It was a terrible calamity, and the little people at our house were completely up in arms.

The concrete statue of Our Lady of Grace that sits between two bushes in our yard had been blown over by a strong winter wind. She lay diagonally against the neighbor’s fence, palms and face pointing heavenward, like a weary mother at bedtime prayers who can’t quite stand up straight.

The children were dismayed that Mary should suffer this indignity, and went to work reinforcing the statue’s base by employing a host of questionable engineering strategies. They piled sticks and rocks and mud around the little hemisphere upon which she stands, crushed serpent slithering beneath her feet. They set to work using mud to patch “cracks” they became convinced had developed in the concrete. It became quite a hearty little ministry, and their zeal for Mary’s comfort intensified with every subsequent project, as they all sought to ought-do each other.

Finally, my son announced he had to make her a campfire and get her a jacket and hat. “It’s cold out here, and she’s only wearing that dress,” he said.

Of course, then a quarrel ensued: one of the children wasn’t building a campfire correctly, another was overstepping his bounds, one was feeling sidelined, one refused to surrender her coat for the comfort of the Blessed Virgin. The whole exercise was a microcosm of the modern Church, really: a great, elaborate struggle to please God, each participant completely certain of the rightness of his own methods (at least, he is completely certain when contradicted by someone who disagrees).

I watched them with equal parts admiration and amusement. I am under no delusions that this playtime activity was an indication of any great piety on their part. These were normal gestures made by normal children to an object of their affection. But there was something so innocent and pure in their enthusiasm. There was something so lovely in their determined belief that they could, in fact, offer some kind of consolation to God by their actions.

How sweet it seemed. How naive. How silly.

As a family, our prayer lately has been for God to fill us with a genuine yearning for holiness. I always assumed that I wanted to be holy, that I was trying my best to be holy. But when I really thought about it, was holiness something I desired? Or was it a hill I watched other people climb, while I thought to myself: “How sweet. How naive. How silly.”

Striving for holiness is different from wanting to do the right thing, an action which offers lots of benefits that have nothing to do with our souls. “Being a good person,” that nebulous yardstick of morality popularized by secular culture, is not an unworthy goal. But it’s also not enough. You can be a “good person” in this world by doing just enough, by giving just enough. By being kind (most of the time). By making the right choice (most of the time). A good person is usually admired and well-liked, because they are deemed good for actions that are visible, public.

You can be “a good person” and still risk nothing, lose nothing, suffer nothing.

But a holy person? A holy person is usually a freak. Look at any of the great saints, and you’ll see that most of their peers looked at them a little askance. We admire them now, when death and canonization frame their earthly struggle as heroic. But while it was happening? When they were just ordinary, sinful, fallen people trying to be holy, trying to do whatever objectively crazy thing it was that God was asking them to do? When Bernadette smeared her face with mud and Rose donned a crown of spikes and Veronica offered a towel to a man that everyone hated?

Well, they may as well have been making campfires for a concrete statue.

That’s the struggle for holiness, really, in a nutshell: doing something that makes no sense, that gives no benefit that anyone can see or touch or smell. Doing it badly, haphazardly, but doing it with purpose. Doing it simply because you’re motivated by a feeling deep within you, some little fledgling stirring of love in the recesses of your soul.

We can only be holy by following that feeling, even when everyone else thinks we’ve totally lost it. “How childlike. How naive,” they say when we go to Mass, when we whisper our sins through a grate, when we politely ask someone who has been dead for centuries to pray for us. “How silly.”

Sometimes, holiness looks like building a campfire for a concrete statue. (Photo by Colleen Jurkiewicz)

Catholic Parenting

Advent is here and the gift of the Nativity is in sight. This time of year welcomes us to experience the fullness of the joyful mysteries. When we hear the stories of the Holy Family, it is easy to get caught up in the mysteries and other worldly experiences in the Christmas story. The holiness of the Blessed Mother and her faithful protector Joseph puts us in awe of who they must have been in this life. If we stay at this view of the Holy Family, it may be hard to relate to Mary and Joseph in a human way, but somehow we know that we fit into the Holy Family, too.

In the Annunciation, the angel Gabriel appears to Mary and invites her to be the mother of God. Wow. What an invitation. How wonderful it must have been to receive such a clear instruction from the Lord. Zechariah received a similar message from Gabriel about the coming of John the Baptist. If only angels would come and speak so clearly in our lives today, right?

If we look closely at the announcements of Jesus’ and John’s births, we find clarity only in the reality of the situations. Mary and Elizabeth will carry children with missions set by the Lord. Mary isn’t warned that she will be traveling on a donkey for many miles in the ninth month of pregnancy. Elizabeth isn’t promised that she will be given a special pain-free birth in her old age. When Joseph accepts the responsibility of protecting Mary, he isn’t advised that there will be animals at the birth and some random shepherds paying a visit.

We often accuse God of withholding the future details of our lives. If only God would give more direction and speak more clearly to us. Maybe we are even tempted to look at the Holy Family as being unrelatable because God spoke so much more clearly to them or differently. But we can see that God did not give the Holy Family all the insider information. The Holy Family was not free of suffering, either. After Jesus’ birth, Joseph is warned in a dream in the middle of the night that he needs to make like a racehorse and get out of town because Herod is about to strike. God could have given the Holy Family special protection and saved them from having to flee, but he did not. Rather, he called on Joseph in the middle of the night to act. Who likes a midnight wake up? We see that Elizabeth, too, was asked to suffer. Pregnancy and childbirth are difficult enough for young women. For Elizabeth to do this as an elderly woman must have been indescribable.

Let us take seriously God’s invitation to join the Holy Family in their journey. We are invited to see ourselves in the story of Jesus. We, too, are called by God in this life. Our invitations may not be delivered by Gabriel or in visions, but we nevertheless can look at how we have been called to serve here on earth. And like the examples above, we too receive information that is lacking in details and contains missing information. We are not spared the suffering of this life within our calls to action.

We can also see in the stories here that even though God allowed suffering, he did not leave the Holy Family unaided. In the Visitation, we find Mary rushing off to support her elderly cousin in her pregnancy. Joseph was appointed protector of Mary and Jesus. And at the Nativity, some unnamed shepherds were called to the scene. There wasn’t royalty at the birth. God didn’t kick someone out of the inn so that Mary could have a comfortable room for the birth. All of us, even the Holy Family, were asked to follow the ways of God and deal with unclear instructions and endure suffering. We are also asked to support each other and bear each other’s burdens.

The Holy Family models the reality that life is hard. The Holy Family had to follow the rules of life. God wants all of us, even the unnamed and unimportant, to be a part of his family and to join the Holy Family at the Nativity. We are also invited to see that the Holy Family is not so unrelatable or different from our own human experiences. So, if we find ourselves suffering this season for want of family and love, we need only turn to the Holy Family and know that we are accepted this holiday season. And we can be sure that we are understood by them because they know what it is like to try to follow a map drawn by God. And they are praying for us this Christmas season.

At the mountain of God, Horeb, Elijah came to a cave where he took shelter. Then the LORD said to him, “Go outside and stand on the mountain before the LORD; the LORD will be passing by.” A strong and heavy wind was rending the mountains and crushing rocks before the LORD — but the LORD was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake — but the LORD was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake there was fire — but the LORD was not in the fire. After the fire there was a tiny whispering sound. (1 Kings 19:11-12)

There’s been a movement in my heart lately to pursue quiet. As an introvert, I’ve long known that I need to be away in order to recharge. As much as I enjoy the people I’m blessed to live this life with, they make me tired. But lately, it’s more than a need to recharge, more than a desire to be alone. It’s a desire for quiet. I find myself rejoicing when we have a “quiet weekend planned” — one that involves just my husband and I, along with the dog and Sunday brunch with our one kid who lives in state. When the weeknight consists only of working out, eating dinner and crocheting, I am glad.

I’m not sure where this quest originated. Perhaps it’s the noisy high school I work in with a bell ringing every 48 minutes and teenage goofiness tromping outside my door. Perhaps it’s the sirens and speeding cars and motorcycles that come with living in a city. Perhaps it’s the internet blaring headlines at me every time I open a new browser page. I think it’s all these things in addition to a deepening desire to hear God’s voice because I feel like it’s getting drowned out not just for me but for the world.

It’s nut bonkers right now. There are all kinds of things to worry about and all kinds of yelling, whether literal or figurative. We have two wars raging, yet another contentious presidential race beginning, and ideologies that deny our humanity. People are angry and easily irritated and insistent that their truth is the only truth.

But here’s the thing. The only truth is God’s truth, and as a people, we are too busy making noise to hear it. I want to hear it. I want to hear that still, small voice — that quiet whisper that I am loved and that it’s going to be OK. The gentle reminder to love my neighbor and sometimes keep my own mouth shut. The nudge to do a little nice thing because maybe if we all start doing little nice things, it will add up into something big and nice.

I want to hear what God has to say because he is good and wise and has important things to tell me. St. Therese of Lisieux has been stalking me lately, and I’ve become increasingly convinced that I, too, am small and desperately need our Lord for everything. But I can’t always hear his voice, so I am yearning for quiet. I want the leaf blower, the barking dog and the cement truck to just quiet down.

So I’ve instituted some changes in my quest for quiet, and they seem to be working. I wake up early to pray, I pray a Rosary in the car on my way to work and I’ve added a weekly Mass to my routine. I’ve slowed down our social life, choosing instead to be home more. It fits with the season we are at the beginning of — darker, colder, cozier.

I accept that in many ways I am blessed to be able to do this quietening. When I was in the throes of child rearing, there could be some loud days. But there were also peaceful days. Days where we lounged on the couch and read books, days when we stayed home and entertained each other. I think it is possible, even if one has littles, because they can learn the value and the benefit of quiet. Kids and teens suffer as much as, possibly more than, adults from the noise.

I am advocating for all of us to be intentional about quieting down. We can control what comes into our homes via the front door, social media and the television. We don’t need to be constantly connected. It’s stressful and exhausting. I advocate that we turn off Facebook and Instagram and the like. We turn off the television and the radio. We turn down the invitations to be elsewhere, and we look to our families and be present to them.

Let’s be quiet for a while. We don’t need to cut ourselves off from the world permanently, but let’s take a little break and hear what God has to say. I suspect it’s important.

We, too, live in difficult times like the early disciples. In the first century, they were without proper churches, no convenient copies of the Bible, and no internet or television or radio.  We, however, are not challenged by the lack of many things but by their abundance.  We have an abundance of churches, an abundance of printed Bibles and an abundance of web pages, television channels and radio stations.  But what use is all this abundance to us?  How does it help us?  A whole case of 50 Bibles is only useful if there are people to read them and a whole case of inappropriate books is not useful, even to one person.  So, this is our task, what to keep and what to discard, what to embrace and what to put away from us.  This is the task of discernment.

Our times are punctuated by the need for discernment at every turn. What should be our standard, how do we know what is good for us and what is not?

Rule 1: First and foremost, we should use the eternal test:  Is this something that has value for eternity?  Am I reading something that will help me to reach the pearly gates or am I simply reading to pass my time?  Does this reading lift my soul toward God or away from him?

Rule 2: We need to use the moderation test.  We need to ask, “Is this thing that I am doing in a good balance with my responsibilities, duties and obligations?”  We all have duties to perform as part of our state in life.  Are we a parent who has the obligation to support their spouse on their way to heaven or obligations to feed, house and educate the children?  Then faithfully, lovingly and sacrificially fulfilling these obligations may leave very little time for other things, good as they might be.  Are we single or widowed and not bound to these types of obligations, then perhaps we need to revert to rule one — the eternal test — or the following two rules.

Rule 3: Is this in line with what Jesus taught in the Holy Scriptures and in line with Church teaching?  Of course, to apply this rule you need to be familiar with the Holy Scriptures, especially the Gospels, and you have to be familiar with Church teaching, especially the Catechism of the Catholic Church.  But when are you going to find time to read the Scriptures and the Catechism?  You will make the time by following rules 1 and 2.

Rule 4: Would this fit in the Sacred and Merciful Heart of Jesus?  Is this thing that we are about to do motivated by love or self-interest?  Is it for our own gain or for the benefit of someone else?  Are we the center of our universe or is the love of God and his holy and merciful will the center of our universe?

Some might say: “All of this is well and good, deacon, but every case is different and there are nuances that general rules cannot cover.”  This may be so, which is why I saved the best for last.

Rule 5: Have I surrendered this and my life to God?  Ultimately, proper discernment is grounded in a heart and a mind and a life that is continually being converted and transformed more and more into the likeness of Jesus who is our model, our example and our goal.  St. Paul said it well in the Letter to the Ephesians, “Living the truth in love, we should grow in every way into him who is the head, Christ.” (Ephesians 4:15)

My dear friends, the reasons why general rules, though useful in themselves, don’t work in every case is that only God could possibly know the exact decision that is best for us, only God could know which path leads to the desired outcome, and only God knows which outcome is truly in our best interest.  So, we need God at the core of our best discernment.  St. Teresa of Avila, who was both a master in the spiritual life and a person who had to engage in much discernment in her own extremely busy life, understood that the best way to discern properly is to give ourselves totally to God, to surrender to his plans and then to ask insistently for his holy guidance.  Below is a poem and prayer that she wrote that captures well how we can surrender ourselves to God and rely on his aid in guiding us with what we ought to do in our lives.

In the Hands of God

I am Yours and born of You, What do You want of me?

Majestic Sovereign, Unending wisdom, Kindness pleasing to my soul; God sublime, one Being Good, Behold this one so vile. Singing of her love to you: What do You want of me?

Yours, You made me, Yours, you saved me, Yours, you called me, Yours, you awaited me, Yours, I did not stray. What do you want of me?

Good Lord, what do you want of me? What is this wretch to do? What work is this, This sinful slave, to do? Look at me, Sweet Love, Sweet Love, look at me, What do you want of me?

In Your hand I place my heart, Body, life and soul, Deep feelings and affections mine, Spouse – Redeemer sweet, Myself offered now to you, What do you want of me?

Give me death, give me life, Health or sickness, Honor or shame, War or swelling peace, Weakness or full strength, Yes, to these I say, What do you want of me?

Give me wealth or want, Happiness or gloominess, Sweet life, sun unveiled, To you I give all. What do you want of me?

Give me, if You will, prayer; Or let me know dryness, And abundance of devotion, or if not, then barrenness. In you alone, Sovereign Majesty, I find my peace, What do You want of me?

Give me then wisdom, Or for love, ignorance, Years of abundance, or hunger and famine. Darkness or sunlight, Move me here or there: What do You want of me?

If You want me to rest, I desire it for love; If to labor, I will die working:

Sweet Love say: Where, how and when. What do You want of me?

Calvary or Tabor give me, Desert or fruitful land; As Job in suffering or John at Your breast; Barren or fruited vine, Whatever be Your will: What do You want of me?

Be I Joseph Chained, Or as Egypt’s governor, David pained, or exalted high, Jonas drowned, or Jonas freed:

What do You want of me?

Silent or speaking, Fruit bearing or barren, My wounds shown by the Law, Rejoicing in the tender Gospel;

Sorrowing or exulting, You alone live in me: What do you want of me?

Yours I am, for You I was born:

Yours I am, for You I was born:

What do You want of me?

Amen.

My children are fortunate to have not yet lost people close to them. They have, however, witnessed my husband’s and my grief at the loss of friends and loved ones.

While the great mystery of death is beyond an adult’s understanding, my children’s innocence and natural empathy make conversations about those we have lost easier for them than for me. They understand missing someone, and they understand a loss. Their childlike faith helps me to remember that even when I cannot possibly understand why something has occurred, I can trust that our Lord loves us beyond all understanding. I can have faith in the Resurrection.

“We were indeed buried with him through baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might live in newness of life.” (Romans 6:4)

If you have littles, visiting a cemetery or attending a funeral with them may seem challenging, but remember: burying the dead is a corporal act of mercy.

If your child is an altar server, serving funeral Masses can be a blessing — both to the family and friends of the deceased and to your own family. When a close friend lost her father, my son was willing and able to explain the funeral rites to her sons. When our family experiences their own losses, I know my children will be able to find solace in the ritual they have seen before.

“The Church, through its funeral rites, commends the dead to God’s merciful love and pleads for the forgiveness of their sins. At the funeral rites, especially at the celebration of the eucharistic sacrifice, the Christian community affirms and expresses the union of the Church on earth with the Church in heaven in the one great communion of saints. Though separated from the living, the dead are still at one with the community of believers on earth and benefit from their prayers and intercession. At the rite of final commendation and farewell, the community acknowledges the reality of separation and commends the deceased to God. In this way, it recognizes the spiritual bond that still exists between the living and the dead and proclaims its belief that all the faithful will be raised up and reunited in the new heavens and a new earth, where death will be no more.” (General Introduction of the Order of Christian Funerals, 6)

Comforting the sorrowful and praying for the living and the dead are counted as spiritual acts of mercy — and they’re easier to weave into your day than you think.

Beyond the funeral Mass itself, we can ask our children to help us pray for those who have gone — perhaps by keeping a special collection of photos in your home or putting the Mass cards from funerals in a prayer basket. When names of newly deceased parishioners appear in the bulletin, write them down with the rest of your family’s intentions.

“From the beginning, the Church has honored the memory of the dead and offered prayers in suffrage for them, above all the Eucharistic sacrifice, so that, thus purified, they may attain the beatific vision of God. The Church also commends almsgiving, indulgences, and works of penance undertaken on behalf of the dead: Let us help and commemorate them. If Job’s sons were purified by their father’s sacrifice, why would we doubt that our offerings for the dead bring them some consolation? Let us not hesitate to help those who have died and to offer our prayers for them.” (Catechism of the Catholic Church, 1032)

If you aren’t able to make special devotions or trips during the week of commemoration of All Souls, having Masses offered for the dead and reminding your children to pray for the souls who are remembered in the Masses they attend is a small but consistent way to live out this call.

As Scott Hahn explains in “The Lamb’s Supper,” “Heaven is a family reunion with all God’s children; and this is true, too, of heaven on earth: the Holy Mass. Heaven touches earth in the Mass and encompasses the family of God Himself.”

Finally, when people your children know experience a loss, ask them to pray with you, and then put a calendar reminder in your phone. Anniversaries, birthdays and other big moments are hard after a loss. A card, text  or video of your kids sending them love to let them know they — and their loved ones — are not forgotten and can help ease the burden.

St. Joseph, patron of a happy death, ora pro nobis.

Catholic Herald contributor Kate Kelleher Junk is pictured at her wedding along with her aunt/godmother, Renee, and uncle/godfather, Tom. (Submitted photo)

There’s the old saying: if no one’s crying, your church is dying. While everyone is welcome at Mass — noisy babies included — sometimes a little break from the main worship space can be just as helpful for a flustered parent as it is for an overstimulated child.

We took to social media and asked families to share their favorite “cry rooms” in the Archdiocese of Milwaukee. St. John Vianney, Brookfield, was a particularly popular answer, with commenters praising the fact that the space is seamlessly incorporated into the rest of the congregation, separated only by a wall for privacy and a soundproof glass window.

“Cry rooms are great because we are aware of what’s going on in the sanctuary … we’re not really apart from it, just separated,” said Jean Warner, a St. John Vianney parishioner and mother of six who has utilized the space many times over the years. “With sound pumped in and adjustable, we are still able to participate in Mass, fulfilling our Sunday obligation and corralling little people at the same time.”

Because St. John Vianney’s cry rooms are located right near the entrance and exit of the main worship space, “everyone knows they are there and accessible,” said Warner. It also makes for a quick getaway if a full evacuation plan is necessary.

“I can take a little person into the cry room and if they then explode into a full-on fit, I can then quickly football-hold him out into a hallway for a time,” she said.

St. Leonard, Muskego, was another popular answer because of the flexible options it offers families who need special accommodations. “Kids/babies are welcome and accepted in the main church,” wrote one commenter. “However, there are couches and tables in the atrium with views into church and Mass is streamed on the televisions.”

Lisa Jachimiec, Director of Child Ministry and Safeguarding at St. Leonard, said when the new parish center was being constructed in 2017, pastor Fr. Dan Janasik was determined that it would be seen as “an extension of the church,” where families could feel included in the liturgy even if they had to step away from the immediate worship area.

“We have two large monitors in the main gathering space, and then we have an adjacent fireplace room which is open all the time,” Jachimiec, meaning that people who utilize those spaces are “still a part of Mass.”

The parish also offers “Little Leos Nursery” during Sunday’s 9 a.m. Mass, where a staff member and one or more volunteers watch children aged six months to 4 years old. The parish wants to ensure that families have options for whatever level of support they need on any given week, said Jachimiec.

“We’ve seen a resurgence of young families coming to Mass, and we want to make it as easy as possible,” she said. “I raised four children, and sometimes Sunday mornings at about 8:55 was the least holy time of my week. It can be a real challenge.”

Warner said that she feels intermittently using the cry rooms and then being able to return to full participation in the pew is a great way of embracing the concept that “Catholicism is caught, not taught.”

“I don’t fully ascribe to that phrase for older children, but when children are younger they need to see their parents, grandparents and older siblings in the pew, pointing their hands towards heaven, genuflecting and taking the Mass seriously,” she said. “The cry rooms allow us to do that but still whisk a child away when he or she is being a distraction. We reinforce that when we are at Mass, we are participating in the most important part of our week. We are standing at the foot of the cross at Calvary.”

Here are some cry-room honorable mentions from our readers:

Immaculate Conception, Bay View: “It has a bathroom, window to the interior of the church, speakers, a changing table and toys and books for the kids. Great for Mass or adoration on Thursdays. And the supply of diapers has been helpful in an absent-minded-mama pinch.”

St. Dominic, Brookfield: “St. Dominic’s has a very welcoming parish where kids are welcome in the sanctuary at all times. The cry room is more of a reset room than a permanent seat. It is not a closed-off room, which makes the reset much easier.”

St. Stanislaus Oratory, Milwaukee: “St. Stan’s has an auditorium area upstairs. Mass is on a screen. People are up there not just with fussy children but if they want to explain Mass to their children or work on serving with young boys.”

St. Benedict, Fontana: “Cry room looking into the sanctuary. Front row seats to the Mass. Easy access to bathrooms, too.”

St. Anthony, Menomonee Falls: “A fantastic narthex sitting area for basic quieting and a secure cry room attached to a bathroom for those days when you need more than just a shush.”

Holy Apostles, New Berlin: “Holy Apostles in New Berlin has one in our welcome center that is equipped with a rocking chair, changing table, sink and table, as well as a speaker. Clean and cozy.”

The Little Leos nursery at St. Leonard, Muskego, has a mural painted by former parish secretary Rita Firkus, a member of St. James, Mukwonago. (Submitted photo)

The joy of a positive pregnancy test for someone battling infertility is phenomenal. I was blessed with this joy one sunny morning in July. Finally, it was my turn to grow my family. I was ready and I was excited (I was also terrified). I turned immediately to prayer and entrusted my pregnancy to St. Joseph. The sleepless nights were filled with excitement and anxiety, but I leaned on prayer and deep breathing, and carried on. I prayed for peace and had two moments where I felt filled with peace, comfort and assurance. I finally felt my efforts to grow closer to God had worked. My prayers were being answered, and I felt guided for perhaps the first time in my life. Life was good.

But then life became not good. I miscarried. I went through all the emotions in a matter of minutes but settled on feeling betrayed and abandoned by God and St. Joseph. I felt shattered. What I thought I knew was obviously wrong. I went through all the questions. Why did God allow this to happen to me? Why did I feel such peace and comfort? Did I do everything that I was supposed to? Tears of joy turned to tears of sorrow and agony. I have never thrown a crucifix before, but this seemed like a good time. It didn’t help, but it was an expression of my pain. I had been at this point in my life many times. Why had God brought me here again? I make every effort to be his good and faithful servant for what? For this?

This crossroads I was at should be familiar to the suffering soul. It is a crossroads that bifurcates on a road away from God and one that follows the way of the cross. Many of us (myself included) have chosen to go down the road that leads from God. We leave the crucifix on the ground and allow the sins and soothing traps of the world to comfort us. In the depths of my pain, I sure wanted to choose this road. I was tired of feeling abandoned and hurt by God.

Once I had wrestled with my emotions, I set off for the only place that I have ever found peace in this type of suffering: I went to confession. I poured my heart out and embarrassingly admitted to launching my crucifix across the room and that it was still on the floor. What had brought me to confession was despair. My doubts of and in God were loud, and I had been indulging in them, which left my soul suffocating in despair.

I did not feel better about my predicament after confession, but God’s grace had allowed me back on my spiritual feet. My cross was once again set on my shoulder, and I carried on. The weeks that followed were filled with more pain and struggles. But what I realized as I grieved my loss was that how I responded to this suffering was different than previously. It took me less time to reorient myself to the Lord. I was able to pray with my pain more easily. I could go through the motions until I could fully engage again. I also learned that it is not about how good of a Christian I am or how much or intensely that I pray. I had intellectually known this, but to experience it in this way solidified the message. From the ashes of my pain, new growth had taken place in my soul. God isn’t going to spare me from suffering in this life. I will no doubt feel abandoned by God again. But upon reflection, I could recognize the voice of Satan. I see where Satan laid traps for me, and in my pain, I sprung them.

Dear friends, the victory in suffering for most of us is not perfection, and praise God for that. The victory is recognizing that when Jesus fell the third time, he got back up. Suffering hurts. Feeling abandoned and betrayed by God is painful. But it is Satan who speaks in words of despair. It is Satan who encourages us to turn away from God. I have yet to figure out how not to feel abandoned by God in my times of suffering, but what ultimately matters is that I not allow my feelings to lead me away from the Sacraments and away from God. This is the challenge for us all. When we suffer, we are tempted to cling to the comforts of the world.

My prayer for all of you is that you choose to stand up for the third time when you stumble in carrying the cross. As we enter this winter season when the darkness is greater, let us remember that when Jesus fell the third time, he got up, and he will help us to do so as well if we will cling to him.

Andi Bochte

My husband and I recently celebrated our 30th anniversary.

Here are a few things I’ve learned.

Forgiveness keeps this thing moving. It’s easy to hold on to the hurt and nurse it into something big. It’s hard to let it go. It takes a conscious decision, but it’s essential.

On that note, it’s easy to deeply hurt the other person. We each know exactly where to place that knife for maximum injury. We’ve chosen not to do it. We have to be willing to be vulnerable and trust that the other one isn’t going to wound us in that way.

God must be at the center of the relationship. It is each of our jobs to help the other get to heaven. Attend Sunday Mass weekly and Eucharistic Adoration together. It makes a difference. When things get hard, God gives grace.

Sometimes you both will be barfing. It’s always ugly and unpleasant. Try not to judge too much. He feels as horrible as you do.

If you know what makes the other person laugh, do it often. Everything’s better when someone is laughing so hard he or she cries.

Try not to freak out simultaneously. Only one person should be losing his or her mind at a time. If it’s your spouse’s turn, do what you can to keep it together for him. When it’s your turn, realize the generosity of his patience.

When there is an unpleasant thing that must be done that neither person wants to do, rock-paper-scissors is an equitable way to get it done. We play one-out-of-one, loser-does-it. I’m the frequent loser but it can’t be helped. It was fair after all.

Give each other the benefit of the doubt. It may seem like he is intentionally trying to anger you but that is probably not the case. Assume the best and give each other some grace.

When it’s time for that bug/bat/mouse to be dealt with, the person who is most able to handle it should immediately step in and be the hero.

The things that make us crazy about the other person are opportunities for practicing virtue. There will be many.

There are some things that will never change no matter how much nagging is done. Surrender may be your best recourse. He will always leave the bathroom cupboard door open and I will always place stuff on the stairs. Deal with it.

Children will be a big challenge to the marriage and a bigger blessing. This is where your mettle is tested — when you are sleep deprived, covered in throw-up or wearing your heart outside your body. There are times they will love you best and times they will love him best. Be grateful they have you both and stay united.

The children will fare better if the marriage is strong. Take time for a regular date night. Modeling a relationship that is joyful and manages the differences in opinions will help them in their own future relationships. If you fight fair, it’s OK to let them see you disagree, work it out, and forgive each other. (See the first point.)

You’re going to change physically, mentally and emotionally. That’s OK. We’ve learned where one is weak, the other can be strong. We’ve also learned not to be too judgmental regarding the tummy cushion that just won’t seem to go away. We’re in this getting older thing together.

The children will grow up and move out. This is what they are supposed to do. This means we did our job well. We miss them. We sometimes pine for the days when they were younger; however, we’ve learned that after the hard part of parenting babies into adults comes people who can be really fun to be around. Their adulthood is not a big black wall — it’s an invitation to more fun.

After the children move out, there is new freedom. It’s fun to plan the future together.

In September, we have three Marian Feast days: the Birth of the Blessed Virgin Mary is celebrated Sept. 8, the Most Holy Name of Mary on Sept. 12 and Our Lady of Sorrows on Sept. 15. The entire month of October is dedicated to the Holy Rosary and the Feast of Our Lady of the Rosary Oct. 7. Why does the Church put so much emphasis on one person? Why do they want us to remember her throughout the year? Why were all of these beautiful feast days developed over the centuries? It all has to do with the special place that the Blessed Virgin Mary has in our Catholic faith. When you look back into the earliest times of our Christian faith, you will find the Blessed Virgin Mary playing an important role: the Annunciation, the birth, the flight to Egypt, the Holy Family in Nazareth, the wedding feast at Cana, the preaching and miracles of Christ, and the Passion of Christ. Even in the Old Testament, she could be found represented in some of the most important women in the Bible: Eve, Sarah, Rachel, Judith, Ruth. We could study and write about the Blessed Virgin Mary in books and books, but for this brief article I just want to focus on her heart.

A Heart Open to God (The Annunciation)

We see at the Annunciation of the angel Gabriel to Mary that she had a heart ready to obey God. She said to the angel that just announced to her that she would be the mother of the Messiah, “Behold, I am the handmaid of the Lord. May it be done to me according to your word.” (Luke 1:38) She did not say she was ready for such a big job, she did not say she deserved it, she did not say she would be good at it; she said that she was a handmaid, a servant of God, and if this was what he wanted, then she wanted it, too. She was humble, she desired to do the will of God, no matter what it might be, and her heart was open to God.

A Heart Open to the Mission of Jesus (The Visitation)

As soon as the angel Gabriel departed, Mary was moved to start participating in the mission of Jesus. The Holy Scriptures tell us the Angel Gabriel had revealed to Mary, “And behold, Elizabeth, your relative, has also conceived a son in her old age, and this is the sixth month for her who was called barren.” (Luke 1:36) In response, Mary takes action. “During those days, Mary set out and traveled to the hill country in haste to a town of Judah, where she entered the house of Zechariah and greeted Elizabeth.” (Luke 1:39-40) At this encounter, we see a profound movement of the Holy Spirit, because Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit and St. John the Baptist in St. Elizabeth’s womb “leaped for joy.” The Blessed Virgin Mary is the Theotokos, the God-Bearer, the Mother of God, and in this role, she brings Jesus in her womb to John and Elizabeth. In this same way, at Christmas we celebrate that Mary brings Jesus to the entire world.

As Jesus ages, Mary continues to be by his side. She teaches him, she takes him to the Temple, she listens to him preach, she is even the one who cooperates with Jesus in his first miracle at the wedding feast at Cana, where Jesus turned water into wine. She knows that Jesus cares for us, she knows that he wants to help us, she knows he has the power to help us. Therefore, full of confidence and trust, she says to the servants at the wedding, and she says to us, “Do whatever he tells you.” (John 2:5) The Blessed Virgin Mary is committed to Jesus and his mission. She remains by his side through it all even through the painful passion and the final sacrifice on the cross, where she stood at the foot of the cross, giving all she had — her love, her broken heart and her divine son — for his sacred mission, our salvation. (John 19:25)

A Heart Open to You and Me (The Coronation of Mary)

It was at the foot of the cross where the Blessed Virgin Mary took her place in the ongoing plan of God. “Standing by the cross of Jesus (was) his mother … When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple there whom he loved, he said to his mother, ‘Woman, behold, your son.’ Then he said to the disciple, ‘Behold, your mother.’ And from that hour the disciple took her into his home.” (John 19:25-27) Jesus, knowing the plan of God, knowing he had completed his part of the plan, puts in the final piece of the plan and gives us a mother like he had for 33 years. He knows that one day she will be assumed into heaven and will be seated by his side as Queen of Heaven and Earth.

The Blessed Virgin Mary is seen in the Scriptures after the Crucifixion, after the Resurrection and after the Ascension fulfilling her role as mother to the disciples. “When they entered the city, they went to the upper room where they were staying, Peter and John and James and Andrew, Philip and Thomas, Bartholomew and Matthew, James son of Alphaeus, Simon the Zealot, and Judas son of James. All these devoted themselves with one accord to prayer, together with some women, and Mary the mother of Jesus.” (Acts 1:13-14) She accompanied them, she prayed with them and prayed that what Jesus promised the disciples would soon be accomplished. “You will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes upon you, and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, throughout Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” (Acts 1:8) This happened for the disciples at Pentecost, and for you and me it happens at our Baptism and Confirmation. The Blessed Virgin Mary continued to teach, encourage and serve the disciples until she took her rightful place next to her son at the Assumption.

This is the privilege of the Blessed Virgin Mary: to continue to help us, the new disciples of Jesus, her children and children of the Father. In this month of the Rosary, let us remember that in heaven we have the heart of a mother who loves us. Let us honor her, let us show her a little of our love by giving her a crown of roses, which is what Rosary means, let us give her our prayer, our rosaries, and crown her as she deserves.

When our son Liam was in kindergarten and I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up, he answered, “A grandpa.” At the time, my mom and dad were our kids’ main babysitters. My dad was about 63 and deep in the throes of his second childhood, after his recent retirement from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. Little Liam saw in my dad something not evident in many other grown-ups: A commitment to play. My dad was on two senior softball teams, was rarely beaten in club table tennis, ran several miles a few days a week, taught both boys poker during their after-school time together and never tired of pitching the whiffle ball in the backyard or shooting baskets in the driveway. I could see why Liam selected being a grandpa for his future career — his grandpa was bouncy and fun, and approached adulthood with a childlike flair.

Still, I couldn’t allow Liam to believe he could hop right from childhood to grandfatherhood. “Liam, Grandpa hasn’t always been a grandpa,” I explained.  “He worked in an office for many years. When your own kids grow up and have children, then you can be a grandpa. But first, you will need another job.”

Liam looked bewildered but accepted the explanation. I couldn’t tell if he was more taken aback that his future held responsibilities beyond Tuesday morning softball, or that his all-recess-time grandfather actually had a desk job at one point.

Liam is 25 now, out of college and a few years into his own career, with an aggressive approach to retirement savings and various after-work sports leagues. My dad is 83 and has started to slow down in the last year. He played softball in the over-55 league deep into his 70s and only stopped when he noticed he was uncharacteristically out of breath running to second base. Medical testing led to a diagnosis of idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis, a disease that causes lung tissue to become damaged. For the first three years after his diagnosis, my dad managed to continue to play competitive table tennis, keep up his many volunteer activities and run for short distances, but this past winter, a bout with COVID-19 landed him in the hospital. The virus compromised his lungs further, and he needed supplemental oxygen. Now, eight months later, his lungs are worsening and even walking across the room with his always-present oxygen is difficult.

And as my dad struggles to breathe, I am aware that like little Liam, I see much in my dad that I hope to be someday. If we are fortunate, we each have a few people in our lives whom we have the privilege to walk (or run) beside. Just a few people that we get to see consistently enough and who trust us enough to show us their whole selves, and to whom we can also reveal ourselves.

Except for a year volunteering in Chicago as a young adult, I’ve never lived more than a few miles from my parents. I see them about once a week, and my dad and I became daily texters sometime along the way. My dad has taught me the power of being a witness to the life of another. He has rooted for me, and for our entire family, through our greatest trials and triumphs, always interested, always optimistic that even in the darkness, some light might be around the next corner. I want to become that for my own adult children. I want to talk with them, text them and cheer for them in such a way that they can one day recognize me as a nonjudgmental witness to how they navigate the complexity of their lives.

I want to grow to approach my faith like my dad. It deepened as he got older, and just beyond middle age, he read “Why Not Be a Mystic?” by Frank X. Tuoli and embraced a practice of centering prayer that seemed at odds with his on-the-go personality. He has kept up the practice for decades and speaks to its power and the presence of God he experiences. With an inability to sit still, and a brain that resists quieting, I’ve dabbled in centering prayer with no consistency. I’m now almost at the age my dad started, so maybe I will mature into it. It’s on my to-do list.

My mom has always been my dad’s first priority, and I have marveled at how they are able to bring together their vastly different skill sets and personalities, and make a whole that is much greater than their individual parts. My mom and dad together ground our family with their almost 56 years of mutual respect and commitment. Their marriage is the platform for my sister and me, for our husbands and children. They look first to each other in every decision. As my dad weakens, I see my mom working so hard to make up for the new deficits. She has started lifting weights so as to be able to more easily move the walker and lift the wheelchair out of the car. And in his illness, my dad turns to my mom constantly for her opinion, making sure his next medical move is one she agrees with. As my dad suffers, my mom suffers too, and yet they matter-of-factly continue daily tasks together. I hope that Bill and I will have such grace.

If Liam’s comment about being a grandpa someday propelled me into the future, my dad’s illness has made me reflective about the past. My dad spent as much time on the bleachers watching my sister and me and our kids compete in sports as he did participating on his own teams. No matter whether it was basketball, soccer, volleyball, track or Ultimate Frisbee, we could always count on my dad’s strong cheer from the stands. “Hey, hey!” he’d yell. It was a hey of encouragement, a hey that you’ve got this, a hey that he believed in us and whatever we were about to do on that court, field or track.

And now, as normal activities become feats of endurance for my dad, as his lungs fight against him and he continues to persevere, it is our turn to cheer, loudly, and as a family with one voice.

Hey, hey, Dad!

Thank you for teaching us how to be.