St. Patrick's Day Poetry

Reverie. By A. Marjorie Robinson



Any Woman

I am the pillars of the house;
The keystone of the arch am I.
Take me away, and roof and wall
Would fall to ruin utterly.

I am the fire upon the hearth,
I am the light of the good sun,
I am the heat that warms the earth,
Which else were colder than a stone.

At me the children warm their hands;
I am their light of love alive.
Without me cold the hearthstone stands,
Nor could the precious children thrive.

I am the twist that holds together
The children in its sacred ring,
Their knot of love, from whose close tether
No lost child goes a-wandering.

I am the house from floor to roof,
I deck the walls, the board I spread;
I spin the curtains, warp and woof,
And shake the down to be their bed.

I am their wall against all danger,
Their door against the wind and snow,
Thou Whom a woman laid in a manger,
Take me not till the children grow!

This favorite poem was written by Irishwoman Katharine Tynan (1861-1931),who, even before the likes of Steinem and Friedan set her free and unburied her, seems to be neither handicapped by her sex nor denigrated by her work at home. She seems to recognize and revel in her power, responsibility, and love.

The lady painted in Reverie (by an Irishwoman, of course, for this is St. Patrick's Day!) reminds me of my Irish mother (Monica Grace Maguire).

My father is Tom Sherlock ~ half Irish, half Italian (Gaelic and Garlic, so to speak!)

Both of these selections were chosen from this book of Irish art and poetry, a gift from Ken and a treasure for the senses.

When we visited Ireland many years ago as volunteer missionaries for the Assemblies of God (Because, you know, Ireland doesn't know about Jesus. Sheesh.), we spent several hours organizing the Bible college's library, surreptitiously reading the good saint's words (Like our children do now when they're supposed to be cleaning their rooms.). We thought that he might be saved (!). He and his words came back to us ten years later as we studied Catholicism.

Saint Patrick, patron saint of Ireland, and caller-home to the Church for Ken and me,  pray for us this day, especially our new Pope Francis and all the bishops.

With love and thanks,
Allison

Wrong with Me

I whined at my husband yesterday, asking him, "What's wrong with me?" He hesitated, "Can you rephrase that, please?" So I said it louder. Apparently, that wasn't what he meant because there was a longer hesitation until he said evenly, "How about no nap for the little ones so we can put them to bed earlier, drink a pot of tea, and you can tell me what's going on. I'll be home soon." Yes, I said this on the telephone while he was at work.

See, the past few weeks have handed out some tragedies: two little boys and a young mother, all with CF, passed away, and our beloved Holy Father has resigned, leaving the seat of Peter empty. Other ladies I know are typing out expressive, passionate posts of drama and beauty and anger and fear and I just feel . . . quiet. A general melancholy, like I have no energy. "Do you think I'm cold-hearted?" I'm pretty sure I saw the corner of his mouth twitch, suppressing a smile, but Ken assured me that I was not; indeed, that nothing was wrong with me. "You don't have CF shock anymore. You have more of a tough sadness; not that you don't feel, but that you don't fall apart easily."

Well, that was a thoughtful explanation and all, but in the wee quiet hours with Addie, I wondered why. How did I get to be this way?

When Rees was first diagnosed, we had just moved 5000 miles away from the east coast: I was all alone, with no family and only a few new friends. There was no one to cry to or yell at or study with; no one to help with clapping or medications or nebulizers (There were two couples that were priceless angels for us during hospitalizations, thanks be to God and all the saints.).

Also, we were part of a church denomination that believed in divine health, so any inklings of doubt or fright or weakness were shushed. Don't speak it, they pronounced. The slightest shimmer of a tear was waved away. You must verbally claim Rees' healing, they commanded. This sort offers help by coming over and taking hold of the child and parents, praying with much shaking and shouting and demanding of disease demons to be cast into the pit of hell. Even in the solitude of our home I was terrified to let any negative emotions spill out, for fear that God would know how small my faith was, thus thwarting a healing. I didn't vent much to Ken for the same reason (I only recall two times in 9 years.). So I kept steeled and quiet and wondered what was wrong with me.

When Rees was around two years old, I happened upon some books written by a mother who lost her children to CF in the 70s, Turn it into Glory and Following Joey Home; I read them over and over, stifling sobs and physical sickness. Ken wondered why I would read such things and I remember telling him, "I have to. That's it."  The author, Meg Woodson, was the only CF Mama connection I had, as we would not have a home computer for years still, and Facebook groups hadn't been invented yet. So I kept sad and quiet and wondered what was wrong with me.

I think that being solitary and overwhelmed with a scary diagnosis involving extra work and hospitalizations; a false gospel turning us against each other, our own selves, and God; and immersing myself in Meg's aching books is how I got to be this way. What's wrong with me, is that sadness doesn't shock me because it's deep inside me and always present.

I write this post for three reasons: (1) catharsis, (2) solidarity with similar others, and (3) understanding for friends of similar others (Go easy; they're probably not cold-hearted, either.).

I'm so terribly sad for the sufferings of cystic fibrosis and the suffering of the loved ones left behind and I will miss my Church Papa very much.  This thoughtful, well-footnoted article explains the Church's teachings on redemptive suffering, which brought me back from the theological cliffs of despair; a lively Facebook group of CF Mamas offers plenty of tears, laughter, and understanding to make up for all the lonely years; and smart, loyal, loving friends walking beside me on our journey ~ these are good gifts. Praiseworthy gifts.

What's wrong with me? Nothing that the Communion of Saints can't help. And a really nice husband.

Can I get an Amen?
Love,
Allison

Back with Pretty, Funny, Happy, Real

It has been many months since I've contributed to {PHFR} but there is no tragic reason for my absence, save a dead camera battery that I tucked into my tote bag for close keeping, planning on remembering and repurchasing. Which I promptly forgot about every single time I headed out to run errands. Which my exasperated husband finally retrieved one morning and came home with its replacement the very same day. Which I'm reaping the benefits of this very afternoon. I submit:

{Pretty}

This late in February, the sun can peek through the highest branches and actually shine into our yard!

{Happy}

A girl and her peanut butter cup, it's a beautiful thing!



{Funny}

John's geography book held her interest for quite a while (enough  for me to make  cornbread anyway).



{Real}

Yes, that's my son. On a horse. About to gallop out and rope a cow.  (Hail  Mary, full of grace...)



See Our Mother's Daughters for more {PHFR} and maybe make a new friend!
Love,
Allison

Happy Birthday, Addie!

"You're picking me up in a sec, right?"

"I'm not smiling at you; Luke is sticking his tongue out behind you!"

"Heh; got a surprise in my diaper."



"Another fake smile; are we done yet?"

"I am serious, now; pick me up."

 

 

Every time I've attempted in the past few days to put some thoughts together for this baby's birthday, all I can do is hug her tighter (I still hold her a lot!) and stare out the window. My throat and heart feel tight and I fight tears with smiles and thanks to God for the gift of this child. But words aren't coming easily, so rather than blather, here are pictures of her on February 14, 2013 and pertinent links.

Here is the birth post.

Here she is at six months.

Here is something I wrote for Catholic Sistas this Valentine's Day that mentions her birthday.


Big squeezy Valentine hugs,
Allison

Roe vs. Wade Anniversary: Pro-Life in Suffering

Our pro-life angle is the suffering angle. The angle of parents faced with a prenatal diagnosis and the quality of life question. As Catholics, we believe that the proper end of marriage is to welcome the children that marriage creates. For six pregnancies now, after our firstborn was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis, we've been viewed askance for having our babies instead of aborting them. Why would you bring a child into the world only to suffer and die? Here are some of my answers:

*Every single person is born to a life of joys and sufferings. And then death. There have been a few examples of saintly folks who did not technically die, but don't plan on that.

*Life is difficult and messy and complicated.

*I don't have all the answers and guarantees, but I do know that killing children in the womb is not the answer.

*If my child dies, it will not be by my hand.

*Everyone suffers, not only those with health problems. Here I would like to add a bit about another one of my children. One with a defiant streak that would curl your toenails. And a touch of laziness.  And who will not work on school lessons. Tough life. No CF. I believe I may beg God for help more for that one than my CFer...

*People today have demands: COMFORT. ENTITLEMENTS. PAINLESS. GUARANTEES. PERFECTION. A little one that requires extra work or forces social embarrassment or causes constricted hearts will not do.

*Mother Teresa's famous words : "It is a poverty to decide that a child may die so that you may live as you wish."

*Our Catholic belief of redemptive suffering does not wipe away the pain and tears, but it does soften the sharp edges and allow glimmers of goodness. From the Catechism :

"Moved by so much suffering, Christ not only allows Himself to be touched by the sick, but He makes their miseries His own : "He took our infirmities and bore our diseases." (Isaiah 53:4). But He did not heal all the sick. His healings were signs of the coming of the Kingdom of God. . .By His passion and death on the cross, Christ has given a new meaning to suffering. It was henceforth to configure us to Him and unite us with His redemptive Passion." (Section 1505)

"But even the most intense prayers do not always obtain the healing of an illness. Thus St. Paul must learn from the Lord that "My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness" (II Corinthians 12:9) and that "in my flesh I complete what is lacking in Christ's afflictions for the sake of His body, that is, the Church." (Colossians 1:24). (Section 1508)


"His compassion toward all who suffer goes so far that He identifies Himself with them : "I was sick and you visited me." (Matthew 25:36). His preferential love for the sick has not ceased through the centuries." (Section 1503)


So what would I say to a lady who has received a scary prenatal diagnosis? Choose life. Visit Be Not Afraid and Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep for beauty and dignity and love and to share your tears, for we are greater than the sum of our parts ~

"We are a soul ; we have a body." ~ C.S. Lewis
"Luminous beings we are, not just this crude matter." ~ Return of the Jedi book


What a blessing and a gift it is for Ken and me to be able to point our suffering children to these words of truth. And ourselves.


So many lives lost. How can I help? How can I love?

For more anniversary posts, see Jill Stanek.
Warmly,
Allison

I Nurse

If it's played just right, a Stay At Home Nursing Mother can confidently and humorously answer the age-old polite/uncomfortable question, So what do you do? with complete truthfulness.

Here's how it works (My answers in red.):


So what do you do?

Nurse.

Oh, a  nurse (Pay no attention to that extra article.). What's your specialty?

Newborn to toddler.

Where do you work?

Anyplace I'm needed; I'm always on call.

Like home health?

Yes.

Hospitals as well?

Done it there.

Public?

Yup, there too.

Must be exhausting.

It is (Make sure to smile here.).

You must really love it to be so flexible and dedicated.

I do (Smile bigger.).

Well, it's nice to know there are people like you around.

Thank you for your kind words.


At this point, you could 'fess up and enjoy the shock or walk away while raising a glass of Guinness to yourself (good for breastfeeding, right?), knowing that the almighty grapevine will do its work and get the story correct eventually.

Happy Weekend,
Allison

P.S. I have a new shake recipe that Rees loves, since he's tired of chocolate milk shakes (How can this be my child?).  Tropical Shake ~

Blend 1C canned coconut milk, 1C orange juice, and 1C frozen mixed tropical fruit.  Nice change, and coconut milk is full of wonderfulness.

Baby Bronch

"I'd like to get in there and see what's going on," the doctor stated with a tap of his pen. 

Sounds simple enough, but "there" is Addie's lungs and "getting in" requires general anesthesia, a winding catheter, and a miniature light and camera.  Bronchoscopy.  On my ten-month old little girl.  Chest Xrays and labwork return normal results, but he hears inconsistent breath sounds between her lungs and she coughs a bit.  I gritted my teeth, met his gaze, and calmly answered, "All right."

Of course, it's not all right, but I  have neither the time nor the propensity for a meltdown as I picture her limp, monitored, invaded body.  I've been here before with another (not quite so) small child, and it's got to be done.  My feeding, pulmonary percussions, cleaning, and medicating have not been enough.  Enter our wise pulmonologist who, though gruff, is deeply vested in my children's health and desires information that simpler diagnostic tests will not yield.  So in he'll go.

And I'll set my jaw, march through the doors, and hand my baby over to be "bronched" because I love her and because the doctor wants to peer through this window to her lungs to better care for her.

God help us.
God help him.
God thank you for amazing technology.
God thank you for my sweet, bright girl.
And dear Saint Therese, you with your lung problems down here, know.  Please pray with me for Adah Marie.

6 AM Friday morning, here we come,
Allison