Remembering my dad on his entry into eternal life.

Today is the anniversary of my Dad's death. He died in 1985 at the age of 67 -- too young, too soon to say goodbye. I still miss him. I still ask him to forgive me for not being a better daughter. I was with him when he died. In fact, at least four of his ten children were in the house at the time and several grandchildren. My sister Peggy and I were with Daddy when he died. He was sitting in a chair leaning against the bed and we were stroking his back and talking quietly when we realized he wasn't breathing. The blood had already begun to pool at the pressure point on his forehead.

The Echo of Wedding Bells: A Blessing from Heaven!

 Hear the mellow wedding bells,

Golden bells!

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!

Through the balmy air of night

How they ring out their delight!...

Oh, from out the sounding cells,

What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!

How it swells!

How it dwells

On the Future! how it tells

Of the rapture that impels

To the swinging and the ringing

Of the bells, bells, bells....

Our granddaughter married a wonderful man last Saturday. What a joyous bell-ringing celebration a wedding is! It gathered friends and family from far and wide. I saw two of my nieces for the first time in several years and had a chance to catch up since we sat at the same table. 

Before we left for the wedding, I was sick, which caused us to delay our departure for a day. Happily I recovered enough to go after dosing up with Vitamins C and D and drinking a disgusting immunity tea recommended by a friend. 

Seigneur, Venez nous sauver!

Lord, Come and save us!

Cleaning and Organizing and Stirring Up Memories

Cleaning closets and drawers merits a low spot on the chore list. Laundry, dusting, vacuuming, dishes, meal prep...they all take precedence over the unseen clutter that attacks you when you open a closet door. 

The Time Has Come...

...to take down the Christmas tree. I feel like singing this song skipping the part about times of being sad. Not a single one of those -- except a little nostalgia over the past remembering friends and family who are gone now. So many wonderful Christmases from my childhood going out with Daddy on Christmas eve to buy the tree and coming home to decorate it. Going to Midnight Mass with my family and coming home to open our stockings before we went to bed. Getting up on Christmas morning to the profusion of packages. (Gifts for parents and ten children make quite a pile!)

The Little Sisters of the Poor and my Mom

I love the Little Sisters of the Poor. Until six months before she died at age 83 (in 2002) my mom used to go over to their nursing home on Maiden Choice Ln. in Catonsville twice a week to volunteer. She visited the "elderly" many of whom were younger than she was. Sometimes she wrote letters for them or she mended their clothes or just came to smile and chat. Often she was the lector at the noon Mass on her visit days.

My mom was an amazing lady who cared very much for others including the little ones in utero waiting to be born. Every January she organized the parish bus for the March for Life and, except for the last January before she died, she was there with her walker making the treck up Capitol Hill. She sold red and white carnations on Mother's Day to support the local crisis pregnancy center and was herself a generous donor to the pro-life movement. She wrote frequent letters to the editor defending the babies, and sometimes defended the faith in her own parish from the errors of the resident dissidents. She wanted others to like her, but not enough to be silent when the truth was being tromped on.

She enjoyed her 37 grandchildren and 40 great grandchildren (many more since she died ten years ago) whenever she could. Fortunately she had some nearby. "Grandma" morphed into GG (for great grandma) in her later years. She loved it!

When one of my sisters asked a daughter what she thought it meant to dress modestly, she answered "To dress like Grandma." Mom almost always had on a skirt and on the lapels of her jacket she wore the little feet, a rose pin, and several other pro-life symbols. She was neat as a pin and had a cheerful disposition and a big smile. When she was dying she always shared that smile with the visiting nurses and aides. The closest she came to complaining was the forlorn question, "Why is it so hard to die?" Among her last words was "thank you" to the aide who came to give her a bed bath two days before she died. What a legacy and a challenge to those Mom left behind. When people comment on my cheerfulness, I always say it was a gift from my mom, and it's true. All my siblings are cheerful as well. What a great testimony to mom!

It was a blessing to me today to see the Catholic Key Blog about the Little Sisters of the Poor. It sent me on a walk with my mom down memory lane. I can't imagine a greater companion for that journey. Love you, Mom.

To My Imperfect Mom on Mother's Day

I came across an article today celebrating the imperfect mother. Wow! Did that resonate with me. If you think you are the perfect mom, just ask your kids. They will clue you in pronto on all the ways you failed and how you messed them up. And, of course, they are not going to make all those dastardly mistakes with their own kids. (Heh-heh, just wait.)

I remember blaming my own mom. Hey, I became an adult in the 60s when it was mandatory to find somebody to blame for everything you didn't like about yourself. We were all victims of bad toilet training, or being forced to eat our carrots, etc. But then the lightbulb (finally) went on. You become an adult when you start taking accountability for yourself and stop blaming other people for your flaws. Why did it take so long for that reality to penetrate my thick skull? I guess I'm a slow learner.

Most parents are doing the best they can with the resources they have at the moment, their "lousy best" as my sister often says. Their parents weren't perfect either, after all. My mom raised ten kids amid constant change with no extended family around to help. Daddy was in the Navy and we packed up every three to four years to move to a new house in a new place -- sort of like the Mad Hatter's tea party on speed. Some kids keep milestones like what they did on such-and-such a birthday. I measure my life by the name of my street, the layout of the house, and the school of the year. At the time it seemed an adventure; in retrospect I wouldn't have wanted to rear my own children on the fly.