John, Vincent and I attended the surprise birthday party of a friend of ours this past weekend.  It was really nice of Vincent to be invited, too.  Several children were in attendance with Vince being the oldest (and most active!).  

Unfortunately, John and I didn't know there would be a pool at the house.  Had we known, we would've gone out of our way to find a babysitter.  Vince, like every other child in the universe, can't be near a pool without wanting to dive in head-first.  

It was still too chilly for a swim and we hadn't brought bathing suits anyway.  That didn't stop Vincent for begging, bartering and pleading to go for a dip, though.  When he realized John and I weren't going to budge, he placated himself by zipping around the edge of the pool, successfully giving John and I enough agita to last us the rest of our lives.

I had to put him into a time out for disobedience.  He wouldn't stop running around the edge of the pool even though I'd asked him not to three times.  So I stuck him in time out.

My friend, Leo, made a well-meaning comment.  He said, "What's the worst that can happen?  Skinned knee?  Soaked pants?  Just let him be."

Oh Leo.  How I love Leo.  He's a new parent, himself.  He's got a little princess named Maggie who is about 8 months old.  He hasn't had the pleasure of her testing boundaries yet.  He hasn't tasted the anxiety of seeing her (in his mind) tumble head-first into an ice-cold swimming pool.  He can't even imagine what that's like until she takes those first precarious steps into toddler-hood.  It's all fun and games until your kid discovers how much fun dangerous situations are.  LoL.

Anyway, Leo didn't realize that aside from me trying to teach Vince obedience (and actions having real consequences), I was also trying to prevent, specifically, soaked clothing.  Most people don't like sitting in wet clothes, but for an SPD kid, that's akin to being water-boarded; it's torture.  

Vince sometimes freaks out if he feels even a spot of wetness on his pants or shirt. Imagine, then, the freak out that would occur if ALL his clothes were soaked through and clinging to him.  

Leo doesn't think it'd be a big deal, because to him, it wouldn't be a big deal.  To Vincent, however, it'd be huge.  

John was getting increasingly agitated, so instead of leaving, I took Vincent inside and away from the temptation.  The poor kid was over-tired and frustrated by several things: 

• new house = novel visual stim
• large group of strangers = anxiety and overwhelming auditory stim
• pool = supreme tactile stim temptation
• laser lights = ridiculous amounts of visual stim
• sound system = even more auditory stim

The fact that he hadn't had a nap that day (because the party started when he usually goes down) only added to his upset.  After I had him sit and settle for 15 minutes to regroup, he was able to sit on the couch and watch a game being played without issue.  

It's funny.  I don't fault Leo at all for the comment he made.  Several of our friends waved off my attempts at wrangling Vincent as overprotective.  They didn't realize I wasn't worried about him bumping his knee or even going for a swim.  I was aware of a bigger problem that would come should the latter accidentally happen.  

My guess is that's how God feels sometimes.  So often, I look at a situation and figure "Eh, this isn't really such a big deal" while God is shaking His Head and saying, "Gina, put down the extra slices of bacon.  You don't think it's a big deal, but you've been eating like a glutton recently and are increasing your risk for heart attack.  I want you to die saving orphans from a burning building, and you can't very well do that if you're dead of a bacon-induced heart attack."


God is able to see so much more than we can.  He knows more than we do.  He's experienced more than we have.  So when He repeatedly throws up roadblocks to our own ideas of satisfaction, my guess is He has good reasons.  Just as I had reasons that went beyond Leo's understanding, God has reasons that extend well beyond mine.  

The Church of Our Lady of Guadalupe, located in Playa Del Carmen, Mexico, was a beautiful slice of Heaven located a few miles from our resort.  It took only 15 minutes or so to arrive by taxi, and my husband was kind enough to accompany me into town so I wouldn't be travelling around in Mexico by myself.

That's right, folks.  My wonderful (and atheist) husband agreed to chaperone.  Having him with me, I felt confident and comfortable.  Thank God he's such a gem.  I know Mass was the last thing he wanted to do (especially on our last morning in Mexico), but he came.  God bless him, he came.

We arrived about 20 minutes before Mass which gave me ample time to snap a few photographs and pay attention to the pre-Mass cleaning and organization that happened in a flurry of volunteers.  

In the sanctuary, an adorable sister swept the marble floor.  She paid careful attention to the stairs and shooed away someone dropping palm strands unwittingly before the podium.

An older gentleman, his one arm bandaged tightly to his chest, was using his other arm to deftly maneuver a broom in and out of each pew, somehow navigating kneelers, feet and purses. The action must have been hard on his good arm and shoulder - even his lower back probably hurt from constantly stooping to get under the seats - but he did not seem to mind.  He offered himself as custodian of the Lord's House, and I marveled at his quiet dedication.

Then there were ladies in dressed in red.  Obviously part of a society of sorts (or maybe a hospitality committee), these women acted like an army of mother hens, hurriedly flitting back and forth through the entire church, ushering some folks to their seats, handing out copies of the readings, informing folks where they could go for palm, etc.  It was like they were everywhere at once, working together as a well-oiled machine in anticipation of the swell of Palm Sunday worshippers.

Then there was Father Patrick.  At least I'm about 99.9% sure it was Father Patrick.  This thoroughly Irish priest stood out from the procession both for his fair complexion and his height.  My husband chuckled with surprise and confusion at his presence.  He and our friends wondered why they'd need to import an Irish priest given the country is thoroughly Catholic.  

They failed to realize that tourists need Confession, too, and English is the best way to reach the majority of us.  At least that was my guess.  Not that it matters.  A priest is a priest regardless of his country of origin, and Lord knows I'm always grateful for them wherever they are.

I had briefly connected with Father Patrick before travelling down to Mexico.  My blogger-friend, Jacob Wall, kindly put us into contact when Jacob found out I was trying to plan for Mass while on vacation.  

***As a complete aside, I must take a moment to publicly thank Jacob for his incredible help.  Without his e-mails of reassurance and helpful pointers, I'm pretty sure I'd've stuck out like the sore thumb I am for more reasons than simply language.  His guidance was instrumental in making me feel at ease leaving the resort to cross through town to get to this parish.  I honestly cannot thank him enough for his willingness to patiently answer my questions.  THANK YOU, JACOB!!!  

Mass was exactly what I'd envisioned. There was a wonderful procession into the church led by Father Patrick in his alb and two young altar boys.  A lone guitarist strummed simple (but beautiful) melodies that engaged the whole congregation.  The readers were direct and humble, each being sure to pay respect to their God in the tabernacle with a genuflect or a reverent bow. Their attention to this often-forgotten reverence made my heart leap with joy.

One thing that surprised me, though, was the Gospel reading.  As many of you know, the Passion Narrative is re-enacted by the priest, lector, and congregation.  This re-enactment is a reminder to us that we, too, participated in the Crucifixion of Christ.  

I retract that statement for correction.  Instead, it should read "This re-enactment is a reminder to us that we, too, PARTICIPATE in the Crucifixion of Christ."  After all, we participate each and every time we sin.  Each sin is an echo of "Crucify Him!"  Heaven forgive us.

As this narrative was being read, I noticed that no one in the congregation was reading their portion.  Only I was (or it seemed that way to me).  I can't speak fluent Spanish, but I can fluidly read the words printed in front of me, so I read our portion aloud only to realize I was the only one reading aloud in addition to the second lector.  

I was confused.  I wasn't sure if it was a cultural thing to not take part in the spoken liturgy beyond prescribed responses, or if the majority of parishioners were unable to read.  I can't imagine it being the latter because it seemed like they were reading along, just not being vocal about it.  Regardless, I kept pace with the reading figuring if I was wrong, the folks around me would chalk it up to my own ignorance at custom.  At least I hoped they would.

The homily went well beyond my realm of understanding.  The only portion I was able to catch was when Father Patrick explained that Christ did not come as a mighty conqueror.  He came as a humble Man who died a terrible death on the Cross.  He was not what the people were expecting their champion to be.  Instead, He brought salvation in a way no one had foreseen. I'm very likely butchering even my weak paraphrasing of the snippet I think I understood, but it was enough of a reflection to keep me sustained through the rest of his homily.  Maybe that's all God thought I needed to think on... especially given how arrogant I tend to be sometimes.  

Christ didn't come as a warrior who violently clamped down on His enemies.  He came as a gentle victim, offering Himself as a beacon that would lead us home.

            Stay tuned for my next entry, dedicated to their artwork.

My proudest accomplishment in Mexico was my conversation with a friendly old landscaper. We went back and forth several times until I had to apologize (which I did in Spanish) for my rudimentary grasp of their language. He grinned so broadly and said, in English, "It is good you try!"

I had been so self-conscious until he extended appreciation for me trying. I realized how arrogant we are to always expect English, so offering even my butchered bit of Spanish was accepted as a gift. How kind of that gentleman to be so gracious. 

Until that point, I'd sheepishly greet folks or excuse myself as I made my way around people in the resort.  I knew how to say "Hi" and "Excuse me" but I felt silly for even attempting because my accent would be terrible or people would think I was trying to sound more worldly than I am.

After that conversation, though, the tiny bit of Spanish I retained from high school came out freely.  I was even complimented by one kiosk worker (who was likely just trying to charm his way into my wallet, but I appreciated that particular compliment nonetheless).  

That kindly gentleman freed me from my inhibitions and empowered me to use the knowledge I'd been given.  What a blessing.  :) 

I can't help but imagine he's an example of how God views us.  In our feeble attempts at honoring His graciousness, we stumble over ourselves, unsure of how to best communicate with Him.  However, God does not frown at us for our weakness in this; instead, He smiles broadly and appreciates the effort.  Just as a parent appreciates the torn up weed bouquet clutched in their child's fist, so too does God appreciate even our smallest efforts to return to Him the love He so graciously gifts.  

<3

These are my in-laws.  I love them both.  Ridiculous amounts.  I always have.  I've always respected their love for each other and their family.  I've learned a lot about marriage just from watching them interact. I've learned a lot about John that way, too, let me tell ya.  He's got so many traits that he shares with his Dad that watching his mom interact with her husband has given me a few ideas how to go about interacting with John.  

:)

Anyway, given the incredibly emotional coaster this family has been on the last few weeks, I've been dying to see them and just hug them close.  Natural circumstances prevented this, but when we DID finally see each other, I was so happy to just physically hug them.  However, Dad wasn't too keen on any sort of emotional exchange.  He was probably too drained from grieving Uncle Billy and worrying over his mother's rapidly declining health.  Also, given his status as the leader of the family, he took upon himself the responsibility of shouldering the fear and anxiety of his brothers and sister.  

Oh, how my heart breaks for him.  He always takes on so much responsibility.  But again, it's something I deeply respect him for.  He goes out of his way to make things easier for his family, but at such personal sacrifice.  

However, he doesn't like to let on that his strength wavers, too.  Instead of reaching out, he'll vent in short, off-the-cuff ways.  I want so much to help him, but I can't just say, "Dad, I love you.  Punch the wall and yell at me if it'll make you feel better."

I'd love to, mind you, but I can't.  He'd never let on that he's hurting, and I would never make things worse by letting on that I know.  

But I still want to support him.  So I'm supporting him the best way I know how - through his wife, my mother-in-law.

In the car on the way back from Uncle Billy's funeral, my FIL had to make a tough decision. My MIL said something that I pray will stick with me until my final days.  

My FIL had to decide if he'd go away for a few days on business or if he'd stay behind in case Nanny passed away.  He asked my MIL what she thought, and her response was beautiful.  She basically said she would go wherever he decided because no matter what, she wanted to be with HIM when and if he got news about Nanny.  

It was then that I realized I could support him by supporting her.  She was, is and always will be, his rock.  They are incredibly blessed to have found one another.

She knows her place is with him so that she can support him in any way that she can.  She wants to be there, holding his hand, letting him cry, even letting him get mad at her so he could, in some tiny way, vent the torrent of emotion eating away at his heart.

I actually teared up when she said that.  It was so loving... so perfect... that is what I want my response to be to John always.  Whatever you decide, I will stand by you.  I will be with you because that is where I need to be.  I want you to know that you will always have me to lean on. 

Such love.  Such incredible, faithful love.  

So I made it my personal mission to support him by supporting her.  Since she'll be bearing the weight of the world in conjunction with him, I can lend my assistance to her.  I might not be able to reach my FIL the way I'd like, but I can reach my MIL, and if she's a little less stressed and a little more rested, she can be a better support for him.

I love these two immensely.  I really do.  I wish I could do something to magically wave a wand and make life perfect again, but we all must endure this valley of tears.  Thankfully, God gifted us families so we could walk this valley together and not alone.  

"Turn then, oh Most Gracious Advocate, thine eyes of Mercy towards us, and after this, our Exile, show unto us the Blessed Fruit of thy womb, Jesus."

Please keep them in your prayers.  Nanny, too.  

<3

Last night, John and I were watching the latest episode of HIMYM (again, if you don’t want spoilers, STOP READING THIS).  I’ve always loved the characters of Marshall and Lily.  For those of you who don’t know the show, Marshall and Lily are college sweethearts who consistently exemplify unconditional and sacrificial love.  They really are the perfect example of what marriage should look like, and I love that the writers have always been dedicated to the success of that relationship.  

I’ve always related to Lily’s character.  She is a strong woman with very maternal instincts. She loves her husband deeply, adores children, is brutally honest when necessary, and is fiercely loyal to her friends.  She's even a teacher!  Lily is me with red hair and a much hotter body.  
 
Anyway, in last night’s episode, we come to find out that Lily has been harboring a secret.  I immediately said to John, “She’s pregnant!”

Turns out I was right.  The way the writers allowed the story to unfold was beautiful. Marshall, upon learning he was going to be a Daddy again, rushed to Lily’s side and confronted her with the news.  However, he didn’t confront her angrily.  Instead, he was emotional – 120% caught up in anticipation, hope, joy, and above all, love.  Love for Lily, love for his son, and love for the new life he and Lily had created.

And when Lily said she “just felt like” the baby was a girl, I was instantly a wreck.  I chewed my lip to the point of bleeding trying to keep myself from openly sobbing in front of John, but he saw I was upset and came to sit next to me on the couch to hug me.  He probably thought I was crying over Myla.

In truth, I sorta was, but my tears were lamenting more than miscarriage.

Marshall said something that stabbed my heart.  The exchange came after a very emotional argument Marshall and Lily had regarding moving to Italy vs. staying in the States (pitting Lily’s dreams against Mashall’s dreams).  Marshall selfishly wanted to stay in the States and made the decision without ever asking Lily’s input.  Lily, rightly hurt by this, angrily demanded to know why her dreams weren’t considered as important as Marshall’s. The argument ends with Lily sacrificing her dream of Italy for the sake of the family she loves, and Marshall apologizing for allowing his selfishness to come before his love for her.

However, upon learning that Lily is carrying their 2nd child, Marshall exclaims:

“Lily, we have to [go to Italy]!  You’re gonna live in Rome, and you’re gonna get your dream because you’re giving me mine, again.”
 
Cue tear cascade.

Lily had already given up her dream of Italy to support her husband and their (now growing) family.  That was a very, VERY difficult thing for her and she knew she’d wrestle with that baggage for the rest of her life.  But she did it.  Why?  Because she loves Marshall and their family enough to sacrifice of herself.
 
And in that instance, Marshall realized his erroneous thinking.  The whole season, he was focused solely on how he could convince Lily to make the sacrifice because his dream was, selfishly, what he wanted. 

Until news of the baby.  News of the baby's existence caused Marshall to instantly realize his priorities were skewed.  A judgeship was not his dream.  It’d be a nice goal to reach, but Marshall’s dream was, and always has been, to have a big family, the same as he’d grown up surrounded by.  Family is Marshall’s true dream, and he recognized that Lily had known (and been working towards) this all along.  Lily had always sacrificed for their shared dream of family, while Marshall simply enjoyed the fruits of that sacrifice.  

Realizing this, he took responsibility for sacrificing.  He wanted Lily to have the same opportunity to grasp her dreams because it’s what she’d always done for him.  He loved her and their family to the point of sacrificing the biggest goal he’s ever set for himself: judgeship.  He pushed his fear of leaving New York aside and trusted that his love for his family would be sufficient to weather the journey.

They are like the married couple in O. Henry’s story The Gift of the Magi.  Lily willingly handed over her hair (Italy) and Marshall gave up his watch (the judgeship). Deep, personal sacrifices in both cases that were gift wrapped in love.

And Marshall only understood this lesson after rearranging his priorities into their proper order: Lily first, family second, self third.  What caused the paradigm shift? News of the baby and his overabundance of love and excitement.  

THAT is why my body rocked with sobs.  Marshall’s response was what I’ve always envisioned for myself as a child – my future husband being just as excited and joyous as Marshall at news of a pregnancy… my future husband seeing these children as dreams come true.  I had visions of him jumping up and down in the bathroom with me as two little pink lines surfaced from a plastic stick.

I cried because my husband was so diametrically opposed to Marshall in this.  

There was no moment of joy when he learned of Myla.  There was no realization that his priorities were misaligned.  There was no moment of clarity in which he appreciated the terrible sacrifice I make on a daily basis so his dreams can be sought after.  Instead, there was disgust, fear, annoyance and frustration.  

How that wounds my heart.  

My dream, from my very first memories, revolve solely around a family.  Myla was, in many ways, my final chance at that family.  So when I mourn for Myla, I fully understand that I’m mourning for her and all the other children I’ve been denied.  

And I was angry.  Frustrated.  Jealous.  Desperate.  All because of a television series that showcased the response I long for but will never have.  Not even with Vincent. On both counts, John’s first reaction was fear and annoyance.  Disbelief. 

Never love.  Never joy.

And that is what absolutely kills me.

I felt so unappreciated that I free-fell into an intense depression. My mind wondered if John even loved me at all.  How could someone who loves me simultaneously seem to hate me so much?

Do I think John hates me?  Of course not.  But in that moment, it felt that way. Maybe because I hated myself being in this situation.  I don't know. It's easier for me to turn the upset feelings inward rather than outward.  

Anyway, after the show finished, we watched a 30 minute comedy to lighten the mood.  It worked well enough for John to think things were okay.  I was sour, though.  The self-loathing, anger, jealousy and despair were percolating in my mind the whole time.  So instead of watching another show, I went to bed.  Not that I was going to sleep.  Lord knows I wouldn't be doing much sleeping.  But at least I could shut myself off in the dark.  

John came up after me. He grabbed me close in bed and snuggled there.  He's a snuggler.  I hate snuggling.  Loathe it.  It's okay for all of three seconds before I get annoyed and want my space back.  However, I allowed it because I knew that was his way of trying to make me feel better.  I knew he needed to feel like he was helping.  Maybe that's all he thought he could do.  After all, John responds to touch, so it makes sense why he'd think I would react the same.

Honestly, though, I wanted no parts of myself let alone any parts of him.  
I'm terrible, aren't I?

*Sigh*

Anyway (and really, Mom, if you're reading this, just go ahead and avert your eyes), I realized in that moment that I did need John.  I needed to feel loved, because there was a part of me (the logical side?) that understood he loved me, but my heart was so full of hurt and grief that I couldn't feel it.  I couldn't process that he could love me given the broken and hurting state I was in.

So I kissed John.  I wanted him to kiss me back, to give me some tangible sign that he loved me.  He dutifully kissed me, but laid back on his pillow.  I pulled his face back to mine and whispered, "No.  Make love to me."

I don't normally do that.  I'm not the romantic type who whispers sweet nothings into dusky skies as my hair whips gracefully in a gentle breeze.  But in that moment, I recognized the marital act of making love as the only balm to soothe the aching desolation in my heart.  I needed my husband to love me.  I needed him to physically, emotionally and spiritually LOVE me, and a few pecks on the cheek weren't going to cut it.  Not when I was feeling so incredibly unloved.  

That was the first time I've ever "needed" sex.  I've enjoyed sex, sure.  I've wanted sex, definitely.  But I can't remember a time in which I urgently needed to give the fullness of myself and receive the fullness of my husband in the way that only married love can do.  Sex isn't just some repetitive thrusting based solely on biology.  That we, as a people, have turned it into so base a commodity is a travesty.  Looking at sex as a means to better know and understand the love of my husband... it was eye-opening for me.  

When the pain of loss seems too great to bear, and when the grief comes coursing in to crush the very breath from your lungs, fix your eyes on the Blessed Mother as she gazes upon her Son, gasping away His Life for love of us.

Allow the tears to come.  Offer your tears together with hers... hers that shine like diamonds and are collected by the angels as tokens of mercy.  

Accept the emptiness as it threatens to swallow you.  Allow the weight of desolation to shatter your heart - your very soul - but do not despair.

For where God destroys, He creates.  These mournful remains can thus rejoice and offer themselves as ready sacrifice for the new Life that comes in their place.

"I will give you a new heart, and a new spirit I will put within you." Ez. 36:26

Blessed Mother, be my strength.  I am having a really, really hard time accepting Myla's absence right now.  

That television show... it was as if I was being pinned to a surgical table to have my heart sliced open by a scalpel.

But I see, I see.  The tears wash away the clutter from my eyes, and the crushing grief just reminds me that I have something left to offer.  It is yours... the pain and tears that echo softly your own.  Tender Mother, hold her for me.  Hold her and tell her all the things that I never got the chance to say.  Allow her to be the delight of your Son since she could not be the delight of mine.  Bring her often to see her Father so that He can tell her about the Daddy she left behind.  Guide me daily with Vincent so that I can be worthy of meeting her one day.

Grief, folks.  It still exists.  Every day.  Sometimes you're granted respite.  Sometimes you're asked to experience it more keenly.  But it's always there.  

That is at it should be.  There can be no grief if there is not, first, love.  And love is forever.

And love, Myla Therese, is exactly what you were created by.

What started out as a fun picture to join the #AshTag movement quickly turned into a game of "Who can make who laugh harder with the most ridiculous face?"

All funny business aside, I'm really moved by how much my son understands about the Mass.

Tonight (we went to a late Mass), the lector got up for the first reading and Vincent said, "Now we're gonna hear the Holy Spirit!"

As we got into line for Ashes, Vincent mistakenly thought it was time for Communion.  He kept asking, "Mommy, you gonna eat Jesus?  Jesus is in the cracker, Mommy, and that's how He gets into you heart beat."

He said this as he trailed his finger from my mouth to my heart.  Then he asked, "I get bigger, I can eat Jesus, too?"

I said, "That's right, Vincent.  When you're bigger."

He said, "I four years old.  I is bigger now?"

I said, "No, honey.  Not yet."

He said, "That's okay.  I still His best friend.  He loves me.  He in my heart beat, too.  We all His friends (the congregation)!"

Ha ha.  The people waiting in line were all smiling at him and pointing him out to the folks around them.  I was so proud then, because I realized if he can understand the Presence of Christ in the Eucharist, there's hope for the rest of us, right?

Such a necessary reminder for me.  It really was.

I had the pleasure of receiving a copy of Walking With Jesus to Calvary: Stations of the Cross for Children.  I got it in the mail early this year and have been waiting for Lent to roll around given the nature of the book.

Here we are!

The book is written by Angela M. Burrin and illustrated by Maria Cristina Lo Cascio.  Truthfully, the illustrations are what drew me in to the story.  Colorful, fluid and expressive, they told the story of the Stations in beautiful detail.

The writing ended up surprising me.  At first, I was very put off by the "lengthy" paragraphs. Truthfully, I think this is because my expectation was that I'd be able to read it to Vincent. This book is not meant for toddlers.  It's meant for older children - at least 1st grade and up. Once I made peace with that, I found the narrative grew on me.

I especially love how Burrin pays close attention to the Blessed Mother throughout the stations.  Never is she far from her Son.  She, too, is an active participant in His Passion, and Burrin does a wonderful job keeping this in focus for us.  There are some passages that solicited heart-wrenching sadness for her.  For this fact alone, this book has become my favorite Stations book for children.  

Now for the content:

There is a brief Forward that explains what the Stations of the Cross are and why we keep this form of prayer alive.  There is also a page explaining how to pray the stations, offering suggestions for first-timers (It's okay to choose one or two Stations at a time and really focus on them.  You don't have to pray them all at once!).

There is no Table of Contents (I assume with 14 stations, it's hard to get lost).  However, given the Stations are listed where the Table of Contents usually go, I'm not sure why they opted to leave out page numbers.  That could be helpful to veterans who are looking to focus on one or two for a specific prayer intention.

Just before the Stations begin, Burrin wisely decided to explain a little about Holy Thursday, and how Jesus came to be in Pilate's courtyard.  Thus, with the kiss of Judas Iscariot, we begin our journey with the Stations.

At each Station, Biblical quotes are interlaced with imagination as Burrin tells the story of Jesus' Passion in a child-friendly manner.  At the end of each Station, there is a small reflection / prayer kids can offer that brings that footstep of Christ in sync with their own. One, in particular, calls out to the Holy Spirit.  I loved that, because normally the reflection prayers tend to focus solely on Jesus.  

Of course, each Station is beautifully illustrated by Lo Casio.  Some of the images have left me staring at them for many minutes before I realize I've lost myself in their mysteries.  I mean, just look at these two examples.  I apologize, I snapped them with my phone, but even through the grainy iPhone shutter, the powerful emotions pours through:

Oh, that last one of Our Lady cradling Jesus - it is perfect.  The tree in the background is barren and lifeless (which is poignant given how lively the background trees were in previous Stations).  The atmosphere is grey, foggy and ominous.  Joseph of Arimethea is hunched over them like an old bough weighed down by weather, protective.  Mary's mantle is unfurled to encompass Jesus' Body... an exaggerated drawing, but similar to Michelangelo's Pieta.  The effect is a brutal, gut-wrenching beauty - a mother cradling Her Baby Boy one last time as the entire world mourns with her.

Can you guess where I keep catching myself getting lost?

Finally, the Stations end with the Resurrection (since not all books contain a 15th!).  Burrin includes Mary Magdalene's joyous meeting of her Resurrected Savior, which I always appreciate.  

This book then gifts you a few surprise pages that I think are incredible resources for school-aged children.

The first is a 2 page spread on Prayer Intentions.  After all, when you pray the Stations, you should have some intentions in mind, right?  This useful list suggests everything from family and friends to doctors, politicians and the souls in Purgatory.  I LOVED this, and I thought it was very wise to add this section.

Finally, there was a four-page spread of traditional prayers used while praying the Stations of the Cross.  These pages, just as the Stations, themselves, are beautiful illustrated. These latter pages reminded me of those gorgeous illuminated manuscripts monks would create as they copied the Bible over and over and over again.  

Verdict:  This hard-cover book is a winner, all 45 pages of it.  I am so glad The Word Among Us Press sent it my way for review.  

As a thanks, I'll be giving one away to one of you fine readers!  Enter via Rafflecopter below.

Good luck!

Once again he discussed the spiritual reality of our physical presence at Mass. 

As St. John Chrysostom once said, "When Mass is being celebrated, the sanctuary is filled with countless angels who adore the divine victim
immolated on the altar."

Amen, St. John!

Fr. Eucharist reminded of this in such a reverent, direct way that I could have stood up to applaud him.  He said, "Yes!  There is truth beyond what we can see with our physical eyes.  At the words of consecration, Jesus is standing behind the priest!  God the Father and Holy Spirit are with Him.  Mary, His mother, is there with St. Joseph.  And filling the sanctuary are the angels and saints who, together with us, adore and praise Him."

How I managed to stay in my seat and not jump up to hug him is truly beyond me.  I felt as if my heart had doubled in size just so it could sprout arms and embrace him. 

Yes, Fr. Eucharist, yes!  TELL US!  TEACH US!  REMIND US THAT THE EUCHARIST IS GOD TRULY PRESENT!  Shine as an example to all other priests that THIS is the type of truth so desperately needed in the world today.  THIS is what Catholics must be reminded of so that we can properly appreciate the gift that is the Eucharist.

Did he stop there?  No no, folks.  My giddiness erupted as he went on.

Catholics, when they present themselves for the Eucharist, must make a throne with their hands with which to accept the Body of Christ.  Not with one hand.  Not with two haphazardly placed together.  Reverently accept Him as the King He is! 

*He then proceeded to show us what that would look like.*

And, bless him, he also gave a nod to acceptance on the tongue (which is how I receive anyway). 

SERIOUSLY! 

And to boot, he called out folks who leave after receiving the Eucharist.  He said, "And to those of you who leave after Communion, you're missing a lot of stuff!  From Consecration until the Recessional, the Blood of Christ covers the congregation, filling us with untold graces!"

He again didn't mention a specific mystic, but I'm about 99.9% sure he was referring to the revelations made by the Blessed Mother to Catalina Revas of Bolivia.  I'd only recently learned of her (I would guess in the last 8 months or so), but the insights and revelations made to her by Christ and Our Lady have forever changed my participation in the Mass.  I would encourage all of you to read more about her!  But again, use the typical caution regarding private revelations.  Though not forbidden / approved by the Church, it us up to the individual to request guidance and discernment from the Holy Spirit.

Back to the wonderful priest, however, he closed his homily with a reminder that after reception of the Eucharist, we would do well to remember that God, Himself, dwells within us.  So as we walk back to our seats, it's not the time for saying "Hi" to friends, nor is it the time to get one's self ready to leave.  The time after Communion is meant for prayful reflection... a true and intimate conversation between us and God.

And don't you know after Communion, he graciously allowed us time to sit in silent contempation. 

Hmmmm... I've got a big old stupid smile on my face, and it's all because of this wonderful representative of Christ.  My prayers are with him and with all priests.  May they all have such ardent love for Him, and may they all seek to spread that love and understanding to others.  Bless him, and bless them!