Rosie, can we talk?

See, I know you meant well. The husbands had to go to war, and who was going to do all that riveting?

I can see how, in wartime circumstances, leaving home to work in the factories seemed patriotic. So you rolled up your sleeve, tied your hair up in a red kerchief, posed for the poster to show other women how strong they could be, and encouraged them to get out and help. I’ll bet your every intention was good.

And I hate to break the news to you, Rosie. But—well, it’s just all gone so wrong now.

Looking back, I think one small change might have saved us all a lot of heartache. I think, when you showed your bicep and said, “We can do it!” it might have been good to clarify what “it” was.

Because later, other women started to get some pretty crazy ideas about that. Some of them seemed to think it meant “everything”, which is absolutely not true. And before you knew it, women were saying we didn’t need men at all. One woman started singing this horrible song about how she could be the one bringing home bacon and the one frying it up in the pan, and it fed a general assumption that all the rest of us could, too. I don’t know about you, but when I fry bacon, it makes a huge mess; there’s grease on everything, and if I don’t clean it up right away, in a few days it petrifies so I’d just about need a jackhammer to dislodge it from the wood cabinets. Maybe that lady had a maid or something—I don’t know—but as for me, if I fry bacon, that means I have to clean….which means less time to go out and bring home more.

And it got worse. See, over time, women got the idea that the men’s jobs were the special ones, and that our work in the home was somehow beneath us. As if!

And then the men, Rosie—you’re not going to believe this—they heard all these women talking and singing about how we didn’t need them, and do you know what happened? Some of them actually started to believe it! Deep down, Rosie—don’t you think that, really, most men do like the women they love to be happy? And don’t you think it’s good and healthy for men to know we need them around?

But you wouldn’t believe how far it went. It got to where men were afraid to call us “Miss “ or “Ma’am,” hold the door for us, or offer to pay for our meals. Women took chivalry as an insult (crazy!) and, over time, undid a lot of the good training those men’s poor mothers and fathers, grandmothers and grandfathers had worked so hard to instill. You’d cry if you saw it today, Rosie. I really think you would.

So, what I’m saying is—I understand why you felt you had to encourage women to go into the factories back then, during the war. But the skills that made women able to do those jobs, and many others, are all very much needed in the home, too, and now our homes are falling apart because there’s no mother’s heart in them, and because the husbands and fathers just don’t feel as needed there anymore.

Things have just gotten so upside-down, and some of us are struggling so hard. So, can I ask a favor?

Going back to that poster with the bicep and red kerchief—the one of you showing how strong women can be—I think that statement, generally, was spot-on. We are strong! And—wow! What we women can do!!!

But, after all this time, I’ve learned that we’re strongest when we’re doing what we’re best at—what we were really created to do. And while we are smart, and we are strong and amazingly capable, I find, generally speaking, that the strongest part of most of us is our hearts, and our homes really need us to be in them more. Everybody makes mistakes, and we’ve made some doozies these past few decades, but I think there’s always some way to make things better once we see we’ve mis-stepped and admit it.

So, knowing what we know now, Rosie, I think we ought to go back to that poster—and, for so many of us, the decision to leave home full-time—and take a second look.

I think maybe, after all we’ve learned these past 80 years or so, we could add three simple words, for a new poster—one that makes the best of what you’ve taught us about ourselves, but is also honest about what many of us have known, deep down, all along…

 

 

I have a million roses.

It’s true, in a way.

Because, every day, I am given a million moments.

And each moment is a gift—beautiful, precious, and unrepeatable—

A rose.

 

If I’m faithful to grace, I can turn each one into an Ave,

Or a kind deed,

Or a prayer in Christ’s presence for someone who can’t be there,

Or a home that’s more strengthening for others,

Or encouragement for a friend.

In each moment, I can do something to help God,

and in that way give Him back, in thanksgiving, the precious rose He chose for me.

 

But I don’t have to.

If I want, I can give my roses to

my fears and worries,

the Internet,

my hair and makeup, clothes and shoes,

chatter about others’ lives,

or my need for those same others’ approval.

But none of those roses can ever really be anyone’s to keep.

 

And the best days in all my life have been the ones in which

I’ve done my best to give all the roses God has given me

right back to Him, without holding onto anything for myself.

 

So, for today, I’ll do my best

to offer Our Lady all her Aves,

to do every little kindness,

to spend time in Christ’s real presence,

to make my home the very best I can,

and speak blessing and encouragement with every word.

 

I’ll give my roses right back to God, each and every one,

to thank Him

for giving them to me.

 

You and I–every one of us, in every day we’re given–

we each have a million roses.

 

There’s no shouting,

Drumming, dancing

In the stillness.

There’s no waving high

Or crying out, “Amen!

 

As we kneel, immersed

In silent Adoration

Of the One who forms and shapes

The hearts of men

 

In the stillness.

 

Here, you won’t find people “movin’ in the spirit”;

We just haven’t got the energy to spare.

Everything we have is pouring out in silence

As we turn to meet our God and King in prayer

 

In the stillness.

 

My grandma said

these waters run the deepest,

And now, I’ve seen enough

To know it’s true

We sense the slightest movements,

Gentle breezes;

It’s not a storm—

It’s daybreak, evening dew

 

In the places where He longs

For hearts to join Him,

In the places where He waits

For us to meet,

In the places where we silently

Adore Him,

Hardly moving, for His presence is so sweet

 

In the quiet,

In the hush,

In the silence,

In the deep,

 

In the holiness that wakes

The human soul from soundest sleep,

 

In the calm

And in the dark,

In the tranquil, resting heart

 

In the stillness.

 

Copyright  2017, KitchenTableCatholic.com

Stations of the Cross always get me. I start out thinking I should probably go home and do the pile of work that’s waiting there. Then, very hesitantly and without being quite sure I’m doing the right thing, I decide to just pray Stations “real quick” before leaving the chapel, and, undoubtedly, am reduced to a blubbering, tear-drenched pile of slush with eyeliner dripping down to my chin by the fifth station. God is so good, and He touches our hearts when we least expect it–even when we’re trying to rush away and avoid fully experiencing Him.

It can be hard to turn toward the Cross. I think this is one of the reasons so few pray Stations—and one of the reasons I sometimes avoid them, too. The Crucifixion is so painful that just contemplating it is enough to reduce us to weeping, and we don’t want to go there. On your knees and weeping is a pretty unappealing place to be, right?

It is. But there’s something that happens in that place that I think the whole world should know about. Catholics already do—anyone who has an ear open to Padre Pio’s or St. Teresa of Calcutta’s wisdom understands this—but it’s something the rest of the world tends to discount. And that’s a shame, because there’s a great richness there.

When you’re suffering and approach it in a Catholic way, asking Jesus to join your sufferings with His, something really special happens that I never experienced before coming Home to the Faith. Under your cross, you’re walking alongside Christ. The heavier your cross is, the more of the weight of it Jesus carries and takes off your shoulders, and the more deeply He ministers to you while you’re carrying it with Him. He walks right beside you and lifts it. And then you’re there, and you’re walking next to Him, His shoulders pushing forward alongside yours, and all the while, He’s taking your burdens on Himself so you don’t have to bear their full weight.

And, while He’s doing that—lifting the burden of the Cross from your shoulders so that it’s not too much for you, He pours the richest treasures into your heart and soul, and it’s so easy to receive them, because you’ve drawn close to Him. Sometimes, it even carries over into material blessings or other gifts we can actually see, and He works real, visible, undeniable miracles there, too, just to strengthen our faith and remind us (again) that He is God and can do whatever He wants.

In this way, the Cross is a place of strength–not our own, but God’s. It’s an especially beautiful place–a sweet place. It’s beautiful, and it’s sweet, because Jesus is right alongside us when we’re there.

Originally published November 30, 2017

Why are so many women up-in-arms over defunding Planned Parenthood? The message all the hullaballoo sends is anti-woman, not pro-.

If there were any truth in the cultural line that abortion gives women power, then maybe I could understand. But the opposite is true–abortion spoils a woman’s highest gift and robs her of the greatest opportunity she’ll ever have to change the world. Planned Parenthood, the world’s primary destroyer of motherhood, is the largest obstacle to women’s advancement today.

The radical feminist movement would have us all believe that a life lived outside the public eye downgrades women—that if we aren’t continually climbing the corporate ladder and tacking title upon title onto the ends of our names, we’re not living up to our potential. I ask, though: who has more influence on the world–a top-ranking female CEO, or the mother of someone like Dietrich von Hildebrand? A powerful attorney, or the mother of a saint? A brilliant female scientist who forgoes motherhood for the sake of her career, or the brilliant mother who raises four incredible scientists and makes sure they have good hearts?

Some of the most powerful and influential women in the world have not been those who went out and made great names for themselves, but those who formed and shaped others–and then sent them out to affect the world for good. These women didn’t give up their callings. Instead, they lived their lives according to St. Catherine of Siena’s wisdom: they became everything they were meant to be, and in doing that, they set the world on fire. Sometimes, they did it without the world ever even knowing their names, which I think is quite a remarkable feat indeed.

I’m not saying women shouldn’t be out in the world; I believe many were created for that. But sacrificing motherhood so that women can chase lower rewards is some extreme jungle-gym kind of upside-down and backwards—and taxpayer funding of an organization that kills baby boys and girls so that their moms and dads won’t have the blessing of parenthood is robbing millions of people, both male and female, born and unborn, of the lives they were created for. Each time a baby is aborted, at least three lives are robbed.

Our obsession with being able to control everything and be, do, and have all that men can has led us to a terrible point: women now believe that giving up their highest gift is the key to their success. Planned Parenthood promotes this; it is the enemy of motherhood itself. If we really want to empower women, defunding Planned Parenthood is a great place to start.

I love music. It’s always been one of my favorite joys, and long before I came back to the Faith, songs were the primary means God used to draw me to Him. I must not have made it easy when I was blasting Def Leppard and Boston 24/7, but somehow He still managed to sneak a good verse in here or there and touch my heart through it.

Nowadays, the Dominican Sisters of Mary, Mother of the Eucharist Pandora station is my favorite. There’s just something different about listening to the radio, though, and we all really enjoy it, so we often switch back and forth between Pandora and that.

We live in the Most-of-the-Books-of-the-Bible Belt. We don’t get any Catholic music stations here, so, when we listen to the radio, it’s often tuned to a praise music station. I don’t think of most of the songs on the airwaves as worship music (because to me, worship is about the ways God is “above us”), but they’re clean and seek to draw us closer to Him, so that’s what our radio is usually tuned to.

The other day, one of these songs reminded me of something very Catholic that I had nearly forgotten–and I hope it will encourage you, too…so I wanted to tell you a little about what happened.

The song was “Thy Will”, by Hillary Scott. Now, this lady has been through the wringer, and God brought great beauty out of it. She suffered a miscarriage, and the lyrics, about accepting God’s will even when it’s hardest, were fruit of the pain. It’s very honest, and people have received it well; as of this writing, the Vevo video had been up about a month, and it had 722,148 views, even though the album hadn’t been released yet.

As I heard the opening lines of this song for the first time a few weeks ago, they really hit home. Our family has been “through the wringer”, too, for the better part of two decades now, and we live each day with the knowledge that the pain and crises could resurface at any moment. As Mrs. Scott sang about accepting God’s will, using Christ’s well-known phrase from the Agony in the Garden that we, as Catholics, often repeat when we’re hurting (“Thy will be done”), I said a prayer of thanks to God that a very faithful view of suffering had helped this songwriter through her pain.

Then, a few bars later, came words to help me through mine. In the bridge of the song, she tied the line “Thy will be done” to the lines from Jeremiah 29 that tell us that God hears us when we pray and that His plans for us are good.

Those few lines reminded me of something really important that I had begun to lose sight of over the past few years—that we don’t just accept suffering out of resignation, because we’re willing to endure the pain (although that is definitely a crucial part of our ministry). We accept the suffering because we trust God—we trust in His total goodness and His love—yes, towards those we are suffering for—but also for us. For each of us. The message of our faith is clear: God’s will is nothing to be afraid of, and we are very, very dear to Him.

We accept trials, knowing that however much it hurts now, He really is going to make “all things work together for the good of those who love Him”. He really is going to bring something more beautiful out of it than we could ever imagine. (I know, I know: DUH!!! Right? :-))

I don’t mean this in an “If you do right, your life will be easy” kind of way. We may never see the fruit this side of Heaven, and trying to please God doesn’t guarantee a pain-free life. Sirach 2, the Crucifixion, and the saints all make it very clear: “When you come to serve the LORD, prepare yourself for trials.” The Christian life requires suffering. As Padre Pio said, “There is no flowering of the soul to the beauty of its perfection except at the price of pain.”

But God is all-good, and He loves us. When we know this—really know it at a cellular level in our hearts— we can say, “Thy will be done” not just with a fearful resignation, but with gladness, with trust, and even with joy–because we’re not only accepting the trials, but hoping in the abundant fruit God will bring out of them, too.

Originally published August 17, 2016

I planted tomatoes this year, which was a big step for me. You see, every year, I joyfully buy heirloom tomato plants as soon as winter gives way, before the dogwoods even bloom. I’m full of great intentions. Then, I let those beautiful heirloom plants sit there on my front porch until someone who actually knows what they’re doing passes by and says, “Ya’ know, it’s too late to plant those now. It’s too hot, and you’ll never get any tomatoes.” But this year, for the first time ever, I haven’t left a single tomato vine sitting there waiting to be planted until it was too late. For me, that’s something.

Now, the thing about tomatoes is–ya’ gotta’ plant ’em deep. In fact, one supplier recommends planting tomatoes so deep that a full 2/3 of the plant is underground, with only the top third exposed. The deeper you plant a tomato vine, the more roots it grows, which, of course, gives you a better crop.

This got me to thinking about the spiritual life and how, actually, we’re a lot like that, too.

It especially reminded me of mercy and service. There seems to be a push today to get us “out of the churches and into the world”. A sentiment is building that says our faith “isn’t about sitting in the church; it’s about going out and serving, ministering to the broken.”

Now, of course, a deep faith should well up in us and drive us out into the world to minister to those who are hurting. How do we get that deep faith, though? If we’re not “sitting in the church”, where is all this mercy supposed to come from?

How can we pour out God’s mercy onto others if we’re not spending plenty of time with the One who is mercy itself? What better way is there to tap into the Fount of Mercy–to receive His love so fully that it naturally pours out onto those around us–than by spending time with Him in the Eucharist?

Mother Teresa of Calcutta might have said it best: “We cannot separate our lives from the Eucharist; the moment we do, something breaks. People ask, ‘Where do the sisters get the joy and energy to do what they are doing?’ The Eucharist involves more than just receiving; it also involves satisfying the hunger of Christ. He says, ‘Come to Me.’ He is hungry for souls. Nowhere does the gospel say: ‘Go away,’ but always, ‘Come to Me.’”

Mother Teresa’s sisters spent one hour–sometimes two–in adoration daily, even with everything they had to do to in their ministry. No–because of everything they had to do to in their ministry! In fact, another quote attributed to her is “Each day we should spend one hour in adoration, except on days we are busy. Then we should spend two.”

Would anyone say Mother Teresa and her Missionary Sisters of Charity haven’t been fruitful? Good night–no! Yet, her sisters spend long stretches in quiet time with Christ each day, away from the world they are charged with serving. This piece of their lives, hidden in time alone with the presence of the Lord, makes the portion spent out in the world bear more fruit.

It’s the same with us. We need deep roots, tapped into the One who can give us the grace and mercy it takes to serve with selfless, open, peaceful, trusting hearts. So let’s get back into the churches. Let’s spend a little more time before that tabernacle or monstrance where He waits for us. Drawing our nourishment from Him, we’ll produce a more bountiful crop…because we’re kinda’ like tomatoes.

Originally published May 7, 2016