She introduced herself and began telling me that her being in church that morning was mandatory for safety reasons. I’m sure I looked confused. She went on to tell me that she was part of a relocation effort happening later that afternoon. I listened in bewilderment as she quickly explained that she was a victim of abuse and the women’s service program helping her, was relocating her to a safe place.

This was not my usual parish but I was thinking maybe this was something that happened regularly there. Needless to say, I was very much bewildered and think I murmured a weak, “I’m so sorry.”

She looked intently at me with veiled brown eyes, and managed a faint smile.

Pulling a card from her pocket, she handed it to me. There was a number scrawled across the back of it. She pointed to it and asked me if I would phone the number later that day and tell them that I had seen her in church. I assured her that I would. She thanked me quietly and took a step back as if to sit down but then hesitated. Staring up at me again, she repeated how vital it was that I call and inform them that she had indeed made it to the church. I promised her I would.

Satisfied, she stepped back to her pew and sat down, head bowed.

I could feel my children’s  questioning eyes staring at me for an explanation of what had just happened. I kept my eyes focused on the altar but put my arms around my kids and drew them in closer to me. This tired, scared, broken-spirited woman was someone’s daughter; possibly even someone’s mother.

I was shaken as I tried to absorb the gravity of this woman’s situation. My heart was hurting for her and all she was going through. I began to pray for her; for every child and woman experiencing the terrors of violence and abuse. I gave thanks to God for the graces he’s bestowed in my life and my children’s lives.

All through mass, I kept peeking cautiously over my shoulder to make sure she was still there.  When it came time to offer each other the sign of our Lord’s peace, I turned to her. As she reached out her hand to meet mine, I placed my favorite rosary bracelet in the palm of her hand, smiled and said, “I want you to have this. May our blessed Mother Mary and Jesus keep and bless you always.”

She stared down at the bracelet, closed her hand carefully over it, and then looking back at me gratefully whispered, “Thank you.”

As mass came to an end and we prepared to leave, I glanced over my shoulder but knew she would be gone. She had slipped silently off her pew, walked out of the church and was making her way to a new life; and by God’s grace, to a safe place.

“For I am the Lord, your God, who grasp your right hand; It is I who say to you, “Fear not, I will help you.” Isaiah 41:10


Copyright June 2010 Manuela Giannotti

It was a while ago but when I need it, this memory has the power to make it feel like it was just yesterday. My cousin and I had the opportunity to attend a retreat offered at the motherhouse of a congregation of sisters. We knew the experience was a privilege but neither of us realized how illuminating the afternoon would actually be.

We were welcomed graciously by the sisters who after a few introductions and, a brief review of the day’s agenda, led us to the chapel for a beautiful mass. Throughout the day, apart from when we were in our designated ‘talk’ areas, we were asked to respect the state of silence the sisters had to obey. Ask anyone in our family about our innate inability to keep quiet and you’ll know that this was a feat next to impossible for either of us to carry out. To my great amazement, we not only kept the silence but enjoyed the immense sense of peace that came with it.

We spent precious time in quiet adoration of our Lord and praying with the sisters. We were invited to walk the grounds and meditate on the discussions from our sessions. My cousin and I eagerly accepted and walked out to the beautiful property that surrounded the building.

It was a glorious day; the sun was high and the sky a clear, brilliant blue. The trees were full – their leaves lightly swayed by a soft breeze. A variety of multi-colored, fragrant roses blazed among landscaped settings. We quietly thanked God for His gifts and attuned ourselves to the sounds of nature; a nearby stream passing over rocks; birds chirping and bees buzzing by.

As we walked arm in arm, I remember feeling an overwhelming sense of serenity settle through me. I could imagine never leaving this paradise. I recall experiencing a strong impression of the beloved St. Therese of Liseux. I felt I could relate to her connection of harmony with nature and all created things. I sensed that fellowship she felt so strongly with her Carmelite sisters and how they might have walked among roses on summer days.

We experienced many things that day. Most importantly, we realized that as mothers, we are always about the giving – not about receiving. However, we need to be able to accept God’s graces if we are to continuously provide them for our families. So on the many days when the demands of the daily grind get too much for me, I quietly escape back in time and take a walk among roses.

“He set before me the book of nature; I understood how all the flowers He has created are beautiful, how the splendor of the rose and the whiteness of the Lily do not take away the perfume of the little violet or the delightful simplicity of the daisy.” Quote from “Story of a Soul: The Autobiography of St. Therese of Lisieux“

Copyright 2010  Manuela Giannotti

You know what I’m talking about. We’ve all had them. Those ‘if only!’ hindsight moments. The ‘should’ve, would’ve, could’ve’-beens.

In the midst of the groaning and gritting of teeth, how many of those times have you ever stopped to wonder…why?

Maybe it’s not actually bad luck or poor time management (hmm…). Perhaps it’s not a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time but rather that God means for us to miss certain moments in order that we meet the ones He has predestined for us.

We have all heard about how a second in time changed the outcome of a situation or a life. Most of us have our own personal experiences to share. But what many of us may not realize is that each of our lives is made up of individual moments specially selected and designed by God.

Looking back through my own life, there are many times when I have thought I probably would have been better off had I taken a left instead of a right at a particular crossroad. This second guessing used to lead me into bouts of doubt about the decisions I made in the past because those choices are responsible for where I am today.

Many times I prayed to God for a situation; a need or something I simply longed for to go my way. Most things were extremely difficult for me to let go of and accept, so when things didn’t go as I thought they should, I prided myself on my strong will and struggled to change the way.

However, as time passed, I found myself more able to understand that I was not alone when I took those turns at the crossroads and that I had company while making those decisions. God, with His ever merciful love, was with me in each of those moments.

I still struggle with handing over the reins but lately I find I am more willing to accept that my life is in God’s hands. I’m thankful to let Him lead the way.

In the end, it’s all about being where you’re supposed to be; where God wants you to be. He has a plan for every single moment of our lives. We have the free will, but He has already chosen the way.

“For I know well the plans I have in mind for you, says the Lord, plans for your welfare, not for woe! plans to give you a future full of hope.” Jeremiah 29:11


Copyright April 2010  Manuela Giannotti

Another dawning day,

I humbly turn my thoughts to Thee

And right out loud I pray -

“I thank You Lord for by Your grace,

I survived the dark of night.

As now You gently kiss my face,

And lead me towards Your light.

I consecrate to You this day,

Those dearest in my life

Be they at school; at home; at play

Please keep them far from strife.

Oh merciful, glorious God of all

Unworthy as I may be,

I pray You catch them should they fall,

I humbly beg of Thee.

They are the beating of my heart,

These gifts of pink and blue

Until You call me to depart,

Help me take care of them…for You.

“Children too are a gift from the Lord, the fruit of the womb, a reward. Like arrows in the hand of a warrior are the children born in one’s youth. Blessed are they whose quivers are full.” Psalm 127:3-5

Copyright March 2010 Manuela Giannotti

By including these consecrated individuals in our daily prayers and interceding on their behalf, we obtain many of God’s graces for them…and hopefully, a few for ourselves and those we love.

In addition to the children’s liturgy, members of our parish organized a great program for the children. A small group of kids from the ages of five to twelve eagerly joined The Rosary Club. One of the many purposes of the club is to engage the children in activities based on our Catholic principles and also to teach them to reflect on the mysteries and lead them in learning to pray the rosary.

Over time, the kids have assembled their very own oversized rosary; put on a play depicting the Joyous Mysteries; made St. Therese sacrifice beads and enjoyed countless other activities.

Among the several events and fundraisers running throughout the year, the group organizers decided in observance of the year’s theme, it would be great for the kids to get more familiar with the long and demanding road a man must take as he journeys to become a priest.

Creativity and appeal were key ingredients for this project with a bunch of kids under twelve and they came up with a wonderful way to introduce the kids to the life of a seminarian.

The group leaders received permission for access to our diocese seminarians and collected information to create easy to read and understandable profiles about them for the kids. They were even able to provide a photo of them.

The kids were gathered around the table and told they had an important mission to carry out for Jesus. It was explained to them that they were going to write a very special letter to young men who were studying to be priests. They were shown the various profiles and instructed to each choose one.

The children spent the afternoon writing and decorating letters and cards to their new spiritually adopted consecrated brothers. There were no formal guidelines as to what they should write; no corrections to spelling. Even the youngest, with the most basic of printing proficiency had free reign over what their message was. Included along with each welcoming salutation and unique introduction, every single one of them wrote that they now had a new friend who they would include in their prayers.

As I watched the smiling, enthusiastic faces light up at how much fun they were having and heard the squealing at each other’s ideas and encouragement of one another, I was struck by the innocence and purity of the moment. Children truly are of the kingdom of God.

I imagined the smile on the faces of those young men; the joy they must have felt in their hearts upon opening up the cards and letters and discovering they were from children.  How touched they must be to know, there are so many angels praying for them.

I hope it comforts them and strengthens their determination on really tough days. The road to being a priest is long and intense and often, it can be a lonely stretch out there on the highway of secularism. We are all driving it but they often times don’t get asked to carpool with the rest of the crowd.

That group of young seminarians now has these little earthly angels on their side, praying for them. Their prayers have a most wonderful privilege. Their prayers soar on wings straight to heaven, through the gates of eternity and are whispered directly into the loving heart of God.

Even if you should have countless guides to Christ, yet you do not have many fathers.               1Corinthians 4:15

Copyright 2010 Manuela Giannotti

The kids knew immediately. They ran to my side and threw their arms around me. We stood huddled together in the kitchen, each of us experiencing the same grief but each in a painfully singular way.

Most of the time in my life is spent on being a super-human mom but in times like this, I’m stripped of my cape and I am exposed as a simply-human mom.

I allowed myself moments of grief. It was so undeserved. She was too young. She had fought for years battling the thief. Cancer had crept into her unsuspecting bones, stole her life and robbed her of her dream of raising the daughter she had prayed so long for.

It’s not the first time we’ve experienced the loss of a loved one. Anyone who has ever lived through it knows there are no words to describe the anguish of losing someone you love. Death’s pain digs a hole in your heart so deep and wide that just when you feel it can’t be endured a minute longer, it seems to renew itself and intensify in force. It explodes and mushrooms blocking the sun from ever shining again on every single moment of the rest of your life.

As difficult as it is for adults to handle, it can immobilize children.

One asked, “But what about all our prayers?”

The other turned to me angrily, “God could’ve saved her but He didn’t! He let her die. Why doesn’t He make evil people sick and die instead? Doesn’t God care about us or listen to our prayers? Why does He let bad things happen?”

As all parents know, parenting is full of crash courses. Every experience is a lesson. A learn as you go thing.  As I looked at my kids, I saw all of my own conflicting uncertainties, angst and pain reflected in their eyes. There are days when that very same rant rages inside of me…and I just couldn’t envision any value coming out of the learning of this lesson.

We live in a world where illness, disease, suffering and death are everywhere. We get that it happens. We’ve experienced it before and God help us, will again. I was struggling internally myself with the “why, God?” so how could I explain – to a child – how this is God’s will and that somewhere out of this, some good will come? What good reason could I possibly give for a young mother dying and leaving her young child to be raised without her?

This is when I knocked on the Door of Divine Intervention.

Children must be very much-loved little people of heaven because my silent knock was answered by a very surprising source.

My youngest, arms tightly wrapped around my waist choked out, “God didn’t let her die. He wanted her to stop hurting.”

Then, with more spirit, “She’s an angel now and she gets to be with Jesus, Mary and Joseph. I would love to see Jesus, we all should!”

All righteous and fire now, but as an afterthought added, “Just not yet… right mom?”

Smiling through tears, I answered, “That’s right darling. Definitely not yet.”

Later that night, surrounded by family, I wasn’t the only one who found solace and strength in the words of this little angel that could. An innocent display of pure faith and trust in God – out of the mouth of a child – gave us all the much-needed courage and peace to overcome…when bad things happen.

“Out of the mouths of babes and infants you have drawn a defense against your foes, to silence enemy and avenger.” Psalms 8:3

Copyright January 2010 Manuela Giannotti

The majority of the students laughed and teased each other in typical juvenile fashion, about who would make the best priest.

However, one of them spoke out, “You have to believe in God for that to happen, sir.”

The teacher having reached the back of the room and holding the equipment in his hands ready to set up, stopped what he was doing and turned, “You attend a Catholic school but you don’t believe in God?”

The student, leaning back and rocking in his chair snickered, “I’m not a Catholic and no I don’t believe in God. I think it’s a bunch of crap.”

The noise in the classroom crashed to sudden silence as we all stopped what we were working on to listen to the exchange between student and teacher.

“How is that?” the teacher asked calmly, as he bent back to plug in wires and set up the DVD.

The student, bold with unqualified self-importance and youthful confidence continued defiantly, “There’s no proof that He exists.”

The teacher, having completed his task, straightened up and smoothing his hands briskly over the crumpled area of his trousers, faced the student. Without even so much as raising an eyebrow in the face of such direct negation, he softly but very seriously said, “Let me tell you about a man that lived over 2000 years ago; a man who in His short life and without ever having traveled far from home, changed the world… His name is Jesus.”

The hush that had fallen over the student body was broken by the scornful student. “That doesn’t prove anything.”

“Prove it doesn’t.” The teacher challenged.

At this point, other students began joining in the discussion. At first cautiously, throwing out arbitrary comments, then as the group became more roused, others began adding their comments in agreement. “I don’t even consider myself Catholic.” “This sucks, a black and white movie about a priest and nuns?!” “Does He really exist?” “I used to believe…” I could hear these bits and snippets of their conversations floating randomly around me like debris lost in space. A voiceless few sat, keeping their unspoken thoughts to themselves. I could well understand their hesitancy – it was a tough crowd. Still, I couldn’t help but imagine that somewhere, a cock was crowing three times.

I sat there, quietly taking in the whole scene. Watching in disbelief as these beautiful youthful men and women – our future generation – denied their belief in the existence of our Creator. Not all of them participated, but enough did. Enough of them don’t believe. Could ‘just enough’ of them change centuries of a history of believing in and building on our faith?

I could barely contain my agitation. I pleaded with God to please come into the hearts and minds of these young ones; to make His name known and revered. I beseeched the Holy Spirit to descend upon them; to send them a vision so bright and clear that it would shake their slumbering faith awake. I prayed to Jesus to find even the tiniest of perforations in the souls of His children in which He could seep His glory into and fill them up with His mercy and love.

Instead, I found myself looking at the young man who had set off the avalanche of falling faith and almost instantaneously, he looked directly at me.

“He exists.” A simple statement to him but everyone heard me say it.

He didn’t react.

“Let’s suppose you were wrong all along,” I continued evenly, “and in the end, you find He does exist and you’re facing Him…” He listened, not even stirring in his chair. “You’ll realize that it might have been better – had you lived your life – as if God existed.”

From out of the corner of the classroom, I heard the teacher quietly add, “Good point Miss.”

In my heart, I felt Jesus say, “Well done, my daughter.”

“Faith is the realization of what is hoped for and evidence of things not seen.” Hebrews 11: 1

Copyright December 2009 Manuela Giannotti

There is great comfort knowing that we have our very own angels – chosen by God – to watch over and guide us throughout our day. In these trying times, it’s a life insurance policy of celestial proportions that none of us should ever leave home without.

I’m always on the lookout in life for encounters that my kids and I can regard as angel-actioned. When we come across these incidents, I see what an impact they have on us; especially my kids. They leave an impression so strong and lasting that they won’t be able to forget them. I know one such experience that my kids and I will always remember.

We had all gathered in the van, toting along my sister and her kids as well, to head off to a medical appointment. Our family doctor’s practice is a good hike outside of the city. It’s nestled on sprawling acres of country field – replete with roaming rescued horses outside and resident felines inside.

The drive out started uneventfully but as we neared our cutoff, I noticed the car’s temperature gauge moving toward the red zone pretty steadily. I know how to drive and fill up on gas; that’s the extent of my car savvy. I didn’t know what it meant, but knew it couldn’t be good. I kept my eye on it right until we pulled into the parking lot.

I sent everyone in ahead of me so that I could make a call to my mechanic. It wasn’t the best time to realize I was in between mechanics and that finding one was something I’d been meaning to do.

Panicky to say the least, I made a few calls to roadside assistance. From the information I provided, they advised that I not drive the vehicle and dispatched a driver. As relieved as I was that a tow was on the way, there was a problem. How was I going to get the six of us back home?

I ran through the friends and relatives who might be availed upon to help. I hastily made a few calls but hit dead ends.  There was no one for me to turn to. Sadly, I had no corporeal ICE (in case of emergency). I needed celestial assistance, the winged kind.

Meanwhile, my doctor had heard from the kids what had happened. With a waiting room full of impatient patients, she called her mechanic. He rarely picked up the phone because he was so busy but his shop was just around the (country) corner. He picked up and he stopped what he was working on to talk me through some steps to get an idea of what was wrong with the car. He couldn’t fix whatever needed fixing that day but he still offered to come around and check under the hood for me if roadside assistance didn’t show up. As in demand as he was, he was earnest and sincere in his willingness to help.

The kids, who had been running back and forth between me outside and my sister inside, came running out to tell me that a woman was coming out to speak to me. Sure enough, a woman carrying a small toddler was making her way towards me. As the kids looked on with curiosity, this complete stranger offered to take us all wherever we needed to go.  In total astonishment, I thanked her for her generosity and kindness. I explained how I was waiting for assistance and genuinely hoped I wouldn’t have to put her to such trouble. Completely unfazed, she said she’d wait right there with us until they came.

When the driver finally arrived, he was greeted by the anxious faces of the kids. Rather than immediately hooking up my van and towing it, he took a moment to ask me what problem it was experiencing. After a quick assessment, he clarified to me that although he was not licensed, he suggested there might be a way to band-aid the van at least far enough to make it to a mechanic. He said he would follow me all the way just to be on the safe side.

I decided to take his advice. I profusely thanked the lady waiting quietly in the background for her kindness in offering us a ride and I called my doctor’s mechanic to thank him for his generosity with his time and assistance.

I never even got the driver’s name but thanks to this compassionate soul, we managed to make it home safely. All six of us.

Later, as I sat alone in my van waiting for the mechanic to look at the vehicle, I reflected on the events of the morning. Beyond a doubt, it was by the intercession of heavenly intervention that we had managed to get home. I recall reading about how angels, when they appear to us, may look like any other normal man and woman, but that is just so we’ll accept the angel and whatever message they have for us. I smiled as I thought how my ICE contacts were out of this world.

While I reflected on angels disguised as strangers, out of nowhere a man approached me. He was tall and gaunt-looking, unshaven and disheveled. He quickly walked right into my personal space and blocked my way. I couldn’t understand what he was saying. He was babbling and frantically waving his hands around.

That morning, hearing our cry for help, our guardian angels gathered around me, my sister and our kids. In order to assist and protect us in our time of need, they took action through the generous acts of total strangers. Everyone has an angel, even this guy.

I tried to back up a little, swallowed my fear and asked him what he was trying to tell me.  He finally stopped his ranting, put his hands to his stomach and said, “I’m hungry.”

I walked across the street to a restaurant, ordered the man a meal, paid and came back out to tell him to go on in. He bolted across the road, dodging traffic in his hurry. As I watched him run, I swear I caught a glimmer of iridescent gold and white-tipped feathers.

“See that you do not despise one of these little ones, for I say to you that their angels in heaven always look upon the face of my heavenly Father.” (Matthew 18:10)

Copyright November 2009 Manuela Giannotti

These lay individuals have the privilege of standing on God’s Holy altar, where only His angels and saints get to tread. I remember thinking how special you have to be, to actually become one of these ‘chosen ones’, who are within a breath of the most sacred Body of Christ. I dared not imagine I could ever be one.

I have been a parishioner at the same church since I was a child, and my family and I are regularly involved in its community activities. Over the years, I have made my interest known to assist at mass, and offered my availability at their convenience, yet I had never been approached with a request to bring about this honor.

So when I was approached by my school chaplain if I would be interested in being commissioned as a Eucharistic Minister, I was probably more eager than I was graceful in my acceptance. (Subtlety is not my forte).

That was a year and countless masses ago. I am now regularly scheduled at our school masses as well as at my church. The graces I feel from our Lord at each school mass I attend and serve at are bountiful. However, I look particularly forward to the masses I am scheduled for in my church.

I love our church. Built in 1890 in Norman Romanesque-style, the broad square bell tower built with large, chunky blocks rises over the rest of the church. It has beautiful stained glass windows depicting different bible scenes and the walls are covered in glorious, mural paintings on canvas. The pulpit main altar are carved and sculpted from Italian Carrara marble and the choir is accompanied by a century-old Casavant pipe organ. A beautiful, curved, wooden staircase takes us up to the choir loft.

Going up this age-old, semi-spiraled staircase to distribute the Holy Eucharist to choir members, is what I’m usually scheduled for.

Carrying the chalice that holds the Body of Christ is something I do methodically. I firmly grip the chalice, wiping my sweaty palms on my shirt (one at a time so I don’t drop its precious contents), and walk carefully through the main body of parishioners to the back stairway. I start breathing a little easier once I’ve made it through the crowd because I’m one of those flat-footed people that trips even when they’re barefoot and standing perfectly still.

I look down at the fragile, wafer hosts and then take one stair at a time; deliberate in my unhurriedness to get to that certain spot where I can no longer hear or see anyone. My breathing slows, steadies and quiets, and my thoughts become clear and tranquil.

As I climb higher, I feel as if the air is charged with rays of light and I sense more than hear messages of love. They fill my soul. I feel the power of the Holy Spirit. My fears, doubts, frustrations and stressors slip away as I give them all up and unite them with our Lord. I joyfully embrace the peace and serenity of Jesus’ presence. His love envelops me as I continue to slowly mount the stairway.

It only takes a matter of seconds but it seems infinite and by the time I reach the top, I swear I’m glowing. It’s like being the biggest fan of some global icon and bumping into them in a stairwell – except the awe and thrill goes beyond a mere mortal’s description.

Bumping into Jesus doesn’t just happen to me on that stairway. It’s just that I experience some of my most inspiring and reflective moments with our Heavenly Father while I’m climbing those stairs.

The peaceful and tranquil thoughts can easily be explained away as a momentary reprieve from my sometimes restless, fidgeting daughter, that I left sitting in the pew with grandma. The lightness could just be the sunlight streaming in and landing on my face through the cuts of strategically designed stained glass windows. The whole glowing thing could be attributed to the fact that I actually made it to the top without wheezing or stopping to rest.

However, there is no reasoning away the intense and overwhelming sense of peace I encounter on that ascent. Jesus meets me there and turns a simple walk up a flight of stairs into a personal, spiritual experience in which I’m immersed in the Holy Spirit.

In those moments, I talk to Him without words because I know He doesn’t need to hear them. He already knows our thoughts just like He knows every beat of our hearts. It’s harder for us to hear Him because as humans, we depend on words. We need to listen with our hearts to hear what His message is and it will resound loud and clear.

We already know what it is. It is forever the same. It is so simple. It is all about love.

Love Him. Love one another. Love the gift of life He gave you.

As broken as you might feel; as hard as these troubled times are and may be yet and as difficult as it is to live in this secular world, love.

“And this is my prayer: that your love may increase ever more and more in knowledge and every kind of perception…” (Philippians 1:9)

Copyright October 2009 Manuela Giannotti

Talk about running the spectrum – some folks visibly shudder and turn away, while others opt to take that as a cue to visit the restroom and then there are those of us who tackle it head on in the only way one should – with a receptive and zealous interest. Thus a simple dialogue that began between myself and a friend, quickly brewed into a table-wide conversation.

That night in particular, we had a mix of male and female friends, which always brings about an entertaining pitch and hit performance, to any debate. The guys seemed satisfied to just contribute to the debate but the women, (well, ok…me) – I was in it to win it.

We were a small but Catholic population at the table that night; some practicing, others non-practicing. Most of us had already been divorced for some time. As the discussion went on, it was agreed upon that there should be a healing period after divorce (self-assessed and self-monitored, of course) before feeling safe enough to move in to another relationship. The number of ‘ready’ and ‘not-quite-readys’, were split pretty evenly (assuming each one was being honest, of course), and surprisingly enough, everyone said they would marry again someday, if they found the right person.

There have been unimaginable amounts of every kind of hype on this ‘finding the right person’ business – with a much-revised agenda when you’re attempting it a second-time around. I wouldn’t dare take that topic on. It’s such an individual, personal and often complicated issue. However, off everyone went describing their ‘must’ and ‘must nots’, for their own custom-made, Mr./Ms.Right.

Now, as Catholics, there is a whole other dimension to finding Mr./Ms. Right and second marriages (first marriages as well in some cases), and as I like to occasionally engage in a spirited debate (refer to the women and winning it comment above), I thought I’d throw in a line…baited with Catholic catechism. So, after listening to, and weighing out what was on the group’s lists, I added how important it was for my future partner to have had his marriage annulled. Furthermore, that as Catholics, it is a requirement in order to remarry in the Catholic Church.

Immediately, the flow of the conversation, stemmed – albeit momentarily but it did. It was in that pause that I imagined a noise in my head. Kind of like the bang of the door to my social life slamming shut. From where she stood, my friend looked at me, then to the faces in the group, and then back at me again. I can’t be sure but I think she heard the bang too.

I had mentioned the “A” word. Everyone stared at me and I could tell they didn’t know whether to comment, to laugh or to keep shifting from their left foot, back to their right.

Then, one of guys chuckled and said, “Good luck with that.” Everyone sighed and laughed in relief.

I wasn’t prepared to get into stats or percentages and I’m not knowledgeable enough to get all caught up in lecturing on the Code of Canon Law regarding annulment so I smiled but wasn’t ready to let it go. I went on to ask if anyone had had their marriage annulled and wasn’t surprised to learn that not one of them had. I prodded on and questioned, why?

A couple of people said they had briefly considered it but never seriously enough to pursue it.  A couple more said they heard the process was lengthy and expensive so they had never bothered with it. However, what really surprised me was the general opinion of everyone present – that annulment just wasn’t important enough to them.

After that, the discussion quickly lost its appeal – there was no victory to the debate that night. It happens sometime. The group broke up; some for a dance fix to sweat it out, while others hit the bar for a stiff drink. It’s official; I can now drive someone to drink.

“Good luck with that”, I’d been told. “Not important enough”, they said. Why is it that an increasing percentage of Catholics who are divorced, don’t apply for an annulment and yet most of those who divorce eventually, remarry? It has become both natural and acceptable for some Catholics to live with risking the loss of the sacraments rather than go through the annulment process. While I realize that not all annulments are granted, I wish I could impress upon these individuals the importance of trying (at the very least), to obtain one.

Having been granted a Declaration of Nullity, I can be an example – but just because it was a priority for me, doesn’t mean it is for anyone else. While I pondered these thoughts and tried to process them, the guy who had wished me luck approached me.

“You know,” he said, “when you fall in love with the right man, it won’t matter and you’ll change your mind.” I looked directly at him and said, “I won’t change my mind.”

My friend, overhearing this, shook her head at him, “No, she won’t.”

He apologized and said it hadn’t been his intention to make light of something that was obviously extremely important to me. He went on to say that even though he still thought I’d need a whack of luck, he admitted he couldn’t help but respect my conviction. As the night wore on, we chatted at intervals, and at one point he quietly, almost shyly asked, “So…how does that whole annulment thing work?”

A victory indeed! Not for me, for Jesus.

For those who may be considering an annulment, pray for direction. For those who have one and hope for remarriage in the Catholic Church, finding an annulled Mr./Ms.Right may prove to be more of a challenge – but if it’s what you truly believe in, be brave in the face of skepticism. Stay steadfast and don’t let anyone ever change your mind.

And I don’t buy that whole luck thing – you know how it is…I got Jesus.

“Be brave and steadfast; have no fear or dread of them, for it is the Lord, your God, who marches with you; he will never fail you or forsake you.” Deuteronomy 31:6

Copyright  September 2009   Manuela Giannotti

If that weren’t blessing enough; like manna from heaven, He even provided me with a talented team of friends who spent all morning transforming my seven-year-old daughter from her usual mismatched dishevelment, into angelic radiance.

I knew keeping her in that pristine state after the mass would be a challenge but I was hoping she would at least make it to the church all in white.  I watched, white-knuckled, from the living room window, as she happily ran in circles across the dew-drenched front lawn. Biting my lip, I turned quickly away, pretending I hadn’t seen the potential grass-stain catastrophe waiting to happen.

I ran through the house searching for my keys, applying lip gloss and making sure my son’s hair was combed and his shirt tucked in. Everyone was good to go.

Just as my family and friends and I were about to rush out the door, the phone rang. If it hadn’t been within arm’s length, I wouldn’t have answered it. It was my children’s father who should’ve already been on his way to the church. Instead, he was reconfirming what time the ceremony was starting at. Trying to keep the irritation from my voice, I repeated the information he had known and had been reminded about for months.

Then he dropped the bomb. “I’m bringing my friend.” It didn’t register immediately, perhaps because of the chaos. “Your friend?” I repeated. “Yes and, I’m telling you now so you don’t go crazy and, lose it like you always do.” The insult wasn’t anything new, the announcement was.

It hit me, hard. My mouth went dry and I suddenly felt choked while everything around me seemed to stop. The moment I had dreaded for almost six years was about to be forced upon me. I was going to be subjected to the woman my ex-husband was involved with; the ‘other’ woman who had taken my place and now shared his life.

Of all his endless attacks on my spirit; of all his battles I’ve had to engage in, this one was by far, the most vicious. He was going to make me endure this dreaded moment at my daughter’s First Holy Communion. The air around me was suddenly filled with the strong scent of my falling to pieces.

My cousin sensed immediately what was happening and graciously started leading my children outside. My friend came to stand by my side.

How could this be happening today? I looked up towards heaven and cried, “Why God?”   I don’t know how I made it to the church.

My beloved sister sustained me in church while my saint-of-a cousin sat in the pew behind me gently encouraging me to read the prayer card she had slipped in my hand, before mass began. I managed to push through the bedlam in my head and force all my thoughts on THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER (attributed to Pope Clement XI), one of my favorites and one I hadn’t prayed in a long time.

As the prayer seeped into my being, the organist began with the choir joining in and I watched as my beautiful, breathtaking daughter walked up the aisle like a bride of Jesus. Just as she got to her assigned pew, she stopped to turn her shining, smiling face my way and looked at me with so much joy and adoration that my heart overflowed with love and gratitude.

In that split second; that perfect moment, I realized that my ex’s ‘friend’ did not matter and neither did he. As much as I felt crushed and alone by his undignified act, I was not. I was sheltered in God’s armor and in the company of His angels the whole time.

It was then that I understood how truly God loves. It was then that He carried me.

“Do not fear or lose heart.”  2 Chronicles 20:17

Copyright June 2009 Manuela Giannotti

Years later, I see how it was all part of God’s plan and even though this was the right path to take, it was still the one less traveled -  full of hindering potholes and always re-routing us with unexpected detours. As any parent knows, the load is not a light one. But try lifting it with just one set of hands.

However, God is good and my children are happy and well-adjusted. By their own scruples, they have become wise to the reasons why my continuing in marriage to their father, would have meant traveling down a despondent road for all of us. Yet, from some innate goodness, they love and respect both their parents. Their needs are my priority and each day, they are met; physically, emotionally and spiritually.

While I praise God with each and every passing day that we are safe, healthy, sheltered and fed, I admit, there are quiet moments when the loneliness creeps in and I crave a slice of life, outside ‘mom-mode.’  For the past few years, when I get into these ‘craving’ periods, I experiment with the little time I am allotted for a social life.

I get determined to stay socially active, even when I’m too tired; I make a point of accepting invitations to events I’d rather skip and, I allow myself to entertain the idea of dating…again.

Dating, for a Catholic, single-mother in the secular world, I have discovered, is like trying Jamaican hot jerk chicken for the first time…every time you try it! Humor me if you will… The hot sauce can be overpowering and burn so hot, you lose the flavor of the chicken, along with most of your living taste buds. You can say you tried it but, it’s not likely something you’ll order again, anytime soon. (This will not apply to those of you who can eat Habanero peppers with glee.) However, as time passes and the insides of your mouth and esophagus heal, you forget that horrible burning sensation and might one day, agree to give it another go.

So, yes, I say dating, again because dating men can be quite similar to eating jerk chicken. A first attempt (or what may seem like endless firsts) can leave you so blown over by the bad encounter that you don’t ever want to experience it again.

At least not until you’ve put out of your mind that the last nice man you accepted an invitation to dinner with, neglected to tell you he wasn’t quite divorced yet; that he and his wife were in the process of ‘working out the details’, and then because he had forgotten his wallet, asked if you could lend him some cash until next time. Next time?

After the initial reaction of disbelief and burn of disappointment – where you start writing several unfinished letters to the Holy Father about how becoming a nun with children could really work for you and that you’ve convinced yourself (and only yourself), how happy you are that you’ve sworn to never date again – time soothes your memory sensors, cravings set in and, before you know it, you’re ordering jerk chicken…again.

I find the more I go through these periods of curiosity and seek out life on the other side of my Catholic, single-mom fence; I increase my insight into what is truly important to me. From each of my many frustrating, comical, joyful dating disasters and escapades, I go through a necessities-of-life realignment.

There is no such thing as life outside of ‘mom-mode’ because I’m really in a constant state of life in ‘God-mode’ and it’s with His grace that I make it through every day.

As I grow in confidence that God will guide me to what I need, I feel His strength of presence more and more through every new yearning period and they become easier to get through. Slowly, I am learning to not seek so much as to accept my life as it is now and for whatever He has planned for me in the future. God is good!

Now, just so you know, I happen to love Jamaican jerk chicken…in its mildest form.

Psalm 37:4 says, ‘Delight yourself in the Lord; and He will give you the desires of your heart.’

Copyright June 2009 Manuela Giannotti