A Faith to Die For

I'm praying a "Seven Day Rosary" this week. It's a rosary developed by John F. Kippley and it's beautiful. It uses eight sets of mysteries rather than the traditional four, and it incorporates biblical passages. Yesterday, I prayed "The Parables" rosary, which focused on the parables of the "good seeds," the "good Samaritan," the "two barns of wheat," the "talents" and the well known "prodigal son." I prayed (and had to read) it while driving yesterday all around New Jersey (not the best time to be reading, I know, but I took what time I could get!). In the first day of the rosary, the mysteries were about the preparation of the people for Jesus' public ministry. It included the familiar Nativity and the Visitation stories but ended with something I wasn't expecting--the martyrdom of John the Baptist.

The notes on this mystery said, "St. John the Baptist is the first adult martyr of the New Testament. He is the only person in the Bible to die specifically for his witness to the marriage bond" (http://www.nfpandmore.org/rosary.shtml).  I didn't realize this. I don't think I actually knew why he was imprisoned to begin with. Not the specific reason, anyway. Because he refused to validate Herod's marriage to his brother's wife, he was jailed and then beheaded. In this act, he prepared the way for the sacrifice of his cousin.

This way of praying the rosary has made me feel many things--sadness, joy, amazement, desperation, hope, revelation. And it made me wonder that day--what would I die for? Not who, because that's easy. I know who I would give my life for, and I'm no saint for that list. It's the easy people--the people I love, the person I co-created, the people who love me. I doubt if I could die for someone I don't know, or don't love or don't, heaven forbid, like very much. But, the question surprised me in the car that day (yes, again in the car)--what cause, what belief, what issue is great enough to you, Katie, that you would die upholding its rightness? What is worth it to me? And, most frankly, do I even have the courage to know? How do I know if I would DIE for something? I mean, really? I would let someone cut off my head or burn me alive or shoot me against a wall--that would mean leaving my children and my husband and my family and my life!!!--for a CAUSE? For a belief? I'm afraid I would give in. When I think of my most beloved truths--the True Presence in the Most Holy Eucharist, the God-given freedoms of every individual, the liberties and justness afforded you because you were born human, the dignity of and protection for our most vulnerable and precious--the unborn. . .I still don't know if I could be like John and offer my greatest gift (not right or entitlement. . .gift) for an idea. What, then, does that mean about my strength in these ideas and beliefs and truths? Are they like my family and loved friends, or those people I don't know or would rather not?

Twisting Half Moon

Any of you who practice yoga will know how I feel. Twisting Half Moon. What? Everytime I get my legs and arms and torso into this position and hear it announced, I laugh. Really? Am I actually trying to get into a twisted shape that resembles a half moon? What does that mean, anyway? And I'm supposed to be "clearing my mind" and "thinking about nothing." I can only count the remaining seconds and wonder what a twisting whole moon would look like.

It's how I felt all day today when I answered questions from my 10 year old about puberty. Those kind of questions. The ones that involve words I'm too embarrassed to type. Questions about diseases and activities and changes in a boy's body and dreams and contraception. Oh, and sins. He wanted to know what was sinful and what was not. "I thought you weren't supposed to do some of these things Mom because it would mean not sharing your most precious gift with the person you love?" (I guess he was listening in our previous educational talks.) This all happened, too, in the Target facewash aisle. Holy moly. I finally realized what twisting half moon was supposed to feel like! There I was, looking at exfoliants and toners and trying not to act stunned so he'd keep asking questions and I could keep helping him, all the while feeling like a twisted half orbiting body! Can't wait to do yoga, again.

The Mud Between our Toes

 Ellie and I went to Louisiana this past weekend to, as my grandmother would say, "get the mud between our toes." We (or I) needed to refill our spirit, and there is no better way to feel you again than to surround yourself with people who know you better than you do (insert "mother" and "sister" here). There is something inside of me that relaxes, something in the very center of my very center that rejoices and unwraps itself when it is hugged and loved and known by people who love me despite myself.

There is something so wonderfully familiar and happy about the words "snoball," "beignet," and "hun." Susie, my niece, loves snoballs. Frozen sugar in a cup your mommy lets you dump all over yourself--how could you NOT love them?

 Ellie learned new words, too. "Mine," "no," and "hold you!!!!" (what Susie says when she wants you to hold her--"Want me to 'hold you?'"). Ellie learned that showing something to Susie also meant giving it to her. She learned that sponges tasted just as good wet with sprinkler water as they do wet with bubbles in a bath.

 She learned that two shovels are better than one--kind of.

We breathed in the powdered sugar of Cafe Du Monde, and I thought of my grandmother who would have loved being there with Susie and Ellie. Mamere would have been proud to share her New Orleans with them, and being there makes me miss her.

 And the beads. Oh, how the beads became a source of joy and sparkle and happiness and jealousy. :) The girls learned to share (again. . . kind of) and be happy (kind of) with the beads they had. Susie liked to call them her "ros-ries," and I think that made our Blessed Mother smile. Why can't Mardi Gras beads be rosaries? I think it's a great idea.

We read books Leigh and I enjoyed as kids, played "This Little Piggy" and "cooked" in the beach sand of Gulf Shores. Ellie is so much like her daddy--she didn't like how the sand made her hands messy! Makes playing in it difficult. I was thankful for the few days of relative relaxation we shared, and I cried when we left. I felt like we were abandoning a piece of ourselves there in the swamp, and though I celebrate the new adventures God gives me, I cherish and cling to the smells and tastes and sounds that raised me.

Do it Big, or Stay in Bed

So, I'm struggling with lukewarm. I'm struggling with the American trend of accepting it all and refusing the specifics. I don't like being lukewarm, and though I'm sure I am at times, I pray those times are few. My brother-in-law will tell you the O'Banions heat up their food and coffee 15 times before they finish it, at least three times before they sit down with it. I had never noticed that before James pointed it out! But, I want it hot, not kind of hot. And if the a/c is blasting, I want it cold. Like the bottom section of the blue diagram that indicates "freezing." That setting. 


We are surrounded, literally, by a culture of mediocrity and relativity. I feel as if I'm battling against it all to protect my children. I value diversity. I like and honor different traditions from my own. But, good grief, BE that tradition. Commit to it and love it and wrestle with it. Everyone I talk to seems to want to be all faiths and all nationalities and all cultures at once. How is that possible? How are we not all suffering from a fundamental identity crisis? It's not trendy to be commited to anything. To be "labeled" by beliefs or practices or prayers or right and wrong. What happened to loyalty and dedication and work ethic? I don't like the loss of these values, either. I just watched a beautiful tribute to a man named Welles Crowther. This is commitment. He is a hero, one who died saving others.


http://espn.go.com/video/clip?id=6929979


We have crucifixes in our home, and I am proud of them. I am proud to worship Jesus Christ and believe in His sacrifice and promises. We are surrounded by a culture of fear, a culture of walking on eggshells. So, as we are taught, those who are lukewarm will have some trouble. . . . 


Rev 3:16


Somewhere, I read that funny quote, "Do it big or stay in bed." I've always liked it--if you're going to bother doing it, do it like you mean it. Or, better yet, just mean it. I am trying to remind myself and teach my children that we must mean it. We must cling to the cross and seek Mary's help and reach out for the saints' intercession when we waiver. 


"The wonderful thing about saints is that they were human. They lost their tempers, got hungry, scolded God, were egotistical or impatient in their turns, made mistakes and regretted them. Still they went on doggedly blundering toward heaven." -- Phyllis McGinley


And, a personal favorite. . . :) "If you start to take Vienna, take Vienna." -- Napoleon Bonaparte


Dear Lord, please, please, help me stumble persistently towards heaven. I'll try to bring Vienna with me. 

Missing my People

It's my sister's birthday today. And I miss her. I'd like to meet her today for lunch or for a swing. I'd like to walk with her and tell jokes or, really more comforting, say nothing. You can only really do that with people you know best-say nothing. I miss her. I miss my people. The boys started school this morning. It's raining outside and a little chilly. I'm excited for them (5th and 8th grades!), and I'm excited for me, too. :) But today, I ache somewhere inside. I want to know people. I want to run into someone I know in the cereal aisle. I want to go to a birthday party or be asked for a cup of sugar. I miss my parents. I miss the comfort of being myself around people who love me even though they know me! Today, on a day of new beginnings for my kids and my sister, I find myself just wanting the old and missing the broken in.

Silence in the Walking

So, Nick is 13. All the way. He's cute and funny and has a great smile. His little eyes really twinkle. His voice has changed, his skin is different and he listens to music. A lot.

And our drives to football practice are now silent. He isn't mad. He just doesn't talk. And I pull the "let's see how long HE can last if I don't say anything" game. And he can last--the entire 7 miles (yes, I've clocked it). And I'm the one who is miserable. Lesson learned. Initiate the conversation or sing with Mariah. I grew up with brothers; gosh, I walked the Trail with David. And he didn't always talk. In fact, I think he preferred the silence (Maybe he was praying, for that is the ONLY time I "like" silence). I should remember how pleasant the quiet walks actually were, how you could hear the leaves crinkling and the wind moving the trees. When Katie accompanied you, often, you couldn't hear those forest sounds because, well, there was so much to say!

We sang our way through Irene and heeded Daddy-O's request to "blow the rain to Texarkana!" Irene wreaked havoc on much of New Jersey, but the Gale family fared well in the. . . gale. After their experience with Katrina, Jacob and Nick thought the category 1 hurricane was kind--our house didn't flood and our power was only out for a day!

And Ellie. Like riding a bike or popping up on waterskis, she just stood up and walked today. Really walked. Lapped the sofa. Brought us keys, stuffed chickens and her "CCCCOOOOWWWW." She gripped her little ice cream purse Mamalise gave her, and decided today, our official Gale Pajama Day (in honor of the final Friday of summer!), would be her Walking Day. 

Oh precious one. This is so fun! Each of my kids seems to be in a bright spot in their trail. Steve and I are the luckiest to get to watch them become themselves. 

"Wherever you are now call it perfection and know that in this moment it is really enough."

Manners Lesson

 The entire state of New Jersey is invited! Please come to my class, White Gloves and Party Manners. All are invited. I cannot wait to see you. Here is what you will learn:

1--No, absolutely, no, flipping off at ladies. Ever. Under any circumstances. Especially when they have the right of way when driving. You should be a gentleman at all times, yielding to them even when they are idiots (see Rhett Butler).

2--No accelerating to cut off other people. When merging, you should yield to other traffic. Not because you want to, but because it is the NICE thing to do.

3--No F%*# words. Ever. Especially in the grocery store. I heard one dropped the other day, followed by "she is such a bitch." What? In the grocery store? You need to wash your mouth out with soap (will be provided at class) and take a sugar pill. Your life is not difficult or complicated (see Somalia or Kenya for examples there).

4--When there is a lady behind in you line, and she's holding a baby, a gallon of milk and a cup of coffee (during a state-wide power outage because of a natural DISASTER), and another line opens up in this packed gas station check out, let her go first. Do not, I repeat, do not, cut in front of her to get to the register first. That. Is. Rude. And makes that gallon feel like a small elephant.

You know when you feel like you've been behind an 18-wheeler all day, going 17 mph? That's been today. I've just been stuck.

"Take a broader look at your life and recognize that you are a spiritual being having a human experience."

Confession

I don't mean the Catholic kind. I mean the everyday kind. The kind you hate to do, but feel better after you, in fact, do it.

I don't always wash my hands after I go to the bathroom. But I feel pressured to when I'm leaving and there is a lady at the sink, powdering her nose. I give in, take a sharp, but not too sharp looking turn toward the sink and act relieved to get to run that warm soapy water over my hands. It's so un-PC to not wash your hands every 20 minutes. I do wash them. . .after I handle raw chicken. But if no one is at the sink rooting through a purse, I walk right out and pick up that book in Barnes and Noble I was perusing before I went in.

I don't shut the stall door, either. If I'm alone in the bathroom, I prefer to leaving it dangling. I don't know why, I just don't like to bother locking it. Why, if no one is in there? And, after having a baby, I don't really feel the need to close it at all (except that it would, again, be un-PC and maybe weird). We're all doing the same thing in there, and if you've had a baby, there is nothing the world doesn't know.

That's the truth.

"God is working miracles through you so be still and listen."

Gathering the Handkerchiefs

Before we'd set off into the great unknown of the Dogwood Trail, we'd gather our handkerchiefs. Tie them in knots and pierce long sticks through them. They would hold our precious necessities for the journey--rocks we wanted to share with our cousins, gum and crayons. We would not consider entering the Trail without our pack, our carefully prepared little handkerchief blob.

Hurricane Irene should hit us today, so we're gathering our handkerchiefs. Steve, Nick and Jacob lived through Katrina--in a parking garage of Charity Hospital. They know the exceptional, so they prepare for it. Jacob wants to know how high the water will come into our house (their home flooded while they were playing Gilligan's Island with Daddy). Nick is concerned about our dog, Bonnie, and where she will go. Steve, like for Hurricane Katrina, is on call, so he will be available for assistance via remote satellite (mobile phone if working). The boys cannot think about hurricanes the way most of us do. It is not just rain and wind and an exciting time to eat poptarts for a week. For Nick and Jacob, it's real. People die. People lose homes and dogs and innocence.

We'll build a palet party on mats in the basement, and have a candlelit book party. Maybe we'll call each other Huckleberry and Scout and Harry?! Ellie, God willing, will be sound asleep in her pack and play, dreaming of sugar plums. Somehow, I'm not imagining that with real confidence, but I'm trying!

With our batteries, bananas and peanut butter, toilet paper, bottled water and candles, we are ready for Irene. Though we did not invite you, per se, we'll meet you!

"Make a commitment to look for joy everywhere." I think I saw it this morning, while watching Ellie feed Bonnie. She's not supposed to do that (ruins our carefully placed "ladder of power" :)), but there they were, Ellie handing off her scrambled eggs and slippery waffles.

With a baseball team's worth of patron saints for storms, I think we'll hit all the positions with prayers and see how fun this handkerchief packed party can be.

The Little Big Things

It's true, I think. It's the little things. But don't the little things become your big things? A professor once taught us to "mind your big rocks." Put your big rocks into your bucket first, then you can fill it with the little pebbles. If you mind your pebbles before your stones, you won't have room for the big rocks.

The little moments, mundane afternoons and monotonous activities are little things, but they have become my big rocks. I never thought I'd see God at a football practice, but He was there. He was there in Jacob's patience, in his genuine joy teaching Ellie to walk. And He was there in her face, her little prancing feet and the peace I knew watching their trust grow. She's a whole soul who is beginning to love another soul. And I'm privileged to watch it happen. At a football field. Who knew?!

Jacob once told me he'd never want to be a superhero. "Why, Jacob?" "Because, they have all the time for the world, and no time for love." (He was watching a making of Spiderman and felt sorry for the poor guy who couldn't keep a girlfriend!) Jacob, though, is a superhero to Ellie. Because of a little thing that is really a big rock.

"To know that love is all there is is all there is to know."

Ruston

We grew up in Texarkana but we were from Ruston. We were transplants, or that is what our mother said. "God's Country" was Louisiana, and we could smell it each time we drove home to the peaches and hush puppies and tire swings of our grandparents' backyards. They were connected, the backyards, by a trail. It was magical, miles long, treacherous and deep. You had to walk with a brother or sister or cousin--you would never brave it alone. It was mysterious and familiar, somehow, and we loved it. It led from the Brown back porch to the O'Banion back garden, and we felt as if we broke into different bubbles each time we entered into the green light out of the woods. 


Of course, it was only a 5 minute walk, brightly lit, usually dewy and lined with acorns, the occasional snake and a forgotten metal trash can we liked to imagine was the vacation home of Oscar. It was, truly, made of dogwood trees. The forest was thick with them, so every spring, the trail would burst into light, this beautiful bright, pure white and it made the whole world happy. 


My life has followed that trail, and it led me to this eastern netherworld called New Jersey. I didn't know dogwoods lived here, but, of course, they were here to greet us, when we moved late spring. It was like they were saying "hello," and I actually felt comforted, like I was seeing an old friend. Or like my mom was hugging us, and I could smell her Ponds cream and knew this part of the trail would be safe. 


This blog, this expression out into the void, is a thank you. A love song. A prayer.