Remembering the North American Martyrs

From my post on OSV Daily Take today:

My 12-year-old son had to choose a saint to study for a school project in anticipation of All Saints Day. When I first heard about the assignment, I immediately wanted to suggest St. Isaac Jogues, but I held back and waited to see what Noah came up with on his own. When he came home from school, I asked him which saint he had selected: St. Isaac Jogues. Now, that syncronicity might be remarkable in many circumstances, but Noah has spent two camping retreat weekends on the grounds where St. Isaac Jogues was martyred, so the choice made perfect sense to him, and to me.

When you are a Catholic in upstate New York, only 45 minutes as we are from the National Shrine of the North American Martyrs, Jesuit missionaries St. Isaac Jogues and St. Rene Goupil are part of the landscape. We hear their stories, we walk the ground they walked, we marvel at their courage. Today we celebrate the Feast of the North American Martyrs, remembering those missionaries who died brutal deaths because of their commitment to the Good News.

When you go to the national shrine in Auriesville, which is also the birthplace of Blessed Kateri Tekakwitha, you can walk the ravine and read St. Isaac Jogues' own words explaining the prolonged torture and terrifying death St. Rene Goupil suffered at the hands of the Iroquois. It was a hatchet blow to the head while Rene Goupil was teaching the Sign of the Cross to children that finally sealed his fate in 1642. Isaac Jogues didn't fare any better, having survived years of torture and enslavement and having his fingers chewed or burned off. He was killed and decapitated in 1646.

The other Jesuits martyred in North America are Antony Daniel, Charles Garnier, Noel Chabanel, John Lalande, John de Brebeuf, and Gabriel Lalemant.

If you walk the grounds of Auriesville (which I posted about HERE), you can feel a holy presence, a sense that something awful but awesome happened in that place. It is sacred, to be sure. And beautiful.

Anne Rice's journey from darkness to light

I recently had the privilege of talking with author Anne Rice for an OSV In Focus section on the current vampire craze. Rice's penchant for all things undead has given way to a very different focus: Christ, redemption, salvation. Check out my interview with Rice in the current issue of OSV, now online. Here's a taste:

OSV: In an essay on your website, you talk about your work -- from "The Vampire Chronicles" through the "Christ the Lord" series -- as reflecting your journey through atheism back to God. How is your earlier work part of that spiritual journey?

Rice: As I was writing "Interview with the Vampire," I knew that I identified with Louis the vampire and that I felt like a creature of the night and a creature who was separated from God and a creature who was lost and pretty miserable. The book is really a meditation on misery, on the misery of being separated from God. I felt very comfortable writing it because it allowed me to express my sorrow. It's only years later that I realized the book is about the loss of my Catholic faith. It's about a fall from grace, about leaving the Church, about roaming in the darkness of atheism for many years and feeling as obsessed with God as ever.

Click HERE to read the full interview. And, if you're interested in the pop culture fascination with vampires, from Dracula to Edward Cullen, click HERE to read what the experts have to say in "Drawn to the Undead."

Will the real St. Francis please stand up?

In honor of the Feast of St. Francis of Assisi, I thought I'd run a recent column I wrote about one of my favorite saints:

Out in my perennial garden, nestled among the stonecrop and candytuft, stands a well-worn clay statue of St. Francis of Assisi made by an artisan in Mexico. The unusual characteristics of the statue make it a conversation piece as well as a spiritual touchstone that helps keep me centered as I dig and weed and plant.

Of course, I’m not alone. Drive down any street and you’re likely to find St. Francis peeking out from both well-manicured lawns and wildflower gardens run amuck. He is just as likely to share a garden with a statue of Buddha as he is to share one with a statue of the Blessed Mother. He is a saint of the people – all people, Catholics and non-Catholics alike. His broad appeal is fascinating, but at the same time it begs the question: Do those of us who plant St. Francis in our gardens really know what the medieval saint was all about?

Today Francis’ concerns are often compartmentalized by well-meaning folks who want to claim him for their own. And who can blame them? He is certainly a challenging but endearing saint for the ages.

Environmentalists jump on Francis’ love for creation, his “Canticle of Brother Sun,” his diligence in protecting trees and even “brother” fire, and find in him a kindred spirit. Animal lovers hear stories of him preaching to birds and taming a wolf and see in Francis the kind of saint who has rightly earned his status as patron of animals. His popularity comes into full view every year at this time, when adults and children alike line up outside churches with everything from goldfish swimming in glass bowls to German shepherds straining at leather leashes just for a chance to get their pets a blessing on Francis’ feast day.

Peace activists, interreligious leaders, social justice organizers -- the St. Francis fan club goes on and on. It seems everyone can find a piece of Francis to suit their cause. But, if you put all of those individual causes into the Gospel context that was at the heart of Francis’ rule and spirituality, you come away with a very different picture of our lovable saint, one that is not so easily shaped and molded by the latest trends in activism.

Would those St. Francis lawn statues be as popular if we really stopped to reflect on what they stand for? Francis’ life was one centered on his love of Christ, his commitment to a radical living out of the Gospel, and his “marriage” to the bride he dubbed “Lady Poverty”? The path that St. Francis chose was not an easy one. He was ridiculed and mocked as a madman during his own lifetime for what appeared to be an extreme response to his conversion experience.

He renounced his family’s fortune, fasted for days on end, heard the Lord speak to him from a cross in San Damiano, bore the stigmata. He lived and died for Christ. It would be a disservice to him and all he stood for to try to slip a politically correct mask over the spiritually devout saint who did not do anything halfway.

Sometimes I wonder how I can possibly weave Francis’ difficult and often uncomfortable lessons into my exceedingly comfortable existence. How do those of us with warm homes and busy jobs and nice clothes make St. Francis into something more than a decoration or a mascot? It’s not easy, but maybe, just maybe, seeing St. Francis from the kitchen window as we wash dishes or raking leaves from around his feet as we clean the yard will call us back to our spiritual center and remind us that what we do here on this earth cannot be separated from what we long for in heaven.

Caught by surprise at holy hour

From my post today on OSV Daily Take:

I was recently drafted onto my parish's Vocations Committee and decided to join the group for its monthly holy hour for vocations. As we prayed the Rosary in our parish chapel, with various people leading each decade as in the norm, something far outside the norm occurred. I have to admit that I was taken aback by it and still find myself replaying it in my head trying to figure it out.

As we got around to the fifth decade, an older woman a few rows ahead took the lead. I found myself silently startled as she prayed the Hail Mary using the wrong words. I shook it off, attributing it to some sort of brain freeze on her part, and figured we'd resume the normal praying with the next Hail Mary. Wrong. If this was a brain freeze, it was a decade-long freeze. Either that or it was a conscious decision to rewrite this beloved prayer and force the rest of us to come along for the ride.

Here's how her version of the Hail Mary went:

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with US.
Blessed is the fruit of your woman, Jesus.

Is it my imagination or did she just demote Mary? In her version of the prayer, Mary no longer has the Lord with her and she is no longer blessed among women.

Now, I have a hard enough time praying the Rosary without this kind of distraction. I found myself trying to race through the correct version of the prayer in my head in time to join the group at the half. Out of the corner of my eye I could see several other women in the back rows looking around for a ref to call a foul. It really was one of the strangest prayer experiences I've had in recent memory. It amazes me when someone decides to use a moment of public prayer to make a personal statement, causing an entire chapel full of people to lose sight of what they were doing -- praying the Rosary for vocations -- and focus instead on the actions of a single person.

So what do you think? Have you heard someone mangle the Hail Mary repeatedly in this fashion before? Is it a slip of the tongue or a not-so-hidden agenda?

Lessons learned at Boy Scout camp

Here's my September 'Life Lines' column:

I recently had an opportunity to go on a Boy Scout camping trip with my son, Noah, who is within a stone’s throw of becoming a teenager. I hemmed and hawed when it came time to make the final decision about whether to pack my knapsack and head into the woods. It wasn’t just the thought of the semi-open latrines that caused me doubt. It was the possibility that my presence on the trip might somehow limit Noah. I didn’t want him to think I didn’t trust him, which certainly wasn’t the case.

Truth be told, I really just wanted an excuse to go camping. The older I get, the more I’m intrigued by the possibility of developing a deeper relationship with nature. And the Boy Scouts put on a great program. I’m also not so naïve as to think that Noah will always want me tagging along on his camping trips. So time seemed of the essence.

Noah was not only willing to have me in camp but enthusiastic. It touched my heart to know that my little boy, who is not so little any more, still enjoys having me around. My job, then, was to be present without being oppressive, which can be a fine line to walk when all your motherly instincts are telling you to reach out and wipe the remnants of an orange Slushie from around your child’s mouth.

It was such a treat to see Noah – as well as the other teens and near-teens in his troop -- take on challenges they would normally skip in lieu of video games or TV. As I watched them venture out of their comfort zones, it reminded me that every day each one of us is given the option of choosing to stretch rather than stick with the status quo, of opting for new experiences over comfortable routines.

I watched from afar as Noah worked on his swimming merit badge. He had to jump in the lake fully clothed, remove his shirt and jeans and turn them into a floatation device. I stood in awe as I saw him struggle and succeed at something I couldn’t even dream of attempting. He caught a fish, he dissected a fish, he shot a rifle, he swam 150 yards without stopping, he snorkeled, he made a first aid kit, he waited tables in the mess hall, he walked back and forth and back and forth through camp, winding his way through mud and darkness without fear or frustration. And I sat near the campfire, waiting and watching for the glimmer of his flashlight shining in the darkness to signal that he was “home.”

Boy Scout camp is meant to challenge the boys. But as I made my own way at Rotary Scout Reservation, I realized that it was challenging me as well. First there were the easy challenges: letting go of the urge to go through my normal hair and make-up routine before venturing down to flag ceremony and breakfast, sleeping in a tent where animals were scurrying under my platform and grasshoppers were hovering above my head, using stinky latrines that didn’t even have doors. And then there were the harder challenges: letting Noah make his own choices and maybe even his own mistakes, inviting him to hike with me but giving him a wide berth, remembering that this was his week and he shouldn’t have to cater to mom’s every whim, trusting that even if I hadn’t been around to remind him he would ultimately do the right thing.

I may not have an opportunity like this one again. By next year Noah may want more independence, or at least some time out from under his parents’ watchful gazes. And that’s OK because if learned one thing on this camping trip it’s this: My son can handle a lot more than either one of us realized. He’s ready to stretch, and so, it seems, am I.

To read previous 'Life Lines' columns, visit my website by clicking HERE.

Remembering a day we can never forget

I remember exactly where I was eight years ago this morning, as we watched our world change forever. Standing in my bedroom, putting away laundry as my son, Noah, played in the next room, I received a phone call from my father-in-law telling me to turn on the TV. That moment is as vivid to me now as it was then, as are the events that followed. I had a cousin on a train caught in "the tubes" under the Hudson River between New Jersey and New York, although none of us knew at the time if he was safe or already under the towers and in the station. I had family living in Manhattan.

Moments of panic were wrapped around normal events of the day. I dropped Noah at art class and came home to find one tower gone. By the time I was ready to pick him up, the second had fallen and I was on my knees in tears in our family room. In the days that followed, I wrote one of my very first Life Lines columns about that terrible time in our country's history. I thought today, I would share that original column, which captures those early feelings of fear, and reminds us of how far we have come. Here is the column that ran in Catholic New York:

By Mary DeTurris Poust

Noah plopped down on the floor next to me the other day and asked me to read one of his favorite books, “There’s an Alligator Under My Bed,” by Mercer Mayer. As we turned the pages and followed the little boy on his quest to capture the elusive alligator that kept him up at night, I had an eerie feeling that the story was an allegory for what I’d been feeling since that terrible morning a few days before.

The night after the World Trade Center attack, I lay awake in my bed staring at the ceiling, filled with a sense of dread that I could not quite put my finger on. I was scared, but not by the images of horror that had flashed before my eyes for hours that day. Instead my fears seemed frivolous, not at all unlike the little boy’s alligator: Had I left the dryer on in the basement? Was the window over the kitchen sink still open? Were the kids’ pajamas warm enough? I felt a childlike fear of the dark, of things no one else can see, things we parents usually try to hush with a goodnight kiss and a night-light.

When morning finally arrived, I realized that my sleeplessness wasn’t really about what might go wrong within my four walls. It was about what had gone wrong in our world. Long after I had wiped away the tears of sadness that fell as I watched the World Trade Center collapse over and over again on television’s seemingly endless loop of horror, I fought back tears of a different kind -- as I rocked Olivia to sleep for her nap, as I kissed Noah good-bye at preschool, as I hugged my husband, Dennis, at the end of a long day. Those were tears borne of fear, tears for tomorrow, tears for a world we don’t yet know. And I didn’t like how they felt.

Despite the fact that I have spent almost two years writing a book on how to help children deal with grief, the events of the past weeks left me in the unusual position of struggling for words. On the day of the attack, when Noah, asked if “bad people” might knock down our house, I reassured him that they would not. When he made a logical leap – at least for a 4-year-old – and worried that they might knock down his grandmother’s apartment building in New York City, I told him he was safe, that no one was going to hurt him or the people he loved. All the while I found myself wondering if I was telling him a lie.

But that kind of thinking leads to hopelessness, and when we lose hope, we leave a void just waiting to be filled by fear and despair and alligators of every kind. Through stories on television and in newspapers, I had seen unbelievable hopefulness in the face of utter destruction. How could I not believe in the power of the human spirit and the ultimate goodness of humanity and a better world for our children?

That night, as a soft rain fell, our house seemed wrapped in a comforting quiet that was interrupted only by the reassuring hum of the dishwasher. With Noah and Olivia asleep in their rooms, I lay down and looked up. For the first time in days I didn’t notice the enveloping darkness but saw instead the tiny glowing stars that dot our bedroom ceiling, a “gift” left behind by the previous owners. As I finally closed my eyes to sleep, I whispered a prayer of hope, a prayer for a world where the only thing our children have to fear are the imaginary monsters hiding under their beds.

Copyright 2001, Mary DeTurris Poust

Catch me on the archbishop's show Thursday

Tomorrow (Thursday, Sept. 10) at 1 p.m. Eastern time, I will be a guest on Archbishop Timothy Dolan’s weekly radio show, A Conversation With the Archbishop, on The Catholic Channel on Sirius/XM, to discuss my book, The Complete Idiot’s Guide to the Catholic Catechism.

The Catholic Channel is on Sirius 159 and XM 117. Please tune in. If you don’t have satellite radio, you can get a seven-day free Internet trial HERE.

An unofficial hiatus

Obviously, considering I haven't posted in more than a week, Not Strictly Spiritual is on a brief hiatus. I just can't keep up with the work deadlines, kids at home (still) and other general responsibilities. I'll be back (I hope) soon. Maybe next week. There's a chance I won't be back at all (or at least the blog won't be back), but you'll be the first to know if I decide to pull the plug on this thing. It's been a struggle these past months to keep all the balls in the air at once. Thanks for your patience.

A visit to my favorite local shrine

Earlier this week, I posted about the possibility that Blessed Kateri Tekakwitha, Lily of the Mohawks, is one step closer to canonization. Well, today I happened to be at the National Shrine of the North American Martyrs in Auriesville, N.Y., birthplace of Blessed Kateri. I thought I would share some photos with you in hopes that it will inspire you to visit the shrine, which is open until mid-October and then closes (New York winters, you know) until the first week of May.

The view of the surrounding countryside and Mohawk River from the Visitors' Center and Gift Shop:


The three crosses marking the entrance to the main grounds. The crosses bear the names of three martyrs tortured and killed on the grounds where the shrine now stands: St. Isaac Jogues, Jesuit priest; St. Rene Goupil, Jesuit Brother; and St. John Lalande, lay missioner:


Coliseum church, which was built in 1930 and can seat 6,000:


Replica of the Our Lady of Fatima statue that stands in the Vatican Gardens:

Rose bush beneath Our Lady of Fatima, hung with the Rosary beads of pilgrims:


Kateri Chapel, a simple screened-in building, where daily Mass is celebrated:


Many (most) of the trees on the main grounds are marked with crosses and the name of Jesus in honor of St. Isaac Jogues, who taught the faith by carving the basics into trees:


Across the street from the main shrine grounds is the ravine, where you can read in St. Isaac Jogues' own words an account of the death of St. Rene Goupil. It is a peaceful and powerful place:

In the ravine is the Shrine to Our Lady of the Way. It's explained in the photo under this one (click to enlarge and read):

A bridge leading back to the main path of the ravine:


And, once you're finished at the shrine, stop off here for some ice cream and fresh veggies on your way back to the highway:

To whom shall we go?

Earlier this summer, I did a spiritual exercise of sorts where I read through the first ten chapters of the Gospel of John slowly, one chapter on each day of my vacation, and then jotted down the one thing from each that stood out. A modified version of Lectio Divina, I guess. All of the readings were familiar, but one stood out in those ten days, the one we heard in today's Gospel from Chapter 6. It is the latter part of the Bread of Life discourse, where Jesus has told his followers that they must eat his body and drink his blood in order to have everlasting life.

“As a result of this, many of his disciples returned to their former way of life and no longer accompanied him. Jesus then said to the Twelve, “Do you also want to leave?” Simon Peter answered him, “Master, to whom shall we go?”

I am intrigued --and in some ways, comforted -- by the fact that many left and went back to their former lives. The Eucharist is such a shocking concept to them. “The saying is hard; who can accept it?” Even then, even in the presence of Jesus actually saying that we must eat his body and drink his blood, many disciples couldn’t accept it. So no wonder it is hard for us to grasp it fully and allow it to change our lives.

And Peter’s response -- “To whom shall we go?" -- isn't exactly a ringing endorsement of what Jesus has just said. He doesn’t say that he “gets” the teaching on Eucharist, does he? Just that he cannot imagine leaving Jesus. Yet another reason to love Peter. His honesty is refreshing. Despite his tendency to say or do the wrong thing at the wrong time, he believed. He doubted and denied, but at the end of the day, despite his shortcomings, he was the one Jesus entrusted with his Church.

To whom shall we go? Sometimes I think that fits my relationship with my faith so perfectly. I'm constantly trying to find my place, to really understand what I'm called to do and be. And yet so often I fall short. But where else would I go? If I’m going to believe in something, why would I go searching for anything else. Jesus is here.

That's why I find such comfort in Peter in this Gospel reading. He’s not saying, Yes, Lord, I understand. He’s saying, “Where else am I going to go?” And that's enough, isn't it? Jesus asks us to follow. He recognizes that it's not always easy. He doesn't demand that we completely understand every single teaching but that we believe and trust in him. "Lord, to whom shall we go?" There is no place else but here, with Jesus. For Peter, for us, for all time.

The importance of rituals

Here's my August Life Lines column:

My brother and sister and I used to joke about the fact that when we were kids, our family went back to the same Wildwood Crest motel year after year, ate at the same Italian restaurant while we were there, and even ordered our annual Sicilian pizza and zeppolis from the same businesses on the boardwalk. We were creatures of habit, which on the surface may seem dull but in reality is exactly the kind of thing that makes for lots of happy memories.

Dennis and I now take our own children to North Wildwood year after year. We stay in the same condo, order from the same seafood take-out restaurant, like certain pizza places on the boardwalk and one particular hot dog joint that serves veggie dogs for the non-meat eaters in the family. We have created our own vacation rituals that are now on the kids’ “must-do” list every summer.

This year, as we were sitting on the beach trying to decide which of our usual haunts to visit later that day, Dennis said, “Do you think one day the kids will look back at this and joke about how we went to the same places every year?” And I shot back, without a second’s hesitation, “No!” Because, despite the fact that my siblings and I would joke about it now and then, the truth is that those summer rituals gave us lifelong memories, memories so strong that I want my own children to experience them.

When we walk on the boardwalk, it’s the same boardwalk I traversed as a teen-ager. When I stare out at the ocean, I think back to the walks I took along those same shores with my mother, of the crowded but happy beach blanket filled not only with my immediate family but grandmothers and cousins, of long car rides with too much stuff piled into every crevice of our big Ford Galaxy.

Rituals are important in life. They serve as touchstones that remind us of people and places that hold special spots in our hearts. They give shape to our lives and, often, order to our days. And just as family rituals bind us to our biological heritage and connect our past to our future, faith rituals bind us to our Church family and connect us to the Divine.

The stained-glass windows, the incense, the prayers of the Mass said day after day, the hymns and holy water, the candles and statues – all of them combine to create rituals that not only feed our spiritual lives but leave a lasting imprint on our hearts and souls of what it means to be Catholic.

Sadly, we’ve give up on a lot of the rituals that make both family life and faith life special. Fast food has replaced big family meals eaten slowly around a kitchen table. Statues and stained glass seem old-fashioned to our modern sensibilities. But as we shed the physical ties that bind us to our families or our faith, we lose critical connections.

When I give presentations on the Catholic faith at conferences or parishes, I focus heavily on rituals because the increasing disconnect from the so-called “bells and smells” of Catholicism today plays a big part in the larger disconnect from the faith in general. We’re only human after all, and we need those tactile traditions to help us make that giant leap toward heaven. Rituals are not just nice; they’re necessary.

Before summer is over, try to rediscover some rituals from your own past – perhaps one family ritual and one faith ritual – and see for yourself just how special they can be. It may be something as simple as flying a kite on the beach, but it’s bound to touch you in deep and maybe surprising ways, reminding you of times gone by and, perhaps, leading you home.

2009 Copyright Mary DeTurris Poust. All Rights Reserved.

Mary's excellent Boy Scout adventure

So I spent three days (actually a little more) at Boy Scout camp last week, and lived to tell the tale. And a happy tale at that, even with "semi-open" latrines that could bring tears to your eyes from 10 feet away. It was a great experience, so good that I extended my stay and added on an extra day and night. Believe me, coming from this non-camper, that's a pretty big deal. In fact, I would have to say that I can no longer label myself a non-camper. After two fabulous Boy Scout camping experiences and one horrendous but survivable Girl Scout camping experience, I am really, truly a camper. I loved it, and I'm looking for the first opportunity to go on a family camping trip.

Here are some photos of my days at Rotary Scout Reservation. The one thing I don't have a photo of is my afternoon at the rifle range, which is too bad since I nailed that little target. I've got the paper to prove it. Don't mess with Mary.

On to our photos... (If you click on the photos, it will enlarge them.)

Noah diving at the lake and my little tent in the woods:



Noah climbing the grotto near our site and Noah and me at dusk:



Noah and Noah at the lake, and Chiara and Michael on family night:



Lots of pretty fungi that Noah and I found on a hike, and a little lost toad:




Last morning around the dying campfire:



Flag ceremony. That's Troop 71's flag flying over Rotary since our boys earned 100 percent on their site inspection that morning:



And lest you think it was all fun and games, here's a shot of the dreaded latrine with no doors. Quite a fitting ending to this little Ode to the Boy Scouts, don't you think?

Online before breakfast? New family rituals

My post from OSV Daily Take today:

As soon as I saw "Coffee Can Wait. Day's First Stop Is Online" in today's New York Times, I felt a mix of relief and disappointment. Relief because apparently my family is not unusual in our new and semi-constant quest to be connected to everyone we know via Facbeook, Twitter, email, Instant Messager and Skype, even before we pour that first cup of coffee or pop a piece of bread in the toaster. Disappointment because this new way of life is not necessarily a good way of life. I recognize that even as I pause to check Twitter one more time before bed or to post a status update to Facebook at 5:15 a.m. as I head out the door to yoga class, something that would have seemed insane just a year or so ago.

At our house, you will often find my husband, Dennis, on his iPhone, my son on the laptop, and me on the computer in the family room, all simultaneously. On the weekends, when we don't get the old-fashioned version of the Times, Dennis has the laptop on the kitchen table as he sips coffee. At dinner, if I don't remember to turn down the volume, we can often hear the distracting beeps and dings of various communications being received. Like our telephone rule -- no calls taken during meals no matter what -- we don't check on the latest urgent post from some far-flung Facebook friend, but it still has the ability to cause a minor disruption in kitchen-table conversation.

From today's New York Times:

"In other households, the impulse to go online before getting out the door adds an extra layer of chaos to the already discombobulating morning scramble.

"Weekday mornings have long been frenetic, disjointed affairs. Now families that used to fight over the shower or the newspaper tussle over access to the lone household computer — or about whether they should be using gadgets at all, instead of communicating with one another.

“'They used to have blankies; now they have phones, which even have their own umbilical cord right to the charger,' said Liz Perle, a mother in San Francisco who laments the early-morning technology immersion of her two teenage children. 'If their beds were far from the power outlets, they would probably sleep on the floor.'

"The surge of early risers is reflected in online and wireless traffic patterns. Internet companies that used to watch traffic levels rise only when people booted up at work now see the uptick much earlier.

"Arbor Networks, a Boston company that analyzes Internet use, says that Web traffic in the United States gradually declines from midnight to around 6 a.m. on the East Coast and then gets a huge morning caffeine jolt. “It’s a rocket ship that takes off at 7 a.m,” said Craig Labovitz, Arbor’s chief scientist."

One family in the story opted to go offline on weekends, which is a great idea, although I don't think I could get anyone in my house, except maybe our 4-year-old, to go entire weekends without going online. After all, this has become our primary mode of communication with friends and family. It's part of our jobs. It's part of everyday life now, like it or not.

I think the technology takeover is one reason this non-camping mom has suddenly become interested in heading for the mountains and pitching a tent. To be unplugged and communing with nature and each other without any distractions seems like a dream. Of course, as I write this my husband is posting Facebook status updates from a Boy Scout camp in the woods. It may be a losing battle.

So how do we use technology wisely without letting it become an obsession? Probably the same way we used to rein in TV time when the kids were little, only now the parents need to be reined in too. How are you dealing with the influx of technology into your homes? Share in the comment section so we can all benefit.

To read the full New York Times story, click HERE.

Remembering the baby I never held

When I came downstairs for coffee this morning, I announced: "I'm on edge today. I don't know why." And I didn't, but I knew something was off. There was a sadness hovering around the edges of my still sleepy mind, despite sunshine, despite a relatively easy work day, despite all the reasons I had to be happy. Or at least not to be moody.

Then it hit me. It was August 6. Eleven years ago today, I found out the baby I was carrying had died eleven weeks into my pregnancy. With a mother's intuition, I had known something was wrong from a couple of weeks before. The day Dennis and I -- with Noah in tow -- went to the midwife for my regular check up, I didn't even take the little tape recorder with me to capture the sound of baby's heartbeat, so convinced was I that I would hear only silence. I went back for the recorder only after Dennis insisted. But somehow I knew. Because when you are a mother sometimes you just know things about your children, even when there is no logical reason you should, even when they are still growing inside you.

When we went for the ultrasound to confirm the miscarriage, we saw the perfect form of our baby up on the screen. I remember Dennis looking so happy, thinking everything was OK after all, and me pointing out that the heart was still. No blinking blip. No more life.

Every year I remember this baby, whom I call Grace, on her due date and on the day I lost her. I wonder what she would have been like, and I think about how, as I have written in previous posts on this subject, she shaped our family by her absence rather than her presence. Had Grace lived, the rest of our family would be different now. So she still left her mark on us, even without taking that first breath. A piece of her still lingers here, even though we never knew her or held her.

Although I've written about grief and talked about grief, I am always awed by grief. By the way it can return again and again in different forms on special dates and anniversaries, at the sound of a song or in the scent of a flower. In some ways, this grief-from-a-distance -- not the anguished and desperate grief of the early days after a death but the aged and quiet grief over someone long gone -- can be a beautiful thing. It's a way to revisit a life, to spend some time reliving the moments shared, and to remember that we never really lose our connection. We are joined by our faith, in our prayers, in our hearts.

So today I pray for Grace, who will remain in my heart until I finally get to meet her.

It must be summer

Sorry for lagging behind on the blog posts lately. It's just that we've finally got some good weather (two-day stretch of sun, which is a big deal this summer) and I've got a ton of work and the kids are all here looking for something fun to do.

Yesterday we headed to Five Rivers Environmental Center (only about three miles away from our house) to hike and look at the flowers and visit the owl and, finally, to have the picnic lunch that Chiara has been asking for since school let out in June.

Check out that beautiful lily pond above, and below. It was teeming with frogs (you can see a bright green one in the photo below) and big fat tadpoles just waiting to be frogs.

Then we headed inside to see Aires the one-winged owl and the bee hive, which was buzzing with activity. No birds, though. They can't feed them during the summer for fear it will bring the bears around. Finally we took a half-mile hike around Beaver Trail, where we spied a heron flying across the pond and nabbing a fish for lunch and, as we neared the end of the trail, at least a dozen turtles, including one big snapping turtle that Chiara declared was the mama.

We really should do this sort of thing more often.