What can Lent do for you?

Finding Patrick Madrid's blog here on Blogger led my thoughts back to the days when I was making my way toward Rome, feverishly reading anything and everything I could get my hands on that proposed to teach me about the Catholic Church and what it believed....and why I should believe it, too. I read Catholic books and anti-Catholic books and stood them up against one another to see, in a logical, open-minded way, which side was right and which side was wrong, and, well, I guess you know what I found out.

In the midst of all this reading, I was experiencing Lent for the first time since my Episcopalian childhood. My family moved on to a charismatic evangelical denomination when I was around thirteen or fourteen years old, and such liturgical notions were not observed by anyone, but I didn't know just how much they weren't observed until one particular Sunday.

By the time the pastor of the church preached this sermon, I was already well on my way. I'd even been to his office to talk to him several times about why I felt this uncanny pull toward something that was "so obviously not right" (oh, I was kidding myself....I knew it was right, all right; I was just wrestling with how to break it to others, namely my husband and my parents). The pastor, not unnaturally, was agreeing with me: "This can't be the Holy Spirit calling you, because why would He want you to go backwards in your faith?"

Which brings to mind something else I found out during that journey across the Tiber: There is no one with his mind more firmly shut -- welded and then sealed in a lead vault -- that the committed Protestant evangelical who won't read anything about the Catholic Church for fear of finding out that he's been wrong.

But I digress.

Anyway, during that particular sermon, I was electrified when the pastor said, in a scoffing, dismissive tone, "What about all those people out there who are going through Lent right now? Could there be anything more useless in proving to God that you are good enough by 'giving something up'? How could that possibly matter to God? He doesn't need your sacrifices. It doesn't help God if you decide not to eat candy for six weeks."

Yeah, I know. I was gobsmacked by this idiocy, too, particularly since so much was made in this church about how this pastor was a Bible scholar of insanely high merit. Spent hours in prayer every morning. Graduated from Bible college summa cum laude. Devoted huge amount of time to study of the Holy Word, blah blah blah.

How could you be so smart and miss something so fundamental to the Christian faith? I mean, even if you aren't a Catholic or one of the Protestant denominations that observe Lent, how could you miss this? I suppose if you were blindly determined to view the issue of whether or not God "needs" our sacrifices from the most superficial level, you could cobble together some sort of dubious argument to defend your toenails-deep position, but coming from a Bible scholar, this was an astounding pronouncement.

First of all, since God, as the Scripture tells us, famously owns the "cattle on a thousand hills," He strictly doesn't "need" much of anything from us of a material nature. And God is still going to be God whether or not I stop eating cookies for the forty days (excluding Sundays, which are always days of celebration) before Easter. One Do-Si-Do more or less is not going to shift Him off His throne.

But spiritually, that is another matter altogether. When Jesus made His ultimate sacrifice to save us from death, He did it voluntarily. He deliberately took on something that was going to extract a certain cost from Him, and that is exactly the example the faithful are meant to follow. We can offer sacrifices to God at any time of the year, of course, but the amazing thing about Lent is that we can all do it together, through Him, with Him and in Him.

There are probably some who would take great offense at my likening Jesus's death on the cross to giving up sweets, but I will tell you that the very act of voluntarily giving up any pleasure -- it doesn't have to be goodies; it could be just about any simple pleasure that a particular person deeply enjoys, and it doesn't have to be food-related -- is a small martyrdom, a giving of self in an effort of self-discipline that we don't often lend ourselves to.

And isn't self-discipline and self-denial one of the very hallmarks of our faith? Jesus says in Mark 8:34-37:

He summoned the crowd with his disciples and said to them, "Whoever wishes
to come after me must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me. For
whoever wishes to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my
sake and that of the gospel will save it. What profit is there for one to gain
the whole world and forfeit his life? What could one give in exchange for his
life?

This sums up the entire purpose of Lenten sacrifices: We take up our crosses. We learn to say YES to His will and NO to ours. We give our lives to Him in a series of gestures over the years that seem so small if you look at them with a cynical eye that tells you that God doesn't give a hoot if you decide not to watch basketball during March Madness.

Can we be saved without making these sacrifices? Well, sure. But without the sacrifices deliberately chosen to mortify our selfish flesh, our relationship with our Savior is going to be so much less than it could be. If all you ever recognize in Jesus is Easter Sunday, you're missing something elemental to who He is to you and for you. It's only in accepting the spiritual and physical realities of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and Holy Saturday that you can hope to have any depth at all. I can't tell you how much more right it feels to celebrate Easter after forty days of sacrifice and the challenges of those three somber days.

The sacrifices of Lent, combined with the other two strictures of prayer and almsgiving, should help move us to a closer relationship with our Lord. We're meant to carry on that spirit of self-discipline and self-denial into the rest of the year with us, with the result being that every Lent we experience should be a more profound time of spiritual growth, a yearly evaluation of where we stand with Him. Because one of the great spiritual truths that I did learn at that charismatic evangelical church is this: If you're not moving forward on the upward, rocky path of Christian life, you're moving backward. There's no such thing as standing still.

So. What can Lent do for you? Give up something you really enjoy -- REALLY ENJOY, not just something you feel so-so about -- and learn about simple self-denial. I guarantee that if you do that, you'll find yourself being tested by your own selfish desires almost immediately: in our home, candy, Ho-Ho's, Zingers and maybe even those nasty fruit roll-up things have never looked so scrumptious. My husband gave up all sweets for the first time this year and miserably told me yesterday evening, "The world is FULL OF COOKIES and we've only been doing this for TWO DAYS."

Combine that self-denial with some extra prayer: If you already set aside a certain amount of time for daily devotions, set aside an extra fifteen minutes. If you already read one chapter of the Bible every day, read two chapters. If you gave up a certain television show, spend the time that that show airs in reading your Bible or praying or both. If you've never prayed a daily rosary, start now. Your efforts at self-denial will somehow meld together with your efforts to draw nearer to Him in prayer and you will be surprised at how your heart will be drawn into His.

Add to that some almsgiving: Put an extra amount of money in the offering plate. Combine almsgiving with sacrifice by giving to your church the money that you ordinarily spend on fancy coffees during the week. When you're doing the weekly grocery shopping, pick up a few extra items -- a box of this, a can of that, a jar of something else -- and store them in a box until Lent ends, and then donate them to a soup kitchen or a food pantry. You'll be surprised at how much food that turns out to be.

Do all these things realizing that God always meets us MORE than halfway. In the fourth chapter of James' letter, he tells us one of the greatest truths a person can ever experience: "Draw near to God, and he will draw near to you."

He will. No matter how silly the whole process may seem to others, it means a lot to Him.

Patrick Madrid has a blog here on Blogger!

Patrick Madrid is one of my favorite Catholic apologists, the editor of the Surprised by Truth series which was so inspirational in giving me a jumping-off point for further study as I read my way into the Catholic Church. Until I read those books (and got to know a few Catholics, incidentally), I didn't know that I was contemplating doing something that thousands -- millions -- of people are doing every year and that for every disgruntled, disaffected Catholic who is tired of being bossed, there is another individual who embraces the Church with joy unspeakable.

His blog can be found here on Blogger, with mine! Well, sort of. In proximity. Somewhat nearby-ish. My blog bows to his blog and stands up to give it a seat on a crowded crosstown bus.

RECIPE: Pat & Angie's Queso con Carne

Pat and Angie often bring this queso dip to family gatherings: It is the most widely-requested food item that appears at such celebrations as birthday parties, Christmas Eve snack time and the occasional Mexican Feast. It is just sooooo gooood.

They generously shared the recipe with me recently, so I thought I'd share it with all of you. Serve it with warm, salty tortilla chips and a side of sliced jalapeño peppers.

PAT & ANGIE'S QUESO CON CARNE

2 # ground beef, browned, rinsed and drained*

2 packets Old El Paso Hot & Spicy Taco Seasoning Mix

1 box Velveeta cheese, cut into cubes

1 24-oz bottle Pace Medium Salsa


Mix browned, rinsed and drained ground beef in a skillet with the taco seasoning mix according to the directions on the packets. Allow to simmer on low heat for ten minutes.

Meanwhile, coat a slow-cooker's crock with non-stick spray; pour in salsa. Toss in the cubes of Velveeta on the salsa; add the simmered ground beef on top. Heat on LOW for approximately two hours, stir, and serve with warm tortilla chips.


*In my mind, it is absolutely imperative to rinse the ground beef very well with hot water and then drain off the water and grease together. Otherwise, you will end up with a queso dip that has a layer of unappetizing orange grease in it. Yuck.

Fear and loathing at the public library

I went to the library last week to pick up another gargantuan stack of books to read and two very odd things happened while I was there.

1) Last summer, the library installed two confoundedly annoying U-Scan stations so that now, instead of being greeted at the check-out desk by a smiling library employee who passes the time of day with you while scanning and "de-sensitizing" your reading material, you now approach a computerized area that refuses to acknowledge your library card, stubbornly denies de-sensitization of your books so that the alarms will go off when you try to leave and generally makes your life just a little more difficult.

I almost always use the U-Scans when I go, even though I HATE THEM, because the people who borrow DVDs from the library have completely co-opted all human beings behind the desk for the purposes of checking out their eight million movies -- what do those people do with their time, other than watch movies? DVDs and videos can only be checked out for a week, and if you come up to the circulation desk with, say, fifteen movies, I have to wonder if you even have enough free time to sleep or eat a sandwich.

So, harboring bitterness in my heart, I took my ten books to the U-Scan and started TRYING to run them through. First, the computer wouldn't read my card. Then, it wouldn't acknowledge the UPC codes on my books. Then, it wouldn't de-sensitize the magnetic area on the spine. I wanted to hurl every book I had at that monitor screen, swearing vigorously under my breath because? It's rude to talk loudly at the library.

Finally, a woman behind the counter said to me, "Do you need some help?" She was wearing a severe dark business suit, different from the other employees, who generally favor a business-casual sort of look.

I smiled at her. "Oh, yes. I just can't get the hang of these things. They're kind of a pain." [NOTE: I have said the same thing to other library employees since the U-Scans were installed and have been met with fervent agreement.)

"Only for you," Ms. Business Suit said.

I eyed her for a momen and then did something I usually don't do: I sassed her. I drew myself up to my full height, tossed my head and said with a chilly inflection, "Perhaps I shouldn't have pursued that Bachelor's degree in English literature. Maybe I would have been better off majoring in library book scanning." *

She had the grace to look discomfited, as if suddenly realizing that insulting library patrons was not in the best interest of its employees. "That came out wrong," she amended. She was trying to scan my card and the bar codes of my books and was having about as much luck as I'd had, which just GOES TO PROVE, doesn't it?

Between the two of us big dummies, me with the university degree in English literature and her with the university degree in library science, finally got all my books properly checked out. I bagged them and sailed out the door with the bulky grace of the Queen Mary headed out to sea, my nose in the air.

Unfortunately, my nose was at such a tilt, when I pressed the unlock button on my key fob, I heard the van's doors unlock, but I didn't actually see them. But I was right there in the front row, so it really didn't matter, or so I thought. I slid open the rear driver's side door, put in my heavy bag of books, slammed the door shut and then got in the driver's seat.

I was still feeling a little testy, so I was only irked further when my key wouldn't work in the ignition. "Stupid....key....turn.....on....the....car!" I fumed. I took my keys out of the ignition, suddenly realizing that I was probably using the Blazer's key, but when I jerked them out of the ignition, I dropped them on the floor, right on top of my Bon Jovi CD. "But I don't have a Bon Jovi CD," I said to myself, puzzled, picking up my keys.

Then I looked around the van, which was exactly the same as it always was, except for the fact that it had grown a very nice, highly-polished wood grain dashboard while I was gone. "Gosh, I've been driving this van for eight years and I never noticed that wood grain dash before," I marveled. It looked so nice. As I was sitting there admiring it, I also noticed that instead of a blue bead rosary hanging from the rear-view mirror, the rosary was white and silver. Hmmm...

You're probably wondering why I didn't figure this out sooner, aren't you? Somewhere back around the time of the Bon Jovi CD that magically appeared on my floor?

"OH! MY! GOSSSSSSHHHHHHH!!!!" I shrieked, grabbing my purse and launching myself outside That Other Person's van before he or she came back out and saw me loitering in the front seat, eyeballing their woody dash. You know how it is when you do something stupid in public, though: You feel that every eye in the tri-county area is firmly fixed on you and your flaming face, or at least that's how I feel, although certain people in my family have taken pains to assure me that no one really cares what I'm doing at any given time, seeing as how the axis on the earth doesn't run through the middle of my head. I hastily retrieved my books from the back seat and carried them two vehicle over to Anne, who was sitting there with a broad smile on her grill.

"I meant to do that," I assured her, sinking into my accustomed seat and noting the non-wooden dash and the Story of Mendelssohn CD on the floor. After that, I just couldn't get out of there, like, fast enough. That was PLENTY of humiliation for one day.



*A week later, I took this incident to confession and never mind all that happened, just let it be known that I often fight the sin of pridefulness and I did my penance accordingly. Arrrgh....

Poor little lintless things

I was out the door at 9:30 this morning to run a bunch of critical errands -- bank, post office, gas station, grocery, etc. -- and was confronted with what looked to be about a quarter inch of frost all over the van's windows. I turned it on to warm up, with the front and rear defrosters blazing away and got smartly down to business with the scraper and brush.

While I was scratching away at the glass, I stopped and listened to a familiar yet still unexpected sound. Bird song! It sounded so sweet, coming from everywhere around me, peeping, cheeping, chirping and tweeting. I know much of it must be coming from the robins I've been seeing about the place: on a bare branch rocking in a chilly breeze, flying with a wisp of something-or-other in a beak for purposes of nest construction, strutting in their cheeky fashion on the grass while hoping to find wormsicles in the yard. Spring IS coming, it really is!

But gosh, those poor little birds. Surely they couldn't have thought that spring was actually here yet, in this benighted place where it is not unknown for us to have a brief, dramatic snowfall in the first week of April. I've been thinking of laying out the dryer lint for them, in the hopes that they can make their new nests cozy and warm.

My husband thinks I've lost my mind and I suspect him of sneaking out to the dryer when I'm not looking and gathering up the lint before I have a chance to get to it.

Chinese pug butterball puppies

I found this video at YouTube.com and just COULD NOT RESIST the ineffable fatness of these two pug puppies. They are so adorable wandering around in the great, unexplored wilderness of their mom's living room. Oooh, look! A coffee table!

Ouch [grumble, grumble...]

You know how every once in a while -- or more often than you ever dreamed, if you have two dogs -- you have to put that wand attachment on the sweeper hose, only the wand isn't magic, so you have to do all the work yourself? And you know how you have to use it along all the baseboards in the house to remove dust and bits of pet fluff so that your mother won't start crying that she doesn't know where she went wrong because she didn't raise you in a barn, whenever she comes to visit?

Well, today, I got my housecleaning freak on and went all over the downstairs with my non-magic wand, all hunched over and dragging the sweeper along, bumpity-bump behind me and now my back hurts as if I'd just carried Arnold Schwartzenegger around like a great big papoose all afternoon and all I have to say is that there is perfect sense in the slogan on a bumper sticker I read the other day:

HOUSE CLEANING WON'T KILL YOU,

BUT WHY RUN THE RISK?

Indeed.

Bad Catholics

One of the hardest things I have to explain about our Catholic faith to my children is not the truth of the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist or the infallibility of the Pope -- they understood those things with the childlike faith Jesus would like all of us to have, along with a healthy dose of realizing that in the case of the Real Presence, we have no business telling God what He can or cannot do and if He says "My flesh is real food and my blood is real drink," (John 6:47-71) we need to just accept the fact that He knows what he's doing and move on; and in the second case, that the Pope is only infallible when teaching about matters of faith or morals, not in predicting the Powerball jackpot numbers or the local weather forecast in Vatican City.

The hardest thing I have to explain to Meelyn and Aisling is about Bad Catholics.

Bad Catholics seem to abound these days, with the most visible among them being the ones involved in politics. Oh, it would be lovely if every Catholic politician was a Rick Santorum, former Senator from Pennsylvania. I've been very thankful that five of the nine United States Supreme Court justices are Catholics, and seem to be reliably conservative so that they don't shame the rest of us with their freakish pronouncements. Since the most prominent Bad Catholics today are nearly all Democrats (and that should tell you something, shouldn't it?), they're getting a lot of press.

As I write this article, Nancy Pelosi, one of the Baddest Catholics out there, has just met with the Pope -- apparently, she didn't burst into flame, so I'm assuming it took place somewehere removed from the Blessed Sacrament -- in a fifteen-minute meeting in which I hope he roundly excoriated her for her Bad Catholic hijinks, which include her ongoing support of abortion at all stages of pregnancy, and her more recent idiocy in which she said that monies artificial birth control should be included in Barack Obama's stimulus plan because we all know that babies grow up to be children and children are a severe drain on the nation's health care and educational resources. Thank goodness that got shot down, with even Barack himself demurring.

How do you explain things like this to teenage kids? How do you explain that one of the most powerful people in the country, the Speaker of the United States House of Representatives, is a Bad Catholic and that, in spite of her fame (notoriety?) and position, she should be completely dismissed as a role model and I don't care how far she's "advanced the interests of women" in our country because if you can't even get it right with your own religion that you claim to be so devoted to, how could you possibly be expected to get it right anywhere else?

When it comes to explaining things like this, there are some -- and they usually seem to be liberals -- who like to triumphantly fling around the only Bible verse they apparently know, which is Matthew 7:1-5:

"Stop judging, that you may not be judged. For as you judge, so will you be
judged, and the measure with which you measure will be measured out to
you. Why do you notice the splinter in your brother's eye, but do not
perceive the wooden beam in your own eye? How can you say to your brother, 'Let
me remove that splinter from your eye,' while the wooden beam is in your eye?
You hypocrite, remove the wooden beam from your eye first; then you will see
clearly to remove the splinter from your brother's eye."

But really, as you read this, the only way you could ever conclude that Jesus doesn't want us to judge anyone or anything is if you purposely ignored the many other verses in the Bible that support the idea of judging people and situations. For instance, just a little bit farther on in that very same chapter, Matthew 7:15-20, Jesus says this:

"Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep's clothing, but
underneath are ravenous wolves. By their fruits you will know them. Do people
pick grapes from thornbushes, or figs from thistles? Just so, every good tree
bears good fruit, and a rotten tree bears bad fruit. A good tree cannot
bear bad fruit, nor can a rotten tree bear good fruit. Every tree that does
not bear good fruit will be cut down and thrown into the fire. So by their
fruits you will know them."

Isn't He telling us there to judge? How else will we know false prophets if we don't weigh the evidence of their words and decide whether the fruit they're producing is good or bad?

How will we know the good politicians? The good pastors? Potential spouses? How will we know anything at all if we don't exercise some judgment? Are we meant to just blunder stupidly through life, accepting at face value everything that everyone tells us?

Keeping this in mind, I think it's only prudent to point out to impressionable teenagers that not every Catholic is worthy of the name; that some aren't religious people at all, but call themselves "Catholic" because Catholicism is part of the ethnic culture in which they were raised, and really has nothing to do with the dogma and doctrines of our faith, or even anything as simple as attending Mass on Sundays, which is not optional.

I think the key here might be in knowing beyond a doubt that there are some people who would consider me and my husband bad Catholics: we drink beer; I wear pants; we might say naughty words when we stub our toes, depending upon the level of pain we're experiencing. We have to remember to be humble in our judgment and not feel that we have achieved perfection of any sort.

But back to the Bad Catholics, the ones who veer so far from Catholic teaching that they bring scandal to their fellow members of the Body of Christ. We have to teach our children to make sound judgments on their characters. And above all, we must make sure our children know that the reception of Holy Communion when in violation of a basic tenet of the Catholic faith is a grave sin.

There was a time when I would have confidently stated that you only had to pay attention to whether the person in question was a Republican or a Democrat, but then I grew up. It would be nice to tidy everyone away so neatly into their separate boxes, but then where in the world would you put Rudy Giuliani? When the campaigning for the nomination for the Republican presidential candidate was still underway, I shook my head every time someone asked me if I would vote for Giuliani if he got the nomination. There is no way I could do that, I told people. I would be a complete hypocrite. If I refused to vote for Democrat Catholic John Kerry, an supporter of a woman's right to choose to kill her unborn baby, how in the world could I vote for Republican Catholic Rudolph Giuliani, also a believer in that very same issue?

People pointed out that Rudy Giuliani was a strong and fabulous leader in the aftermath of 9-11, going to something like three hundred different funeral Masses for fallen firefighters and police officers. I commend him for that, I truly do. That must have been emotionally and physically exhausting, especially considering all the other things he was doing other than going to all those different parishes, each with its own set of grieving families to meet. But I can't get past his stance on abortion, and no good Catholic should.

Thankfully, we were all spared having to deal with that problem.

Vice President Joe Biden is another Catholic supporter of abortion rights, as are former senator Tom Daschle, Senator Edward Kennedy and a bevy of others, most of whom have attempted to defend the indefensible by spouting some kind of nonsense that proposes that while they, themselves, would not get an abortion or help someone procure one, they simply can't deny that right to other people and impose their religious values on someone else.

Why not?

To me, those politicans seem to be saying that they purposely raised money for a campaign, spent unbelieveable amounts of that money plus their own personal time on the trail in the hopes of getting elected, and then got elected for the sole purpose of....representing people with whom they are in violent disagreement on what, to them, is a basic human rights issue?

Does that make sense?

I could also argue that people who say that they can't impose their religion on others and that their faith is a personal matter that has nothing to do with their professional lives are the kind of people who tend to show up when the poinsettias are banked around the altar at Christmas and the lilies make their appearance at Easter. To folks who are truly religious -- in the sense of having a personal, daily relationship with Jesus Christ that goes beyond pew-warming -- that religion is a fundamental part of who they are, and they could no more separate that personal part of their lives from the professional side any more than they could decide to use their lungs only on Sunday mornings from 9:00 'til 10:15. It just couldn't be done.

Mentioning Sunday mornings brings me to another area where Bad Catholics can be observed, and that is vested and standing at the altar. It shouldn't be a shock to any thinking person that there could actually be bad priests or bishops, but hello? Consider the Last Supper. All those disciples who attended that Passover meal were all about lovin' the Lord, but where were they later on that evening?

One completely betrayed Him.

One denied Him, not just once, but three times.

Ten fled and hid in fear of their lives.

One stayed with Him until the end.

Those aren't real inspiring odds, my friends. And when you think that those were the men who knew Jesus in person, who lived and walked and worked with Him every day for three years, why would we ever expect perfection in our leaders, who are descended from those same twelve men in apostolic succession?

So how do you know a bad priest or bishop? You can look right back to the seventh chapter of Matthew's gospel to know that: You know them by their fruit.

There is a priest here in our area who has just taken over a second parish due to the retirement of that parish's priest. Ever since Priest #1 has taken over, attendance has fallen off and the offerings are down so far, the parish is having difficulty paying the staff's salaries and even in keeping up with the utility bills.

You might wonder if all this is just because Priest #2 was such a beloved shepherd of his flock (which he was) and that people have just moved on to other parishes -- I think there must be at least twelve within a half hour's drive -- to find a new parish, but that kinds of begs the question Why not just stay here and learn to love Priest #1?

The reason why is because they already know Priest #1. Our city is not that large, and when there are two big Catholic parishes to choose from, it seems to fall that more liberal people go to Priest #1's church and the more conservative, orthodox people go to Priest #2's. Now that Priest #1 is the one-and-only, people are fleeing as if from the plague, which it is.

My family attended the parish where Priest #1 recently took over (not our home parish, but one that is close to our house) around Epiphany and my husband and I nearly came unglued when this priest casually said during his homily, "We don't know if Jesus was really born in Bethlehem or not. Some people feel that Matthew just wrote that because he wanted to make sure that Jesus' story matched up with all the prophecies from the Old Testament."

WHAT THE HELL??!!

I sat bolt upright and looked at my husband, who looked back at me with his jaw clenched. I whispered incredulously, "Is that PRIEST casting doubts on the inerrancy of Holy Scripture??!!" My husband nodded his head three times, his ears turning red. I looked over at Meelyn and Aisling and said firmly, sotto voce, "DO NOT LISTEN TO ANYTHING THIS MAN SAYS." They nodded solemnly and later on we talked it all over and agreed that there was a decided necessity to pray for Father, who is so busily teaching people to doubt the divine inspiration of the Bible. (For information on what the Catholic Church does believe about divine inspiration, you can go to the Vatican website and search for Pope Leo XIII's Providentissimus Deus (dealing with the study of Sacred Scripture), Pope Pius XII's Divino Afflante Spiritu (dealing with the promotion of biblical studies); Dei Verbum, Vatican II's Dogmatic Constitution on Divine Revelation, and the Catechism of the Catholic Church, paragraphs 74-141. Don't worry, all this stuff is in English.)

A few weeks later, my husband was attending the Vigil Mass at that same parish and Priest #1's homily was so outrageous that my husband stood to his feet and walked out of the church, right down the center aisle. Priest #1 has been judged by his fruits and it is pretty obvious -- just as obvious as the Barack Obama bumper sticker on the back of his car -- that his fruit is bitter and withered and unworthy for consumption. No wonder people are leaving.

My husband and I were received into the Church during its biggest scandal of the century, that of the homosexual priests and their repellent and abusive relationships with teenage boys. In spite of some new and gloating story appearing in the press nearly every day, we went on our way undeterred. "How can you even think of joing THAT CHURCH?" several people asked us along our journey.

The answer was very simple: We weren't joining THAT CHURCH because of anything that people did. We didn't even know any Catholics at the beginning of our conversion; there was not one single person in the world we could point to and say, "We want to be Catholics because of him/her." In our conversion, which is a fairly dramatic story, our sole focus was on Jesus and what He wanted of us, where He wanted to take us and the renewal of hope He had in store for us.

Like many other American Christians, we learned a long time ago that putting your faith in any person other than the Savior is a big mistake. Consider Jim and Tammy Bakker duping their followers out of millions; Jimmy Swaggart and his frolicking with prostitutes; Oral Roberts and Pat Robertson and their mad pronouncements; even lesser media-blitzed scandals like Larry and Melva Lea's now-defunct ministry. A single glance at any of those people ought to be a good warning to never to put your faith in people, because sometimes, people really suck.

We became Catholics because of a strong conviction, both spiritual and historical, that the Catholic Church was the one founded by Jesus Christ Himself, guided and protected by the Holy Spirit, watched over with loving care by the Heavenly Father. Not because we liked the Pope, although we did. Not because we supported the good priests who were so embattled in that scandal (the priest at our own parish church was refused service in a restaurant because he went in for dinner with his parents while dressed in his clericals), although we did. We didn't join because of strong youth programs or brand-new facilities.

We joined because of Jesus, in hope that He, with His daily guidance, could show us how to be the best Catholics we are capable of being as we climb the steep and narrow path of salvation.

So, Bad Catholics? They're out there. We have to watch out for them. We have to look at the fruit they're bearing and decide if they're worthy of our time and attention, or if they're going to draw us farther away from the faith that has set us free. We have to judge. We have to teach our kids, and above all, we have to teach it to ourselves and form our consciences according to the tenets of our faith, so that we'll know when the sacred is being violated by human pride, disdain and sophistry. Otherwise, we may well be promoting just one more generation of Bad Catholics.

All in good fun

Several of you readers anxiously emailed me to make sure that my brother, Pat, and I weren't developing some awful family rift that would result in cold glares over the Thanksgiving turkey and an inability for me to be able to see my nephews, Kieren and Dayden, and my niece, Kiersi, as much as I'd like.

I thought those emails were very sweet and I want to put your minds at rest: Everything I wrote about Pat, Angie and my husband calling me a stalker was all just teasing, all in good fun. Our family relationships, including Nanny and Poppy, involve a lot of good-natured bantering that has absolutely no malice involved, so set your minds at rest. I still don't see the kids as much as I'd like, because truth be told, I'd be glad to see them every day, but I wouldn't mind seeing Pat and Angie every day either, so it's all good.

I am NOT a stalker

Okay, here's the thing I did the other day that had my husband, my brother and my sister-in-law zinging all over me on Friday night, throwing around words like "stalker" and "possible molester" and "too frigging nice." They are a bunch of humorless bullies who obviously have no joy in their shriveled up, stone cold hearts while I am a glorious glowing goddess of gracious and generous goodwill to all and every time I burp, little pink hearts come out of my mouth and fly into the air like soap bubbles.

Through the generosity of Carol, WHO IS MY NICEST RELATIVE, Meelyn, Aisling, my husband and I were able to go out to dinner the other night. We elected to go to Golden Corral, which is one of my guiltiest pleasures: guilty, because it really just couldn't be much tackier, with its plastic plants and plastic plates and enormous buffet which is a monument to American gluttony, but a pleasure because 1) it is not ruinously expensive for a family of four to eat there; and 2) the food is amazingly good. Seriously. I mean, it's good if you like down home comfort food. You are not going to find coq au vin or any of that stuff the girls and I made last summer for Whisk Wednesdays out of the Le Cordon Bleu at Home cookbook. But if you like a salad with lots of different toppings to choose from, and fried shrimp and pork loin and mashed potatoes and cabbage au gratin and buttery corn and warm dinner rolls and bread pudding and Boston cream pie and...and....and....

Well, if you like all those things, you can find them at Golden Corral. I shut my eyes to the tawdry decor and wield a bottle of Heinz 57 (which I would eat on birthday cake) like a pro.

A couple of tables away, there were a husband and wife and their two young kids, who were absolutely adorable. The kids looked to be about seven (boy) and five years old (girl), and they were well behaved and cheerful and the whole family just warmed my loving heart. The little girl was particularly cute and had a husky belly laugh that rang out several times, making all of us at my table smile. The four of us at our table were having a very nice meal and I was feeling so very fond of Carol for surprising us with the money for a nice treat, so there was just a spirit of magnanimity in the air.

When we got up to leave, that family was leaving too. I put on my coat and picked up my purse and, as I walked past that little group on my way to the door, I said to the parents, "Your children are absolutely adorable."

They both smiled and said thank you and I walked on and THAT WAS IT. I did not engage them in conversation. I did not interrupt their meal. I did not grab their daughter, tuck her under my arm like a football, and sprint for the exit. I did not lean in and whisper "I see dead people" or "I know what you did last summer" or anything like that.

I complimented their children and WALKED ON.

So why my husband felt it was necessary to throw me under the bus and tell Pat and Angie that I had practically grabbed that woman's face in my two hands and squished it until she looked like a salmon and breathed my blue cheese dressing breath into her nostrils and demanded that she empty her wallet of all pictures of her offspring so that I could take them home and pin them up on the wall behind the shrine to my friend, Satan, I don't know. But I do know that I indignantly called him a twerp and maybe a few other things that I can't repeat on a family blog.

Pat and Angie were all, like, "Eeewww, you're so weird. Why do you talk to strangers? Why do you talk at all? Why can't you be more like us and be all reserved and quiet and just mind your own beeswax when you're out in public?"

I swear they acted like I'd just shown my boobs to some guy with a camera phone in a wild Mardi Gras parade in New Orleans.

Hurt, I said, "I am a friendly person and I like to take the chance to spread a little LOVE in this bitter world."

Pat snorted. "No, it's more like you want to get involved in other people's lives because you're all, like, bossy."

I raised my eyebrows. "And you aren't?"

"I am bossy at work because I am the boss," he said with dignity.

"Eye em bossee at wurrrk becuz eye em the boss," I mocked him in a high-pitched voice.

"Oh, that is very mature." The kids all snickered.

"Ohh, that eez very maaaachurrrrr!"

"Okay, you two," Angie said, breaking up what was looking to be a very good slanging match. Pat and I retreated to our corners, disappointed, but my husband just hadn't yet had enough. He's kind of like Grima Wormtongue in Lord of the Rings, that spooky dude who tried to cause trouble between King Theoden and his niece and nephew, Heowyn and Eomer. I have watched those movies many times, so just shut up.

"She does that everywhere we go," he said. Angie and Pat both looked at me again and I sensed that I was losing Angie to the dark side.

"Everywhere?" she asked.

"Everywhere," my husband affirmed.

"You are kind of a stalker," she told me with a little giggle.

"People are probably snapping pictures with the cell phone cameras and posting them all over the internet and in post offices throughout the tri-county area: 'Beware this excessively cheery woman who compliments your kids!'" Pat said, pantomiming the actions of someone furtively snapping my photograph and then pinning up a poster.

"I am a NICE PERSON," I said heatedly.

"Yeah, sure," said Pat. "All I'm sayin' is just don't be coming around my table and telling me my kids are cute."

"Gee, thanks, Dad," said Kieren.

I sighed. "I know he's your dad, but just try to ignore him."

"He doesn't make it easy."

I turned a baleful glare on my brother. "And yet he claims that I am the stalker."

"You are so a stalker," Pat said, putting on his coat. "And maybe a white slaver or something. Hey, by the way, thanks for taking care of the kids. 'Preciate it."

"Go with God," I said grumpily, walking them to the door, where I resisted the urgent desire to give him a kick in the butt as he left. And if that's not an example of how pure-hearted a Christian I am, then I'd like to know what is, after the grief they all put me through.

Happy Valentine's Day

We had a lovely time last night with the kids. Kiersi did fall asleep in the van as we drove the twenty minutes to pick up the boys from school - one moment, she was singing some song she learned at nursery school at the top of her lungs, the next minute she was completely silent as if she'd been unplugged.

"She seems a bit tired," I remarked, looking in the rear-view mirror at Kiersi's little head tipped backwards, her mouth open and her eyes squeezed shut so tightly, it gave the impression of giving great energy even to sleep.

We pulled up under the Meeting Tree at Kieren's school and he came loping out like a cool guy in a brown corduroy jacket. "Hey!" he said, getting into the van.

"How was your day?" I asked, backing out of the parking space.

"Oh, you know...." he said vaguely. "Just...."

"Schoolish?"

"Yes, schoolish. Long week. Glad it's over."

Dayden's school is right next door, so we zoomed over there and Kieren went in to get him. Dayden came running out ahead, grasping a backpack in one hand and a bag of candy that looked like it weighed about two pounds. His hair was considerably shorter than when I'd seen him about two weeks ago; Pat warned me ahead of time that Dayden had decided the evening before to cut his own hair, starting with his bangs. Apparently, he cut them off right next to the hairline, which necessitated a panic-drive to a hair salon, where Dayden was moved to tears of regret over his illicit styling maneuvers and slumped into the shop with a hood pulled far over his head.

He didn't look as bad as I'd prepared myself for and he cheerfully hopped into the van and proceeded to torment Aisling, with whom he was sharing the rear seat of the van. Kieren, Meelyn and I chatted about the week as we drove.

Kiersi slept on.

The evening absolutely flew by. I'd prepared the marinara sauce and the Alfredo earlier in the day; I'd also cooked the two different kinds of chicken. All I had to do for dinner, therefore, was bake the bread and the brownies and cook the pasta (I chose farfalle because it is so cute.) The teens and I spent a lot of time playing cards and Daydie got on the computer and visited Webkinz World, plus went to his second grade class's website and played educational math and language games, which made me very proud of him.

Kieren got a valentine from a girl who rides his bus -- just a friend, he says, although as handsome as he is, I'm inclined to believe that the young lady in question might see things a bit differently. The girls and I asked him what he did when she gave him the card and he said he opened it, read it, said, "That's a really nice card" and then threw it in the trash as soon as she was out of sight. Meelyn and Aisling ragged him about that until he said with dignity that Valentine's card are wasted on the male of the species, which I, from experience, agree with.

When I was in the eighth grade, I got a necklace as a Valentine's gift from my boyfriend Scott. It was an oval of polished onyx with a teeny-tiny diamond chip in it, on a gold chain. It was very pretty and I wore it under my blouse so that my parents wouldn't see it and kill me. It was a very romantic gift and a very innocent little relationship and possibly my one claim to fame during my school years because Scott was handsome and popular and on the junior varsity football team. We walked around the concourse of the high school field house during basketball games, holding hands. I was devastated when he moved to Beech Grove to live with his mom the next year.

The necklace's chain broke long ago and I gave the pendant to my husband to take to the pawn shop last year at this time when he worked at that other place, which we affectionately refer to as "Hell On Earth" and had no money at all.

Pat and Angie showed up shortly after ten, smiling, so their dinner was a success, I'm thinking. We all gathered Kiersi's stuff from every corner of the house. They stayed and talked for awhile, most of it riffing on me for something NICE I'd done the day before, which I may devote to another post as soon as I dry my sad tears at being so MISUNDERSTOOD.

Here's last year's Valentine's Day post, Love over lo mein, involving Chinese mustard and the family at the next table, who were both tall and germophobic. In separate incidents, just in case you were wondering.

Update from Kiersi's World

The four of us -- Meelyn, Aisling, Kiersi and I -- went out to the grocery to buy the stuff for tonight's dinner (plus a little Valentine's gift for my husband, sshhhh!), which is going to be a favorite of Kieren's and Daydie's: marinated chicken cooked in strips on the stove top, served with Alfredo sauce on farfalle pasta, plus chicken parmesan for my husband, fresh-baked bread and frosted brownies. This is my Valentine's Day present to my family and I'm so glad I'm not superstitious so that the fact that I'm cooking all of this on Friday the 13th won't make me worry that I'm going to scorch the Alfredo and serve the chicken and the bread raw and gummy.

It's a sunny day outside and every time the sun shone in Kiersi's eyes, she would growl "Stoppit! Go 'way!!" fiercely and put her hand up to shade her face. "There!" she said triumphantly as I swung the van into a parking place. "I runned away from it!"

She willingly allowed her small self to be placed in the seat of the shopping cart, and from that perch, she directed our shopping. She indicated a desire for me to purchase several dozen different cakes and cupcakes decorated garishly for Valentine's Day (denied), a packet of string cheese (approved), some cartons of yogurt (denied, because we already have some at home), a box of Barbie Princess Valentine cards (approved) and a stick of Secret deodorant (denied.)

Kiersi indicated her enthusiastic approval of:

1) candy, all kinds

2) fried chicken

3) Meelyn pushing the cart, and

4) chocolate milk

She let us know in a really loud voice her distaste for Lunchables: "I HAAAAAATE THAT!" and, to my surprise, macaroni and cheese.

Right now, she's sitting at the dining room table between me and Meelyn, coloring with markers. Although she has talked brightly and cheerfully all day, her sentences seem to be coming more slowly. I have a feeling she's going to visit our old friends Wynken, Blynken and Nod when we get in the van half an hour from now to go pick up the boys.