Well, it's out there now!

My belly, that is..........I have achieved the Poof of Proof of #6!!

We are joyfully expecting our next blessing to arrive in February, God willing.

The Nausea Bug began his march today.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I chart very carefully. We. We chart very carefully. So we knew precisely what was what, when, and apparently were very blessed at that particular moment.

I could not help myself. I know in my brain that before around 8 days post ovulation, a home pregnancy test will not give anything but, what is known in the world of charting women as a "BFN"--Big Fat Negative, for those of you playing at home. But way back then, I had tested late in the evening of that 8th day, only to see a faint line taking shape before my very eyes.

This time was no different....except that I did, I confess, actually begin testing on the 7th day. Ah, that Seventh Day! The Day of Rest! Of Regeneration! Of Renewal! Of BFNs!!! Rats!!!! But I can't say I wasn't expecting it. (Get it? "Expecting"? Hahaheh.........I know. Groan away.)

But on the 8th day--well, on the 8th day, there was that little line that I had been hoping to see, once again. (And in that girl world of all things pointing toward conception, we call that a BFP--a Big Fat Positive.) Just to be certain, I called My Darling and asked him to pick up another box containing two plastic cartridges which would soon be soaked....and not with water......so that I could make absolutely certain that this was not the same as the evil false positive we had seen two months prior.

He made the purchase, and I tore into the first package, and immediately used the plastic thing the way it's meant to be used, for Pete's sake, and My Darling and I both watched as a line, a little darker than the last time, appeared next to the control line. It looked like this:

Better try once more, just to be certain. It's a bit faint.

And the next morning, I tried once more.

And there was that second line, again. This time, a bit darker:

And so I write to you in the very wee hours of the morning, exhausted, but nauseous, fending off that dastardly thug, the Nausea Bug. Now, I will admit to being encouraged. Though my first four pregnancies were completely defeated by this formidable adversary, the last was not too bad, all things considered. The reason I find hope in this is that so much of my last pregnancy had to do with prayer and visualization. I firmly believe that the reason I had such an incredibly calm and comfortable labor and delivery (save for that particular 20-ish minutes, which really packed in every bit of pain possible!) was because I prayed for it to be that way, and because I had spent many moments leading up to then visualizing the kind of labor and birth that I wanted to have. So here's the thing: I am visualizing very little nausea. Teeny, tiny bugs. Like, smaller than chiggers, which must be reeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaallllllllllly small because you Can't. See. Them. At. All. Little bugs which can be swatted into oblivion by the mere movement of my eyelashes as I blink.

It's terribly handy, because My Darling has forbidden me to be sick, so Major Pukey had just better keep his bags packed wherever he is.......

Praise God from Whom all blessings flow!!

The Joys!

I needed to make another, completely separate post. That one, just down there...well, that was a necessary re-introduction. My mind is bubbling with the events of the past weeks--a graduation, a Confirmation (!!), a Grand Decision, and just general life, which, really, adds up to quite a bit.

My Little Frog was confirmed a couple of weeks ago, on Pentecost Sunday! What a joyous day--gorgeous outside, an amazing Mass, and the beautiful hearts of her classmates confirmed with her. Two days prior, she graduated from 8th grade. Again, it was a wonderful event, with Mass and a shared meal with friends. We are so blessed to be among so many families who share our faith and our lives! It really helps to make these important and sacramental milestones more joyous, more deeply meaningful, and more memorable.

Our beloved Bishop prepares to confirm the candidates--LOVE the Fiddleback and lace!!

Back in early April, we received an e-mail about a local private school needing players for their soccer team. When a school is so small that their graduating class includes all of 6 students, it's difficult to put together a team big enough to have people on the field and on the bench. By opening up the roster to local home schoolers, they were able to make it happen. I replied to the e-mail by saying, "I think the Frog would like to participate."

Well, except that she didn't want to participate. But I'm a mean Mama, and I made her go to the first practice.

She loved it!

We had been given shoes, and the socks, shorts and shin guards were relatively inexpensive, and all of a sudden--I became a soccer Mom! AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!! But no--not one of those soccer moms. I was the Mom who grabbed the big orange drink coolers and hauled them to the practices and games. I was also the Mom who came to the tiny school to help transport the kiddos from school to the practice field. I was further the Mom who decided that kids who are playing soccer should also have something delicious to eat every now and then, and that cupcakes (filled with cream cheese, of course) were definitely on the menu.

No, wait--I guess that does make me one of those soccer moms.

So be it.

In the mean time, here's what happened: We came to know the kids from some of the families of our parish with whom we don't get to spend a lot of time, because they're not homeschooling the kids who are my older kids' ages, and they don't have little ones crying through Mass in the narthex (like Cuppie does). We also met and came to know some other amazing kids from families in other parishes--families we'd heard about, but we'd never had the blessing of meeting. Most of the kids were familiar to the Frog because of a diocesan-wide retreat she attended in February. Some of them were in her confirmation class.

This tiny little school, with the itty-bitty classes, is made up largely of families who were homeschooling and wanted to pool their resources into an intense, classical curriculum, and in turn allow their kids to absolutely flourish academically in an authentically Catholic atmosphere. The kids wear beautiful uniforms, attend Mass 3 days a week (easily done, because the facility they use adjoins a church!), and they have Eucharistic Adoration and silent reflection time the other two days. Their days begin and end with prayers, their class periods begin and end with prayers, and the teachers are all wonderful, dedicated professionals, who also happen to be practicing Catholics--some of them are parents of students. God is Good!

And now......this tiny little school will have a new student in the fall. My little Frog is going back to Building School!

The very best part about it is that we have absolute, complete peace about this decision. We can't even come close to affording it, but there are financial aid and fund raising and volunteer opportunities. And sometimes, the Holy Spirit makes things so very plain that it is easy to know that He will take care of the financial side--and so we're trusting Him to do just that!

There really is so much more in my heart......but I'll be back--soon and very soon, I'll be back.

Rediscovering Me

I've been gone a long time. I've been thinking about coming back to post, but have just not been in the right place in my head--or my heart.

What's changed?

So much. So very much.

I stopped taking my medication. I stopped for lots of reasons, but mainly because so much of my heart has healed that I just wanted to see if I remembered who I was before it all began.

So much ground was covered, so many new rooms built in my soul, and all of them have finally found a way to fit together comfortably, like old jeans or a favorite sweater. It feels good.

I have learned that I am stronger than I thought I was, and that sometimes to get stronger, you have to feel the hurt and truly grow from it. I haven't felt the true pain of my depression in so long, I almost forgot it existed. There was a dull ache for months, and a fog of near-contentment that was just a little off, the way you can't quite get comfortable on a hot summer night. Now that I'm not taking my medication, I've had to face some things head-on: anxiety, having opinions, noticing that I can pray through my day successfully, and remembering that no matter how small my tasks, My Lord is with me.

I have learned that it's ok to go through something which shocks the soul so greatly and come out alive, joyful, radiant, and peaceful.

I have learned that when there is a blessing amid the hideous darkness, that it is important to hang on to that blessing and celebrate that blessing with every breath, until the light begins to glimmer again.

I have learned that when the windows of the soul are left open, fresh life comes in, and the Holy Spirit makes things new. I have learned that new is good.

I am grateful for my time in the valley. I am grateful for the wisdom I've found there, for the lessons learned, and for the beauty I have come to see in suffering.

Thanks be to God, it seems the climb is on!

Pardon me, may I sit here?

It's been a long few weeks. Long and eventful, for Pete's sake.

*Easter was awesome. Holy Week was absolutely jam-packed, but the Holiness aspect of it all was phenomenal--and then Easter iced the cake. I hope to collect my thoughts a bit more on that and do an entirely separate entry.

*We watched the crocuses come up and bloom beautifully purple, and then shrivel under a late freeze. The tulips are not far behind, and in the meantime, we have the white hyacinths to perfume the air between here and the mailbox. I'm still waiting on my plum tree.

*I have been torn between saying something and saying nothing about the persecution of our Holy Father and Holy Mother Church. I am sick to my very heart over the whole thing, and continue to read, until my eyes are dry, everything I can in order to understand the different aspects of it all. The bottom line is, the teachings of the Church are infallible, but the human beings who make up the Church are human beings...and if Christ became human and was like us in all ways but sin, then I guess we must understand that people err, even though they have the Word of God as their guide. No exceptions. The exceptions come when there is remorse, reform, repentance and forgiveness.

*I broke my toe. It's not even a good story. It happened on Tuesday afternoon while I was making the bed with clean sheets. I kicked a shoe, for Pete's sake, and it resulted in my left pinky toe being broken clean in half. The bruise is spectacular, at least, and I shall return and post pictures just as soon as I can find the USB cable.

*Things are moving at a pace on the addition. Drywall has gone up in the mudroom and is going up in the sun room--it is amazing what even sheet rock can do to make a shell look more like a room. Same deal as above with the pictures.

*Hopefully I'll be back more frequently, though the Frog just joined soccer--which makes for two days a week being gone in late afternoons. I can't believe how busy we are around here, but I love it...I love it!!

**Prayer intentions: AJ and Sarah (!!!), several friends who are carrying babies beneath their hearts, several single friends who are quietly pondering God's plan for them in their hearts, my sweet nephew who will receive the Body and Precious Blood of our Lord in First Communion one week from today, my dear sweet Frog who will be Confirmed in the Holy Spirit in scarcely a month, and of course continued prayers for the sanctification of all priests, for an increase in vocations to the ordained and consecrated lives, and for our Holy Father and Bishop. +JMJ+

Life changes

It often amazes me how quickly things can change.

He is beside me, flinging a plastic beaded necklace from the Saint Patrick's Day parade around like a wild man, engaged in some sort of four-year-old tribal dance. His feet scarcely touch the ground, and the necklace is a blur of flashy green. His laugh delights me, and his unfamiliar song is composed from thin air.

Suddenly, his little feet stop. His face crumples, and fat tears squish from the corners of his big, brown eyes. I hear the beginning of an "0w," mixed in with a wail of betrayal. He clutches the offending beads and bows his little head, his shoulders drooping, his back and chest heaving with his cries.

In his fury of dance, the necklace had leaped into the air and slapped his eyes. His immediate instinct is to come into my arms...and not surprisingly, my instinct is to hold him. His small body curls into my lap, his arms around my neck, his breath and tears hot on my cheek.

When his cries subside, he still hangs on. He rubs his forehead on my cheek and kisses my chin. I smooch the top of his ear, the sweet sweaty neck, the soft tufts of hair. He breathes deeply and sighs heavily. He snuggles in a little more.

He pets the back of my neck and says softly into my ear, "Mama, we just have a lovely home, don't we?"

I wipe his tears and kiss his little cheek. "Yes, we do, sweetie."

He asks if he can watch Foghorn Leghorn.

It's a good perspective.

Coulda, shoulda, woulda...

I used to be in really great physical shape. When I was in high school, even though I was skinny and socially awkward, I was in awesome shape. I ran three days a week after school, clocking a couple of miles just running the halls around the school (really--the school I attended was like a giant square-shaped 8, and the outer halls were open to runners after school) and did calisthenics. The other two days I did strength training. My strength training included lifting weights, push-ups and sit-ups. The sit-ups were done inverted, because I couldn't stand pressure on my tail bone...so I would hang from my knees on the pull-up handles on the universal gym and do them from there. Like, 50 at a time.

In my late teens, I was in drum corps. Our days were extremely physically demanding. We were up at 7:00 AM, had eaten breakfast by 8:00, and were in block formation for warm-ups by 8:15. We stretched, did marching warm-ups, and then blocked to march and run. Always beginning out marching, we ended up running in step, military-style, usually 2-3 miles. We finished up with a group cool-down, and were on the field for the remainder of the day, often times going well past dark. During our rehearsals, the general rule was that for each mistake you made, you had to do ten push-ups. I could handle it. I could mess up 5 or 6 times and still be ok. I thrived on it. I loved it.

These days........not so much. I can do one, maybe two push-ups, if I really try hard. Though dreams of running have plagued me for years, lately they seem to have intensified. They started out badly--the kind of running where I was running from something, but I wasn't really sure what. I don't think it was a bad something--just something I needed to run from. So I'd start running and running, and little bit by little bit, one leg would get longer than the other one, and I ended up really lop-sided and not able to run. Lately though, I just dream about stretching, snapping the leash on the dog, and going out for a run. Sometimes it's in the morning, sometimes it's while the kids are having quiet time. Sometimes I'm alone, and sometimes My Darling or the Frog come along.

Until today.

Today I just couldn't take it anymore. My legs were twitching as I sat like a comfortable lump on the couch. A comfortable lump with a laptop and a can of Cherry Coke, switching from e-mail to facebook, viewing the world through a virtual window, listening to the thawing snow drip from the roof onto the awning over the living room window.

I've been wanting to get in better shape for a long time.

"Frog," I said to her. She was in the kitchen, mixing up the batter for her birthday cake. "Frog, I'm going to go for a run."

I don't think she understood me. I kind of doubt that she did, since in all of her years, I've never uttered that particular phrase before. She gave me a look which was both confused and sympathetically supportive. "Uh, OK," she said tentatively.

I don't think she believed me, either.

I went to the bedroom and snatched up the running shoes that My Darling helped me choose months ago, because I wanted to start getting in shape way back then. They're really pretty, and very clean. They're super cheap--whatever Target had that day that fit me and in colors that I kind of liked.

I stretched, just like in my dream. I threw on a long-sleeved T-shirt over my tank and tied on my shoes. I snapped the leash on the dog and headed out.

Disclaimer: At this point, I would suggest using the loo, hitting the head, taking a leak--whatever. If you choose not to exercise this option, I take no responsibility for your clothing or furniture....

So off we went, me and my dog. We headed to the end of the driveway, and eased into a gentle lope to the end of the block. We rounded the corner. I was counting my breath, like I used to do in corps: "In-2-3-4-5-6-out-2-3-4-5-6-in-2-3-4-5-6-out-2-3-4-5-6..." and eventually, "In-2-3-4-out-2-3-4-in-2-3-4-out-2-3-4..."

By the end of the second side of the block, my lungs were burning as though the air had become molten lead. My breathing was shallow and harsh: "In-2-3-out-2-3-in-2-3-out-2-3-in-2-out-2-in-2-out-2--" until I knew. My legs were fine. My feet were swell. Not swelling--just swell. But for the love of all good, sweet, holy things under Heaven, I could no longer breathe.

The boys playing basketball would never notice. They would walk right past, never seeing the woman laying on the pavement, her dog long gone. There are no driveways on that one-block street. I could literally lay there for weeks without anyone noticing, because it's not yet warm enough here for my decomposing flesh to begin to stink.

Great.

My daughter doesn't believe that I'm really out for a run, and no one will miss me until it's time to change a poopy diaper.

I decided to just give up the run I'd dreamed about and let it go......just walk. One *gasp* foot *pant* in front *choke* of the other *wheeze*.

I walked. It took me the remaining two sides of the block to begin feeling like perhaps death was not quite as imminent as I thought. I was still panting harder than my dog though. She was giving me a look that said, "Man, I really hope none of my friends see us together. You're such a wimp. I'm so embarrassed."

I walked around an additional block so that when I came back home, the sound of their Mama hyperventilating wouldn't send my children into hysterics. Hey, it could happen. They could have been concerned. Of course, they'd have to look past the alien sight of their mother in running shoes and smelling slightly of sweat.

I stretched a little to cool my muscles down. After I released the dog from her leash, she glanced back at me as she slunk away, too humiliated to admit that she'd actually gone along with this farce of physical activity.

I called My Darling. I said, "I did something so completely out of character for me--you will never in a million years guess what I did!"

He said, "You went for a walk."

He was serious. I was crushed. Like he'd believe that I had gone for a run.

My muscles are rebelling. This activity is more than they've been engaged in for a long time--but if I have my way about it, they'd better get used to it.

The blessings of alms giving

It's amazing how God blesses faithfulness. I'm seeing it all around me, everywhere I turn, no matter the hour of the day, the day of the week, or the seemingly smallness of the sacrifice.

Some cases in point........

My dear friend AJ, for whom many of you have been praying, has received some amazing news. You can read about it here. For now, just know that the power of prayer should never be underestimated.

My dear friend Sarah has an incredible story. After a year of challenges that most people could not even begin to fathom, this lovely young woman has held fast to her faith, and faced with another challenge--she turned to prayer and faith. Rock solid faith. Her prayer--answered very quickly, positively, abundantly....Gracefully.

Another dear friend who was grieving the loss of her sixth child due to early miscarriage has found that she and her husband are again expecting. She is feeling wonderfully nauseous, aware that the worse she feels, the stronger her baby grows.

Last week, my girls and I were so blessed to spend a few hours in the company of three Sisters of Life. At the request of my dear friend Deacon Greg, we transported these wonderful Sisters from one retreat venue to another, in cities which lie roughly 3 hours from one another. It was obvious to me that the Holy Spirit had moved Deacon Greg to ask me, even though he is in Rome--and that the Holy Spirit had moved me to respond affirmatively. For Pete's sake, what's the good of having a van like Bucky if you never take it on an unknown adventure which promises to do nothing but bless in return? When we picked the Sisters up, they were so thankful to have transportation! They were joyful, excited, and effervescent in their love for the Lord. We prayed together, we talked about our lives up 'til now, we did our best Bronx accents, and we thanked God for the flawlessly clear, sunny blue sky.

At the end of that journey, I began another. When we arrived at the convent where the Sisters were to spend the night, my dear friend Fr. Eric met us. He had brought with him a bag, containing, as he said, "something for you, which, as it turns out, is also something for me." His cassock was in the bag, with a small tear in the back that I had noticed back in January. He hoped I would be able to spare the time to mend it.

I had offered to mend the cassock, so it didn't come as any surprise to me that he sent it home with me. But the "something for me" bit took me off guard. Fr. Eric, though, has a way of infusing words, just a few at a time, with deep wisdom. He has given me books to read which have been difficult to pick up, much less get through...but the Holy Spirit has always guided the timing of my reading them, and I have never failed to grow and to be blessed in turn by whatever God has intended me to glean from the things I've read. So I figured that this latest comment would likely fall into that category.

I was right.

I had assumed that the repair would be an easy one, but it proved to be rather difficult after all. To conceal a mend on a hem is one thing. Even a seam can be cleverly disguised. A pleat can usually be pulled into line with a little work. But this tear involved a pleat pulled into a central back satin-stitched dart with no seam in sight. And worse, it extended beyond the dart--meaning that even after I had resewn the pleat to the satin-stitched dart, I would have to mend the fabric back together in a place where there was no possible camouflage for it. It measured about a centimeter, but as I carefully pieced it together, tiny stitch by tiny stitch, it appeared to be a gaping slash, covering half of the back panel, and I may as well have been using neon green yarn.

As I sat on the couch, mending tools at hand, with this garment laid across my lap, the scent of Mass wafted gently toward me. I don't know how else I could possibly explain it. This cassock had been worn by my friend, a priest, who stood at the altar and offered the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass. It was positively intimidating to even attempt this repair.

I relied heavily on prayer while I completed this small task. I didn't do it all in one sitting; though it was what some would deem a minor thing, I prayed for God to steady my hand and to help me make it just right. It turned out better than I had hoped for, though I was still a little less than pleased...but what can you do when the fabric tears where it wants to tear? It needed to be mended, otherwise it would have pulled into a bigger tear, which would have been far more obvious after mending.

When I returned his cassock to him, Fr. Eric was very thankful. It was so humbling to find him sitting in the church, meditating on the day's prescribed readings and just being in the Presence of the Lord.

My reward was his thanks, but more so the time that I had been able to spend in prayer while even contemplating how to begin repairing the cassock. *And that was it*! There was the wisdom! My heart has been so heavy lately with the lack of time to spend in prayer, but Fr. Eric was allowing me to see that it is there, after all.

Thanks be to God for the small, everyday ways in which He allows blessings to come into our lives. Since our venturing out last week, I have been far better able to sleep, to truly rest, and to look at each morning with a welcoming spirit than I have been in months.

Speaking of sleep.............................................................

Lead me into the desert, Lord

Those days come in so unexpectedly. Those days which begin with the gaze of the sun warming my window. The light sifts through the drapes, filtering in softly as though being whispered. My Darling has brought my coffee in, and I am tucked in with my warm and snugly little Cuppie (she who so recently was the Pudge.....). Her whiffles indicate her sleep, though her fluttering lids hint at the pleasure of her dreams.

So many of my mornings begin this way. So often, I roll over to the smiling watch of the Monkey, or perhaps the quarrelsome whinge of the Reepicheep.

Yesterday was actually a sweet morning. I was really looking forward to the day--for once--rather than dreading it's length, the hours stretching before me like taffy that's been pulled and re-pulled. Ash Wednesday. The beginning of Lent. The prime season in which to lay bare the soul, asking God to call me to decrease so that He may increase. The season when everything feels as it should--penitential, because that's how I've been feeling for so long. Lent feels like coming home.

I was scheduled to cantor for the Mass. The plan was that My Darling would meet us, and then he and the children would depart for destinations unknown. The afternoon would be mine, and I had planned to meet up with my very good, Dear Friend--who was once called Tiffany by a complete stranger in a little diner (which is a hilarious story that I promise to tell another time). She and her family relocated last month, coming from a couple of hours away and now residing a mere 25 minutes from my very door. The bliss! The blessing! God is good!

And He is. He is so good to know when we need the challenge of a bad day.

Mass was beautiful. It was the liturgical shock that the beginning of Lent always is--the silences, the barren sanctuary, the somber hymns, and the fasting from the great prelude to the Gospel, that word which we do not utter these long days, which we reserve for the great joy of the Resurrection.

Then there was that verse. The hymn which was sung during the distribution of ashes was done as a Psalm is done--with me leading the people in the refrain, and then me singing the verses alone, bringing the people in after each verse to repeat the refrain. But it was unexpected and unfamiliar, and I was arrogant enough to believe that the two verses which were beneath the staves would just fall into place. You know how it is when six or seven verses are printed directly beneath the notes, and then a few more verses are just typed in stanzas below? The problem is, of course, that the words are not near the notes...and when the tune is unfamiliar and one is the only voice heard, well, it can present a difficulty.

It was disastrous.

I picked up the first words of the fourth verse, but completely lost my place in the music. The refrain was at the top of the page. The verses began in the middle. I was trying to put the words of the fourth verse to the notes of the refrain, and felt like someone had picked up my brain, my eyes, my voice, and the beautifully played notes of the very confused organist, put them into a blender, and just started tapping away at whichever buttons caught their eyes.

Oh, the train wreck that was me. My face burned. My knees became jello. And I knew that I could not stop. I just had to plod forth, like a camel in so much sand, until the merciful end of the verse. For short little verses, this one certainly seemed to take it's sweet time, for Pete's sake.

I realized my error as soon as the refrain began again, and the next time the fourth and fifth verses came around, I corrected my error. But it sure was a great tap on the shoulder in humility.

And thus began the falling-apartness of my day.

After exchanging pleasantries with a few parishioners after Mass, speaking with the Bishop, and thanking my friend the organist profusely for covering my pitiful self, we headed out to the van. My Darling informed me that his day was not going as he had hoped, and this required me changing my plans. I knew that my Dear Friend would understand, because she's beautiful like that, so we went on our separate ways.

It was when I reached into my purse to retrieve my wallet that I nearly freaked out. It was not there. My wallet was gone. I snatched my phone and fired off a call to My Darling to ask him if it was perhaps in his jacket. He didn't answer.

I hastily reviewed the way the morning had gone: After leaving the house, I stopped to fill the tank with gas. I had used my check card, and in the cold, I tucked it into my coat pocket. I never did have the chance to return it to my wallet. We drove into town, we parked, I took a fortune in quarters from my wallet to plug the meter (only to discover that since the last time I had used one of the blasted things, they raised the bloody rates), I stuck my wallet back into my purse. We went into the church, I had my purse with me while I ran through the Psalm and Gospel Acclimation (and even that blasted hymn, though apparently, not enough...), I carried it downstairs with me, slid it into the pew with my family, and took my place in the sanctuary for the duration of Mass. From that time until we left, either My Darling or one of the children took charge of my purse, and I don't believe it was ever unattended. Reepicheep let me know that she had taken my wallet from my purse during the collection, but then she put it back afterward. The kids dumped out my purse and the diaper bag and sifted through the contents of both. No wallet. They searched the entire van, all of the nooks and crannies, under the seats, in the bins, behind the car seats. No wallet.

Good grief. I turned around. I drove back to the over-priced metered spot where I had been parked. No wallet. I ran into the church, and Monsignor helped me search the several rows of pews in the area where my family had been during Mass. We looked on and beneath the pews, walking from one end to the other, checking in the hymnal shelves and under the kneelers. No wallet. I drove to the lot where My Darling had parked, since we had driven him there after Mass. No wallet. I finally heard from My Darling. No wallet.

Oh, this was so not good.

I called my Dear Friend. She did understand, because she truly is beautiful like that. She and I both prayed for the intercession of Saint Anthony. I began to thank God for the blessings in this thing. My check card was safely in my pocket. I had just used my last check and had not replenished with a new book. I only had one credit card and one store card. I had perhaps a dollar in cash and some change. I almost never carry cash, unless I intend to stop for a meal--and even then it's not guaranteed.

I began to pray that if someone had picked up my wallet, that they did so with a good heart and pure intentions of returning it. Or that if someone picked it up because they needed money, that the little bit that I did have would somehow bless them and ease even a small burden.

When we got home, I immediately called the bank and cancelled our credit card. We talked about the options concerning our checking account. I called the DMV to see about my license. I e-mailed Monsignor with a description of my wallet.

And then I just waited. When My Darling came home, I departed for my Dear Friend's house.

Such joy to be in the presence of her spirit and the warmth of her family! There is a balm in Gilead after all! Ah, the balm of a sweet friendship, tempered with hours of prayer and the strengthening of years.

We talked, we laughed, we played, we prayed. We drank water and watched the Olympics, and gawked unashamedly at Shaun White, while he demonstrated once again his blatant refusal to remain tethered to the earth like the rest of the peasants. We reminisced and filled each other in on what had been going on in our lives. I listened to her eldest daughter read a story--a flashback for the two of us, since she listened to the Frog so many years ago read her first book. It was such a wonderful and fulfilling visit, and in the presence of my Dear Friend, I felt God gently mending some small, faraway place in my soul.

I heard my phone ring at some point, and after a while, returned My Darling's call.

That Saint Anthony is one fast worker! Monsignor had called to let me know that some kind soul had found my wallet following the evening Mass! And where was it? In the pews, where we had looked, with unseeing eyes.

Sometimes the Lord keeps hidden from us the very basic, everyday things, and He offers us a chance, as our dear Bishop said recently, to run toward holiness. We are given plain chances to grasp at faith, to reach toward Him in prayer and to fill our hearts with the desire for Him and Him alone. We are given opportunities to bless or to curse, to display our tempers or to remain composed, to give in to temptation or to avoid the near occasions of sin. Thanks be to God for the awesome blessings He lavishes on us in the uncountable details of our days.

What an end to the day, anyhow. Thanks be to God, Who heard my small prayer for such a trivial thing as to reunite me with my wallet, for Pete's sake.

The day ended as blithely as it had begun. The calm warmth of my sweet little Cuppie, the inviting embrace of My Darling, and the knowing that He will again walk me through the desert, through the fire, through the darkness of Lent and into the Light of Easter.

A fruitful Lent to you all.