Double Digits

I'm expecting baby number ten and somehow, even though we will hardly notice the difference logistically speaking in our house between having nine and ten children, it is a milestone which is hitting us hard.  We are now in the land of double digits; ten seems much different from nine. 

How did that happen?  No, wait, please don't tell me, we know how that happens, and we enjoy it better than cable, thank you very much.  Ten children in sixteen years.  Where did those sixteen years come from?  How did I manage to get through ten pregnancies, and participate in the creation of ten new, little people.  The fear of labor and delivery of even one used to give my girlhood mind nightmares.  Now, I will have done it ten times.  When we were married, we never thought we'd get there.  Ten children was way in a distant future with death, judgement, heaven, and hell.  We had so much time and our whole lives ahead of us. Suddenly, a lot of water went under the bridge, and that far off distant, seemingly unreachable time, is happening right now and time is much more precious.  We knew families with ten and more children, of course, but they seemed like such stalwart, legendary figures, way on the top of that unattainable pillar of life experience, certainly we could never aspire to be that.  I'm not sure we've attained legendary status just yet, (and we're not all that gray yet, either, which suggests we are far from done,) but every once in a while the thought crosses my mind; do I look that way to that doe-eyed young mother starting out? 

When number two and three and four came around, although the world already thought we were nuts, among other Catholic families we were still just getting started. Then five and six and seven came along, and we arrived at "big family" status.  Then eight and nine made their appearances and suddenly we were that "really big family in the parish" and even other traditional Catholics were starting to raise their eyebrows.  Suddenly, we are not even immune from the negative, even if well-meaning  comments at our Catholic parish anymore.  Now that's depressing. 

  Not only is this a milestone for us, but the world is starting to notice something different.  We are no longer simply the young, irresponsible family who doesn't know how to turn on the TV.  We don't just make the babies; we take our lives seriously, devoting ourselves to raising and educating these children to have the same ideas as we have.  We are frequently complimented on their good behavior,  but then something ugly happens.  Our mere existence is a threat to their materialistic, complacent lifestyle.  Even if we mind our own business and don't rub it in their faces, our light will not be hidden under a basket, for how bright it is.  "Do you mean to tell me," they are thinking, "that you actually want this many children?  On purpose?  You really are some kind of religious nut.  I used to tease you about being Catholic before, but now I think I just don't understand, and you are making me look bad.  If what you are doing is okay- good even- then my idea of the pursuit of happiness cannot exist side by side peaceably with yours, because they are in direct opposition to each other."  For dh at his office which is full of particularly talented, idealistically-minded, hard working individuals, it is almost a defiant statement;  one of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn't belong. 

The battle lines are clearly drawn.  St. Michael, defend us. 

Birds on the Brain

It seems to be the Summer of the Birds. We have had two clutches of house wrens in our garage, and now there are five bluebird eggs in the old nuthatch nest.




Then of course there are the myriad bird feeders we are constantly filling, and as if that weren't enough, I ordered fifteen Australorp chicks through the mail.

On fighting the Good Fight

From one of Michael O'Brien's latest collections entitled, "Waiting: Stories for Advent," Justin Press, 2010, p. 56:

"It is difficult for many people to see the present condition of the Western world for what it is. If we are constantly rewarded for compromising with its agendas, or for simply not resisting, and if the love of truth is weak or asleep in us, then we can easily lose our ability to recognize those moments of testing when we must choose truth or untruth. If we do not recognize them, then we invariably choose the least line of resistance. But how do we awake? How do we all awake, for practically everyone has been anesthetized to some degree."

The answer is, "silence." We must silence the competing voices of the world, of our desires, of everything that drowns out the Voice of God calling us in the silence of prayer, which is essential to heed in order to save our souls.

Nest eggs

A few weeks ago, I put out two nesting boxes, hoping to attract bluebirds.  One box remains empty, but the other now has a nest with five red-speckled eggs in it, laid by a white-breasted nuthatch.


We discovered the eggs yesterday, when my five year old tree-climber brought me one from the nest!  I had to explain to him about why we can't touch the eggs- poor thing, he was so excited.  We put the egg back, hoping the mother would return. When I went out this morning to take a picture, she was back sitting on her eggs.



But she was too shy to stick around for the photo.

Flying Swans

by Sophia, age 8

I wish I was a swan,
I wish I was a flying swan
Gliding over a silver pool
In the moonlight.

Gliding like the moon,
Gliding like the flying stars,
Quickly and steadily.

I dreamed I was a swan,
I dreamed I was a flying swan,
Gliding o'er pinetrees
In the sunlight.

Gliding like the clouds,
Gliding like the wind in trees
Quickly and steadily.

Spring cleaning

I stepped outside today, and for the first time this year it smelled like spring.  My lungs filled with the sweet, warm air.  The giant pink magnolia tree in our front yard just began its brief but glorious bloom.  I know many parts of the country are still deep in winter, but it is planting time here in Fayetteville.  It's time to prepare our spiritual and physical homes for Lent, to bury the Alleluia, to bury ourselves so that we can be born again with Christ in the fruitfulness of His Resurrection.

I am so ready to purge.  On the outside, I am constantly bustling like Martha; I am an accomplished homemaker- a "supermom." People wonder how I do it all.  On the inside, I am dusty and my spiritual gears are crunching and grinding from congealed grease.  At Mass, my mind is in a million different places other than in the Church with the Presence that pleads for my love.  My soul is sick, and it is now time to repent and stand in silence before Christ begging, Miserere mei, Domine.

Sunday's recessional hymn was one of my favorites, Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence.  The grand organ began its prologue, and then suddenly with a splutter and a crack, the electricity went out.  Silence.  Paul knocked off his horse.  Then someone in the choir shook off his surprise and began the first verse, with the choir and congregation joining in a Capella. The men's and women's voices resonated clear and strong, an octave apart:

Let all mortal flesh keep silence,
And with fear and trembling stand;
Ponder nothing earthly minded,
For with blessing in His hand,
Christ our God to earth descendeth,
Our full homage to demand.

King of kings, yet born of Mary,
As of old on earth He stood,
Lord of lords, in human vesture,
In the body and the blood;
He will give to all the faithful
His own self for heavenly food.

Rank on rank the host of heaven
Spreads its vanguard on the way,
As the Light of light descendeth
From the realms of endless day,
That the powers of hell may vanish
As the darkness clears away.

At His feet the six wingèd seraph,
Cherubim with sleepless eye,
Veil their faces to the presence,
As with ceaseless voice they cry:
Alleluia, Alleluia
Alleluia, Lord Most High!