Puppet Gods

We did the "divide and conquer" thing again on Sunday: we got up late, I really wanted to go to 9 a.m. Mass,  and there was no way we'd all be ready in time. Besides, the kids were cranky and I didn't want to sit through the extra-long Palm Sunday Mass with them. So I went to 9 a.m., and Michael walks out the door as I walk in to make the 10:30 (generally calling questions and instructions to each other while one walks down the driveway).

 As we head into Holy Week, and coming up to the Triduum (my very favourite time of year), often the homilies are about the Death of Christ and the Redemption of Sin, for obvious reasons. Sunday's homily was no exception. 

Father talked about the Triumphant Entry into Jerusalem, but how they turned on Him demanding His crucifixion only a few days later. What changed? I've heard this explanation before, that they were expecting their Messiah to deliver them from their enemies, the Romans. When it became clear that it was not the case, well... I'm sure you know how this story ends. 

But something Father said has stuck with me, and I admit has troubled me. He said that people often treat God like their own personal puppet God (his words, not mine), expecting them to deliver them from their problems. In fact, Christ came to deliver us from our sin.

At first, I nodded my head. It made sense. I mean, I understood it with my brain. We can't rely on God to fix our own  personal problems: He has equipped us to do that more or less ourselves. I have know people over the course of my life that have sat back and expected God to fix their lives, and then blamed Him when nothing happened.


And I mean, there is nothing saying we can't pray for wisdom as to how to solve our problems, on making the right choices, or praying that we receive a little divine testicular fortitude courage to do the right thing.


Absolutely. I wholly agree with this homily. God doesn't fix our problems, He fixed our sin.  Case closed.


But then my heart whispered: What about your children? 


And so I said to my heart: What was that? Speak up, please.


And then my heart reminded me of all the times I spent on my knees, praying for Abby to be healed. Knowing that it probably wouldn't happen, but also believing that miracles can and do happen. I remembered my anguished cry when I started bleeding in my first trimester with Rachael: "Please God, let me at least meet my child." How many breathless prayers have I whispered for my children, my spouse, my parents, my friends and my community?


Sometimes God does fix our problems. We usually call them miracles. Pretty sure that's the definition of a miracle. Or at least, we'll call it Divine Intervention and consider the matter settled.  Either way, I don't expect Him to just... poof... fix something, especially if it's a mess I have skillfully created myself.  But I don't think that asking Him to fix my "problem" is in itself... well, a problem.


Is it?

For Sale... ?

Yesterday, I walked through a big mall in Capital City (the city where I grew up) for the first time in forever. I had the girls with me, we were just killing time waiting for Daddy.

Now, maybe I'm just getting sheltered living in a small, comparatively conservative city these days. I have walked though the mall at home fairly recently, and don't remember being overwhelmingly shocked.

I was quite shocked walking through this particular mall. Some of the store fronts have very nice displays... one in particular had a nice assortment of bath and beauty products.

Most clothing stores, however, were horrifying. They were equally appalling for children, teens and adults. They screamed the same message, over and over.

"I am for sale"... as in, "My body is for sale".

I've noticed that it's getting harder and harder to buy clothing, even young children's clothing, that's modest. And by "modest", I mean no cleavage, no belly buttons, no bum cleavage, and something that hangs slightly from the body instead of being skin-tight. Not unreasonable, I would think?

But it's hard. I don't think anyone needs to see my three-year-old's "cleavage". Try buying a dress larger than a 3x that doesn't have a plunging neckline, spaghetti straps, or a tightly-fitted bodice. No small task, I tell you!

Lingerie for eight-year-olds? Why? We encourage our children to dress like they're going clubbing when they're in grades 1 and 2, and then we're shocked and surprised when they are sexually active at 14 or 15.

I often buy used and second-hand clothes for my kids, and gladly take hand-me-downs for the sake of economy. However, I find that I am increasingly purposely buying older-style clothing for my children because I have difficulty finding appropriate attire for them in the "new" clothing section.

I have been giving a lot of thought about modesty lately. What does that mean? I know several people... evangelical protestants, mostly... who only wear below-the-knee skirts because they feel that they are compelled to do so by the Bible (they generally site Deutoronomy and 1 Timothy). They have a two-fold concern: firstly, that women should dress differently from men. They feel that this means that women must wear skirts, always and never pants. I see many flaws with this argument, none of which I feel like I want to get into right now.

Secondly, and this one interests me, is that they feel that it's more modest for a woman to wear a long skirt. Certainly, there are immodest skirts out there... I saw several in that mall. But the idea of what constitutes modesty intrigues me. It's so... counter-cultural. We are not taught to be modest anymore. Do we even know what that means?

Do I know what that means?

More on this later.

A Begining

If you're reading this, maybe you've been to my other blog, All Our Needs Are Special. I created this blog, A Prairie Catholic, because I find my musing increasingly revolve around my faith. I wanted a place where I can examine them.

And so it begins.

We finally finished our creche!!





It really was a lot of fun. Something we will have to do as a family every year!!

The Strength of Our Feet

I woke up this morning feeling absolutely horrid.

That, in itself is nothing new. Since Abby started nursery school last month, we've become the House of the Damned, going from one illness to the next. I understand the whole "you need to stay home when you're sick so you don't spread it to everyone else" courtesy, but we're to the point that if we did that, we are never, ever leaving this house until Spring. A quick check confirmed no one has fevers (because that does merit staying out of public), and off to Mass we go.

Naturally, we were late for Mass, so we sat at the very, very, very back of the church. The building is over 100 years old, so while the acoustics are not terrible thanks to modern wonder of amplification, they're not great. I'm struggling to hear the priest over the noise of my less-than-happy-to-be-there-this-morning children. Plus, I'm still figuring out his very-thick African accent.*

The priest raises his hands in prayer, and prays for the strength of our feet. I'm sure I had a weird look on my face until I realized he was praying for the strength of our faith, and not our feet.

I giggled inwardly to myself at my silly mistake, but stopped suddenly at a revelation. Sometimes it is about the strength of our feet. Not necessarily our physical feet, but about our ability to keep going, keep taking the next step, and to keep putting on foot in front of another, so to speak.

My husband and I have had moments in our life together when the only thing we have is the strength of our feet. During the December when Abby was diagnosed with Infantile Spasms. During the long, dark days of January when Abby was in the depths of the ACTH. When she relapsed and ended up in the hospital again. When we got her diagnosis of Autism. Even the days early in my pregnancy with Rachael when I started bleeding, and I thought that I was going to lose her.

Even my friends, there are a few in mind that have had a less-than-stellar year. Yet they keep putting one foot in front of another, and keep going. The strength of their feet is the only thing that keeps them going from one moment to the next.

It's our ability to keep going, to keep putting one foot in front of another, that sees us though. It's something we need to do no matter what path God has set us on.

I think I will pray for both the strength of my faith and the strength of my feet.

* Growing up, I had a teacher who was from Africa. I loved listening to him speak, the gentle lilt of his voice, and the way certain words rolled off his tongue. The catch was, of course, that we were all speaking French. As a result, I have never met a French-speaking African native that I can't understand. However, according to my brain, English is a whole other ballgame. I seem to have to re-learn the intricacies of their unique pronunciations with each new person I meet.

Promises

I spent many years in Diaspora before coming home to the Church. In those years adrift, a single phrase from Mass remained in my head (and in my heart), and ultimately led me home.

"Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed."

It was that promise of healing that drew me back. Even alone in the wilderness, I knew that He had that power.

For a long time, I focused on the not worthy part. I understood that I was imperfect, and as such not able to fully be with Him. I wept in sorrow and repentence. But recently, it's the promise of healing that draws me. It's that promise that fills me with hope, not only for myself, but for my small, hurting family.

God may not heal my child, but He can help heal my heart.

Glory be to God.

Oh! The Places You'll Go!

God has been taking me on an interesting journey.



The centralness of my Catholic faith fills up and the wanes from the centre of my life periodically... we're in the "filling up" phase right now. It's Lent, and I've been thinking an awful lot about sin. I'm not sure if it's in a good way or a bad way. Is there a good way to think about sin?

Without divulging my secrets here, I'm gaining insight into why we have Reconciliation. To those who don't know, it's the "new" name for Confession. But Confession wasn't sufficient as far as names and labels go; there's more to it than just reciting a litany of the darkness of your soul. Reconciliation can be life-altering. I know of at least one instance in my own life where it has been. And I think that I'm approaching that point again, when that need to reconcile what I was with what I'm meant to be is coming to a head.

I realize today that God provides a path for us to follow. I have prayed for days, weeks, to reconnect with my daughter, from whom I feel increasingly distant as she spends the bulk of her day with her tutors. By the end of her "work" day, I'm busy with supper and dishes, and then bed. I don't get "quality" time with her. What does God do? He sends snow!! Unexpectedly, our afternoon tutor cancels due to weather today, and I'm left thinking, "What do I do with this child of mine this afternoon?" Amazingly, her baby sister napped, and we got time together. She helped me unload the dishwasher. We made cookies. We sat around and ate cookies. We looked at books. We roughhoused and played. It was a wonderful experience that suddenly helped me connect with my child again (and allowed me to see how much she's grown up the past weeks and months!!!) I feel like I can resume being her mother.

I have other paths to follow. I get the sense that God has laid a road for me to follow in the coming months, and I want to be obedient and travel it. I'm hoping it will lead me to where I think it's going, but I'm okay if it takes me somewhere else too. I finally feel like my life has direction again after years of being adrift. There's a role for me and my family in this larger community, and my greatest desire is to fill it.

However, instead of going it alone like Dr. Seuss predicted, I'm going by the grace of God and the help of my friends and family.

It's gonna be an awesome ride.