Thoughts While Grocery Shopping

At the grocery store this morning we passed by a mother with two loud, bickering daughters, maybe about 4 and 6 years old. The mother kept snapping at them as they hit each other and made a scene. At one point she threatened to leave them with someone at the store. Then she pointed to Isabella who was quietly pushing the shopping cart with me and asked them why they weren't more like her.

Now Isabella is not the easiest child to take to the store. It's not that she's disobedient or noisy; but that she's very distractable. She wants to look at everything, touch everything. She frequently stops and stares at people who interest her and doesn't hear me when I try to redirect her. She stops to finger the labels on the shelves, to pick up everything she sees. She's very good about putting things back when I tell her to and she loves helping to push the cart, but I do have to redirect her about once a minute and it can be quite exhausting.

I try not to judge other parents when I see their children misbehaving. I don't know if this is just a bad day or what developmental issues or difficult personalities their children may have. But because this other mother compared her children to mine, I started to think of an answer to her rhetorical question: Why is Isabella so sweetly behaved when compared to these girls? I can't take all the credit. Part of it is surely just a matter of personality. But I couldn't help but compare the way I talk to Isabella-- and especially the way I correct her-- with the way this mother addressed her daughters. She was very loud and very harsh. She didn't seem to enjoy their company, they seemed to be a nuisance to her. I also try to learn from my observations of other parent's interactions with their children, to copy the good and, when I disapprove, to examine myself to see if I also have the same bad behaviors.

Now I certainly have my off days when I'm hungry or tired, my temper is frayed and I start snapping at Isabella. I was lucky that today wasn't one of them. I knew this was going to be a long trip with an extended list because of all the stuff I needed to get for the party and so I was prepared for some backtracking and hunting for things I don't usually buy. I also try very hard to make sure I have a snack for myself before we leave so I'm not hungry, to pack a snack and a sippy for her in case she is, to get to bed on time so I'm not tired, etc. But in general I also try not to raise my voice any louder than I have to to get Bella's attention. I try to keep my tone gentle, even when I don't feel patient. I also try to use please and thank you: "Please don't touch that. Please put that back on the shelf. Thank you, good girl. Please come here and push the cart. Thank you for helping mama to push the cart. Please move out of the way."

I try to be aware that people are listening and hearing us and that my behavior toward Bella and her behavior in general may help to influence people's attitude toward children in general. One old man looked at Bella and Sophia and said something like, "You have your hands full," or no it was, "Never a dull moment at your house." I smiled and replied, "We're always having fun." I think of my children as good company, I enjoy being with them. And I try to treat them with respect, to talk to them as I'd like to be talked to.

The thing is I understand her desire to touch everything, her tendency to stop in the middle of the aisle to stare at people. She's just two years old; the world is a big, beautiful, new place. She's fascinated by everything and everyone she sees. I try to name the things she touches, to describe the people she watches. She's trying to learn about her world and it's my job to help her do so.

To Bella a trip to the store is an adventure and an educational experience. This morning as we were preparing to leave she recounted to me all she could remember from our last trip: "Go shopping. Get milk. Push the cart. Sophia in the car seat. Run, run. Bananas, orange juice," etc. All her favorite things.

I hope that when she's the age of those little girls I can distract her from bickering with Sophia by having her help me with the shopping. My mom used to send me on errands: go get some milk, find the peanut butter. It involved me and I learned how to shop. I became brand conscious and price conscious as she showed me how she decided which one of the twenty jars of peanut butter she bought and why, how to decide which bananas are ripe, and what is a good price for chicken. Most of all, I hope I continue to have fun with her, to enjoy her companionship, and to learn to see the world through her eyes as the marvelous place it is.



And another mother thinking along the same lines, but saying it better, great thoughts on parenting from Sally Clarkson.
Via Elizabeth Foss.

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Busy Weekend, All Quiet on the Blogging Front

Getting geared up for Sophia's baptism on Sunday-- I just love that we got to schedule it for Pentecost. We're going to have a little brunch here afterwards with all the family. A nice Mother's day get-together. We'll also have a little birthday cake for Isabella, who turns 2 a week from Sunday.

I am so very excited that my sister will be flying up tomorrow. She's my best friend and has agreed to be Sophia's godmother. The godfather will be our nephew Peter, which is a little funny because Dom is Peter's godfather. Pete's a great kid, very serious about his faith and surprisingly mature for his age.

It looks like Sunday will be a nice day. I've got a lot of cooking and baking to do between now and then. What fun!

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Charming Billy

I have a very vivid memory from childhood of my mother brushing and blow-drying my hair. She's singing Mairsy Dotes and Billy Boy while I stand and endure the pulling of my hair, yet enjoying the attention and the brush strokes on my scalp when the hair wasn't pulling. I also recall that I had a little hard plastic doll I called Billy Boy after the song. I remember giving the doll a bath in the sink.

This comes up because I find myself singing as I comb Bella's hair:

Where have you been, Billy Boy, Billy Boy?
Where have you been, Charming Billy?
I have been to see my wife. She's the apple of my eye.
She's a young thing and cannot leave her mother.

Combing Bella's hair is an ordeal. She must sleep on her face like her father does, head buried in the mattress, because her forelock is always teased and knotted. It takes a great deal of detangling spray and patience to undo the ratted disaster. It always ends in tears. But the singing helps to calm her down and distract her. And now she's also come to associate the song with the hair brushing.

"Come on, Bella, let's comb your hair. Piggy tails."

"Sing Bildy Boy?"

"Ok, I'll sing Billy Boy."

I only know two verses, the first and a second one "Can she bake a cherry pie, Billy Boy, Billy Boy..." But I looked it up online and found pages and pages more. I printed it off and stashed it in the bathroom for easy reference. But sometimes I just make up my own lyrics:

I love my girls, Bella-girl and Sophie-girl.
I love my girls, Bella and Sophie.
I love my girls, they're the prettiest in the world.
They're both young things and cannot leave their mother.

And so traditions are passed on. I recall a song my mother used to sing to me, a made-up song with my name in it. I'd forgotten about it until Bella was born and then it came back to me along with all the other songs she sang and the nursery rhymes. They just come tumbling from my brain along with the rocking motion that soothed the crying baby.

I don't really like the sound of my own voice when I try to sing in public. I grow self conscious and know I'm not hitting the right notes, not even close to the correct melody. But at home, alone with the babies, I love to sing. It feels right. And they don't seem to mind when I lose the tune. In fact, Bella often asks me to sing.

And now I often hear Bella in the other room, singing to herself. Frequently I can't understand the words or the tune but sometimes there are snatches of the familiar, echoes of my music.

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Book Notes

Quick thoughts on a bunch of books I've recently read, because I'm not going to have time or energy to devote separate blog posts to each of them.


Dean Koontz From the Corner of His Eye

I've been enjoying Koontz. This one has some very dark moments and quite a bit of violence, not recommended for the squeamish or faint of heart. There's a huge pull the rug out from under your feet moment at the beginning that had me off balance for quite a while. But I really enjoyed the way not only does good triumph over evil but Koontz makes evil seem unpleasant, tawdry, petty and ugly and good seem beautiful, homey, welcoming. The villain is not only psychotic and scary, he's also pathetic in his delusions of greatness. I loved the way he is plagued with gross bodily ailments each time he kills: projectile vomiting, then explosive diarrhea, then hives and finally boils.

Koontz has such a Catholic way of seeing the world. The villain is a loner, empty and desperate while there is no single hero but rather a community of heroes, a family. And that seems just right to me, good images God who is in himself a family. I also liked that the book doesn't end after the destruction of the villain but continues with the family living, loving, bringing forth new life, entering into new marriages, serving the greater community not through some impersonal charity but with love, delivered in the form of pies, groceries and most importantly conversation and companionship. Food features prominently, lots of it, very incarnational with love being centered around sharing meals. (I also noticed the same thing in the last Koontz book I read, Life Expectancy.)



Staggerford by Jon Hassler (on the recommendation of Mama T.)

I liked it, though I'm still trying to sort through that ending. Wow. Not at all what I expected. I don't really want to go into it because it would be a total spoiler. But one minor complaint: the statute of limitations doesn't run out on murder so there's a little flaw in the story there.



And finally a children's book that's been irking me every time I read it to Bella: A Blessing from Above. A Little Golden book that we acquired somewhere. It's a pretty cute fable about adoption with sweet illustrations; but there are a couple of details that bug me enough I'm thinking of getting rid of the book.

First, there is no mention of a father. Momma-Roo, who is strangely called Momma even before she receives a blessing from above in the form of a baby blue bird knocked out of his nest, seems to be a single mother. That bugs me. And there doesn't seem to be a papa blue bird either. The only father in the book is a squirrel mentioned in passing as a piece of scenic detail.

But what's even more disturbing is the mother blue bird's total lack of concern when her baby falls from the nest into the kanga's pouch: "She knew her nest was not big enough for all her chicks. It made her happy to see her baby in such a warm, cuddly place." Ok, I know the whole subject of how to explain to an adopted child why the birth mother couldn't raise him is a delicate one; but I don't think this is really the best way to do it. I know we're not really the target audience; but I can just see a sensitive child worried about whether her mother is going to get rid of her because there isn't enough room or finances are tight.

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Spring Walk in the Cemetery

Isabella, Sophia and I had a lovely walk this morning, a beautiful spring day. Actually, Bella and I enjoyed the sun and breeze and flowers, Sophia slept through it all cocooned in her blankets and hidden under the stroller's sunshade.

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Positive Reinforcement

I'm putting away the dishes this afternoon and Bella, who is eating her snack at the kitchen table, looks up and says, "Good girl," as I place the measuring spoons in the drawer. Recently she's been helping me unload the dishwasher and the measuring spoons are one of the items she can put away by herself. I generally thank her and praise her when she completes each task properly. Guess she's listening and learning.

* * *

Also recently she's been responding "Only Mama," when I tell her not to do something or not to touch something. But it works better with some things than others:

"Bella, please don't touch the computer."

"Ondly mama."

"That's right, only mama touches the computer."



"Bella, please don't shake that" (the loose banister on the porch stairs).

"Ondly mama."

Not so much.

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Congratulations

Congratulations to Hallie who announces the arrival of Lucy Jean on Monday. And prayers of thanksgiving for a safe delivery and healthy mom and baby.

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Reflection for Today

Saint Silouan (1866-1938), Orthodox monk
Spiritual writings

"When he comes, the Spirit of truth, he will guide you to all truth"


If you want to pray in your heart and are not able, be content to pray with your lips and keep your mind attentive to what you are saying. Little by little the Lord will also give you the grace of interior prayer and then you will know how to pray without distractions. Don't try to bring about prayer of the heart by using techniques; you would risk harming your heart and, in the end, you would only be praying with the lips. Acknowledge the rule of the spiritual life: God grants his gifts to those who are humble and without guile. Be obedient; don't overdo things, whether in food, speech, or whatever you undertake. Then the Lord himself will give you the grace of interior prayer...

Spiritual silence is born of the desire to fulfil Christ's command: «Love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul... with all your strength,» (Mk 12,30). It is a silence brought about by the search for the living God in anyone who wants to be free from this world's temptations so that they can find our Lord in fullness of love and live in his presence in pure prayer. Lord, how could I not seek you? You have revealed yourself to my soul in such an amazing way! You have made it a prisoner of your love and it cannot forget you. Indeed, the soul recognizes its Lord all at once in the Holy Spirit; who can describe this joy, this consolation? The Holy Spirit acts within the whole man, mind, soul and body; even so is God acknowledged, on earth as in heaven. In his infinite goodness the Lord has granted this grace to me --sinner that I am-- so that men might know him and turn back to him.

via Daily Gospel Online

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Pregnant Women Urged to Eat Chocolate

Chocolate, especially dark chocolate, was the one thing I craved during my last pregnancy. I hoarded candy bars in my nightstand drawer, especially Ritter Sport marzipan and nougat flavors, and ate at least one square a day, often more. I did hear somewhere that eating chocolate at bedtime could help with insomnia. Now a study from Yale University shows it may reduce your risk of preeclampsia:

Women who eat chocolate at least five times a week are up to 40% less likely to develop preeclampsia than those who ate it less than once a week.

Of course now that I'm not pregnant it doesn't work as an excuse. I'll have to stick with the insomnia for now. Not that one really needs an excuse for chocolate. (Why no, there are no dark chocolate Dove bars in my drawer, that's just your imagination.)

via Alicia at Fructus Ventris


Update:

Danielle Bean has information about another chocolate health benefit study.

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It's Here!

The Bettinelli Family Prayerbook



front cover



Oh, What is this? A new book?



For me?



Hold still, Bella! I can't get a good shot.



Read the book again, mama.



back cover



sample spread

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"This Is My Body"

Great thoughts on breastfeeding and the Eucharist from Philangelus:

I got back at the consecration just in time for Kiddo#4 to decide pooping had made room for more milk, and therefore it must be my responsibility to put more there.

I’m a discreet nurser-in-public so I just slipped K4 around in the Mayawrap, and at the moment I latched him on, I heard the priest say, “This is my body, which will be given up for you.”

You know those “epiphany” moments? I had one right then, and it lasted right until the end of Mass.

There are only two times in the average human being’s life when we can expect to say “this is my body” to another human being. One of them would be a mother with her baby: first, a mother giving her body over to her baby for the purpose of gestation and later on for nursing. The mother is giving from her physical self solely for the benefit of someone else. Her uterus exists only for the nurturance of a different human being. And really, the same can be said of her breasts. That whole system is there only to benefit someone who is not her. In fact, she might be healthier if those systems were removed, and many women can and do live a full life without ever using those systems.

The second situation would be lovers in an act of physical intimacy: a man effectively says “this is my body” to his bride, or a woman to her husband. Again it’s other-oriented for the most part: Take me; this is my body. I am yours."

And for the rest of the Mass, right through Communion, I was struck by the way Jesus had said that to us, the tender vulnerability of a man approaching his spouse or the concern of a mother feeding her baby. The chance of rejection. The openness to the needs of the other. The awkwardness of someone who loves someone else.

Read the rest here.

via Fructus Ventris

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"The Mother of All Plot Twists"

This blog post, Sunday's on it's way is a beautiful reflection on the meaning of Easter. (Or one of the meanings at least.) And how it relates to The Sixth Sense:

God is, of course, the Author of the human story, the Dramatist who created this world that famously is all a stage. Most monotheists would agree with that, at least in some sense. Now, Easter tells us what kind of story God is writing it is a mystery novel and a thriller and a romance all rolled into one, but most especially it's the kind of novel where you can't tell what's going to happen next. It turns out that the infinite God is not unlike M. Night Shyamalan the moment when the Resurrection happened is exactly like the moment the audience realizes that Malcolm is himself dead, only more so. The second time through The Sixth Sense the entire story is different from the first time you watched it, because you know the great central secret: Malcolm is dead. And for Christians, the second time through the story, as it were whether it is the story of one's own life and apparently pointless sufferings, or the New Testament story of the disciples cluelessly tagging along behind Jesus without ever figuring out what he was talking about, or even the second time through the Old Testament the second time through, the entire story is transformed, because you know the great central secret: Jesus is alive.

Read it all here

via Julie D.

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Sophia Smiles

Sophia smiles from Domenico Bettinelli on Vimeo.

It's hard to capture that elusive baby smile with a still camera. She moves so quickly, it's there and gone before the flash can go off. So I finally gave up and took a short video clip of the most beautiful smile in the world.

Can you see the dimple in her left cheek?

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Spring fever

Spring is here. We've had the windows open, warm breeze blowing through. Isabella is begging to play out on the back porch.


Bella in the sun.


Green things are poking up everywhere.


A vine growing up on the porch.


The bush outside the kitchen window is a surprise. Yesterday it started popping out pink blossoms. I wish I knew what it is.







Sophia is also enjoying the warm weather, happily rolling around on the floor.

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The Emperor Has No Clothes

If 96% of the people walking past an "art installation" on a busy public street don't take any notice at all is it because they need to become more educated or because it's just bad art?



In this documentary, "The Tuynmans Experiment," the artist, Luc Tuynmans, called "the most important Belgian painter and one of the most important painters working today in the world," whose artwork sells for millions, painted a wall on a busy pedestrian way in Antwerp. One critic guessed that 90% of passersby would stop to admire it. "It will stop people, make them think wake them up," another predicts. The experiment, however, was an abysmal failure. Only 4% of the people who walked passed actually paid notice to the large painting that "referenced a diorama from a Japanese fertility museum that showed monkeys copulating as humans."

The documentary makers hope that the numbers will wake people up and make them appreciate art. To me the numbers tell a different story. They make me think the artists need to wake up and realize their art doesn't appreciate people.

What does it mean for an artist to be "important"? Important to whom? The insular elitist art world? Does his work reach beyond those bounds? Evidently not. Important why? Christies Head of Contemporary Art says his pictures "tell the truth" but she doesn't say what that truth is. What does he have to say that I should listen to? She speaks in code words and jargon. She says his paintings have "difficult subject matter". Does that mean most people would find them offensive or just obscure?

She says he's not "obvious, simplistic, or reductive in his message". That sounds like excuses for why ordinary people can't "get" them. And why should I care about paintings that fail to speak to me? If the man on the street gets it does that automatically mean that the work was too obvious or too simplistic. If the meaning can be explained is that reductive?

We are told that "there is something subterranean, below the surface, that lurks, that has tremendous moral gravitas." That sounds good, sort of, but what does it mean? And that it is "relevant." Relevant to whom? He's "pushing the outer envelope" in terms of aesthetics and subject matter. What does that mean? Is that a good thing? Why is pushing the envelope a good in itself? Somehow I suspect that pushing the envelope in terms of subject matter means exploring subjects that in other times and places would have been considered of limits. the literal meaning of the word obscene is that which happens off stage. If we push the boundaries of the stage further out to bring it on stage is that a good move? Some things should be out of bounds, some things shouldn't be depicted.

It's interesting that the video never gives us a clear view of the art. It's always at a distance and with someone standing between the painting and the camera, between the viewer and the art we are supposed to be viewing. How symbolic. The filmmaker seems to emphasize that we need an interpreter. We can't judge the art for ourselves. We should just take the experts' word that it is great. We see a gallery fully of people that lets us know how popular he is and hear gushing critics and admirers.

What is art? What is the purpose of art? it seems like the "art world" has lost touch with the basic questions. A gaping chasm extends between their understanding of "art" and that of the rest of us who are not in the club.

99% of what passes for art today leaves me cold. It isn't beautiful or true, it doesn't elevate or inspire. You need to have some sort of education to be able to appreciate it. You need to understand the "context", the "vocabulary" the history and the techniques.

Now one could argue that to fully appreciate medieval religious art one needs to know the context and vocabulary as well,that you need to understand the history and the techniques. But there's a difference. Between us and them there is a gap of hundreds of years; they are not our contemporaries. But in their day medieval artists spoke in a vocabulary the common man on the street could understand. A farmer walking into a gothic cathedral didn't need to be told how to read the art there. It spoke the language he'd been brought up speaking since the day he was baptized.

If we need to be educated to read it it is simply because the language we speak has been degraded and we no longer understand the sacred vocabulary that our ancestors lived and breathed. But I would argue that even the uneducated could not walk past a Madonna or a painted altarpiece or a Gothic cathedral without recognizing it as an object of transcendent beauty, without identifying it as art. They might not fully understand the piece in the same way that I don't fully understand Japanese paintings or Hindu temples; but they won't dismiss it as trash or junk as they will so much of modern so-called art.

Contemporary artists and art critics exist in a small self-contained world all of their own. They speak an academic vocabulary of experts, the small social clique of those in the know. The man on the street is excluded and when presented with a multi-million dollar work of art frequently can't even tell that it is a work of art. In fact, it seems that nowadays obscurity and inaccessibility to the masses is a prerequisite for something to be called art. Anything that the man on the street might recognize as art is dismissed as "obvious" and therefore unworthy of the attention of the art world's literati.

We are presented with blasphemous images of Our Lady of Guadalupe as a stripper, with obscene accounts of artificial insemination and induced abortion and told that these are works of art meant to challenge us and to inspire dialogue. The implication: If we are offended and disgusted we are simply closed-minded philistines or intolerant bigots.

And so I return to Jen's definition of art that I blogged about the other day:

Art is the secret handshake of the children of God, the inside joke among those with souls. The spark that is ignited within us when we are touched by a work of art is a spark of recognition: the artist has brought us a souvenir from our homeland beyond the material world, the place that none of us should know about, but all of us do. To connect with a piece of art is to connect with the artist as a fellow traveler, to realize that you are both walking the same rocky road, and that he is homesick too. And it matters because true art, art that seeks a connection of souls, makes it harder to devalue and dehumanize one another. It reminds us what it means to be human.

.

If art is fundamentally about our relationships with each other (and our recognition that we are children of God) then a true work of art should be accessible to everyone (barring physical handicaps like blindness or deafness). In the same way that the intellectual genius of St Thomas Aquinas didn't make him any holier than the unlearned Venerable Solanus Casey. Holiness is judged by one's closeness to God. Any person is capable of having a relationship with God, even the newest baby or the most mental deficient adult. Art is the same way, it's about communication with another person. Anyone should be capable of having a relationship with a work of art and through it with the artist, not just the few who are in the know.

What does it mean when the artists, who should be the torchbearers of our society have lost touch with the rest of humanity? What does it mean when they don't have the same ideas about beauty, truth and God?

And the critics all stand and praise the beautiful set of clothes on the naked emperor while the child who speaks the truth is ignored by all those who are older and "wiser."

Update:

Further thoughts by Julie D.

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Torn

Spring is here. The trees are turning green. The bush outside the kitchen window bloomed today with delicate pink flowers. I want to be out and about. I want to take long walks and spend the morning in the park. I want to soak up the sunshine and take pictures of all the springy newness. I feel lazy sitting in this chair for hours. I'm getting cabin fever.

I have plenty of energy. Well rested since Sophia tends to sleep five or six hours in a row most nights. I feel great. Mostly. And yet I can't do it. Today I pulled something again while bending down to wipe up a few of the more egregious splotches on the kitchen floor. That's all, just a little bending in the wrong way and suddenly: ouch! Every time I think I can do just a little more than the bare minimum, I start to feel pain, start bleeding again. Recovery is taking much longer than I expected. And so it feels like life is on hold. All the projects I want to start, the trips I want to take. I'm trying to go to the store as little as possible, to conserve my energy, let myself heal. The nurse says recovery can take 8-10 weeks.

I know in a few more weeks I should be stronger, able to get out with the stroller and push the girls to the park. But I'm impatient I want it now. In a few weeks the freshness of first spring will have faded a little bit. The gold will be gone. Leaf will have subsided to leaf.

God, grant me the patience to accept this season of recovery, to live in the moment and enjoy the rest and not complain.

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"A split in UD's soul"

I just finished reading a very good Dallas Morning News article on the University of Dallas by Rod Dreher. I'm reluctant to post this link, however. Not because what Rod said isn't true, but because it is all too true. I love the University of Dallas, truly I feel that she is my alma mater, my nurturing mother. And right now she's in a fight for her very identity. No one likes to have their family's dirty laundry aired in public. And yet, perhaps more public scrutiny will help to achieve a course correction. I don't know.

I agree with what George Weigel has to say:

George Weigel, one of the country's most prominent Catholic public intellectuals, sent two of his children to the Irving university. He contends that all college marketing today is niche marketing.

"UD's clear niche is to offer the highest quality Catholic liberal arts education," says Mr. Weigel. "If UD promotes that aggressively, it will have absolutely no problems attracting students or endowment."

The effort to remake the University in the image of Notre Dame, Boston College, Georgetown and other big Catholic schools is doomed to failure. UD can't compete in that market. Her future, if she is to have one at all, is in becoming more herself, clinging to what makes her unique, not watering down the core curriculum. If the university's leaders would only have faith in the vision of her founders and aggressively promote who she really is, I think she can be a glorious thing. She'll never be a big school, nor should she be. But she can be a great school. I hope and pray that UD will continue to be "a sign of contradiction to our rootless modern society."

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Facebook

On Saturday Dom finally convinced me to sign up on Facebook. I've already got 28 friends. Lots of people from college I've lost touch with are in there. Even some high school acquaintances. Who knew? I can already see why it's so addictive.

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Eliot on education and the arts

I seem to be bent on hijacking blogging material from The Philosopher mom today. This quotation from my beloved T.S. Eliot is just too juicy to pass up:

"You cannot expect continuity and coherence in literature and the arts, unless you have a certain uniformity of culture, expressed in education by a settled, though not rigid agreement as to what everyone should know to some degree, and a positive distinction--however undemocratic it may sound--between the educated and the uneducated. I observed in America, that with a very high level of intelligence among undergraduates, progress was impeded by the fact that one could never assume that any two, unless they had been at the same school ... had studied the same subjects or read the same books, though the number of subjects in which they had been instructed was surprising ... In a negative liberal society you have no agreement as to there being any body of knowledge which any educated person should have acquired at any particular stage: the idea of wisdom disappears, and you get sporadic and unrelated experimentation."

~Christianity and Culture: The Idea of a Christian Society

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Why Read Fiction

I was an English major. I love literature in all it's forms. I'm a huge fan of fiction and don't need to be convinced. But it's nice to see a well-articulated argument and The Philosopher mom says it beautifully, eloquently. I especially love her emphasis on why we should read modern fiction:

The most important thing to remember is that all truth is one, and ultimately is found only in union with God. This does not mean, however, that only art or literature explicitly devoted to God speaks truth. As Augustine wrote, the human heart by nature groans and aches for God alone--all human works, however broken or disgusting, can give expression to this desire and thus to the fulfillment of this desire.

We should be reading the great works of modern fiction (amen, time is short, so skip the trash unless you're on a brain-vacation!) and helping our of-age children to do the same. We should read fiction because it speaks the language a whole dimension of ourselves that perhaps the Summa Theologica does not: the imagination, the will, the heart. It engages our intellect, too, in a new way: Rather than an analysis of a problem, it invites the reader to inhabit the questions at hand. If holiness or viciousness are only fully grasped in an encounter with a living person who is either holy or vicious, then fiction can draw us ore closely to a lived experience of these realities.

We should be reading modern fiction because we are moderns. Even more than that, we are post-moderns. It does not do for us to stop with the Greeks, the Medieval poets, Dante, or even Shakespeare. The reality is that, for us and our children, the world is a different place now than it was in 1900....

... In reading the works of modern authors, we listen to the voice of our immediate companions on earth. We hear the influence of Nietzsche, WWI and WWII, the Cold War, the sexual revolution, the loss of confidence in natural science, the loss of so much. We also see the ongoing thirst for truth, beauty, and goodness--and the unlikely moments in which these are found in our own context. We learn to speak the language that those around us speak. This is the only way we ourselves can grasp the truth of our condition: in order, creatures, humans, moderns.

via Jen

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RSVP

The pretty purple invitation's been sitting on my desk, next to the computer, for weeks. Bella has picked it up a half dozen times and I've rescued it from various fates. It's been buried, moved back to the top of the stack, used as a bookmark, placed on the computer "so I won't forget to call." The only thing that hasn't happened is my actually responding to the "RSVP by April 21" plea.

Today is the last day. After today I am officially rude for not replying. I probably can't go to the party if I don't let the hostess know I'll be there.

I finally pick up the phone, open the invitation to get the number, start to dial. And then the words on the line right above the phone number catch my eye. Is that an email address? Saved by the bell!!!

I put down the phone, pick up the laptop and dash off a response. If I had only seen that email address earlier, I wouldn't have been doing this last-minute, under the gun responding. But the thing is, I hate making phone calls. I hate it. To the point it might almost be called a phobia.

Oh I don't mind calling my sister. Or my parents. Or a very short list of friends. But anything else gets delayed. Doctor's visits? How long after I found out I was pregnant did I finally pick up the phone to call my OB? You don't want to know. How long did it take me to find another OB when mine told me he couldn't deliver the baby because he was going into semi-retirement? Far, far too long. Mostly because I just couldn't bring myself to pick up the phone and make the call.

I was lucky that Dom doesn't have this phobia or we might never have gotten married. He called to make arrangements for the caterer, the hall, etc. Because if it had been up to me... well, it wouldn't have been pretty.

I know it's silly. But I also know it's not something I'm just going to get over. I'm phone shy and email is my saving grace.

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Whale Watch

The other night we were visiting with Dom's sister, Evy, and she pulled out some photos her husband took of her about eight years ago on a whale watch. The interesting thing is that I'm in the background of those pictures, leaning against the railing, eight years younger, much skinnier applying chapstick and completely unaware of the camera.

That whale watch was an outing of the young adult group at our parish. It was my first weekend in Massachusetts and my first introduction to the group. Little did I guess that I was spending the day with my future in-laws.

Dom wasn't on the whale watch but later that evening he joined the group at a local beach where we all sang songs under the stars. I don't remember seeing him there and he doesn't remember seeing me; but it was our first meeting nonetheless. The introduction I do remember was after mass one Sunday. I recall that quite clearly, though again had no inkling at the time I was meeting my future husband. It would be four years before I had an inkling.

Anyway, it was a fun surprise to look at those pictures of a younger Evy and a younger me enjoying a day in the sun, and to wonder what the me then might have thought if she could have a similar glimpse of today: a Sunday afternoon nursing my baby while my toddler runs around with Evy's four kids. I think she'd have liked what she saw.

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"I'm Cooking!"

Isabella "cooks" in the sink from Domenico Bettinelli on Vimeo.

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Stained glass

I loved this image from Pope Benedict's homily at St Patrick's Cathedral in NY:

I would like to draw your attention to a few aspects of this beautiful structure which I think can serve as a starting point for a reflection on our particular vocations within the unity of the Mystical Body.

The first has to do with the stained glass windows, which flood the interior with mystic light. From the outside, those windows are dark, heavy, even dreary. But once one enters the church, they suddenly come alive; reflecting the light passing through them, they reveal all their splendor. Many writers – here in America we can think of Nathaniel Hawthorne – have used the image of stained glass to illustrate the mystery of the Church herself. It is only from the inside, from the experience of faith and ecclesial life, that we see the Church as she truly is: flooded with grace, resplendent in beauty, adorned by the manifold gifts of the Spirit. It follows that we, who live the life of grace within the Church’s communion, are called to draw all people into this mystery of light.

This is no easy task in a world which can tend to look at the Church, like those stained glass windows, "from the outside": a world which deeply senses a need for spirituality, yet finds it difficult to "enter into" the mystery of the Church. Even for those of us within, the light of faith can be dimmed by routine, and the splendor of the Church obscured by the sins and weaknesses of her members. It can be dimmed too, by the obstacles encountered in a society which sometimes seems to have forgotten God and to resent even the most elementary demands of Christian morality.

via Father Z who has the text o the entire sermon as well as some of his usual very insightful commentary.

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Advice for consoling parents suffering a miscarriage

A reader emailed to ask if I had any advice to give for consoling some friends of hers who had suffered a second miscarriage. I thought it was a good general question that I've not seen addressed anywhere and so thought I'd share my thoughts here as others may be wondering the same thing. I'd also like to invite readers who have had miscarriages to share anything that someone did for you that you would recommend or something you wish someone had done.

It is so hard to know what to say to someone who is grieving and especially who has lost a child to miscarriage. There are no public rituals of funeral and burial to help you through the grieving process and it is hard to talk about with people so it is easy to feel like you are alone in your grief. for me the blog really helped not only because I was able to write about it (here, and here, and here, and here) but because of the wonderful outpouring of prayers and sympathy and encouragement from my readers. I really felt like I was surrounded by people who cared and understood. In that respect I think the mass card is a great idea because it is a sign of their being a part of the Body of Christ, of being connected in prayer with the universal Church. I'd have loved to receive something like that. I'd encourage other friends and family members to send cards as well, if you know anyone in their family or circle of friends you can prod in that direction. Those little gestures mean so much and the cards themselves are a physical token with the child's name that they can keep as a memento. I started to realize this fall that I really wanted something that I could touch or hold that was connected with my baby. Our faith is incarnational and we do so need to connect to spiritual realities through our senses. When you lose a baby so early it feels kind of abstract and almost as if it never happened. I wanted something to cling to.

For me one of the best things anyone did was to give me an object with Francis' name on it. I blogged about that back in February. My sister's roommate had made mugs for Dom and I when we were married and she made one when Bella was born and so having one for Francis really meant a lot to me. That's very particular to our family, so I wouldn't necessarily suggest going out and getting a mug; but perhaps there is a way of memorializing the children which would be appropriate for their family. Giving them some kind of token which they can associate with that baby or even planting a tree or a flowering bush in the baby's honor. I'd think a small statue of Mary might be something I'd have appreciated. I'm not sure about something baby-themed such as a baby blanket or shoes. For some parents that might be a comfort, for others it might be too painful, I think it's too hard to tell unless you know them really well.

You said they named both children. That would be one of my first recommendations for parents who've had a miscarriage. it is so important to acknowledge that these are immortals souls who are known to God and somehow, mysteriously have a place in his providential plan. I'd encourage them to pray for their children every day and even ask their intercession as the Church allows us to hope that God's mercy extends to these innocents who died before they were born. We always add Francis to our evening prayers with Bella and Sophia. Saying that name out loud every night helps me to not feel like my child is forgotten. I also found great consolation enrolling Francis' name in the book at the Shrine for Children who died unborn at the NY Church of the Holy Innocents website. I'd encourage them to do that. It is nice to know there's a name physically written in a church in a book that sits where people go to pray. The website says: "Here, a candle is always lit in their memory. All day long people stop to pray. On the first Monday of every month, our 12:15pm Mass is celebrated in honor of these children and for the comfort of their families." For me and I suspect most parents who have very early miscarriages the lack of a memorial or grave site to visit or any physical mementos, as I said before, is particularly hard.

One helpful word of advice that we were told was to expect to feel sadness not only on the anniversary of the miscarriage but also when the baby's due date came around. Dom read something about someone whose wife started to feel blue without even being consciously aware of the date. When he told me it made sense and so I kind of knew to expect it, which helped when I started to feel blue. It helped to be able to memorialize that date on my blog and have support then. So if you know when that will be, you might be prepared to give some additional comfort and support at that time as well. Knowing someone else remembers and cares might be a great comfort.

Also, for me it helped just knowing how many other women have gone through this loss. I was surprised at how many people shared their stories with me and then I also started reading blogs and stumbling across miscarriage stories online. It helped me feel like I wasn't alone. Being able to talk about it helped. If she isn't a blog reader already, she might take some comfort in the online community and you might help point her in that direction. The Catholic moms I know online are such a great group of loving women who support and encourage one another so beautifully.

I know too that at the time Dom expressed how often people seem to ignore the father and focus on the mother's loss and pain. It's important for friends and family to remember that he is grieving too, not just the mother. I know for men it's more complicated as well because in the early stages of pregnancy, before their wives begin to show its all rather abstract. It's not that they don't care but that they don't have that physical connection. I know too that it is very hard for a husband to watch his wife suffer through pregnancy, childbirth or miscarriage because he feels so very helpless. So I'd especially love to hear from any fathers out there who have lost children: what have people done or said that helped you or what do you wish someone had done or said?

I can't think of anything else right now, but I welcome any additional thoughts.

I'll also pray for them as I pray every night for all parents who have lost children.

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