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.
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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. Servite Domino in timore, et exultate ei cum tremore: apprehendite discipulinam, ne pereatis de via justa. Serve ye the Lord with fear, and rejoice unto Him with trembling: embrace discipline, lest you perish from the just way. (Ps. 2: 11, 12)
Our landscape is early-springing, green things budding forth on the ends of branches just a week away bare, and little flowers taking over the fields, while birds and bees fill the air with their flight and song. Indoors in our makeshift nursery, vegetables and herbs are taking root and showing their tiny heads, while outdoors the children run in the warm sun. Is the long winter really past? It is in some ways unfair, as the world sings a song carefree, that we have just entered the liturgical season of Lent. Truly, we apply ourselves fervently to prayer and sacrifice, fasting and penance, attempting to strip ourselves of all that is unnecessary and so be prepared to meet with fulfillment later. It is indeed a season of utmost care, of humility and realization of human weakness. All the better to become weak, to diminish in ourselves, even to learn to despise the world - certainly its trappings - for the sake of something much better. And even this early spring betrays the delicate nature, the fleeting gold we will witness, of new things. But the promise and beginning signs of life are a great mercy in this time of committed penitence and prayer. It is a time of "not quite yet," somewhat bitter in the waiting but not joyless, necessary and abundantly fruitful - a reminder of the virtue of good work even if we cannot know the reward, since He always knows better than we do even in our most inspired imaginings. We do not wait idly but put our hearts and hands to good use, cinching up our belts, striving to mend our ways, and looking forward to what may emerge around the bend. Our family is grateful for our quiet haven away from the noise, though we are not unaware of the strife and chaos and turmoil beyond the borders of our peaceful retreat. May Our Lady protect us as, for the glory of Christ the King, we make great effort to find out what really matters. Pray! Years ago, a seed of desire was planted in our family, and for some time we have raised petitions to Our Lady to help us to make a happy dream come true. Now, our prayers are beginning to be answered, and we are embarked upon the adventure of sending our oldest son to Gregory the Great Academy in the foreseeable future. Deo gratias for this development, and may He continue to guide our steps! It will be a tremendous change for the family in innumerable ways, but we are prayerful for good things all around - and anyway we still have some time before he is off, of which we will take full advantage with souls renewed in dedication to do the very best things in life.
Recently, during our town's Burns Festival weekend, we loaded up the van with family and friends and took to the town square to sing some Scottish folk songs. There, we experienced the sheer enjoyment of playing and singing in freezing temperatures in the sunset-gold of the early evening in an old fashioned setting, also setting to smile the faces of passersby and those who paused to listen for a while. It was a surprise and delight when a local (and kilted) musician strolled up with his mandolin and joined in without a hitch. Our oldest boy sang with freedom and fervor, and that was perhaps the best part. The next day, we reveled again with family and friends on the farm during our First Sunday gathering, honoring Our gracious Lady as usual but with many songs of a Scottish flavor. But back to Gregory the Great Academy, an establishment of education in virtue and true, good, and beautiful things - it is a place alive with poetry and song, piety and good literature, exertion of body and mind, that gives a boy a chance of becoming a man who might really see the stars (and maybe his whole family too, right along with him). And that's pretty worth the effort to have our boys take part, we believe. Last year, inspired by our son's attendance at the Greg's summer camp for boys, our oldest daughter wrote and illustrated a poem about - or an Ode to - Gregory the Great Academy which encapsulates the many things of which it is about. She drew from our growing experience and knowledge of the place and the boys who go there over the last several years - it gives an adequate glimpse. Please enjoy it here, and pray for the happy success of faithful souls trying to have a really good time: "In Scranton, Pennsylvania" If any know of a young lad Who is in search of adventure, There is a place which will lure, And soon a journey must be had To Scranton, Pennsylvania. This lad will be in company With other rowdy boys; They pick up tools instead of toys, Being inspired by St. Gregory To work in Scranton, Pennsylvania. They pray and work together, At other times they play, And soon this lad will want to stay, For every friend has become a brother, In Scranton, Pennsylvania. At school he commits to memory Euclid’s work, Burns’ poetry and song; Though it’s hard and the days are long, This lad enjoys all his study In Scranton, Pennsylvania. He has begun to live a life of honest poverty: “A prince can mak’ a belted knight, a marquis, duke an’ a’ that, But an honest man’s aboon his might guid faith he mauna fa’ that! For a’ that, an’ a’ that, their dignities an’ a’ that, The pity o’ sense an’ pride o’ worth are higher rank than a’ that.” Stevenson’s books he has read, And he has juggled at least three balls; His voice, with others’, rings in the halls, Many times for shanties he has led, In Scranton, Pennsylvania. This lad has become a minstrel boy, And furthermore a saint; When he feels tired or faint, He knows these times will be a joy, When he recalls his work in Scranton, Pennsylvania. In church he can sing the Ave Maria With others in beautiful harmony; Outside he plays soccer or rugby, He sings folk songs of Ireland, Scotland, America, While he stays in Scranton, Pennsylvania. He can chant Latin and sing the French Je vous salue Marie; Along with this to juggle he did learn, Balls, rings, blocks, and clubs that burn; He’s fought the Battle of Lepanto, he has climbed many a tree, To see the view of Scranton, Pennsylvania. How has this lad, during his four year stay, At the end can pray, farm, and play music? He has butchered pigs and held a newly hatched chick; He even lived as Robin Hood for a whole day In Scranton, Pennsylvania. He saw what was beautiful and heard what was true; He lived with some men of the same kind, The kind that strive to nurture the soul, body, and mind, So that good fathers and priests may come from this school, From Scranton, Pennsylvania. This lad may someday celebrate Mass, Or he might marry and raise a family, Either way, we pray that it may be: “Praesta beata Trinitas, Concede simplex Unitas:” That all will see what happens in Scranton, Pennsylvania. This lad and his friends have become men. They have said, “We twa hae run about the braes, An’ pu’d the gowans fine, We’ve wandered many a weary foot, Sin’ auld lang syne.” “Then let us pray that come it may (as come it will for a’ that) That sense and worth o’er a’ the earth shall bear the gree an’ a’ that! For a’ that, an’ a’ that, it’s comin’ yet for a’ that, That man to man the world o’er shall brothers be for a’ that.” Deo Gratias for Gregory the Great Academy! (So I repeat: If you know any boy Who is in search of adventure, There is a place I assure That will bring him much joy, And it’s in Scranton, Pennsylvania.) He will go, a yearning boy, And come back a reliable clown of God. When icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall... ~from "Winter" by William Shakespeare We finally got our winter recently, with below-freezing temperatures, frosty rain and wind and a few beautiful fat flakes of snow - though no white blanket as the children had so wished. Nevertheless, the fire in the hearth provides welcomed warmth and comfort against the cold, and once again we find ourselves naturally gathering together before the woodburning stove. Light and heat and scope for the imagination the fire makes, and it has been respite for the soul to sit and watch the beautiful flames. The kindling does not magically appear, and so the boys and girls have worked out an efficient system of keeping us stocked, forming an extensive assembly line spread across a rotation of tasks. Some pull over and load up the large wagon at the woodshed across the field, some haul it back and unload it onto the porch, some get the pieces stacked neatly by the door, some bring logs in to stack by the stove. Somebody sweeps the porch and steps and gets the wagon put away. Overnight the stove is packed and the wood slowly burns to low glowing embers, and in the dark morning hours the ashes are emptied and the fire stoked up again, making the hardships of winter not so difficult, and actually quite enjoyable, after all. It is true that we have no snowdrifts to contend with, and so we recognize the relative ease of our condition - however since we have no central air nor useful heating system the fire is necessary, not just a luxury, and it's one of those things that proves the worth and genuine fruits of labor. Again, the fire-making ritual comprises a favorite part of living here - the wholesome and natural draw to this space for the family, a nourishment for the body and a balm for the soul. Music sessions with stringed instruments, pipes, and drums abound before the fire - complimented nicely by the fully bedecked Christmas tree which, with its many ornaments from childhoods of decades ago, provides its own kind of fodder for patient rumination and glad moments for the heart. O Jesu, joy of man's desiring! O, happy Christmastime, that feeds our childlike sense of wonder! As January marches onward into February, we cherish the last of the season, keeping Christmas until Candlemas on February 2nd, when the Virgin is purified and Jesus is presented in the Temple. It is a time fitting for reflection upon our gifts and our duties. Too, our family recently overcame a difficult period of illness, testing patience, humility, and bodily strength; though - Deo gratias - it is a relieved and blessed time of convalescence now. May our wills be willing in mortification, and our imaginations keener for having run the purifying kind of gauntlet that sickness can be. In good times and in bad, we hope as a family to grow together in worthwhile endeavoring, capable of warming by the true fire of His love - not taking His providence for granted or forgetting His great and enduring care. As always, may our family rosaries by the fire fortify us in faith and bring about His glory! Our Lady of Fatima, ora pro nobis! Our Lady of the Good Event of the Purification, ora pro nobis! The world is so full of a number of things,
I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings. "A Happy Thought" by Robert Louis Stevenson Ever in search of the kind of simple, fulfilling life of wonder you hear about in old stories and tales, our family embarked on an adventure in music some years ago. Already fond of playing and singing, our instruments took on a new appeal, and the range and sort quickly multiplied as capacities blossomed. The children have been quickly tuned-in and astoundingly insightful when it comes to picking up the good old melodies and rhymes, facilitated not only by new instruments but especially by the better stock of music. What began with a Christmas caroling devotion of sorts, within which we dedicated ourselves to traversing the neighborhood and gifting our neighbors with lively and heartfelt singing for the Christ-child and to celebrate the merriest time of the year, in a round about way developed into First Saturday bonfire sessions of folk and sacred music with family and friends and then into the familiar habit of a living room past time, just us and the children, at any given time though especially in the evenings throughout the year. Learning basics from her father and getting a few formal lessons for voice and piano, our firstborn child's genuine love of music, something obviously imprinted on her young soul, has been easily passed on to the other children as their interests mature but from the earliest ages. And so we have a house filled with music (at many points skills budding but soulful), and our walls are lined with instruments that vie for space with the bookshelves. We have come to be grateful for the daily hazard of making our way carefully through a maze of books and banjos. This year, our eldest daughter wished for a violin - a notably lofty request even though we make exception when considering worthwhile investments in good fodder for the imagination and the soul. She was required to accomplish a feat that would both test the lastingness of her desire and prove her abilities: a fifty-song guitar challenge. Months-long of countless hours were spent practicing chords and lyrics when finally, through the course of Advent, her father subjected her to a test, and, five songs per night, she worked her way through the list to show mastery. It was a thoroughly enjoyable experience all around, and her prayers and single greatest wish of Father Christmas were answered happily when, on that most glorious morning of the year, anticipated long and with much making way in preparation for the birth of the Savior, she found a beautiful, shining fiddle on the hearth on Christmas morn. And so, our house rings anew with the joys that only come at Christmas accompanied by the difficult but lovely bow-on-strings music of the violin! |
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
April 2024
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