Many Years

I could not help but smile as I heard my eldest son speaking to his younger brother in the other room. "Russell. It's your name's day. Mommy is going to make a cake!" Baptized and communed as Matthew, Russell's patron saint is St. Matthew the Apostle, whom the Church commemorates on November 16th. Viewed as a traitor and despised by his people for his position as a tax collector, St. Matthew left his wealth when called to follow a man who promised earthly poverty and proclaimed the Kingdom of God to be at hand.

Two weeks ago, a small group of our loved ones squeezed into our humble dining room for a simple meal of minestrone soup laden with carrots, zucchini, an assortment of beans, and a little spinach (I am out of kale. Sigh.); homemade focaccia bread; and one lenten chocolate cake swimming in orange-flavored powdered sugar frosting, all to honor my middle son's special day. As I breathed in the scent reminiscent of "church" and placed Russell's beeswax baptismal candle into the center of his cake, we collectively sang a quite out-of-tune version of "Many Years." (Oh, Sabourins and Maddexs, where were you?) Russell absolutely beamed. It was his day. He did not have to share it with anyone. Not his older brother and not even his twin brother. While we dined on our dessert and Russell hugged the icon of his patron saint, Jared read an account of how the Church remembers St. Matthew.

The holy Apostle brought the Gospel of Christ to Syria, Media, Persia, Parthia, and finishing his preaching in Ethiopia with a martyr's death...The holy apostle converted some of the idol-worshippers to faith in Christ. He founded the Church and built a temple in the city of Mirmena, establishing there his companion Platon as bishop.

When the holy Apostle was fervently entreating God for the conversion of the Ethiopians the Lord Himself appeared to him in the form of a youth. He gave him a staff, and commanded him to plant it at the doors of the church. The Lord said that a tree would grow from this staff and it would bear fruit, and from its roots would flow a stream of water. When the Ethiopians washed themselves in the water and ate the fruit, they lost their wild ways and became gentle.

When the holy Apostle carried the staff towards the church, he was met by the wife and son of the ruler of the land, Fulvian, who were afflicted by unclean spirits. In the name of Christ the holy Apostle healed them. The miracle converted a number of the Ethiopians to the Lord. The ruler did not want his subjects to become Christians and cease worshiping the pagan god. He accused the apostle of sorcery and gave orders to execute him.

They put St. Matthew head downwards, piled up brushwood and ignited it. When the fire flared up, everyone then saw that the fire did not harm St. Matthew. Then Fulvian gave orders to add more wood to the fire, and frenzied with boldness, he commanded to set up twelve idols around the fire. But the flames melted the idols and flared up toward Fulvian. The frightened Ethiopian turned to the saint with an entreaty for mercy, and by the prayer of the martyr the flame went out. The body of the holy Apostle remained unharmed and he departed to the Lord.

The ruler Fulvian deeply repented of his deed, but still he had doubts. By his command, they put the body of St. Matthew into an iron coffin and threw it into the sea. In doing this Fulvian said that if the God of Matthew would preserve the body of the Apostle in the water as He preserved him in the fire, then this would be proper reason to worship this One True God.

That night the Apostle Matthew appeared to Bishop Platon in a dream, and commanded him to go with clergy to the shore of the sea and find his body there. The righteous Fulvian and his retinue went with the bishop to the shore of the sea. The coffin carried by the waves was taken to the church built by the apostle. Then Fulvian begged forgiveness of the holy Apostle Matthew, after which Bishop Platon baptized him, giving him the name Matthew in obedience to a command of God.

Soon St. Fulvian-Matthew abdicated his rule and became a presbytr. Upon the death of Bishop Platon, the Apostle Matthew appeared to him and exhorted him to head the Ethiopian Church. Having become a bishop, St. Fulvian-Matthew toiled at preaching the Word of God, continuing the work of his heavenly patron.

St. Fulvian the Ethiopian is also commemorated on this day.

To you precious Russell, may God grant you many, many years.

Poetry Speaks

Three years ago I discovered and bought the book, Poetry Speaks To Children, for my then two-year-old son. Absolutely, I thought, as I held it close to my chest. Frost, Sandburg, Hughes, Dickinson, Nash. This is what I want for my children. Besides the the book was accompanied by a CD which contained many of the poets reading their work. After all, who wouldn't want to hear J.R.R. Tolkein read "Frodo's Song

in Bree?" Every Wednesday my friend Molly and her friend Kris post poetry on their blogs. And so today, I offer three different pieces from this lovely book. I love each one, and the third poem makes me cry every single time I hear or read it.

Okay, Brown Girl, Okay

James Berry

For Josie (9 years old, who wrote to me saying "boys called me names

because of my color. I felt very upset...My brother and sister are English.

I wish I was, then I won't be picked on...How do you like being brown?"

Josie, Josie, I am okay

being brown. I remember

every day dusk and dawn get born

from the loving of night and light

who work together, like married.

And they would like to say to you:

Be at school on and on, brown Josie

like thousands and thousands and thousands

of children, who are brown and white

and black and pale-lemon color.

All the time, brown girl Josie is okay.

Josie, Josie, I am okay

being brown. I remember

every minute sun in the sky

and ground of the earth work together

like married.

And they would like to say to you:

Ride on up a going escalator

like thousands and thousands and thousands

of people, who are brown and white

and black and pale-lemon color.

All the time, brown girl Josie is okay.

Josie, Josie, I am okay

being brown. I remember

all the time bright-sky and brown-earth

work together, like married

making forests and food and flowers and rain.

And they would like to say to you:

Grow and grow brightly, brown girl.

Write and read and play and work.

Ride bus or train or boat or airplane

like thousands and thousands and thousands

of people, who are brown and white

and black and pale-lemon color.

All the time, brown girl Josie is okay.

A Poem

for Jesse

Sonia Sanchez

your face like

summer lightning

gets caught in my voice

and i draw you up from

deep rivers

taste your face of a

thousand names

see you smile

a new season

hear your voice

a wild sea pausing in the wind.

to P.J.

(2 yrs old who sed write a poem for me in Portland, Oregon)

if I cud ever write a

poem as beautiful as u

little 2/yr/old/brotha,

i wud laugh, jump, leap

up and touch the stars

cuz u be the poem i try for

each time i pick up a pen and paper.

u and Morani and Mungu

be our blue/blk/stars that

will shine on our lives and

makes us finally BE.

if i cud ever write a poem as beautiful

as u, little 2/yr/old/brotha,

poetry wud go out of bizness.

With A Little Help From My Friend

If Thomas created a "Top Ten List of Things He Cannot Stand," I believe that high up on that list, perhaps somewhere between lentil soup for dinner (again) and my futile attempts to clean out his ears, would be "mommy cleaning the kitchen every night." "Can't Jesus help you clean the kitchen?" Thomas once asked as we lay snuggled in his bed together before my departure downstairs to engage in this detested activity. Or maybe a fairy wand, he suggested, like the one in Sleeping Beauty which would magically cause brooms to sweep floors and dishes to be washed, dried, and put away all at the flick of a wrist. How could we get ahold of one of those? Surely Aldi has one of those at a greatly reduced price. Today my dear friend Ingrid and her eldest son Colin, back in town from their home in Minnesota, spent the day in our home. "What can I do to help?" Ingrid inquired almost immediately. In days past, my pride would have prevented allowing anyone to come to my assistance, even if I desperately needed it, but anymore, my goodness, how foolish to brush aside an honest, sincere invitation. So while I put Russell and Elliot down for their naps, my lovely friend, who I swear must have transformed into a whirling dervish unloaded and reloaded mounds of dirty dishes into the dishwasher, hand washed pans, wiped off kitchen counters, scrubbed off crusted hummus smeared on high chairs, and swept my crumb infested floor so that I had time to puree one pineapple which had been sitting on top of my refrigerator for too long and cook the pumpkin needed for my pie making tomorrow. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Like Chocolate For Water

In what seems like another life – a life lived in Chicago; a life without children – Beth and I inherited a pull-out couch. The one caveat was that it basically got dropped off in our back yard. It was up to Beth and me to get it up the narrow, winding, and steep back stairs of our Chicago bungalow two-flat.

It’s long enough past now that I don’t recall why we didn’t call anyone else in to help, but the two of us decided to give it a go. Getting it through the ground floor door was the first trick, and left us both tired and frustrated. Now we had to try to get the couch up a flight-and-a-half of stairs that took five turns.

For whatever reason, I had ended up on the inside and Beth on the outside. This left me pulling from the top of the couch and Beth lifting from the bottom. And we made it almost all the way up, around four of the five turns, before we came to a stale mate with couch wedged between the railing and the back wall. The couch wasn’t moving and neither were we.

We sat and began to discuss how we were going to get the couch back down and out, or whether we would just let it sit there for the night and try again tomorrow. After resting for a bit, we decided to give it one last try. We both took our positions and began to assert ourselves against the immovable object. After a few moments of struggle, I heard a groan of exertion emit from below the couch – the kind of roar Superman gives before hurling a nuclear warhead into outer space – and the couch came literally flying up the stairs at me.

From that moment on I’ve jokingly called my wife She-Ra, especially when I've needed her to help me move something around the house. I now know she hides unimaginable strength behind that fair façade and it often shows itself in surprising ways. I saw it again this summer when Beth ran the fundraising garage sale for our adoption. An amazing amount of people donated stuff, many of our friends and family spent hours helping with the sale and watching our kids, but from sun up to sun down and through weeks of preparation and days of execution, I watched my wife pull up her boot straps to sort and then sell an amount of items that would have been overwhelming to any mere mortal.

And then this week, when every night I came home to the smell of desserts baking in the oven and a mess of mixing bowls, baking stones, flour, sugar all over the kitchen, I knew She-Ra was at it again. Beth had agreed to provide desserts for a fundraiser on Saturday. And what I need to point out is that this was Holiday Pops week for me, so I was essentially useless and she had three kids at her ankles all day, every day. In spite of this she baked over 200 desserts, all to raise money for charity: water.

I once teased Beth that her spiritual gift was baking. She acted indignant, but I think she secretly took pleasure in the idea. Like Babette’s feast or Vianne’s chocolates, I think Beth believes in her heart she could change the world with the perfect ginger snap. So on Saturday night, between some time spent setting up for my concert and then returning for the concert that night, I got to help her carry six trays of desserts to the Red Stone Room in downtown Davenport for Water4Christmas' “Wine to Water” fundraiser.

As an aside, don’t take my amazement with my wife as the least slight to the dozens of people who made this week-long drive to raise money in the Quad Cities to dig wells on the other side of the the globe a success. Beth was just one pair of boots on the ground in this army of philanthropists. (She would tell you she was just the lowliest of foot soldiers.)  Jody, Leslie, and Tesi are the only three generals I can name, although I'm sure there are more stars in the crowd that I'm yet to meet, and these three women are each doubtless She-Ras in their own right. I also understand our friend Cathy of Miss Effie’s Country Flowers brought some absolutely lovely desserts Saturday night. Water4Christmas, based in Muscatine, has raised over $120,000 this year and is approaching $30,000 just this week. All of that money will go to charity: water and fund water wells and sanitation facilities for something like 30 impoverished communities around the world; giving clean, healthy drinking water to thousands of people who need it to survive. Keep up the amazing work. (To find out more about charity: water, I recommend starting with this inspiring video.)

I was unfortunately unable to attend the fundraiser because I had to be at the Holiday Pops concert, but reports are that Wine to Water was well attended and that it successfully raised $11,000. As I set down the last tray of Texas sheet cake and rushed out the door towards the i wireless Center, I left behind me Beth in her long black dress (the one I affectionately call “Maid Marian”), the stretch boots she inherited from Paige, and with an Ethiopian scarf flying from her neck like a superhero’s cape arranging the dessert table. The princess of power was in her uniform and in her element, saving the world one chocolate-chip cookie at a time.

Women of the future
Hold the big revelations
…
Hey sexy boots...
Get on your boots, yeah
…
You don’t know how beautiful
You don’t know how beautiful you are
You don’t know, and you don’t get it, do you?
You don’t know how beautiful you are

Something Beautiful For God

To the casual observer walking or driving by, there is nothing special about this place. From the outside, it possesses nothing that would draw attention to itself. A bluish gray house sitting at the corner of a busy street. That is all it is. And unlike many of the other antiquated homes surrounding it, which have been beautifully restored to reflect the grandeur of an earlier period in history, there is nothing particularly pretty about this house. In fact, it is rather forgettable. But for me, this house, the St. Joseph Catholic Worker House, is hallowed ground, a sacred space. Within these aged walls, the naked are clothed, the hungry are fed, the thirsty are given drink, and the hopeless and downtrodden are welcomed with open arms. Come in, you who are weary, the house seems to whisper. Find rest. Know that you are a child of God, created in His image and a wanted guest. May you find physical and spiritual nourishment as you dine at a table encircled by strangers who will become friends, for Christ is present in your midst.

Prayer For This House

Louis Untermeyer

May nothing evil cross this door,

And may ill fortune never pry

About these windows; may the roar

And rain go by.

Strengthened by faith, these rafters will

Withstand the batt'ring of the storms;

This hearth though all the world grow chill,

Will keep us warm.

Peace shall walk softly through these rooms,

Touching our lips with holy wine,

Till ev'ry casual corner blooms

Into a shrine.

Laughter shall drown the raucous shout;

And, though these shelt'ring walls are thin'

May they be strong too keep hate out

And hold love in.

Thank you Molly for finding and sharing this lovely poem.

Portraits Of An Artist

When Thomas is not busy building very detailed Star Wars LEGO ships complete with ropes dangling from the crafts with one Asoka Tano attached or with smaller vessels ready to jettison off for battles ahead, he is usually drawing. If only he could utilize those beeswax crayons I ordered for his birthday. Sigh.

Thomas attended his first symphony in September after sincerely promising that he would by no means even whisper during the concert. Though there was some talk promptly followed by stern looks and a finger in front our our lips, Jared and I were pretty impressed with our young son's behavior. (See all those long church services do pay off.) This is how Thomas spent his time during Mahler Symphony No. 1. following the intermission. This is Thomas and Daddy getting ready to scuba dive at the lake. Do not be concerned, that "body" floating in the lake is a mere fish.

I cannot help but love this one. This is Thomas and Mommy flying a kite. Personally, I don't think I have ever looked better!

Don't miss this Peanuts inspired image of Thomas, Russell, and Elliot ice skating and engaging in a snow ball fight. (Presently Thomas cannot get enough of Snoopy and Woodstock. This is much to Jared's chagrin.) Initially I thought the image in the left-hand corner was a TIE fighter (again, if you don't know what that is, you need to brush up on your Star Wars knowledge), but Thomas informed me it was a snowflake. Can't you just feel the steam coming off those mugs of cocoa?

Besides Star Wars, Thomas has recently become enamored with Transformers. (This is much to my chagrin.) This is Thomas' own special creation- the sixth Dinobot- Stegahatchet. He has blades on his tail, wings, and breathes fire. Pretty cool.

Thoughts On A Monday Afternoon

Be sincere in your prayer.

Do you know how to pray?

Do you pray your prayers?

Do you love to pray?

When we come face to face with

God we cannot but be sincere and

know ourselves- that we are

nothing. It is only when we realize

our nothingness, our emptiness, that

God can fill us with Himself. When we

become full of God we will do

all our work well.

Mother Teresa

Water For Christmas

I believe I was reading the work, Wounded By Love, when I encountered this beautiful story. A young man approached Elder Porphyrios and questioned what an individual could possibly do to alleviate the suffering common to man. After all, there are thousands of people throughout this world hurting and in desperate need of help. With limited resources and means, how do we help our brother and sister? The wise elder replied that we all can give a cup of cold water. "I was thirsty and you gave me drink," Christ is recorded as saying in the Gospel according to St. Matthew. Each day, 4,500 mothers bury their children because of contaminated water. Today, many of us will be asking friends and strangers to consider giving clean, life-giving water as the first gift of Christmas. $10 will provide an individual living in Africa with water for ten years. It is that simple. If you are interested, please click on the Christmas present listed on the side of this blog. And even if you are not able to donate at this time, viewing the video on the site is well worth the three minutes it will take you to watch it. And please, please, please get the word out. Together, we can make a difference. "Assuredly, I say to you, inasmuch as you did it to one of the least of these My brethren, you did it to Me."

A Time To Mourn. A Time To Dance.

Nearly a week ago, Elliot's godmother, and my dear friend Paige, traveled from her small-town home of Chesterton, Indiana, to Chicago for a routine pregnancy check-up. Alone, Paige found out that a heartbeat was no longer present in the life she was carrying within her. Early Sunday morning, Paige and her husband Bobby, returned to the city. Paige's water had broken and in those dark hours before the dawn, she delivered a little boy. Adrian Maddex was no larger than the palm of his mother's and father's hands, but still he was a life, departed before his time, and we mourn this tragic, devastating loss. Tomorrow morning, Jared and I will leave for Indiana to attend the funeral and burial of little Adrian. May His Memory Be Eternal. Please remember his mother and father and sisters, our goddaughter Isabelle, and her younger sister Jane in your prayers.

There is much sadness within me, not recognized at times as my daily responsibilities distract me, but then suddenly, out of nowhere emotions will be thrust upon me, and I cry for my grieving friends. In the midst of this, I viewed the pictures here and it gave me hope. It reaffirmed my belief in what can be done when a community of people come together to lift up their brothers and sisters who are hurting. Nearly one year ago, I opened up an email from my friend Tesi to learn about Charity: Water, a non-profit organization created and designed to bestow one hundred percent of the donations it receives for the building of wells in developing countries so that our brothers and sisters in these nations can stop suffering the horrific effects of unclean water. Jody Landers, an adoptive mother of twins born in Sierra Leone, founded Water for Christmas in Iowa, which has generated close to $200,000 for Charity: Water. May her pictures be a blessing to you, as they are to me. And please do not miss those pictures of clean water streaming from the pumps - amazing, beautiful, miraculous.

Joy Of All Who Sorrow

From my front entranceway, I can see her and am comforted. On her back, a sticker marked $1 remains; a vestige of the symphony's "Second Fiddle" sale from which she was rescued. Like pictures of a beloved family member, her image is pervasive and can be found in nearly every room of our home. I cannot recollect when I began to honor her, to love her, but each night as I lay in bed I pray that she will cover my home, my husband, my children, and protect us from all visible and invisible enemies. Throughout the week, I ask that she will help me as a mother to raise my children to be "earthly angels and heavenly men." In moments of desperation, I plead for her help and intercessions.

The last twenty-four hours have been fraught with bad news arriving on multiple fronts from individuals whom I love dearly, friends who have been wounded by life's circumstances. I want to erase their grief, their pain, their fear, ease their anxieties and offer them hope and healing. I want to rush in - clean their houses, make them dinners, just sit with them and make everything all right. But for right now I cannot. And so I turn once again to the one, chosen to carry God in her womb, the mother who understands the grief that cuts, as well as all our sorrows because she has experienced them first-hand while she watched her Son - He who hung the world upon the waters and fashioned all of creation - hang on a cross. And I pray for you my precious friends.

"Desiring to save the human race from the deception of the enemy, the Lord Who loveth mankind gave thee, His Mother, as a help to mortals, saying: 'Behold, let My Mother be a protection and refuge for you, consolation for the grieving, joy for the sorrowful, and a helper for the oppressed...'"

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