mom life

He stomped through the door, swinging arms without care, 

She walked over smiling and smoothing her hair. 

“Hi babe!” He said cheerfully, and gave her a kiss, 

“Work was amazing! No day better than this.” 

“That’s great!” she said faintly, as the 11 month cooed, 

“I hope you’re quite hungry! I just started the food.” 

“Just started?” He said, with his eyebrows raised high, 

And she felt the bewilderment glance from his eyes. 

“Well, you see, dear—“ she paused, for what was there to say? 

It’s true, she hadn’t finished her chore list that day. 

The laundry was still tumbling round in the drier, 

And the dishes on the counter had grown a mile higher. 

The floors were still dusty, with the addition of dirt, 

(the dog had been digging, and running in spurts). 

The table was crowded, with odds and with ends, 

A jumble of socks, each one without a friend. 

Her coffee sat cold, unenjoyed since that morning, 

There was a wet smudge where the meat had lain thawing, 

The baby had thrown all his toys on the floor, 

And the dog’s dirty paws had made marks on the door. 

But why had the chore list remained so undone? 

All day long she had been taking care of their son. 

He needed his breakfast, and then had to nurse, 

And when he had finished, he’d emptied her purse, 

And as she dove to pick up the dangerous coins, 

He’d started to cry, a terrible noise. 

And then she had held him, and rocked him to sleep, 

And laid him down gently, but then the cot squeaked, 

And then he was up again, and had to be held. 

And this time he slept not, but he yelled and he yelled. 

Lunchtime already? I guess it was so. 

And into the kitchen the pair of them go. 

She cooked him some eggs, and some cute little pancakes, 

He ate most of it greedily, then, looking frantic, 

He flung down the rest of his meal to the floor, 

And stretched an appealing hand out to the door. 

She grabbed up the food, threw it quick in a dish, 

And started to grant little monarchs next wish. 

Time for a walk! She put him in the carrier,

And out the pair started, little man growing happier. 

As they rounded the second block, he soon fell asleep, 

And she walked them back home, up and down the hill steep. 

They went back inside, having checked at the mail, 

And the dog sprang up yapping and wagging her tail. 

Boom! At once baby was once more awake, 

And looking to eat his remaining pancakes. 

So back to the kitchen they did their way wend, 

But alas! Mom had forgotten both four legged friends; 

The cat had sprung right up on the counter, 

And devoured the last pancakes, quick, like a panther. 

So back to the stove she went once again, 

This time to cook dinner, the day near at an end. 

And that’s when she heard Daddy open the door, 

And remembered she’d not gotten to vacuum the floor. 

So when he had asked her in shock “you’ve just started?” 

You can see why with her explanation she’d parted. 

A mom cannot enumerate the hundreds of things 

That spending the day with a baby will bring. 

Each hour is golden, each hour is hard, 

Whether spent in the house or spent in the yard. 

But to see baby smiling at close of the day 

Is enough to drive any sad thoughts far away. 

And so all she said was “well! there’s always tomorrow!”

And quietly to dinner her husband did follow.

Stories from Ireland 1

 Maura: So you were in this house? 

  Da;  So yes, and Bridie used to be on, she was about this old couple that lived near--I never knew the people at all--but she was trying to tell me who they were, and at the time she says they'd go to Mass and that time, you know, you'd hear a pin drop in Mass; there'd be no talking, or shuffling, or anything, and she says the husband and wife she says, when the husband would sneeze (they always had colds she said) when the husband would sneeze, he'd always go "Aaa aaa aa a SHKITTER!" like shkitter, right? and when the wife would sneeze, she'd go "Aaa aaa aaa ARSHOLES!" 

Maura: Whaaaat? 

Da: (imitates sneeze again) AAAARSHOLES!

Ma: Ahhhh now who told you that! 

Da: ah, Bridie Gilroy was telling me about this couple

Ma: But who were the couple?

Da: Ah, I don't know who they were. 

Ma she probably made it up!

Da:  Well, she was telling me about them, and 'twas funny, because you see, she'd be telling this story, and she'd be adding on oul bits and pieces, and she'd be great for the dramaticising something you know? 

Maura: You mean dramatisng?

Da: Did i say dramatisicing? 

Maura: Yeah, you did.

Da: Is that the wrong way?

Maura: Yes, it is. 

Da: Dramatising...you know, when we were young; I remember now: we used to have 2 dogs on the mantlepiece; there was one dog looking left, and one looking right. 

Maura: Oh, like these ones? Kinda like this? 

Da: Yes. 

Maura: Those are very valuable nowadays.

Da: I think they were beagle dogs. 

Maura: Really? 

Da: I was just looking at at Billy now as he looked in at me, and I thought, is that what we had on the mantelpiece? We had those on the mantelpiece, one on each side.

Maura: With the ears like that? Agnes used to have those too. 

Da: Yeah, they were like made out of chalk-

Maura:  China! 

Da: China? Well, something breakable. And everything disappeared out of that house. There was a lot of stuff in that house that was valuable. My father--people used to come in and swindle it, I guess. But, ah, yeah, funny stories. But I used to laugh so much with Bridie, she was very very funny, Ah. she loved telling stories. She'd spend the whole friggin' night there telling you stories, and yarns, and oh, God be good to her. 

Ma to the dog: Come on, up ye get! 

Finding A Sock On An Autumn Evening

Whose sock this is I do not know; 

I found it in my dresser though. 

I’ll say I thought it very queer, 

This garment of somebody’s toes. 

I had a feeling, quite like fear  

When it did suddenly appear; 

I must confess, I did quite shake, 

And yet, I did not shed a tear. 

One sock does not a good pair make, 

So I must ask someone to take 

This sock; for it I will not keep, 

It coming to me by mistake. 

The night is cold and dark, and deep, 

So I’ll go, woolen socks to seek, 

And pairs to match before I sleep, 

And pairs to match before I sleep. 

The Seamless Garment

A maiden flax upon her spindle spun,

The thread she spun was finest in the land;

The coat she’d make was for her only Son,

Who soon was off to walk through desert sands.

She wove the coat, and wonderful to see,

It was one piece, and stitches there were none;

A sorrow pierced her; no longer here He’d be,

He set off then, and for three years was gone.

When next they met, and saddest for to see,

His coat was gone, and He was wounded sore;

His back was bowed beneath a weighty tree;

All this, to save all people evermore.

Below for seamless cloth the guards threw dice:

Above he traded His death for our lives.

Brideshead Revisited: Charles Ryder's Journey To Faith

              



     There is much to talk of in Brideshead Revisited, but I will focus on one thing: the journey of Charles Ryder to the faith and what led him there.

     Charles is brought to Catholicism by the beauty of the things he loved before he found belief, much like the progression of love posited by Socrates in Plato’s Symposium. In the Symposium, Socrates reflects on the teachings of the priestess Diotima, and how love for temporal things can act as a ladder to the love and contemplation of the ideal form of beauty, which as we understand it is God Himself.

     In the very beginning of his college years Charles is taken with the materialistic charm of this world. He is given “advice” by his father and Cousin Jasper. Mr. Ryder senior is a rather stuffy old man who counts as the sum of glory success in academic life. Cousin Jasper is very much what Charles’ father would like his own son to become. He is in all the right academic clubs, knows the best lecturers, and is familiar with the things one needs to know in order to get ahead at Oxford. Charles, however, feels that this is not all which Oxford has to offer, but he is still under the influence of his father and Jasper. This tawdry life is flung to the wayside when Charles experiences the charm of Sebastian Flyte.

     Sebastian is like a ray of the sun shining into Charles’ grey life, and Charles eagerly steps out of the shadows, for he was “in search of love in those days, and...full of...the faint, unrecognised apprehension that here, at last, [he] should find that low door in the wall that others had found before him, which opened on an enclosed and enchanted garden, which was somewhere, not overlooked by any window, in the heart of that grey city.” Here marks the birthof wonder and grace in Charles’s life; he has entered Eden, that Arcadian paradise. He sees with Sebastian for the first time faith in action; the pair go to Brideshead and visit Nanny Hawkins, holding her worn Rosary and shut in her little domed room decorated around with religious imagery, most notably a picture of the Sacred Heart. They also visit the chapel and Charles dips his fingers into the font and genuflects, following the example of Sebastian.

     From this point on Charles’ existence is richer; “his room had cast off its winter garments, and, not by very slow stages assumed a richer wardrobe.” He experiences a bright and youthful kind of innocence. It is not only the externals that have changed; Charles continues at Oxford, studies for (and passes) his exams; he reads many books but says, “I remember no syllable of them now, but the other, more ancient lore which I acquired that term will be with me in one shape or another to my last hour.” What Charles has acquired through Sebastian’s company is the ability to see beauty; this is most obviously seen when the two are at the Brideshead estate and Charles, at Sebastian’s suggestion, makes a sketch of the Italian fountain. He has always been interested in art, but has never crossed from interest to creation. With the urging of Sebastian he does so, and recalls, “For me the beauty was new-found.” As he sketches the fountain Charles remembers feeling “a whole new system of nerves alive within me, as though the water that spurted and bubbled among its stones was indeed a life-giving spring.” This puts us in mind of the Vidi Aquam antiphon sung after Easter; “I saw water flowing from the right side of the temple, and all who came to it were saved.” Charles comes to the water flowing in the Brideshead fountain, but he also encounters the holy water in the chapel. Here also begins Charles’ artistic career, which flourishes first at Brideshead and then beyond. Sebastian has introduced Charles to beauty, and the appreciation of natural beauty is a rung of the ladder to the contemplation of God.

     In regards to Julia it is more simple to see how love, especially physical love, can be a stepping stone towards the divine. When we look at something beautiful we want to possess it; we want to be as closely united to it as possible. The closest way to be united to someone, at least on earth, is by physical love. Charles and Julia start such a physical relationship; both are unhappily married and they decide to divorce their respective spouses and marry one another.

     Julia sees their relationship as a precursor to something greater; she muses that she and Charles were thrown together because they are “part of a plan”. She also mentions that she feels “as though all mankind, and God, too, [are] in a conspiracy against [them].” A touch of this is felt when they are dining at Brideshead with Bridey, who says that he will not bring his new fiancee to meet them there as they are living in sin. This distresses Julia very much. She apologises for her distraught behaviour later, saying to Charles: “I can’t explain.” She seems to have been struck by her sin, astounded by it; her wrongdoing is shameful to her now, and she seeks to cast it off.

     Sebastian is a forerunner to Charles’ love of Julia; he tells her candidly, “he was the forerunner.” Julia replies “perhaps I am only a forerunner too.” Such prophetic words! I think Julia knows. Charles falls into a reverie, and thinks: “perhaps all our loves are merely hints and symbols…[and we] snatch a glimpse now and then of the shadow which turns the corner always a pace or two ahead of us.” Cordelia tells Charles about Sebastian, who is now become a porter in a monastery on the Mediterranean. Charles, thinking of those days in Eden beside “the youth with the teddy-bear under the flowering chestnuts” does not understand how Sebastian would turn so towards God. Later, at night, Charles wakes up and contemplates his lack of understanding; he thinks: “How often, it seemed to me, I was brought up short, like a horse in full stride suddenly refusing an obstacle...too shy even to put his nose at it and look at the thing.” Another image comes to his mind; a warm little cabin with snow heaping up against the door, “until quite soon when the wind dropped and the sun came out...the thaw...would move, slide, and tumble...and the little lighted place would open and splinter and disappear, rolling with the avalanche into the ravine.” He is beginning to doubt his icy heart, frozen fast against God; the sun cannot be resisted for long. Understanding will come.

     This little entrance of doubt into Charles’ resolve opens the door to a different garden; Lord Marchmain comes home to die, and Brideshead becomes Gethsemane. Lord Marchmain says so himself, asking: “Cordelia, will you watch for an hour in this Gethsemane?” His words pitifully evoke those of Christ, begging His disciples to watch with Him. Bridey decides that a priest must be called; Charles is struggling against it, “it’s all tomfoolery, witchcraft, hypocrisy, mumbo-jumbo.” Julia is enraged; “What’s it got to do with you or me whether my father sees his parish priest?” Charles can make no response, he feels that “the fate of more souls than one [is] at issue; that the snow [is] beginning to shift on the high slopes.” The ice of Charles’ unbelief is melting, and he knows this and is afraid. He is beginning to understand.

     And finally, Father Mackay comes. Charles is irate, in that fearful way a child is when he knows he has told a lie and has been caught at it. There is a “wall of fire” between Charles and Julia, and she takes the priest in to her father. As Father Mackay absolves the dying man and Charles sees the sign of the Cross being made, he drops to his knees, praying: “Oh God, if there is a God, forgive him his sins, if there is such a thing as sin.”, and Lord Marchmain sighs and his eyelids flicker. Charles prays then for a sign that the old man accepts the blessing; “So small a thing to ask.” And slowly, Lord Marchmain makes the sign of the Cross. “And then,” says Charles, “then I knew that the sign I had asked for was not a little thing...and a phrase came back to me...of the veil of the temple being rent from top to bottom.”

     Outside the sickroom a few minutes later the priest says cheerfully to Charles: “That was a beautiful thing to see...the devil resists to the last moment and then the Grace of God is too much for him.” And then, later that day, Julia and Charles say goodbye forever. Julia grieves: “Now we shall be alone, and I shall have no way of making you understand.” Charles replies: “I don’t want to make it easier for you; I hope your heart may break, but I do understand.” The avalanche was down, the hillside swept bare behind it; the last echoes died on the white slopes; the new mound glittered and lay still in the silent valley.” The sun has melted the ice, and Charles’ heart is cleansed, whiter than the driven snow.

     Years later, during the war, Charles returns to Brideshead, which is now a temporary military encampment. The old house is changed by the war; the great rooms are rather bare, the family is gone, all scattered far and wide. “The place is desolate, and all the work brought to nothing; quomodo sedet sola civitas.” The only one remaining is Nanny Hawkins, in her little tabernacle of a room up beneath the dome. But the chapel remains pristine; it has been reconsecrated, and Charles prays, “an ancient, newly-learned form of words.” As he makes his way back to his soldiers he ponders what has been brought about by the builders of the old house: “Something quite remote has come out of their work;...a small red flame-a beaten-copper lamp of deplorable design relit before the beaten-copper doors of a tabernacle; the flame which the old knights saw from their tombs, which they saw put out; that flame burns again for other soldiers, far from home, farther in heart than Acre or Jerusalem. It could not have been lit but for the builders and tragedians, and there I found it this morning, burning anew among the old stones.”

Cardinal McCarrick

   

    

       As pretty much everyone knows, within the past few weeks a terrible scandal has reared its head. The Universal Church is rocking with the impact of the actions committed by one of its highest ranking prelates, namely (now ex) Cardinal Theodore McCarrick of the dioceses of New York and Washington.
       The fact that McCarrick abused young people is terrible, but what the mainstream media doesn’t want to talk about is the fact that he abused young boys and men. That his actions were homosexual. That the crisis in the Church is not only a sexual one, but a homosexual one. See, anyone will eagerly seize upon the opportunity to bash the Church. But, when the matter involves a problem with homosexuality, no media outlet (often not even the “Catholic” ones) is brave enough to tackle the issue. The problem is that nobody wants to admit that homosexuality is causing the problems that it is.

Why?

       Because everyone is afraid of sounding “politically incorrect”. Better not offend anybody, right? Oh, Father, don’t mention the scandal at the 9 am Mass. Nobody wants to hear about that. Discuss the upcoming parish festival instead (I love being politically incorrect, in case you couldn’t tell).
       It’s true. I have heard scarcely anybody speak about McCarrick. Pope Francis has certainly not issued a statement. I will bring the scandal up in conversation, but people usually haven’t heard about the magnitude of his offences. In the weeks following the news, I have heard only one priest speak of it. This past Sunday at the Latin Mass, a very young priest was presiding. I knew him before he was ordained. When it was time for the homily, he stepped up to the pulpit and, gripping the sides, spoke calmly about the trouble in the Church. He did not mince his words, and yet there was a sense of peace in the way he spoke. At the end of the sermon, he reminded us that although the Church is being attacked from both within and without, we must look to the Holy Spirit, for it is He that guides our ship through stormy waters.
       I was surprised and gratified to hear the scandal being spoken of from the pulpit. So, so many prelates are pointedly not addressing it in their dioceses. Of course, this is understandable. To admit that members of our own dear Church have been found guilty of the most sick and twisted crimes, sins not only against God but against man, is a lot to expect. Imagine the world’s biggest bank admitting that many of its senior members have been printing fraudulent bank notes behind the facade of stability and righteousness? That would not be good for the image of the corporation, so they simply hush it up, admonish the wrongdoers, and soon it’s back to business as usual.
       However, this will not work for us. It didn't work last time, it won't work this time, and next time? There must not be a next time. The ranks of prelates must be cleansed by a flood of righteousness, and this flood must start at the very highest position in the Church of Rome.

Pope Francis Said What?

Among all the ongoing, ever-present media confusion and speculation over literally anything our Pontiff gives voice to, I was at first pleasantly surprised to recently read a couple of promising headlines from major Catholic news sites gushing excitedly: “Pope Francis Affirms Church Teaching on Traditional Marriage” and “Pope Francis Affirms That Homosexual Men Should Not Be Permitted To Enter Seminary”. There were lots of heart reactions in the comments section. 

I say I was only pleasantly surprised at first because shouldn’t it be a normal, run-of-the-mill thing for the Pope, the bishop of Rome and leader of the one, holy, Catholic and apostolic church to be acting in accordance with and voicing his approval of Catholic teaching and doctrines? The more I thought about it the more dissatisfied I felt. The fact that people are surprised and excited to see the Pope agreeing with the Church does not bode well.

In the past, popes have been firm and vocal in their support of doctrine. They have publicly spoken out, with unambiguous language, against the evils attacking the Church. They have condemned sin and lauded virtue. Why has this become unusual? Why are we now used to the Pope and other church leaders and representatives presenting a lukewarm view with no convictions, full of wishy-washy sentiments such as “born this way”, “the Church must change with the times”, etc? When did things get this bad?

I am not against Pope Francis. He is at present the leader of the Church and as such must be listened to, supported, and yes, respected. But when you respect someone you wish to see them doing what is right. If they are not doing what is right then you speak to inform them of their possible mistake.

Not many are speaking beyond the Cardinals who signed the dubia, a few scattered traditional priests, several bishops, and a small but feisty contingent of Catholic writers and bloggers. And those that do speak are often silenced. When I was in Rome I heard it whispered that everyone in the Roman Curia is afraid, and that if any of them are heard to so much as murmur anything even slightly against Pope Francis they are summoned to a private audience and often fired from their positions.

However, no matter how bad this all sounds we must remember that the Papacy was instituted by Christ Himself, and that He promised St. Peter, the first Pope, that the Church would stand strong and that “the gates of Hell will not prevail against it.” Even though the waves of Modernism are breaking hard upon the island of our faith, Catholicism will never be fully eroded. Like the rock on which it was built, the Church will forever stand strong.