Month: August 2024

How Veiling Deepens Daily Worship

“Be a Catholic: When you kneel before an altar, do it in such a way that others may be able to recognize that you know before whom you kneel.”

That’s one of my favorite quotes from Maximillian Kolbe. The first time I read it, it took my breath away. For if we believe (as we do) that Jesus Christ, King of the Universe, lives in the tabernacle of every Catholic Church, kneeling is the least we can do.

While kneeling may seem unrelated to veiling, this quote is one of the main reasons I started wearing a veil. That said, there was quite a bit of time between first reading that quote and actually wearing my first veil. It’s interesting, isn’t it, how God typically works on us over time. I imagine that evolving—the beauty of things gently unfolding over time—is one of His favorite things to talk about.

But I digress.

Early on, I talked to Dan about the prospects of veiling and asked how he’d feel about it. It came as no surprise that he was all for it, yet something was holding me back. Maybe I needed to pray some more before leaping into this decision. Moreover, I needed to be guided by the right reasons—not because I thought it was in vogue, or the in-thing to do.

At some point a few months later, I broke down and bought my first veil. Mind you, I wasn’t ready to wear it, but just in case. Meanwhile I continued to ponder what seemed to me to be a huge step forward in my Catholic life.

With Kolbe’s quote to guide me, I wrote down the reasons I wanted to veil. As it turned out, my reasons were quite similar to his words. Not that I necessarily wanted the world to know that I knew Whose presence I was in. But that I wanted a physical reminder for myself.

I also knew that making this decision would be a point of no return—that once I started veiling I couldn’t and wouldn’t go back.

Of course that’s when Satan and his minions started needling me:
“Who do you think you are?” “You’re nothing special.” “You just want to draw attention to yourself.”

I’m embarrassed to say it was those nasty little voices that found my veil tucked away safely in its pouch for another few months. I even began taking it to church, but left it in the car, never allowing it to grace the doors of the church.

The first time I braved it? I can’t tell you exactly when it happened, only how it happened. There I was in the parking lot, minding my own business (isn’t that always the way?). As I approached the church doors, I felt a voice gently reminding me I’d forgotten something. Enter the moment of reckoning. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that it was the prompting of the Holy Spirit—and that the item I’d *forgotten* was my veil. Without pause, I grabbed it and headed inside.

Oh sure, those first few times were uncomfortable. Were people staring at me? Were they judging me? Did I look like an idiot or was my veil on straight? (Satan never stops, does he?) Remarkably, that feeling didn’t last long and was replaced with something deeper. Not a feeling as much as a knowing—and a reminder.

Each day at Mass as I pause to put on my veil, I’m reminded that I’m about to step into the presence of the living Lamb of God, into the presence of the One who made me and counts every hair on my head and knows more about me than I know about myself. It reminds me of my own littleness on the one hand and at the same time, it leaves me in awe of the Greatness of God. May He always grant me the grace to share in the mystery of His presence, to always be reminded before Whom I kneel. And may that delicate piece of lace always remind me of the unfathomable reality, beauty, and responsibility of being a daughter of the King.

Saint Maximillian Kolbe, pray for us!

#catholicwriter #catholicwritersofinstagram #tlm #catholiclife #catholicliving #mantillas #catholicveiling #catholicmassveils #sacramentallife

The back-to-school shopping that wasn’t

 

Does anything say back-to-school quite like the joy of picking out school supplies? I think not. From the cartoon character lunch boxes and a three-pack of glue sticks to the round-point scissors and loose leaf paper, shopping for that first day of school is its own reward. A rite of childhood, if you will.

Except for when there is no back-to-school shopping.

Maybe I should explain. This whole fiasco started at kindergarten orientation for our granddaughter Squish. (No, not her real name. Let’s keep going, shall we?)

As we approached her classroom I innocently inquired about Squish’s status where school supplies were concerned.
“Got them all,” Hannah said. “Bought a box, everything’s in there, don’t have to buy another thing!”
I stood there with my chin on the floor, wondering if I’d heard what I thought I’d just heard. What’s worse, it was as if she intended to pour salt in this fresh wound.

How could it be that Hannah was actually happy about this?! Thrilled that this sacred rite of childhood had been stripped from her own daughter like a piece of outdated wallpaper on a fixer-upper episode on HGTV?

Was she immune to the repercussions? Or simply in denial?

There’d be no picking out the Ticonderoga pencils, or vying for the 64-pack of Crayola crayons with the built in sharpener. No wide-ruled notebooks with cute little puppies to buy. No bottles of rubber cement to stiff on the drive home.

So I did what any good mother/grandmother would do, even if I was bordering on light despondency. I reminded Hannah of her own days of school shopping. Days when we’d stand in the aisles of the department store for what seemed like hours while she lamented whether to get the pencil box with the yellow daisies or the polka dots, the Blues Clues or the Lion King backpack, the 8-pack of fruit-scented markers or the 16-pack of regular markers. I reminded her of the sense of accomplishment when she arrived home with bags full of school supplies The glee with which she tore into each package to put its contents in just the right backpack pocket.

Had she no shame? I truly wondered.

I turned my attention back to Squish, who was clearly as miffed at the pre-packaged box of supplies as her grandmother.

“Why is there hand sanitizer in here?”

Why indeed, Squish. Alas it’s a whole new world, I suppose. But not so new that I won’t be picking you up and taking you school shopping next year. And maybe your mother can come too. All we’ll have to do is bribe her with a variety pack of bold point ink pens.

Saint Aquinas, Saint Therese of Lisieux, Blessed Carol Acutis and all the angels and saints, pray for our students!
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#catholicgrandmothers #backtoschool #catholicwritersofinstagram #catholiclife #tradcatholics #writersofinstagram #grandmothersofinstagram #familyvalues #orapronobis #schooldays

The Boy on the Beach

He appeared out of nowhere, a little boy bouncing with little boy energy. Not one to waste time, he approached Dan and I without hesitation and began talking in toddler-speak. And we all know toddler-speak is hard to interpret, especially when it’s not being spoken in English.

But I digress.

After acknowledging him with a doting smile, we did what any normal grandparents would do. We looked around for his parents, who were nowhere to be found. Which isn’t the best case scenario when you’re on a beach awaiting the sunset—much less anywhere else. So we did the other thing normal grandparents would do. We stayed put and instituted Operation Lost Child.

As he played in the sand building little mounds around us, the obvious conversation between Dan and I began.

“You don’t think he got lost, do you?”

“Nah, I’m sure they’ll show up any minute,” Dan said. And while I heard what he said, I saw the look on his face. “Hey, hon. I’ll be right back—gonna take a few photos.”

Which was his way of saying, “Stay here with him, and hopefully when I get back, his parents will be here.”

Except that they weren’t.

“Where’s Mama?” I said to the little boy. (Thank goodness for universal words, am I right?!).

“Mama!” he exclaimed as he looked at me and smiled.

I felt like I was living a page straight out of P.D. Eastman’s book, Are You My Mother? What’s worse is I started wondering what the odds were that such a scenario—ie I would be his new mother—would shake out.

At this point, Dan was at about a 2.5 on the DEFCON scale, as he entertained visions of he and I carting the little one to the nearest police station—without a car seat, no less—to explain what had happened. And of course the leap from police station to adoption seemed the logical next step. And just like that, Dan’s dreams of retirement, daily golf, and our vacations around the world would necessarily be replaced by hockey lessons and CCD classes.

I, on the other hand, was taking a more motherly approach to the situation. He’d need a name of course. So we’d name him Francisco Liguori Cotter. Franco for short. Because nobody would mess with a name like that. Obviously, we’d need to do a full immersion into his native language, as well.

I’d order a closet full of clothes from @Gymboree, and throw in a few bow ties for Mass. We’d send him to the finest Catholic schools and groom him for the priesthood. And just as I was planning the party to follow his ordination, a woman approached us on the beach.

“Would you like me to take a photo of the three of you?”

Through nervous laughter we declined her offer, explaining that he wasn’t ours. At least not yet. She did take a photo of Dan and I, though.

After that, I took another look around the beach. A new couple had take a seat on a bench several yards away and dozens of people had come—and gone—since our ordeal began. So I decided to ask little Franco about his parents one more time.

“Where’s Mama?”

This time, he looked around and pointed to the couple on the bench.

“Mama!”

I gotta tell ya. It’s tough to say which emotion was stronger in that moment: was it relief? or disappointment for what could have been? Because in the past 15 minutes, we’d had an opportunity to let our imaginations run wild with the thought of taking in another child just as we’d emptied our own nest of children. At the end of the day though, we were elated to see him reunite with his real mama and papa.

As fate would have it, I attended Mass the next day and discovered to my amazement that it was the Feast Day of none other than Saint Alphonsus Liguori. Of course it was.

In retrospect, I sure wish we’d have agreed to that photo, if for no other reason than posterity. Regardless, the memories of little Franco will likely stay with us for years to come. And if you ever meet a priest by the name of Francisco Liguori, give us a call, won’t you?

#catholiclife #catholicwriters #catholicwritersofinstagram #venicefl #storiesfromthebeach #saintalphonsusliguori #memories #catholicparents #catholicgrandparents #goodandholypriests #sunsetsonthebeach