Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Monday, December 20, 2010
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Hattie won’t remember her baptism. Or rather, she won’t remember it until she has a child and stands at their baptism to renew her baptismal vows:
“Do you reject Satan?”
“and all his works?”
“and all his pomps?”
“Do you believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth?”
“Do you believe in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord, who was born of the Virgin Mary, was crucified, died, and was buried, rose from the dead, and is now seated at the right hand of the Father?”
“Do you believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting?”
“This is our faith. This is the faith of the Church. We are proud to profess it, in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
Devin and I renewed these vows last Sunday. We witnessed both the promise and the responsibility of this sacrament as we stood by at the baptism of our first child. Our new little saint. And as the water dried and her mohawk re-erupted, Harriet had indeed become a little saint. That is, after all, what we believe--that the waters of baptism create a new Christian, cleansed by God’s grace from the stain of Original Sin.
As I spoke the baptismal vows on behalf of my child, my mind was drawn back to my own salvation, which I must continue to work out “in fear and trembling.”
Becoming a mother has forced me to realize--again, and in a new way--that I AM NOT MY OWN. My salvation, my personal holiness, is not merely “between me and God alone.” I stand as a mother at a child's baptism. I am responsible for another soul. In some real way Hattie’s faith depends on my own. I am one of the "great cloud of witnesses” who surround her. I must learn to be a holy witness in her life. I must learn to be a saint.
This work of love, this journey to holiness is difficult. Impossible even. As difficult and impossible as a camel going through an eye of a needle.
Yesterday I was reminded of this fact as I read this story which Thomas Merton relates in his book The Seven Story Mountain:
…[he] suddenly turned to me and asked me the question:
“What do you want to be, anyway?”
I could not say, “I want to be Thomas Merton the well-known writer […]” or “Thomas Merton the assistant instructor of Freshman English […],” so I put the thing on the spiritual plane, where I knew it belonged and said:
“I don’t know; I guess what I want is to be a good Catholic.”
“What do you mean, you want to be a good Catholic?”
The explanation I gave was lame enough, and expressed my confusion, and betrayed how little I had really thought about it at all.
[He] did not accept it.
“What you should say”—he told me—“what you should say is that you want to be a saint.”
A saint! The thought struck me as a little weird. I said:
“How do you expect me to become a saint?”
“By wanting to,” he said, simply.
“I can’t be a saint,” I said, “I can’t be a saint.” And my mind darkened with a confusion of realities: the knowledge of my own sins, and the false humility which makes men say that they cannot do the things that they must do, cannot reach the level that they must reach: the cowardice that says: “I am satisfied to save my soul, to keep out of mortal sin,” but which means, by those words: “I do not want to give up my sins and my attachments.”
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
A few weeks ago I was blessed by a visit: my roommates from college descended upon the Kansas City area, bringing with them much joy. If this blog post is late (and it is), I trust in the patience and clemency which my roommates most certainly possess. (And if they possess the virtues of patience and clemency, I most certainly helped them obtain them!)
Twas a wonderful weekend. Reuniting with old friends refreshes the soul. And when old friends are united by faith in Jesus, the soul rejoices all the more.
May all of us continue in His love, which is the strength and joy of the world.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Girls, this is not the way to lose the “baby fat” after pregnancy. I recognize this fact. I understand the whole “calories in calories out” thing. I know that cake (with cream cheese frosting) does nothing to shrink one’s expanded midsection.
But really, how could I resist? …the cream cheese frosting…the lovely red color…
I stole this recipe for Red Velvet Cake from your friend and mine at The Smitten Kitchen. Like most recipes on this delightful blog, the cake was fab. (I would, however, recommend a double recipe of frosting in order to achieve that fluffy, slathered look. BUT TAKE NOTE! A double recipe of frosting means TWO sticks of butter and TWO packages of cream cheese. Devour if you dare!)
In my defense, I had a very good REASON to bake a triple layer cake (the birthday of *two* friends), and I didn’t consume said layer cake ALONE (thanks to said friends…plus another friend…plus Thomas More).
Also in my defense… I have finally reached the post-partum Plateau of Sanity (which comes after the Canyon of Craziness, the Slopes of Sleeplessness, and the Wilds of Overwhelmedness). This means that I am not only 1. Sleeping at night, 2. Keeping up with laundry, 3. Reading books, 4. Making the bed regularly, and 5. Applying makeup daily—I am also making food for myself and my whole family from my own kitchen. And more than this—I feel confident enough in my parenting and multitasking skills, that I feel ready to start experimenting in the kitchen once again. Hurrah!
So of course the first new thing I decided to try was a multi-layered red velvet cake. With cream cheese frosting. Of course.
But alas, my abs, my rear, my thighs, alas! After several weeks of consistent weight loss this week the scales refused to budge. Could this, I ask, have something to do with three layered red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting? Perhaps.
So now I will endeavor to move my culinary experiments into more healthful realms. Thankfully The Smitten Kitchen contains many wonderful alternatives to three layer cakes. Like last night’s Mexican adventure: Acorn Squash quesadillas with tomatillo salsa. Truly delicious. Next, continuing with winter squash, I am going to try warm butternut squash and chickpea salad…right after I deal with that last piece of cake!
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Autumn surprises me again with the same pain, the ache as I watch another year pass. It’s the same every time. The clarity of the air and light. Sound of a distant train, metallic, resonant down in the West Bottoms. Clatter of leaves, pull of wind. All of October, all these diamond minutes passing brilliant and lost. And now October is over also. Now November and the tail end of the season.
It makes me hurt: that I will never get this year back. This precious year. That it passes even as I watch and listen—strain my eyes, strain my ears.
It seems to me that October almost doesn’t exist in and of itself: it stands as a monument to lost things, is lost itself. Every October I am bombarded by memories, almost overwhelmed with nostalgia. I was surprised the other day to come across a photo of my husband and myself—one of the first ever taken of us together. We are no more than seventeen or eighteen years old. We are standing by the lake, at sunset, visibly nervous, arms awkwardly around each-other’s wastes. Fresh faces scared. This was not even ten years ago. But nearly ten years ago. And it’s lost—as lost as if it were one hundred, one thousand years ago.
Or yesterday as I walked it all came back to me suddenly—a cold Fall in Chicago when we were in college: down-town, the lake ice, the steel skyscrapers, blue everywhere. Russian tea and black bread in some restaurant I forget its name.
I forget its name. I forget the taste on my tongue. Even memory cannot preserve this. Even memory leaves me.
So the season is passing. Autumn falls on us so beautiful, and beautiful only because it passes and passes quickly, speaks of things passing.It’s fitting, then, that Harriet is a Fall baby. I find I cannot keep her either. She is growing up and leaving before my eyes. And why is it that you can’t write about babies without falling immediately into cliché? These sentiments, repeated by a million million mothers for a million years. How quickly they grow up. Treasure treasure treasure this moment, for it will pass, and no matter how you treasure it, clutch it close, hold it tight, it will escape you. This child will never come back to you. You will be left an old woman with your memories.
But I understand now. I understand those clichés. Oh how I love her—her face as she sleeps, her smell, her heavy head knocking soft against my neck, her small noises, her little fists. Her face at this moment—now, this instant!—and the moment is gone. Lost—as if it happened one hundred, one thousand years ago.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
could suddenly turn into this: