Category Archives: Holidays and other fun times

In the midst of all the flowers and cards and brunches, it can be easy to forget that Mother’s Day is a very hard day for many people.  So today, let’s pray in a special way for:

*Moms who have lost their children

*Children who have lost their moms

*Women who wanted to be mothers but could not

*Mothers of missing children

*Mothers whose children are estranged

May they find comfort and healing in the love and prayers of others.

Amen.

Here’s something I’ve realized: If you love Mary, you will eventually end up loving St. Joseph.

If you love Mary’s compassion for those who are on the outs of society, you have to love Joseph, too.  After all, his behavior towards Mary herself shows that he was a man who knew how to forgive.  His betrothed is pregnant, and he knows it’s not HIS child; there’s pretty much only one conclusion you can reach, right?  And yet even though he must have been seriously disappointed and humiliated (talk about an ego blow for any guy!),  he was determined to spare her as much of the inevitable social and religious condemnation as he could.  In other words: Joseph was quite the guy.

If you love Mary’s courage and the way that she said “yes” to such a terrifyingly huge mission, then you have to love Joseph’s courage, too.  After all, he — much like Mary — surely had a vision of the way his future would unfold.  I don’t want to presume to know what Joseph hoped for, but I’m guessing it was something along the lines of the cozy family home and the white picket fence.  Odds are good it did not involve raising the Son of God and the Savior of the World. That’s why Joseph, like Mary, is a terrific model of letting go and rolling with it … and bidding our own plans goodbye when a larger purpose comes knocking.

And if you love Mary’s devotion to her son, you have to love Joseph’s, too.   He is a beautiful model for all dads, especially for men who raise children who are not biologically their own.  I think Joseph is proof that fatherhood is more than just contributing DNA — it’s about the hands-on, daily experience of nurturing a child.  It’s about modeling, through your dealings with those around you, what it means to be a person of integrity. It’s about showing that a true man doesn’t walk all over those who have less power; instead, he treats them with dignity and compassion.  It’s about being the person that others can count on to be there, always.  We see evidence of all of this in Joseph, and more.

No wonder we love him.

If this sounds familiar, it’s because it’s a re-run of a post from 2011. I thought of writing something new, but it still says exactly what I feel.    Painting by Raphael.

Last night, my kindergartener was working on his valentines.  With a pencil in hand and a class list on the table in front of him, he carefully penned each student’s name on a small Toy Story card.  I looked over at him from time to time, smiling inwardly at his absorption, at his focus, at the way that he (in the time-honored tradition of all kids) was sticking his tongue out slightly as he wrote.

Being the mom of a kindergartener takes me me back to my own childhood Valentine’s Days.  I remember elementary school, and the excitement of receiving a small white envelope from everyone in the class.  Inside would be a small cutout of a cartoon character, or a princess, or a whimsical animal, with my name and the giver’s name carefully printed on the reverse.  Sometimes the envelope bulged in one corner because a chalky pastel-colored heart candy had been tucked inside.  More than once, a classmate accidentally wrote my name on the Valentine that said “For You, Teacher” – an error which, given my current profession, was remarkably prescient.

There was something so sweet and pure about Valentine’s Day back then.  Alas,  it didn’t last.  By the time I got to college, Valentine’s Day – more often than not – was an unwelcome reminder of the fact that my romantic life was not progressing in the way that I thought it should.  It was a day to feel alternately depressed  about my own single state and envious of those women who got red roses or restaurant dinners from their boyfriends.   That stage is in the past now – ever since meeting Scott, V-Day has been redeemed  – but it’s hard to forget those years when February 14^th was  more about wistfulness and cynicism than romantic love.

That’s why, as I watch my six-year-old write his classmates’ names, I’m recovering a sense of the sweetness of a child’s Valentine’s Day.   Once again, I’m seeing a day that is about inclusion rather than separation.  In  kindergarten, the cards are shared with everyone; no one is excluded.  That is a class rule, admittedly, but it’s an unnecessary one, because my son would do it anyway.  He isn’t complaining about having to address a card to everyone.  He isn’t saying that he doesn’t really like so-and-so.  He wants to give everyone a Valentine.  To him, it’s perfectly natural that the heart-trimmed images of Buzz Lightyear and Woody and Jessie will be shared freely with all.    I love that innocence and generosity.  It strikes me as pure agape, as love at its finest and most beautiful.

That’s why I’ve been thinking lately that if you want to understand the love that God has for humanity, maybe a diamond necklace or a big bouquet of roses is not the most helpful image.  Those are valentines intended for one person, and one person only.  Instead, I like to think of God’s love as a batch of small cards, perforated at the edges and addressed with care,  freely and unreservedly given  to every single kid in the class.

Heart image from Karen’s Whimsy.

The plan was to go to church last night.  It was All Saints’ Day,  a holy day of obligation, and — truth be told — I was really looking forward to slipping out by myself for the 7:30 Mass, enjoying some quiet meditative time in a candlelit church and unwinding from the rigors of Halloween.

But Life had other plans, mostly because Luke had a mystery rash that required an impromptu visit to the pediatrician.  Scott took him while I stayed home with Matthew.

I’m not going to lie; I was pretty bummed out, not least because All Saints’ Day is one of my favorite days of the liturgical year.  I love having the chance to remember all the people who have lived and died before me, both the famous ones in the stained glass windows and the less-famous ones  in my photo albums.   It was tough not to have that hour to celebrate the day the way I’d wished.

But you know what?  When I pulled myself out of my little pity party, I recognized that there are reminders of the saints all around me.

There are the pictures of Saint Matthew and Saint Luke on the dining room wall.  The boys colored them on Monday, as a way to celebrate their baptism anniversaries this week:

There was Matthew dancing around to “When the Saints Go Marching In,” one of his favorite songs on the Veggie Tales CD.  It’s pretty hard to hear that song and not join in.

As I made dinner, I had a reminder of my Grandma Kubitz in this decorative tile in my kitchen. When I was growing up, it was on her kitchen wall; now it’s on mine.  I love having the constant reminder of her.  When motherhood has me on the ropes, I can sense her smiling and saying, “I’ve been there, too.  You’re doing just fine.”

There is the saints’ bracelet that I wore all day.  It’s one of my favorite pieces of jewelry.

It was given to me by my friend Mary many years ago, and this year, it had an added poignancy because this is the first All Saints’ Day where Mary herself is one of the saints.  I was thinking of her all day: missing her, being grateful for her friendship, wishing I could talk to her again and thinking of how she must be having one hell of a party up in heaven with all the others.

There was the personal Litany of the Saints that I wrote several months ago, following a tip from Sarah Reinhard of SnoringScholar.com.  It’s a list of saints who are personally meaningful to me, everyone from Our Lady of Lourdes to Saint Maximilian Kolbe to the 9/11 fire chaplain Father Mychal Judge.  It’s a remarkably comforting thing, asking these people to pray for me and mine, and believing that they will.

Life isn’t always easy.  We all need a cheering section when times are tough, and to me, that’s what the saints are: people who have been here on earth, moved on to heaven, and still care about those of us who are muddling our way through.   Their stories inspire me; the knowledge of their prayers comforts me.  And though I couldn’t dedicate an hour to them last night the way I’d hoped to, it  was a chance to get creative and recognize all the little ways that they are already a part of the fabric of my life: in the kitchen, in the dining room, and everywhere.

Here’s what happens when the boys and I sit down to create Halloween decorations.  It’s the Moyer pumpkin patch, complete with bats!  (Yes, those are bats.)

Hope your Halloween is a happy one!  (And to all of those affected by Sandy, I hope  you get some well-deserved treats.)

Today is the Feast of the Assumption.  It celebrates the Catholic belief that when Mary’s time on earth was over, her son took her, body and soul, into heaven.   Mary’s body didn’t have to be subjected to the process of decay that we all go through (ashes to ashes, and all that).  She was assumed, both body and soul, into heavenly glory.

I think that sounds quite nice.

I first blogged about the Assumption a few years ago, and I’m going to rerun a version of that post today, in honor of the occasion.  Happy Feast Day!

When I was younger, I never thought much about the Assumption.  It’s always sounded like a nice event, and I’ve never had a problem accepting it, but it’s never been particularly meaningful to me.

Now, as a mom, I think it’s absolutely beautiful.   I love it for what it says about Mary … but, even more, I love it for what it says about Jesus.

Here’s the thing that I’ve learned in the five or so years since my oldest child’s birth: mothering is very, very, VERY physical.  I take care of my boys’ bodies  in countless ways.  The same, of course, was true of Mary.  She carried Jesus in her womb and felt him kick; she nursed him; she wrapped him in those famous swaddling clothes.  When he got older, she helped him blow his nose and kissed his owies when he fell.   She combed his hair, bathed him, urged him to eat when he’d rather get out and play.    She mended the clothes that covered his changing body as he shot up into manhood.   For years, she administered gentle touches, affectionately rumpled his hair, and constantly monitored and cared for his body (because, in the early years at least, moms know their kids’ bodies as well as they know their own).   She did all this for her little guy, day in and day out, for years and years.

And so, at the end of her life, I can imagine Jesus remembering all those things.  I see him looking at her with infinite gratitude and affection and saying, “Okay, Mom, you spent years taking care of my body.   Now, I’m going to take care of yours.”  And he does this in the best way he can: he spares her from having to lie in a tomb and instead takes that body up to heaven with him.  In that way, he makes a special statement of love for the body that carried him and cared for him, the body that was his source of nourishment early on in his life and his source of comfort for years after that.

I’d say that’s the action of  a very loving son.

Madonna by Murillo

…something kinda big happened.

I’m not a numbers gal — words are my thing — but somehow, when I reflect on this anniversary, I can summarize it best this way:

Ten years
Two kids
One great guy
Zero regrets

And about a zillion moments of gratitude.