Right Now This Minute: 4/14/2019

Dominic and Monica are here with baby Margaret for Holy Week, and Auntie Marie walked down from the Boarder House for a visit. Life is good this Palm Sunday afternoon!

Margaret with Auntie Cathy

Auntie Marie looking up and looking something up as 

Momma Monica with Auntie Anna -- and pizza

Daddy Dominic on one keyboard

Dandad on another keyboard (finishing up taxes... ugh)

Mommom smiling for the camera; Margaret refusing.

The Donkey

BY G. K. CHESTERTON

When fishes flew and forests walked

   And figs grew upon thorn,

Some moment when the moon was blood

   Then surely I was born.

With monstrous head and sickening cry

   And ears like errant wings,

The devil’s walking parody

   On all four-footed things.

The tattered outlaw of the earth,

   Of ancient crooked will;

Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,

   I keep my secret still.

Fools! For I also had my hour;

   One far fierce hour and sweet:

There was a shout about my ears,

   And palms before my feet.

The Day Palm Sunday Happened

It's easy to become so accustomed to the Bible stories we've heard since childhood that we forget they're not just stories; they histories.  Every incident related in the Bible was a day in a life: a day in the life of Jesus, our Saviour; a day in the life of His apostles; a day in the life of the people they met as they walked the dusty roads. 

 Following is an excerpt from one of my favorite Lenten books for meditating, The Day Christ Died, written by Jim Bishop in the late 1950s.  For filling in all the little details, and for making you feel like you're there by the roadside, palm in hand, experiencing the day in His life, this book cannot be beaten.  It's available on Kindle and can be found for as low as .50 a copy used (+ shipping, of course).  Take a look: here. 

Within a month of having raised Lazarus from the dead; within a week of Mary, the sister of Lazarus, having poured the bottle precious oil upon his feet:

By Sunday morning, the news of the arrival of Jesus was known in every alley in the Holy City.  The people, not bound by the Sabbath, which expired the evening prior, came down the sloping road from the temple toward Bethany to greet him.  They came in festive flocks, and the high priests, watching from the great height of Solomon's Porch, were vexed and passed a resolution condemning Lazarus to death.  They knew that the raising of Lazarus from the dead had excited the people of Jerusalem to a pitch of frenzy for the Messiah; even some who had argued most vehemently that Jesus was not the elect of God were now admitting that he was, and were in the procession which set out to meet him.

It was a clear, cool, lustrous morning, with the spring sun spangling the dewy leaves, and the sky over the white marble of the temple spires was china blue, It was a day to drug the senses with goodness, and soon the road to Bethany was jammed with families, all of whom had their backs to the temple. Some of the pilgrims from Galilee joined their brethren from Judea and many began to pick branches of palm to lay down before the feet of the annointed.

In Bethany, Jesus thanked his hosts, and with his party of apostles and disciples was ready to leave. They walked out to the crossroads, and Jesus pointed to a village nestling against the slope of the Mount of Olives. He said to two of his disciples: "Go into the village directly in front of you and as you enter you will find hitched a foal on which no man has ever sat. Unhitch it and bring it here.

"And, in case anybody asks you: 'Why do you unhitch it?'  just say: 'Because the Lord has need of it.'"

The two went to the little village and found a young donkey, hardly more than three feet tall, tethered to a public post.  They looked around and, seeing no one, untied the line. Two men walked up and, studying the apostles suspiciously, said: "Why do you unhitch the foal?"  The chosen ones looked worried and said: "Because the Lord has need of it."  The owners bowed low and turned away.

When the two apostles returned leading the donkey -- it was gray, with dainty hoofs, as was common to the country -- the others tossed their cloaks onto its back and Jesus, turning his back to the animal, jumped off his toes and sat sideward on the cloaks.

Some started to lead the animal by a halter, but the crowd pressed in heavily on both sides and there was no need to guide it. The road was so thick with people that many families were forced higher into the hills, to ensure a look at the Messiah. Those close to the side of the road threw their cloaks before the hoofs of the donkey and the owners of the capes counted themselves fortunate that the weight of the Saviour had pressed on their apparel.  Others threw palms and early spring flowers.

The Messiah went up the eastern slope of the Mount of Olives, and, when he started down the western side, those who called themselves disciples of Jesus gasped as a panorama of people spread below them all the wqay to northeastern gate of the temple.  At once, the disciples burst into song:

A blessing on the King

Who comes in the name of the Lord!

Peace in heaven

And glory in the heights above!

The donkey moved slowly, and crowds pressed from all sides, crying, "Hosanna to the son of David!" and the people threw the palm branches out and made a pliant green road for him all the way to the city.  The Pharisees cupped their hands above the din and said:"Rabbi, reprove your disciples!" But Jesus, moved by the demonstraation, shook his head and said: "I tell you, if these are dumb, the stones will cry out."

The procession moved down the Mount of Olives and close to the garden of the gethsemane, then across the Brook Cedron and up the far side, past the cemetery of white stones and ossuaries, and into the northeastern gate, between the temple and the Fortress Antonia.

The Roman senties looked down on the scene, and they called to their superiors to come look at the Jews in a happy mood. The hosannas rang to the sky and fathers held infants as high as possible to permit them to look upon the face of the Lord. A group of Sadducean priests tried to use this gate to the temple and were forced by the press of the mob to go around to the western side. They were frightened at what Jesus had done to the people of Jerusalem, and some reported to Caiphas that not only had the people acknowledged Jesus as the Messiah, but that some Pharisees and elders had been seen bending the knee to the faker. Unless something was done quickly, the temple would have no authority.

When Jesus reached the gate of the temple, he stopped the donkey. The press of people on three sides of him was now augmented by pilgrims running from the Gentile court toward him.

Jesus broke down.  Tears shimmered on his lids and then he sobbed.  He bowed his head and murmered:

Oh, if you, too, did know,

at least on this your day,

what makes for peace!

But alas it is hidden from your eyes!

Days are coming upon you

when your enemies

will throw a rampart round you,

and encircle you,

and press hard upon you on every side;

and they will dash to the ground

both you and your children within,

nor will they leave stone upon stone

within your walls'

because you didnot recognize

the time of your visitiation."

* From The Day Christ Died, by Jim Bishop
Nihil Obstat: John A. Goodwine, J.C.D.
Imprimatur: Francis Cardinal Spellman, archbishop of New York, 1957 

** If this post seems familiar, you have a darn good memory! It's a repost from 2016. I couldn't improve upon it. ;)

The Flower of Luca: St. Gemma Galgani

Canonized by Pope Pius XII in 1940, St. Gemma Galgani stands in the shadow of an august handful of modern era saints. Which is just the way she'd like it. Great saints you might call her contemporaries, like St. Therese of Lisieux with her flowers and her  Little Way and St. John Bosco with his merry laugh and love of children, have  captured the imagination and attention of the world, while little Gemma, with her beautiful, solemn face -- that you'd think might steal the limelight -- has been largely ignored. Funny how people are, but not surprising; the lighter parts of  St. Therese and Don Bosco's messages to the world are easily picked out and magnified, while their spirit of  discipline, sacrifice, and penance are ignored. You can't ignore this spirit in St. Gemma, however. It's what she was all about.

Often called the Daughter of the Passion, Maria Gemma Umberta Galgani was born in Campannori, Italy, on March 12th, 1878. The fifth of eight children, she was left the responsibility of raising her three younger siblings upon the death of her parents shortly after her eighteenth birthday. In the course of her early adulthood, she refused two marriage proposal and became a housekeeper in the home of a neighbor family, the Gianninis. Though she wished to join the Passionist order, it was never possible, partly because of family responsibilities and ill health, but also due to the manifestation of her extreme holiness that became known and were not at that time verified. Her mystical experiences were extreme enough that, to many, they seemed to indicate mental illness, a common misconception among the world of saints throughout history. Religious houses, understandably, were cautious of any kind of scandal, and none would allow entrance.

Gemma, however, was not daunted in her quest for holiness. She was a mystic: a visionary and a stigmatist (though her wounds became invisible after she prayed for no notoriety to be attached to her); she was known to fall into raptures during prayer and even to elevate. In spite of her wishes and prayers, these extraordinary facts about her became known and, during her lifetime, she suffered many trials due to the cynicism of the public, her religious superiors, and even her family, but this suffering she accepted serenely, uniting it to the ignominious sufferings of Christ, the focus of all her devotion.

 Gemma's sanctity did not become clear to all until after her death of tuberculosis in Luca, Italy, in 1903 at the age of 25. With little opposition, her cause was swiftly raised, and her beatification and canonization accomplished within 37 years -- particularly fast work if you know the history of the slow-moving wheels of the Church's canonization process throughout history.

St. Gemma Galgani is the patron saint of students, orphans, those who suffer with headaches, those who struggle with purity, pharmacists and paratroopers. She might also be called upon by those who suffer by the world's misunderstanding of earnest piety. 

St. Gemma, Flower of Luca, pray for us! Help us to love suffering, as suffering teaches us to love.

We're blessed to be custodians of a first-class relic of St. Gemma.

We break the "rules" of Passion week today by displaying our relic with

photos of St. Gemma. How wonderful it is when you have a saint who's 

recent enough to have real life photographs!

On the Right Way to Do a Thing: pt. II

Passion Week in our Domestic Church

What's rolling around in my head this week. Purple shrouds, Passion Week, Preparation. Jesus hiding. Truth. And I might as well cogitate here as anywhere. I don't know what I think until I write it down, you know.

If you get a chance, pull out your Douay and read the whole of John, chapter 8; it deals with such a pertinent issue in our day (any day, really), the issue of truth. Remember the scene from this past Sunday's Gospel? Jesus was sparring with the Pharisees again, about Truth, nonsubjective, black and white, incontrovertible -- and they weren't buying it. The truth didn't match up with their life view and who Christ claimed to be didn't portend of a future for their cushy jobs at the Temple. Inconvenient truths are so... inconvenient!

But there He was, this controversial itinerant preacher, curse Him, making brash statements about truth right there in the Temple. Accusing them of avoiding the truth -- and then in defense of knowing the truth, having the gall to utter -- in reference to Himself -- the words: I AM.  Straight out, Jesus said them, no apology: Amen, amen, I say to you, before Abraham was made, I AM. (John 8:58) 

I Am: the universally recognized name for God Almighty. Out of the mouth of this man from Nazareth, the words I AM. 

How the men of the Temple didn't want to hear that ultimate truth. In their self-centeredness, they couldn't allow truth to change their own wills for themselves, their own comfortable ruts. Whether it was from God or not. They could just deny it was God speaking and they wouldn't be responsible for anything He said. And that's what they did.

 But the bottom line was and  is that every true thing is from God, whether they -- whether we -- like it or not, whether it's easy or not.  All things true are from God; all things from God are true. If a thing's not true... Well, fill in the blanks; you know where it's from. 

 Jesus later told his Apostles: I am the way, the truth, and the life. (John 14:6)   I AM, He said. Truth. He, Himself, and all He taught.  But then -- as now -- those most liable to the truth, take the greatest offense by it, and the Pharisees took up stones to cast at Him. But Jesus hid Himself, and went out of the temple. (John 8:59) * Painting by J. Tissot: Jesus foretelling the destruction of the Temple.

God help me not to throw stones at the truth. How easy it is when it contradicts my own selfish pleasures and my laziness!

And God help our world in the big picture, where basic truths of natural law are cavalierly explained away and contradicted: truths about marriage, purity, the murder of the unborn and the unwanted (the list goes on and on).

So, anyway, here we are in Passion Week; the purple coverings over all the holy images in our churches today symbolize the day when Jesus hid Himself from His would-be assassins. It was not His time yet. Not quite. And it's not quite time for us to commemorate Good Friday, but we know it's coming, as Jesus knew after this altercation in the Temple. And so we prepare. And wait. And pray.

We accept the austerity of these last two weeks before the Sacred Triduum in the spirit of joy shrouded in the purple of foreboding. The terrible time is coming. I wonder if the Apostles felt a change in the air as Jesus tried so hard to prepare them in these final days? I wonder if the world felt covered in a kind of gloom, especially for those so close to Jesus who feared for Him and didn't know what was going to happen, the bad or the good?

We know what's coming, though, on Good Friday. We don't have any excuse not to prepare and lament the foolishness and hatred of the human race that made it necessary.

But, then we also have that other foreknowledge. Even as we suffer through the purple shrouds and quiet sorrow, in a corner of our Catholic hearts we know the sorrow we share with the Apostles -- though it's the merest hint of what it should be -- only foreshadows the greatest joy the world has ever known: Easter.

And the more we understand the sorrow, the greater will be our joy.

Jesus instructing the Pharisees. -- James Tissot

The purpose of Passiontide is to call to our memory the persecutions of which Our Lord was the object during His public life and especially toward the end. If Septuagesima season acts as a remote preparation for Easter, and Lent the proximate one, the last two weeks of Passiontide are the immediate preparation.

 -- Maria Augusta Trapp

At our house this week: the statues are covered (Ahem. Most of them. St. Patrick is new and we don't have a big enough piece of violet fabric to cover him yet), the periphery art is put away, everything is cleaned and dusted. Generally speaking, the only things we leave uncovered are images of the Passion and Crucifixion. Not in the frame of this photo is our chalkboard door, which we left blank, stark black this year. (Though, never fear: we'll come up with something special for Easter). Music now is strictly instrumental, classical, or sacred. The spirit is as calm and watchful as we can make it. Easier nowadays to accomplish that when all we have home are people over the age of sixteen, mind you. And the anticipation is a little different these days, less about accommodating children's simple understanding and more about really understanding it all myself. What a thought! 

By the time I die, I will have looked at clouds from both sides: castles and umbrellas from a child's POV and cumulonimbus world-wide patterns of weather, mood and history from a brain free to roam past castles and umbrellas. To everything there is a season.

Blessed and fruitful Passion Week, everyone!

Be Brave And

If you're wearing a face like this and carrying some kind of cudgel, they'll leave you alone, regardless. Just do your own thing. And save your soul. That is all.

Am I Shouting? Are you?

Nice to not have to shout here among friends. At least I don't think I shout. It's certainly not my intention, but I suspect that to those who don't share my faith and traditional values, it sounds like I'm shouting. It's so out of fashion to unapologetically  live one's faith any more, that when someone does, it's like a pinched baby in a silent room.

One thing I've found: you don't have to make any great effort to get attention once you leave the safe space of Catholic friends and family -- especially if you open your mouth and voice an opinion -- about pretty much anything; the very fact of your difference rings discordantly in the ears of the worldly world.  And too often those ears assume you've purposely directed an offense at them individually.

Crazy, isn't it? As if we'd ever even think of such a thing. We're just over here living our lives, carefully discerning how best to live, and contentedly going about it. We assume that everyone else who wants to can do the same. And we pray that they want to. But we don't go around twisting people's arms and screaming in their faces.

There's no need to shout. No need to try to shock. No need to draw big pictures, Flannery (though I hate to differ with you, girlfriend). Christ did that during His life with His teaching, during the first Holy Triduum.

And then Easter.

We just live like we believe all that was important. And real. And meant for us specifically.

A recollected, prayerful, joy-filled life is better than a shout.

8

On the Right Way to Do a Thing

You can monkey around with my spaghetti sauce when I turn my back, I have no opinion about the proper method of loading the dishwasher, and I really don't care how you clean the bathroom so long as it's clean when you're done, but if you're going to fold, do it right, for goohnessakes! Fold the towels the way all the rest of the towels have been folded since the dawn of time in the Davis household so they'll stack together neatly.

Also, while you're at it: for all the good intentions you may have when you pull the clothes out of the dryer and dump them in the clothes basket in order to change over the load in the washer, just don't do it unless you take out the good cotton-blend button-downs and church skirts and lay them aside neatly somewhere first.

Thank-you,
                    The Laundry Nazi

P.S. You're absolutely right; I'd be just fine with doing it myself.

Just a bit of Laetare Sunday Pink

Easter.

Not here yet.

On its way!

Our Claudia, Michelle and Ben's youngest. 

One True Thing

It's this: The  road to skinny is paved with produce going bad in the crisper drawer...

Am I right?

Woohoo!

My best childhood friend, my brother, Greg (God rest his soul), and I used to do this. It's what we thought swings were for! What good was "back and forth, back and forth, back and forth," with no SSWWOOSH! and a glorious moment of weightless freedom -- before you crashed down into the sand -- and twisted your ankle?

 Little Greg looking down

at Little Me.

 Remember the flat-seated swings? You don't see them any more! A casualty of our hyper-cautious Western world, I'm afraid. But they worked far better for launching yourself out of than today's "sling" seats. I mean -- no kidding, kids! --you were a rocket shooting out of the old-fashioned swings

 at the top of the arc! And then you had to scramble out of the way before the hard wooden seat swung back and crashed down on your head...!

Ah the glory days! It's a wonder we didn't break our backs.

Outside of childbirth, I can't think of many things in my life that -- being so fraught with terror -- were more exhilarating! But, what's the fun if there's no risk?  What good is reward without hard work? Love without sacrifice?

And oh, the leaps we've taken, Dan and I! I'm not sure if we've been stupid or brave -- or both! But, what a rush this life has been so far.  And now I'm scrambling like the dickens over here, hoping I don't get clocked by the swing in the back of the head. And that I'll find my footing, or that God'll catch me before I fall flat on my face in the gravel.

 Regardless, I expect I'll get back on the swing and do it again -- and hopefully end on my feet in the end. Or maybe just keep flying and flying -- which was the original childhood dream. One that I now know is possible. Greg's doing it.

Taking the Long Way Home

This is the Mormon Bridge, one of two or three bridges that connects the city of Omaha with Iowa across the Missouri River. It's our bridge. (grimace)  It's going to be a while before we use it again, I'm thinking...