 A couple of weeks ago we got our boy home from "far far school" just in time to celebrate one of our favorite saints, St. Cecilia, with an overnight pig roast and Sunday afternoon of praying, feasting, and edifying performances and displays of art. Our friend raised up a pig for us just for the occasion, and we actually held a slaughter on site the Saturday morning before the roast. A handful of good-willed comrades and budding homesteaders joined in, and though that pig - Hamlet was his name, over 150lbs did he weigh - did not go gentle into that good night, it was an experience to witness feats of manly virtue and prowess to get a hard job done - and in the end we all agreed that it was fruitful on too many levels to count, and we were glad. The pig was scalded, denuded of every last hair and gutted (with the beautiful organs and loins set aside for future use), then splayed upon the recently erected pit to be smoked all night. Three trusty lads pitched tents and tended the raging barrel-fire, carefully fed embers into the base of the pit, and kept the cooking temperature even enough to accomplish a perfect bounty of pork to share the next day. There was more than enough; indeed the food seemed to multiply the more people came. And despite the frigid temperatures that festival day, many came, and stayed late into the evening, enjoying bold Shakespearean recitations and beautiful snippets of poetry; taking in songs from The Sound of Music, sacred music, and traditional folk classics; eyeing a display of various artwork: saints, sketches, bucolic scenes. The beautiful event was followed up a few days later by a lovely Thanksgiving day, begun with Mass, including a family feast, wrapped up with gratitude.
And now, our boy is back to school for a few weeks, and Advent has begun. Our daily life is immediately altered by the hopeful anticipation that accompanies our preparation for Christmas. Here, on the First Sunday of Advent, we pick a good tree for the living room corner, trim it only with white lights, and look forward to carefully placing all the ornaments upon it in a family ritual on Christmas Eve. Like last year, we gathered evergreen branches from around the property to construct a home-made Advent wreath, affixed with candles, for hanging. Each evening at dinner time we light the weekly candle(s), sing Veni, Veni, Emmanuel, and take the family meal by that candlelight. Sitting together in the flame's gentle glow is a reminder of the Light of the World to come, Our Lord who brings the light of truth into the darkness upon Christmas day. Also, the four porch columns are wrapped with garland and purple, purple, pink, and purple lights, each lit in succession as the weeks go by, a humble witness to the season in a world fully decked out for Christmas proper already. Nativity sets - where possible with the Infant Jesus hidden til the big day - are set up around the house, as well as Dad's nutcrackers and Mom's snow globes (given over the years from the children) set upon mantles and lining the tops of the bookshelves along the walls of the living room, and lovely little decorative knick-knacks and Advent calendars here and there, though all the St. Nicholas decor is saved until his feast day December 6th. We hope to get a life-size nativity going in the old barn, at least this year with Joseph, Mary, and the Divine Child to start. And though we plan to prepare carols, we put off Christmas music til the time has come! It is a hopeful time, but it is also a penitent time - we try to embrace old traditions of family and warmth and sober, faithful piety. We were reminded last Sunday not to spend Advent celebrating Christmas. What a simple and profound notion! Let us look forward to the feast, preparing, as we are taught, "for the double coming (adventus) of mercy and justice" - hopeful in our redemption but ready for His judgment. Another note about our Advent traditions - it is the time that we pray the beautiful St. Andrew novena prayer, which paves the way perfectly for the momentous occasion of Christ's Nativity. The brief prayer is repeated 15 times per day between the Feast of St. Andrew, November 30th, and Christmas Eve, December 24th. We pray it each evening after singing the Veni and before praying the table blessing. It has never proved a burden but rather a great blessing. May we be blessed with the grace and desire to pray fervently and the will to make ready for the birth of Our Savior! Hail, and blessed be the hour and moment in which the Son of God was born of the most pure Virgin Mary, at midnight, in Bethlehem, in piercing cold. In that hour, vouchsafe, O my God, to hear my prayer and grant my desires, through the merits of Our Savior, Jesus Christ, and of his Blessed Mother. Amen.
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 We've learned to take what we can get since moving to our little farm, especially in the sense that when we work we pray for God's blessing, invoking many a saint's intercession along the way as we do (hopefully) the best we can, and hope for the best! The great lesson, since we are after all but mere mortals and fallen at that, in addition to never having done many of the things we now feel inspired to put our hands to, is one of realistic expectations and trust in and humblest gratitude for God's will. And so, most recently, when one of our hens suddenly decided she felt broody (after we had asked the chickens all kindly to sit last spring but they, all of them, refused!), we let her sit, offering more than a few prayers and hoping for the best. Very much more recently I flooded Our Lady with Memorares, realizing that Dot (the chosen hen) was looking quite serious in her sitting business, and further realizing that just because we idealized letting mama hen do all the work and letting nature take its course, still there are the natural risks and potential failures involved even in a little matter like hatching a nest of chicken eggs. Would the hen, after all, know what to do? How will the tiny chicks fare with the rest of the flock, especially the mean ol' rooster? How exactly, even if we put out chick feed and water, will they learn to consume it? Is Fall a good time for baby chicks to be born? These are practical questions with many plausible answers. In the end (and this seems to be how it always goes) - praying, and then doing what we can, and then working with reality as it manifests, is the best way to go!
It may seem funny that we could get so excited about chickens, and we are sometimes surprised at the level of drama these birds have produced in our home life, but then again thank God for their place in our lives here, for we are all the better for the drama of caring for chickens. Thus, Wednesday morning it was with great delight I discovered a tiny, newly hatched chick right next to Dot in her sitting box. In honesty it looked just like a wet feather, a tiny little helpless, vulnerable thing - but I know that's how the beginning goes for creatures. As is typical, too, I had not actually tracked her sitting progress perfectly, and so I thought we had at least another several days before hatching could really begin (if it came about at all). Petitioning heaven to help things go smoothly, I did some quick review research, made the happy announcement to the children, and outlined what we needed to do to make decent provision for the hen to rear her little brood, with reminders that we need not run around like chickens with our heads cut off, but should proceed as much as possible like the seasoned country folk we pretend - in all sincerity try with earnestness - to be. We scuttled the very concerned other hens out and blocked them into the run for the time being, cleaned up the coop as non-invasively as possible around the soon to be, maybe, teeming nursery box, hauled cinder blocks and bricks to construct some manner of stairs for the chicks to get down and back up again, set a fresh waterer on the floor of the coop, and closed everything up quietly again. We tried to feed and give water to Dot to no success, so serious was she, so we let her be. Later, the first chick was amazingly transformed into a quite adorable and fluffy, bright eyed little thing - bringing us all the memories of our first encounter with our chickens when they were babies long ago. But, hooray! One of our chickens has hatched her own chicks, one of many goals we've nurtured and a big step in our book. On top of the excitement of the hatching, it is astounding to watch how quickly the chicks are viable. One moment they lie helpless, the next they are bobbling around, in and out from beneath the warm sanctuary of their protective mother, then next they take up the cue to drink water and peck at food, wholly unlike human infants who are so utterly helpless and entirely dependent for so long (though not without far more profoundly God-given capacities) - but not unlike in some of the emotions and deeper realities they evoke. Only God can make a tree, and only God can make the beautiful form and being of creatures - we are His intricate handiwork! Now, everyone knows you should not count your chickens before they're hatched. We do not know if in the end our Dot will turn out something like Jemima Puddle-duck, for indeed most modern day chickens have had their instincts bred right out of them. Needless to say there are a good portion of eggs left under Dot - who sits still - whose fate we cannot tell. And even just moments ago, we found that one of the five hatched so far - the one that had seemed especially fragile from the first - did not make it. This one we had taken extra care to tuck under Dot, so long it had been lying still without moving after it had hatched, and it did indeed revive and briefly blossomed into an adorable golden and grey striped fluff-ball, but we watched it with reservation. ~ We took its tiny, lifeless little body a few minutes ago and placed it in a small grave quickly dug (near where Veronica's poor goldfish were buried last year!), complete with prayers of thanksgiving to Our Heavenly Father, the Lord of All Life, in gratitude for the brief chance to care for this creature and in petition for help to care for the rest, whatever He grants us to do. He gives, and He takes away, blessed be His Holy Name! One additional happy note to be made is the immediate joy that springs up in an encounter with new life. In the last forty eight hours we have witnessed spontaneous smiles and giddy exclamations from grown ups and children and typically cool-headed teenagers alike, and those glimpses of innocent pleasure are welcome in a weary world. These moments are momentary, and we'll take them as they come. Chickens are not considered by many to be abundantly important in the scheme of things, but our experience with them has enriched our lives so (not to mention their use in providing us delicious and nutritious eggs) and to hold a baby chick or hear its little peep - perhaps before it has even broken through the shell of its egg - is a wondrous thing that revives the life blood of most decent souls and makes you happy to be alive. Deo gratias for simple reminders of His magnanimous Providence, and may we be worthy of the gifts He grants us in this life.  September has been the fullest month, with our home totally changed now that Thomas is away. Now, the advent of this undertaking, the sending of our boy off to school, that is, is far more happy and fruitful than it could be otherwise, and lest we seem ungrateful for God’s many gifts and graces, we cannot fail to acknowledge how much we are blessed, far more than we could ever have foreseen. Our homeschool year is more peaceful and joyful than ever, and we had some late surprises from the Summer garden after a rough and sordid season - these kinds of things have kept our cup of wonder filled to overflowing. We have employment, shelter, provision enough, a tightly-knit family life and a fervent faith. Our Lady has never failed us in our prayers to her, and our oldest son - though absent from our daily affairs and indeed it is with heartache we miss his face and smile and singing voice, as well as his handiness in physical tasks - is away on the educational adventure of a lifetime, so far as we can tell, in answer to many prayers.
Which brings us to the art of written correspondence, an art not at all foreign to us but one that has taken a delightful and more enlivened turn these last weeks. Unmediated conversation (real, live, and face to face) is ideal, praying together is sanctifying, reciting poetry is beautiful, singing songs together is sublime, but in the alternative, to write a letter is not a bad way to talk to someone you love. Indeed it may be superior to most ways. We packed into Thomas’s things just before he left a good supply of distinctive stationary, envelopes, and stamps, with the hope it would make it all the more easy for him to write if he ever got the chance (we were not sure if he would ever have the time). Letters with hand-drawn pictures and snippets of tales or songs or poetry from home were mailed off quickly to him after his departure (it is a bittersweet moment to write to your son the first time he is really away, as it was hearing his voice on the phone the first time he called from school, a week in). We have kept up weekly letters off to him - who doesn’t love getting a handwritten note? - filling him in on the mundane (but not uninteresting) details of life at home: the First Sunday gathering without him, the terrified groundhog our dog had cornered in the backyard, our first-prize-at-the-county-fair watermelon, the new family van, our little homeschool successes. And of course we’ve included all our queries over his new life at Greg’s. There is something wonderful, an inspired thing, that happens between the idea in the mind and the commitment of it upon the page with pencil or pen, an enjoyable and we think vital piece of living that should never be eschewed. True, we can rapidly transfer thoughts into words by quickly pressing keys (this brings a memory though of the ancient way of doing such a thing - never will I forget the beautiful punching, whir and ring of the typewriter while my mother typed away all those years). But it isn’t the same; it isn’t the same. We know it isn’t the same, and yet we insist upon it, almost wholly to the detriment of our children’s tender imaginations and innocent minds. In addition, it is not simply quaint to write in cursive; the very act of writing in script is virtuously formative, for then in patient, careful consideration is the soul transfixed to make a loving gift of itself to another. So, lo! How happy the day when my daughter walked down to the mailbox to find that singularly stripe-edged envelope with her name written nicely in cursive upon it, in the hand of her loving brother. It brought our hearts such a happiness just to see it, and that was even before we read the contents! A full page and a half, with three post-scripts he sent to her, and that will keep us content for a good while; good boy! Our correspondence will fill in great part the interstices between holidays and windows of time with him at home, and we are thankful for this simple, pleasurable, memorable, and engaging way of getting along. May the Word Incarnate keep us in His gaze, and may His loving Mother continue to pour graces upon our humble efforts!  My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I should grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. ~ "The Rainbow" by William Wordsworth Several weeks ago, upon a First Sunday gathering at Fatima Farm, it began to rain toward the end of our festivities. Those guests remaining - and there were still many - gathered casually closer in under the protection of the gazebo where music was being played, and as the rain was not too heavy no one was really bothered. In fact many children remained scattered around playing in the fields. One child, he was six years old, ran suddenly up to his father who was at the moment playing a washboard along to a bluegrass tune. The boy talked excitedly for a moment then pointed behind him, upwards, gesturing for his dad to look up. The man peered along the lines of the point, but couldn't obviously see whatever wrapt his boy's attention in the moment. Two minutes later, an older boy, about 16 years old, broke off from his game of football toss and jogged over to the gazebo and, as the song had culminated and there was a moment of quiet, called out, "Come look at the double rainbow!" It was no longer raining, the sun had broken through the clouds westward, and the group hurried out into the open space to see the sky and were met with an astonishing sight - a perfectly glorious rainbow spanning the expanse of eastern sky from end to end, with its double just a space above, just as full if only somewhat diminished in color. There were audible gasps and "oohs" and "aahs" - as there should be. Mr. Verlander immediately began to recite Wordsworth's poem, as he should. To a friend who came out a moment too late to see - for after a couple of minutes the rainbow faded right before our eyes as we watched, we were gifted with the chance to look up when it manifested - it was said, "Nothing gold can stay." It was a simple, wonderful, happy minute of life in an already enjoyable day - and we are always deeply glad for those reminders of God's magnificence, for really only He could have orchestrated the universe to be beautiful, even long centuries into its fallenness, just so, as laid witness by the natural instinct - or blessed inspiration - of young and old alike to glory in the sight. Yesterday we held a farewell party for our oldest son who will next week begin his adventure at Gregory the Great Academy. With close friends and family, we began by praying a rosary, entrusting our son to Our Lady's special care, with pointed petitions for his growth in the theological and cardinal virtues, followed by a blessing with holy water by his father and godparents. Mr. Verlander took the opportunity then to introduce his mother who had come, too, and explain her vital role in his own formation - he prayed his first rosary with his mother, and she catechized him and ensured his education in Catholic schools, so much does she understand the import of such things. The fruits of her labors are now evident in her grandchildren, and we are grateful. With this background summary we invited everyone to continue to pray for our son as he begins his education far away (this latter aspect the most difficult part). After a veritable feast, Mr. Verlander rang the bell again to gather everyone for a sort of presentation of the gifts. He recited Thomas Moore's "The Minstrel Boy" (for our Thomas More) - a poem about a boy going off to war girt with his father's sword and a harp "slung behind him." The minstrel falls but he tears the harp's "chords asunder" for its "songs were made for the pure and free/They shall never sound in slavery." Mr. Verlander bestowed on his oldest boy, clearly for all to see the apple of his eye, his own rosary (our greatest weapon in spiritual battle) and his cherished guitar - each, we hope, to be used by him each day. He was also given a binder of all our family's favorite songs, most of which we learned from the Greg boys! Then we surprised our son by all chiming in to sing the version "The Minstrel Boy" so well-beloved and often sung by the boys at Gregory the Great. Our son then picked up a guitar and performed "The Parting Glass," accompanied by his older sister. We were pretty well much in tears most of the time, but they were happy tears. It is nine years since we discovered the existence of this one of a kind boarding school, and we have dreamed of the moment one of our boys would be old enough to go. Our son now, as my husband explained, is a hobbit - and so the sacrifices and sufferings entailed in his leaving home are real and great. And yet he has looked forward also to this day, a natural and not unexpected step in the course of his life growing up so far, and so the hopeful anticipation outweighs our trepidation over the prospect of missing each other. His father, like Gandalf, has full confidence that he is a burglar after all - evidenced not a little by his rapid maturity from, as was quipped, "his twelve year old self to his fourteen year old self" over the last couple years. God keep us on our pilgrim way and especially in this next year. Mother Mary, wrap us in your mantle! Deo gratias for His gifts and graces, we say again and again, and may we all wish our days to be bound each to each by natural piety!  This month of July, dedicated to the Most Precious Blood of Jesus, we have prayerfully navigated many adventures. Our oldest daughter is attending a couple of summer programs for high school students, making opportune a family trip to New England for some happy day trips for us while she studies and discerns at our alma mater. We have learned that prayer is our mainstay, that we miss our daughter greatly in her absence on a daily basis - who knew we could miscount the children so many times in a row - and that the northeastern states offer a beauty and charm hard to find elsewhere in our experience. The running joke was instigated quickly that everything is just "perfect" around here - lush greenery, wonderfully kempt yet naturally wild-looking flower gardens in every yard, in every garden, along every old stone wall bordering the boundaries, and wonderfully character-filled shingled houses around every bend. Then the stunning vistas of mountains and lakes, ponds, streams, farmland, boulders, and woods. True, we have jaunted through some sketchy neighborhoods, but generally speaking the ambiance is pretty, refreshing, and in a great sense rejuvenating through both the novelty of experience and the oldness of the wood and water and structures - with a healthy dose of nostalgia as we retrace just a little of the memory of our college days.
A definitive highlight to this trip so far, besides visiting a simply beautiful old farm, hiking up and down a mountain (and finding wild blueberries at its peak), having to suddenly take shelter in a public library due to a tornado warning (that was an unexpected surprise - though no real danger manifested, Deo gratias), and visiting our maternal grandmother's and forbears' gravesites, is a relatively impromptu visit to the Maronite Monks of Adoration in Petersham, MA. Mr. Verlander had a retreat there last year, and as we were so near he wanted the family to see where he had spent that quiet and holy week. We are further privileged to know the Abbot (he is the brother of a close friend back in GA), who happily welcomed our unexpected visit. We prayed our family rosary out in a field before a replication of the Pieta, joined the monks for evening prayer, and sat at a table with the Abbot for the better part of an hour - a joy and a great blessing for the family. We heard the story of his calling, and when we asked for advice about how to nurture openness to vocation he said one, prayer; and two, make visits to and speak well of monasteries. This Abbot's happy nature and obvious piety touched us all - our youngest son even failed to be disappointed that he didn't get to see any "monkeys." By grace, we visited on the day before their patron's feast day (July 23), with the feast beginning at evening prayer (this is an "ice cream feast" for them - a very big deal!). The Abbot likes to think of the family as the domestic monastery - a fitting title for our family's ideals, as we ever model after the monastic life of ora et labora, prayer and work, inclining our hearts to the order set by the Creator for our ultimate fulfillment. Being St. Sharbel's feast, we knelt, and the Abbot made the sign of the cross on our foreheads with the saint's oil, blessing our persons and our pilgrimage and asking God's protection over us. St. Sharbel, a 19th century Lebanese mystic especially devoted to Jesus in the Eucharist, will remain a model and guide. As the sun began to set over the peaceful pines of the monastery, where we had the gift of glimpsing the faces of those holy men dedicated to a life of saving souls, we bid the Abbot farewell and went on our way. At the last moment, a kind Dominican on retreat agreed to take our photo before the patron's statue, and we left the monastery with the feeling that our visit was rather inspired after all.  Dieu, Le Roi - "for God and King"
In the late 18th century, a little known group of devout Catholics in a western region of rural France known as the Vendee rose up in a counter-revolution and series of battles against the powers that would strike down the faith of their fathers and the universal reign of Christ the King during the long onslaught of the historic French Revolution. These people, mainly peasants, fought valiantly with all they had and, giving their lives for the Truth and under the badge of the Sacre Coeur (the Sacred Heart of Jesus), served to plant the martyred seeds of the faith that still lives strong today, even in a continually embattled state. Too many lost their lives during the Reign of Terror. King Louis XVI famously died at the guillotine, less famously is he known to have heroically resisted the anti-God constitution put in place, and to have publicly forgiven his captors and executioners. His young son Louis Charles died sick and weak from imprisonment and abuse, begging God to forgive his abusers and captors, like his father before him. Further, in another example of selfless and courageous Christian virtue, the Carmelite martyrs of Compiegne sang "Laudate Dominum Omnes Gentes" as they filed one by one to the guillotine, happily giving their lives for their beloved Jesus. Only later did religious freedom of any kind return to the country. Our family has been inspired by the story of the Vendeans over recent years. Like the legendary stories of the saints of early Christendom, like the various missionaries over the centuries who suffered and often died at the hands of those they would convert for the love of God's Kingdom, like the Cristeros fighting against the Godless government of Mexico, calling out their loyalty with "Viva Cristo Rey!" and dying for their beliefs and efforts not so long ago, it shows how our forefathers are not always those we find in the family tree per se. Sometimes our heroes - often our heroes - are unlikely. These men of unexpected courage employ simple steadfastness or loyalty or a keen sense of the right way to be, and serve in a vital moment to overcome the most powerful adversary in the sense of what matters most and in the lasting things. The heroic people of the Vendee saved the faith for the Church's beloved France even while the Revolutionaries by all appearances "won" - upheaving the spiritual order there with drastic, deadly consequences still playing out today the world over. Helped to save the faith they did because, as has always been the case, the gates of Hell will never prevail against Christ's Church nor can any adversary extinguish the light of Truth or kill off for good the truly faithful. There will always be someone, somewhere, who believes and passes on the faith. In honor of the Sacred Heart of Jesus to whom the month of June is dedicated, and also in honor of some of those heroes who preserved the faith for us, at our June First Sunday gathering we held a great capture-the-flag battle between the Vendeans ("the Royalists") and the Revolutionaries ("the bad guys"). Young and old(er) alike divvied up into the two teams (with members hand-picked one by one by captains), and spent an hour charging through the woods and fields in an attempt to capture the flag and take the day. No one got injured (unless perhaps in pride), but several flying leaps and tackles were made, many sneaky, covert operations accomplished, and happy prisoners were busted out of jail, on both sides. In one epic pursuit, a Revolutionary dad apparently hurled himself bodily and went flying impossibly through the air, heedless of the perilous forest landscape, to take down a fleeing Vendean boy who lost his tail in a grand tumble. Ultimately, the Vendeans were victorious, and it was something to see the boy who'd captured the flag hoisted up on a strong teammate's shoulders on parade, and also to see the members of the frustrated Revolution quickly shrug it off and say, "Oh well, at least the Vendee won!" In the week following our gathering, a proud father on Fatima Farm watched his oldest daughter sewing a Sacre Coeur patch for her brother - the start of a joyful new (to us) tradition. Today, we gratefully live out our faith in small attempts to follow in our heroes' footsteps, in prayer, in firm conviction, in loyalty to the things that matter most and most of all for His glory and the reign of Christ the King. His Holy Mother helps us on our way, and we have found friends of good will to keep us company. May God preserve good families and priests! Most Sacred Heart of Jesus, have mercy on us! Our Lady of Fatima, pray for us!  Ave maris stella,
Dei Mater alma, atque semper Virgo, felix caeli porta. Hail, bright star of ocean, God's own Mother blest, ever sinless Virgin, gate of heav'nly rest. With the month of May we ushered in the month of Mary, Mother of God and great mediatrix of all graces. Having been devoted to Our Lady for some time, our family finds much solace and fortitude turning to Mary in all things, great and small. Many saints exhort us to turn to her with confidence, and the Church's traditions teach us of her purity and holiness and the trustworthiness of her advocacy for the sake of the salvation of our souls, poor sinners in this valley of tears that we are! She withholds nothing from the Lord, Our Savior, interceding on our behalf, and reflects God and shows us how to walk His path in all her ways. We pray the rosary daily and meditate upon the mysteries of faith, binding ourselves to Our Lady and her promises, and gaze with our hearts upon her loveliness - like the beauty of the shining moon, upon which we gaze with our living eyes, among the stars at night. In our Easter joy, as we rejoice that He is Risen, Alleluia! then, we gladly welcome the month dedicated to honoring the holy mother of Jesus. His vessel, by her fiat and her role in God becoming Man, is Mother of the Church and perfect model of the virtues to which we should aspire. God took the greatest care in creating the woman who would carry Him and bring Him forth into the world, and we freely turn to her in our need and ask her to guide and help us on our pilgrimage to heaven. On our First Sunday gathering in May, like last year, we constructed a litter for Our Lady - bedecked with flowers and carried by four strong young men. Young and old joined in prayer and song and in the march. We began with the Fatima Angel's prayer and raised up the Fatima Ave as we traversed the farm behind the statue of Our Lady of Fatima - on a beautifully sunlit and blue-skied day, trees swaying in the breeze, and birds on wing and chiming in with their own small but clear voices. Rural Georgia is a far cry from Eden, but springtime can be something to behold here, and the green things and wild things played their parts duly! Our farm animals took part too, as the rooster's crow and the curious calls of the goats could be heard interspersed amongst our prayers and songs throughout the afternoon. Our oldest son helped bear the litter; one of our younger sons (preparing to receive his first Holy Communion at our TLM parish this June, Deo gratias) had the honor of crowning our garden statue after the procession. After these past months, now years indeed, of worldly calamity, confusion, anxiety, and strife, and even as crises continue to manifest themselves in myriad ways, these occasional respites are good for the soul. The feasts and occasions afforded to honor the saints and Our Lady and Our Savior, the Immaculate and Sacred Hearts - they serve as formative and set experiences as we make our way through the year, whatever the world presents. The face of Our Lady is indescribably lovely, but it is always marked with sorrow - a reminder of our fallen state and the hope we should hold in the ultimate happiness that lies beyond the boundaries of this earthly existence. And thus we should wear the world like a loose garment, store up our riches not here but in heaven, and ever strip ourselves of the things that impede us from closeness with the Savior. But - the yoke is easy and the burden is light! The sounds of singing, the simple gladness that comes with it, and the smiles and laughter of children playing outdoors - all unsullied by the trappings of modern contrivance and convenience (as much as we can render) - give us, as we are inclined to say, glimpses of that better place somewhere just beyond the horizon. May we find in Our Lady a sure guide no matter our troubles, and may God bless us on our way!  "Fairy tales do not give the child his first idea of bogey. What fairy tales give the child is his first clear idea of the possible defeat of bogey. The baby has known the dragon intimately ever since he had an imagination. What the fairy tale provides for him is a St. George to kill the dragon." ~ G.K. Chesterton
Deo gratias! We enjoyed a successful and bountiful gathering for our St. George Festival at Fatima Farm this past weekend, with a great turnout of families and friends. There was an obstacle course set up with competitive games, including a running race along the wooded trail, scaling a wall, traversing the waters of a shallow creek, clambering up and through a steep and undergrowth-entangled ditch, crawling under a low bridge and also a log tunnel, throwing axes, shooting arrows, hauling a "battering ram" to throw over a fence, leaping over the gaga pit borders, racing through the pine woods and then up the drive carrying a pine pole lance while being pelted with pine cones to finish at the "dragon" (the huge mulch pile) in which to thrust a fatal blow while crying out "Christus Vincit!!" The top times for the course, two boys and two girls, one per age group, received a St. George or St. Joan of Arc blessed medal. It is good sport and enjoyable play, and yet we enjoy it all the more since we believe that dragons really are real, and Christ really is the Victor. Importantly, we were given a chance to revel in the freedom of life that arises, apparently, from an engagement of the real order of things, sourced and graced by none other than heaven above. Last year our revelers actually dodged thunder and hailstorms to join us for this feast, and we ended up indoors for the play, but nonetheless we all agreed it was a blessed engagement and stood amazed at how the storms were interspersed with timely windows to allow us to do everything we had planned after all. This time, we were fortunate to have good, bright, sunny (but not too warm), clear-skied weather with a refreshing breeze blowing through the lush green and springy verdure, and it seemed the children (and adults) might run and sing all day. And, a favorite aspect, we welcomed souls of all ages who partook with good wills in the running, in the singing, in the praying and sharing of good food - a welcomed time of peace, the Easter Octave brimming over with Paschal happiness, in a retreat away from a troubled world. During the short play of the story of St. George, we were happy to have a talented young tenor take the role as minstrel and lead the featured Non Nobis Domine, definitely adding a more fully dramatic and inspiring effect to the production. Another highlight was the debut of a "Fatima Farm" themed song our daughter composed and performed, met with heart-warmed smiles and happy applause, which will be shared more broadly soon. May God grant us many more good times and aid us on our pilgrimage as we seek His will and strive to recognize the better portion during this earthly travail!  Recently, while the whole family was outdoors - most engaged in work preparing the garden beds and doing fence work, though some of the boys were using the back field as a golf course - the neighbor's young golden retriever got loose and bounded over and wrought havoc upon our chickens and our peaceful afternoon.
The dog, essentially a big puppy in the guise of a full grown canine, really only wanted to play, but for the fowl she was a terrible surprise and for the family she created an unexpected streak of chaos. Barking and racing around, she scattered the hens wildly and, pell-mell, they took off in every direction - over the field, to the woodshed and barn, behind the garage, at least one to the top of the coop, into the woods, flapping and squawking and seeking cover, though in the end the dog only had eyes for the rooster, which ultimately we found appropriate. Perhaps his size and color made him an easy target, but he also didn't flee. Instead, placing himself relatively between the perceived predator and his birds, he took the full force of the dog's attack. Several times the dog pounced and pinned him, jaws around his neck - and though he escaped the dog's clutches at least twice he was quickly nabbed again each time, to the yells and screams and loud exclamations of adults and children alike as they scrambled in attempts to stop the dog. It all happened very quickly and ended only when the neighbor raced in and threw himself on the dog in a crazy tackle, and our oldest daughter grabbed up the poor rooster, all of us fearing the worst. The rooster is normally not one to approach or try to pet - he is a shameless backstabber at times in fact if you appear to threaten his domain - but now he was tame, wide-eyed but still in his exhaustion, breathing hard and cooing like a mourning dove in our daughter's arms while we checked him over for injury. Miraculously, he was relatively unscathed but for the good portion of feathers left behind in the field. We spent the next hour searching the property for the scattered chickens, coaxing them back with calls, flushing them out of hiding, and chasing them down to catch and tote back to the coop. Ginger went missing completely but not forever - we searched deeper into the woods and prayed to St. Anthony and depended on our Holy Mother and hoped she would return before roosting time, and then she just appeared, having emerged from whatever hiding place, waiting in all patience and politeness by the pen gate for someone to let her in (apparently too tired to hop over). When all was said and done, we were impressed by the rooster for simply doing his job. We wished he'd given the dog a good scratch, but nevertheless his crow rang out in the setting of the sun that day, all the chickens safely at home to roost around him. It was an experience you don't have every day, and at the risk of making too much of the episode, it was a glad moment of chivalry and a reminder of an older order of things, when the gallant knights of Chaucer's tales, Arthurian legend, or like Gilgamesh or Sir Gawain or St. George himself, inflict with full willingness upon themselves the risk of death for the sake of another, to vanquish a foe or slay the dragon who threatens all that is holy, good, pure, innocent, worthy, free - by the code of the highest ideal. Gallant - the word we use to describe the knight, evoking ideas of bravery, chivalry, heroism, courtesy - comes from the Latin gallus, for rooster. Our little experience was a welcome one in an age when heroes have been made of the most pathetic and self-centered of incapable characters - the warped and sorry, misguided notion of the unlikely hero of ages gone by. Somehow, sometimes, we see an innate sense of something like manly valor imprinted upon - and shown most readily by - the merest of creatures, who are not endowed with a rational soul but nevertheless serve to model, if they fulfill the goodness of their nature, God's ways. God grant us the insight and grace to fulfill our own good nature, and give us brave knights who will stand at all risk, unflinching in the face of possible demise, to protect those in their charge and care who depend upon such courage!  To be glad of life,
because it gives you the chance to love and to work and to play and to look up at the stars; ~from “The Footpath to Peace” by Henry van Dyke The guiding charm of these words, and the accompanying bucolic image of a peaceful village, have played through our imaginations for the last several years. The quote and picture were discovered at a time when a deep dive into the essences of education, something to which we have dedicated the majority of our adult lives, had brought us up to surface upon a new shore, the world suddenly teeming with meaning and rife with sense and appeal. And so we realized that we had to decide, and we decided to take up the invitation to be glad of life. For us, this deliberate gladness has manifested in the leaving off of more conventional modes of operation (read: we do many things the old-fashioned way on purpose), leading us to homeschool and take up music more fervently, for example. As a matter of course, our faith and the liturgical calendar primarily sets our schedule, not contradicting but complimenting the natural ebb and flow of the seasons which, fortunately for us, also inform how we spend our time and our days now that - Deo gratias, not a day goes by that we are not thankful to have been led to this haven - we are scraping things together as a family on a small farm. Our life is simple, even if there is never enough time in the day to 'get it all done'. We've happily adopted the idea that good enough is perfect in many endeavors - though not, it must be noted, in prayer or devotion or the sacramental life. In that sense we've happily adopted the idea, or rule, that practice makes perfect, and understand that such a race is not won this side of heaven. At the moment, we are preparing beds for the vegetable garden with great and sometimes impatient anticipation, all the while watching the fruit trees drop their flowery petals, budding green leaves to lusher growth, and putting out soon little fruit for future days of plenty (it is our hope). It is a healthy time, even during the sparing time of Lent - not despite but very possibly because of, we are learning - when we sacrifice properly enjoyable food and drink and comforts (and hurt for it), coming to realize and enjoy more keenly the providence of God. Now, music has not abated but has filled more of our moments, as have the schemes and dreams of days to come. For bird's song and blue skies and the playful breeze you would think that anxiety were banished. In the most meaningful way, this is true and - though we know there is a storm on the horizon - today life is full of love and work and play and the chance to look at the stars, perchance to wonder on the One whose music makes them move. May the Immaculate Heart of Mary accept our small offerings and help to purify our wills, for her triumph and for the glory of Christ the King her Son and Our Savior; may He reign! “The Footpath to Peace” by Henry van Dyke (1852-1933) To be glad of life, because it gives you the chance to love and to work and to play and to look up at the stars; to be satisfied with your possessions but not content with yourself until you have made the best of them; to despise nothing in the world except falsehood and meanness, and to fear nothing except cowardice; to be governed by your admirations rather than by your disgusts; to covet nothing of your neighbor's except his kindness of heart and gentleness of manners; to think seldom of your enemies, often of your friends and everyday of Christ; and to spend as much time as you can with body and with spirit in God's out-of-doors; ~ these are little guideposts on the footpath to peace. |
Fatima FarmOn this little homestead our family aspires to work the land and hand on the Catholic Tradition, walking in wonder and learning to live by the fruits of our labor, in honor of Our Lady of Fatima, who guides us to Him. Archives
November 2024
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