Rest has never been something at which I’ve particularly excelled.
Somehow there is always laundry to be folded, children to be fed, dishes to be washed, and stories to be read.
A parent’s job is never done.
And yet, today, I saw just how important rest is.
Amid a busy schedule, somehow my seven-year-old daughter got a full, good night’s rest, uninterrupted by nightmares or early-rising siblings.
In awe, my five-year-old son peered over the pew during the Consecration, the most holy part of the Mass during which the host and the wine become the Body and Blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ.
Normally my youngest can be a bit rambunctious during Mass, but we try to pull him aside and point out the miracle before us at each Consecration.
“The priest, in persona Christi, is asking the Holy Spirit to change the bread and wine into the Body and Blood of Jesus right now,” I whispered into my son’s ear. “Look! He’s holding up Jesus!”
There is a crackle glass bowl in our living room, a decorative bowl we set out for special occasions. It’s stunning, with hand-painted designs in bright colors.
Running through the entire piece are tiny cracks, hairline fissures in the clear glass that forms the bowl. When light shines through it, however, those cracks make the bowl shine more magnificently than before.
Whether you are one, have one, or are married to one, mothers affect every person in the world.
My eight siblings and I have been blessed with a very gentle mother who simply and genuinely reflects many of the same characteristics of Our Blessed Mother.
My earliest memory of my mom was when I was “helping” her bake a cake by moving the small plastic containers of decorative sprinkles from one side of the kitchen to the other.
“M-o-o-o-m! There’s a hole in my sock!”
It was Sunday morning, 20 minutes before Mass, and our household was a-flutter with our four children scurrying about donning church clothes, brushing teeth, and fixing hair.
My eight-year-old son was in his room, half-dressed, with a sock on one foot and disdainfully holding up the matching holey one. “I can’t wear this holey sock to church!” he cried.
Every Lent — thanks to an idea I found years ago on a Catholic blog listed below — we set up a crown of thorns in our living room. It’s just a small brown vine wreath covered with toothpicks, but it has a very specific purpose.
Each time one of my children performs a small sacrifice, or does something nice for someone else, he or she gets to pull a thorn from the crown of thorns.
One by one, the number of thorns dwindles, leaving the vine wreath bare. On Easter morning, the crown of thorns, now void of toothpicks, is covered with beautiful flowers, a symbol of how God took away our hurtful sins and replaced them with beauty of eternal life.
Before embarking on any trip, in my family it is a common custom for my husband or myself to ask, “Is everyone wearing shoes?” before we start the car.
This custom developed after I drove to the grocery store one day and discovered one of our children clad only in bare feet.
Recently, as my husband asked this customary question of our four children in the car, he decided to test their attentiveness as well.
What does sitting down and playing the preschool game Hungry Hungry Hippos have to do with your spiritual life? Living in the moment and keeping the presence of God, if you are the parent of young children.
That’s what I figured out one day while considering the laundry piling up, all the cleanouts and projects I had put on hold due to Christmas preparations, a growing pile of dishes in the sink, floors and carpets that needed cleaning, plus impending chores of offering homework help after school and policing and transporting children to basketball practice.
In addition, I was just feeling a bit down after all the hub-bub of the holidays.
“I can’t do it!” my four-year-old son cries out in frustration as he suddenly scrunches up his artwork to his chest.
His masterpiece, a brightly colored partially crayoned alphabet, is now a ball of crumpled paper, mashed beyond redemption.
“It’s okay,” I say, trying to calm his tears. “I can help you.”
Slowly I coax the ruined masterpiece from my son’s angry fingers, smooth the jagged creases, place my hand over his to guide the creation of the letters he’d wanted to be just so.
“You are still learning,” I tell him. “It doesn’t have to be perfect.”
Not long ago, dear friends of ours tragically had to lay their tiny precious baby, Maria, to rest.
At her funeral, Maria’s brothers helped carry her small white casket and her sister followed with a bouquet of roses. My friends and their toddler walked behind, supporting each other through tears.
At 32 weeks, Maria had unexpectedly died in the womb. Since then, my friends have been shouldering unimaginable suffering, wondering if they will ever again be free of the incomparable grief of parents who lose a child.
