Feelings

The news about the brokerage collapses have me all mixed up inside. I don’t have a personal stake in the Wall Street Mess. (We Benjamins are too poor to own a house or a money market account.) Yet I still feel unsettled, vulnerable.

When I was in college, I held the Economic Majors in high esteem. They were the practical girls, instead of us doe-eyed slobs in the Humanities Building. The Econ girls had graph paper notebooks, and thick calculators, and resumes with ascending levels of internships in chronological order.

I remember as a sophomore, following my senior idol, a fellow member of my debate team, to get her resume copied at our local copy shop. The anguished decision over the type of bond paper, the typewritten address labels, the mighty names of brokerages on Wall Street—of the things connected with an Econ Majors quest for employment seemed more exotic to me than a Junior Year Abroad Program in Burma.

In the dizzying moments of my career change, times when I constantly choose to follow my heart and completely ignore the practicality of money, I took a strange comfort in the road not traveled. The pledge drive for a 10-year college reunion might find me as a stay-at-home mother of two on Food Stamps. Still my experiences had to be unusual. That’s me, Abby Rupp, the odd girl from the Class of ’97. I took a left turn back in freshman year opting out of the practical Education Major for the unheard of American Studies Major. If I was now having hard economic times, that was foreseeable. Financial pain is par for my course.

I took comfort in the thought that other classmates “did things the right way.” They shopped the merry-go-round of campus interviews, landed “real” jobs at 22, turned in brilliant analyst reports and got rewarded with a bonus, a pension, and a paid MBA.

My college friends dined on endive salads in Manhattan apartments and struggled to find an excercise slot within a 90 plus hour work week. Meanwhile, I ate spaghetti with Prego and frozen peas in the suburbs with my three children while my husband postponed a triple cavity filling for another month in order to avoid delinquency with my student loan payments.

Our financial situations were opposed, but they both seemed fair. The scales seemed balanced. If I wished that my friends could “find Jesus,” it was in a mild, abstract way. I hoped they found time to pray in the middle of Step Class. I hoped they found a mate.

I certainly didn’t hope that the entire financial industry would collapse, or at least threaten to collapse, so that for the first time people with $800 heels suddenly worried about brownbag lunches and Prego sauce, and putting necessary cavity fillings on your father's credit card.

I’m worried about those Econ girls and all their male counterparts on Wall Street this week. I can handle my life, but some days it’s tough. Besides, I’ve had more practice. I ate Budget Gourmet in law school. I carefully separated the ramen noodles from the broth to give myself two courses at dinner as a lowly paid public interest servant. I went down to a single pair of shoes as a stay-at-home Mother.

Beside, I’ve always had the flakey artist thing going on. I’ve also had passion for old movies, and writing on ancient computers and squeezing unbelievably cute babies from an unbelievably sweet husband.

I worry, but then Jesus tells me not too. In Hosea 2 3, 14-16.

“I will strip her naked
and expose her as in the day she was born,
and make her like a wilderness
and turn her into a parched land
and kill her with thirst . . .

“Therefore, I will now persuade her,
and bring her into the wilderness,
and speak tenderly to her.
From there I will giver her her vineyards,
And make the Valley of Achor a door of hope.
There she shall respond as in the days of her youth, as at the time when she came out of the land of Egypt.
On that day, says the Lord, you will call me,
My Husband.”

I’m thinking about you Wall Street bankers and stock brokers today. You may be able to go to work at your same desk this morning, or you may be sitting at home. Regardless, Jesus has yanked all of us into the wilderness. Jesus has stripped away the illusion of financial security. It’s scary at first. You look around and only see ‘lack’-- a lack of food, a lack of water and a lack of shelter.

Yet I’ve been hanging out in the desert of financial uncertainty for a while. Let me show you around.

It’s harsh here, but beautiful. Here’s a place to test an inner strength you never knew you had. The friends who see you in your humility, the ones who lend you diapers when your babies run out, or who whip up baked lasagna when their own husbands are unemployed, or who join their hearts in prayer when you just can't take the collection calls anymore, those are the dear, dear friends. You can't make a single friend like that on a singles cruise in the Aegean Sea.

It is harsh here in the desert. Yet it is still. It is the perfect place to hear the soft, tender words of God.

I’ll be lifting you all up in intercessory prayer this week. I’ll do all the heavy work with the rosary right now. You just sit still and catch your breath.

Thanks for covering my class dues at our reunion back in 2007. I can’t wait to see where we all end up at 2017. I sort of hope all this financial turmoil will make the attendance at Catholic Mass during reunion week finally overwhelming.

Upside Down Kindergarten

One of the crazy outcomes of having a feminist mother with a PhD in Education, is that while I still have no idea how to treat most carpet stains, Bloom's hiearchy of knowledge is firmly entrenched in my mind. Bloom's theory is that children acquire information in set stages: knowledge, comprehension, application, analysis, synthesis, and evaluation. You can imagine these six stages lined up in a pyramid. Children are supposed to have the longest "base" of knowledge. Meanwhile, children are supposed to use their "evalation" skills the least since that sits on the tip of the pryamid.

Imagine my shock to read that teaching theory for "talented & gifted" children is the exact opposite. The information pyramid is turned upside. Talented kids are supposed to spend the MOST time on evaluation skills and the least on knowledge.

That's a pretty radical theory. It's the opposite of most Kindergarten classrooms. Kindergarten, at least in my area, spends most of the day learning concert knowledge such as phonics, handwriting, or counting sequence. Almost no time is spent creating things, asking deep "why" questions, or simply daydreaming.

My own personal Abby Benjamin theory is that ALL children learn in an inverted pyramid. For example, my daughter Maria is 15 months old. She barely has any concrete knowledge. She spends her entire day in the evaluation stage of learning. She picks up a block, puts it into her mouth and takes it out. She's not mastering "knowledge" which is defined as acquisition of facts. She's making judgement decision like "does this taste good?" "is this comfortable in my hand?" "do I like this or not like this?"

My three year old has an interesting evaluation of the American Revolution. He's decided, without much context, that "I like the Redcoats." Where does this evulation come from? Does he like the red uniform over the blue of the Contential Army? I don't know. I do know that it is really, really fun for me to explore the facts of the Revolutionary War from an entirely different prospective --pro-British

You won't believe how much the content of the facts change when you approach history from the ""wrong side." My Tory son is going to acquire a different slant of knowedge about the Boston Tea Party than his older sister. Yet this is so neat. This is part of the individual fingerprint of learning.

My twin collorlary is that the "best practices" for gifted and talented students are actually best for all students. Our society made a distinction to radically change the content of education for a few "gifted" students. Those select few are the only ones worthy of being trusted to direct their own education. Society also recognizes that it would be an incredible "waste of potential" if the wrong fit in school curriculum causes a student to disconnect from his own innate sense of wonder. I think the tragety of an impaired and dulled intellect are far more common that we currently recognize.

For now, I'm happy to find my unschooling approach neatly translated into educational lingo on this site.

http://www.dest.gov.au/sectors/school_education/publications_resources/profiles/gifted_education_professional_development_package.htm

Gospel Reading

Powerful Gospel Reading on the Anniversary of 9/11

Luke
"But I say to you that hear, Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you,
28 bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you.
29 To him who strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also; and from him who takes away your coat do not withhold even your shirt.
30 Give to every one who begs from you; and of him who takes away your goods do not ask them again.
31 And as you wish that men would do to you, do so to them.
32 "If you love those who love you, what credit is that to you? For even sinners love those who love them.
33 And if you do good to those who do good to you, what credit is that to you? For even sinners do the same.
34 And if you lend to those from whom you hope to receive, what credit is that to you? Even sinners lend to sinners, to receive as much again.
35 But love your enemies, and do good, and lend, expecting nothing in return; and your reward will be great, and you will be sons of the Most High; for he is kind to the ungrateful and the selfish.
36 Be merciful, even as your Father is merciful.
37 "Judge not, and you will not be judged; condemn not, and you will not be condemned; forgive, and you will be forgiven;
38 give, and it will be given to you; good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over, will be put into your lap. For the measure you give will be the measure you get back."

September 11th

This year my thoughts are with Jeremy Glick's family. Seven years ago I watch an interview with Jeremy Glick's widow. She talked about her husband's heroism on United Flight 93 and mentioned their newborn baby Emerson. I was the third month of my marriage. Her mention of Emerson hit a chord with me.

In some type of interior way, I knew that it would be a major tragety if Jon died before we had any children. I remember thinking "I want to have a baby with Jon? Right now?" I was 26, fresh out of seven years of straight schooling with a newly minted attorney license. When I married Jon in June, I hadn't thought babies were on the horizon until at least age 30.

But that interview, and that harrowing interior search for God in the months that followed 9/11, led me to Motherhood. Hannah might have been conceived in June 2002, yet she is a true 9/11 baby.

I say a prayer for Jeremy Glick and his family every time I marvel at the still spectaclar view of our Nation's Capital Dome. I heard that the terrorist had planned for the plane to go right into that marvel of architexture which held a Union together during the Civil War. I'm so thankful that on that awful day, we don't also have the memory of the symbol of our democracy in smoldering flames.

Thank you to the brave men of Flight 93 and all the brave firefighters, police and port authority members who exhibited saintly acts of charity on 9/11. (If you haven't yet seen "The Twin Towers" with Nicholas Cage and a beautiful image of Our Blessed Mother, that is a must see).

Today is also the birthday of a new friend of mine in Australia. Her mom was embarrassed to tell me the date of her scheduled C-section was 9/11. I told her that was beautiful. I'm grateful on this day of mourning, I've got such a special reason to rejoice. Welcome to the world Baby Balint-Smith.
*******

Notes: Last week, I remembered this intense feeling I had during the Glick interview. "I wonder why I could hear the voice of God so clearly." The decision to be open to life was such a radical change for me. I used to think that it was my intense love for my husband that brought me over my deep (and unfounded) fears of motherhood. "I didn't want to have a baby. I just wanted Jon's baby." That's how I explained it to myself and confounded friends at time. Now I see it as a direct result of sacramental grace. When I watched that TV interview- I was three months into a sacramental marriage. Grace corrects a faulty intellect. Yet another important sign of needed the grace of a "marriage" opposed to the cohabitiation which is so widely celebrated in our culture.)

"I'm going to need more to go on then that..."

During our trip to the grocery story, my five year old said,

"Mama, do you know the Saint that's in my mind right now? She's really, really holy. She always answers you right when you call her. She's Holy. HOLY. HOLY. Super, super holy! Do you remember that Saint's name?"

Um, that would be the definition of a saint-- so Hannah's helpful words didn't really narrow it down for me. Still have no idea who that was-but thank you Saint what's your name for inspiring my daughter so much!

My Own Episode of Office Space

In May, my husband gave up his office. His boss hired a new executive director to join the small consulting company of fifteen employees. The new hire made director number six. Only five private offices line up in a row in the modest office space. The boss had already reserved space in a new office complex a few blocks away. Yet construction was delayed, as construction always seems to be. The business move couldn’t happen until late summer. In the meantime, the new director would start out a new job in a lowly cubicle.

“A guy shouldn’t have to start out a brand-new job in a make-shift desk. Let’s make him feel welcomed,” my husband said. He had stopped by his boss’s office on his way home. “Trade mine and the new hirers places until the move. He can have my office and I’ll take his cubicle.”

His boss had all kinds of objections at first. My husband is a “Communication Manger.” That means he oversees anything visual that comes out of the office- trade magazines, brochures, signs, emails, etc. He also does intensive creative work, such as designing logos for clients. Over two years, his boss had carefully carved out two hours in the morning as “non-interruption design time” for Jon. Moving into a wall-less cubicle among the noisy chatter of the nine women, the “meetings staff” who constantly had to answer ringing telephones and chat about potential site locations didn't seem remotely conducive to Jon’s focused artistic work. “You really need an office,” the boss said.

My husband insisted. “We should start out on the right foot. The first few weeks at a new job are the hardest. I already know my way around here. I’ll be fine. After all, it’s only for a few weeks.”

Each day this summer, my husband came home happy and relaxed. He loved that the new cubicle was a “micro-space.” “All of my design files are now within arm’s reach. I don’t have to get out of my chair anymore. Everything is so convenient.” Mostly, he loved his new interactions with his co-workers. Yes, it was too noisy and his design work had slowed down.

Yet the wall between the women who were “just meetings staff” and my husband “a manager” had tumbled down. By moving geographically, he’d become one of them. Because he was within earshot, people started coming to him with tiny design questions and computer problems. My husband felt more in the “flow.” Since he knew what other people were working on, now he could better anticipate what projects were about to land on his desk. Most surprisingly husband, the quiet guy who tended to hide in the back, became friends with the two women who sat on either side of him. My husband started chatting about work and life and of course, his Catholic faith.

The office trade was hard, but it was worth it.

I walked around this summer so proud of my husband. This is what Christian humility looks like. These are the gifts that it brings.

When the move to bigger office space finally happened last week, my husband didn’t get an office. I knew about that intellectually. For about two weeks, my husband has struggled with uncomfortable, human feelings toward his boss and co-workers. His boss informed him that the new situation was “working so well” that she wanted him to stay in a cubical when they moved into the new office building. There were various reasons proposed for “collaboration purposes” and “overseeing future design staff.” None of them made much sense. As my husband struggled with his natural feelings, I eagerly played the part of supportive spouse. “It’s her decision. She’s your boss. Your job is to do the best you can each day. In this economy, we should just be thankful that you have a steady job.”

On Monday he called me from his same cubical in the new office building. “The phones are turned on. I’m all moved in,” he said. “I . . . I like it.” There was a little hitch in his voice.

“Well, we are excited for you. We want to come and see you installed in your new space,” I said.

“You don’t need to, Honey. Really,” he said.

“I really, really want to,” I said. I turned the burner off of the tacos and sheparded three kids into the car.

The new office space is a palace. There’s a corporate cafeteria and a subzero fridge in the kitchen area. Lots of fancy chandelier lights in the meeting room and fresh blue paint on the walls. Maria said “Hi” for the first time, a delight to the secretary.

“Where’s your office? Where’s your office? We can’t wait to see it!” I said eagerly.

My husband lead me to the back, into a second interior office space. White plastic dividers wall dividers had created sixteen cubicals. There were pencils and sweaters of the front two chairs. My husband’s computer and Mother of Divine Mercy Icon sat in the far back.

“Looks good,” I said. (Empty, Empty, Pathetic Space, I thought.) Trying to salvage a difficult moment, I thought hard. “Who is sitting next to you?” I said brightly. “Kate, right?”

“No one. I’m all by myself back here,” he said. “At least, I’m right by the printer,” he said. “That’s a big plus.”

I follow my husband extended hand to the empty space behind him where the office printer will soon sit. At that’s when I see them. Directly behind my husband, behind the thirteen empty cubicles, sit five empty offices.

FIVE.

Empty.

Offices.

My husband, the “Director of Communications” now has our kids’ picture set up in a lowly whitewashed cubicle while five private offices sit unused behind him.

I stood there in silence, while all my kids raced around Daddy. I had to sallow bile.

Ignoring all the commotion, I walked in front of an empty office and I prayed. I made myself pray for his boss. I prayed and prayed for God to bless her. I prayed for all of his co-workers. I prayed for help in forgiving all of them.

I walked out of that office a mess and tried to sort out my feelings. If my husband had started out in a cubicle, it would have been fine. We were so grateful to finally have any paying work after a hard job hunt in New York City. The problem is that he used to have an office. He had a “real” space of his own. He had a space where he could hang his oil paintings and a door he could close when we came to visit during his lunch hour. He went to work each day in a tie and he had an office. Now he doesn’t.

The loss of an office is a psychological demotion.

My husband is fine. He went to Daily Mass on Tuesday and then went to confession. He received surprising advice from our priest. He expected the pries to say “suck it up.” Instead, the priest said “if the offices are really empty, you can go ask for one.” So my husband asked for an office. His boss wasn’t accommodating. I’m not sure what the end result will be. He came home last night, more at peace. “At least it’s clear that I want an office now. I did my part. The rest is in other people’s hands.”

My husband is too exhausted from allergies to read my blog anymore, so now I can gush about him freely!

I'm married to an extraordinary man. When I met him, he worked at a hospital laboratory and spent his nights painting fascinating oils based on the body’s capillary system. His MFA is from one of the top schools in the nation. His rigorious training shows up in the skill, speed, and originality of all of his design work. As a college professsor, he was adored by students and Department chairs. In this man’s head, there is an idea about the merger between science and art that is as unique as his fingerprint.

If my husband would reduce his paycheck, to the normal "starving artist" market level, he could go almost anywhere. He could take an internship at one of the hot design houses in New York City of Washington D.C. He could live off of stale almonds and paint giant canvases in freezing warehouse studios. If he didn't mind moving his family from one small town to another every two to three years, he could work his way up the tenure track as a college professor.

Instead, my husband broke out of the whole artist as "a solidary wolf" model in a pretty dramatic way. He got married. He started what we both hope will be a large family. Now, he takes his job as sole-provider seriously. He found a job with a steady paycheck in a city where we love to live.

Every weekday, my husband dresses himself on an oxford shirt, a hand-me down tie from my brother, and the snakeskin shoes I splurged on for Christmas. My husband walks to work, because we can't afford a second car. He walks to work because in July, someone stole the free bike he salvaged from the trash.

My husband's humble sacrifice didn’t start in May when he traded office space with a new hire. My husband’s sacrifice started when he married me.

St. Joseph the Worker, bless our husbands. Keep them safe from harm. Help them see the face of God in their workspace. May God bless them abundantly as they toil as faithful servants. A cubicle, an office, or an outdoor construction site always has equal dignity as part of God’s vineyard for a humble Catholic father.

Feast Day of St. Peter Claver

Today is the Feast Day of St. Peter Claver. In the 1600s, this saint ministered to the kidnapped victims in the African Slave Ships off the coast of Columbia. He entered the ship hulls with food, medicine and catechists fluent in African dilects. His ministry and anti-slavery crusade was sharply criticized by the South American Catholic population at the time. The difficult conditions and hostile poltical climite were no match for St. Peter Claver zeal. As my priest explained this morning, "St. Peter Claver knew that all healing comes from Jesus Christ. He saw people in horrible misery after being chained together in a ships hull for a three month ocean crossing. He brought them medicine. He brought them food. But most of all, he brought them the healing touch of Jesus Christ Himself." It is estimated that St. Peter Claver baptized at least 300,000 souls.

St. Peter Claver, pray for us. Help us heal the bitter legacy of slavery and end racial hatred everywhere.

Happy Birthday Mary!

Today's Mass Reading is the Geneology of Jesus from the Book of Matthew. Father Francisco gave his homily on how many sinners were a part of Jesus' family tree- Judan, Tamar, David, etc. So many sinners. Father said that on his first year at St. Martin's of Tours, this reading fell on Christmas Day. He used his homily to talk about "how many sinners are a part of Jesus' family tree." You are missing his gorgous Madrid accent, but he went on to say "Someone wrote to the Bishop! And the Bishop, he called me and say "Father what did you say in your Christmas homily about Jesus being from a sinning family?' And I say "Bishop, I say Jesus has many sinners in his family tree." The Bishop, he say, "But Father, that is true." I say, "I know Bishop!"

It is sometimes hard for us to remember that Jesus did not come from a perfect human family. Jesus came from a family marred by sin. Yet this is beautiful, because Our Lady, holy and sinless, came into that same family. Her sinlessness allowed Jesus to free all of us from sin.

Happy Birthday Blessed Mother!

Today we sang "Happy Birthday" to the Marian Statue in our Church. Immediately afterwards, on the church steps, I ran into a woman who said "I have a gift for you?" I looked puzzled. I knew the woman slightly from church but couldn't imagine why she would have a present for me. "You left an intention in my prayer book for my pilgramage to Lourdes. I brought you home a prayer card and water from Lourdes," the woman said. I thanked her and got all excited about explaining to Hannah that this water came all the way from St. Bernadette's home in Lourdes, France. It wasn't until I walked away that I remembered what I had prayed for Our Lady to send us . . .

"a fifth Benjamin baby when the time was right."

In mid-August, I got my period on a Saturday morning. I felt so sad. At 33, that easy fertility, I once had has evaporated. I didn't think I could handle going to my monthly women of prayer meeting. I sat in our parish hall feeling awful. My body ached and my mind felt worse.

Then a women announced that she was blessed with a pilgramage to Lourdes and would take our prayer requests with her. My soul felt all this joy and peace. This next baby was just going to require more prayer from me. I had nothing to fear because St. Bernadette, the saint who is an adored a twin sister to me, had just sent me a strong signal grace that she was on the case.

So today, on Our Blessed Mother's Birthday, she gave me a present!

THANK YOU!

Hurrah For Baby Trig

It did my heart so good to hear Sarah Palin speak last night. Mostly, however, I adore seeing Cindy McCain and later big sister Piper hold little baby Trig. Did you love it when Piper licked her hand and smoothed down Trig's messy hair? That's the stuff that happens in my house!

This is my first election as a registered Republican. (I converted to Catholicism and the prolife cause in 2001. In 2004, I refused to vote at all for president. I hated that John Kerry had recently adopted the "pro-stem cells" position. At the same time, I blamed George Bush for the Iraq War.) It's such a special grace to have the chance to support a strongly pro-life Mother of five in this election.

Dear God, we pray that during this election cycle that many hearts will be changed. We pray that more mothers with Down Syndrome babies start to feel God's special grace for their teeny babies with special needs.

My Remote Cooperation With Evil

Yesterday was Maria's one year physical. Asute readers will realize that my youngest is actually 16 months old. I kept putting off the dreaded MMR vaccine. I kept praying for a miracle.

In 1960, a rubella outbreak spread through Pennsylvania. Lots of pregnant women caught the virsus. Their unborn babies risked severe medical complications including blindness. The mother and father of WI-38, choose to abort their baby and donate his remains "to science." Scientists at Merck used a piece of the baby's lung tissue to make a vaccine which 40 years later prevent my Maria from catching rubella and passing that disease on to her unborn sibling or another innocent baby.

I really hate abortion. I know that vaccines are a remote cooperation with evil, but I hate that those poor parents are probably consoling themselves with the crime of murder by telling themselves that "at last their baby helped children." I don't sit in judgement. It absolutely sucks to get hit with the news that your baby can have a fatal disease while you are pregnant. It sucks more to bury a baby.

Because I'm a mother who hit both of those situations, I also know the truth. Only God can heal us. God's love wraps us up in those moments. His love holds a mother up during the scary conversation in the Ob office. His love holds us up at the grave site service and all the lonely nights afterwards.

The real sin of the vaccines is that they are one more of Satan's lies saying that the sin of abortion "is necessary" or "for a good end." It's the lie of my trusted Ped who says "whats the big deal? All the mothers in my son's Catholic school say it's not a big deal because it happened so long ago."

And I'm left at Maria's 9 month old doctor's appointment, holding the Vatican report on vaccines saying, "Well, it is a big deal."

It's a big deal because I want a choice. I want to be able to exercise my religious conscience AND have a kid who is protected from spreading disforming diseases to other unborn children. I want an ethical Rubella vaccine.

So, I prayed. I procrastinated. I badgered friends who have husbands in high places in relevent gov't offices.

Yesterday, I showed up 3 months late and submitted Maria to the unethical MMR vaccine.

It stunk! I actually had a empathic new doctor, (our Mother looked out for me in the Ped rotation yesterday). She is an immigrant from India and told me that she helped her kids dodge all types of vaccines. She offered to give Maria only Measels and Mumps, and let her try to catch Rubella on her own before age 16. After all my prayer and thought on this issue, that just didn't seem like a good course.

I told my doctor that I was ready to submit to the MMR, but I need to make a big record that I firmly objected to this unethical vaccine. My doctor was super kind. She tracked down the head vaccine person from Kaiser Permenente. She promised to send her own internal memo on this subject.

When the stick time came, I knelt down in the vaccination room. I prayed for the baby that died. I prayed for his parents. I prayed for forgiveness. I told the nurse right before the needle stick "I really wish I didn't have to do this. I'm against abortion and this vaccine used cells from a voluntarily aborted fetus."

The nurse said "I just heard that from the doctor. I never knew that before."

My small, small consolation in all of this is that now 2 doctors and 2 nurses know that the Merck MMR vaccine is made from cells from an actual child.

We left the doctor's office in tears, my tears and Miss Maria's tears. We're supposed to go back in 8 weeks for a chicken pox vaccine, also unethical. That's a far harder balance for me. It's harder for me to balance that chicken pox poses a public health risk to others.

Please join me in an act of sacrafice for WI-38 parents today.

Saint Augustine's Feast Day

There are so many reasons to love this dear Saint. I'm reading "Confessions" today and stumbled upon this wonderful passage: "I learned all this, indeed, without being urged by any pressure of punishment, for my own heart urged me to bring forth its own conceptions." Such a lovely description of the joy of "unschooling." Just what I needed to read today!

From Saint Augustine, Bishop of Hippo, "Confessions":

Chapter 14. Why He Despised Greek Literature, and Easily Learned Latin.

23. But why, then, did I dislike Greek learning which was full of like tales? For Homer also was skilled in inventing similar stories, and is most sweetly vain, yet was he disagreeable to me as a boy. I believe Virgil, indeed, would be the same to Grecian children, if compelled to learn him, as I was Homer. The difficulty, in truth, the difficulty of learning a foreign language mingled as it were with gall all the sweetness of those fabulous Grecian stories. For not a single word of it did I understand, and to make me do so, they vehemently urged me with cruel threatenings and punishments. There was a time also when (as an infant) I knew no Latin; but this I acquired without any fear or tormenting, by merely taking notice, amid the blandishments of my nurses, the jests of those who smiled on me, and the sportiveness of those who toyed with me. I learned all this, indeed, without being urged by any pressure of punishment, for my own heart urged me to bring forth its own conceptions, which I could not do unless by learning words, not of those who taught me, but of those who talked to me; into whose ears, also, I brought forth whatever I discerned. From this it is sufficiently clear that a free curiosity has more influence in our learning these things than a necessity full of fear. But this last restrains the overflowings of that freedom, through Your laws, O God—Your laws, from the ferule of the schoolmaster to the trials of the martyr, being effective to mingle for us a salutary bitter, calling us back to Yourself from the pernicious delights which allure us from You.

Portfolio Review-Or Liking The Thing You Thought You'd Hate

As further proof that God uses all things for his glory, I have now become the biggest fan of the "portfolio review." For those of you blessed to have either "school in a box" or a State that doesn't micromanage your home education curriculum, this sounds odd.

I live in the 16th largest school district in the United States (Montgomery County) in a state with some of the most stringent home schooling laws.

The way home education works in Maryland is that you choose one of three options. Option A, is the portfolio review, where you meet up with a public school administrator twice a year for a review of your child's school work. If the work is not up to par, you get a 30 day remedial period. If the child hasn't made satisfactory progress, you kid is immediately placed in public school.

Option B is to go with a special correspondence school (only two are licensed in the whole State.) Option C is to go with an approved home education curriculum. Under Option B and C, the local school board has nothing to do with you beyond filing a piece of paper. All assessment of your child's progress is left to be completely monitored by the home ed school of your choice.

Everyone who home schools in my parish assured me that it was "impossible" not to go with Mother Seaton, the only Catholic Home School curriculum approved by the State of Maryland. (Which I find hysterically ironic that there are multiple Amish, Mennonite and Free-Will Baptist curriculum available, but only one Catholic curriculum in the state where American Catholic Church began!) Even with the Mother Seaton set, I was strongly advised to sign up for the Home-School Defense Fund and remain on guard for unmerited reports by concerned neighbors to Children's Services.

Going the easy way is never really an option with the Benjamin Family. We prayed and prayed and prayed. It seemed pretty clear that while Mother Seaton has beautifully educated one of my favorite people (Maria from Ordinary Time), it isn't a good option for Hannah. As my husband blithely said "you can either have the daily stress of trying to enforce a curriculum that doesn't fit, or you can have two days of great stress as you meet with the school board each semester." We opted finally for the two days of great stress.

So now I'm trying to figure out what goes into the portfolio? Which is a much larger questions "how do you document unschooling?" and "if you measure something does it change the thing you are trying to measure?"

I'm going to print out the state kindergarten guidelines for Math, Language Arts, Science and Social Studies. I'm just going to file them in the back of the portfolio and check them off as we go along. I also invested in a Teacher Planner Book. There's no grand plan. Rather I just stop every so often and write down what we did that day.
The benefit is that while, I think that we spend most of our day simply "hanging out together", in hindsight there is quite a lot of learning activities going on that would make even the most stringent public administrator proud. That hungry crocodile game just appeared during one quiet nap time.

The benefit of the portfolio review is that it forces me to better reflect and record what happens each day. I'm please to realize in a concert way that what we call "living life" has other official educational names. For example, Hannah's home-made comic book is also called "mastering the concept of return sweep." I feel like I've moved from "Teacher" with a capital T, to 'scribe' with a small s. In my heart, I know this is where God means for me to be.

One of the most complicated thing I had to do as a swimming instructor was teach a kid how to float. There are lots of guidelines in the Red Cross handbook about how to teach the arm movements in free-style or the breaststroke kick. There is no strategy for teaching a kid how to float. Yet, all of swimming depends on that basic building block.

The problem is learning how to float is counter-intuitive. You need to completely relax in the water and "trust" that this "dangerous" substance will hold you.

To teach the youngest swimming class, I didn't focus much on this one critical skill which determined whether the kid passed or needed to repeat the class. Instead, I focused on gaining confidence in the water. I played crazy splashing games. We pretended the water was a boa constrictor that ate us slowly, first the feet, then the knees, etc.

On the last few classes, I held the kids in the water on their backs. My only direction was "put your ears in the water." I held then with both hands until I could feel the tension in their bodies relax. I asked their permission first to drop on hand, and finally simply hold up their bodies with the pressure from one finger. The way I taught kids how to go from "non-swimmers to swimmers" wasn't written in any textbook. I simply hung out patiently in the water with them for 8 weeks. When they were ready to try to float on their own, they told me. I was there to catch them if they sunk. In a class which was supposed to have a 35 percent average failure rate, I never, ever had a kid not be able to easily pass the critical floating test by last day of class.

I hope that this "hang out in the water thing" will work in a similar way for reading and math. As my kid's teacher, I naturally go for the more unstructured "wait, follow the kid's lead" approach. I'm so blessed to have this extra time together. I love hearing Alex theorize that the "red ball" will go faster in our gravity experiment because "red is the fastest color."

I'll leave you some notes on my blog from our journey this year. It's a little intimidating in the beginning, but we are already blessed with beautiful views.

Math Games

Here's a fun way to explain "greater than" and "less than".

Take a small piece of paper. Write a "<" sign. Embellish with crocodile teeth. On the opposite side write a "=" sign.

Play Go Fish (or any other card game).

Have you kid deal the cards, counting out the right number for each person.
After the first match, explain that this is a special kind of hungry crocodile. His hungry mouth always wants to point to the person with the most pairs of matching cards.

Change the crocodile around whenever another player has more in his match pile.

Whenever there is a tie, flip the paper over to show "equals."

Hannah loved this visual way of keeping score. The whole greater, less than, and equal concept made complete sense to her in this circumstance. I was surprised to discover the >, <, = symbols are listed as 3rd Grade math.

As an added bonus, this concept cut down on her innate competition. She didn't freak out that I got a match as much as soon as she figured out that a score of 4 matches Mom to 6 matches kid, didn't flip the hungry crocodile around. (Did I mention that my kid easily beats me in Go Fish?)

Just another day messing around ias an unschooler. I love these type of "happy accidents."

Amazing Olympic Story

My "paste" button isn't working today. Don't miss an incredible story behind the Catholic Olympian who served as the flag bearer for the United States of America.

Lopez is a "lost boy" from the Sudan. At age six he was kidnapped from his parent's side at Catholic Mass! The rebel soldiers broke into Church during Mass and stole all the young children at gun point. Can you imagine what his parents felt staring at the tabernacle after their children were stolen?

I can't imagine the intensity of those prayers. Prayer works, because it is an incredible miracle that he survived. After living in starvation circumstances in a heavily guarded rebel camp, some older boys took pity on this child. They helped him escape through a hole in the wall. The teenagers carried him for 3 days to Kenya. His little legs were too small to walk run that far. When runaways arrived, the older children were deemed too old to enter the refugee camp. Those boys were returned to the Sundanese government--probably to die. Only this little six year old got into the safety of the camp.

The refuge camp life was horribly hard. His education consisted of learning how to write letters in the dirt. After 10 years, Lopez (who got his nickname from Catholic missionaries) was told to "write an essay on why you want to go to the United States." Lopez said it was the most intense test he ever took in his life. For two days he sat in silence staring at the paper. Then he just wrote what was in his heart. He said it was a total mess, half in English/ half in Swahili. He didn't even notice the language switch before he turned it in.

He got picked to come to the United States. Catholic Social Services moved him into a Catholic family near Syracuse New York. His adopted mother described his crazy first day of school at age 15. "The English teacher assigned an in class essay titled "write about a book you read last summer. Lopez was called on second. He stood up and said "I've never owned a book. For the next twenty-five minutes, out tumbled a long auto-biographical account of his life. The entire class sat in amazed silence. I had my phone ringing off the hook with all these parents saying "is this true about Lopez?" She said "it's amazing. Lopez is in an all-white suburban school and by the second day, he was best friends with everyone." (This family ended up taking 5 Lost Boys from Sudan).

Now Lopez is an Olympic distance runner! It's incredible. I have even more respect for our Catholic Bishops after reading that they were the one's who got the US to change their immigration policy about unaccompanied minors in order to let the Lost Boys immigrate into the United States.

St Jane Frances de Chantal Feast Day

What an amazing saint! Saint Jane loved her husband dearly. He died after being accidentially shot by a close family friend in a tragic hunting accident. Her husband forgive his friend on his death bed. "Don't commit the sin of hating yourself when you have done nothing wrong."

Jane struggled to match her husband's mercy. At first, Saint Jane made herself greet the man on the street. After some time, she made herself invite the man to dinner. Then she invited him into her house for dinner. Soon she had reconciled herself so completely, she served as godmother to the man's child.

This experience brought St. Jane close to God. She eventually developed a close spiritual friendship with Saint Fracis de Sales. St. Jane founded her own religious order taking in many of women who were deemed to old or sick to join other religious orders.

Saint Jane pray for us! Help us to forgive those people who severely hurt us. Help us to find the share you same peace in God during our most difficult struggles.

H/T: "Saints and Angels, Catholic Online"

Answers

Remember in an earlier post when I said "Our Lady tends to eschew theological discussions." Well, that certainly needs to be amended to "Our Lady tends to hold off on deep theological discussions until we are ready to truly listen. Man, did my head get expanded by this amazing lecture by our new parish priest, Father Avelino.

Father has taken his priesthood formation training from seminary and adapted it to us laity aspire to holiness. The basic idea is that the four elements of healthy humanity need to be developed equally in all of us: our relationships, our spirituality, our intellect and our apostolic ministry.

His talk was so deep and multi-layered. I'm sure that I'll be posting about different parts for the next few weeks.

Sitting in the lecture I had two overpowering thoughts. The first one, is that I'm clearly being called to join the lay Carmelite order. My husband and I have both discerned this call for awhile now. For months, I've started to see signs every where. Father mentioned the lay Carmelite order, just in passing during his speech, and I felt this tap on my head. It was a purely physical reaction my body had to those three words. It's becoming more and more obvious that this is where Jon and I are supposed to go.

The second over-powering thought is that I finally have a verbal words to all this vague feelings I had about my reasons for home-schooling.

In my life, I grew up with the intellect entirely separated from the rest of my soul. My parents are both strong Protestants, they are both college professors and they both actually teach at a Methodist college. Yet they raised me to have this strict wall between the "reason" part of my brain and the "faith" part. I went to public school and learned stuff there. Then I went to Sunday School and learned other stuff in that classroom. The stuff in the two classrooms never mixed.

The most extreme example of this division came in law school. We were trained by our professors NEVER to make value judgments. We couldn't argue one outcome was "better" or more "fair." We couldn't say "justice demands this." I had to check my heart at the door and make decisions on abstract legal concepts, which were more "fair" for being cold, reasonable and above feelings or emotions.

I know now, that the law does not operate in a vacuum. Real flesh and blood judges made decisions on gut feelings or sympathy all of the time. This artificial division of a law based on "pure reason" isn't accurate.

My hope for Hannah, is that she pursues her life as a Catholic. Being Catholic means someone who has faith, reason, passion all integrated in her life. The intellect is a means to "know God." It's important for her to learn how to read and write. Yet those are not goals in and of themselves. Her intellect has value only in so far as she uses her mind in harmony with her faith. That harmony is something I hope to model as Hannah's mom and as her kindergarten teacher.

There are so many wonderful, wonderful saints in the Arts and in the Sciences. My hope is that every thing we study, from addition to astronomy to the ABC, keep pointing us back to a deeper understanding of our faith.

I'm teaching because I want to be there to help heal this false division between reason and religion. I'm teaching because I'm excited about standing in that gap.

Curious George - Better Together, Jack Johnson

Who knew "Curious George" was so religious?
The authors were German Jews who had to escape the Natzi's on bicycle with a copy of their beloved children's book as one of their few possessions. Curious George was based on a little boy with Down Syndrome who escaped from an institution back in Early 20th Century Hamburg, Germany. His name has been lost in the ravages of WWII. It's believed that he was killed by the Natzis.

Jack Johnson - Talk of the Town (Audio)

Fantastic song I heard during Curious George.

Coming Out of the Fog

Thursday, I dragged a sick dog and three kids to the vet's office office in the midst of the Thunderstorm. I had one of those "should I really be doing this?" moments. It was a crazy dash to get the over-due library books into the car ahead of the rainstorm. Then I struggled to arm the troops with correctly sized plastic raincoats and spiderman umbrellas. None of those precautions had much effect since the dramatic rain soaked everyone as I struggled to find the seat belt buckles which are buried deep under a mash of three car seats in a single back seat.

When we got to the vet, it was similar chaos. A small baby to keep dry, a jumpy dog, two pre-schoolers who are not the most reliable in taking directions in crowded parking lots. I decided to leave the stroller in the car. A mistake I had to correct when the receptionist mentioned a 45 minute wait. That would be 45 minutes with 3 kids + a dog in a gigantic tempting pet warehouse. (Our vet hospital is inside our local Petsmart).

All my effort to get us to the vet during Thursday's free office visit hours seemed wasted. The dog's suspected UTI meant we had to pay the office visit fee. She needed $90 of antibiotics and expensive dog food. The worse part, is that Alex was beyond feral during the long wait inside the vet's office.

There's the point of motherhood when the demands on your time are so crazy, you just can't believe they are real. Most of the time, I can handle things with grace. We make up silly games to entertain ourselves. We talk about dog teeth, and cavities, and make up crazy lists about animals that can eat you.

Then there was yesterday. I had a female vet trying earnestly to explain complicated things about dogs and kidney crystals, while I held a 3 year old, who for some sudden and unexplained reason started biting my shoulder and kicking off his croc sandels, while my baby cried to be picked up out of her stroller, my 5 year old asked loudly when we were LEAVING, and my sick, scared dog tied circles around my legs with her dog leash.

People look at you in those chaotic moments of motherhood with complete judgment and utter lack of sympathy. And then they help you out.

So the vet broke the rules, and let the vet aid walk my sick dog outside to get the necessary testing sample. The Pet Smart employee let me hold up the line to find the dropped prescription label for the uber expensive medical dog food. When I finally got all the kids strapped into the car, I found out

THAT MY BATTERY WAS DEAD!

In the midst of the crazy exit in the rainstorm, I'd completely forgotten that I'd left the lights on. Since this entire vet episode took two hours, that ended up being a long time.

I hadn't even fully processed that I had a dead battery miles from home, before a helpful woman in the car next to mine offered to jump start my car. It didn't work, but her kindness was appreciated.

I raided the glove compartment but couldn't find the Geico road assistance card which is always, always in there. The windows were all rolled up. There was no way to unroll them without electricity. So the jumpy dog joined us as we decamped the car and headed back into Pet Smart. I borrowed a cellphone to call my husband.

I don't even know what my voice sounded like, it must have been pretty bad. "I'm at Pet Smart. I've been here since 3. I've got all the kids and the dog. We've had a rough time and now the car battery is dead. I forgot and left the light on. I can't find the Geico number anywhere. You've got to call a tow truck for us."

That's when we officially hit pathetic. We're the last people in America without a cellphone. We don't have a second car. We live in an apartment complex where everyone works, so there is no friendly neighbor to call for help.

It's just me, and the kids, and the dog at Pet Smart with a broken car.

Yet God adores the pathetic. He always helps.

The wait for the tow-truck ends up being an adventure. Alex says he's hungry. (Its 5:15 PM) I joke that the only thing in Pet Smart is dog food and does he want some. The kids with their laser eyesight insist they did see people food inside the store. I head back inside and find cracker-jacks and bottled water. We have an impromptu picnic on the entry way where all the grocery carts are kept.

The awful thunderstorm has returned. After a while 30 people join us in the waiting area. No one wants to venture out to their cars until the thunder stops. We're no longer odd balls for hanging around the shopping carts.

The amazing part, is that all three kids, who misbehaved so awfully during the long wait at the vet's office, suddenly turn into sweet angels. There was lots to do and see. There was cracker jack prizes to look for and seconds to count between lightning and thunder claps. There were rain rivers to stare at. They named a stranger's new gold fish "Spiderman" and "Ben." Finally, there was Mr. James, our smiling tow truck operator who got our battery restarted in the pouring rain.

When I got home, my husband rushed out in a panic. "You poor, poor thing!" he said.

"It wasn't that bad. It was sort of fun!" I told him. I was shocked to realize that it was true. When I first left the vet's office, I felt so discouraged, back when I thought I still had a working car. After the dead battery, my kids really surprised me. They didn't seem so very young, or so very much work anymore.

We're a humble family, us Benjamins. We've got some strikes against us. We live in a very expensive city. We had outrageous amount of student loan debt. We're the only Catholics in our family. We insist on having too many children, too close together. We get wet and tired and hungry and cranky. Yet we are also resilient. Only we can have fun together while being stranded at Pet Smart.

Sometimes things have to get worse, before they get better.

Irreverence

On Monday, I got into a screaming match with Our Lady. A no holds barred yelling and crying bout with our Blessed Mother in the "private" family restroom in a rest stop off of Maryland's East Route 68. To clarify my mental state slightly, I wasn't actually yelling "at Mary." I screamed and cried at a blue tile above my head which caught my eye during my frantic Haily Mary.

I emerged from our crowded PT Cruiser in a panic. I left Jon to deal with the tangle of car seat straps, errant strollers and sleepy kid limbs. I'd spent the last two hours crying into my jacket sleeve after the emotional fog of a visit to my childhood home. Two babies slept on the ride back, but the mentally acute five year old was busy writing her "novel" with a new Hannah Montana pen.

Being careful of "little pitcher ears" sort of put a damper on communication with my husband. For two hours our conversation went in an endless loop.

Me: "I feel like a crushed bug."

Him: "I'm so sorry. Can you tell me about it."

Me: "Well, I'm feeling bad because -----" and off I'd launch into some angry observations which were left sort of intentionally vague and said with names or pro-nouns to protect my listening five year old.

Him: "You cannot say that. I understand how you feel, but you can not say that. I'm pretty sure it's a violation of the 4th Commandment."

Me: "Are you sure it's a violation, because technically I didn't...."

Him: "We're supposed to honor the spirit of the commandment Abby. The spirit..."

At which point, at least my "listen to your husband training" kicked in. "He's here to help me get into heaven," I'd think to myself. "He probably has a point." In a few minutes my temper would cool. I forget and forgive whatever petty grievance I had in the moment.

And then I felt MISERABLE. Without anger or gossip or superiority to distract me, I kept falling back into this giant puddle of goo. This foggy depressive midst that somehow envelops whenever I touchdown in my small hometown with 4 stoplights on Main Street.

"How was your trip? How was your trip?" the kind voices on the telephone will ask me in a few hours.

What do I say?

I was supposed to be posting about how cool it hear small town quiet again. How you can hear distinct sounds while sitting on a front porch on Main Street. The insistent buzz of the sawmill five blocks over, the puncture of barking dogs, the crawl of pick-up trucks that automatically go 25 miles in town, or strange insect noises you can't indentify.

I took some "arty" photos of an old rope swing on our apple tree or a house a block from my house with a weather porch and peeling paint. I never expected to get nostagic about peeling paint. Where I live now, all the houses are new brick or plastic siding.

The problem with going home, is that it's never one thing. It's never simply sweet. Yes, there's the hilarity of watching Hannah turn mental cartwheels over my sisters 30 year old vintage My Little Pony Collection. Maria taught herself how to climb stairs and plunk piano keys. My son told my 92 year old Grandfather that "he loved him" and "he missed him."

At the same time, there's just layers and layers of layers of sadness. There are awful, awful memories I have associated with that environment. Those memories show up in the most innocent moments. Suddenly I'm creeped out that my kids are here chasing humming birds.

Here's an example. Friday morning was the county-wide garage sale. If you planned on having a garage sale in the summer, you chose August 8th. People came from several county's to drive around down-town hopping from one yard sale to the next one. My mom suggested that we take the kids to the Episcopal Church to check out the giant toy sale sponsored by the Literacy Volunteers of Upshur County.

I stood in front of a heap of old, dusty toys trying to help Alex decide between spending his dollar on the broken remote controlled Monster Truck or the no-longer battery operated plastic Christmas Train set.

Then this memory of standing in the same parish hall intrudes. The last time I was in the church was for a funeral of a grown-up that I only knew slightly yet I really adored, who had committed suicide. I was 18 years old. I came to the funeral at the Episcopal Church with my Mom.

The funeral service marked the first time I heard the true West Virginia anthem called "My Home Among the Hills." The service was light and airy. The music sounded gorgous. The light from the stain glass windows were soothing. The pastor said some kind words and quoted some vague Bible Verses.

I sat frightened in that church pew with my uncommunicative Mother and tried to piece my insides back together. The music helped. "It's going to be okay. It's going to be okay. Somehow this is all going to be alright."

My mom asked if I wanted to stand in line to greet the young widow after the service. I said yes. My heart felt stronger and more certain after that church service.

I stood in the long condolence line in the parish hall. The line moved slowly. We were there for a long time.

I started look around. There were dozens of pictures of recent parish events. I looked them over distractedly.

Suddenly, I was eyeball to eyeball with the Dead Guy.

"I can't believe he's dead," I thought.

I stared closer. He had glasses. A funny old-fashioned beard. Eyes that crinkled.

"He always looked so happy. He had so much fun. . . "

Then I start staring at the date stamp below the man's face. I do the mental calculations.

They took this picture ten days before his death. Before his suicide.

I had this intense moment of understanding and fear, and disbelief all at once. I couldn't explain it to my Mom at the time. I think I can only hint at it now, at age 34.

Somehow, it hit me that this was wrong. You weren't supposed to be able to be happy at a church pot luck supper and then ten days later shoot yourself. Church was supposed to mean more than that. Church was supposed to protect you. Faith was supposed to "matter."

If my friend who showed up for nearly empty pot luck suppers, who tithed generously, who fulfilled countless community service hours . . . My friend, an actual adult, if my friend could do all the things we were "supposed" to do and still fell off the face of the earth hours later, what hope was there for me?

I'm probably not describing it well. Mental illness is complicated and often tragic. I know that now as an adult. I don't think I'd be as freaked out now if I went to a "happy funeral" where a suicide victim's cause of death wasn't addressed, where no prayers were offered for the dead, where only happy songs of "home" were sung, I don't think it would matter so much.

As a kid, however, I was far more vulnerable. I felt like I smashed my toe against an uncomfortable truth. There are real, real consequences to being in a church that in my language of the time "wasn't real." (Now I'd say, "without valid sacraments"). That knowledge of a disconnect between the familiar actions of 'social' church and a deep interior sense of protective Faith and peace, scared me.

I remember wanting to run away. I remember telling my mom over and over that I wanted to leave. She told me that we couldn't change our minds now, "it would look rude." I remember not having any words for the young widow. I remember being the only one in line who couldn't speak because I kept crying instead.

So that is the memory I had while standing in the Parish Hall, filling out the pro-con list of non-working plastic items with a 3 year old, and suddenly staring at a Yellow Bulletin Board with a mosaic of "What the Transfiguration Means to Me!" I don't remember now what the happy Crayola crayon written statements said, but none of them seemed remotely right to me. "This church isn't Catholic," I thought. Then WHAM. That memory came back in a tangible way. I wanted to leave immediately. It was hard to make myself stand patiently in line to pay for the plastic Christmas train.

So that is what happened to me, 700 times over the short weekend break. There were good things, of course. I found a book of poems written by the Mom of a high school classmate. I found out that a real live children's book series is based on my hometown. I found out that an dear friend is also considering home-schooling.

There were also just lots of sad, sad moments.

Everything added up to a miserable, depressed car trip home.

I got into that restroom, alone for the first time in four days, and starting to wash my grimy hands. In the mirror ahead of me, my eyeballs were pink. "Better pray, while I can."

I started out the same. 'Hail Mary, full of Grace. . ."

I caught a flash of blue tile in the border above me. "She's here. She can hear me."

"If she's here, I'm got something to really talk about!"

And right after "pray for us now," I launched into my angry pray request list. Out loud. With emphatic hand gestures that flung water droplets all over the bathroom.

"Why Did You Send Me On This Assignment! It is impossible!" I listed my long list of grievances. And I complained about the strict code of conduct imposed on me by the 4th commandment. And I plead for grace. Actually, plead sounds to much like a politely worded request in front of a District Court Judge. I demanded grace. "If you going to give me this ridiculously impossible assignment, you better provide ALL of the forgiveness part, because I've got NONE right now."

Again. This was not a mental conversation in the quiet of my heart. There was nothing "quiet" about my demeanor.

This was a spirited discussion, a serious of words screamed at a blue tile five feet above my head on a rest room wall.

At some point in my tirade, I thought "Someone might hear me." I pictured someone breaking down the door and dragging me to the lunacy ward. Then I started having a mental conversation with the lunacy ward captain while still verbally screaming my complaints to Our Lady.

The mental conversation went something like this. "I know this blue tile isn't the Virgin Mary. I don't actually see her. But she's real to me. She's everywhere. She hears me. So I might as well emphatically imagine that this blue tile is Our Blessed Mother. Because she's here. Because she's real."

The answer I got wasn't the patient explanation of why suffering occurs or how my life struggle contributes to the building of the Kingdom of Heaven.

Our Mom seems to eschew theological discussions.

Instead, she sent me a little 5 year old who persistently knocked on the "private" family room bathroom. "I need you Mom, I need you!!"

She wouldn't come into my bathroom. She demanded we go into the regular girls bathroom. As I left, my husband quickly filled the empty family restroom with a son who needed urgent bathroom attention. That left me alone with 2 girls for a period of 15 minutes.

After finishing the bathroom duty, we went outside. I slumped over the stroller for awhile feeling miserable. Then I convinced my daughter to study a road map of Maryland and let me lay on the nearby grass and stare at cloud shapes.

Sometime after we were staring at massive geological rock exhibits on the other roadside stop, as we geeky home-schoolers are meant to do.

Mommy Mary's answer sort of floated into me. "This is your cross."

This is my cross. It stinks. I'd much rather sign up for the thrilling adventure of "Bringing Catholicism into the Heart of Mongolia."

Instead, my cross seems at once lame and at once impossibly hard. My family of origin is broken inside. They hang around other, equally broken people. My hometown is filled with a bunch of hyper enthusiastic Christians who are desperately hurting at the same time they think Jesus is as simple as a coloring book drawing. They have Jesus. They have the Church. What do they need with all of this silly mumbo-jumbo hanging out in Daily Mass stuff. They are fine. My visit home are hanging out with the walking wounded who insist they are all "fine."

Meanwhile, my visits home bring this painful awareness of how much I suck at being Catholic. Completely, Completely Stink!

I started a yelling match with our Our Blessed Mother!

I felt a little embarrassed to write the post. I sort of procrastinated telling the truth. I thought of much "better" things to write about.

There is something that consoled me after feeling so foolish a few hours later. "I yelled at Our Blessed Mother! What irreverent girl does that?"

"Honey," Our Lady responded gently in my heart. "You had a real conversation with me because I'm real to you."

So that's all I can say, after weeks of consecration, months of Daily Mass and years spent struggling over the rosary. I'm still a teeny baby Catholic. I still mess up all the time.

At least Our Mom is real to me. At least I've started to trust her with my real emotions. You can talk to her, because she's real. "I believe in the communion of the saints." A line from the Apostle's Creed, I said often as a Protestant but am only starting to understand now as a Catholic.

I love you Mommy Mary! Thanks for calling me. Thanks for handing me grace, even when I forgot to say "please."