Always Mary's Girl

I recently attended a Memorial Service for my grandfather.

It was an amazing miracle that we had a chance to say goodbye in a church service, actually. My Grandpa had Christianity stamped in his soul. At age 94, Grandpa arrived over an hour early each Sunday to the living room of his nursing home, snappily dressed in a shirt and tie, eager to be taken to his Sunday School Class at the local Methodist Church.

For some unexplained reason, my Mom nixed all funeral services inside a church or funeral home after Grandpa's death. Instead, she directed the family to gather around Grandpa's grave site in early January in an event I uncharitably nicknamed in my mind "rolling the old man into the ground."

It seemed to me, highly unjust to bury a man who loved his Methodist Church as much as Grandpa without the final blessing of a Methodist minister. However, the Lord is hard at work on my difficult heart.

All my Carmelite prayers have started to show me the virtue of Silence. The night of my Grandpa's death, I silenced my tongue. Instead of arguing with my Mom, I took all my concerns about Grandpa's missing funeral service to the Lord in prayer.

God answered my prayer through many loving acts of my Grandpa's Christian friends. Grandpa's friends insisted on holding a Memorial Service at his old church. Grandpa's old minister put together a lovely service. Grandpa's old choir cheerfully volunteered to sing one of his favorite hymns. The United Methodist Women threw a lavish potluck in the church basement modeled on an "OSU Tailgate Party," my Grandfather's favorite football team.

At the Methodist Church Service in my Grandfather's old church, I finally felt peace and comfort after his death. I felt honored to share in the legacy of my grandparents faith. I felt reunited with my Mom and my siblings.

In the middle of a choir hymn, I looked up at the familiar stain glass window that I'd watched throughout my childhood. It's a beautiful Rosetta window with a moving picture of Christ Crucified. It's unusual to have a Crucifix in a Methodist Church. All the other churches I've ever attended had a plain cross over the alter, maybe adored with a sea shell or dove. It was comforting to see Christ's body present in this church.

As I looked closer, I saw something new. Underneath Christ, were two small figures- St. John and a figure dressed in a blue veil, My Blessed Mother Mary.

Never in my life, have I ever, ever seen a depiction of Mary in a Protestant Church. It just isn't done. Yet here was a picture of my spiritual mother directly over a Protestant alter.

I felt so much grace in my soul. This is the church where my grandparents faithfully worshiped together, each and every Sunday for over 60 years. This was the church were I got baptized. Directly under this beautiful stain glass picture of Mary is where my parents said their wedding vows 39 years ago.

It was if Mommy Mary smiled down on my conception before I even existed.

Sometimes, my life as a Catholic feels like a random accident. How did I get here? Why is a former intellectual show-off suddenly a stay-at-home Mom who rarely leaves her house? How did an easy going Methodist girl suddenly end up becoming a Discalced Carmelite who volunteers for extra penance, extra fasts and hours of extra prayers each day?

It's always a gift to be reminded that my faith isn't a random accident. I was always Mary's girl.

Saying Goodbye

St. Joseph Cemetery, Malone New York
Burial site of Robert E. Benjamin

Jon saying a last goodbye to his father

On September 20, 2009, my husband's father died 90 days after his first cancer diagnosis. I held my husband's hand as he threw a clod of dirt on his father's grave. Then I snapped this picture as he said a last goodbye before we started the lonely car trip home.

When I snapped this photograph, my heart hurt. I couldn't imagine driving way and leaving Jon's beloved Daddy six feet under the earth.

Then a silly grave marker caught my eye. Directly behind Dad's grave is a huge, vivid green shamrock with the name "Burke". I'd written earlier about Mr. Patrick Burke, a banker at our church whose sudden death shocked our parish choir. For the past year, I've watched his widow and his children grow in grace and faith. That sight of the Burke family name was a little nudge from my friend in heaven, reminding me that "death is not the end of the story."

My life is filled with big and little hurts. There are backed up garbage disposals, stubbed toes, and toddlers who can't sleep. There's a dead son and a Father who suddenly disappeared. Yet the life of a Catholic is filled with beauty and hope. Every time I think I reach the end of my strength, a moment of grace happens- like a rope ladder dropped from heaven.

Foiling the Enemy With Good Sausages

I found this interesting biography of Simonne Jeanne Michenon, a member of the French Resistance who is buried in a local cemetery in D.C.

"Her friends remember one particular story she would tell of German troops storming into her family home at the vineyard. Ms. Michenon was cooking at the time, making French sausages, saucisson. She diverted the soldiers with food, wine and entertaining conversation until, at last, they conducted their search of the house. Feeling the effects of good drink and full stomachs, their search was cursory at best, and they left never having looked in the cellar where refugees were hiding."
-Person of Interest, Ivy Hill Cemetery Newsletter, Winter 2010.

I love how stuffing enemy soldiers with fresh sausage, wine and good conversation is an effective way to fight for the French Resistance!

May we all pray for good blessings for the enemies of our families and our Church this Lent.

Happy St. Patrick's Day

A glorious Irish greeting to you! St. Patrick is one of my favorite saints. My husband and I made a trip to Ireland six weeks after my conversion to Catholicism. I returned home on fire for my new faith. I give credit for my radical change of heart from the prayers of that great Bishop!

A Prayer for Cheerful Insomnia

My two year old daughter, Maria, has sleep problems. Very bad problems.

One of the lasting effects of colic is that it disrupts the natural sleep rhythms first learned at 4 months. Instead of waking up, taking a snack and then gently drifting back to sleep, our Maria woke up hungry as a baby, took a drink and then screamed with burning, painful reflux for the next twenty minutes. She outgrew the colic and infant reflux at age one, but sleeping through the night is more of a challenge.

Two years later, we're still dealing with a child who wakes up frequently in the night and has trouble getting herself back to sleep.

This winter, Jon and I have spent a lot of time awake at 3 AM. Our baby wakes up with cough or a sneeze attack and neither of us can get back to sleep. Six months ago, I would have called my pediatrician and read every self-help book on this subject. I don't know if it's Carmel or my tired, pregnant body, but I've embraced this cross. I simply think this current insomnia is good practice for the newborn that will be coming into our lives this summer.

A prayer by Saint Thomas Moore, that I gleaned from watching "A Man of All Seasons" has made all the difference.

"Lord help me get a good night's rest. If that is impossible, please make me cheerful in the morning."

Now, when I'm up in the early hours of the morning, I pray for the dying. I catch up on my spiritual reading. I clean up my messy house. I trust completely that the Lord will make me cheerful the next day, despite my exhaustion.

That prayer has never failed me yet!

(I love that living in the spirit of Carmel is much easier than following the complicated parenting advice of today's experts. God knew I was to stupid and slothful to follow an elaborate parenting plan for four distinct children, so He wisely put me in "the special reading group" that is my Mother Mary's heart.)

A Touchy Feely Mass

Every Benjamin came down with a nasty head cold this weekend. Jon and I took one look at our toddler with the greenish skin tint, puffy eyes and tuberculous sounding cough and decided that we'd better "piggy back Mass" this morning.

Jon kindly made us all pancakes and then jumped on the bus at 7:45 AM. As a solo parent, I enforced citrus consumption at breakfast, handed up lollipops as replacement to unwanted cough drops and hit play on multiple library videos.

In the middle of all this chaos, I tried to get my half-an-hour prayer of the quiet done. Needless to say, this was not one of my best prayer session. Just as I was about to faint from pregnant lady exhaustion, my spouse knocked on our door.

Jon was luminous after Mass. He said he missed us in the pew. "It was too quiet. Besides every at church hacked and coughed during Mass, we have fit right in today."

"Ha Ha!" I thought. "I'm NOT going to be complaining that Mass is quiet today." I happily grabbed our Lenten Liturgy of the Hours from my husband and volunteered to leave for the bus stop 17 minutes early today.

Alone in the "quiet" of a busy city street on one of the first warm days of Spring, I read a beautiful account of the Samarian women by the well. A reading today said "Her righteous was caused by her conversation with Jesus." At first, I misread the passage as "her righteousness was caused by her conversion." Then I reread it as properly as "conversation."

Somehow my slip of the tongue, made everything clear this Lent. I keep getting confused with "conversion" and "conversation." I mistakenly think because I'm now a formal convert to Catholicism, I'm supposed to be perfect. I'm horrified by my many sins and failures. Yet I realized this morning, I need to keep focused on my "conversation" with Jesus. It's the daily chat's with Jesus that will lead to my righteousness. Prayer leads to sainthood. You don't need to wait until you're a saint to be a Carmelite who prays on a regular basis.

I hugged my Daily Liturgy, got on the bus and looked forward to a happy, holy Mass.

I walked into Mass alone. I didn't need to remind anyone to dip their hands in Holy Water or to stop running down the aisle. I sat in our usual front row pew. I had time to finish my Daily Liturgy in front of Jesus in the Tabernacle and said a long pre-Mass pray from St. Thomas Aquinas. I picked up a Mass booklet for the first time in four years. My hands were unusually free from finding dropped crayons or ending sibling wrestling matches.

"I'm alone with Jesus," I thought happily. I opened my heart for a glorious, silent, focused Mass.

Just before the Procession, an elderly couple slipped into the pew behind me. "These are good seats" the man remarked loudly. "Yes they are," the woman responded. The couple proceeded to loudly argue during the entire Mass. They argued over the page number of the Hymns. They argued over which Sunday it was in Lent.

There was a ten minute debate over whether the Lector said it was the "First Sunday" in Lent or the "Third Sunday." I cringed all during their argument. I debated about turning around and showing my page number, but decided to practice the virtue of Silence instead.

"There goes my quiet Mass. I guess the Lord wants me to praise him among noise and distractions each and every Sunday. Why should I get used to a quiet Mass this week."
I took the disappointment in stride. I kept my heart cheerful.

Then the lady touched me.

Someone touched me on my back shoulder. I turned quickly and saw a lady's arm. It was that lingering, purposeful movement some ladies do when they kindly tuck your tag back into your sweater neck. "I must have had a tag out" I thought. I was sort of mystified as to what tag could have been poking out of a silk scarf. I quickly dismissed it from mind and got refocused on Mass.

Then I got touched again.

And again.

At the fourth time, I became furious. "Someone is touching me during my ALONE Mass. I get poked, and kicked, and hugged, and touched by three kids every single Sunday of my life. This is supposed to be MY Sunday to be left ALONE!"

At the fifth touch, I decided that I must be going crazy. It had to be my imagination. I didn't know the couple behind me. Surely no stranger would be so brazen as to repeatedly rub your back. I must be feeling some phantom pregnancy pains or something.

By deciding that I was crazy, I could sweetly greet the elderly couple during the passing of the peace. I saw a couple who were in their late seventies. "They are probably hard-of-hearing, that is why they couldn't whisper during Mass," I thought cheerfully. I didn't want to spread germs, so I just held up my handkerchief and said "Sorry, I'm sick." I gave them my best smile as a replacement for a firm handshake.

Then the lady grabbed my shoulder. "I love your scarf" she said, fingering the silk with longing. "Its so beautiful, I couldn't help touching it all through Mass."

I recoiled with horror. You were the one touching me? During Mass? Someone who had never seen before?

Immediately, it was time for the most holy part of Mass. I gave my uncharitable heart a firm talking to. "Look, you've got to shake this off Abigail. You've got to offer it up. You can eat the Holy Eucharist with this much anger in your heart."

I forced myself to forget the incident and refocus again the the beauty of this Sacrament.

I took the Eucharist. I prayed my Animus Christie in thanksgiving. I tried to mind that my actions seemed routine and ordinary. "He's really in there," I told my soul. "He's really in you."

And then a miracle happen, like those subtle miracles that aways happen to remind me that the Eucharist is real, and not something from my hyperactive Catholic imagination.

After the closing hymn, the elderly couple stayed to greet me. "I love your scarf", the woman said touching it again.

As easily as I'd hand a piece of banana bread to a hungry child, I took off the sentimental silk scarf I'd owned since eight grade. "Here take it," I said and put it in her hands.

Her husband was horrified. "No, no, we just mean that the scarf looks good on you. You wear it."

I decided that this must have been what it feels like to be a Franciscan and give away your cloak to whoever asks it from you. I'm a Carmelite. What do I need a silk scarfs for? I can't wear it to church on normal Sundays because soon there will be a little newborn to throw up on it. I'm a simple cotton dress girl through and through

"No, you keep it. When you wear it you'll will remind you to pray for me to Our Blessed Mother. I'm pregnant with baby number four" I said, rubbing my belly. "I need lots of prayers this month."

Suddenly, standing face to face in the pew we became friends. The couple are the parents of six children. I told them my oldest three were home sick with my husband this Sunday. The elderly couple were so happy to see a pregnant Catholic mommy. The husband inquired of my name and promised to pray a rosary for me each night this week.

"I'll remember to pray for the lady who gave me the pretty scarf," my wife agreed.

"You've got hundreds of scarfs at home, you don't need another," the husband said firmly.

The lady kept all ten fingers clutched on my scarf as her husband yanked it from her hands.

The lady looked at me. "You wear that scarf next Sunday when I see you with all of your lovely children. I'll tell you next week whether I really want it." She winked at me.

I laughed and hoped I would remember to pack in it my pock next week to hand to her after Mass. I nodded goodbye.

I turned back to Jesus to say a better thank you for the Eucharist. I'm a small, selfish girl. I've got a mean heart, and a stiff neck. I commit many sins. Somehow, in the silent conversation of the Eucharist, our big brother Jesus still enters into my heart and transforms into something unrecognizable and strangely beautiful.

Life on the Bus

Last Sunday, my husband shouted to me "I can't believe we both have Graduate Degrees!" as we waited at a bus stop for an extremely late City bus.

His statement was provoked by the behavior of Maria, our youngest. My toddler cried as snow soaked her polka-dot stockings and pink dress shoes. Maria demanded to at home with warm clothes and a cup of hot chocolate. Helpless, my husband picked up Maria's wailing body and tried not to mind that her dirty shoes left tracks on his black wool coat. Jon looked at his wrist watch and grimly confirmed to our bus was now 22 minutes late.

"I can't believe we're in this situation and I've got a Graduate Degree! We BOTH have Graduate Degrees" he told me.

I looked at Jon in confusion. I didn't immediately understand the meaning of my husband's statement. After all, it was our gigantic $200,000 joint student loan debt which necessitated us taking the City Bus to Mass in the first place. What Catholic parishioners would be in this situation without two big debts and one modest income?

When my husband started recounting painful stories of graduate school, I suddenly "got" the irony of our current situation. In grad school, we'd spent hours hunched over lap tops in dimly lit libraries. We mastered courses in vague Latin terms and 18th Century Japanese Landscape Painting. We wrote term papers. We passed finals. We aced hours of job interviews. If not tons of wealth and worldly honor, there was supposed to be some sort of comfortable middle class existence that came as a reward to all of that hard work.

Never once, in all those years of study, did we consider that our future children would wander snow banks in their church clothes as we waited for a late City bus. In America, people with graduate degrees are not supposed to live lives without a car.

Filled with the Eucharist, I chose the right response. Instead of lapsing into self-pity, I started teasing my husband. "I'm the one who wore silk honor cords at graduation. I'm the one who is really not supposed to be here. Do you think they'll find out and revoke our diplomas?"

Over the head of a furious toddler with corkscrew red curls, Jon met my smile.

The bus arrived. We entered into a swirl of humanity. A babble of French and Mandarin and Creole surrounded us. Baby Maria stopped crying. Within five minutes we were home and happy again.

In truth, I love to ride the bus.

It's hard in the winter. It's hard that our bus system is either 25 minutes late, or worse, 11 minutes early. Yet even in the cold, playing extra rounds of "Mother May I" beat trying to strap uncooperative children into their car seats.

Surprising, my kids love the bus. I lived through countless crying fits while driving in a car. Yet we've only had one awful trip to Mass where Maria cried the full 35 minutes. Usually the kids adore the bus and become cheerful angels while swished along with strangers in a large City bus.

Yet the best thing about the bus is that it puts you firmly on God's time line. When we ride the bus, we are NEVER, ever late to Mass. Can you imagine? Trying to get to get three children church on time used to be awful. Now our bus drops us off at church 20 minutes early. We have time to leisurely check out our parish library and spend time praying before the Eucharist in a silent church. If we're ever so late that we miss the bus, we have to attend a later Mass.

Having to factor in a bus trip makes it easier to say "no" to unnecessary activities. I've dropped book clubs and church committees. I'm the only mother I know whose elementary age kids aren't on any sports teams. My groceries are ordered online and delivered to my home. My husband bikes to work. We spend only $60 a month on bus passes rather than endure car payments, car insurance, gas, car repairs and parking fees. Riding the bus is what keeps our family budget in the black each month.

Besides all of these practical things, there are amazing moments of Grace that keep happening on the bus. Once I sat next to a pregnant Catholic who was about to give up her baby for adoption. The conversation we had about our Blessed Mother was beautiful and something that would never happened if I drove my own car to the local library. Our new dentist, for example, is next door to an abortion clinic. Now as I wait for my kids to have their teeth cleaned I have a beautiful chance to pray for life.

I love having the chance to know my city on foot. I love knowing that the immigrants who speak the least English will give the kindest smiles to my noisy children. I love having gallant Latino men hold open bus doors and fix stuck strollers for me. The whole city has become more friendly since I started riding the bus alone with 3 small children.

The most amazing thing about the virtue of poverty, is that when you ride the bus, you can easily fit in another baby.

In my old life in a plush suburbia, I heard a Catholic mother remark that she couldn't possibly have a third baby at this time because they would have to buy a new car. I registered that comment in confusion. I was the Mom who purposely bought the most narrow car seats possible in order to wedge three small bodies into my back seat.

Then this past summer when our ancient, five seat belt car died three days before Vacation Bible School, I had another confusing car conversation with a fellow Catholic. This time a dear friend tried to sell me on the idea of emptying our retirement account to pay the $6,000 repair bill since "a rebuilt engine can last another 10 years. You'll be driving that car forever!" he said with cheerful certainty.

I looked at my friend with confusion. I didn't know how to express the sad cry in my heart. "I'm only 34!" I thought. "I don't want to drive a newly, repaired five seat car for the next ten years. I want another baby!"

Long story short, while I schlepped three tired kids on an awful 1 1/2 hour commute to Bible School, my husband sold our broken car. We canceled our car insurance and bought monthly bus passes. We found a new dentist and a new doctor on our local bus line. We ordered groceries online.

Sometime in heat of August, we decided that we need to switch to a new Catholic Church with an easier bus commute. We left the church where we were well-known. We resigned multiple church committees and volunteer posts. My husband is no longer a Lector. I stopped washing purificators. We quit attending our weekly Adoration time slots. We stopped seeing dozens and dozens of dear friends. The sacrifice of our "church home" hurt.

Now we're anonymous faces in a large City Church. Six months later, the change couldn't be better for our family. The graces are huge. We attend Daily Mass in a small, historic chapel that is a beautiful setting for Mass. We fallen in love with new, dear, parish priests. My daughter is getting First Communion with a CCD program that loves homeschoolers.

Even better, for two Carmelites that are poor in time as well as money, our new "rich" church is well run with many volunteers. There are no longer painful pleas for more Lectors at Lent or more members on that teeny purificator committee. Our big church fits this season of our Catholic life as parents who have overwhelming responsibilities for young children. We go to church to get refreshed and renewed by Christ. My only donation of "time and talent" is a warm smile to my parish priest after Mass.

By God's grace, I'll deliver a new baby this summer. For our first trip home with the new baby, we might hire a cab. We might rent a car. Or, we might ride the City Bus.

My husband happily discovered that the City Bus stops at our hospital entrance. Jon loves to picture shocked face of the volunteer who will carefully wheel a newborn and his mother from the hospital room to the driveway. Instead of pulling up with a scrubbed Honda or new Lexus, my husband, the man with a graduate degree, may carefully strap a newborn into an infant carrier and lead his sore wife onto the City Bus.

Humility. Poverty.

Four perfect souls as free gifts from the Lord for two parents who could never afford even one adoption fee.

God is good!

The Devil is Afoot- That's a Good Sign!

I love St. Theresa of Avila! Far from one of those head in the clouds saints, she's so human. She's so real. I read her luminous writings and it's just like my dearest girl friend is gabbing to me over the phone about our big mutual brother Jesus. If I make it to heaven, it's because this saint, who actually floated during prayer, left some firm steps to follow from flightiness to holiness.

One of the incidents that captured her personality happened as she went to found an early reform Carmel Convent. A friendly priest rides up with an urgent message for St. Theresa. The Augustine nuns in the town are "stirring up trouble." The entire town is in an uproar. No one thinks its a good idea to found a convent at this time and place. The priests are trembling. The new nuns are fearful. "Should we turn back for home, Mother?" they ask.

St. Theresa just smiles. "The Devil is Afoot! That's a good sign!"

So St. Theresa walks calmly into trouble, more determined than ever that her work will bear good fruit for God.

I've replayed St. Theresa's words a lot these past three months. It seems that the moment I got pregnant, the Devil has been on the prowl. Some of the events are just funny.

During this pregnancy my two worries were that a) the baby is going to die or b) I'm going to die on the operating table in my 4th c-section. Neither of these fears are based on medical facts, and in fact, are mutually exclusive. Still, pregnancy seems to be a time of great fears based on little actual facts. These thoughts will intrude during the day and make it difficult to complete my daily work.

One day I was praying during my prayer of the quiet, and I felt true peace. I was in complete dread of attending my early pregnancy sonogram. My appointment was at the same office where I found out my son had unexpectedly died three years before. While I prayed, I felt Jesus' presence in a tangible way. I felt that there were painful places where no one could ever pay you enough money to revisit. But if you took along Jesus, the real, physical older brother that I never had- I could have the courage to go back to that sad place.

I went to bed that night and I was so happy. I'd had terrible insomnia for the past week. I'd wake up in the middle of the night and dread going to this appointment and hearing bad news. This night I lay my head on the pillow, so happy. "Finally, I get a good night's sleep!" I thought.

At 12:30 AM that night, the phone rings. I pick it up in a panic, thinking it is going to wake up my sleeping toddler. This grouchy voice says "Are you SLEEPING?" It's my neighbor; the one who's been under the help of the Archdiocese Exorcist for six weeks.

I take the phone off my ear and stare at it. I know it's my neighbor's voice, but my immediate thought is "Satan is calling me on the telephone!"

I said "I can't talk right now" and hung up.

I was so mad, I couldn't go back to sleep for two hours. "I finally kicked the devil out of my head, and then he called me up on the telephone!"

Since I got pregnant the attack have become more intense. I'm still tempted the in "normal way". I still yell at my kids, sulk with my husband and go on "I hate prayer" tirades.

Yet as soon as I get those outbursts of sin under control, really weird things will pop up.

I had a RN at my ob clinic describe with hatred the "ugly flap on the neck of Down Syndrome babies" and I got a cold shutter thinking "this is a clinic that encourages parents to kill Down Syndrome babies. This is why 90% percent of all babies with Down Syndrome are being aborted, because you're targeting us older Mama's with scare tactics."

As soon as I recognized that evil, our conversation got really wacky. It ended with the nurse chasing me down outside the elevators as I left the appointment. She accused me of stealing her confidential HIPA forms from other clients and furiously searched my backpack.

My old way of coping with these attack was to replay them a million times in my head and try to figure out the perfect appeasement language.

"If only I could have explained that we'd already researched the risks associated with amniocentesis with our first baby, then the nurse would have accepted my refuse to do pre-natal testing with more grace."

To me, all unpleasant social contact was due to a simple misunderstanding. (If it was me in St. Theresa's shoes, I would have lost days trying to "reason" with the untrusting nuns and furious townsmen.) Yet, the clarity I got from a recent confession showed me that my efforts to "always stay on people's good graces is actually the sin of vanity."

The Devil is never going to shake my heads politely after a fencing match and say "Good show, Abby." "You've really grown in fortitude. I had you quaking in fear with that CF scare for your first born, but by baby number 5 you've really begin to trust in God."

That scenario is totally ridiculous. In the same way, someone who advocates mortal sin as a solution to a problem is not going to suddenly think my Catholic position is "reasonable." St. Paul's conversion was miraculous for a reason.

On nights that I still can't sleep, I pray. I pray for my littlest child. I pray for doctors and nurses and Senators who still think abortion is a valid "choice." I pray for all of the scared Moms who are post-35 like me, who have creaky bones and old ova.

On my brave days, I resolved to more closely resemble Our Blessed Mother Mary and St. Theresa of Avila. King Herod is still out to crush the Baby Jesus. The Devil might be trying to crush your actual baby, or simply divert you from the task Holy Spirit has directed from your life. Spiritual mothers and actual mothers are the same. We all have to fight spiritual battles.

May this Lent find you better trained for battle. Remember St. Theresa's confident saying "If the Devil's Afoot, it's a Good Sign your doing God's will!"

Missing My Prayer Partner

Two days before Christmas, the granddaughter of my mother's close friend got diagnosed with a severe form of blood cancer at age 10. I never met Kami, but through the mystical body of Christ, she was already dear to my heart.

Her Grandma Shirley is a strong Baptist, whose son converted to the Catholic religion after his marriage. As Grandma Shirley navigated the alien forms of Catholic baptism, First Reconciliation and First Communion she shared her cheerful granddaughter stories with my Mom. I'm grateful to sunny Kami who made the Catholic faith less feared and foreign to my Mom.

Everyone prayed hard for Kami Fortney, last Christmas. Within weeks, the news came back that her four year old sister Jillian was a perfect bone marrow match. Everyone rejoiced. Kami bravely started chemo treatment at Children's Hospital in Columbus.

Her Mom, Rita, sent an update to my hometown prayer list that went straight to my heart. Kami was having a rough time vomiting after the chemo treatments caused a strange metal taste in her mouth. Turns out that a simple remedy of mints before chemo solved the problem. Rita wrote "Keeping the faith" at the end of her update.

Thirty minutes later I was laying on my bed feeling awful with pregnancy nausea. "Maybe Kami's mint trick will help?" I thought. I started sucking ferociously on a cough drop and felt less ill.

I thought about that little girl in a hospital in Columbus. We were separated by many states and 25 years, yet both of us were building up the kingdom of God through nausea and fatigue.

From that moment on, every time I got sick, I gave up my pain for Kami. She was my prayer buddy through the last miserable month of the first trimester challenge.

Last Sunday Kami died. On Friday, Kami was looking at at 90% chance of full recovery with a sibling bone marrow match. Within 24 hours, she suffered severe complications from her bone marrow surgery and died.

Yesterday, I was walking around still feeling nauseous and tired. Every time I instinctively prayed for Kami, only to realize that my "Lord, help her carry her cross" prayer is no longer needed. It still comes as a hurtful shock to stop that familiar prayer in mid-sentence.

Now, I'm retraining myself to pray TO Kami and not for her. A 10 year old who never kissed any boy but her Daddy is now my "go to" saint for pregnancy pain. Great is the glory of God!

May the angels of God lead Kami into Paradise! Our Lady of Keboho, pray for us. Please wrap Kami's family in your loving embrace. May we always remember as Catholics our Lord's promise "Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted."

The mystical body of Christ is a true reality. Today, give up some pain or discomfort for someone suffering from physical or spiritual sickness.

Gold Nuggets from my Carmel Meeting

"If a person admits that he has been unkind, impatient, and selfish, invariably that is caused by his failure to let God love Him enough in prayer. No one confesses sins against charity who in in the same breath does not confess missing hist time for God in prayer." Father Angelus M Shanghessy, Order of Friar Minor, Capuchin.

This quote, shared by my Carmelite, teacher was a little kick in the pants for me. Crabbiness and pregnancy need not go hand in hand! My problem is that I give myself a complete pass on most of my prayer routine since I'm so tired as a result of a pregnancy. Then I'm shocked that I don't have enough charity to get through the day without losing patience with my other three children and blame my nastiness on my pregnancy, rather than my lack of prayer time.

When I'm this physically weak I need to give God MORE time to love me in prayer, and all of "His" love will easily overflow in my daily interactions with my children and spouse.

"We can love others freely because we have been loved first by God in prayer."

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Another thought from my Carmelite class:

All virtues are attributes of God. If we are "good", it is not because of ourselves. It's the Lord's "stuff" coming through us. That's why one of the marks of your prayer life isn't the feeling that you get in the moment.

Can you see new virtues growing in your life? That is the "footprint of God." That's the proof that He's been with you, deepening his dwelling place in your soul. The fruit of prayer is the growth in virtue.

Stop hoping for great consolutions or happy feelings during prayer. Did you get through your school day with a smile on your face? Did you keep silent in the face of a personal attack? That is proof that your extra prayer time in Lent is working.

Keep a look out for your growth in virtue this Lent and don't hope to levitate off the floor during Morning Prayer!

Leaping for Joy in the Grocery Line

Four years ago, an eloquent Catholic blogger wrote a post about getting chastised for having a large family while her four perfectly behaved boys waited patiently in line at Whole Foods. She prayed for her attacker, which was more than I would have done four years ago. Yet this well-written post ended with the basic complaint was "Why can't people be nice to those of us with large families?" Something like 72 people wrote in with comments echoing similar feelings.

I read that post as a young Catholic mother, with two young toddlers, and shook with fear. I'd already gotten numerous unsolicited comments "How perfect, one girl and one boy. Now you're done!" I didn't relish becoming more of a spectacle in the grocery store in the future as I cheerfully accepted God's generous gifts of more babies to our household.

Yesterday, my husband announced my pregnancy at his workplace. He received some very sweet and supportive comments. He also received some not so supportive comments.

It's the same story for each and every pregnancy after we received universal praise for conceiving baby number one.

The thing that is different this time, is me.

I don't yet relish the pokes and digs at my openness to life. I'm not leaping for joy in the grocery store line. All the same, a huge difference has occurred. I'm not shocked at suffering for my Catholic faith anymore.

The way I see it now, is if my beloved parish priest Father Willie stops by Whole Food to pick up some organic orange juice to mend his sore throat before Sunday's homily (it's probably a rare trip to Whole Foods given his small salary), he's open to all kinds of attack just by wearing his priest's collar. My beloved Dominican nuns, with their gorgous habits, were asked all manner of embarrassing sexual questions when they appeared on the Oprah show last week.

If our dear Priests and Sisters suffer snide comments every time they leave the parish chapel, why should we Catholic Moms and Dads be any different?

Just as a priest wears his collar, and a nun wears a habit, some of us parents, who were blessed by God with abundance off-spring, will wear our closely space, overwhelmingly active, children around our grocery carts.

Scripture tells that not only are we to bear scoffs meekly and humbly pray for our attackers, we're also to "leap for joy". If we suffer rejection from the world, it means we will have a great reward in heaven.

So this Lent, think about dropping your Saint Catherine's Wheel penance whip and sleeping on the floor like St. Martin of Pours. The cheerful acceptance of trials allowed by God are more valuable than any self-imposed act of penance.

This Lent resolve to take your ego-bruising social interactions on the chin like our big brother Jesus and our wonderful Mom, Mary.

Don't cry in the grocery line. Don't come up with a pity retort.

Instead, leap for joy. Do a little ballet jump. A bunny hop. An Irish Jig. Anything physical to show your great joy at having a chance to suffer for the faith.

At the very least, an unexpected Irish Jig in the grocery aisle will stun your accuser into silence and make all those "excessive" babies, who are currently pleading for gum and chocolate bars, laugh in surprise.

How to Pray with Small Children

In honor of Lent this coming week, I wanted to share my small observations on this topic. Here are some helpful tips that might work for no one's home but my own.

1) Pray In the Midst of Calcutta

In my house, our prayer corner is a small table next to a picture of the Blessed Virgin Mary in my dining area. (Our apartment is laid out as one giant square box with living room, dining room and kitchen all open and inter-connected.) My husband and I pray the Daily Office first thing in the morning next to the dining room table, rather than cloistered off into our bedroom. Our kids get up, turn on the TV, play with legos, talk loudly with each other and generally ignore their parents.

I found that when my kids can see me praying, they are generally content to leave me alone for twenty minutes. If I tried to hide in a closet to pray in great silence, my kids will freak out and come find me, convinced I'm doing something super fun in my secret space.

2)Deal Patiently with Interruptions

When you're chatting with anyone, including the Creator of the Universe, your kids will interrupt you. My model is St. France of Rome who got interrupted from her prayers 12 times in a row, calmly went back to praying each time. On the last time her prayer was written in solid gold.

I try to remind myself that God understands my situation! He gave me these babies. My job is to patiently deal with whatever need is critical, and kindly remind my kids that all non-urgent requests can wait until "Mama is done talking to God." I prove my dedication not by having some amazing transcendental mountain top experience every morning, but by persistently returning to my prayer time after each distraction.

3) Pray Immediately After the Kids Bedtime

We have three young kids who share the same room. Bed time can be exhausting, some nights. Even though all I want after the bedtime routine is finished is to grab some tea (or a stiff drink) and relax on the couch with my husband, I found that if we both IMMEDIATELY start out evening prayer ritual the night goes so much smoother. Even if bed time turns into one of those awful, bleeding into the late night times, I'm so much calmer after a simple 30 second recharge with God.

So each night at 8:00 PM, my husband and I stumble exhausted into our prayer corner and start praying the Evening Prayer of the Divine Office. Some nights the frequent "I need you..." mean that we don't finish praying until 9:15 PM. It's such a great use of our time. Praying keeps us from fighting with our kids or each other. Praying first helps us to clean the house faster later. I've had so many sweet, sweet evenings with my husband since we started to pray first and talk later. Even if we have only an hour together before bed, it's a happy time when we're both recharged and refreshed after a tough day.

4) Enjoy Life with Babies

In heaven, all of us will be contemplatives. That will be our job for the rest of eternity. Whatever small piece of this crazy, short life that we hand over to God will help us get to our end goal.

Prayer is everything. All the concrete actions that we do each day, are all outreaches of our inner relationship with God.

And because Prayer is so important, there are going to always be tons of distractions. St. Anthony in the Desert, had distractions from his prayer life. So that being said, there is something for learning how to pray in the midst of lots of young kids.

The truth is that as mothers, we're not living fabulous lives of luxury and comfort. I never have to say "Sorry girls, I've got to leave our fascinating mah jong game to go pray my half an hour prayer of the quiet." Instead, I simply decide to forgo picking up legos off the couch to go pray with my husband.

In that sense, because our life as mothers is so simple, because our life is hard, because we're exhausted at the close of each day, it's far easier to appreciate our intense dependence upon God.

One of my Carmelite friends is the mother of 10 children and someone in our class questioned how she could possibly pray each day with that many children. My friend simply answered "I get up before anyone else in my family wakes up to get in my half-an-hour because I need to pray everyday." That answer mystified my classmate. Yet it made perfect sense to me. If you've got 10 kids from ages 2 to 20, you need to pray everyday. I need to pray everyday and I've only got four!

Anyway, hope these brief notes encourage you to carve out some prayer time this Lent.

Life Below the Mason-Dixon Line

Two blizzards have hit D.C. in the past 5 days.

33 inches of snow in my front yard.

45 mile per hour winds.

No buses. No cars. No open grocery stores.

My children now refuse to go outside to build another snowman due to "torpedo snow."

Did I wake up in North Dakota this morning?

Losing My Friend

For George Gableman 1919-2010

My ninety-four year old maternal grandfather died on January 1, 2010, Mary's Day. We drove through two giant snow storms on curvy Appalachian roads to bury him. I got to the funeral home after an eight hour drive with three children under the age of seven.

Grandfather's casket was closed. A giant batch of red roses lay on top. He and I were all alone in the room.

I laid my exhausted head on his coffin.

"My friend, you have gone and left me here all alone."

I'd never called Grandpa my "friend" before. The new name felt strange and odd. Instantly, I realized that the new title fit. We were sixty years apart in age, but we were still dear friends in Christ.

Grandpa was the one who was always happy to hear about the conception of a new great-grandchild. Grandpa had endless appreciation for my husband and endless respect for my work as a stay-at-home mother. Grandpa answered every phone call with "Hi Ab, What can I do for you?"

Grandpa sent us money for a car seat for our first child. He lent a Cosco card for diaper runs for baby number two. But the past four years, I only need happy chats with a cheerful Christian grandfather. His intangible gifts of faith and hope and unconditional love were beautiful as I moved father from the path of worldly success and acknowledgment.

Now, my friend was dead.

I am left here all alone.

I laid my head on the casket, and the sense of loneliness welled up from my soul.

I'm alone. I'm the last Christian in my family.

When I was a little girl, my Grandpa and my Grandma were the two people who made sure that I was baptized as a three month old infant. My parents were in graduate school and had stopped attending church. My grandparents made sure that I got an infant baptism in the Methodist Church where they faithfully attended Sunday Service for the past 55 years. My parents were married in that church. I wore my paternal grandmother's silk baptismal gown, and got baptized on March 30, 1973.

How do you thank someone for insuring that you became a Child of God?

As a child, I had many strong Christians in my family. Everyone was Methodist. My Grandfather, both my Grandmothers, and three of my Great-Aunts. These people wore Christ deep in their bones. It was faith deepened with struggle, the Great Depression, World War II, Infertility and the threat of Nuclear War in the 1950s. You went to Church. You prayed to God. You helped others. You tried to live a Good Life. These were the similar rules that colored each of their individual lives.

I grow up, a girl with a Carmelite soul, under the steady presence of these gentle prayer giants, like a sapling under a grove of oak trees. One by one each of these family members have died peaceful, happy deaths.

Grandpa was the last Christian to die.

Beside his coffin, I suddenly looked around and realized I'm only one who still believes in God. Each one of my siblings, each one of my cousins, each of my parents, each of my many uncles and aunts, each one got that precious light of Christ at baptism. Yet, all of their candles have all burned out. Everyone's faith is gone.

It's unexpected. It's unexplainable.

Why am I left?

Why did I get the added gift of the Holy Eucharist, and Confession and deep understanding of the mysterious of the Sacrament of Holy Matrimony? Rather than a frail, flickering candle in the wind, as a new Catholic, my faith is fed daily with an amount of Divine Power that I'm only beginning to understand.

I put my tired head on Grandpa's coffin and cried.

Suddenly and automatically, like some deep reflex, I started to pray both for Grandpa and to him. We had an easy conversation through Christ, as simple as chatting over the phone.

I gave thanks that my Grandpa finished his race. Over Christmas I visited him in the hospital. Grandpa had lost his wife, he'd lost his teeth, he'd lost his ability to go to the bathroom by himself. Yet this formerly fiercely independent man had no complaints. He was as docile and happy as a child.

In that bare hospital room, I pulled out a Methodist Hymnal. Jon and I and Grandpa sang Christmas Carol after Christmas Carol. In the days that he was in the hospital, the stress of not sleeping made him lose most of his memory. He forgot who I was. But it didn't matter. All the choruses of those beloved hymns were still in his heart.

My grandfather spent 70 years singing as a baritone in the United Methodist Men's Choir. For the last two years of his life, he appeared half an hour early in his living nursing home, wearing a shirt and tie, ready for my father to take him to Adult Sunday School. All of those songs, all of that faith, it was all in his heart. He welcomed the Christ Child with great joy at age 94.

Back in the funeral home, chatting over the Jesus prayer hotline, I told my Grandpa to pray for me. I wasn't sure I was going make it to the end of my life, the way he did.

Then after praying, I helped carry his coffin outside. We had an outside grave site service in January. I played the clarinet Grandpa bought me in 5th grade. Then I sang "How Can I Keep From Singing."

I didn't realize how much my family had become fallen away Christians, until I attended my Grandpa's funeral. Their faces were so hardened against any talk of the resurrection. It's a fairy tale to them. I felt a little uneasy. Things felt flipped around. It felt like the dead people were the ones who were walking on top of the graveyard, while the vibrant, living souls were resting comfortably underneath.

It's not the easiest time to remember your clarinet fingerings when you mind is constantly struck by how much your family members resemble spiritual zombies.

Then my kids got up and sang "this little light of mine." Well, Hannah my future nun sang happily and loudly. My son Alex walked off mid-song and the baby Maria buried her freezing face into her coat hood.

I don't know why I got the only gift of living faith. Yet I'm grateful that I now live in a vibrant community of Catholics. I'm a wife of a strong Catholic man and the mother of strong Catholic children.

My job is to keep passing on my faith and pray valiantly for all of my dear family.


For Grandpa George: Thank you for the gift of a good singing voice and also teaching me to know who I'm singing the hymns to each Sunday

How Can I Keep From Singing?
My life flows on in endless song,
Above earth's lamentation
I hear the real though far off hymn
That hails a new creation

No Storm can shake my inmost calm
While to that rock I'm clinging
Since Love is Lord of heaven and earth
How can I keep from singing?

Prayer TIme: Giving God a Worthless Metal Band

It's a divine joke that God has called me to be a Carmelite.

I'm horrible at prayer.

I can't sit still. I fidget. I fret. I daydream. I think about stain removal strategies in my laundry. I hate doing the laundry, so that fact that I would rather clean clothes than sit completely still in one place cleansing my soul with the Creator of the Universe says something.

If I were handing out assignments for Miss Abigail, I would have given myself something epic and noble and flashy, such as feeding Haitian refugees, being a CCD teacher to non-native English speakers, or heck, even embroidering Alter cloths.

Instead, I got something else.

Something hidden. Something humble. Something hard.

My job is to go to Daily Mass when I can, pray the Divine Office, and then sit perfectly still for half and hour each day praying the "prayer of the quiet." Of course, my marriage and children come first. Yet the pattern for most days, as a Secular Carmelite, is to set apart a quiet time to recollect myself and get in touch with the Divine.

My husband has a quiet, introspective and calm temperament. Recollection of the faculties comes easily to him. (His first name matches the most contemplative Evangelist and the prayer giant, "St. John of the Cross" for a reason.)

Every night we pray side by side like two badly matched bookends.

My husband pulls down his Divine Office with joy. His feet are motionless. He calmly flips a practiced finger through the multiple pages of prayer. He looks likes someone made to pray each and every day.

I, meanwhile, become restless and agitated. My feet fall asleep and twitch. My knees hurt. I review a long "to do list." I imagine that I hear a sleeping baby calling "Mama!" During our time for prayer of the quiet, I frequently get up to check the kitchen timer "how much longer???"

Every day, it's still a hard battle to pray.

Thankfully, Saint Teresa of Avila, the founder of the Discalced Carmelite order, had a chatty, restless, sanguine personality like me. She left very explicit instructions on how to pray, precisely because she found it so difficult.

One of her metaphors has given me fortitude in my prayer life.

Saint Teresa writes think of God as a bridegroom who gives his bride many gifts. She has land and clothes and fancy bracelets on her wrists. And in return, the bride gives her groom a small metal band as a wedding ring. The gift isn't valuable in itself, and certainly a pales in comparison to the wealth of riches she's received as wedding gifts from her bridegroom. Yet a wedding ring is still treasured all the same, it serves as a symbol of the bride's faithfulness.

That image of a worthless metal band has helped me fortitude in my prayer life.

My thirty minutes of distracted, restless prayer time can certainly seem worthless from the outside. My prayers, however, are a sign of my faithfulness to God. Good or bad, rich or poor, my daily prayer time is more than a collection individual insights gained. My daily prayer time is an outward sign that I'm "God's girl for life."

It's a teeny, almost worthless act. Yet I know that my daily fight to pray is a gift that is received with great joy.

The Joy of Being A Non-Medal of Honor Winner

Currently, I'm in the incredibly sexy place of Catholic formation called "tumor removal treatment". Actually, the phase is called "the removal of deeply rooted venial sins," however, that is much too gentle and polite a term to describe my daily life.

As a former Protestant deprived of the grace of the Sacrament of Confession from ages 7 to 27, those pesky sins of vanity and pride have calcified into these giant, three foot wide tumors on the side of my neck. That's a spiritual metaphor, of course. In real life, my neck looks fine. But those hardened bad habits are still there interfering with every interaction I have with God and with Man.

My treatment for vanity has been these painful, humiliating interactions with others that leave me feeling like my beloved physician Jesus has scraped off a few layers of living tumor cells with a cheese grater. I've come home from embarrassing encounters with neighbors to tell my beloved husband, Jon, through tears "at least I had an opportunity to chop off a little more of my vanity."

The process of losing my vanity- sucks!

The benefit, however, is that sometimes I get to see how much I have progressed on this journey of faith.

Last week I had a normal Mom moment of refolding clean little boy clothes (Alex has graduated to dressing himself for outside snow adventures but somehow always manages to leave the entire content of his dresser drawer on my bedroom floor) when I realized "I will never get a Smith Medal of Honor for this!"

And for the first time, rather than get depressed, or rail on the current state of my Alma Mater, that thought made me laugh!

My "elite" women's college hands out five Medals of Honor to alumna in February. Smith being Smith, the net is cast pretty wide. We've honored have female economic advisers to Presidents, and brilliant play writes, newspaper reporters, scientists, community organizers. You could win a Medal of Honor by becoming a Justice on the Federal Court of Appeals, or saving historic buildings in NYC or even carving decorative masks from African hardwoods. You can pretty much do anything your heart desired and as long as you made a "substantial difference in the world" there was a chance Smith College would call you back as a "Golden Daughter" and crown you with mass approval and thanksgiving.

(Oh, the hours I wasted in college scheming about how to receive a Smith Medal of Honor.)

With such a diverse and open-hearted view of the contributions of talented females, the ONLY achievement that is certain to NEVER receive notice from Smith College, happens to be my daily goal, being a good wife and mother.

This irony strikes my funny bone, because the one thing in my life that I know makes a cosmic difference in the world for now and eternity, is the my vocation as a wife and mother.

It feels good to be slightly weaned off the "I want my old college to approve of me" trap. I get so many "That a girl!" and "Thank Yous" and "YOU ARE SO IMPORTANT" from the Holy Spirit each and every day, that I'm happy to remain a Non-Medal of Honor Winner my whole life.

Praying Through the Human Condition

Welcome back!

Many exciting things have happened since my blog fast.

In November, my husband and I received our Brown Scapular. We are now official members of the Third Order Carmelites. I'll have to post a picture of the happy day, because it ranks right up there with marriage and child birth as a life changing event. One of my dear seminarian friends got to be there for my Profession Mass. He and I were jumping with joy during the Mass. The love between Carmelites and priests, even future priests, is so deep and so dear.

The priest who did our investitures was so sweet. He told me "don't give up praying now" as he put on my scapular. I held my toddler Mimi during my whole Profession, since she was not about sit quietly in the pew without Mom or Dad. Rather than being a distraction, her presence was a joy. Father joked "where's her scapular?" after he had invested both Jon and I. I had tears of happiness when we were announced as the "Catholic Church's newest people" of prayer after our final vows. I can't think of a more honorable way to serve this Church that I love so much.

We sailed through a smooth Advent. I got my prayers routine down pat. Didn't overspend on Christmas presents. Whipped up a seven course seafood dinner without notice when Christmas Eve handed my mother a family emergency.

I turned a happy 35 on December 31st.

On Mary's Day, January 1st, I found out that I'm pregnant. Our dearest prayer for two years has come true. I told my Carmel group that this was a Carmel baby. We'd had no luck conceiving for two years. Yet as soon as I got my Brown Scapular, everything came together again.

So pray for me and the newest Benjamin baby.

HA HA about my great prayer routine. Morning sickness has struck me hard over the last three weeks. Instead of deep mystical prayer experiences, I now spend my daily half and hour, moaning on my bed uniting myself with every time Jesus experienced the stomach flu during his 33 years on earth.

My prayer time is seriously pathetic. Sometimes I just sprawl out on the carpet in the morning and let Jon pray the beautiful words of Divine Office over me. We're one flesh so that still counts, right?

I asked advice from one of my Carmelite friends who is the mother of TEN. "How do you prayer with morning sickness?" She just laughed at me. "You just muddle through", Stephanie said sympathetically. "Jesus understands. It's part of praying through the human condition."

I wish all of you a happy time in our preparation before Lent. Keep praying through whatever is happening in your life. We weren't made to be angels. Our muddled and pathetic attempts at prayer are a part of our human condition.

Signing Off

I'm celebrating Pentecost Sunday by actually following one of my directives from the Holy Spirit. I'm stopping my blog.

It's so beautiful, actually. When I started this blog I felt like stay-at-home mothers were as rare as unicorns. I eagerly searched out fellow Catholic moms on remote corners of the Internet. Reading people's blogs and writing my own was an important part of staying sane in dramatically unfamiliar territory.

Two years later, I've finally have a Catholic home. I've got a home church and Carmel. My family chats regularly with priests and religious. There are Catholic home-schooling friends and neighborhood pals. So there are so many new friends and wonderful prayer thoughts to fill my day.

I don't know how long a "break" this will be. I'm no longer directing my own ship. I just know that I don't feel right blogging until I get more steady at my prayer life. (As a chatterbox, I find writing much easier and more enjoyable than doing my daily 1/2 hour of the prayer of the quiet. Until that passion gets flipped around, I'm going to radically detach from blogging.)

Lots of peace to everyone!

A special thank you to everyone who has read my thoughts over the past two years!

Remember, I'm working on becoming a true Carmelite. So if you have any prayer requests, please send me an email: abby_rupp@yahoo.com.

Acquiring A Taste for Heavenly Bread

This morning I had one of those lovely "life comes full circle moments." My kids clamoured for leftover chocolate birthday cake for Breakfast this morning. After boring oatmeal, I portioned out the last slices from the cake with homemade frosting made by one of Jon's co-workers for his birthday yesterday. Soon we had three messy, chocolate covered faces bopping along to the Aussie band My Friend the Chocolate Cake.

"We're eating chocolate cake for breakfast while listening to My Friend the Chocolate Cake," I shouted happily.

That CD has languished in the back of non-played CD collection since Hannah's birth.It got freed during a massive Spring cleaning spurt recently.

I first heard this Melbourne band from my Aussie friend I met in Europe. We took an overnight ferry to Crete. (I did my study at the University of London on Modern Greek History and convinced my friend Christine that I NEEDED to see Kazantzakis homeland in person before I could write an inspired literary critique of his novels. She agreed to spend her Spring Break running around Greece with me. Writer friends are good like that.)

Even though we were in the beautiful setting, the ferry ride was awful. I had my heart smashed up by an American. Christine felt badly that she'd never been kissed. We were both in a sorry state without the sickening smell from the cigarette smoke from the Russians next to us. I borrowed her CD player and went up alone on the deck. I listened to the unfamiliar band, My Friend the Chocolate Cake, while feeling so lost and empty under the moon.

In 2000, I visited Christine in her homeland on the eve of her wedding. She married a lovely "lad", a music teacher. On the last night I spent in Australia, Christine ran out and bought me a CD of my favorite Aussie band.

That trip to Australia was the last trip I took without a certain new boyfriend. I missed him when I went to snorkeling at the Great Reef. I missed him as I contemplated Aboriginal Art in the Aussie National Gallery. Everything thing of beauty that I saw, felt a little diminished because I couldn't talk to him about it. "I'm never taking a trip without Jon again," I declared on the flight home. Three weeks later, Jon proposed!

So anyways, all these feelings came full circle this morning.

There I was listening to old, old music from a time in my life when I thought I was useless in love. This morning, I had a newly minted 37 year old husband at my side and three funny kids.

This the mark of my days now. There are no more trips to Australia or Greece. I don't have time email pictures to my foreign friends. Yet everyone sits together happily in my heart. Christ's peace felt a little "anti-climactic" at first. Now, however, I'm so joyful to be home.

God is good!

My Friend The Chocolate Cake - I've Got A Plan