Three kids with coughs that could easily cause vomiting at any moment seemed like plenty a reason to separate for morning Mass. Beyond the excitement of an opportunity to wear a non-mucous resistant shirt for the first time in a week, for even just an hour, the powerhouse of a Homily made this Sunday even better. My pastor is capable of something of communicating a spirituality rooted so deeply in Mercy, yet firmly based in Justice, too that his love for God is simply contagious. He’s approachable, yet honest, flexible yet orthodox, and his message today left me in tears.
Several years ago he sat with a young woman preparing to baptize her baby. With the question of “Father’s name and religion” left blank, she felt compelled to explain that she had been raped. Forever impacted by this girl’s generosity and love for her baby, despite the circumstances with which he was conceived, Fr. Thom, tells the same story almost every year after the March for Life, not to politicize, but to share a story about a woman he simply cannot forget.
As I listened, I couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by the infinite power of saying “yes,” especially when its hard. A woman I do not know personally, impacted me to deepen the “yes’s” that are difficult in my life, because she showed courage in hers, took the road less traveled, out of love for a baby, and for that I will always be grateful.
And for the last day of this week that I am reminded to meditate on the importance of valuing life, I’m reposting why I care so deeply about this issue, and why I’ll always pray that more women have the courage to silently impact infinite numbers of people by choosing life.
Pitter-patter is not at all political. It’s unaware of congress, and the president, too. And it might be better off, for I’d hate it to think its just a bunch of cells, lumped together haphazard.
I remember exactly the day and the moment of each of my three when Pitter-patter began to reveal its life’s special purpose.
It was the last Sunday in May, the first time James danced. I sat near a pond off the road called Love Hollow. Grass twirled in my hand as his dad’s arm drew back with his rod, attached to the string, swaying peacefully behind him and then into the water. I sighed in surprise and sat there a while, pressing my hand on his body and mine. The kick, like him, strong and intense like a hammer, seldom stopped moving all those months in my belly.
Sweet baby Josie, danced awfully early. I folded that shirt then dropped it at once, and put back my hand to where it belonged, right onto my belly and close to her jumping joyfully feet. She’s never stopped tapping since 8 weeks gestation, reminding me then, just like she does now, to quit all that laundry, put a smile on my face, and enjoy the freedom of life.
Rita Therese was 9 weeks along. I laid on the chair and its soft navy back, its cushion absorbing my day’s exhaustion. What a surprise, those feet came to be, reminding of joy, and sacrifice, too. Her kicks the first, that led me to tears, for her soft gentle rhythms weren’t the first event unexpected. Rita, my child, is not a mistake, but a gift sent from heaven, unforeseen yet received.
Pitter-patter cannot vote, or chose at all, which seems not fair, to me, its mother. It cannot march or stand outside the courts with a sign or a hanger. It only pushes and twists and rolls. It taps quite strong before it naps. Hiccups come at the same time each day. Its legs stretch up to my ribs, and like to dance at bedtime. I cannot will it, nor make it stop, just choose whether to enjoy it and exactly how much.
Life is simple; it begins and it grows, so long as its let, and loved just for being.
and voting closes tomorrow! vote here