Association Of Catholic Bloggers

It felt as if someone had taken a load of bricks and thrown them onto my chest. Tomorrow marks the 12th anniversary of the attacks on the World Trade Center. My husband, who walked out of Tower One 11 minutes before it fell, still is with me. He's alive to help me guide our two boys to adulthood, to make awesome chicken wings, and to coach middle school basketball. So why did I cry - no why did I  sob  - so many tears today? Keep Reading...

If my children could  remember only three things to take with them into their adult life, what would I want them to be? 1 .  I love you ,  believe in you. Let that love be your foundation and your springboard into life. 2.   God loves you,    just as you are. Relax in that  Love, let it sink in , heal you, strengthen you and  release you into freedom and joy. Don’t try to save  yourself and  everybody else on your own because  He   is the only Saviour . Notice that I called  God   Lord.   Let  God be the Lord and don’t steal His job. 3.   Reach out and allow that   Divine Love to flow through you  to your partner, children, neighbours and in doing so discover your unique vocation, your work in the world. A child rooted in love becomes a secure, warm, giving adult who attracts as much light as he reflects. He can live in relative peace with himself and others. With his basic emotional needs fulfilled, he is free to love and serve other people and to develop intel

As anyone who has been married for a while knows, marriage has seasons: the early years, the years with babies and toddlers, and so on. Right now, my husband and I have two teenaged boys and no travel soccer on our family calendar any more. This means our weekends are wide open. Keep Reading...

I love Marie Barone in the sitcom Everybody Loves Raymond . Sure she’s a bit meddlesome. Admittedly she’s even a tad overbearing. Maybe she’s even off-putting to some. But her motivation is pure. She’s committed to her family. She really never puts herself first—even if we are led to believe that she does. If we are really paying attention, her scheming is done to ensure that her family is safe and sound and well-fed. No matter what, it is always important that they eat. As a mother of three sons, I get how my own feeling of peace is tied to the care and feeding of my boys—and so I instinctively understand why Marie is forever handing food to whomever walks through the door. “Are you hungry, dear?” she asks while handing over a plate—without any regard to the answer. Now, as my own sons grow older and the prospects of one day becoming a mother-in-law myself become a real possibility, I take note of mothers-in-law in a new way. And Marie Barone is at the

I have always heard that the mother is the heart of the family, especially a stay at home mother with a crew of kids, who also helps with a hobby farm. So Why was I not missed when I spent hours locked in the chicken coop? You must first understand that even if this was a subconscious belief, I behaved as if  I  was the most important member of the family. It took a drastic experience for God to shake me out of my arrogance. Ten years ago on a very cold winter day, I decided to go with my husband to the barn. I bundled up in Michael’s extra set of warm boots and coat. Since I am a size 2 in women’s clothing and he is an X-Large in men’s sizes, I looked quite comical trudging after him to the barn. We divided up the chores and rushed to finish them as quickly as possible because the wind was fierce.My last task was to water , feed and gather eggs from our laying hens. Michael passed in the bucket of water that he had hauled for me and then left me so he could complete his

I'm a half-century old and have been a practicing Catholic most of those years. And yet, until yesterday, I had never visited a shrine.  I never really understood the point. As a Christian, I believe that Mystery entered human history and settled among us. As a result, Christ is our constant companion. He is with us in every moment, in the circumstances of every person we encounter. So what's the point, my thinking went, of traveling many miles to a shrine of people who lived out their destinies with an eye on the One who made them? Keep Reading...

Pregnant with my seventh child, I was bedridden in the high-risk, neo-natal wing of the maternity ward for a week while waiting for a housekeeper to come to run my home and help tend my six children. I faced 6 months of bed rest but that one week gave me perspective and kept me from sinking into self-pity. The other two women in my room were desperate to keep their babies in uteri and finally become mothers. One of the two had suffered five miscarriages. She was stuck in a ward room for months, only going home after the birth of her baby. Secretly we all feared that we would lose our babies. Suddenly our fears materialized as a high-risk woman’s baby died in her womb. That poor woman had to endure an induction and labour for hours, only to push out a dead baby. The pain in that wing of the hospital was tangible. Tears ran down women’s’ faces as they grieved with their neighbour. It did not matter that none of us had even glimpsed her face. Nurses as well as patients mourned for

I’ve always watched I Love Lucy . Lately, though, I notice that there is something about it that speaks to me in a very personal way. It sort of tugs at me. I can’t say that the show takes me back to anything in particular because it isn’t from a time in my personal life; but, rather, it seems to address a desire for simplicity that lives at the center of my heart. Despite the fact that in real life the marriage of Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz did not survive, I have found in talking with friends that the show really taps into something that exists at the core of many women. We love the quaint Ricardo apartment. There isn’t a lot of furniture or tons of space. It is as neat as a pin and we can totally imagine living in that space. When Lucy and Ricky host a card game they need to move the couch out of the way to bring in the folding table and chairs. And yet the card games are always fun despite the tight space. The sparse kitchen is behind a swinging door and, upon close inspection,

I gave up processed food for Lent. If I want to eat bread before Easter, I have to bake it. Except, of course, on Sundays, which being Sundays, do not count as part of Lent. After 11 a.m. Mass with my son we headed next door to the Barnes and Noble because he said he needed a new sweatshirt. As I was walking over I thought: Oh! It's Sunday! I can have something sweet with my iced soy latte. The Rutgers B&N has a Starbucks inside. In line at the cafe, I spied blueberry scones. And ordered one. And sat down to sip my latte and eat my Sunday scone. It looked nothing like the scone depicted on the corporate website. Keep Reading...

"The Lord was baptized, not to be cleansed himself but to cleanse the waters, so that those waters, cleansed by the flesh of Christ which knew no sin, might have the power of baptism. Whoever comes, therefore, to the washing of Christ lays aside his sins" St. Ambrose of Milan This morning we all went to the 9 a.m. Mass, an early one for us. Today is the Feast of the Baptism of the Lord, the day in which the Church commemorates the baptism of Christ by John the Baptist in the River Jordan. Today was also the day where several eighth graders in our parish, including our son, participated in a Confirmation Commitment ceremony during Mass. Since Confirmation seals the sacrament of Baptism, the timing could not have been better. Read more here...

Yesterday while driving out of the Home Depot parking lot,  I began to tear up. Our 16 year old son's words kept me going. See, I had checked my facebook before heading into the store. I discovered two CL friends are homeless. The boiler in their apartment building in Manhattan's financial district blew up as Hurricane Sandy plowed through. They are scrambling for a warm place to sleep. (They have temporary lodging in New Jersey). Then, as we walked into the store, I was puzzled by rows of people sitting in cloth folding chairs by the customer service counter. Some were reading books; one woman was asleep. Why were they sitting there? And then it struck me: they have no heat in their homes thanks to Hurricane Sandy. Keep Reading....

This morning, I am sitting in the family room, reading a memoir and nursing a sore throat with cough drops. Boy turning 13 tomorrow comes  bounding down the stairs in bare feet, wearing jeans, a white tee and black suspenders. He is dribbling a soccer ball.  Keep Reading...

When a passenger plane carrying 87 people from Boston was deliberately flown by five al-Quaeda hijackers into Tower One of the World Trade Center at 8:46 a.m. September 11, 2001, my husband was standing his desk on the 68th floor. He was knocked to the floor by the impact. Right now as I type this, he's sitting next to me on the family sofa.  Keep Reading Here...

The Lord's Prayer in Filipino Sign Language Readings   (New American Bible: Philippines, USA) Readings (Jerusalem Bible: Australia, England & Wales, India [optional], Ireland, New Zealand, Pakistan, Scotland, South Africa)  Gospel  Mark 7:31-37   (Revised Standard Version – Catholic Edition) Then Jesus returned from the region of Tyre, and went through Sidon to the Sea of Galilee, through the region of the Decapolis. And they brought to him a man who was deaf and had an impediment in his speech; and they besought him to lay his hand upon him. And taking him aside from the multitude privately, he put his fingers into his ears, and he spat and touched his tongue; and looking up to heaven, he sighed, and said to him, "Ephphatha," that is, "Be opened." And his ears were opened, his tongue was released, and he spoke plainly. And he charged them to tell no one; but the more he charged them, the more zealously they proclaimed it. And they were asto

I glanced at the clock when I heard my husband say to my oldest son, “Call me when you get home.” “Where is he?” I asked. When my husband replied, “He’s on his way home from work,” my stomach began churning. Not the hunger-type churn but the worried-mother-type churn. Our son had purchased a home just months before and was still getting a handle on things but between work and other demands, it wasn’t easy. My husband and I—and his brothers—had all helped out with painting, cutting the lawn, some electrical and lighting things and so on. It took all our willpower (my husband’s and mine) not to completely take over, but to just be available to help if and as needed. We wanted to take care of our son, get him set up in his new house. Mostly, I wanted—needed, really—to know that he was “okay” and that he wouldn’t be overwhelmed by the demands of new home ownership. The point of the call was to set up a date and a time that my husband would be able to come and help wit

“From the beginning therefore he [man] is called to work. Work is one of the characteristics that distinguish man from the rest of creatures, whose activity for sustaining their lives cannot be called work. Only man is capable of work, and only man works, at the same time by work occupying his existence on earth. Thus work bears a particular mark of man and of humanity, the mark of a person operating within a community of persons. And this mark decides its interior characteristics; in a sense it constitutes its very nature.” Blessed John Paul wrote these words in his encyclical Laborem Exercens in 1981. I’ve referred to this encyclical many times in my own writings and in attempting to get at the very nature of who I am as a Catholic woman, wife, mother, author, and teacher. I have found in his words a timeless truth—no surprise there!—and a certain sense of peace as well. Whether I have worked outside of the home out of necessity or out of a desire, balancing work with family al

I remember when my first son was in need of his first haircut.  I took him to a professional stylist and, with 35mm camera in hand, clicked away, literally walking around and around his seat, so that, once developed, the pictures would immortalize that very special day in my life, in his life, in the world, I was sure. By the time my third son was in need of his first haircut, I let my mom have at it and, as it turned out, time did not improve her hair-cutting skills.  My youngest son ended up with the same bangs that I had worn some 30 years earlier — a wavy line of hair jutting out all over the place somewhere between eyebrows and the hairline. Things really do change from the first born to the second and then to the third.  And as that is all the children we were blessed with, I can go no further with my experience but my assumptions would be that by the fifth or sixth child, he or she may very well be performing his or her own first haircut. Now, my oldest is now a college

Today our 12-year-old son tidied up garbage in Abuelita's garage, where their spaniel went snacking.  Today he stayed with Grandpapi so I could take Abuelita grocery shopping.   Read more here...

Toward the end of my daily commute to work, as I head 40 miles an hour down a state highway,  I have often seen a white Volvo parked at the edge of a driveway, its motor running and lights on. I often wondered if it was a unmarked police car. But then again, what police officers do you know who drive Volvo cruisers? Then, one day I was running late and a school bus stopped just before the driveway. I stopped too. A little girl got out of the Volvo, the bus drove off and then her father drove out the driveway. Mystery revealed. Dad waits with his daughter in the car until the bus comes, then heads off to work. These family rituals are so important. Our family now consists of two working parents and two busy teenagers. (Boys who do not like their pictures taken) Long gone are the days when my husband and I would load our sons, in their pajamas, into the double stroller and walk to the ice cream parlor for an evening treat. Gone too, are the days when our so

Last night, I bought a frozen Paul Newman pizza for dinner and our 12 year old made a large salad. Since our family comes home for dinner in shifts, I took a tiny slice of pizza and warned the 12 year old to leave enough for dad and his older brother. Guess I should have written a memo to the teen: I returned to the kitchen about 20 minutes later and there was no sign of the pizza. Seems between the two boys, the pizza was gone. Evaporated. A friend who raised four children told me that all pizzas should come with a label saying that one pizza serves half a teenaged boy. I ended up serving really emergency food - cans of Chef Boyardee ravioli. Yuck and Yikes. My husband read on my facebook wall that I was heating it up and said he'd stop by the deli for a sandwich.  Read more here...