The last five days have been utterly surreal.

As a lifelong resident of Massachusetts now living in the central part of the state, our family has roots that go back to the Governor Winthrop fleet in 1630 when Allan Bread (ne: Breed) came over. My mother, God rest her soul, was a direct descendant.

I grew up in Wellesley and still work there; it’s twenty-seven miles from Boston.

My sister and her husband recently sold their share of their business to their partner. It’s on Arsenal Street in Watertown, blocks from the headquarters for local and federal law enforcement during the siege that overtook that city over the last twenty-four plus hours.

My brother lived for many years on Homer Avenue which is off of Mount Auburn Street. Franklin Street is also off of Mount Auburn; this is where they found the younger Boston Marathon Bomber.

Both of my nephews ran in the Boston Marathon. According to his time, my younger nephew would have crossed the finish line just as the bombs went off.

Our office in Wellesley was closed yesterday. It’s right on the marathon route.

Surreal.

Marathon Day is very special to Bostonians and people from all around the world. Begun in 1897, the Boston Marathon is the premier race in the world. It’s used as a qualifier for the Olympics. It attracts the cream of the crop. Tens of thousands run this race, many as a means of raising funds for their favorite charity.

The Boston Marathon was the first to feature a wheelchair race. Women runners have distinguished themselves in the race officially since 1972 (and unofficially since 1966).

We celebrate in our office with popcorn and soft drinks, watching the endless wave of runners from the door and then cheering on the winners on TV.

Boston is my home. The Boston Marathon is a shining jewel of that home, celebrated on Patriot’s Day, the day freedom began to take hold in America.

Evil invaded my home, turning it into a war zone.

At first it was impossible to believe. Two bombs going off near the finish line. Three killed, so many maimed for life. An eight year-old boy was among the deaths. How could this happen?

An important international story was unfolding in my own backyard.

News junkie that I am, I was glued to the computer, watching all the local news stations simultaneously and following Twitter like an addict.

What the hell was happening?

On Thursday the story began to grow bizarre. The FBI, out of options, revealed to the world video tape footage and still photos of the two suspects. Suspect #1 in the black baseball cap. Suspect #2 in the white cap with the golf label. One picture showed Suspect #2 very near to Martin Richard, his sister and mother. Martin was killed in the blast.

Everyone held their breath. Either these two would slip away quietly or all hell would break loose.

I dropped off to sleep on Thursday night hearing something about a shooting at MIT. I dismissed it as unrelated and shut off the TV.

At 4 am my husband woke me up with an unbelievable story: the MIT shooting was, in fact, related. The two suspects shot and killed Sean Collier, a 26 year-old MIT police officer in cold blood. They car-jacked a Mercedes Benz SUV and ended up in Watertown where a furious gun battle ensued between them and police. I couldn’t believe my ears when my husband told me the suspects threw bombs and grenades out the window of the SUV at police.

Suspect #1 was killed. Suspect #2 backed over the man (his own brother) in the SUV and escaped, eventually leaving the car and running away on foot.

In Watertown? My own backyard? This was beginning to sound like Israel, Iraq, Afghanistan.

Again I glued myself to the TV, computer and iPhone following the events. My stomach tightened more with each hour. I tried to pray and could not except for an occasional “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on us!” I tried to sleep but could not. Home alone after the office had closed, I thought twice about leaving doors open on such a warm day and opted to keep them closed. I was safe in Central Massachusetts yet I did not feel safe at all.

Boston and surrounding cities and towns (Belmont, Brookline, Newton, Allston-Brighton, Waltham, Cambridge) totally shut down. No public transportation. No taxis for a time. No commuter rail running past the back of my house for the whole day. Businesses were closed. The streets were utterly deserted as people, urged by Governor Deval Patrick and Major Thomas Menino hunkered down in their homes with the doors locked.

The police were searching for more undetonated bombs.

Watertown became a war zone. Federal, state and local law officials descended upon the quiet city in unprecedented numbers. Many of the vehicles brought in resembled tanks. Never had I seen such a show of force.

Despite my morbid curiosity, I felt full to overflowing and had to shut it off for a time. I was amazed how tired I was from the stress even though I was just an observer. Yet sleep would not come. The knots in my stomach continued to tighten. The fiery pain from a small patch of shingles that had been diagnosed on my back expanded around my abdomen. My mind was calm but my body acted out otherwise.

Again I tried to pray and could not. I was grateful that there were so many others around the world who could pray for all of us. I thought of those brave police officers.

A press conference was held around 5:45 in the evening of that day. It seemed the police had failed to find the suspect and they lifted the “shelter-in” order; people could now leave their homes and move about.

That’s when all hell broke loose on 26 Franklin Street, Watertown.

A man, stepping outside into his yard to catch some fresh air, noticed that his large boat, still shrink wrapped for the winter, was disturbed. One of the ties was cut, deliberately. And there was a trace of blood. Grabbing a ladder, he climbed up, pulled back the shrink wrap and tarp and peered in. He saw a pool of blood and a crumbled body cowering in the boat.

How he was ever able to peer inside that boat I will never know. But his curiosity, and bravery, led to the arrest of Suspect #2.

It was not without a wild gun fight. People were quickly evacuated as police feared Suspect #2 might have bombs strapped to him. His older brother had on a suicide vest when he was killed and the bomb exploded. Somehow at this point I was able to pray and begged God to protect these brave men. After many tense minutes the police had their man. A cheer went up in the crowd.

It was over.

Grateful residents lined the streets, forming a gauntlet as law enforcement began to leave in their vehicles. Cheers, applause, the waving of flags, the pumping of fists. The brave police earned their due.

I thanked God for their safety. Too many had lost their lives or had their lives changed forever by the inexplicable harm brought on by Suspects #1 and 2.

I marveled at the bravery and tenacity of law enforcement officials who risked their lives to protect the public.

I reflected on the first responders who, immediately after the bombing, ran towards to the scene to help the victims. Many lives were saved by the bravery of those people.

I thought about the runners who continued running after crossing the finish line to area hospitals to give blood. So much blood was donated that the blood banks became full.

Citizens stood tall, frightened but unbowed by the terrorism that invaded their lives. Bostonians rose to the occasion. I felt proud of my heritage.

Mayor Menino has served five terms as mayor of Boston. With deep emotion he said that he was never more in love with his city than he was now.

I am too. My ancestors would be proud.

This story is far from over. There will be the continued investigation and endless questions. But for now I just want to take the time to remember all those who did so much to help the victims and protect the public.

Evil is a mystery that cannot be explained. It is a part of our broken world.

The mystery deepens when so much good arises from it. In the midst of ugliness and chaos, good continues to triumph. People find strength in themselves they never thought they had, allowing them to perform heroic acts for their neighbors.

I want to cling to that thought as this story continues.

image credit

Copyright 2013 Susan Bailey

Blessed, Beautiful and Bodacious by Pat Gohn

Editor’s note: Today, we’re thrilled to share Susan Bailey’s review of the wonderful new book Blessed, Beautiful and Bodacious: Celebrating the Gift of Catholic Womanhood by our very own Pat Gohn. Over the next few weeks, we’ll be sharing more reviews of Pat’s book and celebrating this tremendous project’s launch with one of our most dedicated contributors. Enjoy Susan’s review and don’t wait to add Pat’s book to your library… you’ll love it! LMH

Feminism has always presented a bit of a conundrum for this 50-something woman. That’s right: the one who grew up during the heyday of the women’s liberation movement. The one who now immerses herself in 19^th century feminist history with her passion for Louisa May Alcott. While I was too young to have a bra to burn, I remember hearing about it on TV. It was a symbol of women’s empowerment. Feminism meant we could control our bodies and bust through the glass ceiling. No longer dependent on men, we could actually compete with them. We could make our own mark in the world.

Yet, I recall in the 1980s feeling left out as a young mother, madly juggling home life with work life. I worked because we needed the money but I desperately wanted to stay home and just think about one thing – my children. Sometimes while vacuuming I’d watch morning talk shows and bristle at the subtle condescension I’d hear about stay-at-home mothers while women working outside the home were lauded as heroes.

Seems to me I was working pretty hard and I felt like I was missing out on something.

I wish I had first hand knowledge of what life was like before women’s liberation. I have to depend on reading to figure that out. My knowledge of Louisa May Alcott (among other things, she worked for women’s suffrage as did her mother) have given me much to ponder about the life of women in the 19^th century, their limited choices, little opportunity for education and total lack of voice.

It was only less than one hundred years ago that women got the vote in the United States (1920 to be exact) so I get it why feminists are so passionate, even militant, about women’s rights. I get it that women had no autonomy, no control over their lives or their bodies.

What I don’t get is the utter denial of what makes a woman unique – her role as a bearer of life and the primary caretaker (and influence) of the future generation. If the acquisition of power is the goal, can one wield more power than this? It is power however born of sacrificial love, a love that requires surrender, something that modern day feminism cannot reconcile nor embrace.

Pat Gohn

Pat Gohn, writer, speaker and host of the popular SQPN podcast, “Among Women” presents in her debut book, Blessed, Beautiful and Bodacious: Celebrating the Gift of Catholic Womanhood a new brand of feminism based upon the life of the Blessed Virgin Mary and writings by John Paul II where he coined the phrase “feminine genius.” In her brand of feminism, there is no holding back:

“The most excellent women, the bodacious women, are women who authentically live their dignity and gifts. They don’t keep beauty and blessing to themselves. They lovingly lavish it upon others … their ability to stretch and serve sends positive ripple effects into the world.”

This is about power but not the power of domination over men. It’s the power to be fully female. And that power is drawn from within, from the Source that created women in the first place.

Pat also grew up during the women’s liberation movement. She was ambitious, wanting to make her mark in the world:

“I was schooled in the cultural cliché that told women that you are what you do. My generation was among the first expected to compete with men – not rely on them or trust them … There was so much to achieve and I was an eager achiever.” (pg. 12)

Pat was also a spiritual woman, devoted to her Catholic faith. She found increasing disparity between grasping for outer achievement and “living from the inside out.” It didn’t seem to add up.

Marriage and motherhood only served to aggravate her frustration. She could no longer live for her own desires and ambitions; there were others to consider. Priorities had to be set – what was most important?

It was here and frequently throughout the book that I kept writing, “That’s me!” or “Me too!” in the margins. Pat’s candid sharing of her life experience and how she eventually reconciled it through a growing knowledge and devotion to Mary mirrored my own life.

Pat’s message is especially important to women of my generation and before. Too many times I have witnessed women who have no sense of their own worth, who don’t love themselves enough to take time for themselves, to nurture themselves. They spend every last bit of love and energy on those around them and often without recompense. I have seen such women sad, depressed and burnt out. All this even though these same women grew up seemingly enjoying the advantages of women’s liberation.

I long for these women to read chapters 4-7 where Pat spells out the beautiful gifts of women: receptivity, generosity, sensitivity and maternity.

• Receptivity: the capacity to recognize and receive love. Seeking out and drawing in those around us into relationship.
• Generosity: the giving of ourselves to others, the natural extension of receptivity – we receive love, therefore we give love.
• Sensitivity: sensing and discerning things of the heart, those things of God. Sometimes called feminine intuition, sensitivity allows us to read others and attend to their needs as a result.
• Maternity: giving life, whether literally (as in having a baby) or figuratively in the way we care for others.

These are the gifts to cherish, the ones that make a true difference in the lives of others. This is what Pat means by “living from the inside out.” These gifts must be nurtured from within, connected intimately with the God who gave them. They are what changes lives forever for the good.

Pat writes often of Mary as the courageous example because of her unwavering “yes” to God to bear His son. This “yes” wasn’t a “yes” of duty but one given in trust despite not knowing how it would impact her life. She joyfully accepted her role and couldn’t wait to share the news with her cousin, Elizabeth. It was a “yes” that would lead to glorious blessings and deep suffering, all of which she pondered in her heart. Pat writes:

“Submission to God’s plan is anything but a weak choice … Being a loving and faithful servant did not demean Mary; it fulfilled her … Mary helped me find the grace I needed to lay down my old self-centered ways – in exchange for a new a joyful feminine love that embraced others without fear and without having to receive something in order to give.” (pg. 57)

Blessed, Beautiful and Bodacious: Celebrating the Gift of Catholic Womanhood affirms the choices I made for my children back when I was a young mother. It affirms the path I take today, growing in faith and learning how to give away all the love I receive from my God within. Pat’s journey was my journey and I believe it may be yours, too. It’s a journey, and a book, that I can heartily recommend.

Order Blessed, Beautiful and Bodacious: Celebrating the Gift of Catholic Womanhood and support CatholicMom.com with your purchase

Do Bad Guys Wear Socks?

How in the world could a book titled Do Bad Guys Wear Socks? inspire to live out my faith?

Written by M. Regina Cram, Do Bad Guys Wear Socks? Living the Gospel in Everyday Life is a collection of her award-winning columns from the Catholic Transcript (of the diocese of Hartford, CT) and the Hartford Courant. Cram’s candor, laced with humor and free of self-indulgence and melodrama, makes this book a breath of fresh air.

I must insert a disclaimer here: Reg Cram is a lifelong friend but I had no idea she could write like this. The book grabbed me in an instant and never let go.

Cram has led a full life of numerous blessings coupled with equal amounts of pain. Happily married for 34 years, she is the mother of four children and three grandchildren. She also battles mental illness, thyroid disease and arthritis. Her memory is impaired due to a life-threatening fourth pregnancy; she admits to being unable to pay attention long enough to read and has great difficulty organizing.

M. Regina Cram

Yet, to Cram, stubbing her toe and being hopelessly lost in the woods with two small children and no provisions are the same – they have lessons to reveal. She has an edgy humor while being pointed, sometimes blunt and often poignant. Her stories are concise without preaching and laced with a spirit of gratitude. Cram knows how to spin a yarn and let the story reveal the point. A Catholic convert, she never imposes her faith on the reader; she just simply shares. Her stories transcend groups, demographics and denominations.

In the blessings department, Cram reveals a marriage that is rich because of the level of self-sacrificing love. In a column titled “The Gift,” she writes of being overwhelmed and exhausted juggling 4 teenaged children, a difficult family situation and a husband who, for the last three years, had worked 90 hours per week in preparation for the infamous Y2K. Despite his own exhaustion, husband Peter is able to bestow on Reg the greatest gift a woman could ever receive: time alone. His gift to her on her birthday is three days alone in a cabin near the Housatonic River. And she was to leave immediately.

Cram writes, “For three whole days I didn’t have to referee a single sibling argument. I could eat Wheaties for dinner if I felt like it, and drink my morning coffee without needing to reheat it even once. There was no telephone, no traffic, no schedule. It was glorious.”

She continues, “I will always cherish my husband’s extraordinary gift, lavished on me to nurture my soul, and because he loves me … the truth is that Peter’s gift was enormously sacrificial, modeled after the One who sent an even greater gift to a weary and discouraged world. That gift was the most glorious, most tender, most sacrificial gift the world has even known – Christmas.”

Cram’s stories about her children are some of the most endearing. In “To Dance with the Prodigal,” she shares how the search for a beloved toy taught her the true meaning of the Prodigal Son.

Cram aligns herself with the dutiful older brother in the parable who had to endure the continuing destructive behavior of her younger sister, a drug addict. It wasn’t until she met another prodigal, Susannah, that she grasped the true meaning of the story. She writes that, “The funny thing was that my special prodigal is not even a real person. She’s a tattered stuff bunny …”

Every parent whose child has had that special stuffed toy or blanket can relate to this description: “For the next eight years, Tierney and Susannah were inseparable. Susannah was so well known around town that people greeted her by name as if she was a real as the child who carried her. When I used a baby carrier to cradle our newborn against my chest, Tierney tied a bandana around her belly so she could carry Susannah. During outings to the beach, Susannah sat on the towel to guard Tierney’s pail and shovel rom crabs and fishies. It was a sweet and powerful love.”

Inevitably Susannah gets lost. The family searched for months on end and the poor child went to bed each night grieving for her friend.

Susannah is finally found. “Then came the scream of delight when Susannah was discovered in an unused trash bin. Tierney was almost incoherent with joy as she clutched her beloved bunny and sobbed. Oblivious to the world, they danced around like lovers, spinning and laughing and kissing and weeping. And as I watched, I could picture the father running to meet his wayward son, sobbing with joy.”

A college-aged Tierney experiences the foot washing of Jesus in a poignant way in “Service of Love.” Cram describes her daughter and her boyfriend Andrew visiting a church to pray. They spend such a long time there that Tierney gets restless. As they pray in front of the Blessed Mother, Andrew falls to one knee and offers to Tierney a small velvet box revealing an engagement ring. After exclaiming “Yes!” to his proposal, he asks her to sit in a nearby pew. Cram writes, “She watched as he walked over to the pulpit, stooped behind it, and pull out a bowl of water and a towel. Andrew then knelt in front of Tierney, removed her shoes, and proceeded to wash her feet. Once again, the symbolism was clear. Their marriage would be a life of service and that service would begin with Andrew.”

Cram devotes a few columns to the many physical and mental trials she has faced in her life. In the numerous times that she complains to God about her limitations, God poses the question back to her, “What Do You Have in Your Hand?”

Cram goes on to describe these limitations: “a medical emergency robbed my brain of oxygen, leaving me with impaired ability to read, follow sequences and organize … I battle arthritis, thyroid disease and mental illness … We deal with teenage and family issues. Sometimes life is really hard.”

When posed yet again with the question, “What do you have in your hand?” she says, “Not much, Lord. And I have a beat-up body and a leaky mind. I’m not positive, but I’m pretty sure that God replied, “Sounds good to Me. Now let’s see how we can put those to good use.’”

One of my favorites, “I Can Walk,” mirrors my own life. Bad feet, aching legs and a sore back had made walking even a few minutes equal to climbing Mt. Everest. The discovery of a terrific and inspiring podiatrist coupled with the discovery of great shoes has made walking enjoyable again. Every excursion fills me with gratitude. That same gratitude gushes out in “I Can Walk.”

In Cram’s case it is an auto-immune form of arthritis that hampers her ability to walk. In excruciating pain, she is reduced to walking slowly with a cane while contemplating life in a wheel chair. A new, injectable medication was found to help and she was soon free of the cane.

Cram writes, “Still, it was years before I could walk any distance. Gradually, imperceptibly, however, I was able to press a tad further than the day before. At first it was just a house or two, then a few more. The day finally arrived when I explored with excitement to Peter. ‘Guess what? I walked around the whole block, all by myself!’ … I love this renewed ability to walk … I love the second chance that God has bestowed on me, not because I deserve it but simply because He loves to bless His children.”

This is just a slice of the everyday holiness that Cram offers in Do Bad Guys Wear Socks? Am I inspired by this book? You bet!

Order Do Bad Guys Wear Socks? and support CatholicMom.com with your purchase.

Copyright 2013 Susan Bailey

Susan Bailey and Jackie Silverstein

It’s amazing how much you can learn by being forced to lie still in your bed for two days.

That nasty Christmas virus went through our household and I got it just before New Year’s. The timing was fortunate as I had several days to rest and recover.

More like a mini flu, the only way I could find any relief from the headache, fever and nausea was to lie perfectly still in my bed with the lights out, the TV off and a pillow over my head. No noise was tolerable. This went on for two days.

In the past, a sickness like this would turn me inward, driving out all thoughts of God, and everything else. It’s as if a trap door opened under my feet and I fell into a cavern, oppressive and suffocating.

I’ve never before had a guide before to lead me out. This time I did.

For the last two years I have been taking communion to a homebound woman who suffers from a disease of the inner ear that causes severe and relentless vertigo. We have since become the best of friends, sharing intimately from our spiritual and daily lives, delighting in all the interests we have in common and learning about new ones. During our weekly two-plus hour visits, we laugh, pray, ponder, wonder and even cry a bit. Every once in a while we have marathon visits that we call our “sleepovers.”

Jackie is my guide. She suffers from the kind of nausea and headaches that I endured those two days; for her they are a daily occurrence. My two years of immersion in her life and the subsequent mental note taking reaped their reward during my recent sickness.

I thought of Jackie often as I experienced my symptoms. I wondered how she could bear it, day after day, and still wish to live. The pain, the repetition (and the boredom of the repetition), the seeming hopelessness of it all. I had always thought of my friend as heroic; now I had a real taste of what she coped with and admired her courage all the more.

I prayed for Jackie, linking my nausea and headache to hers. I thought of how she would sit for hours in her special rocking chair, eyes closed, just thinking of Jesus. I knew, in a sense that I had to do the same.

It was then that I finally turned on the TV and began watching CatholicTV and EWTN. Unlike other TV shows, these programs were quiet and peaceful. Even though I was too ill to process what was being said, just being in the presence of the Word of God was comforting, slowly seeping into my heart, settling over me like a warm blanket.

I began to understand just how vital these media outlets are for the homebound. How blessed is this generation to have these resources at our disposal, but it all depends on our support. I intend to write letters to each and send a grateful donation.

But the Lord had more to teach me. Words are just the beginning. It’s the presence that matters.

While I couldn’t take in the words I was hearing, I could sense His presence, penetrating the darkness, lifting me outside of my suffering just a bit.

I realized that having the presence of family and friends was vital as well. I longed to have my husband, son and daughter come and sit with me and just be there but of course, they couldn’t understand that. We all think we have to offer words of comfort, bring soup, toast, water or medicine. We don’t know what to say or do sometimes and it feels awkward. I felt too ill to talk or listen. I just needed the bodily presence.

I began to understand how acute loneliness is to those who are ill.

It made me recall a conversation I had with Sr. Joyce Rupp, a well-known author and spiritual leader. We talked about her fourteen years of service with hospice and I shared my interest with her in someday volunteering.  Expressing concern over what I should say or how to offer comfort, she said that just being there, being a presence in the room was enough.

Now I understand.

Thoughts of Jackie and her plight expanded to all homebound people. I knew that by thinking of them, I could unite my little (and quite temporary) suffering with theirs. I didn’t have to say it in words; the inner groanings, musings, and pangs of the heart are more than enough when joined with the Holy Spirit.

And that was the biggest lesson I learned during my brief confinement: prayer is so much deeper than words! Words can be the starting point but true prayer digs down to that small, sacred space inside where all is quiet and still; a place of loving safety where I can be intimate and honest with Jesus. I don’t always have to understand what is happening in prayer; in fact, grasping to understand means I am still controlling the conversation. True prayer requires trust; I have to let the Spirit lead it. God is beyond my understanding thus, prayer must be too. When I accept that truth, the Spirit then can lead me to the inmost communion with Jesus.

Sickness, aging, the inability to live a vibrant healthy life: these are very common problems afflicting millions of people. Many suffer alone, in silence, often in fear and despair. I watched helplessly as my own mother was consumed by it.

Who would ever think that such suffering could lead to a deeper union with Christ? This is what His life was all about. I am not saved from my suffering; I can be saved by it, if I allow myself to be carried along on the journey. Having suffered so much Himself, Jesus is right there with me, in the middle of it all, extending His hand, wrapping me in His grace, leading me step by step through the mire.

For the first time, I was open to going on the journey. Yes is such a powerful word. Didn’t Mary teach us this by her example?

Jackie’s example in courage and love showed this to me. I am so glad I took such copious mental notes!

Copyright 2013 Susan Bailey

Each reading this third Sunday of Advent proclaimed joy:

Shout for joy, daughter Zion!
sing joyfully, Israel!
Be glad and exult with all your heart,
daughter Jerusalem! (Zephaniah 13:4)

Shout with exultation, City of Zion,
for great in your midst
is the Holy One of Israel! (Isaiah 12:6)

Amidst a sea of somber purple, the rose-colored candle was lit on the Advent wreath; a sign of joyful expectation for the Lord’s coming as Christmas day draws near.

Yet why does my heart not rejoice? Why is it that a mist hangs heavily over so many?

We all know why. A modern version of the slaughter of the Holy Innocents took place that past Friday in an idyllic, close-knit Connecticut town.

It was senseless and cruel when Herod ordered the original deed in his irrational desire to destroy the Christ Child. The first chapter of Exodus described the Pharaoh’s heartless decree to drown infant boys in his quest to slay the baby Moses.

And it is just as incomprehensible, just as heart-wrenching now knowing those twenty precious little children between the ages of six and seven, and six courageous women died an equally terrible death. Watching their families and friends in Newtown, CT careen from terror to shock and finally, to a grief so deep that it feels bottomless casts a pall over a joyful holiday. There appears to be no consolation.

And yet we were called to be joyful this Gaudate Sunday. We are expected to celebrate Christmas morning with our families while others will have unopened presents under the tree and an empty space at the dinner table.

I try to picture the children and the heroic adults who attempted to save them in the arms of Jesus, hovering over their families like the angels they are, trying to impart some consolation.

Will their loved ones be able to know it? To feel it?

The Christian faith teaches us that God is nearest in those moments when we cannot find the words or process the feelings or even lift our heads in our grief.

I think of Jesus at the Garden of Gethsame, begging for consolation from His Heavenly Father and the angels coming to minister to Him. He knew His Father was listening and therefore could experience their consolation.

All those new angels in Heaven are waiting and ready to offer that same consolation to their grieving loved ones.

Jesus calls on us to be alert, awake and ready: prepared to see Him at any turn.

I dig deep to pray that these grieving people will be able to recognize God in their midst and thus experience the ministering presence of their angels who long to offer consolation.

Grief is an opportunity, a moment of supreme and sublime vulnerability. It can be a time of transformation if we allow ourselves to be carried on the journey. It is tumultuous, frightening and exceedingly painful. If we are open, we can find that joy that Saint Paul talks about beneath the hurt. Slowly, gently, this joy can be the healing balm.

The newest angels up in Heaven are ready and waiting to apply the balm. The rose-colored candle in the Advent wreath can be the sign of their consolation.

So I will pray these grieving parents, siblings and husbands will be ready to receive that consolation and I invite you to do the same.

Copyright 2012 Susan Bailey

Thankful for Simple Gifts

Some of the most wonderful gifts from God come in the form of whispers.

They are the small gifts. The gifts for a particular moment, not to be grasped at, but merely accepted. And if the taker is alert and awake, the heart will swell with gratitude.

On a Sunday not too long ago, I was the fortunate recipient of a bevy of such gifts.

First, a little background. For most of my life, I was a vocalist and songwriter. I enjoyed a career of concertizing which allowed me to travel to many exciting places. I recorded several CDs of original music and sold them online through my website.

The greatest joy as a vocalist was leading the singing at Sunday mass. My parish, St. Luke the Evangelist in Westborough, MA is a blessed community full of active, generous and loving people.

The church building is a minor cathedral, acoustically perfect with high concrete ceilings, carved pillars supporting graceful Corinthian arches, and shiny slate floors. Voices ring and linger in that sacred space.

Each Sunday I enjoyed the privilege of choosing the music and leading the congregation in prayer through song. Taught well by caring priests and music directors, I sought to match the songs to the scripture readings, ever mindful that the songs should also be familiar to the people. Having a large catalog of songs in my head, I would even switch out a song for another if a title popped into my head while listening to the homily. The music had to serve the liturgy in the highest capacity.

Susan Bailey

I led music for most of my adult life. In 2010, all that changed.

Over the years I had begun to notice a weakness in my voice when the cold weather came, usually starting in September. There was a lack of power and my vibrato was often overly heavy and out of control. In 2010, this problem greatly escalated. The worst part was the randomness of it all for I did not know which “voice” would show up on a Sunday. Would it be the smooth, clear voice that I was accustomed to, or the weak and wobbly voice that made me cringe?

This very randomness shattered my confidence; I was terrified to sing in church. In addition, my throat was tight and sore, making it physically painful to sing.

It had been the physical and sensual nature of singing that I enjoyed so much. The delightful buzz in the head while a beautiful sound flowed effortlessly out of my mouth was now a thing of the past.

A visit to an Ear, Nose and Throat specialist resulted in a diagnosis of acid reflux along with a blood vessel discovered on my right vocal cord. Medication was prescribed but the voice never fully recovered.

Reluctantly in 2010, I resigned my position as cantor at St. Luke’s. In one sense I was relieved at no longer having to worry about singing in front of the congregation, but deep inside I grieved at the loss of this gift from God.

Life went on. I transferred my energies to reading and writing and am enjoying a creative renaissance. I am grateful for the new window God had opened for me.

But every now and then, the grief would return. Attending mass, I found it difficult to sing the hymns. I joined the contemporary choir so I could continue to play guitar and found it hard to contribute vocally. The grief and frustration would engulf me like a wave. Sometimes in the quiet of my bedroom at night, I would cry at the loss.

Over the last two years I have learned to adapt my voice for group singing and have begun to accept that my voice has changed forever. I had to let go of the notion of singing as a pleasurable experience.

I made a conscious decision not to question God’s will, and to be grateful for the new gifts He gave.

A few Sundays ago, I was thrown a curve ball.

Our music director was unexpectedly called away due to a family emergency. She needed coverage at all the masses. She called different members of the music ministry, including me, for help.

I knew I could count on Bruce, the director of the contemporary choir, to sing with me so we agreed to do a couple of the masses. Trying to go along with the flow of God’s will, I had also agreed silently to sing alone if Bruce could not join me. Fortunately that did not come to pass!

And here is where God granted me my bevy of small, splendid gifts.

I asked Bruce if I could plan the music for our mass together. I read the scriptures and chose carefully, prayerfully selecting songs that would match and affirm the theme.

I had no idea which “voice” would show up that morning but was delighted to find that the better voice was there waiting for me. The first gift.

The second gift was Bruce. We complement each other perfectly both in voice and guitar. Approaching music for liturgy with the same mindset, our shared goal is to facilitate prayer in the congregation.

The third gift was yet to come. One of the things I missed most about singing in church was the rare occasion when the music created a silent and sacred space in which the Spirit could be palpably felt. A Moment. I never thought I would ever experience it again.

Bruce and I played a lovely instrumental melody introducing the meditation hymn, “Prayer for Peace” by David Haas. As we sang, I could feel the peace of the Spirit. Nearing the last verse, I signeled to Bruce that we should drop out the guitars and sing acapella. All our voices lingered in the air, slowing fading to silence. Delicious, sweet silence.

Allowing the Holy Spirit to do His work.

Immense gratitude filled my whole being at the privilege, the blessing of being present during this moment.

The gifts did not stop coming. After mass we had a short conversation with Monsignor Mike who expressed his gratitude at our coming forth on such short notice. He then remarked how he had sat in the sacristry before mass to pray as was his custom, and how that prayer was elevated by the music he was listening to as we had been practicing. He noticed how the lyrics fit in so perfectly with what he was preparing to preach to the people.

Listening to Monsignor Mike’s words, I felt a sudden and deep gratitude for a certain priest, Fr. Steve, who had served at our parish in years past. It was his influence and tutelage that elevated my music from song to prayer. His own appreciation of ritual transformed it into art. His love of prayer and scripture was infectious, lifting the celebration of the Eucharist to heavenly heights. At his feet I learned how to choose the proper music and sing it as prayer.

Thank you, Fr. Steve. Thank you, Lord, for Your work though him.

There was one more gift to receive, one that was shared in private.

On the way home I noticed that my throat wasn’t sore. My voice had been smoother, stronger when I sang. Did I dare try to sing something I never thought I could sing again?

Taking a deep breath, I opened my throat and sang “O Holy Night.” This was the piece that for many years, I sang for my family at the yearly Christmas party. The last time I sang it, my voice was weak and wobbly.

Today it was strong, much like it was before acid reflux and shattered confidence.

I thanked God and asked for nothing more. It didn’t matter if the moment never repeated itself. I had received gifts that I would treasure for a life time.

Copyright 2012 Susan Bailey

The more I immerse myself in God, the more these stories come to life. I’d like to show you what I saw yesterday during my lunchtime walk.

It’s October. Cool air and gray rainy days are becoming more frequent. Today a soft rain fell, covering the land in a shimmering mist.

The leaves are peaking here in Massachusetts, turning vivid shades of red, orange and yellow. They flash their colors for all to see only to fall to the ground.

Off in the distance I saw a tree, its fallen leaves creating a colorful circle around the trunk.

I started to think: leaves derive their sustenance
from the tree. Once the leaves fall, they will shrivel
up and die.

God was telling me a story.

“I am the tree,” He says, “and each of you are leaves. If you remain connected to the tree, you will flourish. If you decide to fall away, you will die.”

Reflecting on that thought (not unlike John 15:5 when Jesus calls Himself the vine and we the branches), I began examining the leaves on the ground.

Some were still supple and beautifully adorned, just waiting to be admired. Others were brown and dry despite the mist.

And it occurred to me: we, like these leaves, may fall away from our Source of Life and flourish for a time but eventually, the color will fade and life will ebb away until we too are brown and dry.

Even a leaf covered with raindrops cannot survive forever on its own.  The drops will evaporate and the leaf will wither. It needs the tree to live.

Thus the story of the vital relationship between God and humanity, told through His creation.

And there is more to this story.

No healthy tree bears only one leaf. Healthy trees are covered with leaves providing the traveler with relief from the heat under shady branches.

God did not intend for us to be alone. Without each other, we also wither and die.

He means for us to be a community, just like He as a Trinitarian God, forms the perfect community of Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

A seamless circle of love, continuous and unbroken for all eternity. Perfect love, perfect harmony and we are invited to join.

And unlike leaves which are temporal, dressed in their best colors for a brief moment before fading and dying, we can become perfected as the image of God we were meant to be.

So long as we stay connected to the tree.

What story is God sharing with you today?

Copyright 2012 Susan Bailey

Wrecked: When a Broken World Slams into Your Comfortable Life

Wrecked: When a Broken World Slams into Your Comfortable Life by Jeff Goins

Paperback: 176 pages
Publisher: Moody Publishers; New Edition edition (July 24, 2012)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0802404928
ISBN-13: 978-08024049239780802404923

Pain, suffering and sacrifice are dirty words in today’s world, meant to be avoided at all costs. In the process, the meaning and value have been lost.

Wrecked: When a Broken World Slams into Your Comfortable Life, the impressive debut book by Jeff Goins not only restores the meaning to suffering and sacrifice, but exhorts the reader to value, embrace and learn from them.

In the first chapter, Goins (who is the Communications Director for Adventures in Missions, a nonprofit organization) describes the conversations with young missionaries that make up the bulk of his work, and how each of their stories had the same theme: lives changed forever through painful, often messy experiences. The stories spoke of transformation, sacrificial love and a totally different view of life. In each conversation the word wrecked was used (Goins, Wrecked, p. 30).

Using storytelling and a simple, journal-like style he goes on to share specific episodes of being wrecked, including his own experiences. The first one involved an encounter with a homeless man that quickly developed into a relationship. All of a sudden the “poor”and “homeless” was embodied in a flesh and blood person with a name. It was a first of many experiences that would alter Goins’ life course forever.

Wrecked is an important book, “slamming” into the conventions of 21^st century life: “Our culture is so individualistic and wired for success that we often miss the point of life. We think it’s about self-actualization, about becoming the best version of ourselves. It’s not. It’s about losing ourselves.” (Goins, Wrecked, pg. 48)

It is counter to everything society says is necessary for “the good life:” “We are conditioned to believe life is supposed to be comfortable. But ask anyone like my friend Matt who has radically changed his life, and they’ll tell you the best decisions they made were when they were uncomfortable … What we have to learn to do is lean into the things that hold us back, to move through the pain and push forward.” (Goins, Wrecked, pg. 50)

It gets to the core of the Christian Gospel, a core that is often sanitized, glossed over in favor of the warm and fuzzy “God loves you.” Instead, Wrecked confronts the Cross: “If we are to follow the Jesus who suffered with us and bled for us, we too must suffer.” (Goins, Wrecked, pg. 41).

Wrecked imparts its message without mucking it up with a lot of “church speak.” This book, although produced by a Christian publisher, speaks clearly to all people with a language that anyone who is searching for the meaning of his or her life will understand.

Even though Goins devotes many pages to mission work and social justice (as this is his experience), don’t be fooled by this emphasis – this is not a book on becoming a missionary. Wrecked is the handbook for the Millennial generation. A Millennial himself, Goins spells out the problems, diagnoses them and offers the cure.

Wrecked also shouldn’t be construed as just another self-help book or spiritual guide. It is rather the authentic account of someone who writes honestly, understands spirituality and has “been-there-done-that.”

There are imperfections in the book. Goins’ trajectory for the life journey (having adventures when you’re young and making long-term commitments as you get older) is sound but rigid. He maintains that if you don’t have these adventures when you are young, you will spend the rest of your life trying to recapture your youth or relive old dreams (Goins, Wrecked, pg. 87).

Obviously that is true in many cases but what he doesn’t take into account are late bloomers and the whole idea of second chances. Many older women especially made their commitments first (marrying, having children, working) and once reaching the empty nester phase, began to explore new options. Several of these women myself included) have embarked on late life adventures, having experienced much wrecking in their lives already caring for and then losing elderly parents, spouses, friends or even children.

The other problem with Wrecked is one that occurs again and again with regards to Christians and service – that of putting the horse before the cart.

When Jesus was asked about the greatest commandment (in Matthew 22), he presented two: loving God and then loving neighbor, making it clear that loving God needed to comes first. This teaching asserts that a personal, loving relationship with the Creator results in a pouring forth of grace which empowers the individual to love and serve their neighbor. Being immersed in God reveals Him in others and the desire to serve becomes irresistible.

Goins mentions the Gospel story of Martha (the busy one) and Mary (the contemplative one) (Luke 10:38-42) but fails to follow through with Mary and the need to take the time to sit at the feet of God. It’s hard to tell if he assumes the reader understands the importance of taking time with God first. He does stress the importance of taking care of one’s inner life and makes it clear the need to let go and allow God to lead but a more direct connection between taking care of ourselves and allowing God to take care of us would have been preferred.

That being said, I bought a copy of Wrecked as a going-away present for my Millennial son who has relocated to New York City from sleepy central Massachusetts.

I also intend to use it with my eleventh-grade Sunday school class. And I’ve recommended it to a deacon friend of mine who runs a young adult book club at his church.

My advice: commit yourself to Wrecked.

Order Wrecked: When a Broken World Slams into Your Comfortable Life and support CatholicMom.com with your purchase

Copyright 2012 Susan Bailey

Be As One

Editor’s note: I’m thrilled to congratulate my friend and fellow CatholicMom.com contributor  on the launch of her wonderful new blog www.beasone.org. Enjoy your visit! LMH

“Be As One” chronicles a life led by faith on a journey to becoming whole.

Susan Bailey

Writer shares the quiet yet profound changes in her life as she emerges from grief

Grafton, MA – Writer Susan Bailey has launched a new blog initiative with the purpose of sharing her journey of pulling together all the different compartments of her life into one single flow with the current being directed by God.

Of the blog entitled “Be As One: A Single Flow …” found at www.beasone.org, Susan says, “In our Western culture, we tend to compartmentalize our lives. I am a master at it with all my different roles, interests, etc. Trouble was, none of these compartments related to each other. My life was so fragmented that I was frustrated as a wife and mom, distracted at work as a graphic artist, and stifled in my creativity as a musician and writer. My spiritual life was dry. I felt disconnected, anxious and dissatisfied.”

She continues, “I reflected on how Jesus promised to make us whole and realized that it wasn’t just a promise of a healthy body, but of a healthy spirit as well. Submitting my life to Him and allowing Him to pull all the pieces together, like tributaries into a river, would create that single flow, and a whole person.”

Susan believes that wholeness from within sharpens our vision, enabling us to better perceive God in every aspect of our lives. “If all the parts of our lives are connected into one, we start to make connections beyond ourselves, with others. And we start to see God everywhere we look.”

Believing she is not alone, Susan ‘s goal is to create a virtual community of people sharing life stories, interests and experiences that will help all who visit the site learn how to live in that single flow too. “We’ll have fun sharing our interests while we learn,” she says, adding, “Right now I’m engaged with a large community of cat lovers and I’ve attracted people who love to kayak as well.”

The inspiration for the blog came from two transformative life experiences. “Over the last two years my life has gone through a quiet and profound transformation,” she says. “Emerging from the grief of losing my father in 2003 and then my mother in 2010, I have made some wonderful life-changing discoveries. As I learn to live them out, I am inviting you to come along on the journey and grow with me. You may find your life changing too.”

Besides losing her parents, Susan, a professional singer, was also coping with the loss of her voice. Active in music ministry in the Catholic Church since 1993 not only as a leader of song, but beyond her parish, she had performing at World Youth Day 2002 in Toronto and appeared on EWTN and Catholic TV. She recorded two CDs and publishing a ground-breaking Sung Rosary book and CD which was voted best Rosary product by Cheryl Dickow of Bezalel Books.

The same year her mother passed away, Susan began to notice a significant weakening of her voice. She was diagnosed with a form of acid reflux which coats the throat with stomach acid.

It was at this point that she felt led to make changes in her life. “I have accepted the fact that it’s time to close this chapter of my life. I’m at peace with it and am even grateful for it because of the new windows God has opened for me.”

“Be At One” is the new chapter and Susan looks forward to sharing and conversing with you there. Come and visit at www.beasone.org.

Susan Bailey is a resident of Grafton, Massachusetts and a longtime active member of St. Luke the Evangelist Church in neighboring Westborough. She has been married 34 years to Rich, a deacon in the Eastern Catholic Melkite Church. They have two grown children: Stephen, 26 and Meredith, 24. Susan has worked for 20 years as a marketing assistant at Rutledge Properties, an independent real estate firm in Wellesley.  She was a Catholic recording artist for 17 years performing nationally and internationally. During that time she supported the Catholic artist community with GrapeVine, the only magazine devoted to Catholic performing artists.

For more information on Susan and Be As One, visit www.beasone.org.

Copyright 2012 Susan Bailey

A Sacrifice of Praise

A sacrifice of praise (Hebrews 13:15). What does that mean? Why would praise require a sacrifice? Is it even possible to do?

Margo B. Smith provides some clues in her latest CD release, “Alleluia Though it All,” a soothing and beautiful collection of original songs directed to God in praise.

I am normally not a big fan of praise and worship music because the songs so often are exhorting the listener to praise with simplistic, repetitive lyrics that do not tell any kind of story of what God has done. While we shouldn’t need a reason to praise God, we are human. Specific reminders of how the Lord has worked in our lives inspire the heart to praise Him.

Margo not only gives us reasons but shares a poignant story that gives meaning to “a sacrifice of praise.”

Behind the twelve songs which lift up the heart to praise is a story of sorrow, letting go and saying goodbye.

Margo B. Smith

Margo’s father, Dr. Gilbert Brungardt had been diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer. He suffered for three years before passing away in 2010.

In explaining how the songs came about during this time Margo writes, “It is difficult to watch a loved one suffer. It is natural to mourn as you watch them struggle with their illness. During that time I wrote songs. I found that lifting my heart to God and focusing on His goodness and love was the answer to my sorrow. The songs that I felt inspired to write were songs of praise. It was uplifting for me to write and sing songs of praise and thanksgiving to God.”

Many of us have gone through the suffering and death of loved ones. We may endlessly petition God for healing, strength and consolation. Or we may feel alienated from or angry at God for such suffering. We bombard Him with questions: “Why must my loved one suffer so? What’s the purpose? How could You allow this to happen? How could You do this to me?”

Margo took the opposite approach. Rather than question or petition or turn away, she turned towards Him, going with the flow of His will, her eyes fixed on Jesus.

By keeping her gaze on His holy face, she found the consolation and strength she needed to love her father through his suffering and death.

She writes, “I have found that to pray in a positive way helps me to overcome my feelings of sadness. To thank God for what He plans to accomplish in any given situation, to thank Him for His goodness and His love and to ask that He would receive glory and praise through it all, helps me. Many times when I pray this way, I feel a burden being lifted.”

In offering her sacrifice of praise to the Lord, Margo publicly shares that consolation with “Alleluia Though it All.”

Gifted with a beautiful voice that soothes like a balm, Margo sings confidently with a quiet strength. Her CD is produced simply with lovely harmonies, sparkling acoustic guitar work and instrumental accents that suit each song so well.

Several of the songs stay with me during the day, keeping me close to God and inspiring praise.

The opening song, “The Greatest Love” is lilting and uplifting with beautiful guitar work:

You are my God
You are my Savior
You are my joy, my hope
You are the greatest love I’ve ever known

“Blessed Be the Lord” gently rocks with a soft reggae beat that reminds me of the greatest example of a sacrifice of praise, Mary:

Blessed be the Lord
My soul proclaims (Blessed be the Lord)
Blessed be the Lord from age to age
My soul proclaims

Margo shares her struggle with sorrow and grief with “Living On,”

Tears in my dinner I cry at strange times
My heart feels like it’s been crushed
Pictures of you help good memories rewind
But they’re no substitute for your touch

and turns to God for comfort with “Enfold Me in Your Tenderness:”

Here’s my heart for You to mend
Enfold me in Your tenderness
In your arms I find rest
Enfold me in Your tenderness

By keeping her gaze on Jesus, Margo was able to make grief a positive experience. “My faith turned my grief into hope,” she writes. “I find that by staying focused on our heavenly hope I experience peace. It helps me to look forward to being with my loved ones when the Lord calls me home.”

While driving to work this morning I experienced firsthand that challenge of a sacrifice of praise.

I listened to Margo’s music during the trip and found myself welling up with tears as thoughts of my son’s impending move to a far-away city crossed my mind. Normally I would have given in to the grief of saying goodbye but Margo’s music and her story of perseverance and hope enabled me to make my sacrifice of praise.

“Alleluia Through it All” is a wonderful companion and reminder to those experiencing grief, sadness and struggle that God is truly ever near. Visit Margo’s website at www.margobsmith.com to purchase the CD, listen to songs, read the lyrics and find out more about Margo’s story.

Copyright 2012 Susan Bailey

L to R, Beth, played by Amelie Lasker and Jo, played by Nicole Dunn for the Concord Players’ production of Little Women

All my life I have had a passion for Louisa May Alcott. When I was ten my aunt gave me a children’s biography of Louisa which I still have, albeit worn out from reading. A children’s biography led to adult biographies which then led to frequent visits to nearby Concord, MA and Orchard House, the home of the Alcott family.

In this home, Louisa wrote her classic, Little Women.

How many times have you read Little Women? How many of you have aspired to be Jo March? She was the independent tomboy with the big temper and equally generous heart who inspired many a writer, reformer and political leader.

L to R, Jo, played by Nicole Dunn and Beth, played by Amelie Lasker for the Concord Players’ production of Little Women.

While I have Jo’s creative urges (and the temper too), the one I aspire to be is Beth. Sweet, gentle, shy Beth. Hardly a girl who would make any kind of impact in the world. Seen by many as passive, even weak, her tragic death is how she is remembered.

I think Beth gets a bad rap. Since she is so shy, docile and self-sacrificing, critics think she is a poor example for modern women. In an essay in the Norton Critical Edition of Little Women entitled “The Horror of Little Women,” Angela M. Estes and Kathleen Margaret Lant theorize that Beth was, in essence, the Perfect Nineteenth Century Woman:  “Beth, who has not even sufficient self-reliant impulses to stay alive, becomes for Jo – and by extension for Alcott – the example of what all women are required by custom to be, the completely perfect woman – passive, acquiescent, dead.”

The critics, however, are missing the point. It’s true that Jo is admired because she wants to stand on her own without benefit of the safe haven of her family or the security of marriage. Autonomy for a nineteenth-century woman was considered radical.

Beth, however, was radical too. Her brand of self-sacrificial love empowered her just as a fiery independent spirit empowered Jo. Beth also left the safety of home to reach out to an impoverished family, and at considerable risk to her own well being.

The scene is played out in chapter seventeen of Little Women, “Little Faithful.” Beth began by reminding her sisters of Marmee’s request to look after the Hummels, a desperately poor family of German immigrants. Everyone had an excuse: Meg was “too tired,” Jo was wrapped up in her writing, Amy wasn’t home. Beth was afraid to go because Mrs. Hummel’s baby was getting sicker by the day and Beth didn’t know how to care for it.

In the end, her perfect love gave her the courage to go. Over the course of a week she visited the Hummels each day as the situation grew more and more dire.

Her one fault was that she was not assertive enough in taking care of herself. She obviously wasn’t feeling well when she asked Meg and Jo to help, but she never mentioned it to them. Ultimately she was to pay a great price for not taking care of her own needs.

The critics are quick to comment on Beth’s self-forgetfulness but they fail to recognize her extraordinary courage. As the baby was dying, Beth took it into her lap and tried to comfort it. Even when it died, she would not relinquish it until its mother came back with the doctor. She even stayed to grieve with the family.

Love is the only explanation for Beth’s show of courage. Her compassion for the child superseded her fear. She did not fear death and was willing to cradle the dead baby. Her love was that perfect.

Beth was self-giving to the point of sacrificing herself. The baby died of scarlet fever and Beth caught the fever, eventually dying of it herself later in the book.

Perhaps some balance was needed and this is why she gets the bad rap. But Beth was far more than a “shadow sister” who was too shy to talk to boys or strike out on her own. Her strength and courage emulated Jesus, who sacrificed Himself for all people. In the Bible, 1 John 14:18 says, “There is no fear in love; but perfect love casts out fear . . .”
We know that Jo aligned herself with Beth because she saw in her sister qualities she needed to develop within herself. Some might say that these qualities were not desirable because they were signs of weakness. But Jo, a strong and assertive girl, sensed that she needed balance in her life too – balance that Beth could help provide by her example. It’s just unfortunate that Beth could not learn by Jo’s example as well. Polar opposites, they were attracted to each other, learning from each other, feeding each other.

Beth may have exemplified the Perfect Woman of the nineteenth century but she had many admirable qualities and should not be so easily dismissed. Strength comes in many forms.

I only hope that someday I can demonstrate those qualities too.

Susan maintains the only blog devoted to Louisa May Alcott: her life, works and legacy. You can read more about Louisa May Alcott at louisamayalcottismypassion.com.

Doris E. (Breed) Hoyle

Grief certainly is a mysterious thing. I thought I understood how grief progressed after I lost my father in 2003, but the course it has taken this time has been totally different and frankly, confounding. At first I believed that after the first 6 months, grief would finally begin to come to the surface and the tears would come. Two years later, the tears have been but a small measure; grief is manifesting itself in ways I never imagined.

I hardly shed a tear when my mother first died. I attributed that to being in “battle mode”; our family had worked day and night for the last six years to keep our mother comfortable and in her own home. She descended slowly into dementia and her body grew increasingly frail. The last eighteen months before her death were especially difficult, careening from one crisis to the next. When I hear of others going through this, I pause now before giving advice. There is no way to predict, or to prepare for what will happen, and acceptance comes only in the middle of it all.
My mother was an exceptional woman. Full of life and vigor, gifted with insatiable enthusiasm and curiosity, and blessed with a wonderful sense of humor, she could light up a room. In the 1930s she attended Walnut Hill College Preparatory School in Natick, MA (now a performing arts school), and then, like her two sisters before her, attended Wellesley College where she majored in botany. She often said that her Walnut Hill years were among the happiest in her life; I see that now so clearly reflected in her photo albums and yearbook.

Doris E. (Breed) Hoyle

My mother was also proud of her heritage and kept careful records; she was part of Breed family of Lynn, MA. Allen Breed is the first recorded family member in America, coming over in the 1630s; he helped found the city of Lynn. The Breeds have an active family association and several family plots at Pine Grove Cemetery in Lynn, with complete family trees dating back several generations.

Mommy loved the outdoors, especially flowers and birds, a heritage she received from her family. She also loved dogs and cats, her ‘Sox’ (the Red Sox), politics, reading and traveling. Her love of learning seemed to grow with every year she lived. She was curious about everyone and loved observing people, especially the neighbors!

She had a loud, animated voice which she used well in school productions, playing character roles in plays at Walnut Hill. In her later years, her voice sounded rather like a parrot. In fact, when she tried to sing “Ode to Joy” to my cousin’s parrot, he went nuts! He was totally in love.

Most of all, she was a devoted wife of 54 years to husband Herb, and loving mother to me and my older sister and brother. She was totally involved in our lives and intensely interested in everything we did. She offered such loving comfort when I was sick, sad or depressed. Mommy was my best friend and confidant. She would listen and offer advice, and she’d share deeply personal things from her life. I feel a connection to her that is like no other.

She was not a believer; in fact, she was totally hostile to talk about faith. She was terrified of dying and fought it, thrashing and moaning even at the end, although sedated and in a morphine haze.

After her heart rate became so irregular that it was not really fixable, the doctors suggested hospice and put her on morphine, discontinuing any food or fluids. It took five agonizing days for her to pass and I must confess that it felt like we’d pulled the plug. We had assumed she would pass quickly and never expected that she could live for so long without food or water. It was not a peaceful passing as she was very agitated. For her, that was par for the course.

I prayed for her all the time that she would come to know peace by knowing our Lord. In the ER, the nurse asked me if we wanted a priest. I said yes. It happened to be the one priest that I knew she’d be okay with, Fr. Giggi, who had given the last rites to my dad. He gave her last rites. But in the end, I knew ultimately it would be her decision whether or not to have faith in God. I kept kissing her and whispering in her ear as she lay dying that she needed to keep the door open because Someone was waiting for her on the other side, Someone who loved her very much. I asked her to trust me, that I was not delusional, that it was all true.

After she died, I asked God for a definitive sign to assure me that she was safe with Him in heaven. When my father had died, I kept seeing icons of Our Lady of Perpetual Help in places I didn’t expect, and since I had petitioned Our Lady of Perpetual Help, I took these sightings as a sign that my dad was okay. Instead of seeing Mary, I saw signs that were less definitive, requiring more faith on my part.

The first sign occurred at her funeral. She had wanted her service to be at the Unitarian Church despite the fact that she had not been active in the church since my father’s death in 2003. The service was held in the small chapel, filled with exquisite blue and purple flowers, carefully chosen according to my mother’s explicit wishes. It was standing room only.

Many family members participated in the service. My husband Rich, a deacon in the Catholic Melkite church, helped to preside and I sang her favorite hymn. My sister gave a beautiful eulogy, and then we asked others if they wanted to share. My brother-in-law got up to speak. He is a consummate storyteller and gave a most heartfelt, and at times, humorous eulogy, even choking up at points. He and my mother had had a complicated relationship but they loved each other dearly.

Then, neighbors got up and spoke. Everyone said such wonderful things. My poor mother, in her despair, anxiety and dementia, had felt she was unlovable. Not true! She was very well loved. After the service when the chapel was empty, I went up to the casket, kissed it and said, “I told you so! I told you were loved!” God graced me with a tremendous sense of joy that day; I never shed a tear.

At the cemetery it seemed that all of nature was blooming, and weeks ahead of schedule; the sky never so blue. A warm and gentle breeze filled the air with the sweet scent of freshly cut grass. As my husband read the prayers over the grave, a chipping sparrow sang in a tree right over his head.

All this I took as a sign that she was with God and thus okay.

I was graced with another sign a few weeks later in the form of a letter from McLean Hospital. My mother had asked that donations be sent to that hospital in lieu of flowers. I sent in my donation and wrote a letter explaining our connection with the hospital. They wrote back a lovely note and listed all the people that had donated. Immediately upon seeing that letter I heard the phrase in my head, “Love begets love.” My mother had loved well in her life and now she was meeting True Love for the first time.

Now, two years later, I’m still not shedding a lot of tears. But I visit the cemetery frequently and drive past the old homestead even though it’s been sold to a new family. My sister and I explored her family history, visiting the Breed family plot at Pine Grove Cemetery, and driving past her old home in Swampscott. I have lately been going through her family albums and school yearbooks and reading her diaries. I’m considering writing letters to her and my father.

Expressions of grief have come in many forms and always at unexpected moments. Tears can come in a sudden wave while watching a movie, passing as quickly as they came. The anticipation of her anniversary brings dread. Mother’s Day is the most difficult. Some of us still observe the family tradition of visiting Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge each Mother’s Day to observe the spring bird migration and gorgeous flowers. These outings are glorious but they make me feel lonely for her company.

When other family members move away, I feel the familiar pang of grief. This year in particular will be hard with our son moving to NY, our daughter moving out of the house, and my sister and her husband retiring to Alabama.

At the same time though, grief has been an amazing and transforming experience. I knew when my mother died that a large part of me would die with her. When it was announced that she would be going into hospice, I fought internally against it. My life was put on hold for 2 years after my father died and I didn’t want that to happen again, Or at least, I didn’t want to have to try to bring any of it back. I could feel a part of me literally being sucked out while my mother lay dying. I had no choice but to accept it.

Yet a funny thing happened when I did accept it – a new life rose up out of the ashes. My faith has grown deeper with a greater awareness of my need for Christ on a moment-to-moment basis. I have taken up reading for the first time since my childhood and find my thinking and general view of the world expanding. Reading has led to another childhood interest, writing, and as a result, my creative life is experiencing a renaissance. I’ve accepted the death of many things in my life and in turn have discovered joy and freedom as well as sadness. It reminds me of the scripture from John 12:24: “unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.”

I can’t help thinking that my mother is interceding for me in heaven. As one who was so curious about life and stimulated by learning, I know she’d be proud of my newfound love for these things. It’s hard not being able to share directly with her all the wonderful blessings I’ve experienced but I sense she knows anyway.

I miss Mommy terribly but she is not far away. My head and heart are full of her, and her genes are in my body. I know she is with God and I talk to her frequently. She has empowered me with her spirit and my life has gone through so many positive changes since she passed away. Ironically, I probably have the best sense of well-being that I’ve ever had in my 56 years. I only wish I could tell her in person but someday we will meet again. And she will be as beautiful and happy as she was in those Walnut Hill years, full of life and vigor, humor and love. I can hardly wait!

Copyright 2012 Susan Bailey

For the last ten days, my parish (St. Luke the Evangelist in Westboro, MA) has been praying the nine-day novena to the Holy Spirit. In the midst of this novena, a 40-hour devotion was held in front of the Blessed Sacrament.

I tried to live up to my duty and participate fully in this prayerful time but fell flat after the fifth day of the novena. Still, I was looking forward to mass this Sunday in my church.

However, duty called.

Attending to my duty

As some of you already know, my husband Rich is a deacon in the Melkite Church which is Eastern Catholic. The liturgy is celebrated in the Byzantine tradition. It is a beautiful celebration that touches greatly upon the mystery that is our faith.

My feet of clay

I am not always up to the lofty state of mind that one needs to be in to attend these liturgies. It requires that you stand for pretty much the whole hour. This is a challenge for my bad feet and sore back.

The liturgy is entirely sung. Everyone sings which is commendable but the singing isn’t always good. Unless I am caught up in the Spirit of God, the singing can prove to be quite distracting.

I am not proud of the fact that these minor matters get in the way of worshipping God during these liturgies. But they do.

I really wanted to worship at my parish where the music can soar. But duty came first.

Saying goodbye

Rich had told me earlier in the week that a longtime and key member of his church (Our Lady of Perpetual Help), Corinne, was leaving the state to be near her children. This woman had served Our Lady of Perpetual Help for 30 years and would be sorely missed.

Corinne had been one of many at Our Lady of Perpetual Help who had welcomed me as one of their own.  I wanted to say goodbye and wish her well.

Duty called, and I chose to attend liturgy at my husband’s church rather than our own.

Where duty led me

Each morning I dedicate my day to God with a prayer that Henri Nouwen prayed. In part it says, “I am ready for all, I accept all. Let only your will be done in me …”

I attended the liturgy. As a result, I experienced a gentle outpouring of the Spirit which I know I would have missed had I not done my duty.

The Spirit brings life

It began during the homily as Fr. Paul spoke of different times in the Scriptures when the Spirit was mentioned. He recalled Ezekiel 37 when the prophet Ezekiel saw the valley of dry bones come alive again into living, breathing people because he did his duty by obeying God and prophesying over them. A valley of bones rose to new life as a result.

The Spirit promises

Fr. Paul also mentioned Joel 2:28 and the promise of the Spirit:

It will come about after this
That I will pour out My Spirit on all mankind;
And your sons and daughters will prophesy,
Your old men will dream dreams,
Your young men will see visions.

What had the Spirit done for me?

It was then that I began to reflect upon the remarkable yet quiet transformation that had been going on in my life since I lost my mother two years ago.

In thinking about those readings, I realized that I was like those dry bones in the valley, brought back to life. I was dreaming dreams again. All of this because of the outpouring of the Spirit into my life.

Personal Pentecost

I began to experience a personal moment of Pentecost, becoming suddenly very aware of God’s presence pressing in on me from all sides. Rather than feeling oppressed, I felt liberated, deeply loved, and grateful for the wondrous gift God had bestowed on me in the wake of my grief.

And all this I was privy to because I had opted to do my duty.

Duty can be beautiful

Doing one’s duty is the most basic reason for doing anything. But as frail humans, sometimes it’s all we’re capable of at that moment.

How wonderful God is that He will bless my performance of duty! Because I had demonstrated to Him an openness to whatever He had in mind for me, I was able to receive His blessing.

Duty had opened the door.

I had prayed it that morning and performed it through my duty: “”I am ready for all, I accept all. Let only your will be done in me …”

Copyright 2012 Susan Bailey

If you are an animal lover, you may disagree that this crisis is small. If you’re not, you’ll know exactly what I mean! 

It began 4 weeks ago when I had to take my elderly cat, Bacci in for his physical. Although Bacci had a history of being super sensitive to the slightest change in his routine, I felt he would manage with a physical.

As expected, Bacci was so fearful of the exam that he was shaking, and purred to comfort himself. At 14 he had lost significant weight and had developed an infection due to scratching around his mouth (his gums were bothering him). The vet cleaned up the area around his mouth, put a cone around his head, prescribed antibiotics, and then told me he had a hyperactive thyroid that needed treatment (the cause of the weight loss). I was upset to see the cone because I knew deep down this would never fly. I was so right!

Bacci became unhinged after that visit. He couldn’t cope with the cone and began acting out (by not using the litter box) until I had to remove the cone. The antibiotic did not agree with him and as a result, he was losing more weight. I could see that he was spiraling downward (something I had seen in previous elderly cats) and felt the end was coming. It did come, 1 week and 3 days after the annual physical.

I was devastated. Usually I have my husband doing the “dirty deed” but he wasn’t home. I could feel myself becoming unhinged as I prepared to take Bacci to the vet for the last time.

I felt silly calling upon Jesus and Mary to see me through this but I knew if I didn’t call upon the Lord now, I wouldn’t call on Him for more important matters. I began to pray to His mother for intercession and immediately I felt her unique touch of peace. I just wanted to hold it together so I could follow through with what I knew needed to be done. Bacci was suffering terribly and putting him down was the right decision.

After it was done, I cried and cried. Bacci had been adopted from my mother’s nursing home and I felt guilty that I had not been able to provide him with the peaceful life I promised. Bacci had had a tough time in our home as he was not used to other cats, and the other cats sensed weakness in him and tormented him. I felt it my mission to make this cat feel safe, showering him with attention, hugs and kisses. And ironically, just before the physical, he seemed to have reached a happier place. It was a bitter end to the story.

It was also the last physical tie to my mother and I began grieving over her all over again.

Such a small matter, putting down a cat. So many people are hurting in this world and I lose it over a cat!

And here I discovered that the Lord is truly in the midst of everything in our lives, right down to the most trivial of details. He showered me with unspeakable graces and consolation, even in this smallest of crises. My daughter came home on a dime when I called to tell her of Bacci’s fate. My son sent me a beautiful letter telling me that my care of Bacci despite all the difficulties showed him the example of kindness and gentleness that he wanted to emulate.

God’s light had actually shown through me by the care of one of His creatures. This trivial matter was used to broaden my heart and show others that love.

I learned through Bacci that God will use anything and everything to demonstrate His gracious, abounding and unending love.

Truly, God IS in everything!

Here I wrote a tribute to Bacci if you’d like to know more about this sweet cat of mine.

Copyright 2011 Susan Bailey

Throughout this series I have shared with you ideas that I had about becoming beautiful as God means for us to be. This has been a deeply personal journey as I have literally lived with this topic for the last 3 months, reading a little bit each day, outlining the chapters in  The Prayer of Mary by Keith Fournier andThe Authentic Catholic Woman by Genevieve Kineke. As we know from gardening, a downpour is not going to be particularly beneficial to the flowers – it might beat them down and surely the bulk of the water will run off. It’s those gentle rains, even drizzle, that persist from day to day that bring the real benefit to the garden. This reading, bit by bit, day by day, has acted as a gentle rain on the garden of my soul. Where total surrender to God was once a lofty thought is now something I have embraced, and my journey has just begun in living it.

I find that I am more at peace with my life and can take the longer view down the road while still remaining in the present. Recently my husband, who is a contract worker, was between jobs and was becoming concerned that he would not find a new assignment soon enough to continue with the contracting company which gives him a salary and our health plan. He knew I was praying daily for the unemployed and asked me to remember him which I gladly did. As I prayed, I thought to myself that no matter what happened, even if he lost his job and we lost our health benefits, that everything in the long run would work out for our best. My trust in God was deeper because of this journey of surrender which I had embarked upon.

My love for Mary, our Mother, has truly grown. She truly is the most beautiful woman the world has ever known, and will ever know. She lays out a simple path to follow (simple to understand but not necessarily easy to follow), speaking it plainly at the Wedding at Cana when she instructs the servers, “Do whatever He tells you.” She knew from the many deep experiences of her life that following the Lord wherever He led was the only way to lead an authentic life. She came to understand in the course of her life that this way was not free of pain or suffering; in fact it probably was more intense because she chose a more radical way of living. Her “yes”, however, transformed all of history, helping to open the road to Heaven to every human being going back to Adam and Eve, and going forward to the end of time. She held God incarnate in her arms – caressing and kissing, listening to and consoling Him, and laughing with Him. She witnessed Him risen, saw Him ascend to Heaven, and experienced the Holy Spirit coming upon her at Pentecost. Every moment of her life was a “yes” and every “yes” opened the door wider to God’s grace and mercy.

No wonder she was the most beautiful woman the world has ever known!

I earnestly pray, beg, that God’s light, His image, like those of the beautiful icons, will glow within me and will not be blocked by any shadow. I pray, I beg, that God will help me continue to remove the wall that blocks Him from me, stone by stone and eventually, boulder by boulder as I become stronger in Him.

Copyright 2011 Susan Bailey

I deeply desire to become a beautiful Godly woman that will be evident for all to see. I desire that people will look at me and see not me, but the Lord. I want to be that bold, that transparent. I want to be like those women I admire so much in my own life who to me epitomize holiness – my Noni, the master teacher of hospitality, the realtor in my office who positively glows with God’s light, and my dear spiritual mother whose mastery of sacrificial love in spite of her illness inspires me daily.

Dear Lord, make me like those women! Make me beautiful like Your Mother. Mary, mother to us all and my mother, pray for me.

• It grants the sick person peace and courage to bear the infirmity
• It helps the sick person to recognize that the infirmity is linked directly to Christ
• It binds together the sick person with the community as we all come together to pray for the sick and offer up their infirmities
• When given at the point of death, it gives the sick person grace for the journey

(pages 35-36, The Authentic Catholic Woman)

Kineke maintains that women by necessity are especially skilled at offering healing since it usually falls to them to care for their families (page 36, Ibid). From nursing babies to caring for children with the cold or flu, to taking care of elderly parents, women have many opportunities to offer healing and comfort to others. A natural outgrowth of this is the nursing profession (although it didn’t emerge as a profession until the Civil War). While the doctor may diagnose the ailment and perform the procedures necessary for the healing, the nurse is the one who administers the vital care, both physical and emotional.

There are so many opportunities to be the image of Jesus to the sick, both in taking care of physical needs and spiritual ones. Sickness makes one very vulnerable, and possibly open to spiritual matters. Thus, taking care of of the sick is a corporate work of mercy that mirrors the Church in its concern for the soul (page 38,Ibid).

I recall reading a book by my favorite author, Louisa May Alcott, about her experiences as one of the first nurses in the Civil War. Louisa was itching to serve her country and would have fought had she been permitted to, but instead, took care of the wounded. Her book, Hospital Sketches, her first real success as an author, tells poignant tales of her encounters with the soldiers. She wrote of bathing their wounds, administering medicines, writing letters to loved ones, or just holding the hand of soldiers as they died and offering comfort. Alcott was gifted at nursing, having cared for her dying sister Elizabeth (Beth of Little Women ). Her care of the soldiers was indeed a corporate work of mercy.
(If you wish to read more about Louisa May Alcott as a Civil War nurse, check out my blog called Louisa May Alcott is My Passion.)

Some of my fondest memories of my mother were of her taking care of me when I was sick. She was the best. Although my mother (because of her New England Yankee heritage) was not normally physically affectionate, I could so feel her love and care whenever I was sick. She was extremely thoughtful. I recall as a child, lying on the couch sick, and she came home from shopping with a special book for me called The Littlest Angel. Even now thinking of that book, I feel an urge to cry because the love shown by the gift of that book touched my heart so deeply. Caring for the sick involves such little acts of love and they mean so very much.

When my mother became elderly, I was able to return the favor. I did not immediately embrace the job but rather grew into it. It was hard watching her fading away and even more difficult knowing that she suffered from despair, having no faith in God and even, at times, being hostile to the idea of God. She was not easy to be with but I know she appreciated whatever I could do (along with my sister and brother).

Despite dementia and a morphine haze, my mother knew that we loved her and demonstrated that love to my sister the day before she died through a look she gave to her. My sister was able to discern the meaning of that look and knew my mother had communicated, “I love you” and “thank you” through her eyes.

The Lord orchestrated a way for my mother to receive last rites from the only priest she ever trusted, the one who had ministered to my father. My sister and I were both at the ER when my mother was brought in but the nurse approached me, asking if we wanted to bring in a priest or minister. I hesitated momentary because I knew my mother would object but then decided that since I was the one being asked, I would say “yes.” That “yes” brought in Fr. Giggi and I knew from then on my mother would be okay. As mentioned before, the administration of last rites grants the dying the grace to make the journey. I actually didn’t know that at the time but now as I write this, I see that granting my mother the ability to receive last rites helped her on her journey home to God. It was something I had prayed for in earnest for years.

Miracles happen every day in the smallest ways. In some ways, these are the greatest and sweetest miracles. It is a constant reminder that the details really do matter. God works through us in the small things of life. Offering the comfort of healing to others really gets down to the nitty gritty of imitating our Lord. He rarely healed from afar but most times touched the person He was healing. How fortunate we are as women to have been especially gifted with the ability to offer healing to others! It is the most beautiful of gifts.

Copyright 2011 Susan Bailey

Jesus as the supreme agent of reconciliation died on the cross to take on the sins of the world. Even as He was dying, He forgave those who crucified Him (“Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.”) and offered salvation to the penitent thief through forgiveness. The prayer which He Himself taught the apostles says, “And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us . . .” We are required to be such agents of reconciliation in order to receive the same from our Heavenly Father. In everything we do, we are to imitate Christ, and what better way than to offer healing through our abilities as peacemakers.

We all know that family life is full of conflict, both large and small (pg. 32,The Authentic Catholic Woman). Nothing hurts more than a falling out between a husband and wife, or a parent and child. Since we are the most vulnerable with regards to members of our family, we are open to being hurt emotionally and sometimes physically. The rifts in the family (the domestic Church) are a small reminder of the disunity in the universal Church, and the pain we feel is the pain Christ knew over these conflicts. Kineke reminds us to unite our own sufferings with Christ as the work of restoration is hard, involving much suffering (pg 33, Ibid).

In the end it comes down to love versus fear, and only love can offer reconciliation and renewal. Fears of getting involved or getting hurt serve only to block reconciliation from happening. We have to step out boldly to affect reconciliation.

I have to admire my two cousins, sons of my father’s brother. For some reason which we will never know (since my uncle has since passed on), my uncle became very angry with our family after my father passed away. At the time it seemed like a small slight with regards to funeral preparations, but it blew up into a feud. It was irrational (and perhaps based on the fact that we did not reach out enough when he lost his wife to cancer years ago), but because it was irrational, I immediately let it go. There was no point in holding on to it. I was sad that he no longer wanted anything to do with us, but reaching out was fruitless.

Or was it? When my aunt (his sister) passed away, we all went to the wake and funeral. During the wake, we spoke at length with my uncle’s oldest son who is truly an extraordinary man. He decided not to involve himself in his father’s feud with us and was very gracious to us (even through my uncle tried to perpetuate the feud even during the wake!). At the dinner after the funeral, I could see how the younger son was torn between loyalty to his father and the absurdity of the feud.

Unfortunately the feud was never reconciled as my uncle was not interested in resolving it or even discussing it. But his sons continued to reach out to us and we to them with Christmas cards and lovely sympathy cards from each of them after my mother’s passing. While it was not possible to reconcile with my uncle, the feud died with him because his sons were willing to take the chance and reach out. I am eternally grateful to the both of them, and their mother would have been proud. Perhaps she, in her spot in heaven, helped to act as the agent of reconciliation between the two families. We’ll find out when we all meet again.

Remembering my brave nephews reminds me that it is always worth it to stick your neck out and try to affect reconciliation. This is what Jesus’ mission was all about and it needs to be my personal mission as well.

Copyright 2011 Susan Bailey

She is, of course, referring to the sacrament of Communion and the Eucharist, the true and real presence of Jesus Christ in the physical form of bread.

The theme of bread

Bread is a core theme throughout the Bible.  God rains down manna (bread) from heaven for the Israelites, sustaining them during their 40 year trek across the desert to the Promised Land:

Then the LORD said to Moses, “Behold, I will rain bread from heaven for you; and the people shall go out and gather a day’s portion every day, that I may test them, whether or not they will walk in My instruction. On the sixth day, when they prepare what they bring in, it will be twice as much as they gather daily.”  (Exodus 16, 4-5)

Jesus as bread

In the gospels, Jesus feeds the 5000 (Matthew 14:13–21, Mark 6:31-44, Luke 9:10-17 and John 6:5-15), taking five loaves and two fish and miraculously multiplying them to feed the multitudes. He takes it a step further as shown in John 6, declaring Himself to be the bread of life:

Jesus answered them and said, “Truly, truly, I say to you, you seek Me, not because you saw signs, but because you ate of the loaves and were filled. Do not work for the food which perishes, but for the food which endures to eternal life, which the Son of Man will give to you, for on Him the Father, God, has set His seal.” Therefore they said to Him, “What shall we do, so that we may work the works of God?” ²⁹Jesus answered and said to them, “This is the work of God, that you believe in Him whom He has sent.” So they said to Him, “What then do You do for a sign, so that we may see, and believe You? What work do You perform?  Our fathers ate the manna in the wilderness; as it is written, ‘HE GAVE THEM BREAD OUT OF HEAVEN TO EAT.’” ³² Jesus then said to them, “Truly, truly, I say to you, it is not Moses who has given you the bread out of heaven, but it is My Father who gives you the true bread out of heaven.³³ For the bread of God is that which comes down out of heaven, and gives life to the world.” ³⁴ Then they said to Him, “Lord, always give us this bread.” Jesus said to them, “ I am the bread of life; he who comes to Me will not hunger, and he who believes in Me will never thirst. (John 6:26-35)

During the Last Supper, Jesus makes good on His word, offering Himself as the Bread of Life by instituting the sacrament of Communion during the last passover meal he was to share with the apostles:

And when He had taken some bread and given thanks, He broke it and gave it to them, saying,“This is My body which is given for you; do this in remembrance of Me.” And in the same way He took the cup after they had eaten, saying, “This cup which is poured out for you is the new covenant in My blood. (Luke 22:19-20)

How can the Eucharist make meal time sacred?

Kineke, taking the literal meaning of bread as food, demonstrates how we can live out our daily tasks of preparing and serving food sacramentally by reflecting on the meaning of the Last Supper. What really happened here?

Jesus gave of Himself in totality to his disciples (and the world), sustaining them in all ways through the gift of the Eucharist. We too can offer ourselves, perhaps not as dramatically as did Christ, but through our daily meal preparation and service.

I am no cook but my husband and his family are wonderful cooks. Much love goes into the preparation of meals, done with utmost care and often, as in the case of my sister-in-law, with an artistic flair. I found meal time at my in-law’s house to be a time of healing and consolation. In my own home, due to a member of the family having an eating disorder, formal meal time first became battlefields and then dissolved altogether with the exception of the holidays. It became too painful to eat at the table so meals were taken in front of the TV.

At my in-law’s home, meals were eaten slowly at the table. Filled with laughter, stories and love, the food seemed to taste extra good in that setting of warmth. Once again, mealtime was a time of family getting together and sharing their love with one another. Holiday meals especially were legendary! 

Keeping this in mind, I tried to make sure my own family sat down together  at the table to eat rather than in front of the TV. As the children grew older, this became more challenging with school and work. Yet, every now and then when both kids are at home for a visit, I will get the request: “Can we eat at the table?” So while we weren’t always at the table when we ate, everyone intuitively knew that gathering at the table was special.

Where and how we feed others

Most women seem to be especially adept at feeding others, and we do it in so many places:

• in the womb
• from the breast
• at the dinner table
• at a picnic table
• at a soup kitchen
• spoon feeding an elderly parent

Feeding others is an act of giving of ourselves and it always needs to focus on others. If it turns into a performance where we are inviting praise or are too stressed out over the preparation, the point is lost. By focusing on the sacramental nature of feeding (reflecting on the ways Jesus gave of Himself as food), we find the richness that is hidden behind the veil of ordinary life (The Authentic Catholic Woman, page 23). The mundane becomes sacred.

So even for those of us who are not good cooks, we too can give love and sustenance to others through our humble efforts, especially if it is done in the spirit of love. This is something I need to think about the next time I struggle over making a meal that may be far from perfect. Perfection in the art of cooking is not the aim. Rather, what counts is the love that is put into it with the intent of giving that love to others. This lifts even the plainest of meals into something sacred, and beautiful.

Copyright 2011 Susan Bailey

The value of hospitality

Cleaning and purifying paves the way for hospitality, the art of welcoming someone into your home and your life, and offering them service through your love. After all, a dirty and disorderly house is hardly welcoming! Hospitality in ancient times for people in the Middle East was not only a nicety, it was a necessity. There were no stores or restaurants along the long, hot paths, no places to drink or to eat, and very few homes along the way. People in that time knew that offering hospitality to a traveler was necessary for that traveler’s life. Hospitality was live-giving.

St. Gianna Beretta Molla

While hospitality today may not be necessary for physical sustenance, it offers vital emotional sustenance. As Kineke points out, hospitality “provides an essential forum of love and comfort to all” in every phase of life  (page 18, The Authentic Catholic Woman). In most cases, we provide food, shelter and comfort, but in some cases it can be literally a matter of life and death. This was the case with St. Gianna Beretta Molla who “welcomed” a child into her womb and bore the child despite the fact that it cost her her life. Her daughter attended St. Gianna’s beatification, thanking her mother for the gift of life, once by allowing conception, and then again by allowing her to be born.

Mary as the example

Mary displayed hospitality by allowing the same – she welcomed God incarnate into her womb where she bore Jesus Christ and then took care of Him, offering vital physical and emotional sustenance. In taking in Jesus, she was able to gaze upon the face of God daily, hold Him in her arms, caress and kiss him, feed and bathe Him. Remembering how the face of Moses glowed after he would speak with God (see Exodus 33), imagine how Mary’s whole life must have glowed!

L to R, my mother-in-law, Noni, my sister-in-law, and her great grandmother

All about the love

Hospitality is a gift of love. I recall my husband’s grandmother, “Noni”, as the model of hospitality in my life. It took me years to understand why her gift was so special because I needed to look outside of myself to see it. Noni’s welcoming of people and providing food and comfort were not merely duties or chores, they were acts of love, acts as natural as breathing. I recall the time my brother-in-law got married – people were coming and going all weekend long and yet there was always the same welcome, the same offer of food and conversation. Suddenly my eyes were opened and I saw a gift I longed to have. Hospitality does not come naturally to me but I work at it now, always keeping my Noni in mind as my example. She lived in a sacramental manner.

Providing a safe haven

Hospitality not only offers care and comfort, but a safe haven. This part at least I did understand and I made it a priority from the first day my children came into the world that our home would be just that. In this safe haven they were to be respected as people with their own ideas, even from the youngest age. They would be listened to. God has blessed this effort tremendously in that we have excellent relationships with our two 20-something children who happily share their lives with us and know to come home when they need a safe haven.

It’s all about being engaged

As a natural loner, I prefer not to engage with people. Jesus, however, is calling me to engage all the time and to be welcoming at a moment’s notice. It can be as simple as offering a smile and a greeting. Perhaps it’s taking care of others on the job with a pleasant and willing attitude, even if people seem unreasonably demanding. Maybe it’s putting aside the desire to go out after work to a desired activity so I can be home to offer dinner and companionship to my husband.

Hospitality is not about the chores and duties, it’s all about the love. When hospitality is lived in the spirit of baptism, it becomes sacramental, and special.

Copyright 2011 Susan Bailey

Today’s Gospel reading tied in so beautifully with the next topic I wanted to discuss in my series on becoming a beautiful Godly woman that I had to include in today’s post. The reading was from John 12:1-11; John describes a extravagant act of worship and devotion on the part of Mary, the woman who knew that sitting at the feet of Jesus was the most important thing to do. We read in verse 3:

Mary took a liter of costly perfumed oil
made from genuine aromatic nard
and anointed the feet of Jesus and dried them with her hair;
the house was filled with the fragrance of the oil.

John describes the scene in such a compelling way that you can experience it with your senses. I found myself turning it over and over in my mind while driving in to work today.

This leads into Genevieve Kineke’s examples of living according to the sacraments, using Holy Mother Church as our best example. In Chapter 2 of her book  The Authentic Catholic Woman, Kineke talks about the sacraments of initiation (Baptism, Confirmation, the Eucharist) and how we can mirror them in our lives. Baptism was the one that came to mind while reading today’s Gospel and here’s why.

On page 15 Kineke writes:

“It is God’s gift to us that we can lift up our mundane tasks of washing and purifying and link them to Christ’s own work.”

She gives a couple of compelling examples:

Example 1: Mother Teresa’s Sisters of Charity wanted to minister to patients in a Russian hospital but they were only allowed to scrub toilets. Rather than complain about the menial work, the sisters conducted their work with such fidelity that the beauty of the Spirit shown through everything they did. This most menial of tasks ended up changing the hearts of the officials who then allowed the sisters to minister to the patients.

Example 2:  The women who visited the tomb of Jesus went there to attend to His corpse and prepare it for burial by washing the body and anointing it with oil and spices.

In a sense, this is what Mary was doing in anticipation of Jesus’ death as Jesus points out in verse 8:

So Jesus said, “Leave her alone.
Let her keep this for the day of my burial.
You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.”

In order to anoint the feet of Jesus, I am guessing she had to wash them first,  not a pleasant job since feet were largely unprotected from the elements and the main mode of transportation. But she attended to His feet with such love and tenderness, turning a possibly unpleasant job into something beautiful. It was an act that transcended time so that you and I could meditate on it today.

I must admit, I never could make cleaning sacramental. I am not good at cleaning and I dislike the task very much. I only do it when I have to and then it’s such a big job that it gets me very aggravated. I tend to complain loudly while I’m doing it and put myself in a bad mood over it which will spill out in the way I treat others. Hardly sacramental!

I tackled spring cleaning yesterday and tried hard to remember the idea of making it sacramental. I can’t say I succeeded but at least I remained calm and didn’t take out any bad mood on my family. I’m guessing I don’t have a clear enough understanding of baptism yet to make the connection. Or perhaps, it’s just a matter of coming outside of myself and turning towards Jesus, as Mary did. She certainly wasn’t put off by His dirty feet! She relished the idea of ministering to Him in such an intimate manner.

So, with an example like Mary, perhaps cleaning will take on a new dimension. I also love reflecting on those Sisters of Charity and how even cleaning toilets could be used as a way to bring Jesus to others.

I’ll be doing more spring cleaning this week and will try to keep those examples in front of me. I know I need to ask God for help before I begin any task. I’ll let you know if I make any progress.

Copyright 2011 Susan Bailey