Heaven Help Me!

One may be surprised to know that it is a fairly recent practice in Catholic homes to celebrate birthdays. In our culture, birthdays seem integral to the celebration of a person’s years on earth; but let us not forget the Catholic custom of celebrating “Name Days”!

Today is the name day of one of my children, Teresa. We are remembering her patron saint, St. Teresa of Avila.  At the age of seven, St. Teresa of Avila wanted nothing more than to give her life for Christ. So, she ran away to Africa to attempt martyrdom amidst the Moors.  Some may say it is fortunate that her uncle retrieved her from this, or we wouldn’t have the volumes of writings St. Teresa gave us.

This morning the children woke up to the smell of incense wafting through the air, the icon of St. Teresa of Avila prominently displayed at the kitchen table, fresh cannolis and hand-dipped chocolate covered strawberries from the local Italian market.

We celebrate Name Days “in style” in our family, perhaps more so than birthdays. Lest this tradition be misunderstood, I found an excellent article on the practice of celebrating name days.

What this article says in a nutshell is that while it is not necessary to ignore or do away with customary birthday celebrations,  we should try to restore the meaningful celebration of the feast of the saint whose name was given to us in Baptism, “our personal patron, loving and helping us whether we observe or neglect his veneration”. As a parent, I have found that my children typically do not object to this practice – any chance to get treats! They also like it because it is unique to them. Every one in the family has a birthday every year, but the child celebrating his/her name days enjoys a day which is exclusive only to him.

And the best part about it is the celebration of Name Days doesn’t end with childhood. It continues for older children, adolescents, and adults for the rest of their lives. As timeless is the life of faith, is as eternal the celebration of our union with God. And this is truly something to celebrate.

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As is tradition in our home, we celebrate our name days, just as much, if not more so, as a birthday or holiday. Special treats and/or activties are picked out by the child of honor and shared with the family. They enjoy a special day with incense burned and the icon of their patron proudly displayed on the center table. They are given special prayers and reminders of who they are named after. If they are older, we ask them to teach their siblings about the special qualities of their saint. The children learn that their patrons, although imperfect, with “warts and all” demonstrate ways of attaining their final goal in this life. Saints are real life examples, like my grandmother who prayed incessantly for me when she was alive (which is a very interesting story for another post… hopefully soon), of a way to live the “good life”.

Friday, July 31st, was the feast of St. Ignatius of Loyola. Just as we celebrate with our living children, we went to the cemetery to smile with the child we lost. I explained to my daughter that she “had to go with me” to the cemetery again, because if she were no longer living, she could be darn sure we’d be there with her on her name day.

So, we said some prayers and chatted a little while, enjoying the beautiful, sunny weather that day.

Ignatius’ grave has been nicely decorated. Thank you to all who have sent something! There are the original roses the children and I put there over a month ago, but now there are a couple vases with dehydrated flowers that still smell very pretty, a Chicago White Sox teddy bear, and some now deflated balloons which say “Happy Birthday!” and “I love you”. Thank you, thank you whoever you are – although I don’t know who sent these, I am hoping you might read my blog & thus, you’ll receive our gratitude.

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I am the great-granddaughter of German immigrants who came to the United States around 1850, seeking a better life.  A whole group of dairy farmers left the area of Koblenz, Germany for new hope in America.  They came to Chicago and then scouted out the land in McHenry County.  Finding it suitable for dairy farming, they settled there.  Being good German Catholics, the first thing they did was to build a church in Johnsburg, Illinois, east of McHenry.  We are not sure why they left Germany.  Was it religious reasons or was there a famine or crop failure? My grandfather spoke German in the house my mother grew up in. I ate German Potato Salad bathed in bacon grease and heavily seasoned with celery seed every Christmas. These were the beginnings of my priveleged life in the U.S.A.

As I stand here this morning in front of the deportation building, I watch an undocumented worker from Mexico, with nothing left in the country he’s mandated to go to, led in handcuffs to a van loaded with thirteen others in handcuffs and shackles. His brother stands next to me, and explains that his brother who is being deported, has lived in the United States since he was three years old. He knows no one, not a soul, in Mexico,  and he leaves a family back in the United States. He barely speaks Spanish anymore. Yet he is forced to go there, since he has not yet become a U.S. citizen. He has worked in America, doing the jobs no other American wants to do, yet for him, attaining citizenship is challenging, if not impossible.

My dairy farming ancestors paved the way for me. I enjoy U.S. citizenship with no roadblocks. My life is easy – it is easy for me to get a job and support a family, should I choose to do so,  I can give birth to children and be assured that I will not be forced to separate from them in the future.  My husband and I will live in the same country, ’till death do us part, with no threat of someone showing up at our door, ripping our family apart – leaving my children fatherless, our family without a source of hard-working income.

Is this predujice? Sometimes, I think it may be. The American dream has become the American scheme. When I’ve easily obtained American citizenship, by nature of being the granddaughter of immigrants, who am I to tell them to get the hell out?

The media makes these people seem like such criminals. As if they have disobeyed our Constitution, they are shuttled out like thieves in the night. In reality, there is not much they have done wrong, and in fact, our economy is stronger because of them. These people don’t mind cleaning up the mess we make, literally. Why do we shoo them away?

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This morning after I had espresso I knew I could conquer the world. Well, not really the whole world, but at least my little zoo family here at home. The house was still quiet as all the little birds were still sleeping. I bid my husband farewell for the moment, and headed upstairs to have the time of my life wake up the kids.

Me: “Kids! Wake up everyone! Guess what? We’re going to mass!”

Kids: “ZzZzZz…Snore, snore, SNORE!”

Me again: “You know – Church! Hey everyone! We get to wake up early and take an early morning stroll!”

Kids: “(sleepy moaning sounds… fading to downright, unmistakeable snoring)”

Me (chanting, playfully): “Hut, 2, 3, 4! Up, 2, 3, 4! You’ll never get rich, diggin’ a ditch – You’re in the army now!” (*Loud clapping thunders from my hands* )

Kid #1:”What’s that? 4th of July Fireworks, again!?”

Kid #2: “Good morning, Mommy!”

Me: “Awh…You’re my fav. Now hurry up, go downstairs and get ready to go out.”

Kids #3 & 4 follow…

Choas ensues as everyone waits until the last minute tries to cram into the bathroom to use it before leaving and takes turns shoving each other out of their way using teamwork to get a drink from the kitchen.

Final kid, still in bed with eyes closed: “What’s going on? It’s too early. Why can’t we go later?” (Whine… Whine… Whine!)

Finally everyone is assembled by the front door (in birth order), ready to proceed to go to mass, while I’m in the other room explaining to the same kid who’s been rubbing their eyes for the past 60,000 seconds why I’m taking everyone to mass this morning. As I give a one word answer, I’m interrupted by my two year-old who says,

“Maaaaaa-mmmm-eeeeeeeee, I p-oped! I need a diaper change!”

And suddenly, instead of the long, drawn-out stupid reflection I was going to give, I simply say,

“If we’re going to go through all this, and still want to go, (actually, really long to go), then there must be something there.”

Yes, there is truly something there.

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I wrote an earlier post on our miscarriage experience which explained that part of our coming to peace with this is knowing that we might be able to help someone someday. We were contacted by a reporter who decided to publish our story in the Archdiocese of Chicago’s newspaper, The Catholic New World . A link to the article can be found here.

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I had to laugh this morning when I found this game.  It is PacMac in “fertility form”. Can’t imagine it? Well, neither could I until I played it. It is an educational primer on Natural Fertility Awareness, complete with a tutorial on the components involved in charting BBT (Basal Body Temperature).

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