Our community has been hit hard this time by the devastating tornadoes that swept across our state earlier in the week. Four families from our parish have lost their homes, and one of them, the Hamils, have lost their two little boys.
There are no words to describe the sadness and loss people feel in this situation. Life works in such a way that it's a heartbreaking birthright for children to plan their parents' funerals, but when that situation is reversed, the world reels with injustice.
I am blown away imagining the pain my friends are enduring as they begin the long journey in learning to cope with this loss. When I picked my kids up from school today and saw them standing outside, laughing and playing like always, I felt the pangs of guilt. When my three year old son ran up to me at daycare I grabbed him into my arms and sobbed. I feel humbled and anguished that I get to spend another day with all of my children while my friends are going to be missing their sons, their nephews, their grandsons.
I am going to miss those boys. I am guilty of spending quite a few moments during mass trying to get Cole to smile at me, and waving at Ryan when his mother wasn't looking. I have shared knowing smiles with both parents as they took turns taking their boys out of the chapel because they were being rambunctious. I have watched sweet little Cathleen try to keep Ryan quiet while their mother was taking care of Cole. I have seen the pride and happiness on Hank's face when he looks at his family.
I spent many a slumber party with the boys' Aunt Jennifer, back in the days when things were simple and our biggest worry was waking up with bed hair and ten friends as witnesses. Driving around today, my heart yearned for those days. I want to see my friend worried about her hair instead of her nephews. I want to see her older sister yelling at us for the hundredth time to be quiet instead of mourning the loss of her little boys. I want to her her mom and dad come unloading the stuff we packed and putting on my parents' front porch from when we "moved out" and sort of lived out of her dad's truck for a couple weeks. I want our biggest problem to be which one of us can score a car big enough to live in again.
These things happen and they change who we are. We become the aftermath of tragedy. For those of us who aren't as close to the situation, we eventually pick up and move on. For the parents and grandparents and sisters and aunts and uncles, I cannot pretend to understand. I don't know the right things to say. But I will say that those boys will never be forgotten. They are known and they are loved, and they are enjoying an eternity in which their biggest worry is having nothing to worry about. They are meeting my baby cousin Jadlyn, and pleading directly to Our Lord for peace and comfort for their families. That is my prayer, as well.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Monday, September 27, 2010
Nothin like a new church to start a little controversy
Our little non-parish "community" is finally growing up. You can see it here.
And while there has been some controversy over what sort of fruit you feed an archbishop, we are growing out of our teen angst, so maybe this blog can grow up, too. Probably not, but maybe.
Dedication is this Friday night. I don't know what time, but I'm sure it's on the website, so go look at that, if you haven't already. Everyone will be there, including assorted fruits, cookies, possibly chairs, some tables, and yours truly. Also people. And the Men in Black (of the clergy variety, not the alien-killing variety, but aliens weren't invited, so we should be good on that).
And while there has been some controversy over what sort of fruit you feed an archbishop, we are growing out of our teen angst, so maybe this blog can grow up, too. Probably not, but maybe.
Dedication is this Friday night. I don't know what time, but I'm sure it's on the website, so go look at that, if you haven't already. Everyone will be there, including assorted fruits, cookies, possibly chairs, some tables, and yours truly. Also people. And the Men in Black (of the clergy variety, not the alien-killing variety, but aliens weren't invited, so we should be good on that).
Sunday, September 26, 2010
In Honor of Mr. Short
I am the oldest of seven, and I sometimes feel sorry for my kids that they didn’t get that sixth sibling, because I know I have needed every single one of mine.
As most of you know, a good friend of mine is in the hospital tonight, suffering from what is currently diagnosed as some sort of brain infection. I went to see his family at the hospital last night, and walked into what was quite possibly the most crowded waiting room in the history of ICU. It struck me again how important the family structure is, and how badly we need each other when times get tough.
I have not yet had to face the mortality of my parents, and can only imagine the fear and pain and feeling of disconnect that must come in situations like these. Not to mention the anxiety most of us have felt when we know our parents are suffering in some way. I have watched two big families go through the possible death of their father while also trying to be there for their mother at the same time. This is when I think siblings most need each other. The only person who can understand what you’re going through when your dad is sick is someone who also knows him as Dad. The only person who can understand how you feel when your mom is in pain is someone who also knows her as Mom.
I imagine that this would be a huge struggle for a person dealing with this alone. As a child with many siblings, you learn to share at an early age. You hate sharing. You never want your sisters to go in your room to “borrow” your clothes, you don’t want your brothers breaking all your stuff, you want to carve out a little corner of the world that is just yours. But then you grow up, and bad things happen. And you need to share. If you’re lucky, you have someone to share with now that you know how badly you need it. And if you’re like me, or these two families, you have lots of people who know exactly what you’re going through.
There is always someone to be with Dad. There is always someone to be with Mom. There is always a shoulder to cry on, someone to run get sandwiches, someone to make everyone laugh, someone able to hold it together enough to speak rationally with the medical staff. And you share these things, and it’s easier.
When you come from a large family, you experience the “freak show” stares when you all pile out of the car, the unending rude questions from strangers, the constantly chaotic household, and the hand-me-down clothes, but you know you have something that you wouldn’t trade for the world. When you have four or five or six or seven or more built-in best friends who you can depend on no matter what, and parents who have loved you enough to continue to expand their family and to stick by them, loving their children through their toddler tantrums and their angry teens and their young adult stupidity, and you have the One Who designed your “quiver full of joy”, then you have everything you need to make it through anything that life hands you.
To the parents who have welcomed God into their marriage, who welcomed new life into their homes as He willed it, who taught their children to grow in Faith and in His Will, who taught their children to share, who brought in every stray kid or friend of their children or next-door neighbor and made them feel like part of the family, I am thankful for you. What I’ve seen in those two ICU waiting rooms, and what I have seen in the other large families I know, and what I’ve seen in my own childhood home is exactly what I want my children to have – the hatred of sharing, the broken toys, the borrowed clothes, the spilled nail polish, and the growing up and realizing how awesome it is, after all.
As most of you know, a good friend of mine is in the hospital tonight, suffering from what is currently diagnosed as some sort of brain infection. I went to see his family at the hospital last night, and walked into what was quite possibly the most crowded waiting room in the history of ICU. It struck me again how important the family structure is, and how badly we need each other when times get tough.
I have not yet had to face the mortality of my parents, and can only imagine the fear and pain and feeling of disconnect that must come in situations like these. Not to mention the anxiety most of us have felt when we know our parents are suffering in some way. I have watched two big families go through the possible death of their father while also trying to be there for their mother at the same time. This is when I think siblings most need each other. The only person who can understand what you’re going through when your dad is sick is someone who also knows him as Dad. The only person who can understand how you feel when your mom is in pain is someone who also knows her as Mom.
I imagine that this would be a huge struggle for a person dealing with this alone. As a child with many siblings, you learn to share at an early age. You hate sharing. You never want your sisters to go in your room to “borrow” your clothes, you don’t want your brothers breaking all your stuff, you want to carve out a little corner of the world that is just yours. But then you grow up, and bad things happen. And you need to share. If you’re lucky, you have someone to share with now that you know how badly you need it. And if you’re like me, or these two families, you have lots of people who know exactly what you’re going through.
There is always someone to be with Dad. There is always someone to be with Mom. There is always a shoulder to cry on, someone to run get sandwiches, someone to make everyone laugh, someone able to hold it together enough to speak rationally with the medical staff. And you share these things, and it’s easier.
When you come from a large family, you experience the “freak show” stares when you all pile out of the car, the unending rude questions from strangers, the constantly chaotic household, and the hand-me-down clothes, but you know you have something that you wouldn’t trade for the world. When you have four or five or six or seven or more built-in best friends who you can depend on no matter what, and parents who have loved you enough to continue to expand their family and to stick by them, loving their children through their toddler tantrums and their angry teens and their young adult stupidity, and you have the One Who designed your “quiver full of joy”, then you have everything you need to make it through anything that life hands you.
To the parents who have welcomed God into their marriage, who welcomed new life into their homes as He willed it, who taught their children to grow in Faith and in His Will, who taught their children to share, who brought in every stray kid or friend of their children or next-door neighbor and made them feel like part of the family, I am thankful for you. What I’ve seen in those two ICU waiting rooms, and what I have seen in the other large families I know, and what I’ve seen in my own childhood home is exactly what I want my children to have – the hatred of sharing, the broken toys, the borrowed clothes, the spilled nail polish, and the growing up and realizing how awesome it is, after all.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Modernism vs. Post-Moderism
I heard an interesting tidbit on what it means to be living in "Post-Modern Society", and the dangers presented to ourselves and our children. To be very basic, Modernism, theologically speaking, was the rejection of theological values. Philosophically speaking, it was the rejection of truth (we all remember this : There is no absolute truth, blah, blah, blah). So, as I am a simple girl with the desire to keep things simple, moderism equals rejection. (Of course, that is not a definition, just a point of view from a theological and philosophical standpoint.)
Post-Modernism, however, is nearly the opposite, but with a twist. The post-modern world is the embodiment of acceptance. This is where people jump on a bandwagon without researching the details. Acceptance sounds like a wonderful thing. That word gets thrown around in our culture as if it were a natural right. While I don't argue that acceptance is a basic human need, that is only as it is applied to an individual -- not to a behavior, an ideal, etc. We should all love and accept each other -- that is what Christ has taught, and He lived it to perfection. However, what the post-modern world has done is to reject the old standard "There is no truth", and embrace a new standard "Everything is truth". My religion is true for me, and yours is true for you. My lifestyle is right for me, yours is right for you. My ideals are true for me, yours are true for you. It's all right, it's all good, and everybody jump on board and accept it. This goes for theology as well as philosophy. All gods are the true god. All religions are true. All life-choices are true. All you have to do is find the one that is true for you .
Americans have such a desire to "be themselves", to not follow the crowd, don't be oppressed!!! These ideas are so easy to adopt. This way, we can all do what we want, we never have to worry about rejection, and we never have to confront one another because, as long as we aren't infringing on the rights of others, we aren't doing anything wrong. Does this really make us individuals, though? Or does it turn us into a mass of selfish and ungodly creatures, looking for any justification to live our lives "our way". These things do not free us from a judgmental society or an oppressive god. Instead, they hide us away from truth, from the safety of a protective society and a Creator Who made us in His image and with plans to prosper and not to harm us.
Question number six we learned in Catechism (well, some of us, I guess!) "Why did God make you?" And what is the answer? "God made me to know Him, love Him and serve Him in this world, and to be happy with Him forever in the next." God made us who we are -- and He gave us the free will to chose it. Society takes away our choices under the guise of acceptance. If we are to embrace the clear Christian principles and truth which will allow us to be happy with God in heaven, then we have to be willing to be shunned by an "accepting" society -- not based on what we do believe, but on what we don't.
As Christians, most of us know most of what I have said, so it's not anything earth-shattering. My question is this: As a parent, how do you fight this? If acceptance is gold in our society, and the only thing you have to do get it is to be accepting, is it harder now than it used to be for our children to stand their ground?
I hear we are leaving the post-modern age and moving into realism. I can see the slogan, now..."Only what is real is true." I wonder if they ancient philosophers are sitting together somewhere laughing at society for adopting these nonsense principles and ambiguous phrases they came up with. And this is what I get when I stay up too late. :)
Post-Modernism, however, is nearly the opposite, but with a twist. The post-modern world is the embodiment of acceptance. This is where people jump on a bandwagon without researching the details. Acceptance sounds like a wonderful thing. That word gets thrown around in our culture as if it were a natural right. While I don't argue that acceptance is a basic human need, that is only as it is applied to an individual -- not to a behavior, an ideal, etc. We should all love and accept each other -- that is what Christ has taught, and He lived it to perfection. However, what the post-modern world has done is to reject the old standard "There is no truth", and embrace a new standard "Everything is truth". My religion is true for me, and yours is true for you. My lifestyle is right for me, yours is right for you. My ideals are true for me, yours are true for you. It's all right, it's all good, and everybody jump on board and accept it. This goes for theology as well as philosophy. All gods are the true god. All religions are true. All life-choices are true. All you have to do is find the one that is true for you .
Americans have such a desire to "be themselves", to not follow the crowd, don't be oppressed!!! These ideas are so easy to adopt. This way, we can all do what we want, we never have to worry about rejection, and we never have to confront one another because, as long as we aren't infringing on the rights of others, we aren't doing anything wrong. Does this really make us individuals, though? Or does it turn us into a mass of selfish and ungodly creatures, looking for any justification to live our lives "our way". These things do not free us from a judgmental society or an oppressive god. Instead, they hide us away from truth, from the safety of a protective society and a Creator Who made us in His image and with plans to prosper and not to harm us.
Question number six we learned in Catechism (well, some of us, I guess!) "Why did God make you?" And what is the answer? "God made me to know Him, love Him and serve Him in this world, and to be happy with Him forever in the next." God made us who we are -- and He gave us the free will to chose it. Society takes away our choices under the guise of acceptance. If we are to embrace the clear Christian principles and truth which will allow us to be happy with God in heaven, then we have to be willing to be shunned by an "accepting" society -- not based on what we do believe, but on what we don't.
As Christians, most of us know most of what I have said, so it's not anything earth-shattering. My question is this: As a parent, how do you fight this? If acceptance is gold in our society, and the only thing you have to do get it is to be accepting, is it harder now than it used to be for our children to stand their ground?
I hear we are leaving the post-modern age and moving into realism. I can see the slogan, now..."Only what is real is true." I wonder if they ancient philosophers are sitting together somewhere laughing at society for adopting these nonsense principles and ambiguous phrases they came up with. And this is what I get when I stay up too late. :)
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Getting to Mass
As a large Catholic family, Sunday mornings are typically the most chaotic time of the week. When I wake up in the morning, I immediately say at least one bad word and give myself one reason to get to Confession before mass. This is really too bad, because after I am done cursing the alarm clock, I turn it off and go right back to sleep, which means that we probably won't be there early enough for Confession anyway.
When I manage to peel my eyes open, I roll over and poke my husband in hopes that he will wake up first and start getting the kids ready, giving me another fifteen minutes to sleep. He does not. I roll out of bed, trip over whatever pillows the kids have dropped on the floor during their nightly attempts at getting in my bed, and turn on the shower. There is never hot water on Sunday mornings. I don't know why, but our water heater turns off on Saturday night in a consistent effort to keep us from being clean on Sunday morning.
On my way to reset the water heater, I wake up the kids and throw clothes on their beds for them to put on, minus the various articles that are still in the dryer or need a second round of de-wrinkling. The kids follow my example and say things that should land them in the penalty box, as well. I tell them to knock it off, and go make a pot of coffee.
While the coffee brews (far too slowly), I dress the baby and fix the girls' hair. Or, more often, I dress the baby and decide not to fix the girls' hair, because I just can't tackle it before coffee. By the time the kids are dressed and the water is hot, the baby has lost the shoes I just put on him, and all five of the other kids are searching for the spot they placed their shoes after I told them to find them last night. As it turns out, nobody found their shoes last night, and somebody has broken into the house and stolen at least one shoe from every pair we own while we were asleep. I take a quick, slightly cold shower while they "look for their shoes".
"Looking for shoes" consists of wandering around staring at the ground for an entire minute, then watching TV, jumping on the couch, wrestling various siblings, and coating the kitchen with the hair spray I left out.
Post-shower, I dress in battle clothes. There is no way I can wrangle my children into some semblance of proper Sunday attire when I am tottering around in a skirt and heels. I come out and whack each barefoot child on the head, then offer a dollar to whoever can find the missing shoes. This results in a race between all of the children, half of them running out to look in the car, and taking a swim in the puddle at the end of the driveway while they're out there.
When the victorious seekers emerge with the shoes, I smack them again for getting muddy, go through closets to replace the clothes, and decide once again that maybe it's not so important that there are holes in their jeans or that they are wearing T-shirts instead of the nice collared shirts that are now dripping mud all over my laundry room. It'll be fine. No big deal.
I leave them to re-dress while I go find something for myself to wear. I cannot find anything to wear, because every week, as soon as I leave mass, I change back into pants. I then leave my skirt in the back of the car until every skirt or dress I own is in the trunk because I forgot to get it out and wash it. I spend fifteen minutes trying to find something that counts as a dress. When I am done getting dressed, I usually have to wake my husband up a few more times, and he either gets ready or does not. At this point, time is of the essence, and I won't see him again until it's time to get in the car.
I tell the kids to go load up, and they all run outside. I run around the house putting together a diaper bag, finding cell phones and keys, changing into the stupid shoes that go with my skirt, and finding some pants to change into later. If my husband is ready, he meets me at the door and we are ready to go. If he is not ready, I will go check one more time. If he's out of bed and getting ready, I move on to Loading the Kids. If he's still in bed, I say one more word worthy of the confessional.
The kids are not in the car, they are down the street, so we spend another twenty minutes catching them one at a time and belting them into the car, closing and locking the door between each one so they don't escape. After they are all buckled in, we head out of town, stopping at a gas station for gas, PopTarts, and coffee (because I never had time to drink any before we left, and I am unsafe on the road without it). We have fifteen minutes to consume our "breakfast" in order to be done before the Communion fast. The kids have no problem with this, they eat much like Cookie Monster, scattering crumbs and smearing everything in sight with PopTart jam.
We have a family-wide addiction to the country gospel music that airs on two stations every Sunday morning, so we drive the hour and fifteen minutes to church with a symphony of Amazing Grace and people trying to kill each other in the backseat. No matter how many times I have asked, God has not granted me go-go-gadget arms to use to smack people during car rides, and my children know this. The two in the middle keep their mouths shut, because I can reach them with my regular arms. The four in the back are insanely loud, and I am a nervous wreck by the time we pull into the church parking lot and I discover that two kids re-lost their shoes before they got into the car, and one of them has used their shirt as a community PopTart removal system. Thus, we approach Sunday morning mass and cause people to wonder who the new heathens are.
When I manage to peel my eyes open, I roll over and poke my husband in hopes that he will wake up first and start getting the kids ready, giving me another fifteen minutes to sleep. He does not. I roll out of bed, trip over whatever pillows the kids have dropped on the floor during their nightly attempts at getting in my bed, and turn on the shower. There is never hot water on Sunday mornings. I don't know why, but our water heater turns off on Saturday night in a consistent effort to keep us from being clean on Sunday morning.
On my way to reset the water heater, I wake up the kids and throw clothes on their beds for them to put on, minus the various articles that are still in the dryer or need a second round of de-wrinkling. The kids follow my example and say things that should land them in the penalty box, as well. I tell them to knock it off, and go make a pot of coffee.
While the coffee brews (far too slowly), I dress the baby and fix the girls' hair. Or, more often, I dress the baby and decide not to fix the girls' hair, because I just can't tackle it before coffee. By the time the kids are dressed and the water is hot, the baby has lost the shoes I just put on him, and all five of the other kids are searching for the spot they placed their shoes after I told them to find them last night. As it turns out, nobody found their shoes last night, and somebody has broken into the house and stolen at least one shoe from every pair we own while we were asleep. I take a quick, slightly cold shower while they "look for their shoes".
"Looking for shoes" consists of wandering around staring at the ground for an entire minute, then watching TV, jumping on the couch, wrestling various siblings, and coating the kitchen with the hair spray I left out.
Post-shower, I dress in battle clothes. There is no way I can wrangle my children into some semblance of proper Sunday attire when I am tottering around in a skirt and heels. I come out and whack each barefoot child on the head, then offer a dollar to whoever can find the missing shoes. This results in a race between all of the children, half of them running out to look in the car, and taking a swim in the puddle at the end of the driveway while they're out there.
When the victorious seekers emerge with the shoes, I smack them again for getting muddy, go through closets to replace the clothes, and decide once again that maybe it's not so important that there are holes in their jeans or that they are wearing T-shirts instead of the nice collared shirts that are now dripping mud all over my laundry room. It'll be fine. No big deal.
I leave them to re-dress while I go find something for myself to wear. I cannot find anything to wear, because every week, as soon as I leave mass, I change back into pants. I then leave my skirt in the back of the car until every skirt or dress I own is in the trunk because I forgot to get it out and wash it. I spend fifteen minutes trying to find something that counts as a dress. When I am done getting dressed, I usually have to wake my husband up a few more times, and he either gets ready or does not. At this point, time is of the essence, and I won't see him again until it's time to get in the car.
I tell the kids to go load up, and they all run outside. I run around the house putting together a diaper bag, finding cell phones and keys, changing into the stupid shoes that go with my skirt, and finding some pants to change into later. If my husband is ready, he meets me at the door and we are ready to go. If he is not ready, I will go check one more time. If he's out of bed and getting ready, I move on to Loading the Kids. If he's still in bed, I say one more word worthy of the confessional.
The kids are not in the car, they are down the street, so we spend another twenty minutes catching them one at a time and belting them into the car, closing and locking the door between each one so they don't escape. After they are all buckled in, we head out of town, stopping at a gas station for gas, PopTarts, and coffee (because I never had time to drink any before we left, and I am unsafe on the road without it). We have fifteen minutes to consume our "breakfast" in order to be done before the Communion fast. The kids have no problem with this, they eat much like Cookie Monster, scattering crumbs and smearing everything in sight with PopTart jam.
We have a family-wide addiction to the country gospel music that airs on two stations every Sunday morning, so we drive the hour and fifteen minutes to church with a symphony of Amazing Grace and people trying to kill each other in the backseat. No matter how many times I have asked, God has not granted me go-go-gadget arms to use to smack people during car rides, and my children know this. The two in the middle keep their mouths shut, because I can reach them with my regular arms. The four in the back are insanely loud, and I am a nervous wreck by the time we pull into the church parking lot and I discover that two kids re-lost their shoes before they got into the car, and one of them has used their shirt as a community PopTart removal system. Thus, we approach Sunday morning mass and cause people to wonder who the new heathens are.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Catholics and Cremation
Catholics have long been opposed to cremation for two main reasons. One, because the body is the Temple of the Holy Spirit, and should be treated with dignity. Two, because cremation is a pagan practice, and no Catholic wants to do anything that might get him labeled a pagan. Obviously, God can resurrect a body reduced to ashes just as easily as one buried, but, maybe for the same reason we are divided on organ donation, we just don't want to make things harder for Him. He's going to pretty busy during the last judgment, and probably not in a really great mood, so nobody wants to have to explain why their temple is all ashy, or how Bernie's liver is nowhere to be found, but he's walking around with one that belongs to some other guy. Meanwhile, the other guy is so busy wondering how he's standing upright with no liver that he can't pay attention to what's going on. You can see how this would be a worry for some folks, even though God could sort it all out in a wink.
Many times, you can take every shred of morality out of a Catholic teaching, and still see worldly benefits. For instance, Catholics are commanded to keep holy the Sabbath. We are not allowed to miss mass, or to work on Sundays. This is for our own good. Take any talk of morality out of it, and you still benefit from taking a day to relax. Even taking the day to go to mass -- you may not enjoy it, and you may not even be Catholic, but there is a peace that comes from assisting at mass that you can't find anywhere else. I've had full-blown charismatic Pentecostals tell me they can feel the presence of God in our little chapel, even with the silence and solemnity so opposite of what they are used to seeing.
I believe in the Church, and I believe what She teaches. I also like to figure out why I believe them (most reasons are matters of Faith), and why I believe them even if I take out anything which requires me to be a Catholic before I believe it. This way, I can explain a particular belief to a non-Catholic without a lot of background discussion, because, frankly, most people don't want to hear me talk for that long (hence, the blog).
Ok, so the point (and I will try to be brief, here)...How Does the Ban on Cremation Benefit Me?
Well, if you are Catholic, leaving your body around here on earth with a giant stone engraved with your name does two things: It reminds everyone to pray for you, and it gives your family something to do on All Soul's Day. If you had been cremated, you would probably not be getting as many prayers as all those smarties who chose to be buried. Many Catholics are in the habit of praying for the poor souls every time they pass a cemetery, and pray especially for those buried there. Just think how many Catholics may drive by your grave every day and pray for you...obvious benefit, but doesn't do much for someone who doesn't believe in Purgatory.
So, if I were not Catholic and didn't know about Purgatory, would I still opt out of cremation? Yes. Because...
1. Cemeteries are pretty.
2. My family can bring flowers and remember me -- it gives them a place to "visit" memories.
3. It's weird to have a funeral service without a burial -- burials give closure.
4. I can spend all my left-over dough on a fancy casket so my spoiled family members don't have anything to fight about. (If you know me, you know how serious a problem this could be.)
5. I can be buried with all my favorite things, also a way to leave nothing to fight over.
6. If there is ever a question about how I died, forensic pathologists can exhume my body and be all detective-y...this makes for an awesome Dateline NBC.
7. I will finally get my hair and make-up professionally done.
8. Sometimes, people just need something at which to throw flowers.
9. It's kind of fun to watch people negotiate grass and mud in their Sunday best.
10. There is no mistaking whose body is in the casket, but there is just no telling with ashes.
Many times, you can take every shred of morality out of a Catholic teaching, and still see worldly benefits. For instance, Catholics are commanded to keep holy the Sabbath. We are not allowed to miss mass, or to work on Sundays. This is for our own good. Take any talk of morality out of it, and you still benefit from taking a day to relax. Even taking the day to go to mass -- you may not enjoy it, and you may not even be Catholic, but there is a peace that comes from assisting at mass that you can't find anywhere else. I've had full-blown charismatic Pentecostals tell me they can feel the presence of God in our little chapel, even with the silence and solemnity so opposite of what they are used to seeing.
I believe in the Church, and I believe what She teaches. I also like to figure out why I believe them (most reasons are matters of Faith), and why I believe them even if I take out anything which requires me to be a Catholic before I believe it. This way, I can explain a particular belief to a non-Catholic without a lot of background discussion, because, frankly, most people don't want to hear me talk for that long (hence, the blog).
Ok, so the point (and I will try to be brief, here)...How Does the Ban on Cremation Benefit Me?
Well, if you are Catholic, leaving your body around here on earth with a giant stone engraved with your name does two things: It reminds everyone to pray for you, and it gives your family something to do on All Soul's Day. If you had been cremated, you would probably not be getting as many prayers as all those smarties who chose to be buried. Many Catholics are in the habit of praying for the poor souls every time they pass a cemetery, and pray especially for those buried there. Just think how many Catholics may drive by your grave every day and pray for you...obvious benefit, but doesn't do much for someone who doesn't believe in Purgatory.
So, if I were not Catholic and didn't know about Purgatory, would I still opt out of cremation? Yes. Because...
1. Cemeteries are pretty.
2. My family can bring flowers and remember me -- it gives them a place to "visit" memories.
3. It's weird to have a funeral service without a burial -- burials give closure.
4. I can spend all my left-over dough on a fancy casket so my spoiled family members don't have anything to fight about. (If you know me, you know how serious a problem this could be.)
5. I can be buried with all my favorite things, also a way to leave nothing to fight over.
6. If there is ever a question about how I died, forensic pathologists can exhume my body and be all detective-y...this makes for an awesome Dateline NBC.
7. I will finally get my hair and make-up professionally done.
8. Sometimes, people just need something at which to throw flowers.
9. It's kind of fun to watch people negotiate grass and mud in their Sunday best.
10. There is no mistaking whose body is in the casket, but there is just no telling with ashes.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Growing up Trad
Growing up as a Trad wasn’t really that strange. Looking back on it, I realize that it may be a little strange to grow up a Trad and remain a Trad. Most people I go to church with are converts or grew up in with the New Mass.
It’s a blessing to see that my grandma started a love of the Faith that is still going strong in its fourth generation. (Actually, I guess her mother was a Trad, too, but I’ve never asked.)
Most of the kids I went to church with aren’t going anymore. The only kids who made it through the age of 20 are the ones who were “normies”. This is why I can’t agree with some people. I have been a Trad for longer than most of the people who attend my church. This is based on the statistic that lives in my head. It’s probably not true, but I am the writer here. I never said it wasn’t fiction.
I have a real problem with other Trads telling me how to get my kids to Heaven. (They NEVER tell me this, again, fiction.) I was raised around all the different types of Trad parents, and I am still going to church with the products of the people who got it right. It wasn’t the commune people. It wasn’t the super-strict overprotective people, it wasn’t the skirt-only people, it wasn’t the people who “let their kids figure it out themselves”, it wasn’t the people who told their kids all kinds of lies to keep them out of sin. It was the normal people.
What is normal, you ask? Why, it’s anyone who is like me. Here is a list of how normal my parents were/are: We went to mass every Sunday. We went to Catechism. We went to :::GASP!::: public school (for a little while). When my mom decided to home school, we were still allowed to talk to our public school friends. We were the Catholic part of a Protestant home school group. We wore modest clothes that looked like regular people may wear them. (Well, they looked regular back then, now they look weird, but it was the 80’s – who looked normal?) My dad went to work and my mom stayed home. My grandma helped teach us our Catechism, and we grew up discussing the Faith with our siblings and cousins. We argued our Faith with our Protestant friends (in a way which allowed us to keep those friends). I went to college some small idea of how to both get along with people and how to “say no”. I had my first steady job at age 11. At age 13 I had my second. At age 16 I was paying for my own clothes, car, insurance, gas and fun. We had extra-curricular activities. Mine included church choir, another choir, and some random sports. (Sports = Place you can meet boys, because our teams weren’t big enough to split up the genders.) We watched TV, but only things that had been rated by Mom. I smoked cigarettes and got in ginormous trouble. I did a lot of other stuff and got grounded, kicked out and banned from my siblings on different occasions. There was never a time I didn’t go to mass. There was never a time I quit trying. There was never a time my parents didn’t show me a good example, keep praying for me, and keep holding me accountable for my actions. It worked. I’m there, and I’m not leaving.
That’s how I want to raise my kids. That is the only Trad parenting style that I have seen work in the long-run. I plan to tone down the whole “getting into trouble” thing, but that won’t be a problem, because my kids are perfect and will never behave like I did. Besides, my siblings are pretty good, so I figure my parents pretty much had it figured out after me. I certainly gave them experience.
It’s a blessing to see that my grandma started a love of the Faith that is still going strong in its fourth generation. (Actually, I guess her mother was a Trad, too, but I’ve never asked.)
Most of the kids I went to church with aren’t going anymore. The only kids who made it through the age of 20 are the ones who were “normies”. This is why I can’t agree with some people. I have been a Trad for longer than most of the people who attend my church. This is based on the statistic that lives in my head. It’s probably not true, but I am the writer here. I never said it wasn’t fiction.
I have a real problem with other Trads telling me how to get my kids to Heaven. (They NEVER tell me this, again, fiction.) I was raised around all the different types of Trad parents, and I am still going to church with the products of the people who got it right. It wasn’t the commune people. It wasn’t the super-strict overprotective people, it wasn’t the skirt-only people, it wasn’t the people who “let their kids figure it out themselves”, it wasn’t the people who told their kids all kinds of lies to keep them out of sin. It was the normal people.
What is normal, you ask? Why, it’s anyone who is like me. Here is a list of how normal my parents were/are: We went to mass every Sunday. We went to Catechism. We went to :::GASP!::: public school (for a little while). When my mom decided to home school, we were still allowed to talk to our public school friends. We were the Catholic part of a Protestant home school group. We wore modest clothes that looked like regular people may wear them. (Well, they looked regular back then, now they look weird, but it was the 80’s – who looked normal?) My dad went to work and my mom stayed home. My grandma helped teach us our Catechism, and we grew up discussing the Faith with our siblings and cousins. We argued our Faith with our Protestant friends (in a way which allowed us to keep those friends). I went to college some small idea of how to both get along with people and how to “say no”. I had my first steady job at age 11. At age 13 I had my second. At age 16 I was paying for my own clothes, car, insurance, gas and fun. We had extra-curricular activities. Mine included church choir, another choir, and some random sports. (Sports = Place you can meet boys, because our teams weren’t big enough to split up the genders.) We watched TV, but only things that had been rated by Mom. I smoked cigarettes and got in ginormous trouble. I did a lot of other stuff and got grounded, kicked out and banned from my siblings on different occasions. There was never a time I didn’t go to mass. There was never a time I quit trying. There was never a time my parents didn’t show me a good example, keep praying for me, and keep holding me accountable for my actions. It worked. I’m there, and I’m not leaving.
That’s how I want to raise my kids. That is the only Trad parenting style that I have seen work in the long-run. I plan to tone down the whole “getting into trouble” thing, but that won’t be a problem, because my kids are perfect and will never behave like I did. Besides, my siblings are pretty good, so I figure my parents pretty much had it figured out after me. I certainly gave them experience.
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