The Return of My Heart to the Catholic Church

In my early twenties, I always slept in on Sundays, preferring the lazier, afternoon Mass than the morning one. Shortly after turning 23, I would be blindsided by C.S. Lewis, Thomas Merton, G. K. Chesterton and Bishop Fulton Sheen. But for the first months of marriage, I did not how deeply asleep I had fallen. I went to Mass once a week, which sufficed for me. The fact that there was no other evidence in my life to show that I was a Catholic did not occur to me.

Still, my husband had promised prior to our marriage that he would do his best to learn about the Catholic faith so we could raise future children as Catholics. Plus, he was on a spiritual quest, searching for a sense of order and purpose to a life that had seemed chaotic until this point. My young husband was curious about Catholicism and decided to attend the RCIA (Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults) program at our local Catholic Church. This meant he was studying the Catholic faith and would, through prayer and discernment, decide to become a Catholic. His own life had been primarily seeped in the hazy feel-good paganism of his youth. It had never felt right to him, though. He wanted real food and real drink, rather than the spiritual junk food that had hardly nourished him all these years. The piety and sweetness of his paternal Catholic grandmother, appropriately named Mary, also had created a longing in him for something of substance. And then there the fact that his wife was Catholic.

Sort of.

I was Catholic in the sense that I had been baptized Catholic as an infant and had a good, honest Catholic faith during most of my childhood. My First Communion was a joyous occasion, and I truly felt in the company of the angels when I went to Mass afterward. My Catholic school years were some of the happiest ones educationally and spiritually speaking. I kept to the faith, inspired by the stories of saints, martyrs and the blesseds. At this time, Father Maximilian Kolbe was canonized, and the bishop at my Confirmation spoke about the testimony of this extraordinarily loving person. I adopted him as my patron saint, asking him to pray for his little sister in the faith. And I was an active little Catholic.

Until we moved to California.

Groggy in the Golden State

I am still not quite sure what happened to induce me into a spiritual coma. In retrospect, it could have been shock, for I was pulled out of my small-town Catholic community and left reeling.

All my Polish, Italian and Irish friends had been Catholic like me. My parents were Eucharistic ministers, I was the youngest lector at church, priests came over for dinners just like ol' relatives. The nuns of my Catholic school played kickball with us, sometimes yelled at us (like regular people), taught us folk songs and chants and Simon & Garfunkel bits. Due to my bus schedule, I was the first student in my class to arrive, usually forty minutes early. The teacher put me in charge of our little chapel. I treated it better than my own room at home. I polished everything, the altar, the pews, the crucifix, and cleaned the stain glass windows with great reverence, tracing the broken bits of glass brought into a new image. The faith was everywhere in my upbringing. But not as overtly in our new city.

My high school years were spent in a dark, wretched abyss. I stumbled blindly through them, lost my way. Sometimes, I read the Psalms to help me through the sadness that colored all my days, but I felt mostly alone. The gentle, loving Jesus of my childhood became a memory like all the friends that I had left behind. The faith that had meant so much to me could not withstand the pressure of my new life. And rather than strengthen it, rather than grow, it crumbled.

In college, I abandoned my relationship with the Lord, aside from a few prayers murmured absently at church. If I went to church at all. For three years, I thought little of God.

An Invitation to Learn (or the Part Where I Learn That I Didn't Know Everything)

And so, years later, as a newlywed, as my husband learned about Catholicism, I would lounge lazily beneath a mountain of comforters and pillows, and think rather fondly and vaguely of that Jesus fellow. We had been so close once upon a time. I wondered what happened to Him.

"You should go with me," my husband said one morning as he put on his suit for church.

I snorted at him. "But I went to Catholic school! I know all that stuff!"

And he desisted in his invitations and continued going to RCIA. See, when we had gone to Engaged Encounters (because that's just what you do if you want to marry in the Catholic Church), we had come to the surprising realization that we wanted our marriage to be centered in Christ. And because we considered me to be "Catholic" he decided to study Catholicism.

But he knew that I was not fully awake, so he tried again weeks later.

"You should really go with me," he said another morning. "Everyone knows so much. And everyone is very nice and friendly. You should go."

"I know all that stuff! I'm a cradle Catholic. I went to Catholic school for most of elementary school! My parents are Catholic!"

"Please?"

I grumbled and got in an exceedingly grouchy mood but decided to go. For a few weeks, I went with him. My arrogance must've been obvious. I'd sit in my chair, arms crossed, stifling my boredom, staring at the clock. I knew everything they said! And then, one morning, I didn't.

The extremely well-educated members of the RCIA group talked about ideas about the Mass that presented it to me in a new light. It wasn't just a supper, something to be checked off the list for Sunday's tasks, but it was an entire experience that incorporates our faith. They quoted St. Justin Martyr, who wrote about Mass in about 150 A.D. and discussed today's Mass in the light of it. I was surprised by how true the Mass had remained to the early church.

"I never heard of the early church fathers," I told my husband. "Or maybe I wasn't paying attention. What else didn't I hear?"

The Narnia Guy

The RCIA catechist soon discovered that the peevish, arrogant wife of the new guy was a reader. And the catechist knew that a book would be the Trojan horse to launch an attack into my prideful heart. After an RCIA class, he came up to me and said, "You should check this book out. It's very good."

"The Screwtape Letters?" I said. "By C.S. Lewis? Isn't he the Chronicles guy? I loved the Chronicles." Out of nostalgia and perhaps expecting a quirky, charming little English read, I took it.

That evening, after dinner, I began reading. The satire is about a senior demon writing letters to a newbie demon about how to completely ruin his patient. At first, I laughed at the wry, scathing wit of Screwtape. By midnight, I was no longer laughing. I saw myself in the position of the tempter, not the patient. I continued reading through the night.

When I finished the book in the morning light, I burst into tears. "I've got to change my life." I just didn't know how.

I embarked on a rigorous journey that began with the basic question: "Is there a God?" That year, however, I spent every spare moment immersed in reading everything substantial that I could from known intellectuals.

18 Months of Straight Reading

The scales had fallen from my eyes with "The Screwtape Letters." Next, I read "Mere Christianity" to answer questions about the existence of God and where Jesus was the Messiah, then "The Problem of Pain" to answer some basic questions about how God can exist when there is so much evil and suffering in the world.

At the same time, I decided to read the Bible from cover to cover -- and to read it with the mindset of a person on a quest. I would analyze the Bible to see if there were prophecies regarding a Messiah, if Jesus was indeed the Messiah, and if Jesus was the Messiah, what that would mean for me. I read and read and read my New American Bible and then, for comparison, the New Jerusalem Bible. My husband and I also attended Bible study at our local parish.

"I went to Catholic school. Why didn't I know this?" I asked an RCIA team member.

"You had the faith of a child because you were a child. But then, you stopped growing and learning. You became an adult with a child's religious education. You had to open yourself up to learning and growing."

I decided to keep learning. Everything I could.

My family and friends were all a bit shocked about how I'd seemingly changed overnight. I went to my parents' house, ransacked their extensive Christian library for as many books as I could get to help me on my quest. My father, with degrees in theology, became the person I would grill endlessly about passages in the Bible, historical context, etc. He gave me a deep appreciation for the Old Testament and explained much of what was there, though I was a difficult, argumentative student for a while. My mother helped feed my heart with her recommendations of St. Teresa of Avila, Mother Teresa, St. John of the Cross, and so forth.

In RCIA, I was the person who would not go home, but remained with my husband, asking this and that about the Catholic faith to the RCIA team members and director. We were given a lot of lunches by RCIA members who were thoughtful, honest and sweet ... and could not bear to end conversations either.

It's impossible to list everything read during that time. So much was just absorbed and discussed and shared with my husband. Among the highlights are: "Surprised by Truth, Vol. I: 11 Converts Give the Biblical and Historical Reasons for Being Catholic" edited by Patrick Madrid; "Rome Sweet Rome: Our Journey Into Catholicism" by Scott and Kimberly Hahn; "The Everlasting Man" by G.K. Chesterton; "The Faith of the Early Church Fathers" edited by William Jurgens; "What Catholic Really Believe: 52 Answers to Top Common Misconceptions About the Catholic Faith" by Karl Keating; "Orthodoxy" by G.K. Chesterton, etc. I read anything I could find from Thomas Merton (especially "Seeds of Contemplation"), C.S. Lewis and the early church fathers.

Once I came to embrace Catholicism, I still had to hash out some arguments regarding artificial birth control, but, in light of everything I had read, I easily came to agree with the Church's stance on it.

As I awoke in the faith, I shook the dust out of my eyes and remembered all the beautiful stories, the graces received of my childhood faith. I remembered Maximilian Kolbe and asked him to pray for me once again. I wept and wept because of the sarcastic, self-centered, worldly, inflated person that I had become ... then rejoiced in God's mercy and forgiveness. I was so happy to read that I was becoming a new creation.

Easter

During this time, my husband continued growing and learning. He was not a reader like I was, but I'd share everything I read with him. He preferred listening to the recordings of: Thomas Merton's talks at the monastery, the lectures of Bishop Fulton Sheen, Scott Hahn's testimony and subsequent talks and so forth.

The morning of Easter Vigil, the evening that he could be baptized, receive First Communion and Confirmation in the Catholic Church, we were giddy with excitement. His journey had not been alone. Through his seeking, my husband brought me, the formerly sleepy Catholic, into the Church. Sometimes, people who did not know us very well would say, "Oh, you're going to be Catholic because your wife is!"

If they only knew! When time allowed it, I'd explain how my husband's own curiosity and passion for the faith had ignited my own. My husband never said, "Are you kidding? She was Catholic in name only!" but I said that of myself.

The joy of that Easter is indescribable. I felt that I was born again, the same evening that my husband received the sacraments of initiation.

On a Journey
The lessons, joy and gratitude of the beginning of this journey remain with me forever.

Soon after my husband's reception into the Church, the priest of the parish, who knew my story (and had been subjected to my questions during his talks at RCIA), asked me to start a program for returning Catholics. I could have been the poster child for returning Catholics! Through God's grace and strength, we ran that little program for a few years and saw a good many wonderful people awaken in their faith.

It's never too late to learn more about the faith. Whether you are a cradle Catholic or a convert, you can always find new treasures in the deposit of faith in the Catholic Church. You just need a willing spirit. God will take care of the rest ...

Blink: 2009

As I write this entry, scattered Legos are beneath the computer desk. A figure of St. Paul is inexplicably entangled in a basketball net, which is on the floor instead of the door. A copy of "The Secret Garden" is face-down beneath the train table. And an American Girl shoe is woefully alone on the printer.

The sight of clutter usually frustrates me. I fall into the typical, almost knee-jerk reaction of "Why do I bother cleaning?" or "Can't the kids pick up after themselves?"

But not tonight. The sight of such stray items makes me want to cry for different reasons.

Some day, everything will be neat and orderly, clean and fingerprint-less. A gallon of milk will last for an entire week. The kitchen table won't have crayon marks. The carpet will lack Lego confetti. The cushions will be on the sofa instead of the ground, where they serve as perfect landing spots. And the bathroom towels will hang perfectly in the center of the rail.

I can hardly stand the thought of it.

This afternoon, I had coffee with a friend whose children remained young in my recollections. We'd not seen each other in a while. It had not been years and years. Still, she mentioned how her children now are preparing for college. I could hardly picture it.

"What? They were just little kids. Does it happen that fast?"

"Yes, it does."

I looked at my children then, so diligently producing the Roman Empire in the sandbox at the park, with its various tunnels and routes throughout its width. My little girl with her high ponytail and apple cheeks is already eight. I've only ten more years before college. And then, my son, strong and purposeful in his endeavors, seems so much older than six. I sometimes even see glimpses of the man he will be. Something in his look or stance. Sebastian, naughtily eating sand and crabby from not having a nap, has already passed the snuggling, nursing age.

It happens quickly?

Only eight years ago, I was introduced to the first of these beautiful beings and given the monumental task of taking care of God's children on loan to me.

Only eight years, did I say? Already eight years.

While I plan and manage the household and get school done and juggle a thousand other tasks, the children keep right on growing. They refuse to wait until I am more patient or smarter. They will not remain on hold until I get the more obvious errors and flaws of my personality smoothed out. No. They move on. They keep evolving and stretching taller and leaner, impatiently hurling towards adulthood, which has only just begun to make sense to me.

Right now, when my children are so little, it breaks my heart to think of the days when they will not be under my roof. These evenings, I am the mother hen, content and happy and joy-filled as my chicks roost in the coop with us. Yet some day it will not be so. And though I love my husband beyond words, though I can think of ways to occupy myself, though I can think of places to visit and projects to undertake, all when the children are grown ... I know that it won't be the same. It won't be like now.

"How can mothers stand it?" I ask my own mother, knowing I did the same to her. I grew up and left, too.

"It's very, very difficult. Enjoy these years, these happy, wonderful years."

And so tonight, while the toys are scattered everywhere despite my insistence for neatness, my iPod has more children's tunes than grown-up ones and our TV recordings feature more animated flicks than documentaries, I appreciate all the evidence of children living with us. I find joy in the Reading Program flyer on the fridge, the stickers lining the bookshelf in offbeat patterns, the heart-balloon drawings from the girl, and the knights and teddy bears sharing a place on the love seat.

There will time, there will be time, for the taking of tea, for the million projects that I think about doing which seem so important to me right now, for the peace and quiet that I feel I deserve.

Right now, I am happily immersed in motherhood. My life is filled with laughter that is too loud, with hugs that squeeze the life of me and sloppy, enthusiastic kisses, and underscored by crayon drawings and children's music.

Thank God. Thanks so much ...

With Love, From Me, To You

As a little girl, I always wrote letters to my mother. Sometimes, it'd be an apology. Perhaps a sample of a verse that I had cobbled together and considered brilliant. A line or two about what had happened at school. At times, I would color a picture about a day's event. Afterwards, I'd decorate the envelope with my best handwriting, a dozen puffy Smurf stickers or scratch-n-sniff strawberries, then send it to her.

My mother's replies varied in length and content. I'd receive letters correcting me for naughty behavior and a hope for my betterment, or a sketch of myself done in my mother's girlish drawing style. She'd write me notes that I've kept all this time: a letter of encouragement when I was twelve and feeling unloved and unwelcomed in my triad of friends; one to declare my mother's emancipation from having to goad me into cleaning my room (I was thirteen); a heartfelt tome of compassion from her when my heart was ripped into shreds by a dashing yet cruel charmer. The letters were almost always on pretty paper --- except for ones that she wrote in an upset hand because my behavior was horrible. Even those, however, ended with kisses and hugs and a deep-rooted belief in my becoming a better person.

All these letters --- of correction, sympathy, love, encouragement --- were only sent from one side of the house to the other. My mother and I often wrote letters, even though we lived under the same roof.

Perhaps it might seem strange, but it seemed natural for us to do. In the midst of my deeply emotional, black-cloud teen years, I could express myself far better in letters than in conversation. Though we always talked, I felt like I had more time to ponder the words, ruminate and then share the thought. I was less likely that way to hastily launch into a high-strung crying jag that characterized those bleak years. And my mother, knowing her audience, would take the time to make me feel special by writing letters on floral paper.

Receiving a letter felt so important. Moms talk all the time. However, to receive an actual letter from my mother was a tremendous event for me. It meant that my mother took time from her job, her ministries and her housekeeping to sit down and think just about ME for a while. It meant that she had her mind full of me. Not my father, not my brother, not the assortment of curious characters that occupied the fringes of our lives. No, a letter was something I received greedily and far more happily than I would have confessed then. I admit it freely now, and my mother still writes me beautiful notes for special occasions.

All these memories came to me the other day when I helped my daughter organize her desk. She had a pink wire in-basket that reminded me of the one I had as a child. And I decided to write her a note that evening and to sneak it in her in-box.

I chose bright, retro-designed paper and wrote in my neatest handwriting. It felt odd to be the parent in the parent-child correspondence, but I wrote about how much I enjoyed spending time, just us girls, reading two chapters of a Nancy Drew mystery silently snuggled in her room, and how I looked forward to the next time.

And I've been dropping little notes in their now and then.

This evening, she surprised me with a letter. She's always written me little notes here and there, but this was far longer, far neater and far more thoughtful than her scribbled hearts and I LOVE YOUs (though those are also treasured).

As I read the letter, I felt us moving into the sweet, familiar cycle of letter-writing beneath the same roof. It made me so grateful for the mother I had, who always took time to pen some lines for me at the end of her day. And it had inspired me to do the same for my all little ones.

This little growing habit of ours today may be a very good outlet for sharing her feelings and thoughts in the future as well.

Traits of a Homeschooling Parent: 2007

This post is in response to an email I received:

In the homeschooling spheres that we inhabit, the variety of mothers is only matched by the variations of homeschooled children: school-at-home moms, classical education moms, unit study moms, unschooling moms, Charlotte Mason moms, etc. And there are moms who work full time and homeschool; some that work part-time and some full-time SAHMs like me. I know relaxed mothers, high-strung mothers, ones with college degrees, some with high school degrees, etc.

We do, however, share traits, inner leanings and quirks that have brought us all to the world of homeschooling.

I've observed that successful homeschoolers (meaning they've homeschooled for quite a long time and have managed to keep their joy) have the following in common:

Successful homeschoolers:

are familiar with different ways of homeschooling.
They know that not everyone learns the same way and that, sometimes, what works for one homeschooling family doesn't work for another homeschooling family.

are flexible.
Sometimes moms are too sick to teach; the kids are too sick to learn; the kids just want to do math all day; a park day goes into overtime; moms get free tickets to a museum, etc. And these successful homeschoolers aren't afraid to ditch books that don't work or change curriculum halfway through the year. It's okay to be flexible with time and resources.

love to learn.
All the dedicated homeschool moms that I know share this trait: the love of learning. If their child is learning about Ancient Rome, the mom is learning with the child, not just saying, "Read this!" and doing something else.

Think of all the good teachers you had growing up. What did they have in common? They loved what they taught.

have some sort of schedule.
It might be schedule down to the minute or just a loose one, but these moms find time for doing chores, going to the library, going to park days and just doing nothing.

have support.
These moms are members of homeschoolnig support groups or use online message boards (or both). They know where to receive guidance, support, find shoulders to cry on, friends to thump them happily on the back for a task well done.

have supportive husbands.
Whether they're just the financial backers or teaching the kids a subject, a husband who supports the homeschooling dream is a treasure.

are compassionate.
These moms know that they are not perfect and their children aren't either. But instead of hating everyone for his/her imperfections, these moms teach their kids lovingly and prayerfully.

make learning a priority.

are dedicated.
Successful homeschoolers are ones that keep focused on why they are homeschooling and know when to take breaks, make adjustments, have a vacation, go on field trips, etc., but who do not give up easily on homeschooling itself.

make time for themselves.
They take time for themselves. Whether they switch babysitting with a friend, ask DH to care for the kids while they disappear for a few hours, or plug in a DVD for the kiddies and go take a bath, these moms know the importance of revitalizing themselves

relax.
They don't take themselves so seriously and do not fall apart during the little minor inconveniences or nuisances of life.

are realistic.
Kids are funny, odd and a bit gross. These moms do not expect them to act like charm school graduates.

keep it in perspective.
These moms know that there's no way that there child is going to be 18 and not know how to differentiate a nickel from a dime. They take their time in teaching and don't freak out. As my husband often reminds me, "Homeschooling is a marathon, not a sprint."

pray.

What I Would Have Said: 2007

Note: This post is about the challenges of homeschooling for us. We obviously think that homeschooling's benefits greatly outweigh the challenges or else we wouldn't be doing it. For posts about the joy of homeschooling, check out all my other posts.


A homeschooling acquaintance recently returned her kids to the fold of public school. We never got to talk about what made her give up after just a few months of homeschooling. But I've been thinking about what I would have said. I think it's: Homeschooling can be hard sometimes.

I wish she would've talked to some of us first and perhaps we could have helped her through the rough patch. My homeschooling journey is one that I've not done alone. I've relied completely on the grace and strength of our Lord Jesus Christ, and He sent me some good people to give solid advice and support, both online and in our local homeschooling group. Everyone needs friends.

And everyone has Bad Days. We've had Bad Weeks. Don't believe you're getting the complete story when you read those amazing blogs or see those incredible specials about people having 29 overachieving children who are all natural geniuses and never argue or raise their voices and never sin. Even the most Christ-centered, calm and loving family has bad days. It's part of the human condition.

Homeschooling is a long journey, and like all journeys, the path curves and dips and delights and scares you right along with it. You'll think you're doing well, then hit a rough patch or get caught in a bog of boredom or a ditch of despair. Something in the distance will frighten you. Or you lose sight of where you want to be and wander off the path for much longer than intended.

It's happens. Don't mistaken the ditch for the end of the road.

When the rest stop on our homeschooling journey begins to resemble the end, I write them down my challenges or concerns. Sometimes, I'll call a friend, too. The important fact is that the challenge is addressed. And that helps me to stop, look at the path before us and see what needs to be done or changed or just accepted.

Here's a glimpse at our challenges with homeschooling:

1. homeschooling little people who are rapidly growing, evolving in tastes and style and understanding. Sometimes, I foolishly assume that I've got this homeschooling thing down, only to have to make adjustments so that everyone is challenged but not overwhelmed and yet still happy and confident

2. homeschooling children of varying ages with completely different learning styles and personalities that are direct opposites of one another

3. preventing myself from going insane when I've taught the same fact a hundred times to a child who repeatedly learns then forgets it

4. keeping the voracious readers fed, especially after hauling the three kids to the library, choosing 50 books then having the girl tell me, four days later, that it's time for another trip, she's read them all and she needs new books to read

5. feeling confident that I am doing the best for my children and knowing that I am doing a good job, even if my second grader starts crying at the table because she suddenly cannot remember what 5-2 is

6. trying to homeschool when the daredevil of a toddler is running around and creating mischief or clinging to my leg and crying until he is held and needs to be held or will cry incessantly for a very, very long time

7. handling days when I am exhausted and feeling just a wee bit sorry for myself because I have to do absolutely everything for everyone every day

8. having a child who is extremely bright but who does not fit into the traditional mold for a student and continually challenges me to think outside of the box for educational opportunities and resources


When we have a rough patch of schooling, it is usually one of those above issues.

Through online friends, two homeschool message boards, and our local homeschooling group, I feel strengthened on the journey and remain determined and enthusiastic about homeschooling. We are like the fellowship of the ring --- the fellowship of homeschooling. We're all different, we have separate journeys but we remain true to our ultimate goal.

Our goal has remained the same: to raise good Catholic people who love to learn and serve the Lord.

Almost daily, I remind myself about all the benefits of homeschooling. My children love each other and are one another's best friends. The girl is reading about three to four books a day; learning about ancient histories; advancing in her quest for knowledge. The boyl has leapfrogged through so much of the regular kindergarten milestones and is reading a lot, learning so much and showing a very generous and thoughtful spirit. The high level of energy and focus that would make a regular school hard for her can be used positively at home. And my son's difficulties with expressing himself verbally, which would be trouble in a "real" school, can be dealt with privately while still letting his other traits shine.

Homeschooling is immensely rewarding, incredibly enriching, a dynamic experience for our family. And, praise God, our home is a place of peace, love and education.

Homeschooling really can be hard sometimes. But it really is worth it. You just have to give it time. It's a journey.