One of the things my parents have taught me about marriage is that you don't have to be 100% the same to be happy together. My parents have a lot of things in common, but there are a few things in which they differ greatly. One being that my mom is a night owl and my dad is an early bird. My dad always goes to bed first and has learned to sleep with the lamp on while my mom stays up into the wee small hours of the morning reading. In the mornings my dad has no trouble getting up and at it, but my mom has to wake up slowly (which meant a later start for our home school!) Every morning, for the vast majority of their marriage, my dad has brought my mom a cup of coffee in bed to help her wake up and ease her way into a new day. (This is something I've pointed out to Alex maaaany times.) My dad has no trouble waking up, but my mom does, and he helps her out with that.
My dad likes the house to be tidy. My mom definitely appreciates a clean house, but I don't think a cluttered kitchen and a sink full of dishes bothers her the same way it does my dad. So she always made an effort to get things picked up before he got home from work. I remember many evenings growing up, mom rallying us and hurrying us to clean up our toys, load the dishwasher, and clear our school work off the table, because dad was on his way home. We of course would complain and grumble and ask why we had to. She would say because dad likes a clean house.
Loving, respecting, and serving each other. That's what they've taught me.
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This was a common scene from my childhood: dinner was finished, we were in kitchen helping to clean up the dishes, or helping ourselves to some ice cream from the freezer. Everyone was chattering, the dog was running around, and my parents would start dancing, right in the middle of the kitchen. Some times the radio would be on the jazz station. But more often there was no music at all, they would just start dancing.
"Dancing in the kitchen is good for your marriage." They would say.
Sometimes my little brother or sister would try to get in on the dancing by squeezing between their legs. Or the dog would start barking at them. They just kept dancing.
Alex and I like to dance in the kitchen, too. There's usually not any music playing. We just start dancing. And I get it now. It's good to do something romantic, even when there's nothing else romantic going on. It's good to take a few moments out of the dishes and the kids and the everyday-all-the-same to remember that you're married and you're in love. Dancing in the kitchen is good for your marriage.
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Every night of my childhood, after I brushed my teeth and put my pajamas on, I'd get into bed and wait for my parents to come pray for me. Bedtime prayers is something they have done for as long as I can remember. When I was little I could not fall asleep until they had come to pray for me. When I was older, and staying up later than my parents, I still looked forward to them finding me in my room at the end of the day. It was a time for us to catch up, talk about what was coming up in the next few days, and then of course, to pray.
They always prayed for us at night. No matter how late it was, or how tired they were, or what other projects they were working on, they always came. Even when I went away to college, they still came into my empty room to pray for me. For all I know they are still doing it.
This is the one thing I have learned from my parents that I put into practice most often. When Johnny started sleeping in his crib Alex and I started saying bedtime prayers for him. No matter how tired we are, or how late it is, we go pray. And even if I have not gotten any other prayer time in on a given day, I can always count on praying then.
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I became Catholic 5 years ago, but my conversion is still happening.
Sometimes I feel like I'm getting the hang of this Catholic thing. I know my holy days of obligation, I'm pretty good at remembering not to eat meat on Fridays. Alex and I even share a weekly holy hour. But there are still times when some new revelation brings me to my knees in awe-filled thanksgiving, and I feel like a newbie all over again.
One of those moments was when I got my first glimpse into the heart of Mary.
When Alex and I had been married a year we decided it was time to expand our family. Being the relatively young and healthy people that we are the thought never crossed my mind that we might not be able to conceive. And yet month after month went by without any positive pregnancy tests. Finally, after 6 months, just when I was beginning to consider seeking medical advice, we became pregnant!
I had known only a couple people who had miscarried before, but it was enough to make me want to wait a while to announce our news. 10 weeks pregnant, and on Easter Sunday we told our families that we were expecting, only to have to tell them the very next week that we had lost the baby.
Miscarriage is a lonely type of grief. You have lost something that no one ever saw, and that hardly anyone even knew about. And yet it is a loss so profound that it grabs at your core, making it impossible to see life and joy anywhere else. The physical pain (which no one tells you about) left me totally drained for an entire weekend. But that was nothing compared to the anguish that laid waste to my heart.
One week after I miscarried we were sitting in church. It was Mother's Day. I had never in all my life wanted to crawl into a hole more than on that day. Father gave a blessing for all the mothers and I could feel my face growing red as I tried to blink back tears. Mass ended and people were gathering themselves up to leave, and a dear friend who knew what we were going through glanced down our pew, made eye contact with me, and mouthed the words "happy Mother's Day." She herself had been through a miscarriage years before, and knew what I was feeling. Unless you've been through it, you have no idea. Among many words of comfort she said "look to Mary, she knows what you are feeling."
All of a sudden I had something in common with Mary, who watched her own Son suffer and die a most cruel death. A mother's loss- we shared that. I had never prayed to Mary before, I still didn't know how I felt about that, but I simply looked to her and said "I am in pain." And I understood, if only a little, the sword that pierced her own heart.
The thing protestants misunderstand most about Mary is that they think she takes the place of Jesus. But that simply is not true. Everything Mary does points to Jesus and encourages us to "do whatever He tells you" (John 2:5) And as I looked to her and shared my pain with her I was ultimately seeing Jesus, the great Physician, healing the wasteland of my heart and making it a place where joy could grow again.
I recently told someone who has known me for a very long time that I really love being Catholic. She was surprised to hear that. I guess that means I'm not telling people what I love about being Catholic enough.
I love the smell of incense, and seeing the smoke from it rising up to the ceiling of the church, just as our prayers rise to the heavens to God's own ears.
I love Good Friday, the silent procession, and how the priest, before doing anything else, falls prostrate, completely flat on his face before the altar.
I love going to confession. Saying your sins out loud is not fun, but hearing yourself say them makes you never want to do them again. And hearing, actually hearing the words, "all your sins are forgiven" is possibly the most beautiful and humbling sound in all the world.
I love Latin, and hearing the liturgy spoken the way it has been spoken for 2000 years.
I love the Easter Vigil. Everything about it is holy and glorious, from the fire outside the church, to hearing my husband sing the Exultet, to the outbreak of bells ringing as the altar is adorned with flowers.
I love going to mass in a different country. I can't understand a word being said but I know exactly what they're saying and what's going on.
I love going into a quiet and empty church and sitting in front of Jesus. Just sitting there.
I love being Catholic. I hope you see that now. And I hope, if you are Catholic, that your love for your faith has grown a little, and if you're not Catholic, that you see the Catholic faith with different eyes than you did before.
My senior year of college I decided to live at home and save some moola on room and board. I had an 8:00 am class that fall semester, so with my commute time that meant I had to get up at 6:30 everyday. And everyday, when I shuffled into the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee I would see my dad sitting at the table with his bible open before him; eyes following the words across the page, or shut in silent prayer.
For over 30 years my dad has been the lone early bird in a house full of night owls. I had always known that he got up long before the rest of us. I also knew that he usually prayed during that time, but I had never witnessed it before. And seeing him at it, day after day for an entire semester, left me with no doubt in my mind that it was those quiet mornings with the Lord, while the rest of the world was dark and asleep, that made him the man that he is.
The sleep deprivation of having an infant has not cured me of being a night owl. I still stay up way too late and I still hate the mornings. But I love the idea of getting up early to pray. And if there is one thing I want to get good at in my adulthood, it is doing just that.
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How does a family stay together? You could coin any number of phrases.
The family that plays together, stays together.
The family that laughs together, stays together.
The family that wears plaid together, stays together.
that's a thing, right?
But I firmly believe that the family that prays together, stays together.
I mentioned before that I grew up being home-schooled. People always ask me, "what kind of home-school did you guys have? Were we disciplined? Did we work ahead like crazy? Was I doing 11 grade math when I was 12? Well, I'll just say our home-school was a little more on the relaxed side. Some days were more productive than others. But the one thing that we did everyday, without fail (besides lattes) was have family prayer time, and read from the bible together.
When we were little it looked something like my mom reading from a comic book styled picture bible and me and my siblings snuggled up to her to get a good view. And then we would pray for any of our friends and family who were sick or otherwise in need.
As we got older the picture Bible turned into an actual Bible. And the prayers became more personal and directed. Wisdom for where to apply to college, where to look for a summer job, asking that the Lord's will be done in difficult situations.
On the weekends, if we were all at home my dad would suggest that we read from the word, and have some prayer time. It wouldn't be honest of me to say that it was something I always looked forward to. As a fidgety and angsty teen-ager sometimes I just wanted to be left alone, to watch tv, or to go talk to a friend on the phone. But my dad would insist and so we'd all gather around and listen, and then pray. And no matter how much I didn't want to be doing that, by the time we were finished I was always so glad I did. There is sometime about praying with other people that softens rough edges and brings about reconciliation.
my dad, reading the word.
Now my siblings and I are all grown up. But we still pray together as a family. We often have dinner at my parents house on Sundays, and after dinner, when we're sitting around drinking our decaf, my mom or dad will suggest that we have some prayer time. Now, without hesitation, we all gather and willing share the things on our hearts that need lifting up. I'm glad we still do this, I'm gla
d that Alex and Johnny get to be apart of it. And I'm thankful that my parents set this great example for us to follow.
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My dad makes a pretty mean latte with his Solis espresso machine at home. But the "poor man's latte" he makes while he's at work it truly amazing.
The key player in making a poor man's is this little guy
Literally sold for $1.00 on Amazon.
My dad brews his espresso in this, After it's dripped through once, he sends it through a second time to get it really strong. Then he heats up some whole milk in the microwave and pours everything into a good coffee mug. And that is what goes into a poor man's latte It's simple, but I have been there when he makes one and it fills the entire office with the most wonderful coffee aroma.
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My mom is always on the lookout for the perfect coffee mug. She has a strict list of criteria for what make a coffee mug good, and finding a cup that possesses all of the qualities is no easy feat.
1. It has to have a thin lip. Big, chunky ceramic mugs are great, but if the lip is too thick sipping can be difficult, and drips are more likely. A nice thin lip, and preferably one that flares out, makes sipping so enjoyably drip-free.
2. It has to have a balanced handle. This means you should be able to easily hold it by the handle with one hand. Also, mugs with no handles at all are no good.
3. It must be microwave-safe. There's nothing worse than sipping on a cold latte, so nothing stainless steel or with metallic details, please.
If you can manage to find a mug with all three of these criteria get it and save it for my moms birthday. She will love you forever.
Now, I hope you will never think about your coffee mugs the same again.
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