It’s Lent..

Lent means evil has scored somewhere in the world of mankind. It is never satisfied and cannot stand God or His favorite creation — and, least of all, active non-worship of itself.

Prayers for New Zealand (today… Where and who will it be tomorrow? Or at Easter? And Christmas? And all other holy days/seasons?)

Anyone care to shout, “Guns don’t kill people!”? I don’t know about NZ, but many here will shout it — albeit not for a couple of days, just to be decent.

Indeed, many will cling to their fear/hatred openly, again, and expound/advocate it as a right; it will just look like guns — like any gun anywhere in the world — which by its owned, stolen, borrowed existence bears a latent/dormant will to kill.

I’ve never heard of an “Active Stabber” “Active Pummeler” “Active Torcher/Acid-er” protocol, but “Active Shooter” protocols exist all over the place, here and in other countries — indeed, the shooting is quite active — and, especially for us, its protocol is a quiet way of admitting defeat.

Mosques, churches, temples, nations, ethnicities in the same nation, schools, nightclubs, federal institutions, global entities — stricken, bombed, suicide-missioned, mowed down… but mostly taken, held, and shot up with affordable, accessible guns.

Fear and hatred, unrest, distrust and a dearth of goodwill shall exist for all our lifetimes; that is exactly what mankind shall not be freed from, thank You anyway, God! However, we are mankind in the better ways, too, and we all have the year-round duty (and power) to make it harder for evil to score a win of horrible losses. If that needs to be legislated, let it be so, for the sake of all.











When shove comes:

I have yet to read von Balthasar’s whole book, “Heart of the World,” but this one chapter has been enough to ease my soul for a number of years. It is Jesus speaking to His church. I read it at the height of the American scandals (Massachusetts) and I was a basket case by the end. A thankful mess. Cried my heart out. He’s GOT this.

When someone has caused me to feel down — be they some other religion, none, or a skewed form of my own — by ravaging my beloved Church Who is modeled on Mary Ever Virgin and literally bears the very Heart of the world, Who has put the holiest people on earth into my immediate surroundings — all of which I can hardly speak well enough to, or I’d have done so by now! — I come back to this.

And you can bet it’s one reason I love Jesuits! Always, the Jesuits — making me nod. Indeed, a re-reading doesn’t make me cry — that was just that once. For all the years since that horrible night, it makes me nod.  I nod, “Amen.”





Sunday in winter

It is Sunday morning here — the littlest birds know when best to sing. Otherwise, it is as quiet as a post-departure weekday. The kids are with their dads, and the resident dad here is out Massing/breakfasting/EMHCing, as has been his Sunday way for quite some time. The one day he doesn’t make the coffee. Coffee, coffee, coffee!

It’s sunny but cold. Cold but sunny.. can’t get away from that word. It’s a good day to go peruse a mall’s brick-and-mortar book/music/coffee store. Were parking/much walking not a problem in another town, it’d be an ideal day for the littler book/music/coffee-and-pastry shop. There’s no sea-scent on the cold days there, but there are gulls who are happy to leave the dumpsters alone, just wheeling around overhead, reminding us that there are cold people working cold boats today!

It’s a good day to ride down a little further to their rocks, and perhaps a little further along the coast, and to photograph what I always want to share. In the winter, the ocean gets farther and farther away; the drive, longer than ever; the visit, short, shorter, shortest. Only the kindest God could’ve had man invent binoculars, which are not impeded by a running car’s windshield!

And then there’s the inner argument: Whether to stop at the cemetery on the way, to *deliver* an honorary medium hot, extra cream 2 sugars DnD coffee. So overdue..

Most winter Sundays don’t come to much, before the 5 pm Mass. Most become a good day to ‘blog, to hem jeans for all our French Canadian/Irish/Mexican-length legs, or to rearrange certain things, now that the little one strong as an ox can pull open the ancient bureau’s drawer that holds my stash of Aspercreme and aspirin, TUMS and nasal spray. I’ll switch all of that out for a little metal car or two, to take the sting out of his newest mini-confounding in “Memmaw”‘s house.

Son, the only tall person anywhere in our immediate universe, will be over with laundry and son-ness.  Far daughter will reach out, and we’ll reach back. Other far daughter called last night; we talked for nearly two hours. Her rabid-fandom of Trump has cooled greatly (by his own doing), which has heated up my heart. It was scary for a while.

After the 5, everyone will be back. I’ll be ready — for noise, food, laughter, 60 Minutes, and Kevin Belton’s New Orleans cooking. If the noise (and contests and races) exceeds the tolerable max, I’ll be ready for opening the new bottle of white merlot and, either way, to re-admire yesterday’s new excessively green plants — an oxalis and a peace lily — quietly blooming away in the dining room.





I mithed you.


However, I was too monstrously busy exhausting myself, sleeping badly, freezing my tiny asp off, not eating well (does no one believe in a good old fashioned baked potato anymore?) and being too caffeine-starved to try to post or even read posts.

As I say, though, a wonderful time was had by all. Almost all. 🙂 (I accidentally set my hair on fire at one point. Even I must say, “I can’t take me anywhere.”)

It’s good to be back, even with a partial mullet.

There was much more to offer. It’s alright; there was a very and more serious than usual reason to do so: A 3-year old in the ex-son-in-law brood who has already lived a year longer than is usual for his terrible condition of constant seizures. They don’t know if he’s suffering, or happy, or anything. He’s heavily medicated to control the seizures..

His father cried as he spoke of him, not least of all because Mom moved him as far away down south as she could. I mumbled a bit about how the severely restricted fellow with cerebral palsy whom DH and I had tutored who couldn’t feed himself, let alone shave or trim his mustache and so much worse, had one thing to say to anyone who would listen:

“I LOVE my life. I’m so glad my mom didn’t abort me, and no one would’ve blamed her after that first son with CP! But I’m so thankful she didn’t.. I LOVE my life!”

I also spoke of how technology is racing racing racing at all times, and there might just be some way someday soon for the little boy to communicate. The dad’s wish is that the mom will fulfill her promise to bring the boy back to the Midwest for a Christmas visit. Sometimes, when I think my life has been a little shitty, well..  well, I realize that I’d trade it for someone else to have my shot at it. But more than anything, I realize (always) that the Man Who Healed, still heals. Still makes life better. Still creates smiles — and peace of heart — for others.

Please help me pray for Eli.

We’re so proud of our granddaughter. She’s a whiz kid, and she’s a lovely young woman. She graduated Summa Cum Laude with a handful of others out of multi-hundreds. Did I tell you that she had a poem published? No? Then I must not have told you that she used to make origami cranes –and painted them. 🙂 She also loves boats, (she serves on one every summer for years, now) and can’t wait to get up to Gloucester (Glostah) someday to see where The Perfect Storm movie took its origin. She has a little experience driving a jet boat on a Great lake, and some docking experience. 😀

We met her sweet boyfriend. I gave my nod. (We all do.) Her immediate plans are to sleep. 🙂 Her folks and other grandfolks all were so gracious. We got to see everyone this trip. Except the people who thoroughly enjoyed themselves in the abutting hotel rooms (all night long) and only occasionally banged on our door, perhaps looking for Ms. Stiletto or wondering how to increase the volume on the bass-thumping songs, because it was already up as high as it could go…

Indeed, the hotel stay is a chapter unto itself in this book that begins with de-icing the interiorly hot tube of toothpaste we flew in, and finishes with the hot, cramped tube of toothpaste (with the hovering-acrobatics-friendly bathroom) taking even worse turbulence on the way back. Suffice it to say I’ve never before thrown myself into St. Anthony’s arms (much like a golden retriever might) crying, “I trust unto the very end, but I’M SO SCARED!” Oh, I broke! But only on that third shove across the sky out of the not-so-clear blue that just wouldn’t let go!

All in all, we know exactly what we’d do differently next time:  EVERYTHING.

It’s good to be back. It’s good to be warm, full, caffeinated.

It’s good that we survived, because I stuffed important things/papers/deeds into a box that would’ve only flummoxed our survivors mightily.. and because I didn’t make it to confession beforehand.

And people, it’s good to come back to your posts, too. ❤  I’m having fun catching up!







Let us make a little list from our lives, who of us got a little fame and who got a little probation, who of us lived tame and who recalls softly both lovers and wives. Who lived through that awful war, and who survived with a fake deferment? Who put their folks in the […]

via John Samuel Tieman: A Sonnet for the 50th Reunion of the Mercy High Class of ’68 — Vox Populi

John Samuel Tieman: A Sonnet for the 50th Reunion of the Mercy High Class of ’68 — Vox Populi