November 18, 2014 would have been Tim’s 25th birthday. I have been thinking for a while of a fitting way to honor him on that day. What do you give someone who now has everything his heart could ever desire? Of course, that is what eternity in God’s presence really is!    OK, so it has to be something with eternal significance. But what?

Two thoughts converged together in close proximity. First, Tim just flat out loved babies. Not just his nephews or cousins, but really any baby within holding distance. Maybe it was also a case of innocence appreciating innocence.  Tim loved to hold them, look at them and make them smile. He was particularly adept at that!

Second, he could not wrap his mind around the idea of anyone harming one of these little ones. No doubt that is why he viewed abortion as a great horror. He would take any unwanted babies and make room for them here. Tim’s solution was to ask God to rain down orphans on our house. He literally planned to stand outside with an upended umbrella to catch them. Oh, the sweetness of an innocent mind!

These two thoughts together brought to mind a new initiative that a fellow writer from the Catholic Writers Guild, Charlotte Ostermann, has begun. It is called 50 Million Names and its goal is to bring people of good will together to give names to each of the 50 million and counting tiny girls and boys who have been aborted. Here is Charlotte describing the idea for the National Catholic Register:

 

“To participate in the project, all you do is create a registration on the site,”

http://50millionnames.com/      Ostermann said.

“As soon as the webmaster approves you, you can log in any time and give as many names as you like. We ask that each name be accompanied by a concrete gesture [of charity], in addition to your prayers for this child’s relatives and abortionist. These gestures are meant to create a ripple of effects in the world in honor of a child who was denied the chance to bless this world himself. They are meant to bring our concern from the abstract, conceptual level to the freedom of our own action and creativity.”

 

“For me, the naming of a child individualizes the task of ending abortion,” Katie McCann said. “While we work to end abortion on behalf of every child, I think it’s motivational to think about each of these children as real individuals, rather than as a collective number.”

As Ostermann emphasized, “Violence is not the end of the story! These children exist, and the fact that they are real, unique, unrepeatable and present before the throne of God gives us joy. The gestures given in the names of these children will be a legacy of love that demonstrates our belief in the significance of every human person.”

 

The logo rather brings to mind Tim’s image of a baby in a rain drop, doesn’t it?
50MNP Logo with Tagline 360x360I would love to see the site experience a veritable downpour of activity on November 18. Will you be a part of the storm? I can just imagine Tim’s huge grin! Pass the message along in any way you can think of, please!

On the website after you have chosen your name and gesture add the words,

Happy Birthday, Tim!

In God’s perfect timing there is also a new review of Diary of a Country Mother here:

http://www.carrotsformichaelmas.com/2014/11/13/a-must-read-book-and-giveaway-diary-of-a-country-mother/#comments

Thanks, Haley!

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With our love & prayers for all of you,

Cindy & Andy​ Montanaro

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jR9cei0KTv4&feature=player_detailpage

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The Intimacy of the Human Voice

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Sometimes the immediacy of an email is the right medium to express a hurried thought. At another moment sitting down to write a letter is the best course of action. Then there are times when only the human voice can accomplish a meeting of minds.

My phone rang and a dear friend proceeded to read me a poem that she thought would resonate with me the same way it had with her. I closed my eyes and listened through tears.

Humility

Humility is to be still
under the weathers of God’s will.
It is to have no hurt surprise
when morning’s ruddy promise dies,
when wind and drought destroy, or sweet
spring rains apostatize in sleet,
or when the mind and month remark
a superfluity of dark.
It is to have no troubled care
for human weathers anywhere.
And yet it is to take the good
with the warm hands of gratitude.
Humility is to have place
deep in the secret of God’s face
where one can know, past all surmise,
that God’s great will alone is wise,
where one is loved, where one can trust
a strength not circumscribed by dust.
It is to have a place to hide
when all is hurricane outside.

Jessica Powers (1947- 1984)

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Hospitality and Betrayal

Friday in the Octave of Easter

I have always liked to cook and bake, so it seemed a natural progression to invite others to share in the finished product. After I married and had a home of my own I worked on perfecting the art of hospitality. It is often a work involving many days to get the menu to coincide with a limited budget and the guests’ needs, the flowers and table set and the house tidy enough to feel comfortable inviting guests to come in and sit down and enjoy the bounty.

This month within the space of several weeks we enjoyed guests for a birthday luncheon and then Easter feasting. What a joy it has been!

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Besides the physical components involved in the art of hospitality I have been pondering the whole idea behind the concept. Perhaps it has something to do with my earlier thoughts on Edith Stein and intercession.

This time, though, with Lent so close behind me the thoughts have paired up hospitality and betrayal.

There is a certain opening up of one’s self when an invitation has been offered and the accepted. The guest is met at the door and then brought into the inner sanctum of our home and shown the favor of our ministrations in many large and small ways.

How many times had the apostles and disciples been present at a meal with Jesus? Mostly it was simple fare, but the atmosphere was one of trust and confidence. Until Judas’ final act of betrayal. It is hard for me to fathom this brutal act in light of all that had been offered to him. And not just in the realm of the physical. Christ had given his love, trust, teaching and friendship. How could an apostle who was offered so much turn away his face and betray the Son of God to those who were hunting him?

Ah, but how we all do the very same thing! We who have been invited to the quintessential meal, offered food fit for a king, the very “bread of angels”, betray the host with our sin, come to the meal with dirty hands, forgo the invitation or pay no attention whatever to the host. What’s more he is offering Himself for our sustenance!

It is only a difference of degrees.

May we all strive with a holy strength never to betray this great King and his banquet of love. May we always and ever show Our Lord, the supreme Host, our true thanksgiving for such a great gift.

Then with our souls and hands clean, we may with good conscience follow suit and

“Practice hospitality ungrudgingly to one another”

as we read in the first Letter of Peter from today’s Office of Readings.

May you all take great delight in the feasting as the Octave and the Easter Season continue and may you offer hospitality to many as you ponder the great feast we are offered in our “daily bread”. Amen. Alleluia!

 

 

 

 

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Of Saints and Sufferers

Today, if you were to visit a certain cathedral in the city of Syracuse on the island of Sicily in the country of Italy, you might remember the 7th century St. Zosimus, who was the

bishop of Syracuse for 40Imageyears or so. I, however, was not in Syracuse gazing up at this impressive facade, but inside a chilly church vestibule in western Massachusetts sitting at a table with a small pile of books.

I remembered St. Zosimus, though, as today is his feast day. As some of you might know he is also Tim’s Confirmation patron, and I had ample time to think about both Tim and Zosimus today as I sat at my book table in between Masses, surrounded by a laptop playing the book trailer and a poster-sized copy of the book cover. I had some folks amble over to take a look at my display and sold a few books.

More importantly, though, I met four families who are still in various stages of grief over the loss of their sons. They each had a different story to tell and had found different ways of coping. Each parent, though, had a sustaining faith in God that bolstered them in the dark days. Sometimes it is only possible to muddle along, to pull the shades and pray as one woman said, but the prayer to a loving God who is always there and who loves the little babies, the depressed ones and those sweet men in the grip of addictions outweighs the heavy, pressing down of sadness.

Tonight I pray with the Holy Spirit for peace for all the families and I beg of Tim and Zozimus the grace of remembrance. May they and all those who live in the presence of the Most High rain down on us all the gift of perseverance and of lasting joy.

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Thoughts on a Snowy Day

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It is snowing again. Not surprising for winter in New England. Thankfully I have no place to go today and I can enjoy the beauty from my window and later experience it more personally outside with my shovel.

We are still awaiting the repair on Andy’s truck to be completed which means I have been without a vehicle for many days in the past month. I have tried to use the homebound time to good purpose, finishing up some long-postponed projects and finding others buried under piles.

One little sewing job that I accomplished last week might strike the average person as a bit unusual. I pulled out an envelope from the wooden trunk of Tim’s mementos and found the plain white envelope marked, “Tim’s last haircut”. At the funeral home before securing the top of Tim’s casket, Andy snipped a little clump of hair to save as a family relic. As Tim’s barber it was fitting that he be the one to perform this last service.

In the weeks following the funeral I had made a little brown cloth rectangle to house some of the hair and attached it to my brown scapular so I would have a little piece of Tim close by. For those familiar with the concept of saintly relics in the Catholic tradition, perhaps it does not seem too odd. I lost the last relic, though, sometime in the past year and so set about making a new little cloth envelope to house another few pieces of hair.

I find hand sewing very relaxing and if the house is quiet it provides the perfect moment for meditation. I thought about how dear our family is to us and how deeply we miss those who “have gone before us marked with the sign of faith”.

Pondering this train of thought a bit I remembered a little boy in a Boston hospital that we were praying for. Emails had gone out and were sent around asking others to pray for young Matthew. We could all put ourselves in the place of the parents in their concern for their suffering child.

Later when we heard of Matthew’s death, we all mourned, despite the fact that we had never met this lively ten year old. As a child of God he was another brother, son or friend we had never had the privilege of knowing, but whom love compelled us to pray for.

I remembered the weeks after our son Paul was diagnosed with a brain tumor when he was seven. With no internet then, I made phone calls and sent our postcards to all those on my Christmas Card list begging for the help of their prayers. Everyone was generous, even those who did not know our family. In the attic I still have a box of construction paper pages that children in Argentina made, lettering on them the little sacrifices that they would make for Paul’s recovery.

The prayer of intercession is a necessity for us; part of the design of Christ who admonished us to “love one another as I have loved you.” It is one of those essential components of Christianity without which we cannot enter the kingdom of Heaven. Think of intercession as the act of a spiritual “Good Samaritan”.

In a biography called, Edith Stein, Modern Saint and Martyr, Joanne Mosley writes that St. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross saw intercession as hospitality. She was moved by the plight of the Jewish people in Nazi occupied countries; her people. She considered the Old Testament witness of Queen Esther standing before King Ahasuerus and begging for the deliverance of the Jews. As Esther stood before the King in her bravery, Edith would stand before God interceding that doors of hospitality be open to them. But it was not physical intercession or hospitality that she could offer, but spiritual.  We open up the doors of our hearts to others with the prayer of intercession.

Here is Joanne Mosley explaining:

When Edith stepped out of the parlor, she had welcomed her visitors into ‘the lodgings of [her] heart’; then, before the tabernacle, she handed them over, taking them ‘home to  [her] Saviour’s heart’. And so the chain would continue, Jesus handing over to the Father in turn: ‘He fetches you home to his Father’s kingdom.’ Intercession is hospitality. It is always in movement, it never stops at our door. For our hearts are only ‘lodgings’, temporary shelters on the path to God, our true home. It has been rightly said that without God, we will always be homeless.

In the end, this particular meditation comes back to Tim once more as I set down my needle and thread. It was the poor, little homeless orphans that held Tim’s heart’s door open to intercession.

Dear God,

If you know of any orphans, guide them to homes where people are to take care of them. If there are any around here (Do you know of any orphans around here, Mom?) send them to our house. Help us find space for them and money to buy their clothes and help the prices of food to be low so people could buy food for them.      Amen.

This is how I see Tim begging with the little birdseed of his prayer:

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Another Sad Day in January

January 22nd is always a sober day in which to remember the millions of lives that have been lost since the legalization of abortion in 1973. The statistics themselves are staggering when we consider that close to 57 million babies have been aborted in the 41 years that followed the decision. I read today that the number of abortions in a year in New York City would fill the seating capacity of the Super Bowl stadium in New Jersey, close to 83,000.

It is indeed mind boggling. Yet we need to reflect upon the reality that each individual tiny person is an immense loss in and of themselves, not to mention the impact that they will never have on their families and on our wider society.

May God help us all and may there someday be a generation that will not have to ride buses all day and fill the streets of our nation’s capital with their marching to mark another sorrowful anniversary.

This video gives us a little history and also a little hope:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=ylD7ajPflqo

 

 

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Don’t Cry Over Spilled Milk

( Or banged up trucks, leftover eggnog or bruised pears)

We are having some crazy winter weather, alternating between warm and rainy and cold and icy, with a little snow thrown in for good measure here and there. It makes the decisions about how many sweaters to put on in the morning difficult and it makes us more cautious drivers when we venture to go out.

Last week we had a warm and rainy on Monday and then when everything had turned liquid, a hard freeze the next day. You can imagine the roads. Our son Paul and his family made the trip safely up the hill for our annual Adoption Day celebration, but Andy hit a patch of black ice and spun out not far from home. There were no personal injuries, but the poor, new-to-us, shiny white truck now has some major dents and broken lights after colliding with a tree. Nick was riding with his grandpa and came back full of the experience with conflicting emotions of fear and excitement.

The accident didn’t spoil our traditional pizza and eggnog dinner, though, and we had a noisy family celebration in Tim’s honor. Nobody drank much eggnog and I have come to the conclusion that without Tim here we just might have to scuttle that part of the menu. I could be mildly upset at this, but instead found a recipe this week for a lovely yeast bread that featured eggnog and chopped fruit. Here’s where the bruised pears come in. As I had waited too long to make the poached pears, the fruit had gotten pretty sad looking, so they became the chopped pieces for my bread.

All this is fodder for my meditation as I think about how we use the difficulties and disappointments that come our way on a regular basis.

We could cry over the spilled milk, accidents and food spoiling in our refrigerators but then anger, frustration and loss of our sense of peace would result in our becoming bitter and ugly people and more importantly, destroy our ability to praise God and to thank him.

Have you ever tried to pray when you are angry and upset? It doesn’t go well. We also rub off our negativity on those around us destroying their peace as well. More trouble ensues.

Enter my favorite verse from Romans,

                    ” For those who love God, all things work together for good”.

                                                                                                                                8:18

If we can maintain our peace, despite the circumstances, we have a good shot of remaining in God’s love; keeping it uppermost in our minds and calmly waiting for the good to peek around the corner. Like the eggnog pear bread. It is wonderful toasted with a little melted butter spread thin.

I am still waiting to see how God will bring good from the accident. I am patient!

 

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