Early on, the table developed a special character in our home. Even when our oldest child was a baby, it became obvious that our family manifested most often and most abundantly around the table. Here, father, mother, child – then children – frequently and consistently broke off from other matters, gladly, and gathered to be fed. It is a matter of necessity, of course, but the manner is important. Always, thanksgiving petitions are made foremost, and over the years it has lightened the burdens of the heart to watch each of the children develop through the stages of (often charming) mimicry to mature piety, all through the repetition of the blessing before meals. Over time, we have added additional prayers for special occasions or feasts, transforming what in our culture and day can be a rushed, indulgent, solitary, or mediocre moment of sustenance. The gathering at mealtime for years has been almost sacred, with an appropriate demand of punctuality (here, yes, we make use of a bell) and attention, even when the food prepared does not quite attain the mark of excellence or match the desired vision of culinary delight, and even when the meal is rudely interrupted by a family member (or two, or three) ill tempered, ill mannered, or simply ill, and even when the table becomes an arena for hilarious antics or feats of drama or song. The ritual is always the same. We come together, we pray as a family, and we enjoy our meal together. The homeschooling endeavor has the wonderful accidental fruit of rarely missing a member – though the Mr.’s work may occasionally cause him to miss dinner, or a weekend choir practice or altar server training may make the lunch table less populous. However, the family around the table is a staple, and a vital part of the family existence and flourishing. Often the children have helped with the food preparations (at least always with the setting of the table) and enjoy the fruits of their labor. Manners are learned at the table – how to sit, pray, eat, converse properly (more or less, in varying degrees according to ability). After dinner, the head of the family reads from Scripture, usually, marking our communion with added significance. On Sundays, the family lingers at the table to play trivia or another game. The youngest child never forgets to ask if Dad “wants some ice cream?” ever hopeful that every night is a dessert night. Since the family that prays together stays together, as the old saying goes, it stands to reason that the family that eats together also stays together, bound meaningfully each day by the moments that nourish our souls as much as or more so than our bodies. To Christ the King, may we ever be bound; may the Saints be our guides and examples; may the Blessed Virgin ever wrap us in her mantle; may Our Father continue to keep us; may the Holy Spirit guide, bless, protect, encourage, and console us on our pilgrim way of fasts and feasts!
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And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things... -from God's Grandeur by Gerard Manley Hopkins True, the world charges on along its course, it seems to madness beyond reckoning sometimes, and we wonder at our great fortune and pray that God will continue to provide - not merely in material needs but for the life of our souls. And we thank Him for the things that make us rich indeed - a firm faith, a deep love of Him, a recourse in prayer and holy sacraments, a surrounding of friends of good will. Recently we announced that our Fatima Farm gatherings would shift from First Saturdays to First Sundays, primarily to nurture the piety of the Marion devotion on the Saturday as well as to enhance the feasting and festive nature of our coming together for the honor of Our Lady and ultimately of her Son, Our Lord. And so, for September, we welcomed more people than ever before to our humble abode and enjoyed an afternoon of prayer, a bountiful table, outdoor play and music - and gladly accepted the consolations human life sometimes affords. The sun shone upon us out of a bright blue sky - though the air was tinged with just a beginning hint of cool, a delightful hint of the coming change in seasons and a relief from the sweltering heat of the summer. It was a good time. Also recently, we have given ourselves more fully over to the music natural to our surroundings. That is to say, we are still learning our way through the tasks of life on this little farm, but after a year here we are more attuned to the signs and signals and order that God, in His infinite wisdom, put in place long ago and by which we thrive most fully. The pear and apple and fig are all in abundance, though we observed differences in the way they made fruit. Some bowed out this year (one apple stayed bare - we learned, a natural pattern), some surprised us with their existence (we have another fruit-bearing pear tree!), and some became the casualties of storms (we found a fallen apple tree after a night of strong winds). A new (to us) bird graced our spring into summer, the small and relatively quiet-colored and unassuming dark-eyed junco - its soft, ashy grey feathers and sweet, chickadee-like facial features endearing itself to us immediately. The raucous, high-pitched laughing call of the pileated woodpecker frequenting the old pear tree adds to the occasional cacophony made by our Ameraucanas to make for near-jungle sounds across the wood and field some mornings. Too, we hope to encourage some hatchlings soon and are praying for the handy knack required for tending more fowl (and hopefully more beautiful eggs down the line). The goats call for attention here and there but their maa-ing is mild and their demeanor remains a wonderful rendering of placidity. They are young yet and are mostly an enjoyable chore at this stage. The ebb and flow of natural life around here, not to mention the wheeling constellations and cycles of the moon, and stunning magnificence of sunrise and sunset, more readily visible on clear mornings and nights in a way novel to us - in contrast to our city views before - make a deep impression on the psyche, recalling us to our place and purpose, and steadying us in times of strife. There is no better way to regain sanity and balance in the face of the mere anarchy of the world than to glimpse the Maker's design and to engage reality as He made it, sensing how He draws us to Him as His creatures. And so we make sure to look to the sky, to look at the stars. Moreover we take up instruments craftily made, both useful and beautiful, and play upon them and sing along, thankful for our lives and making a joyful noise as best we can. May these days be graced with health, in the ways that matter most! Last week we bid farewell to our priest and friend, Fr. James Smith, who has been transferred from our humble Traditional Latin Mass parish, St. Francis de Sales, to St. Lawrence in PA where he will serve as chaplain. We were able to offer our congratulations and give our goodbyes personally, and our hearts are filled with lasting gratitude for his role as a truly good shepherd not only at our church but to our family over the last three years.
We had only recently discovered and moved over to St. Francis de Sales when Fr. Smith arrived as assistant pastor. The momentous changes in our lives through the beauty, reverence, tradition, and graces availed by the 'Old' Mass were manifest so quickly, and Father's arrival has no little part to do with a wonderful transformation we were experiencing as Catholics, parents, and as we could see immediately, in the spiritual lives of our children. Fr. Smith promptly began The Guild of St. Stephen, a training group for boys who have received the sacrament of Holy Eucharist up to age 18 to serve on the altar. Our oldest son joined, with Dad in tow as a sort of chaperone, while our oldest daughter joined the church choir. Our son's attitude about altar serving changed dramatically. Where before there had been a seeming reluctance or regret, now there was a good-willed and positive commitment. It was as if he were caught afire, so to speak, with the steady flame and in a way that only real faith can kindle one's soul. And his attitude was catching. The effects upon the family on the whole were undeniable, and we all felt as though we had finally come home, though admittedly in a surprised way. How could this be happening, we wondered? At the same time, it was plainly clear that the richness of the Mass and the graces through the sacraments, so perfectly rendered by the good priests of our parish, and not least by Fr. Smith, were the answer. Fr. Smith gladly accepted our invitation to come for dinner and to bless our house once we'd found our little farm. He performed an elaborate blessing ceremony of house and home, inside and out, with procession and prayers and all of us following his lead. In conversation, he was on that occasion (as he always was, and as it should be!) congenial, objective, firm, clarifying, heartwarming, inspiring, instructive. Fr. Smith has a gift for winning one over with his refreshing truthfulness about the way things are and about what it is we are actually called to do while living on this earth. The life of virtue and holiness is tangible under his care, and, Deo gratias, he facilitated many, countless graces in the life of our family in the relatively brief time he spent in the wilds of GA. In conversation, confession, direction, and most importantly, in offering the Most Holy Sacrament in the beautiful Traditional Latin Mass for us, he brought us many graces. He blessed our items and our persons. He fed our souls and enlightened our intellects, and encouraged us in times of trial - and joined us in devotions and celebrations, always a joyful companion. Our second oldest son soon joined his brother in the guild, and we have two more little boys looking forward, starry eyed indeed, to the day when they can join their older brothers on the altar. It is an honor to serve the priest and Our Lord - a humbling, serious, sacred privilege. And we are all glad. Needless to say we will miss Fr. Smith but wish him very well on his way. We have no doubt we will see him in PA someday, and also have no doubt he will be a blessing to the beautiful church community of St. Lawrence there. Would that every family had a good priest to lead them all the time! We look to the Good Shepherd and thank Him for his gifts and graces and pray that He will continue to lead us as we strive to grow in ways that please Him and His Blessed Mother! Most Sacred Heart of Jesus, miserere nobis! Immaculate Heart of Mary, ora pro nobis! Our Lady of Fatima, ora pro nobis! St. Francis de Sales, ora pro nobis! Sts. Peter, Stephen, and Lawrence, ora pro nobis! Farewell, good Father, until we meet again! "But Sam turned to Bywater, and so came back up the Hill, as day was ending once more. And he went on, and there was yellow light, and fire within; and the evening meal was ready, and he was expected. And Rose drew him in, and set him in his chair, and put little Elanor upon his lap.
"He drew a deep breath. 'Well, I'm back,' he said." And so concludes a favorite trilogy, with a humble hero's return to home - the loyal friend and steadfast helper, who gave every, nearly last ounce for a good thing, for the sake of his companion in need, as only a committed and honest brother-in-arms can do. Samwise Gamgee is one of those endearing characters whose quiet commitment to truth and mettle in daunting moments inspires us to tread on despite the obstacles and sometimes dark storm clouds that threaten the small happiness afforded us here on earth. Sam has good instincts and a knack for seeing the bright side; he's handy, sound, and glad of life. In the end, he holds to the golden hope and wonderful idea of a return to the Shire even if he knows that things can never really be the same. He's one of the ones who gets to go back, and enjoy a second chance in life with newfound peace after trial. As a nod to Tolkien, to Sam and the hobbits, and to his true love awaiting him at home, we have welcomed to Fatima Farm Rosie and Cotton, two lovely, furry, lively little Nigerian Dwarf she-goats, whose bounding curiosity and steady, complacent personalities have brought already much joy! With full hearts and strident steps we make our small way around our place, picking each other up when we stumble, cheering each other on over the mountains that arise out of molehills of work sometimes, smiling in gladness at day's end when we can enjoy the fruits of a good day's labor, and thanking God for His gifts and help. It isn't always sunshine and roses, but what a blessing it is to have the chance to strive, and the desire to work for the Kingdom! May we remain steadfast in our habits and in our hopes, and may the creatures put under our care thrive, for His glory! O sanctissima, O piissima!
Dulcis Virgo Maria! Mater amata, intemerata, Ora, ora pro nobis! We have ushered in the Month of May, the Month of Mary! Fortuitously our First Saturday was also May 1st, and we prayed and feasted and sang, carried her statue in procession and crowned Our Lady with roses! This time, there was evidence of something particularly special going on, and we are especially grateful for the way God can grace with communion and surprise us with unexpected gifts when we gather. Distinct from our gathering for the Feast of St. George just recently, when the skies darkened and resounded with thunder and lightning, and it veritably poured (though still we were afforded with windows of sun and song), this First Saturday was a day of spring brightness and warmth, verdant and vibrating with life in all forms. Birds and flowers cooperated gladly with our efforts, and we successfully manufactured and had hoisted (by four strong young lads) a litter for a statue of Mary, covered with care in a variety of healthy blooms. We are thankful - we are filled with gratitude - for the inspiration and the opportunity and the good will of friends to help us honor our greatest helper in this vale of tears! These kinds of moments are a great respite from the weariness of the world, and we are blessed to be given small glimpses of, we hope, what lies in store. Over the years, we have endeavored in our First Saturday gatherings to nurture reverence for Our Lady of Fatima whose messages, we find, are vitally instructive and fruitful to our age. Moreover, it has been appropriate to honor her primarily through prayer, spoken and sung. Memories of children lined up upon the Rosary Tree at our old house, situated before our Mary Garden where we would gather to offer a rosary together, warm the heart. Naturally, singing breaks out around the evening bonfire after the praying and eating, and there is always a glad mix of sacred and folk songs. During this most recent First Saturday, a wonderful thing occurred: the music came alive in a way it never really had before, and in retrospect it is easy to see that, along with the fact that we've gotten better with practice, it was because our boys really sang. We had all manner of vocals and instruments, but it was the strong pipings-in of young men that really made the night, to the delight of the whole crowd. We have always known that patient work yields the most joyful rewards, but it was truly a surprise to see how years of preparation - anticipation it could be said - have come together just so. We were given a great gift of consolation in the simple sound of authentic, heartfelt, soulful singing. Who can resist joining in a good thing when you have a good young man to lead? Better, a passel of them! May our lives continue to be nurtured and blessed by Him whose music moves the stars, and helped along by the blessed Lady who gave birth to Our Lord! Last weekend we had the great pleasure of welcoming friends old and new for a festival in honor of one of our favorite patrons, St. George. A model of love for Christ and devotion to Our Lady, St. George vanquishes evil by the Cross, and honors duly all things familiar to the experience of our faith with humility, piety, valor, and sacrifice. Indeed, when the King of Selena proffers a reward for saving the princess, his beloved daughter, and his kingdom from the pitiless, relentless, and dire threat of a dragon, St. George refuses the wealth and asks that the king follow his instructions instead: care always for the Church, honor the priests, attend piously to the divine office, and keep the poor always in mind. After the baptism of the King's people - who are convinced of Christ's power at the slaying of the dragon - a church is erected in honor of the Mother of God.
At our gathering, we paid homage to St. George the Knight with games and a feast, prayer and song. Leading up to the day, weather predictions were perfectly terrible, with chances for precipitation standing at 100% up to the morning of. Rain or shine, however, we decided to forge ahead, praying fervently for the rain to abate just enough in the afternoon. Our prayers were answered, and the guests came. We found that people are desirous enough for a real, good time with family and friends that they drove from all over to come, at least one party through a hail storm, and all with the happy chance (or necessity, as it turns out) of dodging a thunderstorm or two while here. For camaraderie and a marked aura of virtuous competition, guests sported one of five chosen colors: sable, purpure, azure, vert, and gules. Painted banners waved in the wind of the archery field, and the threat of overly-wet conditions simply dissipated in the festive atmosphere! Children spanning many ages ran an obstacle course comprised (variously and according to ability) of running through the woods and creek, trekking a ditch uphill, throwing axes, shooting arrows, crawling under logs, hefting beams of wood across a field, and thrusting a spear of pinewood into a mulch-pile dragon. The kids ran for time, with the best per age-group rewarded with a medal of St. George (blessed by our good friend and attendant priest!). After a bountiful feast to satisfy healthy post-obstacle-course appetites we gathered in the dusky gazebo for a St. George play (interrupted at a dramatically poignant moment - just when the king offers his own daughter to satisfy the dragon - by a suddenly blackened sky and downpour), culminating in Non Nobis Domine. Contented - nay, happy visitors prayed a rosary together, and then out came the guitar, banjo, tin whistle, mandolin and Irish drum for music and singing. The joy of the day lingered long after the guests had departed, and our family gazed hopefully upon a stunning supermoon a couple of nights later, basking in the light reflected by that wonderful celestial orb upon us, like the grace of Christ poured down by His loving Mother. May St. George continue to intercede and inspire us in all of our humble and heroic endeavors, perhaps small in the eyes of the world but pleasing, we pray, to Him who makes and moves all things! What is all this juice and all this joy?
A strain of earth’s sweet being in the beginning In Eden garden. – Have, get, before it cloy, Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning… ~from Spring by Gerard Manley Hopkins Recently, a rainstorm left behind not much destruction but rather a Winter’s last touch, as a slight chill wind, grey-cast skies and a general cold dullness move lingeringly over this St. Joseph’s feast day. But we are grateful for this ebb in what had felt an almost premature jaunt into the liveliness of Spring. Indeed, warmer temperatures and sunshine have been most welcome, but it feels a little like cheating; Lent is not yet over, and our souls benefit from the stretch of seasonal poverty and voluntary lack – prayer, penance, fasting, almsgiving – an overall sacrificial spirit that informs our days as we mortify our bodies and purify our wills, willingly so, in anticipation of the grace of life that comes in just a few weeks when we will celebrate Easter. Still, natural life is bursting forth all around. Eastern redbud and pear tree blossoms, fig, apple, and dogwood leaf-buds, and henbit, clover, dandelion, bloodroot, wild pansies and daffodils splash with color the brown-and-grey-turning-to-green vista, wherever the eye roams. Birdsong fills the air from dawn to dusk, and we are reminded at once of the promise of verdant times ahead after the long winter, even as we remember, in bittersweet though hopeful resignation, that nothing gold can stay. Sapsuckers call out from the trunks of maples like tin whistles, fat robins share the yard and field with dark-eyed juncos, and sparrows, mockingbirds, eastern bluebirds, tits, and cardinals flit equally up and down and about, all superseded on high by the warbling martins, chirping God’s promise that we are infinitely more valued than those many beautiful little birds. Even the blackbirds’ caw and the rooster’s crow fit harmoniously in to the music that echoes, even if imperfectly, of Eden’s bounty and righteous order, and our spirits are lifted by the sound. The children delight in wild onions and old bones, the tracks of deer, crayfish, snakes, salamanders, and frogs in the water, and rabbits scampering through the underbrush. Reynard was spotted a couple of days ago down near the creek, trotting confidently southward, presumably to a hidden den – soon, we hope, to be found and routed definitely. Danger always lurks; there will always be loss, but hope springs eternal! Let us ponder in humility, cherish in wonder, strive in perseverance and store up our treasure in Heaven while we treasure the glimpses of Heaven and little happinesses afforded here in this life. St. Patrick, hero in dark times, ora pro nobis! St. Joseph, wonder-worker, perfect husband, father, and inspiration, ora pro nobis! Two weeks ago today a red fox got a couple of our chickens. It was a grey and misty day - outdoors it was hazy and wet, with the mist clinging to the trees and looking like a light fog through to the afternoon. We were indoors enjoying a family Saturday and at about three o'clock Pa, glancing through the front entryway windows, casually announced: "There's a chicken in our front yard." The chickens have been happily ranging free for a couple of months now from morning til they roost in the evening and get battened down for the night in their safe and sound coop, but a chicken in the front yard is quite unusual. So, Ma went out and, wide armed and making use of our clucking call for the birds, scurried Dot (the hen quite too quick to catch) back around to the back toward the pen and coop area. The rooster and a cluster of chickens were making their way to the same destination point from the opposite side of the field nearer to the barn. Once we all arrived, the pen gate was opened and all the chickens went through - Gonzo receiving a scolding for not keeping better tabs on his girls. Checking for eggs, three were found in a box, and the chickens were counted. All together, only nine. Two were missing. The rooster was scolded again, and though Ma meant to make her way back to the house, she reconsidered and decided to check the barn for eggs (one persistent and broody hen likes to lay there, despite all concerted efforts to squelch that habit!) and glance around for the missing chickens - probably, it was to be thought, in the wooded area beyond the coop or pen boundary. Not finding any eggs in the barn, a return to the house appealed, but the question begged: Where are those two chickens? Ma walked around the outer perimeter of the pen (the rooster, after all, is fickle and she didn't feel like defending herself with three eggs in hand, so she kept out of his way). Walking towards the woods, she sighted a fiery flash of an animal whisking swiftly southward away from the back end of the goat pen. A fox! It paused on a little hill to stare, and as Ma walked forward, keeping it in sight, it ran on. What a beautiful creature. It was much bigger than we'd imagined a fox to be, too. Against the grey and misty background it positively stood out, a perfectly proportioned and lovely thing: orange fur, with an intelligent and too pretty face tinged with black just exactly where all the pointed parts of a fox's visage occur, and culminating in an indescribably soft-looking puffy and graceful tail that was tipped generously with white fur. The fox paused on two rises more, and on the last stood and looked at Ma for a whole minute, then it ran off. The mind had by this time began to work again with thoughts, and it was realized, lamentably, the terrible aspect of the moment. Making her way quickly back Ma almost immediately found her own chicken, dead on the ground. It was her beautiful Sparrow - so named because she looked like a little sparrow as a chick but who had grown up with the most wonderful hues of grey, ginger-brown, and gold, with black-dark feathers around her head. She was a striking thing. All stretched out on the leaf-littered ground she looked gigantic. Glancing quickly around once more, and seeing nothing of the other missing bird, Ma picked up her pace and got back to the house to announce the bad news. In a mere few seconds Pa had his gun and everyone was outside. The family viewed Sparrow quickly and then ran off on the fox's trail. It was too late, though, and, after we buried Sparrow on the spot of her demise and covered her little grave with stones, we thanked God for the gift of the creature, for the eggs she provided, and asked Him to keep us good stewards. We never found Mrs. Cockletop, poor bird! There were only a few gentle piles of feathers here and there - no blood, no harrow. Our golden retriever is invited more frequently to bound around throughout the day, and the chickens, while spending more time in their run than before, are still thriving and laying many eggs. We are moving on and up, realizing ever more fully God's graces and the way He calls us to life even in moments of death and loss. The purple martins have just returned, also, from their sojourn south for the winter, and so our landscape is a-twitter with promises of renewal as we continue along our pilgrim way through Lent. It is not yet spring, but the hardness of winter is full of anticipation, and the sacrifices laid full in our laps clarify our intentions and purify our wills. Create in us clean hearts, O Lord, and keep us ever grateful!
Our first Christmas at Fatima Farm, its joys and promises anticipated duly throughout Advent, began with all the glory that a Georgia Christmas can offer: our midnight Mass excursion in the piercing cold was dappled with lovely flakes of snow, and His birth was sung highly in the sacrament. And while the morning was not white, it was cold, and the warmth of the fire in the wood stove in the hearth, around which we gathered to share gifts in thanksgiving for the ultimate gift of our salvation, warmed us to our toes, but also within our hearts - with the magic that only Christmas brings.
The season has also been tinged, however, with a great sadness also, and with the sobriety that comes with reminders of mortality and the fleetingness of our life here on earth. Our family’s maternal grandmother – that is, our children’s Grandma; our Mom – died suddenly just after Christmas day. Though geographically distant, we were close at heart (our minds and imaginations and souls were all bound together), and the shock of the loss breaks continually upon the quiet existence of Fatima Farm. Mom was a special person, a giving, holy, intelligent, thoughtful, artistic, remarkable woman, who touched our lives in innumerable ways, and we miss her greatly. She had not yet the chance to visit us at our new home, and we believe she would have loved it here. We know she loved the idea of our life here, and enjoyed the pictures we shared of our little adventures, and cheered us on and prayed for the success of all our endeavors over the last many months. It is bitter, it is sweet – she must be met with loved ones – with Dad - and her Maker in perfect joy and peace at last; how could we wish her to stay? The dawn and the sunset and the silver linings on the clouds demand that we believe in that eternal bounty. We will have to make content with reminders of her wonderful habits and the ways she informed our own, of which there are so many, and grow in the strength of faith by grace that only our heavenly Father can provide. She will remain a presence as we continue on our pilgrim way, guiding and praying for us from heaven, surely, though we may stumble. In your charity, offer a prayer for the peaceful repose of our beloved Mom and Grandma, and for the consolation of all who knew and loved her! In late November, we celebrated a beloved saint, St. Cecilia, with a feast and fest on her day, replete with performances musical and poetic, with instruments and voices employed to make sounds for His glory and in honor of the patron saint of musicians. Boys and girls of every age enjoyed games of the field, a moment ‘on stage,’ sharing a meal, warming themselves by the fire, singing and praying together. We ask St. Cecilia, whose very life was a pure song offered to our God and Savior, to continually intercede for us as we gird ourselves in faith and humility, trying by our own lives to express our belief in Him Who is the Way, the Truth, and the Life! These days, we continue to be grateful for the haven with which we have been provided by God, and do our best to reap what He has sown, and is sowing. Our chickens are laying eggs beautifully despite the frost and chill, and we look forward to what a spring bounty looks like in that regard. The goat-pen (fence and shed) repairs will soon be underway in earnest as we prepare to welcome a couple baby female Nigerian dwarfs to the homestead – an undertaking with immediate pluses and future hopes riding upon it – and an investment on every level, one that will root us all the more to our place. We dream of well-rounded children and goat-cheese, and think that is a noble dream! May our cups of wonder be filled to overflowing, if we are true enough to stay the course! Our autumn, mild as mild, has yet provided us with a new season of firsts at Fatima Farm. A handful of bitter-cold mornings, an equal handful of wonderful nights around the bonfire, a bounty of rich colors, crunching leaves beneath our feet, and woodland-smoky aromas all entice us outdoors and further into bosom-friendship with the maturing sun. Our fruit picking, with the exception of a last round of figs, is generally complete – with the pears practically transformed into later flowers for the bees, who buzz and nestle ceaselessly within the over-ripened fruit fallen thickly upon the ground. And this week, after months of diligent care and wondering, we found a single, beautiful little blue egg in the coop, oh frabjous day! We clapped and rejoiced, much as we clapped and rejoiced upon first hearing our budding chanticleer put forth a resounding cockle-doodle do. Recently we planted eight blueberry bushes, one of many childhood dreams it is such a delight for us parents to try to make a reality with our own brood. Much of our work is in preparation for harvests to come, and gladly do we put our hearts and hands to the work, novices that we are! ~ Our First Saturday gathering last weekend brought, too, a much-desired respite from the ill-tidings of the world that threaten – but happily do not wholly succeed – to encroach upon the sacred grounds of our haven. How grateful are we happy few to freely gather and pour out our hearts to Mother Mary! That day, after a morning of pouring rain, the sun broke through the clouds and family and friends joined us to roam and play, converse and pray, feast, make music, and sing. The irresistible refrain of The Ballad of Jesse James was a highlight, drawing a happy crowd of smiling faces, and it continues to be a joy here for dad and mom to hear our boys and girls spontaneously echoing the ballads of a simpler time – or at least a seemingly purer time; a kind of way in which we wish to employ our imaginations and be - as we go about our daily chores and tasks. May the Holy Virgin continue to keep us wrapped in her mantle, accepting our humble offerings, and may we continue to be inspired and committed to doing all things for the glory of her Son, Our Lord!
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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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