Moronic Cartoons

The title is copied from Dennis Prager as I submit the following "works of art" :

Picasso

Ian, age 7

10. Without God, there is little to inspire people to create inspiring art. That is why contemporary art galleries and museums are filled with "art" that celebrates the scatological, the ugly and the shocking. Compare this art to Michelangelo's art in the Sistine chapel. The latter elevates the viewer — because Michelangelo believed in something higher than himself and higher than all men.

Again, from Dennis Prager.  The entire article on the goodness of religion  (He is a practicing Jew, very conservative, and a favorite radio host of ours.)  can be read here.


My children scoffed when I put up the Picasso prints on the first day of October and are looking forward to what they find tomorrow morning  (Renoir), so when I suggested they attempt to copy one of the prints, Ian made a derisive boy noise and swaggered over to the art basket to choose his weapons.  He presented me with the above picture and said something like, "I did this in half an hour."



Warmly and colorfully,
Allison

The Blanket

Blankets are an essential part of our family life.  We spread them out on the floor for tea parties, arranging sweet snacks into the middle and circling the edges with our hungry bodies.  We use half a dozen of them for rainy day (or 20 below day) forts, each child clamoring for their own space within the quilted walls.  Most belovedly, though, we curl up underneath the cloth for book reading.  Although none of my children has a “blankie” and any one will do for the task at hand, there exists some unwritten rule that requires every child to be, if not actually embraced by the blanket, to be touching it somewhere.  A recent read-aloud morning found us thus : Mom and two toddlers in a chair and under The Blanket, a pumpkin colored fleece newly retrieved from the basement depths with the change of seasons; two older children sitting at our feet, on top of orange fluff that flowed onto the floor (This rendered those of in the chair captive, since any shifting pulled down The Blanket, which, according to some other unwritten rule, is to be avoided at all costs.).  The very cool teenager, not to be confused with the younger children, was nonchalantly leaning against the chair, but his arm was resting on The Blanket.   So we remained, pleasantly entangled with each other as I read The Secret Garden.

It is comforting to reflect upon The Blanket as a type, or picture, of the Church.  We connect with Her in varying ways throughout the years, as seasons of life turn, as our circumstances alter, and as emotions ebb and flow.  Sometimes we long to be completely hidden within the Church for illuminated peace and healing quiet.  Perhaps we are content to be casually wrapped and happily chatting with enfolded others.  Maybe we are purposefully reaching outward, retaining the all-important connection to a corner, as a pivot-point.  And so we live, touching The Blanket, our Holy Mother Church ~ for peace, for quiet, for comfort, for healing, for fellowship, for grounding, for sharing the heavenly Eucharist meal.  It is forever available to each of us and to all of us, as God’s beloved family.


Warm and curled up,
Allison

Quiet Fight

CF has been very quiet lately.  Almost a year since his last hospitalization and no fearful flare-ups in between.  Sometimes it goes like that.  And sometimes he's been in for two weeks, out for six,  in for two, out for six, through several cycles.  Tough times.  Makes Mommies feel utterly incompetent, and with sinfully short tempers.  Dangerous mix.  Recognizing this is half the battle toward safeguarding sacred relationships.  That and flawlessly foamed cappuccinos (My personal daily indulgence when Rees is "in".)!

He spent four monotonous hours last Friday at "Prov" (Providence Hospital), subjecting himself to scores of screening tests for a drug study.  Then a telephone call two days later ~ rejected.  Rejected because his lung function wasn't low enough.

He was happily disappointed.  Happy at his fairly healthy pulmonary numbers ; disappointed at his inability to access the experimental drug with a shorter delivery system that would lessen time spent "doing medicines".

*He just read over my shoulder and corrected me : "I'm more disappointed, Mom, because they pay me to offer my body to science."

Well pardon me.  I'm only happy.  Sorry, kid (!).


Resting in these quiet CF times, but ready to toughen up if necessary ~
Warmly,
Allison

What I Love About Boys, part 2

Rachel B. has part 1 ~


John to me, driving home from his orthodontic evaluation :
Wow ; I didn't know braces were over $6000.

Me :
Your mouth will cost more than any vehicle we've ever bought.

John :
How about we leave my mouth alone and you guys buy me a truck?


Big smiles,
Allison

Homeschool mornings here ~

For the past few mornings, Joseph's hairdo has been a cross between Justin Bieber and Albert Einstein.  Ian and Luke, lacking this biographical information, felt left out of the milk-snorting laughter.  This prompted google image searches with a viewing of Bieb's video, taking up the better part of an hour yesterday morning.  You know, to ensure my little boys' cultural literacy.

This is why my children would probably fail a standardized test . . .

Cleaning up my face,
Allison

Bear burgers, anyone?

                                   I love how they all have that "Just graduated from Boot Camp" look.


Well, they did it again.  Last weekend, Ken took Rees and Ian several hours north to hunt black bear and was successful!  Ken tracked off in one direction and shot his bear ; Ian remained with Rees, watching another through binoculars  (That one eventually wandered off too far and lived another day.). 

At just seven years old, Ian is particularly sturdy.  Both in mind and body.  He even offered to carry Ken's rifle on their return trek to the base camp since Ken had to empty his pack and push his gear into Rees's pack to make room for the bear parts.  Understanding the male psyche, Ken smiled and strapped a gun as tall as Ian across his four foot body.  The boy marched on.  And this was all between 9pm  (When the bear was shot.) and midnight  (When they arrived back at their base camp.).  Amazing.

How does a guy with CF do such things?  Right now, CF is pretty quiet.  No coughing.  No headaches.  No stomach troubles.  Just maintenance and prevention.  Flutter valves fit in pockets and can be completed while walking or driving or sitting at a campfire.  The pulmozyme that requires electricity for the compressor can be plugged into a converter utilizing a vehicle battery.  Pills can be tossed into baggies and swigged with water.  So he does his lung chores and does his other things.  Amazing.


With really, really full freezers,
Happily,
Allison

The Real Presence

There was no burst of light.  No angels heard singing.  I did not tremble.  My eyes remained dry.  I received the Body and Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ at the 2006 Easter Vigil Mass after two years of study and preparation.  Converting from pentecostal style protestantism, I was expecing some sort of emotional, physical response ; but quietly completed the proper postures.  Then, it was over.  Holy Communion continued that way for many months : attentive listening, participating, receiving, praying, and singing without the waves of emotion I'd been accustomed to.  Intellectually, I understood that feelings are not what my faith is based on, that dignified liturgy as the expression of our ancient, ever-new Holy Faith is deeply satisfying.  The Catholic Mass is always a "great service" because of the Eucharist, not because of the musical selections or sermon.  On some level, however, I missed the feelings.  I figured I needed to learn how to worship God in spirit and in truth, not in dancing and tears.  I figured I needed to learn how to worship God the way the Israelites did : doing the right duties for hundreds of years without necessarily experiencing miracles or emotional highs.  This was good for me.  In those quiet Sunday mornings, I was quiet, too.  Like the Israelites of old, I was part of something that, while not taking my breath away, gave me deep breath.

But Moses did come to them.  Nehemiah did build the walls.  Gabriel did visit Mary.  And so it came to me.  Leaving Mass to nurse our wiggly six month old, my return proved too late for reception of the Eucharist.  The extraordinary ministers had turned their backs to the congregation and were lovingly folding, stacking, and returning the sacred vessels to their places at the side table.  I had missed it.  Without warning, I burst into tears.  This response surprised me, as there was no logical lead up in my thoughts, no emotional work up in my heart.  It was quick.  It was powerful.  It shook me.  I stood outside the sanctuary, weeping and mopping up my face, waiting for the rest of my family to join me.

I have missed Holy Communion several times since that day, feeding hungry babies or removing naughty toddlers (sometimes both) and have never had such a fervent reaction again, but I will never forget it.  It is how I feel that I know that I believe that Jesus is truly present, Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity in the Eucharist.

Thanks be to God for such an unspeakable blessing.