Herdmanns running amok in Barbara Robinson’s gem The Best Christmas Pageant Ever an absolute scream?  What’s better than listening to your seven year old ruminate on Imogene’s bold questioning?  “You know, she makes good points Mom!” ….. Which of course, causes him to add Herod to the family’s  running timeline of world leaders and events, after doing some reading up on this “bad guy,” wondering, “Yeah, who he was anyway?”

How about the happy, selfless acts of the jolly old elf himself, who is forever connected with one of our faith’s best loved saints, good St Nicholas? For fascinating information and a plethora of crafts, tips and literature, please visit www.stnicholascenter.org.

Each year, our boys look to offer our beloved Santa Claus handmade gifts, beautifully wrapped with love and care, and thank you notes under the tree on Christmas Eve. It exemplifies their excitement and confirms not only their appreciation of this legendary figure’s devotion to children the world over, but also their connection with him to the most blessed night of our liturgical year.

Yes, we revere and honor Nicholas, Bishop of Myra, who gave. And gave. And gave. Humbly. And anonymously. And, Santa Claus continues this tradition. Honorably.

Those thematic plans and copiously researched unit studies? Fantastic! Relevant! Important! They certainly have a place. However, this Advent, alongside the checklist, the rituals, the lighting, the prayers, the reading, the ornament making, this Advent, allow the Spirit to guide.

This Advent, watch.  Watch our children. To connect. To bloom. To infer. To associate. To realize. To dig deep layers of the Truth, of the Meaning, of The Power. All created by our Lord.

Who authors our destiny. Who gives strength. Who is the Reason.

Copyright 2010 Christine Capolino

In this moment, proud Moms and Dads wield camcorders and thermos cups; chat with neighbors; cluster along white painted field lines. Huddle under a throw as the afternoon turns shady, chilly. Inside those lines are cleated, shin-guarded legs, uniformed little bodies darting, kicking, blocking, cheering, encouraging, trying.

Whistles blow, teammate camaraderie abounds. And all of this within the shadow of the luminous cross. Yes, enveloped by poison ivy but still beautiful, at field’s center and seeming to guard.

We gather for the weekly ritual of Opening Prayer and National Anthem. But what does it mean? Perfunctorily reciting prayers known since toddlerhood while adjusting shin guards; committing coach’s words of advice to memory; gearing up to face opponents, friendly competition though it is. Anthem words which are often, shamefully we must admit, uttered quickly and almost as an intrusion to our routines!

What it means will quickly become all too evident. What it means is the balance of the day, the month, our lives, while planned to flow unchallenged, could instantly shatter. As if we author our own destinies.

Yet, sometimes something does happen to shatter the routine, the beauty of our lives. As it did on this day. The beauty was shaken. The planned. For, not far from this happy bubble of safety and beauty, of life: a child of God, living his plan, needed our field.

Perhaps he was on his way to a family event. Perhaps he was alone in the car. Or with his spouse. Or his children.

Perhaps he left the house in a haze of angrily uttered words to his loved ones, which he grew to regret as he drove. Or perhaps he left and the last sight of his home were smiling, happy faces, waving, calling, Don’t be too long.

Perhaps he realized how blessed is his life. And perhaps he even thanked God for this goodness.

Perhaps he headed for a lengthy business trip or not. Perhaps, simply a quick run to the grocery store.

Perhaps he was preoccupied with good news or bad, recently received.

Whatever his circumstances, on this breathtaking, full, autumn day, he did not arrive at his destination. He did not plan to go to the soccer field on this day. He had no offspring, no nieces, nephews playing there.

But, he found himself on our field. On a stretcher. Rerouted there by individuals desperate to save his life.

For, as we watched play, took pictures, and reveled in the beauty of now, suddenly, the beauty is broken. Roaring, exploding into our field’s lot were half a dozen emergency vehicles. We listened with puzzlement to anxious but organized commands of emergency workers who suddenly, authoritatively control the area. We vacated the field, gathered the children, wondered why? Why?

It soon becomes evident. We are the bystanders in someone’s nightmare. To the moment that will forever be the before and after line in a life. Possibly in several someone’s lives.  This crisis mode of emergency vehicles. Unfathomable. How can this be rehearsed? This ebb and flow of tragedy? But we witness it all unfold.

Ambulance, as it races to field’s edge. Workers, who wait patiently for helicopter to appear, then finally landing center field. Paramedics, who rush to it with stretcher and disappear within. Copter now rising skyward, circling and heading to the wild blue unseen. Those remaining on the ground continue to orchestrate officially and to calm.

It all happens in a flash. And yet, slowly, ever so slowly, those of us who watch and are rendered helpless become silent no more. For my little ones begin with cries of, “Wow, a helicopter on the field; that’s so cool,” which gradually become whispers of, “Wow, I hope he isn’t hurt too badly.”

Perhaps it’s a veritable lifetime, first with one ill parent and then with another. And the familiarity with ambulances. Years of memories flashing. I am five; I am sixteen; I am twenty-eight; I am forty-four. It seems the faces of the doctors, the drivers, the EMTs have not changed. Determination. Dexterity. Skill.

Or, perhaps it’s coming face to face with reality. This is so not the plan of this injured child of our Lord. Being helpless, injured, broken. To not say Goodbye. To not say I love you. One last time. To Somebody.

Perhaps because of this, this reality, I say, a little too harshly, Stop It. This is not a show. This is someone’s life.

I know, my children say, a little ashamed.

And I am shaken and I hug them. Before even realizing it, I begin uttering those familiar words that are repeated rote. Again and again. But this time, there is meaning.                                                                           My younger son picks up the cadence; then my older son; then a child or two scattered near us.  Then three, then six, then fourteen, then two dozen. Then coaches and parents and then even an emergency worker or two. Even those for whom brokenness and misfortune are part of life.

After the second Hail Mary, my son blurts, “Mom, let’s say the whole rosary. Please? Not just a Hail Mary or two. At least a decade for this man on the stretcher. He needs it. More than we need to play soccer.”

And so we continue. Through the first decade and into the second and before we know it, Mysteries are announced and my children take turns leading and others fall into the rhythm and follow and repeat and recite and feel it.

Gradually, some wander away and we get the all clear. Whistles alert us to the reason we are here. The game.

Or is it?

Today, we come together for love of the game, for friendly competition, for sportsmanship. We find more. Today, we find much more.

Not simply the strength to overcome our fear at the unknown, which is sometimes what we ask of the Lord. We are not just individuals leading our lives, following those checklists, mumbling a rote Glory Be or Lord’s Prayer at game opening, at end of day, at prayer time. We are a community of warriors. Prayer warriors. When one of us falls, God offers strength. Strength of each other. And lest we forget, we see the face of Christ in each other. Visible. Obvious. Oh, not always. Sure; sometimes, we have to look. Hard.   But we are blessed. Because we find it. All the time. The face of Christ is there.

Even at our worst. Even when we think we don’t deserve it. Even when we think others cannot find it in us.

For we have the power. Our Father runs the world and we are His people. Every one of us.


Copyright 2010 Christine Capolino