smoothed out blue t-shirt
watching my belly earthquakes
remote goes flying
fleeting appearance
bumping out then gone again
elbows knees and feet
ten minutes to watch
then the worn out baby rests
intrawomb gymnast
Friday, May 29, 2009
It's Been a While..How 'Bout a Haiku?
smoothed out blue t-shirt
watching my belly earthquakes
remote goes flying
fleeting appearance
bumping out then gone again
elbows knees and feet
ten minutes to watch
then the worn out baby rests
intrawomb gymnast
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
The True Test of Friendship
I drove my closest friend and her daughter to the airport this morning after a 10 day slumber party at my house. We hadn't seen each other face-to-face in almost 3 years. 10 days seemed like a long time to have extra people in my house; it wasn't nearly enough time. She could have stayed a month. (She could have stayed forever.)
My sweet Computer Guy was understanding about this "other woman" in our house. I kept waiting for him to complain about something. He's a private guy who likes his space. He was genuinely saddened by their departure.
We discovered that somehow we had managed to marry the male versions of each other. Her War Hero is calm and easy-going like me; we're great when needed, but always lose the keys. She and my sweet husband are the organization that keep the whole mess moving forward. I realized this the evening the two of them waxed rhapsodic about label makers. Yup. The Air Force Guy and I married nerds and we like it that way.
In the last week and a half, I've eaten more ice cream than in the past six months put together. We sat in my big king sized bed with a mug of Braum's Brownie Batter Ice Cream and watched reality TV from under a warm pile of blankets while we laughed, cried, oohed over pretty babies, and made catty remarks about people with too much botox.
I miss her already. I miss the easy give and take of someone who knows all about that embarrassing time in high school when you tripped and landed in a bowl of nacho cheese on the lap of your secret crush or that you slept with a nightlight well into your twenties and loves you enough to mock you mercilessly for it but would never breathe a word of your shame to another soul. That's the true measure of friendship. They know the real you that you hide from the world and still respect you, and after 10 days together (including time spent in swimsuits) you both cry because it wasn't enough time. 10 days, 10 years, a whole lifetime...it will never be enough.
My sweet Computer Guy was understanding about this "other woman" in our house. I kept waiting for him to complain about something. He's a private guy who likes his space. He was genuinely saddened by their departure.
We discovered that somehow we had managed to marry the male versions of each other. Her War Hero is calm and easy-going like me; we're great when needed, but always lose the keys. She and my sweet husband are the organization that keep the whole mess moving forward. I realized this the evening the two of them waxed rhapsodic about label makers. Yup. The Air Force Guy and I married nerds and we like it that way.
In the last week and a half, I've eaten more ice cream than in the past six months put together. We sat in my big king sized bed with a mug of Braum's Brownie Batter Ice Cream and watched reality TV from under a warm pile of blankets while we laughed, cried, oohed over pretty babies, and made catty remarks about people with too much botox.
I miss her already. I miss the easy give and take of someone who knows all about that embarrassing time in high school when you tripped and landed in a bowl of nacho cheese on the lap of your secret crush or that you slept with a nightlight well into your twenties and loves you enough to mock you mercilessly for it but would never breathe a word of your shame to another soul. That's the true measure of friendship. They know the real you that you hide from the world and still respect you, and after 10 days together (including time spent in swimsuits) you both cry because it wasn't enough time. 10 days, 10 years, a whole lifetime...it will never be enough.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Hitch Up Your Bikini or Trim the Hedges
Am I the only mom in America who believes that children's clothing is being designed by pedophiles? Have you gone swimsuit shopping with your daughter lately? If not, you're in for a rude awakening this Summer at the pool.
Among the 8 or so girls at our neighborhood pool this weekend, aged 10-15, my daughter was the only one not wearing an extremely small string bikini. This isn't just the mom prude in me talking, these were extremely small bikinis especially for girls who aren't even old enough to have a job and buy the tiny things themselves. That's right, somewhere out there are parents who think their girls look acceptable in hankies held up by dental floss. I'm not sure if the parents are clueless, actually approve of the sexualization of their children, or simply were worn down by the lack of alternatives in girls' swimwear. I'm praying for the latter.
This weekend, it took us close to two hours to find a suit modest enough for my 12 year old to even consent to trying it on. She finally found a very cute one piece with a matching cover-up skirt and was thrilled that it fit. She looks adorable, and comfortable. She was the only girl under the age of 25 this weekend in a one-piece. She was also the only one who didn't spend the entire afternoon pulling, tugging, fidgeting, and crossing her arms over her belly in an unconscious attempt to cover herself. She swam and dove; they bobbed awkwardly and hung on the wall.
Then there was the poor young woman I scarred for life. She wore a tiny striped bikini which was slung low on her hips. Clearly visible from across the pool where I sat with a friend, was an inch of pubic hair rising up over the top of the front and an inch or more of butt crack in the back. If I could see it on the opposite side of an Olympic sized pool, imagine how much better the view for the teenage boys she was standing in front of and with whom she was awkwardly trying to flirt. Her crotch was at their eye level as they sat in the beach chairs. Somehow I don't think they remember much of what she had to say.
As she walked by me to the bathroom, I decided that I had to let her know how exposed she was. I would tell her if she had lipstick on her teeth, and this was a bit more embarrassing. I waved her over as she got near me and whispered, "You might want to tighten your bikini bottom a bit. You've got pubes showing." I've never before actually seen anyone turn that shade of red outside of a cartoon. At least she had the good grace to be embarrassed by her nakedness. All I could think was "where is your mother, and has she seen you in this suit?"
The next time I saw her, I worried that she might lose circulation in her legs from how tightly she was now tied. She blushed every time she saw me, but made no extra effort to cover up other than flipping up the tag in back to cover the top of her crack.
I wish I knew her mother. I'd have a thing or two to say to her. Helpful things like "if your daughter has to use the tag to fully cover herself, perhaps the suit is too small" or "if you're going to let her dress like a slut anyway, you might as well go whole hog and get her a Brazilian wax so that no one else notices how low the front of her bottoms actually are."
As for me, I'm off to hug my own daughters who insist on coverage, modesty, and functionality in a suit, and to thank them for being the lovely girls they are instead of the tramps the world wants them to become.
Among the 8 or so girls at our neighborhood pool this weekend, aged 10-15, my daughter was the only one not wearing an extremely small string bikini. This isn't just the mom prude in me talking, these were extremely small bikinis especially for girls who aren't even old enough to have a job and buy the tiny things themselves. That's right, somewhere out there are parents who think their girls look acceptable in hankies held up by dental floss. I'm not sure if the parents are clueless, actually approve of the sexualization of their children, or simply were worn down by the lack of alternatives in girls' swimwear. I'm praying for the latter.
This weekend, it took us close to two hours to find a suit modest enough for my 12 year old to even consent to trying it on. She finally found a very cute one piece with a matching cover-up skirt and was thrilled that it fit. She looks adorable, and comfortable. She was the only girl under the age of 25 this weekend in a one-piece. She was also the only one who didn't spend the entire afternoon pulling, tugging, fidgeting, and crossing her arms over her belly in an unconscious attempt to cover herself. She swam and dove; they bobbed awkwardly and hung on the wall.
Then there was the poor young woman I scarred for life. She wore a tiny striped bikini which was slung low on her hips. Clearly visible from across the pool where I sat with a friend, was an inch of pubic hair rising up over the top of the front and an inch or more of butt crack in the back. If I could see it on the opposite side of an Olympic sized pool, imagine how much better the view for the teenage boys she was standing in front of and with whom she was awkwardly trying to flirt. Her crotch was at their eye level as they sat in the beach chairs. Somehow I don't think they remember much of what she had to say.
As she walked by me to the bathroom, I decided that I had to let her know how exposed she was. I would tell her if she had lipstick on her teeth, and this was a bit more embarrassing. I waved her over as she got near me and whispered, "You might want to tighten your bikini bottom a bit. You've got pubes showing." I've never before actually seen anyone turn that shade of red outside of a cartoon. At least she had the good grace to be embarrassed by her nakedness. All I could think was "where is your mother, and has she seen you in this suit?"
The next time I saw her, I worried that she might lose circulation in her legs from how tightly she was now tied. She blushed every time she saw me, but made no extra effort to cover up other than flipping up the tag in back to cover the top of her crack.
I wish I knew her mother. I'd have a thing or two to say to her. Helpful things like "if your daughter has to use the tag to fully cover herself, perhaps the suit is too small" or "if you're going to let her dress like a slut anyway, you might as well go whole hog and get her a Brazilian wax so that no one else notices how low the front of her bottoms actually are."
As for me, I'm off to hug my own daughters who insist on coverage, modesty, and functionality in a suit, and to thank them for being the lovely girls they are instead of the tramps the world wants them to become.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Excuses, Excuses
Sorry that my posts have been few and far between lately. One of the people I love best in the world is visiting our house right now, and I have been too distracted by my own joy to spend my time blogging.
This friend and I have consoled and counseled each other over the years through our many heartbreaks and disappointments. We've been there through miscarriages and infertility, military deployments and family dramas. We are each other's first person to call when the world begins to fall around our ears.
She is also the brave soul who volunteered to take all of our children in the case of the Computer Guy and myself meeting an untimely end. That is to say, if we die then she inherits the whole shooting match. (I don't think that she's too eager for that to happen, but she gets really excited when she thinks about it. I'm sleeping with one eye open for the rest of the visit just in case.)
Whenever I find myself expecting a new Little Kid, I simply call her and say something like "I know you'll take 4, but will you take 5?" and she squeals and I squeal and then she calls her husband. I don't know if he squeals. He's a military guy who could kill a man with just his thumb. He probably closes the door before he shrieks. Don't you think?
So, to make a long story short, I'm spending the next few days with my children's back-up Mama and my own sweet friend. Blogging may be intermittent. The End.
This friend and I have consoled and counseled each other over the years through our many heartbreaks and disappointments. We've been there through miscarriages and infertility, military deployments and family dramas. We are each other's first person to call when the world begins to fall around our ears.
She is also the brave soul who volunteered to take all of our children in the case of the Computer Guy and myself meeting an untimely end. That is to say, if we die then she inherits the whole shooting match. (I don't think that she's too eager for that to happen, but she gets really excited when she thinks about it. I'm sleeping with one eye open for the rest of the visit just in case.)
Whenever I find myself expecting a new Little Kid, I simply call her and say something like "I know you'll take 4, but will you take 5?" and she squeals and I squeal and then she calls her husband. I don't know if he squeals. He's a military guy who could kill a man with just his thumb. He probably closes the door before he shrieks. Don't you think?
So, to make a long story short, I'm spending the next few days with my children's back-up Mama and my own sweet friend. Blogging may be intermittent. The End.
Monday, May 18, 2009
One of "That Kind" of Catholic
I have recently crossed over to the dark side, so to speak. I have become one of those strange ladies who wear a veil in Mass. To be specific, I wear an old-fashioned lace mantilla in a modern Novus Ordo Mass. I have become the odd duck, I guess. If I were a parishioner at the Traditional Latin Mass chapel in town, headwear would be required, at our parish coiffed hair is the order of the day.
I began veiling in Church at Easter. Not because of outside influences, or for Scriptural reasons, although both of those certainly exist. It was not tradition or rank sentimentality which brought me to this point either. It was a deeply personal decision, as many of the best ones are. It was through the process of examining my conscience that I became aware of my own weakest points, which is the whole point of a regular examination. I am prideful. I am weak. I am easily distracted. I worry overmuch about the opinions of other people as they pertain to the way I present myself to the world.
I prayed about these flaws for a long time. They became ever more noticeable to me, especially within the safe and sacred walls of our church. While surrounded by holiness, my own mind would freely wander, and not to places it needed to go. I would look at the woman across the sanctuary and admire her new haircut and wonder if it was as easy to fix as it appeared. I would watch the toddler squirming out of his mother's arms and wonder what she was going to do about that. I watched in horror as a small boy colored in the new hymnals and his parents said nothing, and harshly judged them for the lack of control they had over their little darling. Every movement, every fidget, everything that happened caught my attention and would distract me from my reason for being there in the first place. I was at a loss for a solution, and began to wonder if I wasn't just being a bit too hard on myself.
Then I found them, my stash of my sweet grandmother's mantillas, in a box in my closet. A trace of her perfume still stubbornly clung to them despite her having died 13 years ago. I'm not sure what possessed my father to send them to me, a fallen away Catholic on the fast-track to becoming Lutheran, but he had. I pulled out the pink one I had admired as a girl and gleefully draped it over my head. I spun around and admired my suddenly pious-looking reflection in the bathroom mirror. I decided to wear one on Easter in honor of my grandmother, and offered one to my eldest. My sweet #1 readily accepted. She is no stranger to veiling, having a close friend who attends the Latin Mass regularly. She veils on those occasions when she sleeps over at their house, and to her it is simply a facet of Catholicism.
Easter morning I stood in my pew with this triangle of lace draped over my head and worried that I looked ridiculous. Then it slipped off of my head. I replaced it and bowed my head in an effort to keep it in place, not looking at the pews across the way, but at the empty space in front of my shoes. It was a posture of complete humility and was foreign and uncomfortable. The lacy sides draped enough in my peripheral vision that I couldn't see any further down the pew than my own husband and children. It became, for me, my family alone with God. All that I was responsible for was all that I could see.
I have chosen to continue to wear my triangle of lace every Sunday. I find that being forced to assume a stance of humility actually humbles me. My demeanor and attitude are completely changed simply by carrying my body in a different way. Not seeing the other people in the church allows me the freedom to pray without distraction. I have become one of "that kind" of Catholic. One of the crazy ladies with the big family and the out-dated wardrobe, the kind who stands beside her husband in humility and a prayerful peace. Who knew that the answer to my prayers, the help that I needed, was to be found in a dust-covered box filled with old lace?
I began veiling in Church at Easter. Not because of outside influences, or for Scriptural reasons, although both of those certainly exist. It was not tradition or rank sentimentality which brought me to this point either. It was a deeply personal decision, as many of the best ones are. It was through the process of examining my conscience that I became aware of my own weakest points, which is the whole point of a regular examination. I am prideful. I am weak. I am easily distracted. I worry overmuch about the opinions of other people as they pertain to the way I present myself to the world.
I prayed about these flaws for a long time. They became ever more noticeable to me, especially within the safe and sacred walls of our church. While surrounded by holiness, my own mind would freely wander, and not to places it needed to go. I would look at the woman across the sanctuary and admire her new haircut and wonder if it was as easy to fix as it appeared. I would watch the toddler squirming out of his mother's arms and wonder what she was going to do about that. I watched in horror as a small boy colored in the new hymnals and his parents said nothing, and harshly judged them for the lack of control they had over their little darling. Every movement, every fidget, everything that happened caught my attention and would distract me from my reason for being there in the first place. I was at a loss for a solution, and began to wonder if I wasn't just being a bit too hard on myself.
Then I found them, my stash of my sweet grandmother's mantillas, in a box in my closet. A trace of her perfume still stubbornly clung to them despite her having died 13 years ago. I'm not sure what possessed my father to send them to me, a fallen away Catholic on the fast-track to becoming Lutheran, but he had. I pulled out the pink one I had admired as a girl and gleefully draped it over my head. I spun around and admired my suddenly pious-looking reflection in the bathroom mirror. I decided to wear one on Easter in honor of my grandmother, and offered one to my eldest. My sweet #1 readily accepted. She is no stranger to veiling, having a close friend who attends the Latin Mass regularly. She veils on those occasions when she sleeps over at their house, and to her it is simply a facet of Catholicism.
Easter morning I stood in my pew with this triangle of lace draped over my head and worried that I looked ridiculous. Then it slipped off of my head. I replaced it and bowed my head in an effort to keep it in place, not looking at the pews across the way, but at the empty space in front of my shoes. It was a posture of complete humility and was foreign and uncomfortable. The lacy sides draped enough in my peripheral vision that I couldn't see any further down the pew than my own husband and children. It became, for me, my family alone with God. All that I was responsible for was all that I could see.
I have chosen to continue to wear my triangle of lace every Sunday. I find that being forced to assume a stance of humility actually humbles me. My demeanor and attitude are completely changed simply by carrying my body in a different way. Not seeing the other people in the church allows me the freedom to pray without distraction. I have become one of "that kind" of Catholic. One of the crazy ladies with the big family and the out-dated wardrobe, the kind who stands beside her husband in humility and a prayerful peace. Who knew that the answer to my prayers, the help that I needed, was to be found in a dust-covered box filled with old lace?
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Happy Mother's Day, Mom
When I was younger, around middle school age, my life sucked eggs. I think every girl's life does when she is 12 and 13. It's just awkward growing into a woman and still feeling like a little girl but not wanting to admit it. I can remember many, many times when my mother would gather me into her arms as I cried over some new heartache and she would softly whisper into my ear, "I know this is hard right now, but if it helps to know the truth...you've always been my favorite child." And you know what? It did help.
My brother says she used to tell him the same thing when he was a kid, but I don't believe him. He went off and married a Yankee....a Yankee!!!! And as we all know, you just can't trust a guy like that.
Happy Mother's Day, Mom!
from your favorite child (Shut up, Butch, and I mean it. grrrrrr)
My brother says she used to tell him the same thing when he was a kid, but I don't believe him. He went off and married a Yankee....a Yankee!!!! And as we all know, you just can't trust a guy like that.
Happy Mother's Day, Mom!
from your favorite child (Shut up, Butch, and I mean it. grrrrrr)
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Why I Love Ann Coulter
Behar To Coulter: 'You Support Waterboarding; Get Waterboarded!' Coulter: You Support Abortion...!
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
I Can See It From Here
We could have finished school this week. Could have. #2 has 12 more English lessons and to finish The Yearling. #3 just has to finish up his math and handwriting books. That's it. We're within spitting distance of Summer vacation, and they won't just do the work.
I told #2 this morning, "If you would just do your English from now until you're done, then you could finish today and have no more grammar until September. If you read your literature book for two hours straight, then you would be completely finished and I could stop yelling at you."
I said to #3, "You have 15 problems on a math page for 11 more pages. They are all speed drills, so the problems are all the same just mixed around. Just do the same thing over and over for an hour and you'll be done and then you can have all day free for playing and inventing and making costumes." He's spent the last hour and a half on the same page.
Don't these boys get how close their mother is to having her head explode? If they happens, they will be the ones who have to clean up the mess...doesn't this occur to them?
JUST DO THE WORK!!!!!!! AAAARRRGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!
Thanks, I needed that moment.
It has become obvious to me that boys' brains and girls' brains are complete opposites of each other. When my daughters spot the finish line, they hurry up to finish that much faster. My boys see the light at the end of the tunnel, shrug to themselves and decide that there's no real reason to rush since the end is in sight.
It's killing me slowly. I want to do other things besides sit in the basement next to them as they move at a snail's pace. If I get up for any reason they disappear, and then I have to go and wrestle them back downstairs and back on task.
Welcome to homeschooling hell.
This is the week of the year when I seriously consider putting them in school for next year. It's the week when I wish I wasn't pregnant because I could sure use a drink. The week when I think I need my head examined for thinking this was a good idea in the first place. The week when I scream, yell and threaten them across the finish line because otherwise they're the boys who would take a detour and stand in the fields picking dandelions and spinning around. This is the week when God teaches me patience.
I hate it when He does that. Why can't the lesson be for my boys? Why can't he teach them to self-motivate and give them a desire to work hard rather than day-dream? I know, I know, that's my job. Being a grown up is no fun.
P.S. If you are one of those annoying moms who keeps asking me what curricula we are using for next year and want to show me your color-coded lesson plans that you already have prepared for the Fall......I love you.....but walk away...walk away now!
I told #2 this morning, "If you would just do your English from now until you're done, then you could finish today and have no more grammar until September. If you read your literature book for two hours straight, then you would be completely finished and I could stop yelling at you."
I said to #3, "You have 15 problems on a math page for 11 more pages. They are all speed drills, so the problems are all the same just mixed around. Just do the same thing over and over for an hour and you'll be done and then you can have all day free for playing and inventing and making costumes." He's spent the last hour and a half on the same page.
Don't these boys get how close their mother is to having her head explode? If they happens, they will be the ones who have to clean up the mess...doesn't this occur to them?
JUST DO THE WORK!!!!!!! AAAARRRGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!
Thanks, I needed that moment.
It has become obvious to me that boys' brains and girls' brains are complete opposites of each other. When my daughters spot the finish line, they hurry up to finish that much faster. My boys see the light at the end of the tunnel, shrug to themselves and decide that there's no real reason to rush since the end is in sight.
It's killing me slowly. I want to do other things besides sit in the basement next to them as they move at a snail's pace. If I get up for any reason they disappear, and then I have to go and wrestle them back downstairs and back on task.
Welcome to homeschooling hell.
This is the week of the year when I seriously consider putting them in school for next year. It's the week when I wish I wasn't pregnant because I could sure use a drink. The week when I think I need my head examined for thinking this was a good idea in the first place. The week when I scream, yell and threaten them across the finish line because otherwise they're the boys who would take a detour and stand in the fields picking dandelions and spinning around. This is the week when God teaches me patience.
I hate it when He does that. Why can't the lesson be for my boys? Why can't he teach them to self-motivate and give them a desire to work hard rather than day-dream? I know, I know, that's my job.
P.S. If you are one of those annoying moms who keeps asking me what curricula we are using for next year and want to show me your color-coded lesson plans that you already have prepared for the Fall......I love you.....but walk away...walk away now!
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
The Consequences of Silence
What do you say when the Deacon says you should be done? To whom do you turn when the man who teaches RCIA in your parish tells you that it's time for you to "take a break" from having any more children? What does that mean anyway? I usually take a 2 year hiatus from baby to baby, but that's God's spacing not mine. When he says that we're okay because we've "done our part", to whom should we then hand the baton?
When the woman who teaches CCD (that's Catholic Sunday School to all the non-Catholics), asks your friend "Don't they have enough already? How can they possibly feed them all?", how do you correct her?
I am perplexed by the negative comments in the one refuge from the outside world that I thought we had. If the Catholic clergy and CCD teachers think we're a bit loony...are we? It is difficult enough to try and live a moral life in this society without those we trust digging out the ground underneath us.
When my sweet Computer Guy came into the Church two years ago, he had two problems with being Catholic: 1. Confession and 2. no contraception. He got over that Confession thing once he tried it. It still isn't his favorite thing to do, it's not really anyone's favorite thing to do, but he gets the point of it now and goes fairly regularly. The contraception thing is hard for him. Still. Mainly, I think, because it is never discussed anywhere except with our crazy big-familied friends. During the RCIA process he told me that he had decided to let it go since I was making it out to be bigger than it was. The Church is merely making a suggestion about how to live, not proclaiming some sort of official teaching. I was floored. Of course it was official teaching that contraception is a sin, how could he think differently? Because, he reasoned, in 8 years of attending Mass faithfully he had never heard it mentioned, not even during the Respect for Life Sunday homilies when it would seem to be the order of the day.
If it is so important and such a widespread topic, then why is it never mentioned? Fear. The priests are afraid of offending people and losing Church membership. As a result, they are losing their moral authority.
If the person who is authorized to act in Persona Christi is too afraid of popular opinion to speak Truth to the people, then we are lost. We may have the Biblical, historical and moral high-ground on the issue, but we have surrendered it by simply walking away in silence.
There have always been difficult and uncomfortable topics for our priests to address, this is just the latest one in our 2000 year history. I would submit that the brave martyrs did not walk proudly into death so that the priests of today could hold their tongues and let their people walk happily into Hell. Speak out, please! The souls of your people are crying out for it.
When the woman who teaches CCD (that's Catholic Sunday School to all the non-Catholics), asks your friend "Don't they have enough already? How can they possibly feed them all?", how do you correct her?
I am perplexed by the negative comments in the one refuge from the outside world that I thought we had. If the Catholic clergy and CCD teachers think we're a bit loony...are we? It is difficult enough to try and live a moral life in this society without those we trust digging out the ground underneath us.
When my sweet Computer Guy came into the Church two years ago, he had two problems with being Catholic: 1. Confession and 2. no contraception. He got over that Confession thing once he tried it. It still isn't his favorite thing to do, it's not really anyone's favorite thing to do, but he gets the point of it now and goes fairly regularly. The contraception thing is hard for him. Still. Mainly, I think, because it is never discussed anywhere except with our crazy big-familied friends. During the RCIA process he told me that he had decided to let it go since I was making it out to be bigger than it was. The Church is merely making a suggestion about how to live, not proclaiming some sort of official teaching. I was floored. Of course it was official teaching that contraception is a sin, how could he think differently? Because, he reasoned, in 8 years of attending Mass faithfully he had never heard it mentioned, not even during the Respect for Life Sunday homilies when it would seem to be the order of the day.
If it is so important and such a widespread topic, then why is it never mentioned? Fear. The priests are afraid of offending people and losing Church membership. As a result, they are losing their moral authority.
If the person who is authorized to act in Persona Christi is too afraid of popular opinion to speak Truth to the people, then we are lost. We may have the Biblical, historical and moral high-ground on the issue, but we have surrendered it by simply walking away in silence.
There have always been difficult and uncomfortable topics for our priests to address, this is just the latest one in our 2000 year history. I would submit that the brave martyrs did not walk proudly into death so that the priests of today could hold their tongues and let their people walk happily into Hell. Speak out, please! The souls of your people are crying out for it.
"Who is he who cannot warn that no woman may take a potion so that she is unable to conceive or condemns in herself the nature which God willed to be fecund? As often as she could have conceived or given birth, of that many homicides she will be held guilty.." ~Caesarius of Arles
"Why do you sow where the field is eager to destroy the fruit, where there are medicines of sterility [oral contraceptives], where there is murder before birth? You do not even let a harlot remain only a harlot, but you make her a murderess as well. . . . Indeed, it is something worse than murder, and I do not know what to call it; for she does not kill what is formed but prevents its formation. What then? Do you condemn the gift of God and fight with his [natural] laws? . . . Yet such turpitude . . . the matter still seems indifferent to many men—even to many men having wives. In this indifference of the married men there is greater evil filth; for then poisons are prepared, not against the womb of a prostitute, but against your injured wife. " (Homilies on Romans 24 [A.D. 391]). ~John Chrysostom
Monday, May 4, 2009
Shameless Begging
I've been nominated for a blog award over at The Crescat, the "Best Underappreciated Catholic Blog Award." It's an honor to be....
Ahh...who am I kidding? I want to win this thing! I'm in the second group. (There would seem to be a lot of underappreciated Catholic bloggers.) You get one vote a day, and unfortunately I;m up against Mulier Fortis again this year. That's the blog that beat me by 2 votes last year. Let's not let that happen again, what d'ya say?
Ahh...who am I kidding? I want to win this thing! I'm in the second group. (There would seem to be a lot of underappreciated Catholic bloggers.) You get one vote a day, and unfortunately I;m up against Mulier Fortis again this year. That's the blog that beat me by 2 votes last year. Let's not let that happen again, what d'ya say?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)