In lieu of chocolate Advent calendars this year, my sister combined a beloved family tradition of ours with this season of preparation for the coming of Christ. Every year during Advent we break out a puzzle with the goal of completing it by Christmas. This year my sister gifted us a beautiful nativity puzzle specially designed for such a project.
Check it out! The story of our Pilgrim Virgin was picked up by the Northwest Indiana Catholic. If you are in or near the Valparaiso area don’t hesitate to invite Mary into your home with this beautiful family devotion to the Blessed Virgin. It’s never too late.
Over the years I’ve come across beautiful personal shrines to Christ and His Blessed Mother. Many are even complete with candles and kneelers, little nooks that have been transformed into places of family prayer. My mom created such a place in her home atop my parents’ old upright piano. At the time she did this I was still in high school and had yet to find my faith. However, I did have a passion for music and loved playing that very piano.
Sadly, the rebellious teenage voice in my mind, small and quiet though it was, looked on this shrine as a kind of trespass upon my own place of worship. Of course, I hadn’t given much thought to exactly who or what I was worshiping but playing the piano was one of those things I liked to do to unwind and converting it into a mini Catholic shrine felt like an overstep. I never shared this with my mom but a tiny part of me resented how the piano was suddenly strung with rosaries and depictions of Christ.
Thankfully, I have grown in my knowledge and faith since then. My teenage indignance has turned to spiritual envy and I now find myself imitating my mother. Nearly a decade later I have erected a very similar display in my own home. In our small house we have no piano or convenient nook but we have a bookshelf set in the middle of our family room. It is laden with our favorite stories including that of Christ on the cross.
We’ve all seen those families run by the smallest of the children, kids who haven’t yet heard the word no a sufficient number of times and who maintain a tyrannical rule of chaos over their frazzled parents. It’s tempting to shake our heads and the words spoiled rotten come to mind. However, rarely do we hear tales of it going the other way.
God in infinite kindness blessed us with a tremendously good and happy baby. Over the last few months she has certainly spoiled mommy and daddy rotten. We have been lulled into a simple routine of long walks and easy bedtimes so that even the slightest resistance seems nightmarish in comparison. The hubby and I have grown so accustomed to having a happy baby that it’s shamefully easy to snap into panic and stress at the first sign of displeasure from her. In the thick of a drawn out, traumatic bedtime, how easy it is to forget the far more frequent moments of pure sunshine when she smiles or giggles or simply dozes peacefully in our arms. Thank you God for this wondrous, sweet little girl!
Although I officially entered the Catholic Church three years ago, my conversion did not end when I received the sacraments. Quite the opposite. I am still learning and growing in my faith as I suspect I will for the rest of my life. One blaring difference I’ve noticed since converting is my attitude toward children. I’ve known that I wanted to be a wife and mother from the time I was learning to walk. Despite our lack of faith in my upbringing, the importance of family was among the first lessons to be taught in ours. My childhood was truly blessed with an abundance of love from my mom, my dad and my big sister.
That kind of close-knit family unit seemed to me the ultimate recipe for perfect happiness, not too big and not too small. I grew up with so many reasons why four was the ideal number for a family. Although we bickered like siblings, I loved having a sister and I know she feels the same. We didn’t always get along but I wouldn’t have wanted to go through childhood with anyone else, especially in comparison to our classmates’ sibling relationships. When we were little we played together with the neighbors and when we got older we developed that strange unspoken communication that only two sisters who love each other can. This came in particularly handy during some sticky social situations or when we started being interested in boys. I was convinced that more siblings would have diminished our sisterly friendship and felt lucky to only have one amazing big sister. I figured that there was simply only so much love to go around in a household.
I could not have been more wrong. When my husband and I started Catholic marriage prep the priest asked us how many kids we’d like to have and for the first time I was completely happy to tell him we wanted two or three. After being married for two years and now with our first baby girl in the mix I’m singing a very different tune. “As many as God will give us” is my new answer. I can think of no greater joy than to nurture a large loving Catholic family. There may be a finite number of rooms in our house but the love I’m capable of feeling for my own children has shocked me over the last few months and I have yet to find its limit.
In a friendly conversation recently while discussing plans for family visits and other logistics surrounding the birth of our baby girl I mentioned that I’d have to chat about some of these thoughts with my husband. I was a bit taken aback by the response which came in the form of an emphatic “Why?!” In fairness to the other person, the conversation included the birth itself which certainly is and ought to be chiefly in accordance with the wishes of the mother. The act of birthing a child is a physically and spiritually all consuming effort which, in many ways, affords women a singular glimpse into the sacrificial love of Christ on the cross. When it comes to birth, the woman should have the final say.
Nevertheless, I still came away from the conversation feeling a bit indignant on behalf of the wonderful man I married. The shock and my perceived audacity to consult my husband and bring him into this decision making process took me by surprise. Even among devoutly Catholic circles there is still so much resistance to the submission of wives to their husbands. The fact is that most of my decisions are jointly made with the man I married, even down to our weekly dinner menu. I would not have subjected myself to lifelong holy matrimony to a man I did not respect or whose opinion I did not value.
When we talk about the birth of our baby I maintain ultimate veto power and he’s more than happy to defer to me on the subject but I still care what he thinks. He is the person who will be there with me, holding my hand through it all. I am so blessed to have found a man who will not be content to sit in the waiting room, but one who will clear his schedule to be present for every moment of our daughter’s life, even those painful and messy first ones. Of course I want to know his thoughts.
I firmly believe that childbirth is the ultimate feminine super power but even the holy family was not made up of mother and son alone. Just as Joseph was lovingly present for Mary at the nativity of Christ, so will my husband be for the birth of our little girl. I think it’s a terrible disservice we do to men to write them out of the birthing process altogether. It’s true that in some ways they can only be spectators, observing the spiritual bond between mother and child as their wives give themselves over entirely, mind, body and soul, to the good of the child. This is a time of utter vulnerability for mother and baby and I thank God that I will not be facing it alone.
I believe that a loving, present, supportive husband is critical to the process of carrying and birthing a child and well beyond that. This is also the process in which husbands become fathers. Though not quite so physically demanding as the job of the mother at this juncture, it is no less necessary. He is the rock which she will lean on throughout the process and the protector to which she will entrust their child. Nothing gives me greater confidence as I approach childbirth as my total trust in the man I married. No matter what happens he will be there, ready to defend my and our baby’s interests if necessary and prepared to do whatever is needed to assist the process.
Everyone on the planet can relate to this struggle, the overwhelming pressure of being caught in an impossible situation by no fault of your own and with no good options in sight. It can feel as if the whole world rests on your shoulders alone, as if the universe is imploding with you at the center of the chaos. Being stuck between a rock and a hard place is a monumental burden for anyone to bear. Blessedly, my days there have been few and far between. I haven’t often found myself resigned to these impossible situations but throughout my life I’ve known a number of people who have.
My parents were the first example. Throughout our childhood my sister and I were well provided for though this wasn’t always a simple task for my parents. I know there were days when my parents felt the weight of keeping the lights on and food on the table every night, especially after the 2008 recession. My sister and I were shielded from the brunt of these troubles but we were aware of them. Christmas and birthday gifts always seemed extra special with the understanding that they didn’t necessarily come easily and from a very young age we learned the value of gratitude. We loved our parents for all of this and made a habit of saying “thank you”often in our house.
Today, the same stress rings in my sister’s voice over the phone. She is several years deep in the marathon called medical school while also discovering how to be a mother for the very first time. Her entire life she’s dreamed of helping people through medicine and, for her, it truly is a calling from God. Unfortunately, it’s a dream which demands enormous expenses. My sister truly cannot afford to flunk out of medical school. She is under immense pressure to pass difficult exams and gain hands-on experience all while constantly terrified of neglecting the duties of motherhood. Of course, everyone who knows her is fully confident in her ability to excel in both areas of her life and she’s been blessed with a kind and supportive husband to help her through this struggle.
I have never had to do anything half as demanding as this and so far I’ve even managed to avoid the money stresses which weighed on my parents’ shoulders when we were little. I know that difficulties will arise as we go through life but my burdens have been relatively light and short lived thus far. Sometimes I catch myself wishing there were words of encouragement I could give my sister but what could I possibly say from this blessed and easy life of mine? When nearing the treacherous peak of Everest there’s little want for words of wisdom from those who chose to stay at base camp.
It’s so tempting to try to fix the problem when we see the ones we love struggling. We want to lighten the load with comfort and aid and it’s hard not to feel a tiny bit hurt when both are rejected. There are some things that aren’t for us to fix. Sometimes all we can do is watch and pray and cheer on our loved ones from the sidelines. I’m still learning this lesson. For me, the greatest challenge of being stuck between a rock and a hard place is not that I’ve been there myself, but that I can only watch when I see my family there. I pray for all those in impossible situations and also for all those called to witness that struggle.
In addition to all of the fun family traditions and the brightly wrapped packages under the tree, we should also let Christmas be a time of service to our neighbors. Perhaps that means bell ringing in front of the grocery store or volunteering for a local soup kitchen. Maybe it just means helping the elderly woman who lives next door hang her Christmas lights. Whatever it is, this is one Christmas tradition that your family will not forget.
For truly I tell you, if you have faith the size of a mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move; and nothing will be impossible for you. – Matthew 17:20-21
When asked why I converted to Catholicism it’s difficult to pinpoint an exact moment when my understanding blossomed into true belief. I’ve often said that there wasn’t a single instant which led me to the faith but many moments, both big and small, over the course of many years. Upon reflection, I think the first seeds of Catholic understanding in my life were all planted by my two wonderful parents, though we may have all been unaware at the time.
My very first exposure to Catholic teachings and literature did not come from the Bible. I first heard and fell in love with these teachings through the eloquent writings of JRR Tolkien in his tales of Middle Earth. Bedtime stories were always a must in our house growing up and Tolkien’s were our favorite. Even before any of us were Catholic and well before I myself could read, my dad spent countless evening hours sitting between my sister and I with The Lord of the Rings open in his lap, causing the letters to come alive with his various character voices as my mom sat close by knitting in her comfy armchair. To this day, my sister and I still eat up these stories, epic recounts of the eternal struggle between good and evil and all the rays of light that can still be found in a world falling into darkness. Tolkien’s work is bursting with Catholic messages and imagery.
My mom also planted slightly more literal Catholic seeds later when I grew up and moved away to Indiana. She gifted me with a small metal crucifix and a tiny car rosary. I was not Catholic at the time and had no intention of coming to the faith but my mom was not deterred. These she hung in my life with care and without my permission, the crucifix rather prominently displayed in the middle of my apartment living room and the rosary dangling from the rearview mirror in my car. Long after she returned to Colorado and left me to my new life in the Midwest, my crucifix and rosary still hung where she’d left them. In part, I was grateful for the prayers which came with them even if I myself didn’t subscribe to the faith they represented. They were little reminders of my mom’s love for me. I also knew that she’d look for them whenever she visited and never had the heart to explain why I’d moved them so they were left as they were, Christ on the cross watching over me wherever I went.
I would later find myself defending Catholicism during good natured religious debates over lunch with work friends. At the time I knew close to nothing about the faith except what my parents had told me since their return to the Church. I always felt compelled to correct the more blatant anti Catholic arguments on behalf of the two intelligent and loving people who raised me. Now I understand why. Looking back, all of these seemingly insignificant moments were indeed guiding me to the faith, one slow inch at a time.
I’ve been known to gush about my mom in writing on a number of occasions. She’s every bit the sort of aggressively hospitable woman I strive to be. She’s passionate, spontaneous and extremely pushy when it comes to her loved ones living their best lives. However, today’s post is about Dad, the generally unsung hero in our lives; a man of logic and straight lines and hard work.
Throughout my childhood the need for two loving parents, a mother and a father, was always abundantly clear to me. They serve very different purposes for their children. Dad was the objective opinion in our household and still is to this day. He’s the calm voice of reason in times of crisis, whether that crisis be my broken down Audi halfway between my summer internship and school or a big breakup with my long-time college boyfriend. He’s my go-to when work gets tough or the AC goes out in my house and was the help hotline the first time I did my taxes.
Even before we came to the Catholic faith, my dad embodied the ideals of St. Joseph, the patron saint of families, fathers, engineers and workers to name a few. Over the years, my dad’s constant mission was to provide and care for our family. It was far from easy at times and there were many long nights at the office but he always made sure to be home for dinner. Thanks to his dedication, my sister and I enjoyed a carefree childhood of bedtime stories and goodnight kisses, memories which we both still cherish to this day.
As we grew up and began to encounter trials of our own, we were always able to lean on his example. It’s why anything less than our best never quite cut it in our house. I also know that many of the blessings that my sister and I enjoy are largely due to the constant prayers which my parents send up on our behalf. Thanks Dad, for all of the prayers and objective opinions over the years. We love you!
Blessed in the Midwest 