To ask for suffering

Over the past couple of years, I've been praying for the grace to suffer well, as Fr. Eric says.  The spiritual work of mercy calls it "bearing wrongs patiently."  In addition to humility and patience, forbearance is what I struggle with most.

There's been plenty of opportunity, some of which I'll write about here, and some of which I just need to allow to rest in my heart.

I've found myself praying to ask for more opportunities to bear gracefully the challenges of life.

It seems that those around me are being placed in my life so that I have someone other than myself to pray for though.

I have a classmate who's fighting breast cancer.  She's one of the sweetest, most selfless people I know.  She has a beautiful family and a love for Jesus which inspires everyone around her.  Please pray for Jill.

I have another friend who so recently buried her husband.  He was diagnosed with cancer and died not even a month later.  He fought every second with amazing strength and grace and faith, always with a smile and a laugh, always with a word of encouragement for everyone around him.  His name was Paul.  Please pray for the peaceful repose of Paul's soul.  His beautiful wife is due any day now with their sixth child.  Sadly, babies four and five, twins, were lost to miscarriage last spring.  The joy of learning they were expecting again was radiant in both of them, along with their three little ones.  Now, this Mama and her babies are beginning to find ground beneath their feet again.  Please pray for Annie and their children.

My Darling has such a big family: his mom was one of fourteen children.  This year on Ash Wednesday, one of his uncles died very suddenly.  He was only 57 years old.  He leaves behind a lovely family--his beautiful wife, four children, and a passel of grandchildren.  Today we will attend his funeral.  Please pray for the peaceful repose of Ray's soul.  Please pray for his family.

We were told some very upsetting news at Mass yesterday: the mother of one of our dear priests was kidnapped.  Virginia lives in Nigeria.  The note left behind says that a ransom will be demanded for her release.  Please pray for Virginia.

There is so much to pray for, so many souls to love.  I thank you for joining me in prayer for those in my life.

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There are joyful things in life, too!  Since Wednesday was Squash's birthday, and since GinGin's birthday falls at the very tail end of January (but we've been busybusybusy), we had a double birthday party yesterday.  And My Darling treated me specially: since we have so many big parties for birthdays, with many family and friends celebrating with us, he bought me a big double cake pan.  So yesterday's cake was lemon (requested by GinGin), and strawberry (requested by Squash)--two cakes, one pan, batters swirled together to make a delicious strawberry-lemonade cake.  We had six cousins, three uncles, three aunts, two Grandmas, and a Grandpa here to party with us.  It was great!

This is our Birthday Season.  It kind of tickles my Catholic funny bone a little bit that we have so many Lenten birthdays in our family.  Squash's doesn't always fall during Lent, but this year of course it was on Ash Wednesday.  Frog's is almost always during Lent, though usually closer to the beginning.  My Darling's is next, just 11 days after the Frog.  And Pickle will have his second Holy Week birthday this year.  I guess God has quite a sense of humor!

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The book I'm reading, The Face of God, is absolutely beautiful.  I've always longed to visit holy Rome, but even moreso now, the more I learn especially, I find my desire shifting more toward Manoppello. 

Three Years Hence? Indeed it has been.

I have begun this Lent by asking my spiritual director what he would ask me to focus on this year, in hopes of deepening my faith and my interior spiritual life.  For my physical mortification, he has instructed me to refrain from the sweeter things--sweet drinks, delicious treats, that sort of thing--while not neglecting fruits (and he did say I could have a bit of honey in my tea or a sall amount of sugar in my oh-so-necessary coffee.  It's actually more difficult for me than I had thought it would be: by default I often choose chocolate milk over white, or a bottle of orange Fanta rather than water.  And I love a couple of spoonsful of hot chocolate mix in my coffee, topped off sometimes with French vanilla cream...and so now as ever, I must be deliberate in my decisions, and this can only be a good thing.  I was thinking earlier about how much I could miss the sweet things.  And considering my love for chocolate, I really could miss them terribly!  But all the better for my soul, I do hope.  I've wanted to eliminate refined sugar for a long time.  It would be so good for me in so many ways...so I guess I ought to thank Fr. E for giving me this particular work.

His second assignment for me is to read a specific book.  We had a conversation about one of the places he loves to visit in Italy, namely Manopello, where there is displayed the image of Our Lord on mollusk silk.  The book to which he referred me is called The Face of God: The Rediscovery of the True Face of Jesus by Paul Badde.  I began reading it just last night, and I'm definitely hooked.  I love the tests that are done in attempts to authenticate things like this miraculous veil and the Tilma of St. Juan Diego from Guadalupe bearing the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe.  I was tired last night, and so I am still reading through the first chapter.  I hope to explore my understandings here.

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I had forgotten what a refreshment it can be to come here to write.  I've left so much of myself by the wayside in recent months, even years, and find that I need to begin peeling back the layers once again.  It's astounding to me how drastically things can change in what seems an eternity whilst among the thorns of the valley, but in the grand scope even of temporal existence is truly a mere moment.  The past two years, especially, have been for me nothing short of early Purgatory while walking the Earth.  I dare to hope that some of the suffering here has done good for some poor soul on the other side of the veil of death.  Indeed, I offer willingly my hours of purification in profound supplication for the souls of those closest to me.  Don't ever forget the poor souls in Purgatory.  Pray for them, offer sufferings for them, and remember that someday you may well be joining them and existing in the hope that after your purification is complete, you shall behold His Face.

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Last year at this time, I was in hospital.  I had been taken in because of back pain so severe I had been crawling about the house for a week.  I hated to go.  My babies needed me...but they needed me whole, and I was anything but.  During my stay, I was diagnosed with degenerative disc disease and fibromyalgia--which I had suspected for years, but since the diagnosis tends to be one of exclusion and something of a collection and tidy binding of symptoms, and since I scarcely ever went to the doctor before my hospitalization, I had no official diagnosis in my chart.

Suffice it to say, this last year has found me in search of various remedies for the pains which ail me on a continuous basis.  I have many good days.  I have days where, although I have pain, it does not plague me so intensely.  I have other days where I am glad to have a walker, or a cane, and I am always thankful to have my handicapped parking tag. 

I have found a tremendous respect for physical therapists.  My therapist is a gem--she's kind, she's funny, she's very knowledgeable, and she is enthusiastic about helping me strengthen my body so that I can live like a person rather than like a lump in a chair.  So many days I feel like just a lump in a chair.

Of late, I have been reducing the dosage of Cymbalta.  I had been taking 60 mg each day; by tomorrow, I will be taking 30 mg each day.  It's a very slow process, because to wean from this medication is to create a maelstrom of withdrawal effects.  It's awful.  Honestly.  The weaning process involves opening the capsules, counting the individual, tiny beads in each one, and removing a certain amount, increasing the amount removed each day.  Those who've been studying the process recommend that for each year a person has been on the medication, it should take six months to wean off of it.  I've only been on Cymbalta for six months, so I'm one of the lucky few who can take a larger number of beads out each day.

Math: not my friend.  This process: math.  Bah.  Humbug.

I take two 30 mg. capsules each day.  There are 250 beads in each capsule.  I am removing eleven additional beads each day.  This means that the weaning process will take me roughly 8 weeks by the time I'm done.  And tomorrow is the half-way point, thanks be to God.

So far, my withdrawal effects have been minimal: I've had a couple of really overwhelming headaches, plenty of brain fog, and some tidal waves of emotion.  Not always sadness or anxiety--but just emotion.  And as ever, My Darling remains by my side, supporting me and understanding me and holding me so I don't become exhausted while treading this water.

Drawing nigh

I suppose that with nearly a month having gone by, I ought to update the things that need updating.

Life in our home has continued much as usual: rising, praying, breaking fast, sending two off, schooling, playing, reveling in the gorgeous sunshine and unseasonably mild days, gulping great quantities of fresh air throughout the house, lunching, napping, praying, tending chores, schooling, playing, welcoming home, cooperating, praying, supping, playing, bathing, praying and sleeping.

That's the general of it.

The extras have been...well, not profuse, but present.

There have been births within our home school group and parish family, with the requisite ministering to the Mamas, celebration of Baptisms, and loving on sweet, new, beautiful babies.

There have been deaths within the family, with the expected and mixed blessings of late-in-life passings and the shock of heart attack and death, and the requisite ministering to grieving families, prayers for the souls of the departed, and the always mixed emotions of gathering with those we love to speak of memories, sweet and sorrowful.

There have been celebrations of feasts and solemnities, including a grand party to celebrate the great Feast of All Saints, at which my sweet Squash won--to the very pure delight of his four-year-old-heart--an authentic Buzz Lightyear, who shares his days and nights, being set down only briefly, and only for bath time. He may have been aided by some awesome big kids who knew that Buzz was the desire of his little heart, and who may have been having Squash's name written on their tickets for playing games, and they may have then popped those tickets into the bucket in front of Buzz from which the winner's name would be drawn at the end of the night. Yep. That may just be what happened. Perhaps.

That party was pretty cool. It's a tradition several years old now, and for the past seven years, has also served as a fund raiser for the Frog's school. The high schoolers all set up and run little-kid games in a big shed, where the little kids (as mentioned above) receive tickets for having played, have their names written on the tickets, and then put them into buckets to be drawn to win donated prizes. There is a pot-luck supper (amazing amount of delicious goodies!), a lovely bonfire, including last year's Christmas tree, the singing of the Litany of the Saints, the parade of saints (very cute costumes, and some of them quite elaborate!), and the saints trail (middle school-aged kids handing out candy to the little ones on a lit trail through the woods, with daddies watching to ensure safety!).

I did *not* go through the haunted trail. Totally left that up to the big kids who just really seemed to enjoy having the stuffing scared out of them (no little ones allowed, thanks--in fact, most of them leave before the haunted trail even opens) by the returning college kids and upper-grade high schoolers who put the thing together and man the various stations. I like my stuffing exactly where it is, and continued to sit through the evening near the warmth and comforting light of the bonfire.

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The Frog continues to shine at school. Her grades, save for one class, were definitely worthy of a hearty hug and congratulations. That other grade happens to be in a class where my dear friend (and the Frog's teacher) assures me that a low grade is completely within the realm of normal when a student is brand spankin' new, as is the Frog, not only to the school, but also to the classroom setting. There are quite a number of formerly-home schooled students, and it just plain takes time to adjust (or in the case of the Frog, to readjust after years of being home schooled) to being in building school. And since that grade in that class was given for the first quarter of the Frog's freshman year, I'm holding perspective and trusting that she will adjust and that her performance in that class will improve.

The Pickle and the Reepicheep are also doing very well. We are able to incorporate most of their subjects, so that they are learning about the same things at their own levels on everything except math, which they pretty much share. They have made up nearly a dozen games in the back yard, and cannot get enough, it seems, of pumping that beautiful fresh air into their systems. They trek to the library each week, delighting in reading until their eyeballs practically roll straight out of their heads and onto the floor. They love going to our weekly enrichment activities with our home school group. They participate in art, phys ed, science and schola. They're learning physics, multi-media applications, doing the Presidential Fitness tests, and learning Gregorian chant (!!!!!). It's a blessing--it's a long day, but generally a good day.

The Reepicheep has been growing closer to the little Cuppie. The two of them play tea party, dance, dress up like Cinderella (whom Cuppie calls "Reela") no matter what the dress really looks like (did you know that a blue t-shirt with a picture of a fish on it is a "Reela Dress"?--even, or perhaps especially, if it's worn over pajamas!!), dance some more, sing songs together, dance a little, and snuggle in the rocking chair to read books. This is so good for both of them. It's good for Cuppie, because though she misses the Frog greatly during the day, she has discovered that she has a good and trusted friend in her other big sister. It's great for Reepicheep, because she is learning that she is capable of caring for someone smaller than she is. She's learning that when little ones depend on her, and when Mama expects it of her, she really can do things that a lot of big kids just aren't expected to do--and so they just don't do them. She regularly changes diapers, gets snacks or sandwiches, snuggles for snooze, and makes a general invaluable helper of herself. I'm really proud of her!

Squash and Pickle have been learning to play better with one another, too. Squash is a wonderful, energetic four-year-old, and Pickle is a wonderful, focused twelve-year-old. They definitely clash on occasion, but almost always find a way to work with (or around) their differences. They play legos, knights, baseball, sandbox, bikes, and made-up imaginary games galore. They race and wrestle, they fight and argue, and they love one another fiercely. Squash willingly lets his brother play with Buzz....which is a gigantic deal.

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Squash participates in the enrichment activities, too, attending the Junior Saints group. He learns songs and activities, plays games, works on crafts, and just grows and fills me with wonder and astonishment.

The other day, I was leaving a response on a message board. Squash saw my pregnancy ticker in my signature--it's a baby floating around in a circle, drawn to represent "about" what our baby looks like right now. He asked me if that was the way babies grow inside of Mamas. I explained that it's a picture that probably looks a lot like the way our baby looks right now, except that the picture is really small. And I said to him, "Our baby probably isn't bouncing around like that, because there isn't that much room...but there is some water in there for the baby to float in."

He said, "I know. There was water in there with me, too."

Now, we've talked a lot about when I was pregnant with him. He remembers the glow from light, and he remembers seeing what he calls "bloody grapes"--which is a pretty darned accurate description of the texture left behind from other placentas. He *loves* watching the PowerPoint slide show that I made of the pics of his birth, and listening to the music that I labored to. (He calls it, collectively, "Baby Water"--because he was born in the water.)

So I said to him, "What else was in the water with you?"

And he said, "God. God was in the water with me."

I said, "You remember that God was with you?"

He looked at me like he was sure I was a little bit confused, and said, "He's always been with me, Mom."

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My sweet Cuppie will swiftly turn two. TWO. TWO. I cannot even begin to believe it. And the Reepicheep, merely days later, will turn eleven. I have no idea to where the years have fled. I've searched my memory for them, and they only seem to exist in tiny fragments of memories, but even then, as mere wisps of the richness of experiences I know they once held.

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There are only fifteen weeks left of this small child growing beneath my heart. We've come up with the nickname "Little Apple," because, once-upon-a-time, one of those nifty compare-your-unborn-baby-to-the-size-of-a-common-fruit-or-vegetable websites said, "Your baby is about the size of an apple," and the Squash was utterly charmed. In our prayers each night, we say the names of each member of our family, concluding with "Little Apple." When he types the names of everyone in our family, Squash always includes "Little Apple." So even though it's currently about the size of a lovely squash, it's still our "Little Apple."

I'm looking forward to a visit with Chris tomorrow. I'm starting to notice, unfortunately, some of the signs that my body always gives me that my muscles are just a bit touchy. Some people call it "irritable uterus." I call it "stretching ligaments and sore, achy Mama, with plenty of cramping to boot." We probably won't even say the words "bed rest" this time, but I will definitely take it easy as I need to.

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I am not as anxious for this baby to come as I have been with most of the others. I am anxious about what February will bring. Will people be willing to venture out in the winter weather, with the cold, the ice, the wind and the snow, to visit with us? Will I have the energy to keep up with the little ones and the baby, and the patience to make it through each day? It's a whole different ball game with the Frog at school, but the Pickle and Reepicheep have definitely been stepping into more responsible and charitable roles with their younger siblings. That's been a comfort, to be sure. Will postpartum depression make a return, and will I be able to cope with it?

My depression continues to hover, like a storm that refuses to calm. Though I don't feel mired down quite so much most days, it lurks, waiting for my weak moments, and then it sinks in like a weight on my spirit. There are so many parts of it: guilt, sadness, loneliness, anxiety, shame, doubt and lingering grief. I recently spoke with a very dear friend who helped me to think differently on the suffering that comes with depression. I was feeling much as though perhaps God was asking me to learn how to suffer in the right way, like I'm just not getting it the way He wants me to. I don't remember her exact words, but I do remember her bringing up Blessed Mother Teresa, who walked the valley of doubt and darkness much of her life. And I remember well reading the words of Fr. Neuhaus in his book, Death on a Friday Afternoon, in which he reminds us to remain with Our Lord at the foot of the Cross, with Him in His suffering, rather than rushing too soon to the joy of Easter.

It's hard to remain in suffering willingly. It's even hard to think of Mama Mary, waiting with Him in His suffering--and very much in her own. To know that God has something for me to learn from this depression, this suffering, is a joy! But it is a joy unknown and unseen and even unimaginable.

Ah..........faith.

"Lord, I believe! Help me in my unbelief!" Saint Thomas, pray for me!

My Favorite Author....and my least favorite guest

I am so flattered that Jenni linked to my blog from hers. I am in awe of her writing, so if you haven't stepped over there, please check it out. http://onething.typepad.com/one_thing/

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As a result of Jenni's linkage, my comment section clearly reveals that I am not alone in my love of fictional small towns in the mountains of North Carolina. I tend to use the Mitford books by Jan Karon a lot in my life. Even though the main character is an Episcopal priest and I am Catholic, his faith (and the application of it in everyday situations) is an incredible inspiration to me. I have never picked up a Mitford book and not been moved. I cry every time I read about Miss Sadie dying, or Barnabas being snatched away from Fr. Tim, or Cynthia's painful confessions about her past. I never fail to cringe every time I turn to the page detailing Edith's blue casserole sitting on Fr. Tim's counter, or read the description of the wounds left by Lace's abusive father. And I am always full of anticipation and joy when I read about the careful restoration of the nativity scene, or about Hope's faith in goodness, shown by lighting the tree above Happy Endings.

I love the Mitford books so much, in fact, that my local library nearly wept with relief when I finally decided to buy the entire series on eBay. I found a fabulous deal, too, which made the deal even sweeter, for Pete's sake, and now when I finish one book I can just walk up to my dear shelf (made by my Darling) and trade it for the next.

Mitford is a gentle little town, full of rich characters and lively episodes. I've always kind of wondered about what a fine television series it would make. The trouble is, so few people want to watch that kind of television anymore. "Little House on the Prairie" and "The Waltons".....sadly, gone the way of syndicated dinosaurs. And because of the way TV usually works, there's no guarantee that the show would be faithful to the books.......so I will stick with my imagination where Fr. Tim's kitchen, the Lord's Chapel office, and Cynthia's studio are concerned.

I strongly encourage you to look into these books for a comfortable, inspiring, enveloping read. They're great on a porch swing, with a light breeze and glass of sweet tea, or snuggled up in a big chair with a blanket and a nursling and a cup of hot cocoa.

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Now on to more......icky....stuff.

The Major has launched a counter attack that apparently I cannot defend. That's right: Major Pukey has taken up what seems to be permanent residence just outside the flimsy walls of my pitiful fort.

What began last week as a "one time" incident, a small battle, a mere duel, has, apparently become a more regular occurrence. While I wrote about it just the other day, I later proceeded to ineffectively defend my stronghold against the Major's minions. Corporal Drool marched up and slapped me silly, while Private Bile waged a guerrilla attack. I eventually waved the white flag (er, that would be toilet tissue...) and gave in. I did feel better for a few minutes, if not completely exhausted.

And again last night--mid-supper, mind you!--the battle field was staged yet again. *sigh* I am now wondering if this is indeed better than dealing with the Nausea Bug. I know there are you crazy types out there who are nodding profusely, saying, "Yes! Yes!! Surrender to the Major!!!" But I have my doubts. Ah well.....each swing of this particular pendulum is an indication of a healthy Bean growing within. So I will do my best not to moan and groan, except while in the midst of hand-to-hand combat.

I guess it's time to buy stock in paper products.