The Seventy Sacraments of Ordinary Life

Guess you could say that I "don't know much about theology."

I do know that the Catholic Church acknowledges seven sacraments: Baptism, Eucharist, Reconciliation, Confirmation, Marriage, Holy Orders, and Anointing of the Sick. (And I know this only because I consulted the Great Oracle, Wikipedia.)

No argument here. But I can't help thinking that the sacraments number closer to seventy than seven, that even ordinary, ho-hum life is brimming over with sacramental moments.

Like the sacrament of work. The work that sustains us is certainly a holy thing. The same God who said, "Remember the Sabbath" also said, "Six days you shall labor." The work of the farmer, the weaver, the grocer—the bank clerk, the janitor, the doctor—are they not all sacred and blessed when done well and with a grateful heart? When the dishes are cleaned until they shine, when the fence is mended to be strong and sturdy, surely this is sacramental.

I also find a sacrament in art—creating it, appreciating it, or helping someone else to create it or enjoy it. Bless that priesthood of piano teachers and grade school art teachers who open new windows to the spiritual for children. When the poem is pared until it sings, when the wet clay yields to the potter's hands, this is sacramental. 

And there's the sacrament of service. For all who lay aside, for an hour or a lifetime, their own plans to help someone else--the cake bakers and card senders, the volunteers at the soup kitchen, the guy who stops by the roadside to change your flat tire. Angels, every one.

But there are so many more. 

There's the sacrament of our senses--eyes that really see, ears that really hear--and a heart that counts its treasures in diamonds on morning grass and silver on the undersides of maple leaves. Surely, as a famous poem says, "The world is charged with the grandeur of God"--a beauty that radiates "like shining from shook foil." Gerard Manley Hopkins understood the sacrament of seeing.

I believe there's a sacrament of friendship and a sacrament of parenthood. I have a friend who has devoted years of her life to homeschooling her nephews and to helping them to be all they can be. Daughters, cousins, uncles, grandmothers, boyfriends, mentors, pet-owners -- shouldn't every relationship we have be infused with love, the very nature of God?

Add to these the sacraments of prayer and reflection, the sacraments of birth and of dying, and the simple sacraments of looking at the stars in wonder, or picking peaches from the trees and canning them in clear jars that sparkle in the sun. 

Truly the categories run together like colors in a sunset--until we have to admit that, even when no incense is burning and no choirs are singing, life is itself "an outward and visible sign of inward and spiritual grace."

Seven sacraments? Seventy? Might as well count the sand on the seashore, for life is precious and amazing and delicious--a gift from God. And that's sacramental.

Here's to Dads!

Here’s to dads who stumble out of bed in the cold and dark, get dressed (matching socks optional), scrape ice off the windshield, and brave rush hour traffic to go to work.

Here’s to dads who come home tired at night but still change diapers, help with homework, unclog the toilet, tell bedtime stories, and chase away nightmares.

Here’s to dads with marriage or family problems who seek counseling and show up for the sessions.

Here’s to dads who get help for anger issues, alcoholism, addictions, and post traumatic stress.

Here’s to dads who don’t bail when a child with a disability puts an added stress on the family system.

Here’s to dads who say no to temptation when an office flirt offers what they may not be getting at home.

Here’s to dads who model manhood and fatherhood for their sons and what-a-husband-should-be for their daughters.

Here's to dads who aren't afraid to say, "I don't know." Or "I'm sorry." Or "I love you."

Here’s to dads who do the right thing when no one is looking, when no one thanks them, when it feels like nobody cares.

Here's to dads who don't woose out on child support after a marriage fails.

Here’s to dads who fail but don’t quit, who fall but get back up and try again.

Here’s to the dads who understand that this job of parenting lasts a lifetime—and that's okay with them. They wouldn't have it any other way. 

I Want to Go on Living

Anne woke up early, bubbling with  excitement. Today—June 12, 1942—was her thirteenth birthday. 

A little after seven, she woke her parents, and they watched as she opened presents. A blue blouse, a game, a bottle of grape juice, some flowers. . . .

But her favorite present was a book with blank pages. It was an autograph book, but Anne decided to use it as a diary.

Anne had loving parents, a devoted older sister, and many friends—both boys and girls. But there was one thing she didn’t have—a true friend, someone to share her deepest secrets with. But that changed the day she started her diary. She even gave the diary a name—Kitty.

“Dear Kitty,” wrote Anne. “Paper has more patience than people.” Anne was glad to have someone at last she could talk to about school, boys, and her hopes and dreams.

Anne Frank was a remarkable girl who lived at an extraordinary time. She was a Jewish girl, born in Germany but living in Nazi-occupied Holland. Hitler hated all the Jews, and he made laws to keep them under his thumb. They had to  wear a yellow star for identification. They were forbidden to use bicycles or buses or cars. They were not allowed to do athletics, to attend movies, or to be outdoors after 8:00 pm. 

The Frank House
photo by Massimo Catarinella

And then things got even worse. Anne’s sister Margot received a “call-up notice” from the government. That meant she would be sent away to a work camp. And so Anne’s family—including Anne’s friend Kitty—went into hiding. During their escape, they wore several layers of clothing because they couldn’t risk being seen with a suitcase. Mr. Frank left a note, saying they had gone to Switzerland, in order to confuse the officials. Anne wrote about their daily life in hiding—in some back storerooms of their father’s business.

The Franks lived with another Jewish Family in the “Secret Annex.” The entrance to their hideaway was hidden by a bookcase. They lived in constant fear of capture. Anne wrote that Margot was “forbidden” to cough at night. They covered the windows so that no light could be seen from the street. “Dear Kitty. . .I have plenty of dreams, but the reality is we’ll have to stay here until the war is over. We can’t ever go outside.” 

Anne continued to pour out her soul in her diary:

"I finally realized that I must do my schoolwork to keep from being ignorant, to get on in life, to become a journalist, because that's what I want! I know I can write ..., but it remains to be seen whether I really have talent ...

"I want to be useful or bring enjoyment to all people, even those I've never met. I want to go on living even after my death! And that's why I'm so grateful to God for having given me this gift, which I can use to develop myself and to express all that's inside me!

"When I write I can shake off all my cares. My sorrow disappears, my spirits are revived! But, and that's a big question, will I ever be able to write something great, will I ever become a journalist or a writer?"

Her last diary entry is dated August 4, 1944. On that day, the Franks were discovered and arrested. Anne and Margot died of Typhus in a concentration camp in March of 1946. Anne was only 15 years old.

Later, workers discovered the pages of Anne’s diary strewn across the floor of the Secret Annex. After the war, the pages were given to Anne’s father Otto. As a tribute to his daughter, Otto Frank edited and published the diary. For many people who knew little about the Jewish Holocaust under Hitler, Anne became the face and the voice of these persecuted Jews.

“Dear Kitty . . . It seems to me that later on neither I nor anyone else will be interested in the musings of a thirteen year old schoolgirl.”  

Anne's life was far too short, and yet, even in that short time, she achieved her life's ambition: "I want to go on living, even after my death." 

Little did Anne know that her diary would one day be read around the world, translated into more than 60 languages, and used as inspiration for plays, movies, and music. Anne would be surprised to learn that countless children and adults have been fascinated by her best-selling book, The Diary of a Young Girl.

The First Edition of Anne's Diary

Windy Day Whimsy (for Pentecost)

So what if a big

really big

really really big wind

just whips and whirls

and rips the roof right off your house

and tables and chairs do do-se-do’s

and all your papers, pots, and plans

go tipsy-topsy-turvy

and all that’s false or fearful

funnels right on up the chimney?

What if now your house is full of light

and rivers and rain and stars

and something so so so amazing

you don’t even know its name? 

"Windy Night" by Reene -- Scratchboard

Then what if you speak with tongues of fire,

or what if you can’t speak at all?

What if the neighbors think you’re high

because you waltz with one unseen?

Fear not—

it’s only omnipotence filling your heart

like a clown blowing up a balloon, then whooosh—

you ride the wind on wings of peace.

Welcome, Holy Spirit!  

Godric

Nearly a thousand years ago, there lived a man named Godric. 

He had been a seaman and merchant for many years when he cast anchor at the Island of Lindisfarne. There he had an encounter with St. Cuthbert, an event with such a profound effect that thereafter Godric devoted his life to Christian service. No matter that at the time, St. Cuthbert had been dead for nearly 400 years.

After many religious pilgrimages, Godric became a hermit on the banks of the River Wear—County Durham, England—where he spent the last 60 years of his life. He founded a hermitage dedicated to John the Baptist. Adapting a spartan lifestyle much like we might imagine for John, he lived outside and slept on the ground. Many men sought out this simple man for advice, including Thomas Becket and Pope Alexander III. Godric died on May 21, 1170, at the age of about 105.

The River Wear

I have read two accounts of the life of Godric. One was written by his contemporary, a monk named Reginald of Durham. Reginald visited Godric often and wrote down the history of his life. The other account is Godric, a novel written by Frederick Buechner, published in 1981. 

The first account—Reginald’s—presents Godric as a man so devout you get the impression that as a baby he spat up holy water and raised his pet gerbil from the dead. In Buechner’s novel, you get a very different picture—of Godric as a sinner, deeply in need of grace and deeply grateful to have found it.

"Art is a lie that makes us realize truth," said Picasso—and I must confess that I find more of the truth, more of the man in the novel than in the saint story told by the monk. As a monk, Reginald had trained himself to tune out the world around him, but Buechner, living 900+ years later, is an artist who has tuned in to the twelfth century world of Britain under Norman rule and tuned in to the authentic voice of a man living at that time. . . .

• The heavy air was hard to breathe and swarmed with biting nits. Offal floated in the Tiber where poor folk drank. Dark windows stared at us like empty sockets. Rough stairs and archways beckoned us to evil courts. The reek of dung was everywhere. 

• Here are the sounds of Wear. It rattles stone on stone. It sucks its teeth. It sings. It hisses like the rain. It roars. It laughs. It claps its hands. Sometimes I think it prays. 

• What's prayer? It's shooting shafts into the dark. What mark they strike, if any, who's to say? It's reaching for a hand you cannot touch. 

                                    --quotes from Godric

Finchale Priory on the site
of Godric's hermitage

I celebrate this "unofficial saint" on this, the day of his death, because of the amazing portrayal in Buechner's Pulitzer-Prize-nonimated novel. A New York Times reviewer called Godric "Funny, touching, tender and compassionate . . .unforgettable." It challenges our prim, stained-glass images of holiness and shatters our pompous religiosity. It truly is "art that makes us realize truth."

13th century manuscript of Godric's Songs,
the oldest songs in English
with the original settings

For Special Moms

On Sunday, we honor our mothers, those dedicated women who fed us, changed our diapers, gave us soup and sympathy when we were sick, put band-aids on our boo-boos, comforted us when the goldfish died, quizzed us on our spelling words for school, and baked patriotic-themed cupcakes on short notice (because we forgot) for the Girl Scout bake sale. We can never say enough about these awesome moms.

But although all moms are amazing, on this Mother's Day, I’d like to honor some special moms in special circumstances. Because some moms are even more amazing.

Single moms. Moms who have no choice but to leave their newborns in daycare while they work to support their families. Moms who work all day at a diner or a doctor's office and then come home at night and make supper, supervise homework, and do all the mom-stuff until bedtime and beyond. Moms who never get a break and never get enough sleep. Moms who have to be part mom, part dad. Moms who go hungry so that the children will be fed.

Moms of children with disabilities. This is a special company of moms who have had to rethink their dreams and plans, wrestle with huge theological questions, and turn sacrifice into a daily way of life. Moms who stand up to doctors, school boards, government programs, busy-body neighbors, and even the good church people, to do whatever it takes to help their children with special needs.

Moms who adopt at-risk kids. For those saint-like moms who are willing to be foster or adoptive parents to kids who have been neglected or abandoned by their own families — kids with behavior problems, fetal-alcohol syndrome, or AIDS — kids who have fallen through the cracks of our educational system and social programs. Moms who choose to give their love where it is needed most.

Moms who grieve the loss of a child. I know a woman who lost one of her twins at birth. Some people couldn’t understand why she didn’t just rejoice in the surviving child and get on with her life. A child who dies leaves a forever hole in your heart, and yet, somehow these moms do "get on with it," for the sake of the family, while carrying a secret ache inside and sometimes crying when no one is watching.

Moms with disabilities — moms with multiple sclerosis, leukemia, depression — moms who still strive to be good parents, even though tying a shoe lace or doing laundry is much harder for them than for other people. Moms who put on a brave face and make a superhuman effort to be there for their kids. Moms who give all they can — and then give some more.

These special moms deserve our respect, our appreciation, and a helping hand when we can give it. This Mother's Day, remember the special moms in your family, in your church, in your neighborhood. Let's give them a listening ear and an open heart.

They are Heaven's royalty, queens with invisible crowns. And great is their reward!

Best Moms of Mythology - 2014

Welcome — ladies and gentlemen, gods and goddesses, monsters and mythic creatures — to the annual B-MOM Awards. Yes, it’s time once again to celebrate the Best Moms of Mythology.

[The crowd roars, brays, snorts, and stomps.]

And here she is now, our first nominee for 2014, the one, the only. . .Helen of Troy, most beautiful woman in the world (not counting Jennifer Lopez), even after giving birth to her darling daughter Iphigenia. 

You no doubt read in the tabloids about Helen’s marriage to King Menelaus (rhymes with “chaos”) of Sparta and how the King called all his nobles to a council, making them promise to come to his defense should anything unfortunate befall his blushing bride. Paris, prince of Troy, took one look at Helen and was smitten. He abducted Helen, and Menelaus and his cronies fought the Trojan War to get her back.

If only Paris hadn't posted this picture of the abduction
to Facebook, he might have gotten away with it.

There was blood. There was pain. There were swords clashing and women screaming and a lot of grunting and cussing. It was glorious. . .for the Spartans, who really dug that sort of thing.

So let’s hear it for “the face that launched a thousand ships”—Helen of Troy!

[Whistles and cat calls!]

And now, twirling her dark Dior cloak, here comes Nyx, daughter of Chaos and Darkness, and mother of Destiny! And um, also mother of Fate, Death, Sleep, Pain, Retribution, Deceit, Friendship, Old Age, and Strife. We can only imagine the stretch marks that cloak conceals, and we’re guessing that’s why she opted out of the swimsuit competition earlier today.

Would you believe it? Nyx — aka "Night" — is also the Mother of Day. Nyx resides in an upscale condo in the realm of Tartarus, with a panoramic view of the dark. When Day enters Tartarus, Nyx leaves. When Nyx returns, Day leaves, making family reunions rather problematic.

Purple and red and ready for bed. . .let’s give it up for…yawwwwn. . . Nyx! Why am I so darn sleepy all of a sudden?

[Snoring sounds echo through the hall.]

Ah, and here’s the charming Thetis. Rumor has it that at one time Zeus himself was sending this girl flowers and candy grams, but she spurned his advances. However, when Zeus found out that Thetis was fated to bear a son mightier than his father, he gave her as a bride to Peleus, a heck of a guy but — alas — a mere mortal.

When a son was born to Thetis and Peleus, Thetis became the Patron Saint of Overprotective Moms. Grasping the infant by one foot, she dipped baby Achilles in the river Styx to make him invulnerable. When a seer said her son would die in battle, she disguised the poor kid as a girl and sent him to an island in the Aegean.  When he enlisted in the army anyway, she asked the blacksmith Hephaestus to make a special sword and shield for divine protection.

Despite all this smothering, Achilles fought valiantly in the Trojan War and never again wore a dress (as far as we know). But alas, Thetis had forgotten one eensy little thing. When she dipped her baby in the Styx, she held him by the heel, and so his heel was unprotected. But only his heel, right? Sadly, Achilles bit the dust after Paris’ arrow pierced his heel. I mean, what are the odds?

Hey, at least she tried. So put your hands together for Thetis!

[Faint claps. Some people are still snoring.]

And now, the amazing Leto, goddess of Motherhood — a Lady Titan, bride of Zeus, and mother of famous twins. You will recall that in the talent show, she knit a pair of booties in 12 seconds flat. Very impressive.

When the goddess Hera discovered that Leto was pregnant and that Zeus was the daddy, she got all puffy-eyed and red in the face. She was like "Leto, I forbid you to give birth anywhere on 'terra firma' — the mainland or any island of the sea." Which is just about anywhere and everywhere. Leto fled from town to town, with the jealous Hera in hot pursuit, always driving her on. (It might have helped if Leto had disabled the GPS in her cell phone….)

Now Leto had read What to Expect When You’re Expecting, but “pursuit by an angry goddess” wasn’t in the table of contents. The book said to drink plenty of water. But in Lycia, Leto tried to drink water from a pond, but the peasants stirred up the muddy bottom to make the water undrinkable. (Leto turned them into frogs and kept wandering.) All she wanted was a place to sit in a rocker and knit booties. Finally, Leto was received on Delos, a floating island (and therefore a legal loophole), where she was able to have her babies, Apollo and Artemis.

So how about a nice Olympian hand clap for Lady Leto.

[Loud thunderclap! Crowd stirs and begins singing "We will, we will rock you."]

Thanks for that gesture, Zeus. I think the judges are ready to. . . wait! Oh no! It can't be! Hera has entered the theater and she looks mad. Um, somebody call security! I'm sorry, Ma'am, but you can't just. . . .well, maybe you can. She’s up on the stage, face to face with Leto. 

Hera's driver's license photo

Hera has a sword, and Leto is unarmed. Wait. Apollo has drawn his bow to defend his mother, but can he save her in time?

Oooooooh. That had to hurt. Leto just stabbed Hera with a knitting needle. Hera is crying and wearing a pouty face.

Good jab, Leto. Revenge at last. And our judges have reached their decision. Leto wins this year’s B-MOM Award! I think the bootie-knitting thing really put her over the top.

Achilles' driver's license photo

Congratulations, Leto. Here’s your trophy. 

[Angry shouts, hooves trampling, harpies shrieking...]

And now if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for the usual free-for-all that always follows this event. Achilles, could I borrow that shield, please? No, really. Give it to me. . . .Cut to commercial. Now!

Want to see B-MOM ceremonies from other years?

B-MOM's 2018 - Best Mom's 2018 

B-MOM's 2012 - Best Mom's 2012