“Oh yeah, I like your shirt,” my little guy said to the dad.

The dad, taken off-guard, responded, “Oh, thanks,” looking a little amused. He continues pushing his small child in the swing.

My little guy continued, “Yeah, I have a blue shirt, too. It’s a Brewers shirt,” he says enthusiastically to the bewilderment of the Canadian dad.

“Cool,” he said, starting to look for this little person’s parent.

The baby was in the middle of a difficult maneuver on the equipment, making it impossible for me to claim—and redirect—the boy, who continued happily in his guy chat.

“My name’s Thor,” said my little guy, deep in a super hero phase.

The dad started to smile, then caught himself, unsure of the veracity of his little friend’s statement. Just then, my four-and-a-half year old daughter arrived on the scene to set things straight.

“Nuh-uh,” she said, “his name’s Augustine.”

The dad was completely confused at this point, as both choices seemed unlikely. He was really searching for their parent, and by then I didn’t want to identify myself. Fearing more family disclosure, though, I scooped the baby off the equipment when she wasn’t looking and ran over to the group. As she fussed, I tried to smile and shoo everyone away while trying to appear completely normal. The dad smiled faintly in return, and I tried to hide behind the playground steps.

Later, I wished that I hadn’t felt so strange, that I didn’t mind if someone may have mistaken my Catholicism for insanity or worse. But when it came to my son, I did. I wanted to explain it all to that poor dad who had simply wanted to be left alone with his child at the park. I wanted to explain how my husband and I had chosen someone who had dearly loved God to be a close and constant intercessor for our son, how we hoped that he would emulate his patron in some way and that some day, he, too, might love Our Lord as much as St. Augustine did. I wanted him to understand and affirm us in our faith and parenting. But he didn’t. And I had to rely on God and not the dad in the playground that we were approaching parenthood in the right way. And some days, that feels so impossibly hard.

To be fair, though, I never caught the name of his son. It might have been Polycarp.

Copyright 2012 Meg Matenaer

The year of my study was 2005, the year the gut-wrenching details of decades of unthinkable abuse of minors by clergy had broken in Ireland. Every day in the news were new reports of abuse or a rehashing of the major cases. The effects in the parishes, I can only imagine, must’ve been devastating. No man in the country entered seminary that year.

It was my impression at the time that the Irish Church was one big open wound. And one got the feeling from some quarters that some people suspected—or hoped—this would mean the end of the Catholic Church in Ireland. As I left in May, I wondered what would happen to the faith in Ireland—how low Mass attendance would get. Over the years, I’ve often wanted to go back and see for myself. The only report I’d heard since being there was from an Irish priest who’d mentioned that his nephew priest back home reported that he and the clergy had been walking around with their heads down.

When, through God’s providence, I found out that Ireland would be in my husband and my travel plans, I was intent on what we’d find.

The morning after having arrived in Galway, my husband and I attended Sunday Mass at the beautiful stone cathedral in the city. As we slipped into one of the pews near the front, I watched as mostly older people, with some young families and the occasional single young person entered and prepared themselves for Mass. There had been about as many people in attendance as I had remembered in 2005. Mass began, and the somewhat older priest led a loving, reverent liturgy.

It was Good Shepherd Sunday, and the priest gave a reflection on his time serving the Church, with all its ups and downs, naturally giving mention to the recent struggles of abuse. But what he concluded, with a quiet joy and certitude, was given a chance to do it all over again, he would. He was a priest of Jesus Christ, and that was a life worth living.

A few days later, we had the pleasure of attending a church in a small town also on the west coast. The bell for Mass was rung, and in walked Father, a younger, very strong-looking man. He celebrated Mass with power, the walls of the church almost reverberating with his words of consecration. My husband and I were caught up in awe of his profound belief of the power of the Eucharist, and later, our youngish concierge—who had helped us find Mass in the morning—noted that that particular priest was really popular with the young people in the town.

As we flew home, my heart was full. The Church in Ireland, though still wounded, still was. People still attend Mass. Young men still enter the seminary. Young and old still believe in the Eucharist. Though greatly in need of prayers as other countries in our very modern world and its culture, the Church in Ireland is still there, offering Christ in the sacraments to a world who needs Him more than ever. And that looked good to me.

Copyright 2012 Meg Matenaer

Clad in a thin fleece sweater and ballet flats, I looked at my husband. “It has to be the one in the middle, right?” I looked back at the peak on the right, its tip still hidden. There’s no way St. Patrick could have climbed that by himself, barefooted, with no gear, I thought.

“I don’t know, Meg,” said my husband. “I think it’s the big one over there.” I gulped and he added, “And we’ll only go as far as you want, and we’ll stop whenever you want.” I nodded. He frowned. “Did you bring other shoes to wear?”

I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that I’d forgotten them. “I’ll be okay,” I said lamely.

We slowly got out of the car and made our to the Croag Patrick visitor center. After having ascertained that the one in the clouds was indeed our destination, the peak on which St. Patrick had prayed, fasted, and done penance in the Lent of 441 AD, we set off toward the path.

We picked our way up it, which was mostly rock embedded in a little dirt, the grass having been worn away from the countless pilgrims who had followed in St. Patrick’s footsteps over 1500 years. Even today roughly 30,000 pilgrims climb the summit to pray or to attend a special Mass during the national pilgrimage in July. And many do it barefooted. Each step was uneven due to the abundance of rocks underfoot. I now understood why a friend of a friend had to be hospitalized after having done this barefooted. I looked at my little ballet flats and at the hiking boots of those ahead of us.

Grass covered the rest of the base of the mountain beyond the path. A steady sparkling stream flowed to our right. At our backs, tiny hilly islands dotted the blue-green bay. Another purple mountain sat beyond the water. We prayed the joyful mysteries, and my husband felt like he was communing with the Irish and he prayed for his Irish in-laws.

By the time we finished, we were a quarter of the way up, and the terrain was making it too difficult to pray. Each step required thought, as the path had changed slightly to give it the appearance of a giant, steep rock staircase. Our quads burned.

It was then when I realized that this was a penitential walk. With each step, we could offer it up to do a little reparation for our sins and those of the whole world. I began to offer each step to Jesus as an “I love you”, and the Spirit propelled us up the path. Soon we reached the midway point, a popular place to stop for those who didn’t wish to continue to the summit.

My husband and I stopped to enjoy the view–almost the whose bay now was visible. Large fluffy clouds sped through the air, casting shadows on the water below. We turned to view the sight behind the mountain, the land blanketed by fields and dotted with tiny white sheep. The path at this point had flattened out encouragingly as it wound to the right. “Come on!” I said and my husband grinned as he gallantly took the back. We were headed for the clouds.

We passed a group of high school boys who had come from the summit, a couple stopping to spell our girls’ names in the rocks along the way. Two had strayed far off and below the path, carefully spelling out “Nicole”. I smiled and my husband offered to do the same. I asked him instead for his encouragement as we were almost to the last, most difficult climb of the journey.

We could now better see the top and watched, wide-eyed, as a sheet of clouds blew right up over the top. The wind had picked up, and I clutched my arms around myself, the wind blowing easily through my thin sweater.

A rosy-cheeked boy of about 15 was quickly descending. I asked him, “Is the last part very hard?” hoping for some encouragement. Surely it couldn’t be as difficult as it looked if so many people climbed it every year.

“Very hard, yes, very hard indeed,” he said quickly as he dashed past us.

We reached the bottom of what seemed to be a nearly vertical climb. The wind now was howling and whipping about. We slowly started up the hill, and I was certain we would be blown off the hill, leaving our three little ones orphans. Miraculously, people kept descending from the fog above, and they seemed okay, though outfitted smartly in hiking gear.

Rock by rock, we pulled ourselves up, hunkering next to the dirt wall to our right as the wind blew over our backs. I marvelled at the faith and love of St. Patrick, to do this on his own, hoping that it would result in yielding fruit for his people. All the muscles in my body were tired, my feet hurt. I looked up, greatly disappointed that we couldn’t see the top yet. Another couple came down out of the fog. “Mind the wind,” said the wife.

Sure we must almost be there, I thought, as the moisture from the cloud stung our faces. How nice it’ll feel to get to the top and into the cozy chapel where we’ll be able to do some serious praying, I thought.

Suddenly a dark rectangle appeared above, and my husband and I pushed towards it.

The top! We were there! We had reached the summit! A large gray cloud surrounded it, though, so we could only see a few feet ahead of us. A small shelter of rock littered with soda bottles lay at our left. On our right was a plaque describing the customary prayers to be said on one’s knees. The wind almost knocked us over, so we made our way to the little white chapel ahead. My husband pulled on the wooden doors–locked! I was so disappointed I could’ve cried, but another gust of wind sent us looking for shelter behind the chapel. Inside a little doorway we were protected a bit from the wind.

The wind howled and my mood darkened. I felt silly that I was surprised that we couldn’t see anything and upset that this was currently, like, the worst praying spot ever due to the conditions. I imagined St. Patrick clinging to the rock up here for 40 days and nights until he had secured great graces for his people. Unbelievable. Because the instant we had gotten up there, all we wanted was to get back down as quickly as possible. So that’s what we did. We turned back down the path, not stopping until we had reached the half-way point, which was still sunny and beautifully calm.

Haggard from the wind and rain and aching from the climb, we hobbled down the path, as I tried to remember to smile at those still on their way up.

I was still so disappointed from not having been able to pray at the top. Perhaps I should’ve knelt down and said the customary prayers. But I hadn’t. Did this trip even count for anything spiritually, I thought. Just then, my foot slipped and I skinned my foot and shin. The pain halted that line of thought and I took it as a sign.

We reached the bottom and rejoiced, thanking God and St. Patrick for a safe journey. We turned around and the summit was now completely clear and surrounded by a bright blue sky. “Quick, let’s go back up,” I teased.

We reached the visitor’s center, and my husband noted that the mountain was about 2400 feet high. That’s about 4,800 I love you’s, I thought. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad way to spend the afternoon after all.

Copyright 2012 Meg Matenaer

Day 8 of my trip to Rome with my husband’s canon law class found us at the Congregation for the Causes of Saints, the dicastery responsible for the beatification and canonization of saints.  We sat in large, red, high-backed cushioned chairs around a large rectangular table.  Life-sized oil paintings of the recent popes hung on the walls, with a large photograph of Pope Benedict at the front.  Microphones lay on the table in front of each chair for whomever would like to ask a question.  I hadn’t used mine yet in the previous dicastery meetings.  Maybe this time.

Monsignor Sarno welcomed us, and I smiled at his tri-state accent, as he sounded just like my dad.  He began by saying, “God sends messages to the world through his saints.”  He stressed the importance of looking not so much at the pen that God uses, but the message that He conveys through that person.  He warned of the dangers of getting too caught up in the extraordinary experiences and details in a saint’s life, which can sometimes distract us from the importance of a specific virtue that God is showing us through the saint.  I sensed immediately that I am guilty of that, as I sometimes even become despondent when I feel as though I could never live like a certain favorite saint because our life experiences are so different.  I leaned back a little so the Dominican sister to my left could see.

Monsignor spoke of why saints are so important to us as Christians.  He said it is through them that God gives us a concrete example in concrete history of what it means to truly live as a Christian.  Our faith is one, he said, but how we live that faith can vary widely depending on an individual’s place and time in history.  This came as a big comfort to me, as I had always been a little bothered that I could never find “the perfect saint”, the one whom I could emulate perfectly, the one who would take the guesswork out of the Christian life for me.  He inferred that we’re not supposed to have a perfect plan–God wants our love and trust.  Interesting.  I gazed thoughtfully at the pictures of the popes.  Some of them looked like they had had a lot on their minds.

Monsignor explained the various stages in the process of canonization and how they look for miracles to confirm the status of venerable and blessed souls.  It was his job to investigate the medical miracles attributed to the intercession of the particular soul.  He told the story of his trip to Honolulu, where it was he who had to look into a miracle attributed to Father Damian.  A woman there who was told by her doctor that her cancer had spread all throughout her body and even to her brain and only had a few months to live, banged her hand on the table and said, “I’m going to talk to Father Damian about this!” and was instantly cured of all her cancer.  My jaw dropped as I imagined the scene and wondered at the woman’s faith.  Monsignior Sarno added that they look for the medical healings to be full, perfect, and lasting, “as the Holy Spirit doesn’t do a half-job”.

Just as I was still marveling over the healing, Monsignor again mentioned that often people get too distracted by the fancy details–the “holes in the hands”, the “flying” (levitation), bilocation, or even the writings of the saint–and miss the message of holiness that God wants to send, the qualities and virtues He wants to stress to the world through a particular soul.  I tried to stop thinking about the Honolulu healing and focus on what this good monsignor was saying, as he would certainly be the one to know.  In just a few short minutes he had helped breathe new life into my devotion to the saints, and give me more hope and courage to look beyond the details toward the virtue in that holy person’s life.

“Pope Benedict XV said that heroic virtue,” added Monsignor, “is to do what you’re supposed to do, when you’re supposed to do it, with faith, love, and constancy.”  Wow, I thought.  That did seem more impressive than bilocation.

Copyright 2012 Meg Matenaer

My husband and I are in the middle of a six-hour layover at the O’Hare Airport, en route to Rome to meet up with his fellow canon law classmates for a two-week Rome trip with a decidedly canon law flavor.  He’s in a suit; I’m in a skirt, stainless.  The babies are with the grandparents, and we decide that we’d be happy if we never left Terminal K for the next two weeks.

I sip a latte that’s wrapped in an insulated cover which illustrates the difference between a latte and a cappuccino, and I remember that today is Pope Benedict’s birthday.  I wish we would’ve brought him some cheese from our home state of Wisconsin.  My husband helps himself to my coffee, and I don’t mind one bit because two days’ time will find us in the front row of Benedict’s Wednesday audience.  And Wednesday afternoon will probably find me in an Italian hospital, being treated for heart failure.

Being in the same room as Christ’s vicar on earth.  Descending beneath St. Peter’s to visit St. Peter’s tomb.  Feeling the overwhelming presence of the saints at the Colosseum.  Gazing at the Pieta.  Gaping at the Sistine Chapel.  Gawking at the Italians.  Resisting the mighty urge to speak English with a faux Italian accent at all times.  Not wearing jeans for two weeks.  Drinking wine at noon.  Attending Mass at the tomb of St. Josemaria Escriva.  Visiting the CDF, CDW, the Rota, the Apostolic Signatura, the Pontifical Council for the New Evangelization, the Congregation for the Causes of Saints, the Apostolic Penitentiary—what could they do?, the Congregation for Bishops  and other dicasteries with my husband and his fellow canonisti.  Pretending to be Nicolas Cage in the Secret Archives.  Not carrying a diaper bag.  Meeting my old bishop from my home diocese in his new surroundings, where he is known as Raymondo Cardinal Bur-kay.  Watching the priests and religious enter and exit the Vatican with their beautiful cassocks and habits blowing in the breeze.   A brief excursion to Assisi with a dear priest friend.  Church hopping, saint visiting, masterpiece finding.  Pasta, fancy shoes, scarves, altar pieces, statues, and cobblestone streets.  Receiving the Eucharist in the Eternal City.

I might need hospitalization now.

God is so good.

Copyright 2012 Meg Matenaer

Except for the woman ahead of me. And her girlfriend. Or maybe they were enjoying themselves. But it wasn’t long before their conversation had me completely engrossed. The first woman was exceedingly animated as she described in excruciating detail just how her incompetent her husband was. He brought his dishes to the counter, and then just left them there, right on top of the dishwasher! When he cleaned the bathroom, he just sort of ran a rag over the sink—like blehbedyblah–instead of scrubbing off the grime behind the faucet. And when she was out, he didn’t even switch over her laundry, like she had asked him to. And don’t even get her started on his failings as a father. Why, she was so mad at one point, she called him at work and chewed him out so loudly that the whole office could hear, which, she reluctantly admitted later, was a little crazy, but you know? And her girlfriend did. Her husband was the same way.

A pit was forming in my stomach as I listened, guilty from eavesdropping, horrified at the open hostility this poor woman—and man—had to endure in their marriage, and so sad as I imagined the husband and wife continuing on this way until they eventually annihilated each other. I thanked God, like the Pharisee, for not letting me be like that woman, made sure to smile at all the husbands I saw during the duration of my time in the line, and smothered my husband in kisses and thanks when I emerged from the sale and found him and the kids happily playing on a giant boulder outside of the school. But later, at home, the woman’s comments stayed with me, and I had to admit that the tendency of wives to be hard on their husbands—even if their thoughts remain mostly unspoken–is a universal one in this fallen world and something to be resisted.

A few days after, I felt a desire to do a little research into the writings of St. Ignatius of Antioch. I found on New Advent the seven letters he wrote around 107 A.D. as he was being led to his martyrdom and clicked on the one he wrote to St. Polycarp because those are my husband’s favorite baby names. And almost immediately the mystery as to why I was reading this and not Facebook status updates was solved. In the letter to St. Polycarp, Bishop of Smyrna, St. Ignatius sends his friend fraternal encouragement and direction, and later in his letter writes, “Speak to my sisters, that they love the Lord, and be satisfied with their husbands both in the flesh and spirit” (Ad Polycarp, 5).

Oh man, I thought, the Holy Spirit is serious about this. So I thought I’d speak to my sisters about it, too.

Copyright 2012 Meg Matenaer

Image Credit: Mary R. Vogt

It was Saint Elizabeth of Portugal who had especially caught my eye and heart this past week by her most heroic love.  Lisa Hendey writes that before she had even turned thirteen Saint Elizabeth, herself from a royal family in Sargossa, was married to King Denis of Portugal.  Known for her charity and piety, Saint Elizabeth strove to live out her faith by attending daily Mass, praying the Divine Office, and caring for her family while also reaching out to the poor in her community.  King Denis, on the other hand, while supposedly encouraging her in her efforts, repeatedly had affairs and even fathered children outside of their union.

Saint Elizabeth, ever faithful to her Lord, played the part of peace-maker in this difficult family atmosphere.  Lisa writes, “Elizabeth was born into a family divided by political battles.  She went on to watch the same problems erupt between her husband Denis and her own son, Alfonso IV. She was able to barter a truce between a man who had repeatedly cheated on her and fathered illegitimate children, and the son who felt his father was playing favorites with his undeserving half-brothers”(p. 52).

Truly deserving of sainthood, Saint Elizabeth “rose above the embarrassment and pain she surely felt” and cared for her children and the children born to King Denis from his affairs.  She respected his leadership of the kingdom, and took care of him during the final sickness that would lead to his death.  Her lifelong prayer for him was finally answered at his deathbed, when he experienced conversion.

Lisa notes that Saint Elizabeth, whose patronage includes peace, against jealousy, and brides, can be a powerful intercessor for wives who are finding it difficult to love their husbands and for mothers who are confronted with the realities of divorce or separation in the family.  Lisa writes:

For those moms who face the unique challenges of pulling together new family traditions, working with other adults in cooperative parenting situations, and dealing with the stress of scheduling and interpersonal issues, Saint Elizabeth can be a special intercessor when everyday life feels complicated or overwhelming.  Women facing marriage difficulties, separation, or divorce have shared with me their devotion to this matriarch whose faith saw her through domestic trials and helped her sustain her family life (53).

I pray that Saint Elizabeth might be with us all during Holy Week, interceding on our behalf so that we might be real instruments of peace in our families.  And I thank Lisa for the true treasure that is her book—a gentle reintroduction to our most faithful friends, the saints.

Order A Book of Saints for Catholic Moms and support CatholicMom.com with your purchase.

Copyright 2012 Meg Matenaer

She’s currently subsisting on certain meats, vegetables—which make her break out in a rash—a tiny bit of fruit, vitamins, and sugar-free Jello.  (Her mother, at this point, is consuming almost exclusively coffee and sugar, in secret.)  My daughter spends most of the day either hungry or sick, while I spend it thinking about what to feed her or wondering when she’ll start feeling better.

I love to cook, and there’s not much I can cook for her.  I love to go grocery shopping, but now when I go I feel like I’m surrounded by an ocean of food that my daughter can’t eat.  And during the bleakest times, when she’s still hungry after the allotted meat, vegetables, and carbohydrates, it feels like she’s starving in a world of plenty, and I have a new ache for those parents who truly have nothing for their children’s swollen tummies.

I try to encourage her, telling her that she’s doing a good job with her tummy, that Jesus is so proud of her, that He can use her suffering for great good, that it’ll all be for her crown in heaven, that she just has to wait a little longer than everyone else for her bowl of ice cream, and then she can eat it with Jesus.  But sometimes it’s hard when you’re four-and-a-half…or twenty-eight.

Just recently, I came across this passage from Caryll Houselander’s The Way of the Cross in this month’s Magnificat that felt as deeply true as my family’s struggle with food allergies is deeply challenging:

“Because Christ is to be stretched to the size of the cross, those who love him will grow to the size of it, not only to the size of man’s suffering, which is bigger than man, but to the size of Christ’s love that is bigger than all suffering.”

Having been stretched far further than I otherwise would have chosen for myself, I can attest that this is true: Christ has broadened my family’s hearts through this particular trial, which is indeed larger than any of us. He has given us the love to devote countless hours to researching her allergies, visiting doctors, planning menus, and going shopping all with the intent of making her more comfortable.  Her younger siblings empathize with her and her sacrifices—even the baby tries to give her toast when she notices she didn’t get any—and I think, at least, that my daughter notices how very hard we try for and how often we think about her.

I pray that Our Lady and Jesus remain with us as we travel this road and that they stay particularly close to the little shoulders that are bearing this most burdensome cross.

Copyright 2012 Meg Matenaer

I winced as the first two weeks of Lent came, waiting for the wilderness to come.  I assumed He would show me how terribly selfish and lazy I am when it comes to how I spend my time.  I thought I would struggle through the middle weeks of Lent, imagining myself fiercely battling temptation after temptation to stop my work and do foolish things and emerge this Easter as a true homemaker, wife and mother extraordinaire.  I’d have a rule the Carmelites in Wyoming would be proud of, and maybe I’d have one for the children, too.  Perhaps we would work together in our own community, laboring and praying together.

And then the wilderness came.  Did the Good Lord show me the very worst part of me—the part that prefers to sit instead of scrub the bathtub?  Well, we went there but we kept going, and it got so much worse than I ever could have expected.  He took me to the place in my heart where love simply cannot dwell.  He showed me how I hate having to stop what I’m doing to help my little children, the rudeness with which I speak to them sometimes, the rigid insistence I have on them showing me respect when I sometimes show them little, how seldom I look on them with love during the day, how seldom they see me delight in them.   And this was no quick detour.  We stayed here together for a full two weeks, as each day crawled by, and my mood soured further until my good days were ones that I endured with a sad, pained expression belying my constant annoyance at the souls God had placed in my care and the worst were, well, just plain awful.

Jesus gently told me through a few different voices, most especially my husband, that it was time for a Lenten redo.  Instead of trying to be obedient to all the tasks I had to accomplish for the day, I was now to forget all that and instead focus on being joyful.  That’s it.  No giving up anything.  No restrictions.  Just  joy.  I had to get the basics down.  I was excited to start—after all, I wanted  to be joyful—and I was grateful to have a reason to do my best.

Since I find myself grumpiest when I’ve been crabby with my family, I decided the best way to fulfill my Lenten goal was to treat everyone as gently and sweetly as I could, trying not to get annoyed by the manifold inconveniences of being a mom.  I didn’t know what would happen, but the next morning, I woke everyone up with big smiles.  I hugged them, sat with them, didn’t rush around, tried to think of things to make them smile, and listened carefully to their funny little stories.  I noticed that I often felt happier with how I treated other children rather than my own.  So, in trying to be joyful, I tried to treat them as carefully and gently as I did other kids.  I tried to say yes to them as often as I could, unless their requests were truly unreasonable.  I tried to ignore how my tasks at home took a little longer by not brushing them off continually.

This whole experiment in joy has blown the lid off a lie I’ve been harboring for years: that if I’m hard enough on my kids I can make them into saints;  if I push them hard enough, I can make them perfect.  But I’d been feeling such frustration because they certainly weren’t turning into little saints but definitely were feeling pushed.  God has ever so gently reminded me there’s a lot I as a mom can do to make the soil of their little hearts fertile and ready to listen to Him, but I can’t push down the seeds and yank up the flowers.  Instead of my usual methods, I’ve tried to hold on to the ideals that I have for them—kindness, patience, politeness, a love for God—and direct them gently, with hugs and jokes and by playing their games.  (Quick, Superman, to the crocodiles in the living room!)

I have never been so joyful, which for me is no small miracle.  And just the other day, my three-year-old son said that he wanted to marry me when he gets big.  Everyone is speaking more kindly to each other.  I don’t feel like my forehead is going to cave in from the force of my eyebrows knitting together.  I feel like I have better color in my face.  My features don’t look like they’ve been etched into my face with an Exact-o knife.  I am trying to let go of the harshness, of the insistence of order at the expense of kindness.   And my children?  They’ve been kinder, gentler, more patient, happier, polite, and I think still in love with God.  And I didn’t even have to force them.

There’s still enough time left in Lent for everything to go south again, for me to fall back into my old ways, to slide back into the bad habit of simply demanding that my children be good.  But I don’t think I will.  Jesus showed me the wasteland in my heart, but now He’s staying to sow the seeds of love there.

Image credit: Scott Liddell

Copyright 2011 Meg Matenaer

Perpetua and Felicity were part of a group of five catechumens apprehended in Carthage in 203 A.D. for the practice of the faith.  Perpetua was a well-educated twenty-two-year-old married mother with a nursing infant, and Felicity was her servant*, herself seven months pregnant.  Together they and their companions were imprisoned and roughly treated by the soldiers as they awaited their martyrdom.

The group was baptized in those early days of their arrest, but for Perpetua, the joy of the sacrament was clouded by anxiety over her family.  Perpetua did not have the support of her father, who visited her often and pleaded with her to denounce her faith for his sake and for her infant son.  Her mother and brothers were believers, but they, too, were suffering on her account.  Perpetua by this time was in great pain from not having nursed her baby for several days, and she was greatly distressed over her son’s lack of nourishment.  She endured these trials until it was arranged that the baby be allowed to stay with her in the prison, where they both quickly regained strength.  And there, Perpetua writes, “the dungeon became to me as it were a palace, so that I preferred being there to being elsewhere.”

During this time, Perpetua’s brother asked her to ask God in prayer if they would be released or if the imprisonment would result in death.  Perpetua was given a vision of a golden ladder laden with iron weapons leading to heaven with a dragon crouching at the bottom.  The two ascend successfully in the vision, and after Perpetua related this to her brother, they decided that it meant that this imprisonment would lead to their martyrdom and not their release.  Perpetua writes, “We understood that it was to be a passion, and we ceased henceforth to have any hope in this world.”

Perpetua’s father continued to be a source of stress, not understanding her devotion, and later came to her hearing, her son in his arms.  Perpetua writes:

Then they came to me, and my father immediately appeared with my boy, and withdrew me from the step, and said in a supplicating tone, ‘Have pity on your babe.’ And Hilarianus the procurator, who had just received the power of life and death in the place of the proconsul Minucius Timinianus, who was deceased, said, ‘Spare the grey hairs of your father, spare the infancy of your boy, offer sacrifice for the well-being of the emperors.’ And I replied, ‘I will not do so.’ Hilarianus said, ‘Are you a Christian?’ And I replied, ‘I am a Christian.’ And as my father stood there to cast me down from the faith, he was ordered by Hilarianus to be thrown down, and was beaten with rods. And my father’s misfortune grieved me as if I myself had been beaten, I so grieved for his wretched old age.

Later in Perpetua’s account, as the day of their martyrdom was fast approaching, Perpetua notes that Felicity was growing anxious that she might not be allowed to die with her companions, as it was illegal to publically chastise pregnant women.  Though in her eighth month, Felicity and her companions prayed that she might deliver early so that she, too, could be martyred.  When they finished their prayer, Felicity went into labor.  A soldier’s servant taunted her, saying that the sorrows she presently felt would be nothing compared to the pain she would later endure from the animals.  Felicity replied, “Now it is I that suffer what I suffer; but then there will be another in me, who will suffer for me, because I also am about to suffer for Him.”  Felicity gave birth to a girl who was raised by a fellow Christian woman.

When the great day of their martyrdom came, the group emerged triumphant into the circus:

The day of their victory shone forth, and they proceeded from the prison into the amphitheatre, as if to an assembly, joyous and of brilliant countenances; if perchance shrinking, it was with joy, and not with fear. Perpetua followed with placid look, and with step and gait as a matron of Christ, beloved of God; casting down the luster of her eyes from the gaze of all. Moreover, Felicitas, rejoicing that she had safely brought forth, so that she might fight with the wild beasts; from the blood and from the midwife to the gladiator, to wash after childbirth with a second baptism.

The Lord arranged that each should die according to their desire.  Earlier, the group had been discussing their martyrdom, and one of their companions mentioned that he wanted to battle all of the beasts so that he might earn a more illustrious crown.  Indeed, he and his servant did just that.  One considered bears “an abomination” but imagined he would die from a single bite from the leopard.  This, too, is what transpired, as the other animals would not come close to him.

For Felicity and Perpetua who had been stripped and bound with nets “a very fierce cow” was let loose on them, adding insult to injury.  The account relates that the crowd “shuddered as they saw one young woman of delicate frame, and another with breasts still dropping from her recent childbirth” meet the beast so they sent them back to be better clad.  On their second time out, Perpetua was flung and landed in such a way that her middle was exposed.  She covered herself up, mindful even of modesty in the heat of the moment.  She was called back out and fixed her hair “for it was not becoming for a martyr to suffer with dishevelled hair, lest she should appear to be mourning in her glory.”

She and Felicity were ultimately mortally wounded by the cow, yet Perpetua was in such a state of ecstasy that she had felt nothing of it.  Their companion, too, had felt uninjured, though gouged.  In the midst of their bloody trial, the martyrs encouraged other catechumens who were looking on not to be troubled but rather confirmed in the faith.

When it was time for them to be slaughtered by the sword, the martyrs gave each other the kiss of peace and awaited their heavenly reward, with this special note about Perpetua.  “Perpetua, that she might taste some pain, being pierced between the ribs, cried out loudly, and she herself placed the wavering right hand of the youthful gladiator to her throat. Possibly such a woman could not have been slain unless she herself had willed it, because she was feared by the impure spirit.”

Dearest Perpetua and Felicity, we pray for your intercession, that we might face our daily trials with joyful courage, convinced of Jesus’s immense love for us, so that we might join you one day in Our Lord’s heavenly home.

*edited by lmh 3/8/12

Copyright 2012 Meg Matenaer

Last week Alex and Olenka graciously had offered to have us over and I dreamt for days of that moment that found me curled up next to my husband in their living room with a giant goblet of red wine, eyes closed as I listened to the other three discussing philosophy and casually referring to huge sections of history that I had never learned.  I smiled, so grateful to be there with a drink in hand and a generous platter of prosciutto before me but wishing that I had read more than those few paragraphs of the Summa that I had found on New Advent when I was in high school so that I could contribute to the conversation.  I ate another prosciutto roll then remembered that I had wanted to ask them questions about their Lenten fast.

I had heard from another friend that Ukrainians traditionally follow a vegan fast during Lent, and anyone who could do that for forty days certainly qualified as a master faster in my book.  What I was not prepared for, though, was the extent of their various fasts.  They confirmed that they, too, would be aiming for a vegan Lenten fast, but later they casually mentioned that they hold a vegan fast twice a week on Wednesdays (traditionally held as the day when Judas betrayed Jesus) and Fridays all year round, don’t eat at all on Sunday until after their liturgy which usually ends at 2 p.m., and have three other fasting periods during the year.  As they talked fondly of their favorite fasting foods, like lentils and fish and vegetables, I tried to wrap my head around it all.  I asked them how they did it, and they stressed the importance of planning for the fast properly.  And then they said that you just get used to it.

I didn’t believe them, but it was time to eat so we stood for grace then sat down for Olenka’s beautiful pasta, and my mind reeled from what had been so quickly and nonchalantly revealed to me.  I smiled at our friends and admired their quiet, heroic virtue in keeping their faithful, routine fasts and that of their friends and family who do the same.   As they exchanged a few words in Ukrainian about the meal, I could see behind them their collection of icons on their mantle and knew that they’d been entrusted with a real treasure—their cultural Catholic traditions.

I’m hungry today, but that’s okay.  I know I’m in good company, and I hope I get used to it.

Copyright 2012 Meg Matenaer

Sometimes God calls our home phone, and I panic.

This past week, He called to let us know that the house we had had our eye on had dropped twenty thousand dollars in price, and we had to make an offer on it that day if we wanted it.  After an afternoon of printing, signing, faxing, and running upstairs and downstairs, we had gotten our offer in.  But in the excitement, I had lost my head, and it was gone for a week.

As my husband prepared to leave us for the weekend to see the house, I dreamt of carpet and paint, worried about mortgages, and neglected the children and our meals.  Only remembering at noon one day that I hadn’t taken the chicken for our dinner that night out of the freezer, I absently dumped a whole tray of frozen chicken into the crockpot without having peeled off the absorbent pad underneath.  Halfway through dinner, I got up to retrieve more from the crockpot and only then noticed the melted plastic and puffy absorbent filler floating next to the chicken.  No need to distress anyone—we had already eaten, it was in God’s hands now—I quietly slid the whole thing into a dark corner of the counter where it sat for two days.

My husband left, the children were out-of-sorts from the hectic week, and my house quickly turned upside down.  The children were bickering one afternoon as I noticed the crockpot that had been sitting quietly in the corner, untouched from days ago.  While snapping at the children to stop snapping at each other, I rashly picked up the crockpot and dumped the whole mess down the garbage disposal-less sink, forgoing the use of even a stopper because heck, the big pieces would get caught up in the drain, wouldn’t they?  And surely the sludge would just keep going down the pipe.

But it didn’t.  It stayed.  As the weekend wore on and I lost my keys, Magnificat, temper, and general control of things and the kids grew more wired and the baby started noticing my husband’s absence, crying “Da-da” whenever things didn’t go her way, the water level of the sink rose, it’s murky, chicken water gurgling taunts at me.  It was Sunday when I noticed the dishwasher wasn’t draining and had what also looked like chicken water in the bottom of it.  Dirty dishes were piled on all flat surfaces in the kitchen, making the kitchen feel like some cruel thought experiment, and my husband called to talk about important mortgage things, to which I could only respond, “Uh huh,” as I looked around and wondered where else I could wash them.  The bathtub?  Someone else’s house?  “Yeah, adjustable rates are such a pain.”

God pulled me aside one evening and gently reminded me of all the calls He had put in at Mary’s house:  to be His Son’s mother, to have her heart pierced, to flee for Egypt.  He nudged me: and how did your mother respond, Meg?  She didn’t freak out, I answered.  No, He said, she didn’t freak out.  She wondered and pondered and kept all things in her heart.  And she did her work.  Okay, I said.  I’m sorry…but could you please give a hand with the sink?

On Monday, God let St. Anthony find my Magnificat and then brought over a friend with Draino and an idea to use a wire hanger to unclog the sink.  It worked beautifully, and she did the rest of the dishes and played with the kids while I hid in the kitchen, watching everything work itself back into place just in time for my husband’s arrival the next day.

I winced as I replayed the weekend’s events.  It didn’t have to be that hard.  In fact, it wasn’t the circumstances of the house-hunting that ruined my weekend, but rather my careless reactions to it all that had started the real trouble.  Next time, I vowed, when God calls, I’ll just listen, ponder, put it in His hands and then do my work.  And if I can’t do that, I’ll call Mary.

Copyright 2012 Meg Matenaer

I turn away and look at my four-and-a-half-year-old daughter.  She’s sitting properly on the chair, which conveniently leaves her chin a few inches above her plate.  Using two tortilla chips as shovels, she neatly pushes everything from her plate into her mouth so as not to drop any on her lap.  Her mouth, chin, cheeks, and hands are chili pepper red.

I feel something raining on the table near my elbow.  I turn and the baby is smashing a fistful of taco into her mouth, losing half on account of her fingers running into her nose.  She swallows, shakes her head and growls, and starts again.

I can feel the carpet soaking up the oil from the hamburger with each second, and I look at my husband, who is concentrating on his plate.  I nudge him.  “This is so gross,” I mouth.

He looks around and nods.

I watch as our little taco-stained friends happily eat, squeal, and tell the funniest stories the others have ever heard, and I’m pretty sure that we’ll never have holier dinner companions.

Copyright 2012 Meg Matenaer

I just finished reading Bringing Up Geeks (Genuine, Enthusiastic, Empowered Kids): How to Protect Your Kid’s Childhood in a Grow-Up-Too-Fast World by Marybeth Hicks.  It is so excellent, full of totally common-sense objections to our culture’s vision of childhood, and I heartily recommend it to any parents who feel overwhelmed by the culture’s negative influences on their children or who feel alienated for having protected their children from them.

In her straight-shooting, funny style, Mrs. Hicks lays out in 300 pages her and her husband’s approach to parenting, that is: intentionally raising GEEKs or genuine, enthusiastic, empowered kids.  (Geeks, according to Mrs. Hicks, are kids who are: braniacs, sheltered, uncommon, well-liked by adults, late bloomers, team players, true friends, homebodies, principled, and faithful.)

In describing how she and her husband sought to assist in the development of the physical, intellectual, emotional, and spiritual selves of their four children, Mrs. Hicks relays with great humor and poignancy the challenges they faced as their values and decisions  in child-rearing brought them head-on with the “culture of cool”.  In her second chapter “Raise a Sheltered Kid”, Mrs. Hicks relates how her husband went with a friend to see Matrix Reloaded, an R-rated movie described by screenit.com as “’heavy’ in blood, gore, frightening and tense scenes, profanity, sex, and nudity; and ‘extreme’ in guns and weapons, violence, disrespectful or bad attitudes, and scary or tense music.’”  The kicker?  Just before the movie began, Mr. Hicks watched as a mom walked into the theater with a group of his daughter’s twelve-year-old friends.  Mrs. Hick’s writes, “My husband’s review: Uncomfortable.  ‘I’m watching these graphic scenes, but the whole time it’s really awkward knowing Betsy’s friends are a few rows ahead of me. I felt like the girls should have covered their eyes,’ he said.  ‘Since they didn’t, I covered mine instead.’ (p. 59-60).”

With water-tight logic and abundant statistics, Mrs. Hicks shows time and again how we as American parents have handed our children over to consumerism, unlimited media consumption, rudeness, and early sexualization, despite our knowledge of these things’ deleterious effects.  In her chapter entitled, “Raise a Sheltered Kid” Mrs. Hicks lays out some harrowing statistics regarding negative influences in the media, like “77 percent of prime-time shows included sexual content and 68 percent of all shows included talk about sex, with 35 percent of all shows incorporating sexual behaviors into their content (65), and the lack of supervision and standards at home regarding its consumption.

Regarding current Internet trends and safety, Mrs. Hicks mentions the Chris Hansen series “To Catch a Predator” that ran on Dateline, and she writes

Some forty million people have seen Chris’s hidden-camera investigations in which he snags evil pedophiles in the act of attempting to meet young teens for sex.  The series as wells as the companion best-selling book of the same name have exposed to all of us the underhanded and insidious behaviors of those who use the Internet for criminal purposes.  And still—still—millions of kids hang out on My Space every afternoon, millions of kids have computers in their bedrooms, where they can roam unsupervised through the unchartered territories of cyberspace, and where they are routinely and repeatedly approached by icky sickos for unthinkable exploitation…But rather than belabor the mind-boggling trends, I’ll simply note that more than 85 percent of children and teens now enjoy regular access to the Internet, while only a quarter of the young people report that their parents have rules about how to use it (67-68).

Far from being a list of not-to’s when parenting, Mrs. Hicks offers with each chapter the culture’s answer to parenting questions and the positive, formative, loving response we as parents can choose instead.   On the problem of talking-back in middle and high schoolers, Mrs. Hicks writes that she  found online from a social worker at a major children’s hospital a manual which read, “As children grow and become more independent, they have a need to assert more control over their own lives.  Talking back can be a way for children to separate themselves from their parents…Kids need to talk back, but they need ways to do it that aren’t disruptive to your relationship” (122).

Mrs. Hick responds in her usual, refreshing way, “Kids need to talk back?  Really?  And we need to help them do it in ways that aren’t disruptive to our relationships?  Man, there sure is a lot I don’t know.  Quick.  Someone, sign me up for a degree in child development.”

Later she offers her own tried-and-true method of teaching kids to be mannerly in an increasingly rude world.  After noting that her kids are often praised by adults for their good manners, she writes, “Again, are Jim and I proud of our kids?  Naturally.  But we’re not surprised by their skills.  We’ve worked on them!  We spend time coaching them about how to converse politely, we correct them when we see rude behavior, and we engage them in social chatter so they can learn to chat socially.  Heck, we even practice handshaking and getting them to look us in the eye when they say hello” (132)  She offers practical advice on how to work on manners at home and reminds the reader again about the importance and beauty of good manners, as they are the way we acknowledge others’ dignity in ordinary conversation.

I encourage any parent who feels weary from saying no to the culture to read this book for encouragement and hope.  Mrs. Hicks proves that saying no to the negative influences of our culture really is about saying yes to those things that help a child reach his full potential as a child of God, and she has the beautiful  fruit of her “happily uncool”, well-adjusted, mature, polite, intelligent, and faith-filled children to prove it.

She concludes, ”It’s not enough for me that my kids seem happy.  It’s certainly not enough that they be considered cool or that they feel popular.  It’s emphatically not enough to sell them short on character development in the name of social standing.  My obligation to my children and to the God who created them calls me to expect much more” (303).

Copyright 2012 Meg Matenaer

So when he won, I braced myself.  In justice, he really did deserve to pick out whatever movie he wanted to see, and I promised I wouldn’t say a word.  Rise of the Planet of the Apes was a contender, so you could imagine my delight when he finally settled on Roland Joffe’s There Be Dragons, on the life of St. Josemaria Escriva.  And everyone was perfectly clothed.

The movie was wonderful; Charlie Cox played a super-cute, always-smiling Josemaria, and the setting, the Spanish Civil War, seemed familiar to me as an at-home mom of two preschoolers and a toddler.  I drew great strength from St. Josemaria’s example and had more hope for my days at home as he struggled and succeeded in keeping the faith and encouraging others to maintain their human dignity and virtue amidst the fighting.  And I didn’t say a word the whole movie…except for the occasional “wow”.

To prep for the movie, I flipped through my compilation of St. Josemaria’s The Way, Furrow, and The Forge.  Besides seeing thousands of his typical, always helpful, hard-on-sin exhortative nuggets—my favorite: “Don’t say, ‘That’s the way I am—it’s my character.’  It’s your lack of character.  Esto vir!—Be a man!” (The Way, 4.).   I came across a beautiful expression of love and of hope for us modern day saints-in-training:

Don’t ask Jesus to forgive only your own faults: don’t love him with your heart alone.  Console him for every offense that has been, is, and will be done to him.  Love him with all the strength of all the hearts of all the men who have loved him most.  Be daring: tell him you are carried away with more love than Mary Magdalene, more than Teresa and little Therese, more carried away than Augustine and Dominic and Francis, more than Ignatius and Xavier (The Way, 402).

Take it from St. Josemaria:  be daring.  Tell Jesus that you love Him today more than all the Teresas together loved Him, He might just give you the grace to do it.  And let your husband pick out the movie this weekend, it might just leave you speechless.

Copyright 2012 Meg Matenaer

The tale of Macbeth tells the story of the war hero Macbeth who just after securing a key victory for his country is approached by three witches who foretell that he will become King of Scotland.  His friend, the most upright Banquo, is quick to denounce the sisters and their witchcraft, but our hero, captivated by their prophesy, is not.  He dwells on their message and as other parts of their fortune begin to come true, Macbeth shares this strange event with his wife Lady Macbeth, who quickly understands that foul play is undoubtedly Macbeth’s only chance of realizing this fortune.  Lady Macbeth encourages her husband to kill their friend King Duncan, and he finally agrees to do so.  After the deed, the Macbeths slowly disintegrate; Lady Macbeth by her guilt and Macbeth by his death of conscience and paranoia, as he continues to slaughter all who stand as a threat to him and his ill-gotten crown.  Needless to say, they both come to a wretched end.

I’m grateful that my little ones can’t read yet, lest they were to wonder why their mother was sitting in the corner smiling, holding a copy of Macbeth.  But it was just so good.  And Ignatius’s generous footnotes greatly aided in my understanding of the text, mercifully assuming that I would not otherwise have known what a hautboy[1] was or that a sewer was a butler.

What also helped immensely in my understanding of the play was Professor Pearce’s grand introduction and the essays that were to follow the play.  Besides laying out the time and place in which Shakespeare wrote his play, the pieces highlight what one author calls “conveniently overlooked themes” by modern critics.  Below are a few:

-Personal freedom can only exist in obedience to natural law.

We see the Macbeths become increasingly entrapped in themselves once they break from natural law.  After the murder of King Duncan, Lady Macbeth is haunted by the sight of her bloody hands, and Macbeth feels free only to slay any additional opponents, as he, too, is visited by bloody spectres.

In his introduction, Professor Pearce cites G.K. Chesterton who writes, “Make a morbid decision and you will only become more morbid; do a lawless thing and you will only get into an atmosphere much more suffocating than that of law.  Indeed, it is a mistake to speak of a man as “breaking out”.  The lawless man never breaks out; he breaks in.  He smashes a door and finds himself in another room, he smashes a wall and finds himself in a yet smaller one.  The more he shatters the more his habitation shrinks.  Where he ends you may read in the end of Macbeth.”

Professor Pearce continues, “For us moderns, therefore, the first philosophical significance of the play is this: that our life is one thing and that our lawless acts limit us; every time we break a law we make a limitation.  In some strange way hidden in the deeps of human psychology, if we build our palace on some unknown wrong it turns very slowly into our prison.  Macbeth at the end of the play is not merely a wild beast; he is a caged wild beast.”

-Evil is the perversion of good.

What was so clear to Shakespeare and seems lost on us in modernity is that evil is the perversion of the good.  The play opens with the weird sisters chanting, “Fair is foul, and foul is fair.”  It’s this moral equivocation that ensnares Macbeth as he eschews his friend’s Christian warning of witchcraft and takes to heart their prophesy. “Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more” (I.3.69-70).  Professor Pearce writes that Shakespeare wrote against the moral equivocation of his time, especially regarding terrorism in the name of religion, and it’s hard not to think of our modern day ills being passed off as goods, by name: “choice”, “marriage equality”, and “separation of church and state”.

-The desire to control the future leads to a war on children.

As Macbeth becomes obsessed with killing all those who stand as a threat to his kingdom, he goes after his opponents, as well as their children.  Lady Macbeth, to show her cut-throat dedication to the unrighteous cause of the usurpation of the crown, says that she would even kill her infant son if she had to. “What beast was’t then/ That made you break this enterprise to me? / When you durst do it, then you were a man…I have given suck, and know/ How tender ‘tis to love the babe that milks me–/ I would, while it was smiling in my face,/ Have pluck’d my nipple from his boneless gums,/ And dash’d the brains out, had I so sworn/ As you have done to this” (I.7.48-59).

James Bemis of the California Political Review, author of “Macbeth on Film” writes, “Another of the play’s conveniently overlooked themes is that the Macbeths’ pride—which fuels their ambition—leads them to try to control the future.  To control the future, they must annihilate it by killing anyone who poses a threat to their comfort and well-being.  As Macbeth says, “To be thus is nothing,/ But to be safely thus” (3.1.47-48).

“This is why bloody children appear everywhere in the play: in the Macbeths’ poetry, in dreams, in visions, in the attempt on Fleance, and in the horrifying slaughter of Macduff’s children.  As literary critic Cleanth Brooks notes in The Well Wrought Urn, the babe “turns out to be…perhaps the most powerful symbol in the tragedy”.  This war on children is a war on God’s providence and is a sin that hits very close to home for many in the modern world.  Few Shakespearean scholars comment these days on this obvious motif running throughout the play.”

The foulest tale in the fairest presentation: Macbeth, Ignatius Critical Editions.

I needed to write my own article and had planned to write on offering up daily annoyances.  Still struggling deeply in that department, I trudged downstairs to look for my Mother Teresa book for encouragement.  I brought the book upstairs and set it on the table, when, suddenly, I didn’t want to read it anymore.  I felt myself recoil at the sight of her testimony.  I didn’t want to hear her inspiring words—all the beauty and love she had found in her work.  I didn’t want to read how she had done her work so well and so lovingly.  She was able to do that, I thought, simply because God loved her more than me.  And it wasn’t fair.  And it hurt.

I glanced at our poster of John Paul II holding the Eucharist in front of a crucifix, and I thought of all the great saints like John the Apostle and St. Francis who had loved God so much and whom He had loved immensely.  I knew I probably wouldn’t love Him like they had.  And why was that?  Was it because He didn’t love me as much as them and so didn’t give me those spiritual gifts?  Why did God make me to love Him just a little?  Why didn’t He love me like He loved them?

Big drops fell on my cheeks, and I knew what had been hanging on me tonight.  Underneath it all, in the midst of the trials of the day, I felt as if God had given me my little daily challenges without giving me as much grace as other people had to conquer them.  I felt like if only He had given me the gifts He had given St. Francis or Mother Teresa or St. Therese, I wouldn’t be the sorry soul that I was.

I didn’t want to bother my husband as he did his work, but I also didn’t make any attempt to hide the giant tears that were falling near his keyboard.  He stopped and looked up, very concerned.  So it all came out, in bits and pieces, until I finally got at the heart of my heartache:  How come God doesn’t love us all equally?  He come He made me to be loved less than St. Francis?

After a big hug, my husband Paul, who received his Master of Theological Studies from Ave Maria and who’s currently working on a canon law licentiate, addressed my question with characteristic thoughtfulness and thoroughness, even citing the Summa.  And here’s, in short, what St. Thomas and Paul had to say:

Thomas addresses this question in Part I, Question 20, articles 3-4.

Point 1: St. Thomas says that on one hand, we can say that God does not love some things more than others because His will is one and simple.  God loves everyone perfectly because He is incapable of loving imperfectly.

Point 2: But, on the other hand, we can say that God does love those more for whom He wills a greater good, though His will is not more or less intense.  God’s loving one thing more means His willing for that thing a greater good, for example: God might bestow on one person the gift of charity that He hadn’t bestowed on another.  St. Thomas points to the problem of deciding who loved God more, Peter or John, as proof of the difficulty of comparing spiritual gifts.  He writes that some say that Christ loved Peter more because of his gift of charity, and others say that He loved John more because He gave him the gift of contemplation.  The gifts are both so good, however, that it’s impossible for St. Thomas to compare them, and he concludes that it’s even presumptuous to do so since the Lord alone is the weigher of spirits (Prov. 16:2).

I didn’t want to be doing something that St. Thomas said was presumptuous, though I’ve done it for so long, but I was still unsure about the whole thing, especially as my imagination kept bringing up the fact of God’s bestowing more gifts on others.  How couldn’t that be a sign of His loving others more?  I put the question again to Paul, and again, he gently reiterated that it was essential to clarify that we are not talking about God’s intensity of will but rather on gifts given.  All spiritual gifts or grace comes from the cross, so we shouldn’t take the quantity of gifts given as the real sign of his love.  All gifts require His death, no matter how many He decides to give.  I glanced at our crucifix poster again and something clicked.

I imagined a spiritual gift as a cupcake.  I pictured one in front of me and three in front of the person next to me.  I suddenly knew that if I had known that someone had died to procure those cupcakes for us, I wouldn’t mind at all if I only had one and the next person had three because I knew how costly they were.  If someone had loved me enough to die for me, I’d be happy with whatever he decided to give me because it would be an expression of perfect love.  I was getting so happy that I told Paul that I wouldn’t care if I only had one cupcake and saw that someone had a whole pile…then, stopped.  No, wait, that seemed different, but then Paul was quick to point out that our limited human minds are always trying to equate the number of gifts with the intensity of will.

I was content with that.  And happy.  And thinking about how upset I’d be if my children started comparing the cupcakes I had given them with the others’, as it would imply that my love for them was somehow deficient—when, in reality, those suckers were probably really hard to make—it made even more sense.  And then I was happy to put this whole mess behind me and get down to the business of loving God.  I resolved to no longer compare others’ spiritual gifts to my own because first, it’s impossible and second, St. Thomas says that we shouldn’t.  God has given me a certain mission and gifts to accomplish that mission, and like a good child, I should trust that He’s given them to me out of perfect love, and so I should respond to that love by loving Him as I carry out my mission.  In other words: no more being jealous of Mother Teresa’s cupcakes because He’s given me my own, at a very dear price.

Copyright 2012 Meg Matenaer

I opened up the laptop and asked them if they would tell me again what it was like visiting the place of Jesus’s birth.  They had made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land last year, and they both put their reading down immediately, eager to recall the special trip.

In Bethlehem, they explained, people used to live in caves with their animals until they had saved enough money to build a house on top of the cave.  A second story, an upper room, would also be put in for visiting guests and relatives.

Dad, having returned from his bedroom with a big stack of pictures, looked through them carefully, searching for pictures of the Church of the Nativity, which had been built right on top of the cave where Jesus had been born.

Mom continued.  “At the time of the census, the city was packed, and the inhabitants of Bethlehem either had their own families staying in their upper rooms or they had rented them out.  So when Joseph went door to door, there honestly was no room—no one was being mean.  Finally, someone let Joseph and Mary stay in their cave below with the animals for the night.”

Mom adjusted her glasses.  “I always thought the cave would have been ten feet from the door, but it must’ve been one hundred feet back from the opening of the cave.”  Being so deep the cave would have provided the Holy Family with protection at least from the elements.  “Mary was given privacy in the back where maybe she could’ve started a fire.”  Mom stopped and she and I both looked at each other and shook our heads.  “Could you imagine?” she asked.  No, no indeed—Our Lady had been such a trooper.

Dad had pulled out a picture of the place where Jesus was born.  “The spot where Christ was born is marked here by a big brass star, in what looks like a fireplace.  About six feet away is where the manger was.”  I looked at the photograph and was floored and so grateful that the faithful over the centuries had been so careful about honoring and remembering the exact place where those events had occurred.

It was all so ordinary and yet it was the stage for one of the most outrageous acts of divine Love in all of history.  What a beautiful God we have, being born in a cave, and what a beautiful identity we have in Him.  Come, baby Jesus, come and bring peace and true humility to our too-proud hearts that we might be freed to love only You this Christmastime.

Copyright 2011 Meg Matenaer 

Holly Pierlot, a homeschooling mom of five, also had been fed up with her own chaotic existence, overwhelmed with her household and schooling responsibilities that never seemed finished and left her without time for herself, marriage or prayer.  Out of desperation, she was gradually led by the Holy Spirit to design her own rule, like our beloved religious sisters and brothers follow, to finally bring order to her home and heart.  Designed to meet her needs and responsibilities for prayer and those as a daughter of God, wife, mother, and provider, her rule lays out her various tasks throughout the day so that at every moment she knows exactly what she ought to be doing.  Her rule also takes into consideration weekly, monthly, and seasonal duties.

After having successfully implemented her rule, Holly Pierlot’s home became so ordered, life ran so smoothly, that she actually began to feel bored!  When that moment came, she began to offer up every little thing she did out of love for Jesus.  She’d do her chores as if Jesus were coming to her home, and hugged her children as if they were Jesus Himself.  And when this attitude of St. Therese’s Little Way became imbedded in her, she began to experience active contemplation.  While out in her garden, doing the laundry, or washing the dishes, she would suddenly be overwhelmed by His presence.  But she also found her prayer time beautifully fruitful as well.  “I’d be in front of the Blessed Sacrament,” she writes, “and feel what I called a ‘tractor beam’ pulling my heart in the middle of my chest toward Jesus!”  Holly Pierlot had so ordered her home and heart that she finally was able to experience God concretely in her daily life at home.

“Since God lives in the heart,” she writes, “I was not to seek some Being way up in the sky past the clouds; my journey to God was to become ordered enough inside to enable me to experience him within.  When our emotions are running loose, and our minds are confused, and our wills are weak and indecisive, and our imagination is working overtime, there’s so much internal noise that we can’t hear the still voice of God present in the core of our being, our hearts.  The disorder in my person made me deaf to him.”

Well, I have my work cut out for me.  Instead of booking a flight to Wyoming, I’ll instead use this time of Christmas vacation to map out a rule for myself in the New Year, working out the areas of disorder in my life so that one day I, too, might experience in my daily work that same level of contemplation of God as Holly Pierlot.  I suppose God doesn’t want me to be a Mystic Monk, but perhaps He is calling me to be a mystic mom.

Copyright 2011 Meg Matenaer

Giant LIFE Balloon Rosary seen by Thousands over Chicago’s Downtown
CHICAGO, Catholic PRWire

(August 15, 2011) – Just in time for the Feast of the Assumption of Our Lady, a 75-foot rosary floats skyward from Chicago’s Michigan Avenue Bridge claiming the Magnificent Mile for Mary. A giant rosary floated gracefully over Chicago ‘s busy tourism district on Friday as thousands looked on. The six-foot gold cross hanging from the rosary sparkled in the sunlight as it very slowly ascended between the Tribune tower and the Wrigley building. The rosary of helium-filled yellow balloons bearing the word LIFE then floated down Michigan Avenue over the Hancock Tower and past North Ave Beach. Cameras and cellphones flew into action as people responded to the unexpected sight.

“There was an excitement all around us and there were people in tears at the sight of the rosary. I think we often take it for granted the power of a simple witness to the faith,” said a camp counselor. A passerby tweeted, “A balloon rosary in the air. My faith confirmed ”, while another surprised Chicagoan wrote, “what the… giant balloon rosary, with cross, just floated heavenward from the Michigan avenue bridge.” The rosary was the craft of 20 imaginative elementary-school-aged girls and their counselors participating in a summer camp at a Chicago Catholic Parish. The girls prayed the rosary in front of the Washington Blvd. Family Planning Associates asking Our Lady for an end to abortion. They then carried the rosary, cross-first, through downtown Chicago ‘s peak traffic to the cheers, and sometimes jeers, of pedestrians and motorists. Homeless people gave high fives, street preachers started singing Gospel songs, and semi-truck drivers shook the streets sounding their truck horns in approval. “I was completely ecstatic the whole time. I loved seeing how many people on a random street corner were thrilled. It is a lot more than we tend to think,” said one participant.

One of the girls said, “It was the prettiest rosary I have ever seen. I liked how it would float up and sit and
then float up and sit. It looked really pretty against the buildings and the sky.” Another camper said, “The best way to describe it was ‘beautiful’.

I didn’t see one frowning face. It evangelized everyone who saw it.”

This is the latest of a series of spontaneous acts of joy across the United States involving the yellow LIFE balloons. Sightings of LIFE balloons at prayer vigils, county fairs and flash mobs leave many wondering if the trend will impact this year’s March for Life in Washington DC .

See photo post here

Story by Nathan Joel, Photos by Rebekah Smith