Peeved Polish Woman

My Country

2005-06-20T15:32:00.000-07:00

Well, another year has passed and it is almost July 4th once again. I have a friend who likes to point out to me sometimes that I do tend to study other countries more than I study my own, and perhaps this is true. However, I do love my country very much, and I wanted to say some of the things I love about America:

If I were enormously wealthy and could choose any place in the world to raise my theoretical children (because if I were extremely wealthy I'd adopt at least a hundred of them), I would choose this country. I wouldn't choose it because it's my own, or because it's familiar, or because it's wealthy. I would choose it because, as a general rule, I would be able to send my child to school without fear that armed militant groups would take over the school and slaughter hundreds (do you remember Beslan, Russia? Or, just a few days ago, that international school in Cambodia?) I would raise my children here because they could go to church without having to risk their lives, as Christians do in so many countries around the world, or that we could go to church without fear of losing our jobs or imprisonment, as is the case in Communist China. I would want my daughters raised here because so many daughters in impoverished countries end up in the international sex trade. Yes, we have that here, too, but an American girl is much less likely to end up entrapped in it! I would want my children raised here because they would have the freedom to choose their vocation, their educational level and institution, their fields of study and employment, etc. They wouldn't be trapped in a caste-like system, or a system of education and vocation that decides for the child in which direction he or she should go, as is the case in Communist countries. I would raise my children here because the odds are very slim that we will be eating at a pizzeria or cafe someday and have a suicide bomber walk in, or that the bus or subway we are riding on will be hijacked or blown up. Children in Israel deal with that every day. America may be younger than other countries, but we have more than made up for our youth with our contributions to the world. So many inventions are by Americans. So much advancement in medical science is through American doctors and scientists. Our level of freedom is unrivaled in the world. Americans are extremely generous. We give billions each year to overseas missions, hospitals, humanitarian projects, etc. (I am not talking about government money, but private money donated by everyday Americans). We are not perfect. We have crime. We have homeless. We have had school shootings, and hijackings, too. However, we are far safer than anywhere else in the world. If I were a journalist by profession, I would not have to worry about my headless body being found by a river because I wrote too scathingly about my government. (Ukraine just a few years ago). This past election was intense, but we did not see the candidates poisoning one another with Dioxin (again, sadly, Ukraine). We may have our problems, but it is illegal to buy or sell children on the street, as they do in many third-world nations. Our inner cities are in bad shape, and we do have gang warfares, drive-by shootings, drugs, prostitution, etc. but, however, there are many reasons why I am proud of my country. I am not going to delve into politics. I am not politically savvy enough to do that and am afraid that I would only make myself sound ignorant, and I don't want to do that. However, I do not think that we are the evil empire many make us out to be. We are not perfect. We make mistakes, sometimes many of them. I do not think our President is another Adolf Hitler, nor do I think he is intentionally trying to take over the world. Again, I am not going to go into my opinions of the war, or the election, or any of that. I do not believe that the "religious right" is out to destroy the country. I do not think that people who are Christians are just ignorantly waving flags and voting for whomever their pastors or conservative radio tell them to vote for. I think a good majority of votors have brains (notice, I said votors, not just the average joe who says he or she will not vote because they either don't care, don't know enough, or don't want to be involved). I find it insulting when I hear people say that the religious right is destroying America because we are too stupid and backwards to be progressive, too concerned with sexual morality and abortion rights to be concerned with the rest of the world. That is, to be blunt, a load of crap. Just because somebody believes in God and leading a moral lifestyle, and in raising their children to be moral and God-fearing citizens of our country, does not make that person ignorant-- some Bible-thumping hillbilly too stupid to read The New York Times or Philadelphia Inquirer. I'm probably not making much sense here, but I am getting tired of feeling guilty for being an American, for feeling guilty for belonging to a country that is, in my ignorant, Bible-thumping, small-town and henceforth small-brained opinion, the best darn country in the world. I've been outside my little town. I've seen glue-sniffing homeless children living under bridges in Eastern Europe. I've heard Chinese Christians whisper their sad stories to me as we sat huddled in the corner of our hotel room or walked outside where there were no "bugs." I've been in a country where the Mafia rules all, where one cannot even buy a loaf of bread without giving them a kickback of some sort. I've been in lands where people are tortured and simply disappear just because they disagree with their government. I've met people who had their fingers crushed. Who were wrapped in ice-cold sheets and left in torturous pain as those sheets dried, constricting them and almost asphysixiating them. I've met the people who rebuild their church every other year because the Communists keep tearing it down. I've met the 16-year-old who runs from town to town, living off the land and off the charity of others, because if she stops, the authorities will arrest her for talking too much about Jesus. I've met old women who had to sacrifice some of their own children to save some of their others during the War. I've stood in forests where partisans fought and where concentration camps were erected. I've been to the land of Babiyar and the land of Baba Yaga. I've come home and gotten down on my knees and thanked God for my country, for my freedom. I am not some ignorant hoke, and I am not some starry-eyed optimist who thinks her country never does any wrong. I do not have an education, whether formal or informal, in Political Science, so I could not debate with you about so many of the issues of the day. However, I do have a brain. I do think things through before I enter a voting booth. This is a long blog, and I'm sorry for going on like this, but I wanted to reiterate exactly why I love my country, why I voted the way I did, why I do not think we've become the Roman Empire or Nazi Germany arisen out of the ashes, etc., etc., etc. That's all I'm going to write for now. Feel free to comment, whether you agree or not. Dialogue is the best way to discuss various issues, especially in a blog.

An Amazing Book

2005-06-08T17:08:00.000-07:00

Much to my joy and astonishment, I discovered last week that Svetlana Alliluyeva, Stalin's only daughter and only living child, is an author of three books. True, they've been out of print for almost 30 years, but thanks to the Internet, I was able to get two of them. I was overjoyed beyond words. Imagine how interesting her life must have been! They were books I could not pass up, books I would have spent anything to get, but thanks to Amazon's used book sales, was able to get for merely a few dollars a piece. What joy and happiness! Not only was she a direct eyewitness to a period in history that I find completely and endlessly fascinating, she is a very talented writer. Within her pages I found a kindred spirit. As strange as this may sound, I feel like I've made a friend. Yes, she is Russian and raised as an atheistic Communist, but her soul is so alive, so full of beauty, it is amazing. It is so interesting to me to watch her progress from a child who unquestioningly loves her father to a young woman searching for answers. Raised by atheists, she discovered God. Surrounded her entire upbringing by paranoia and intruigue, she is remarkably trusting. Not only did she lose her mother to suicide at the tender age of six, but she watched her beloved relatives on her mother's side disappear one by one. Aunts and uncles were arrested. Cousins disappeared without a trace. Some came back, most did not. It is fascinating to me to see how she knows the truth behind their disappearances, but is sidestepping around saying it. At some points she expresses love for her father and sorrow that their relationship was not a close one. At other points she wonders what led him down the paths he went down. I have not yet reached a point in the book where she flat out says, "My father was a monster," but I can see her thinking it. Yet, he was her father and she has fond memories of him in her early years, before her mother's death. It has raised endless questions in me. When, exactly, did that child grow old enough to realize what was happening around her? Why did she start to distance herself from her father, with whom she had been close when she was a young child? The questions raised are endless. I haven't finished the book yet. I'm eager to find out what happens to her. I only know what I was able to glean from a few articles on the Internet - that she defected to the United States in the 1960's. That she led an unhappy life of wandering from marriage to marriage and country to country. That she is currently in a nursing home in Wisconsin. That is all I know about her. Yet, within these pages, written almost 40 years ago, I am finding someone like me: someone sensitive, yet reserved. Someone who is devoted to her friends and who loves the written word. Someone who has had a difficult life but who still finds beauty in it. Someone who has come to realize how much God loves her. The book is called Twenty Letters to a Friend. I have since discovered that it is available at just about any good library. How I wish I had known that before! I didn't even know the book existed, though. Go to your library and read it. You won't be disappointed!

A Dog Worth Writing About

2005-06-01T11:04:00.000-07:00

My mother is beginning to write her second book (yes, her second! That's two more than I have written!) It is about her Norweigian Elkhound, Tikvah. While animals are a part of most everybody's lives, it is rare to encounter that very special animal that has such an impact on a family, that animal is always remembered with a touch of wonder and greatfulness that she was yours. Tikvah came into our lives just about twelve years ago. I remember the day very clearly. My mother and I had just gone to see her radiologist (she had finished up chemo and was gearing up to get radiation at the time to fight her very aggressive cancer). The appointment had been a gloomy one and my mom and I were feeling very down and discouraged. We decided to stop by the local Mall to cheer ourselves up. Once there, we wandered into the pet shop. It was there we met Tikvah. Being just a little over eight weeks old, she was tiny and dark. She was, by far, the cutest puppy we had ever seen, and we had been through many puppies. She looked directly at us, even though there were many people in the store that day. My mother exclaimed, "Oh, I just have to hold that puppy!" I cautioned her against it, saying that we couldn't afford a new dog. My mother scoffed at me. "I'm not going to buy her! How can we? We have no money. I just want to hold her." Well, the little puppy that she "just wanted to hold" has been a part of our family for twelve years now. We cannot imagine what life would have been like without her.

Tikvah is still little, but she is gray now, not black. Her breath could kill a full-grown moose, and she is fussy and pushy. Yet, we adore her. She found her calling early in life. After my mom's cancer treatments were over and her immune system had recovered from the double trauma of chemotherapy and radiation, my mom began visiting other cancer patients, especially ones with terminal diagnoses. She, too, had been expected to die, and she knew exactly how they felt when they heard the doctor say those dreaded words, "the cancer has spread..." One way or another, my mom became involved with a tiny group called Paws with Patience, a group that took their dogs out to nursing homes and to visit the very sick. Tikvah very quickly established herself as a natural. One of her first "assignments," when she was still very much a puppy, was a man named Dave. Dave had such a severe, horrible form of cancer, his body was literally falling apart on him. His suffering was enormous. He was a young man still in his thirties, with a wife and small children, and he was dying. Tikkie brought him such a tremendous amount of comfort, when he was on his deathbed, my mother received an urgent phone call from the family asking her to rush Tikkie down to Dave so he could be with her one more time. Dave was by this point unconscious, but Tikkie crawled right up in bed with him and cuddled next to that suffering man who had been so ravaged by disease. He died shortly after Tikkie's visit with him, and his family was very thankful she was able to comfort him in his last moments. It was at that point that Tikkie truly became a Therapy Dog.

She really is an amazing creature, our Tikvah. Originally, we thought her name meant "Little Jewel" in Hebrew, and that was what we named her. Then, we mistakingly thought the name Tikvah meant "Hope." After all, isn't the Israeli national anthem "Hatikvah -- The Hope?" Very recently a friend whose grasp of Hebrew is better than mine set me straight. Her name means what we originally thought - little jewel. It doesn't matter. She is a jewel, and she has brought hope and comfort to hundreds, so her name is appropriate. She is the only dog I know who can count to five, add and subtract, and do very simply multiplication, both in English and in Spanish. We taught her using hand signals, and she caught on so quickly, it is everybody's favorite trick, one that is demanded of her several times a day on her visiting days. Tikkie not only goes into nursing homes to comfort the elderly and infirm, she has visited hospice patients, mentally retarded children, and her most recent venture - schools and libraries where young children can read to her. My mother, my amazing mother, pioneered the R.E.A.D. program in this area. She had read about it and was very enthusiastic about having her therapy dogs (by this point she was the head of Paws with Patience and it had grown from a tiny group to over 80 members) work with school children. Tikkie is wildly popular with the kids. They draw her pictures. They write her letters. On Christmas, she receives more cards than I do, all from children who adore her.

Tikvah has led a more full life than most humans I know, including myself. How many of us can say that we have comforted literally hundreds of infirm or dying people, given joy to mentally retarded children who cannot see or speak, but who can reach out and feel the warmth and fur of a dog, sat patiently while child after child demands that we do endless tricks until we are too exhausted to do any more, and generally been a comfort and a great joy to all who have known us? I can't say that about myself, but my mother's dog can. Tikkie's getting older now. She's slowed down. She no longer goes on wild runs throughout the neighborhood with my mom and I in hot pursuit. She grows tired very quickly these days. Yet, she is still amazing. Stop by and see her sometime. She'll give you a kiss with her stinky kill-a-moose breath, but you will still love her.

Remarkable Mothers, part four

2005-05-27T13:56:00.000-07:00

There are two friends I think of when I think of the motherly attributes of the Virgin Mary. One is my friend Tiffani. She has her own section all to herself. The other is my friend Audrey. There are different parts of both women that I see emulated in Mary. Tiffani is a teacher, a passionate historian, someone who would fiercely defend her faith and her country against anyone who might challenge her. Audrey is a nurturer. I can see in her what Mary must have been like in Bethlehem with newborn Jesus. Audrey is someone who would (and has) sit up all night holding her sick child so he can breathe and rest more comfortably and safely. Her numb arms and exhausted mind don't matter to her, because her child has made it safely through another night. Every need her children have are attended to, yet they are not spoiled. She blends the perfect balance of gentleness and firmness necessary to raise them. When I see images of the Madonna and child, I think of Audrey holding her babies. She is fiercely protective, yet she marvels at them, at the gift she has been given. All of the love and tenderness that a human being can possess is passed directly into those children. If they don't learn anything else in life (and they will learn a lot, because Audrey, too, is a natural teacher), her children will know that they are loved.

Remarkable Mothers, part three

2005-05-27T13:32:00.000-07:00

I have neglected this section, and May is almost over! I would like to tell you about my friend Tiffani. She is a remarkable mother well worth mentioning. When I see her interacting with her children, I think of Mary. I did not know Mary when she was alive on this earth, but I imagine she was a lot like my friend Tiffani. Tiffani adores her children. She thinks being a mother is the highest calling a woman can have. When her children enter the room, Tiffani's face lights up with a smile. Her entire day is structured around teaching her children. She homeschools two of them and will be homeschooling the third school-aged child next year. Even over the summer, though, she will continue to teach them. Her children devour learning the way other children devour snacks. Every experience Tiffani and her children have, she turns into a learning experience for her children. Yet, her kids are not just "book smart." There is much spiritual learning in that household, too. They talk about Jesus as easily and casually as they would talk about their friends. They really know Jesus. He isn't just some mysterious figure they think about during Sunday Mass. Getting a chance to speak with their priests on Sundays after Mass is often the highlight of their week. They pepper them with questions. They ponder the answers for the rest of the week. They draw them pictures of Jesus. They really love God, they truly, truly do. When her oldest son had his First Holy Communion recently, there was a family celebration. Her child could not wait to receive Jesus in the Eucharist for the first time. He has such a deep love for God, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to see him go up to receive Holy Communion. Tiffani's middle son wants to be a priest, and I know he will be. Sometimes the thought has crossed my mind that perhaps all of Tiffani's sons would be priests. That is a thought so amazing, it gives me chills to just think about it. It is an incredible grace to have one child who goes into the priesthood. Imagine the grace if all three boys go! I know she would be thrilled. Anyway, when I see Tiffani bent over her children, brushing strands of her hair away as she tells them some historical fact or tells them of some Biblical figure she makes sound so alive, one expects to turn around and see him or her, I think of Mary. I can see Mary doing that. I can see Mary bending over young Jesus, instructing Him about His heritage, telling Him the history of the Jewish people, teaching Him to pray, teaching Him to love and cherish life. All good mothers emulate Mary, because she was and is the ultimate mother, but Tiffani emulates her more than most.

Wrapped in a Quilt of Words

2005-05-14T20:21:00.000-07:00

This afternoon I went with my mentally challenged client to the local Farmer's Market. It is a place he dearly loves and I rather dislike. Today I rather enjoyed myself, though. Bill and I had gotten some cold chocolate milks and were sitting on a bench inside watching the mobs of people walk around "the loop" at the Farmer's Market. I began to listen to those around me, and what I heard made me smile. I heard an Italian woman speaking wildly in short, staccato sentences to her children in front of the bubble-gum machine, her hands all the while gesturing and waving. I saw a father from what I presumed to be Southern Asia with his two small children, sometimes scolding the little one for touching too many tic-tacs, sometimes very lovingly speaking to both children and touching their shoulders. I wanted so much to ask him where he was from, if he lived near Cambodia, what it was like there, etc., etc., etc. I didn't, of course, I'm too reserved for that. I just enjoyed listening to him speak. I saw another Asian couple with their three naughty children, and they made me smile as I saw their harried mother raise the back of her hand to her forehead and say something in an exasperated tone. My personal favorite was the Spanish-speaking woman with the curling soft hair, whose words were soft and gentle, swirling around me like something warm and comforting. I remembered my friend Tiffani telling me that she thought Spanish was one of the most beautiful languages, and I realized why. It is the "chicken soup" of languages, the one that makes you want to curl up on a comfy sofa on a rainy day, wrapped up in your grandmom's warm quilt, sipping tea. I actually found myself growing irritated at the loud English-speaking woman in the midriff shirt who barged into my reverie with the noisy conversation on her cell-phone. I found myself saying a little prayer, thanking God for the patchwork quilt of languages I had heard today. I thought to myself that maybe God's confusing the languages at the Tower of Babel wasn't a curse, after all, but a gift - a beautiful gift. I wondered at humanity's ability to have so many different kinds of people come up with so many different languages. I really enjoyed myself at the Farmer's Market today. Usually I rush through there and do not stop to sit and listen. I will do more of that after today, because hearing all those languages swirling around me was like a rush of warmth wrapping itself about me on a cold day. It was comforting. It was beautiful. It was a gift.

2005 Relay for Life

2005-05-14T19:49:00.000-07:00

I just returned from the local Relay for Life. I go every year with my mother. She is always there with her pet therapy group, but she began going not because it's a good community outreach, but because she is a cancer survivor. She always very proudly wears her "I am a Survivor" t-shirt, and she always walks the very first lap in the relay, the Survivors' Victory Lap. I wouldn't miss spending this day with my mother for anything in the world. Despite it's somber subject, it is a joyful day. It is a festival, really, with games and moon-bounces for the kids, community leaders out flipping burgers and selling messy ice-cream waffles that drip all over you before you have the chance to eat them (I ended up slurping mine off of the soggy paper plate!), balloons and music, and sometimes a very bad bagpiper. There is a luminary ceremony at night where luminary bags bearing the names of survivors and those lost to cancer are set out, glowing peacefully in the dark. Their names are read aloud during an hour-long service, and it is very moving. It is the only place I know of where I will walk up to a complete stranger and ask him or her the intimate details of their cancer treatments, and that complete stranger will share those details, and neither one of us will find that strange. This year and last year I saw a young girl in her upper teens sitting next to her mother's luminary bag, sobbing throughout the entire ceremony while her friends sat next to her and held her hand. I don't know if it was the same girl both years. My heart ached for her. Every year my mom places a bag out for a little boy named Shaun who is not so little anymore, and whom nobody expected to live through his cancer. Every year we put out bags for my grandfather, and every year my mom and I grow a little teary-eyed when we read his name. This year my mother had several bags, many of them from children whom she has gotten to know through the R.E.A.D. program with her therapy dogs. They drew pictures of little dogs all over her bags. And I don't believe any of my mom's bags caught fire this year, always a plus! It is a good day, a happy day. It is a day to celebrate life, not just raise money to fight death. I realized tonight that each year the number of people on the luminary bags whom I have personally known grows more and more. There is my parents' friend Karin, my mom's friend Darlene, little but not-so-little Shaun, my grandparents, my mom's friend Brenda, my client's mother (I never knew her, but I know her son very well, so that counts). Cancer had touched all of these people. Some of them survived, most did not. My mom survived. We don't consider her lucky. We consider her a miracle. Just about every person at the Relay has been touched by cancer in some way, whether personally or through a family member or friend. This year they did something nice: along with the usual signs that say things like "Every 2.5 minutes in this country a woman learns she has breast cancer," there are signs saying that survival rate has risen 20% in women with breast cancer over the past 15 years. There are signs saying how many millions have been raised for research. There are signs saying which cancers we are having more and more victories over. They are happy signs. Good signs. They are signs that give me hope, because cancer is genetic in my family and I am grateful for the research that is being done today that may save my life or my sister or niece's life in the future. So, whether cancer has touched you or your family or not, go out to your community's local Relay for Life. Open your eyes and watch the people around you. Ask some of them to tell you their amazing stories. They'll be happy to do so, I will promise you that. You will leave at night crying, but you will leave smiling, too, because it is just that kind of day.

Remarkable Mothers, continued

2005-05-14T05:34:00.000-07:00

Hey, everybody, I'd like to continue my section on inspiring and notable mothers I have known. This time I would like to talk about my aunt. My Aunt Evie is remarkable. She has raised four rambunctious boys, all of whom turned out to be wonderful human beings. She is the doting and adoring grandmother of six. I always considered my Aunt Ev to be like a second mother to me. She was the one who taught me to ride a horse. I have many happy memories of riding her pony, Buffin, when I was very small; and of riding her horse Comanche when I was bigger. When I was little she always took me into her stable to feed and play with the horses. As I grew older, she let me play in there by myself, which was a huge adventure for a child! That stable is full of all kinds of old things that were just so irrestible to a curious child with an overactive imagination. When I think back to favorite haunts of my childhood, I think of my aunt's stable: standing in Amber or Commanche's stall brushing them. Feeding them grain and hay. Sitting on Amber's feeding table and just enjoying being there. Sometimes I even fell asleep on that table, right next to the horse. My parents always knew that whenever I could not be found in or around my aunt and uncle's large property, they would find me in the stable. My aunt and uncle had the ideal property to raise children on. It was (and still is) large and sprawling. They had wonderful climbing trees and a fort built just for us kids. During the pre-fort days, we used to climb up one of the trees and crawl onto the roof of one of the sheds. That was our fort in those days. Apparently my uncle decided we needed something more elaborate, so he built this lovely fort back against the woods. It was great. There were large fields to ride horses in. The stable was long, dark and sometimes creepy, and my cousins and siblings and I spent many adventuresome hours imagining what kinds of ghosts were in there. My grandparents lived on the property, just across from my aunt and uncle's house. We children ran in and out of their house constantly, always banging the door, always tracking dirt inside. There was always a constant stream of children running about between both houses. My grandparents loved it. They never once scolded us for the banging doors or the dirt. They never said, "We're tired. Let us rest for an hour or so." Whenever we visited down there, it was a joyous occassion. Not only did we get to play on that lovely piece of property that was so ideal for children, but we got to see all the family we loved so much. We all adored my grandparents, and it was so nice to be able to visit with them at the same time we were visiting my aunt and uncle. My aunt is one of those remarkably cheerful people who is so genuinely kind and sweet, one can't help loving her to pieces. She and my mother are the closest of friends. My aunt is definitely a hands-on kind of person. She survived raising my four cousins with their stunt-bikes and dirt bikes, and rock-climbing and any other kind of dangerous, thrill-seeking sport they got into their heads to do. They're great, though. Three of the four are married now, and have settled down and are wonderful fathers to their children. It's a tribute to my aunt and uncle. My cousins had the best to learn from. My aunt and uncle are terrific parents and grandparents. My aunt would do anything for me, I know it. When I was planning my trip to China and doing all kinds of fund-raising to raise enough money to go, she held a candle show and donated the proceeds to my trip. I was so pleased, I can't even tell you how happy that made me! I'm running out of time, but I wanted to mention a little bit about my aunt and all the happy memories I have because of her. She and my mother have a very deep faith and have been a major influence in my own faith. She is selfless and kind. She is decent and very loving. I am proud to have her as my aunt.

Mothers I Have Known

2005-05-12T15:40:00.000-07:00

I am imitating my friend Tiffani's blog and writing about Mothers this month. I was so inspired by her own writing, I decided to do my own. I want to talk about the various mothers I have known throughout the years, because I believe there is nobody more important than one's mother. Here is my list of mothers, and please excuse my lack of paragraphs. My computer is having a breakdown right now... Joyce: this is my own mom. Everyone who knows her loves her. She has "adopted" more kids than I can count. It was not uncommon in our household to have my own friends or my siblings' friends call her "Mom," also. She loved all of us, whether we were her's or not. This is a woman who has her nursing degree and who gave up nursing to be with her children when we were small. We were more important to her. She opened up a daycare practice so that she could be home with us and so that we did not have to go to Day Care ourselves. She gave up her career for us. I adore her for that. She scrimped and saved to help send us to a private Christian school because she wanted us to have a solid Christian education. She was the kind of mother who surrounded my brother and sister and I with books. We were read to from our infancy onward. Even when money was very, very tight, there was always book money. My sister and I belonged to the Weekly Reader's Club, which we loved so much we saved our books and passed them on to other children when we were grown (some of them I still have because I could not bear to part with them!) Even as a child I was allowed to check out adult-level books from the library, as long as they were educational. Because of my mom's encouragement to read, read, read, my brother and sister and I are all hopelessly in love with books. We hoard them. We cherish them. When my sister built a nifty set of bookcases in her basement on Sunrise Lane, it was a cause for family celebration. When Matthew stayed up all night reading a book for the first time when he was six years old, my sister called me and cried. That is all my mother's influence. My mom sang to us constantly when we were children. She sang to the daycare kids, too. She sang to us songs about Jesus. She sang to us about poor, tragic Clementine and her untimely drowning in 1849. Whenever we tripped and fell she'd sing "Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, start all over again!" As very small children, she would open up the hymnbook and we children would compete to see who got to sing a song (and yes, siblings, that is a real memory!!) When we passed a construction site, she'd sing "You'll never get rich by digging a ditch!" She played music for us constantly as children. She still plays music constantly. We went through phases. We went through the 8-tract-tape phase of the 70's (mercifully short!) We went through the Life Action Singers phase, also of the 70's (and even though we chuckle now at their long dresses and long, straight hair parted in the middle, I did learn a lot of hymns from those records.) During 1976, the bicentennial year, we played a lot of Sousa. My dad loved music, too. He still does. I do have to mention him briefly, because he gave me a big pile of Russian, Ukrainian and Polish records when I was young that I cherish deeply to this very day!! And even though my mom really doesn't care that much for opera or classical music, she did play it for us, especially Hooked on Classics, which, as 1970's as that was, taught me excerpts from just about every classical piece ever written. It was my first introduction to classical music as a child. She insisted I take piano lessons, and even though it took me eight years of lessons to figure out I'll never be wildly talented, I do enjoy music and I developed quite a love for classical music through my piano lessons. Also, my learning classical piano led to my learning all about opera, which I adore to this day. Again, all due to my mother. My mom was the kind of mom who sought out her kids' talents and encouraged them in those talents. My brother was always a gifted artist, and my mom made sure he had all the art supplies he needed. When he entered the film phase of his artistic talents, she was very enthusiastic and gung-ho and cheered him on in everything he did (and still does!) My sister turned out to be quite an accomplished flutist as a child, and my mom drove her to endless lessons, searched for the best teachers for her, and again, cheered her on. I think my mother was rather baffled by me. After all, who else could say that their ten-year-old daughter had pictures of Eva Peron on her wall! She always encouraged me, though, no matter how quirky my interests were. When I announced one day in the later 1990's that I intended to go to Ukraine for an entire month, she bravely smiled and said "Great, honey! That'll be great!" Later, years later, she told me that she cried after I got on the plane. I think she cried that entire month! When I announced, once again, to her that I was going to be smuggling Bibles into China, she smiled an even broader smile and said, "Wonderful!" She never told me, but I bet you she cried when I got on that plane, too. The only time she ever forbade me to go anywhere was when I told her of my longing to go to Cambodia. She refused to smile at the thought of me going to that country. She simply said, "Please wait until I'm gone to go there!" She's trooped with me all through Manhattan and we have very proudly determined that we have mastered the subway system, with the help of my nifty little laminated map. I could go on and on about my mother. She's the most wonderful person I know, and she's my best friend. I love her dearly. I'll write more about her later: about how she's a cancer survivor, about how she runs an award-winning dog therapy group, about how selfless she is and how loving she is. I'll write about her incredible faith and her inspiring life. All of that will come later. I hope you enjoyed reading about my mom, because she really is a very special lady.

What makes you happy?

2005-05-10T18:15:00.000-07:00

First of all, I'd like to apologize to my faithful readership of five for my nearly two-week absence from my oh-so-unintelligent blog. As all of you know, work has been phenomenally busy and I've barely had time to sleep, much less write. Tonight I have a few spare moments and am actually awake, so I decided to write a little bit.

What makes a person happy? That's an elusive question. It is commonly misunderstood that to be considered a happy person, one has to be continuously smiling, never down, always cheerful, never annoyed, etc., etc., etc. I don't consider that happiness. I consider that as needing an adjustment in one's Thorazine drip. This is my definition of happiness, and it's not a Webster's definition, just my own: happiness is a feeling of contentment, a knowledge that you are where you are supposed to be, being in possession of a few very good friends, and being able to recognize what makes you smile. By my own definition, I am quite a happy person right now. Yes, I am overworked, sleep-deprived, always running around, and am often suckered into doing way too much. On the other hand, though, I am content with where I am right now. My job is frustrating and I am paid nothing, but I have learned a lot from it and it is flexible enough to allow me to go back to school full-time this Fall. I have an apartment I love. My parents are only three miles away. I possess exactly three friends (six if you count their husbands) who are very dear to me. I have a niece and nephew I adore, and another new nephew on the way. My cat has never peed on anything or shredded anything beyond the occassional roll of toilet paper. I know what makes me smile: having Polish Night at my friend Tiffani's house, and having her put up with my quirky music. Listening to my quirky music, with it's gypsy wildness, Russian baritones, and baliliakas. Seeing my friend Audrey's newborn son for the first time. Playing with my godson. Spending an unholy amount of money on my niece for her birthday. Calling my mother and annoying her with my babblings about genetic research and migratory patterns of ancient humans. Hearing my friend Dawn's son's lack of personal pronoun awareness when he says funny things like "Zachary wants Zachary's drink." Cuddling a little puppy. Buying lots of books at the library used-books sale. Driving by my church and saying to myself "I belong there!" (yes, I know, that's a little pathetic, but I really love St. Isidore's). I have a lot in life. I am very happy right now. So, faithful readers, respond to this blog and tell me what makes you happy, even if it is quirky. You can't be quirkier than me, I can promise you that, unless you, too, have a favorite Croation CD stashed away somewhere I don't know about!

A Most Misunderstood Woman

2005-04-25T18:29:00.000-07:00

Mary is the most misunderstood woman in all of creation. She has been maligned and disrespected and treated rather poorly. At the very least, she has often been ignored. I do not exclude myself from guilt, here. Before I became Catholic, I really did not think too much about Mary, other than at Christmas or when I was reading about the Wedding at Cana or some other passage of Scripture that mentioned her. I never disliked her. She was just some remote Biblical figure who lived a long time ago. When I was in the process of converting, I began to think a lot about Mary. I realized, with astonishment, that she is not just some remote Biblical figure who lived thousands of years ago, but she is a living being who is in Heaven doing whatever work God gives her to do to help her Son and to help us. Mary became someone real to me. As I thought of her, I realized that, just as all of us will be working for God in Heaven and not just sitting on clouds strumming harps, so, too, is Mary working. And I also realized that if God trusted her with the most important event to occur in all of His creation: the Incarnation and birth of Jesus Christ, then He must trust her with an awful lot of responsibility now that she is in Heaven and fully experiencing the glory and majesty of being in the presence of God, not being bound by earthly things. I began to look at Mary in a new light. I know that my grandparents are undoubtedly praying for my family and I, and I began to believe that Mary, too, was up in Heaven praying for all humanity, including me. I also began to understand what the Catholics meant when they called Mary a mediator. At first that confused me, because, after all, "There is only one mediator between God and man," and that is Jesus Christ. However, Mary was and still is Jesus' mother. She obviously still talks with Him and listens to Him and supports Him, as any good mother would. Mary is a mediator in that she takes to Jesus our concerns and prayers and worries and troubles. She is a mediator in the way that all of our loved ones and relatives who are in Heaven are mediators. She is right there, in the very presence of God, as are our loved ones who have gone on before us. You can bet anything you want that your grandparents and cousins and friends and old Sunday School teachers and anyone else you loved who has passed on to Glory are praying for you and are interceding on your behalf. They are, believe me. If I were in Heaven right now, I would be on my face before God praying and praying for everyone I loved still here on earth. How can our families who have gone before us be any different? Mary had and still has a very personal relationship with Jesus. One doesn't stop being someone's mother just because you both are in Heaven. When I am in Heaven, I will not walk up to my mother and say "Hi, Joyce. How are you?" I'll still call her Mom. She will always and forever be my mom. Mary is still Jesus' mother. Who better to sit down with the Son of God, the very Second Person of the Trinity whom she carried in her womb, than His own mother? That is why Catholics call her a mediator, and she is not the only mediator. She is just the only one who gave birth to the Second Person of the Godhead. Mary is misunderstood. Many think that she is worshipped by the Catholic church, but that is just plain silly. It is condemned as a heresy, in fact, it really is. Mary was just a creature, a human being just like the rest of us. She is not a goddess. She is not above God, though we acknowledge that she is the mother of Jesus, who is God, when we call her the "Mother of God." Someday in a later post I will write my thoughts on the Rosary, which is a very beautiful and powerful prayer. It is often referred to as "Mary's Weapon," because Catholics believe that she is very, very involved in that great cosmic fight that takes place constantly in the spiritual realm all around us. The Rosary is a beautiful and contemplative prayer that focuses on the life, ministry, death and resurrection of Jesus as seen through his mother's eyes. I'll write about that later, maybe tomorrow. I hope I helped you think of Mary in a new light. I know that when I completely realized how remarkable she really was/is, I felt really bad about not thinking about her all these years. I have come to love her. I hope you do, too.

This Mother's Day, do something different...

2005-04-25T18:10:00.000-07:00

Hey, everybody. I want all of you to do something different this Mother's Day. It doesn't even require buying a Hallmark Card or making a phone call. Just think and ponder in your heart. Let me tell you about the mother I am thinking of...

She was a teenaged girl who was faced with quite a choice. She chose to carry her child who was conceived out of wedlock. She faced the scorn and ridicule of her very conservative community. She even faced the threat of being ostracized from everyone and everything she loved. She gave birth to her little boy and nurtured him and loved him. She taught him to walk and talk, she taught him his prayers, she loved him and guided him all his life. Her child grew up to be quite a revolutionary. He stirred up crowds. He annoyed and angered many people. There were plots against his life, even. His mother witnessed all of this, but she still loved and supported her child because she knew deep in her soul that he was right. She witnessed the most horrible thing a mother can witness -- her son, the one she had nursed and cuddled and loved, being arrested, tortured and killed. She saw it all, yet her faith in God never wavered. You've probably guessed who I am talking about. I am talking about that young Israelite mother from 2,000 years ago, the mother who gave all of us her Son, the mother who agreed to bear and raise the Messiah of all mankind...Mary. Say a prayer of thanks for Mary and her astonishing selflessness and courage this Mother's Day. Say a prayer of deep gratitude that this remarkable woman had the "chutzpah" to say "Let it be done to me as you have said" to the angel Gabriel when he announced to her God's desire to have her bear the Messiah. I will blog in another section my thoughts and impressions of Mary. But this Mother's Day, tell Jesus that you really are very thankful for His mother, and I can guarantee you that somewhere up in Heaven, Mary will smile.

Dinner with an old friend

2005-04-21T23:40:00.000-07:00

Tonight I had dinner with an old friend. Actually, to be more accurate, she is my mother's friend, but she is my friend, also, now. We ran into each other at Confession a couple of weeks ago and were happily surprised to find each other there at St. Isidore's Parish on that horribly rainy afternoon. It was so pleasant to have dinner and just chat and chat with M. and her husband. We talked of many things, but mainly about what it is like to be a convert. She lost just about everything when she came back to the Church: all her friends at her old church, her job, even her children and parents were against her. Yet, she has never regretted it. She has had the same experience I have had: she has never felt closer to Jesus than she does now that she is back. That made me smile. I was also overjoyed when she mentioned a friend of hers, a Latvian woman who has been Baptist all her life who is in the process of converting. I was very interested in talking with this woman, and M. promised to introduce me to her. For one thing, I have never met a Latvian and want to ask her all about her country and culture. Also, I haven't yet met any Baptist converts, like me. I will blog about my conversations with her after they occur! M. also told me fascinating stories about her upbringing in Germany and what her family went through during and after WWII. We talked about that for a long time. Some day I will share her mother's story, if she gives me her permission. Anyway, it was a very lovely evening. I'd like to challenge all of you for this week: call up an old friend whom you haven't seen in several years and invite her to dinner. Get reaquainted. Chat. There is something so comforting in seeing an old friend, and M. gave me a very nice compliment. She told me that even though she didn't know me terribly well when I knew her years ago, since we mainly just knew each other through my mother, she could tell that I was very happy and content. She said that a happiness and joy radiated through me that wasn't present years ago. I told her it's true, I do have a happiness and joy inside of me that wasn't there before. Yes, I have known Jesus since I was a small child, but there is SO MUCH MORE now! I feel like the previous years were the appetizers before the great feast. I could go on and on, but it's late and I am probably boring you to tears. I will go now. Just do what I say: call up an old friend and invite her to dinner. Then let me know how it goes.

On Being a Nerd

2005-04-17T12:51:00.000-07:00

I first began to realize that I was a nerd when I was in the second and third grades and developed an unbridled enthusiasm for ancient mythology and the lost city of Pompeii. It perplexed me that other little girls weren't interested in those things. They wanted to collect Strawberry Shortcake dolls and sticker books. I hated Strawberry Shortcake. And for the most part, I hated collecting stickers. Now, if the sticker industry had made images of buried Roman cities, well, then, I might have been interested. But alas, they did not. A hopeless "book-cracker," as my friend T. would say, I have always been fascinated by words. When I studied Russian (just for fun, I might add!), I spent many happy hours sorting through word roots and trying to figure out where they came from. Other word-root nerds have told me that my speech patterns have a sprinkling of many nationalities in them - Pennsylvania Dutch, Polish, Yiddish, Irish, and some others I can't remember. In fact, my last name means "Land Owner," which is a fact probably very few of you find interesting but which inspired me to wonder endlessly where exactly in Poland did my family own land? Only a fellow nerd would understand my excitement. Whenever I say "That baby is screaming like a banshee," or "I was a nickstnutch when I was a child," the thought pops in my head, "Did some long-forgotten ancestor embed that word or expression in my family vernacular, or did we just pick those words up from our particular region?" The possibilities fascinate me. In fact, I was wildly intrigued when my friend T., a fellow book-cracker and a hopeless nerd, told me that she had read in a history of the Lehigh Valley areas that people who say "Bethlum" as opposed to "Bethlehem" may have gleaned that expression from their Colonial ancestors. I wanted to tell the world. But, alas, the world of a nerd is a lonely one at times. People often don't understand. I ran into that lack of understanding just today. I had read about a National Geographic study that will be using the DNA of people from all over the world to trace common ancestral groupings and ancient migratory patterns. Their ultimate goal is to find the common thread that links us to that one guy in Africa they say we're all descended from. The best part is, nerds like me who find such studies fascinating beyond our wildest dreams can participate in this study! All we have to do is purchase a kit and send our cheek-swab in. After 4-6 weeks, we can go online and see where we are in the global ancestral groupings and find where our ancient ancestors migrated from. I was so excited, I ran out to tell my mother that I had ordered a kit and would be participating in an international research study. She sat up on the couch, with her brow furrowed and a perplexed look in her eyes. I was blabbering on and on about this study and how excited I was, but I finally gave up and asked, "Are you following what I'm saying?" Sadly, she wasn't. She did not share my enthusiasm. I was sad. Anyway, I will stop torturing you non-nerds now with my ramblings, but I know that some of you were secretly excited at the thought of an international DNA study... You may be a nerd, even if you deny it. You never know!

Blogs worth reading

2005-04-16T16:24:00.000-07:00

Here are two blogs worth reading. The first is called The Dull American and can be located at http://grumpyrepublican.blogspot.com. The second is by the Dull American's brilliant yet angst-ridden sister. It is http://thetormentedartist.blogspot.com. Most of you know The Dull American. Most of you don't know her sister, but read her anyway. She's a very good writer. Anyway, check these out. Start your own blog, and those of you who have blogs set up but haven't written in them yet, what are you waiting for? You both (and you know who you are) have a lot to say and a lot to offer. Get writing! Don't tell me you don't have the time. You have the time to read my insane ramblings, don't you? Well? No excuses!

My Patron Saint

2005-04-16T15:27:00.000-07:00

My patron saint is Saint Maria Faustina Kowalksa. She was a Polish mystic who died in 1938 at the age of 32. I have to confess that my original decision to choose her was because she was Polish, not because of what kind of person she was or what she did. As I learned about her, though, I came to love her and realize she was perfect for me. She was a very devout young woman, spending hours deep in prayer even in her childhood. She had visions of Jesus during the last years of her life. In her visions, Jesus gave her the Divine Mercy Chaplet, one of the very first Catholic prayers I learned and one that brings me great comfort. The heart of the prayer is this: "For the sake of His sorrowful passion, have mercy on me and on the whole world." I love this prayer. I love to kneel before God and ask for His mercy. When I have a bad day, this prayer reminds me that God is always there - waiting with open arms and with boundless amounts of love and mercy. One time, and my friend Tiffani loves this story, I was very zealously praying this prayer and quite inadvertantly blurted out "Have mercy on me and on the whole damn world!" At first I was mortified. I had just said the "D-word" to God Almighty! But then I started laughing and almost drove off the rode because I was laughing so hard. Somehow, I think I amused God that day. Anyway, Maria Faustina was very humble. I often think of her because she was among the "very least" of the sisters in her convent. Of very frail health due to frequent bouts of tuberculosis, she was given the lowest jobs. She had to garden. She had to clean the kitchen. She had to serve the other sisters. Many of them didn't like her. She came from a very impoverished family and could not read or write very well, and they thought she was ignorant. Yet, she always took leftovers from the kitchen and went to the convent gates to feed the poor. She bore all of her sufferings in silence. She humbly accepted her circumstances and did not complain. Nobody except the priest she confessed to knew of her visions, and nobody would know of them if that priest had not commanded her to keep a diary. As it was, she said nothing about them to anybody except this priest, and it wasn't until after her death that people realized what an extraordinary young woman she really was. There is a very famous Catholic painting, one that is in nearly every Catholic church you will go in. It is called "The Divine Mercy" and it comes from several of Maria Faustina's visions where Jesus commanded this specific painting to be done. In it, Jesus stands with one hand raised in a blessing, and the other touching his breast, from which come twin rays symbolizing the red blood that he shed for us and the clear rays of water, symbolizing baptism. He has a very kind expression on His face, but one that also is stern. Underneath are the words "Jesus, I trust in You!" It is a beautiful picture. I keep it by my bed so I can see it every day and remember that no matter what my sins are, Jesus still wants me to come to Him. I love it. Anyway, this is my patron saint, a humble Polish girl who reminded the world of the need to repent and of the mercy of God.

Foreign Films

2005-04-16T14:53:00.000-07:00

I want to write about something I dearly love -- foreign films. Most of the movies I own are not in English, and most of my favorite movies are foreign. There are so many that are just so good. We tend to forget that the rest of the world makes movies, too, and some of those movies are incredibly good. I guess I was fortunate, being a huge nerd coming from a family of huge nerds, and also having a brother who has been fascinated with filmmaking since his childhood. I developed an early appreciation for foreign movies. Don't let the subtitles scare you! Actually, after a few minutes, you don't notice them, and when you remember scenes from the movie, you will remember the dialogue in English, not subtitles flashing across your brain! These are some of my favorite foreign films, ones I would highly recommend:

The Red Violin - traces the "life" of a little red violin through the centuries, through the stories of all the people who had owned and loved that violin. An exquisitely beautiful film.

Xiu-Xiu: The Sent-Down Girl - a Chinese film depicting the life of a Chinese teenager, Xiu-Xiu, who was "sent down" to the countryside in China during Mao's reign of terror. It is heartbreaking to watch her descend into a life of despair and prostitution, but the ending, while tragic, is a redemptive ending. An excellent film for those who want to learn more about those unfortunate people who were "sent down" to the countryside by Mao, and of how much they suffered. Also a very good film for those who want to study why a young girl from a good, solid family would descend into prostitution.

Amelie - a positively charming, funny French film about young Amelie, who spends her days trying to brighten the days of others while avoiding her own happiness. It will make you smile for at least a week. It is one of my favorite films, American or foreign.

Burnt by the Sun - this won an academy award several years ago. At first glance it is a whimsical, charm-filled story with quirky, likeable characters. It turns tragic, though, when Stalin's purges touch the family. It is wrenching at the end, but it is so good, it is worth watching. Another one of my favorite movies.

Belle Epoque - takes place in Spain in the days immediately before the Spanish Civil War. It is a beautiful film with beautiful, sweet characters. It is funny. It is at times quirky. It is about a young man who falls in love with all of the daughters of his landlord, and of his adventures with them. I love this movie. I first saw it at the Doylestown Theatre and it completely beguiled me.

Babette's Feast - this is slow-moving but definitely worth watching. At first I resisted seeing it because I thought it looked very boring, but upon persuasion by my brother to watch it, I realized it was an excellent film. It takes place during the French Revolution and is about a Catholic refugee, Babette, serving her two landladies with love by preparing for them a magnificent French feast. It takes place in either Sweden or Denmark, I forget which country. It is somewhere that is desolate, colorless, cold and wind-swept. Babette brings life to the two sisters. Very good movie.

Maria Full of Grace - I just saw this last night, and it is a movie every American should be made to watch. It is about a Colombian teenager caught up in the international drug trade. It depicts the desperation and hopelessness that a young girl feels as she becomes a "mule" for a drug-trader. An incredibly moving film, it is an excellent film about finding dignity within oneself, the courage it takes to make the right choices, and the preciousness of a single human life. Watch it. You won't regret it.

These are my favorite movies. I feel as if they are personal friends, I love them so much. I'm sure after I post this, I'll remember about ten or twelve more I should have mentioned, too, but I want to encourage you to see these films. They are all well-known foreign films - many of them won awards in many different countries. Any decent video store should have at least some of these. Rent them. Watch them. Don't be scared by the subtitles, you won't even notice them. Your life will be much fuller because of it.

A Touching Letter

2005-04-11T10:39:00.000-07:00

As most of you know, I support some children through World Vision. I believe very strongly in sponsorship, that we as Christians and as human beings should do everything in our power to help others, especially children. Anyway, today I received a very touching letter from one of my Cambodian girls, Sokhet. She is eleven years old. I am just going to write her letter into this blog and then I'll comment briefly on it:

"Greeting to Elaine. How are you and your family getting on? We are here keeping fine. How delighted I was to receive your mail enclosed with a letter on March 9, 2005. I have read the letter, and I can now know how you are doing. My study result is medium, and I go to school regularly. My family does rice farming as main jobs. We have known God's news for four years now. We always pray for you and your family. Could you please keep praying for my family, my church and me? With much love, Sokhet."

The part of the letter that said "We have known God's news for four years now" made me cry. This letter made all the years of scrimping and scraping enough money for sponsorship worthwhile. It is not always easy for me to get the money to send them. Sometimes it is very hard and I have to do without something or other that month. It is all worth it now, though, every penny. Because of the love and care from World Vision, a Cambodian family will be in Heaven some day. Cambodians, if they are anything at all, are usually Buddhist. This family, though, has accepted Jesus. I cried. I thanked God for the honor of being able to be Sokhet's sponsor. I was a little uncomfortable writing this blog because I thought that it was prideful and bragging. That is not why I'm writing it, though. I am writing it to encourage the rest of you to sponsor a child. You will not only be helping to feed, clothe and educate them, you will be showing them the love of Jesus. You may even see that child in Heaven some day and have the great joy of being told that it was because of his/her sponsorship program that they are there.

I am begging all of you to become a sponsor today. Even if you can't afford it. Think of these children who live on practically nothing, who have nothing. One of my girls told me in a recent letter that she had to quit school to be able to help her mother. Her mother hires herself out as a laborer for three to four months at a time, leaving Thang to care for the household. We have no comprehension of what it is to live like this. I complain if I have to work too many hours in one week or don't get my weekend off. I don't know what I'd do if I had to work at hard manual labor for months at a time and leave my children and family behind just so we could eat enough to not starve to death. We don't know what that level of poverty really is. It is incomprehensible to us. World Vision is the best organization that I have found to sponsor a child through. I have worked with a few, and they are the most responsible, they are the first to respond in disasters, they are very accountable to their sponsors, and they really work to build up entire communities so they can be self-sufficient. They don't just give hand-outs of food and clothing. I have worked with them for several years now, and I cannot say enough good things about them. If I have persuaded you at all to sponsor a child, go to their website or call
1-888-511-6548. You can make a real difference in a child's life, and who knows, you may even see that child in Heaven some day because you cared enough to help them!

Isaac

2005-04-08T23:50:00.000-07:00

Isaac is seven years old. He has brown hair and dark brown eyes. He bounces around a lot. He loves Star Wars. He loves dogs. He even loves tomatoes, especially the little ones. He also is the only little boy I know who, for over a year now, has steadfastly declared to anyone who will listen that he intends to be a priest some day. He will even tell total strangers. His parents have not put this idea into his head, it just popped out of his mouth one day and surprised all of us. I have watched this child with wonder ever since. He will leap off of his bed or try to cram his brother, sister and himself onto the sliding board at the same time. He once told me to "move my butt" so he could put his seatbelt on. Sometimes he is naughty. Yet, he loves Jesus with a fervor and a passion that is astonishing. He will sit and watch Mass on television, sighing with contentment and happiness. He told someone the other day that if he came to Confession to him when he was grown, "I'll listen. I won't tell anyone what you said." And he won't! Isaac will make a wonderful priest someday. He is a wonderful little boy. If he loves Jesus when he is an adult as much as he does now, well, we will have quite a priest on our hands. I'm going to eventually blog all of my friends' children, because they are all so special to me, but Isaac is the first. When you think of it, say a prayer for him, that God leads him exactly where He wants him to be. However, Isaac did say that he would not be a priest who "wears a dress." (a Franciscan). He doesn't want the robe to get caught in his motorcycle!

My Grandfather

2005-04-08T20:02:00.000-07:00

My grandfather died almost 13 years ago, on May 14, 1992. He was a wonderful man. I adored him. My greatest regret regarding him is that he died right about the time I was becoming old enough to really appreciate him for the truly inspirational man he was. Yet, sometimes I get this feeling that he is keeping an eye on me, smiling to himself and saying, "What is she up to this time?" He was a wonderful artist. It's genetic in our family, it really is. We have a lot of artists. He made his living by engraving. My family still has some of his engravings and some of his equipment. They are priceless to us. Let me describe to you the man my grandfather was: he was the kind of man who truly loved his wife and did everything he could to please her. Just about every picture of my grandparents that we have, they are holding hands and smiling at each other or at the camera. He was the kind of man who had, at his funeral, many, many men, both young and not-so-young, come up to us and say "Your grandfather taught my Sunday School class. He is the reason I know the Lord." He loved the outdoors and took his family on many adventures. My mother and aunt love to tell stories of the camping trips they took growing up. He had a wonderful sense of humor -- I never saw him without a smile. I never knew someone who loved God as much as he did. He is responsible, I think, for so many people in our family being Christian, today. Of course, if he heard me say that, he would scold me and say "Don't say that. Jesus is the reason they are Christian, not me." Yet, it was his warmth, his prayers, his absolute devotion to God that made us want to learn more about Jesus, to get to know Him better. He had such an upright character, such a sense of morality, I can't think of a single fault that he had, except, perhaps, a certain leniency when it came to my sometimes cantankerous grandmother! "Keep the peace, Millie...keep the peace!" That was his saying. My grandfather is one of the reasons I am Catholic, today, as strange as that sounds. If fact, I bet you anything that he is up in Heaven right now cocking his head and saying to my grandmother, "What did she just say? What a weird kid!" I am Catholic today because he led a life that was so close to the Lord, it was only natural for him to draw others into that relationship, too. My mother, in fact, mirrors a lot of his qualities. She's probably frowning and shaking her head as she is reading this, but yes, Mom, you do. I will blog you at a later date, though. My mother, of course, taught me wonderfully about how to live a life of faith and devotion to God, being aware of Him in my every moment, every action. I will blog her later. You get my point, though. My grandfather was a huge influence on my mother's faith, probably the biggest influence. My mother was and still is a huge influence on me, on my faith. Hence, logically, my grandfather had a lot to do with my own faith and with my own decision to become Catholic and draw even closer to the Lord. My grandfather dearly loved George Beverly Shea. I always think of him and cry when I hear the song "The King is Coming." I think of that song as belonging just to my grandfather and me. I will sing it with him in Heaven one day. This was my grandfather. This blog is way too short to do him justice, but maybe you got a little glimpse of him. His last name was Faith, and that was his life - a life lived in faith. I miss him terribly, I really do. But, I know he's up there smiling, and probably still telling my grandmother to "Keep the peace, Millie! This is Heaven, so please keep the peace!"

On Forgiveness

2005-04-06T10:20:00.000-07:00

As my family and close friends know, someone I know (I can't identify this person, for reasons stated in my previous article) has been wronged in a terrible, horrible way. I have been struggling with my own emotions regarding this. At first I was so horrified and upset, I was literally physically ill for two days. Then I was able to calm down a bit, and after getting a lot of sleep this weekend, I have been able to get a hold of my emotions enough so that I am not physically sick over what happened. Still...I am angry, very, very angry. I feel betrayed. I feel deep pain for this person who was hurt, that this individual had to go through this. I have deep feelings of wanting to harm the perpetrator and see him rot in jail for what he did. Yesterday I went and had a long conversation with my parish priest about anger, about justice, about abuse and crime, about forgiveness. He told me many things: that what I was feeling was a normal reaction to what had happened, that it will take time to work through my emotions. We talked about forgiveness. I don't want to forgive the person who did this. I don't think he deserves my forgiveness or God's forgiveness. I want to see him suffer. My priest had a very good point that stopped me in my tracks and made me think. He looked at me and said "When you stand before God, what are the reasons you are going to give Him as to why you deserve forgiveness." I stated that I didn't deserve it, that none of us deserved it. My priest said, "Exactly! Forgiveness is by the grace of God, not because we deserve it. Even our smallest sins make us undeserving of His forgiveness, but He offers it to us, anyway." I thought about that for a while. I made the point that an individual who commits such a heinous crime should not just be "let off the hook" by saying that he was forgiven, and that's how I feel it would be if I forgave him for what he did. My priest told me that just because a crime is forgiven, it just means that we wish that person no harm, that we do not harbor hatred and desires to see them hurt, not that we say "everything is okay now, I forgive you." Forgiveness does not erase the monstrosity of the crime that was committed. My priest used the example of Pope John Paul going to the prison cell of the man who had tried to assassinate him. We have very moving pictures of the pope holding the hands of the man who had shot him, praying with him and for him. Still, my priest pointed out, that man is still in jail. He was forgiven by the man he tried to kill, but he is still paying for his crime. I began to have a glimmer of understanding at this point. I am still angry. I think I will always feel some level of anger over this crime, at least for a long, long time. I can honestly say that I no longer wish to murder the man responsible. I haven't yet reached the point where I can pray for him, for his redemption and salvation, but I am starting to relinquish my desire to see him suffer great pain and hellfire. My priest assurred me that someday I will reach the point where I can pray for this man, but that may be a long way down the road. He told me it would take time. Father K. stated over and over again that prayer is the only way I will get through this without becoming bitter and hateful in my heart. He said I need to pray, pray, pray, and then pray some more. I was very glad I spoke with him. I think everyone should have a Father K. to go to. Anyway, those are my thoughts on forgiveness. If anyone has any other thoughts, please post them. I'd love to start a dialogue on this.

Just a short note

2005-04-02T22:32:00.000-08:00

Hey, everybody. It is late and since the time change is tomorrow, morning will come sooner than I'd like! This is just a short note about the passing of Pope John Paul II. Most of the people who read this site are not Catholic, but this man was truly "the people's pope." Whether you are Catholic or not, you can appreciate the life of this great man who was truly devoted to God with his whole life and spirit. It is quite a testimony that even the secular media is saying, over and over again, how John Paul spent his entire life teaching others about the love of Jesus. We can learn a lot from him. He was not afraid to stand strong against the pressures of a very secular society. He suffered greatly, his entire life. In a later blog, I will write a little about his life. Right now I am too tired to do that. He truly showed us what it is to "take up our cross and follow Jesus." I have mixed feelings about John Paul's passing away. Part of me is happy for him, because he is seeing Jesus face-to-face now, and re-united with his beloved family, many of whom he lost during the war. Most of me, though, is very sad because the world has suffered a great loss. There will never be another like him, at least in our lifetimes. Pray for the Catholic church as the conclave of Cardinals responsible for electing a new pope will be meeting very soon. Pray that the man they select will be a strong and faithful follower of Christ. This is all that I am going to write for now. By the way, tomorrow is Divine Mercy Sunday. It is the day we are to all remember with love and gratitude the mercy of God. I will write about that, too, maybe tomorrow.

On Childhood

2005-04-02T00:40:00.000-08:00

A friend and I often talk about our childhoods. We didn't know each other then. We lived on two different coasts - she on the West Coast and I on the East. She tells me amusing tales of her big-haired Pentecostal grandmom, and I tell her what it was like to be the only 10-year-old with pictures of Eva Peron on her wall. While talking with my long-suffering brother the other day, I realized that I was a very quirky child. After all, how many 5th-graders do you know who both want to own and rule over their own Latin-American country and wear fabulous jewels, while at the same time be a Russian partisan fighting Nazis in the forest? No wonder I only had three friends. (Julie doesn't count. She was mean.) My two girlhood friends, who are still my dear, dear friends, and I used to play this game. It was called "Decomposition." The rules were quite intricate. We were very proud of our creativity. It involved being in various states of crumbling, limping, and generally flopping around while trying to run and touch the hem of our teacher's dress (which was the only way to stop the decompostition process). It was our most favorite game of all time, other than "Smash," which involved literally running and smashing into the door of Timothy Youth Hall. I'm afraid my friends had to put up with a lot of biting and scratching on my part, until I realized, with astonishment, that their parents did not want them to play with me any longer if I didn't stop the behavior. It had never occurred to me until that moment that they did not enjoy my mangling them. My two friends D. and A. and I have a lot of memories together. We've known each other since we were small. I won't repeat my friend A's 3rd-grade nickname, but she knows what it is! We walked across barn support beams that were ridiculously high in the air together. We've crawled through windows full of broken glass, and jumped off of haylofts onto old mattresses. D. and I used to stage elaborate scenes of our tragic demise, and photograph each step. My personal favorite is the series of photographs that has D. falling with great drama down a flight of steps. A. and I once wanted to see if Brenda Breyer (the Breyer Horses version of the Barbie doll) really was inflammable (she is - she just melted into a pile of stinky goo). D. and I learned the bitter lesson that mothers do not like it when children smash glass all over the basement floor. These were the happiest moments of my childhood. Yes, I didn't get invited to a lot of birthday parties, but we had more fun than any children I knew. We were very silly when we were together. D. and A. are still my dearest friends. A.'s husband always likes to say that we will grow old together, and we will. I never got to be a Russian partisan, and the pictures of Eva Peron are safely and lovingly packed away in a plastic bin in my closet, but D. and A. are still there. We don't jump off of haylofts anymore, though.

Correction

2005-04-02T00:08:00.000-08:00

I have a correction to make to my previous blog. Mother Teresa did not say the quote I gave, St. Francis of Assisi said it. Sorry about that, folks. I'm a new convert, what can I say? I'll try to get it right next time.

Disadvantaged and Exploited People

2005-03-30T23:48:00.000-08:00

This is just a very short but not-so-sweet blog. It is 11:30 and I am exhausted. It's been a horrendous day. The point of my blog is this: we, not just we "as a people," or "as Americans," or "as citizens," but we as HUMAN BEINGS have to get off our butts and actually help the helpless in our society. I really am peeved this time, because I am sick and tired of seeing the handicapped in our society, and in other societies, not just ours, get shuffled aside, trod upon, mistreated, ignored and exploited. I can't share the details, because I need to protect the privacy of the individual concerned, but someone I care very deeply about has been wronged in a horrible, horrible way. My close friends and family know what I am talking about, but I really cannot share even the person's name or gender. This individual was harmed in a way that no human being, handicapped or not, should ever be harmed. This person saw and experienced things that nobody should have to see or experience. I am sick, literally sick, over what we found out today. If I shared what happened, you would be so outraged, you would vomit. It truly is the worst thing I have ever heard of happening to someone I know. I am sick of people, liberal or conservative, who have their particular pet cause on a bumper sticker on their car, but who, in reality, don't give a flying rip. We need to get out of our comfort zones and actually do something. I am going to do something about this individual. I am not going to let this person slip through the cracks. I may lose my job, that's a distinct possibility, but I am going to fight this. It is wrong. It is horrible. The handicapped should not be brushed aside because it is not convenient to our schedules to bother with them, or because they are not productive enough citizens of our society to "count," or whatever. If you are going to plaster an "I am pro-life" or "Save the fuzzy animals" bumper sticker on your car, you had damn (excuse my language, but I'm really mad), and I will repeat this...DAMN WELL be prepared to do something about what you say you stand for. Get into that crisis pregnancy center and knit blankets for young women in crisis who don't have the resources to provide for their little ones. Show them you care about them and pray about them. A good friend of mine is doing exactly that. She practices what she preaches. If you are concerned about the rights of the dying, get into your local hospice or nursing home and comfort some of those who are actually dying, don't just theoretically support them. My mother does that. She exhausts herself going into nursing homes and hospices with her therapy dogs to bring just a little bit of comfort and love to those in need who are often forgotten in our society. Visit a young mother you know who is always tired, cares for her little ones on so little sleep and always has so much to do. Wash her dishes. Do her laundry. Or just visit with her so she can have a "grown-up" to talk to! DO SOMETHING! I am going to do something. I am sick of seeing those most vulnerable in our society slip through the cracks. I am going to speak up. I am going to fight. I don't have an assertive bone in my body, but gosh darn it, I'm going to do it because I am FURIOUS about what has happened, not just to this person I care about, but to so many others. I may be out of work soon. I'll get my resume ready. But I'm going to do it. So, get off your butts, people! When Jesus said to "go out into all the world and preach the gospel..." He didn't just mean those who have ordinations and theology degrees! As Mother Teresa once said, (I think it was her, and I may be mixing the words up a bit, so forgive me)..."Preach the gospel. Sometimes use words." Use our actions, people! God gave us brains for a reason, and those of us who are fortunate to have all our faculties, to be able to walk, talk, yell at those we're mad at, and call our lawyers if we're wronged, should get down on our knees and thank God that we have those abilities. So many do not. This is as close to yelling as I am capable of getting. I hope I get my point across, and I hope I make some of you feel rotten enough to do something about it!

A Story for Our Times

2005-03-29T06:08:00.000-08:00

Hey, everybody, I have a story to tell you. It's a true story. It happened in Auschwitz in 1941. Why is this a story for our times? I'll get to that at the end of my story...
Father Maximilian Kolbe was a Catholic priest, aged 47 years old, who had been imprisoned in Auschwitz in May of 1941 for his publishing work and also for aiding and hiding Jewish refugees. He was a good man - very excited and enthusiastic about his work, and, despite his frail health, before the war he had managed to travel to both Japan and India and founded monastaries there. Incidently, the monastary in Nagasaki, Japan, survived the atomic bombing and is still in existence today! In May of 1941 he was arrested and sent to Auschwitz. Because he was a Catholic priest, he was given especially brutal treatment, once beaten so badly he was left for dead. The other prisoners managed to smuggle him to the infirmary where he was able to recover. People who knew him in the camp have testified that at night, in the barracks, instead of sleeping he would often sneak from bunk to bunk, whispering "I am a Catholic priest. What can I do to help you?" These same people have said that he also often gave his own meager rations away to weaker prisoners. In July of 1941, a prisoner who was later found drowned in the latrine was thought to have escaped. In retribution, during roll call it was announced that ten prisoners would be selected to die in the starvation bunker - a cement bunker where prisoners would be thrown in and left to die without any food or water - sometimes taking up to three weeks! One of the ten selected, Francis Gajowniczek, began to weep loudly, lamenting that he would never see his wife and two children again. Suddenly, out of the ranks stepped a stooped, ragged Polish man. Stepping out of the ranks was immediate cause for death, but for some reason the SS man in charge of making the selection let the little man step forward. Approaching the SS guard, the little Polish man identified himself only as "I am a Catholic priest." He asked to be allowed to take the place of one of the men selected. When asked which man he wanted to take the place of, the little priest pointed to Francis Gajowniczek, the man who had been weeping for his wife and children. All who were there were astonished, fully expecting both the priest and the condemned man to be killed on the spot. For whatever reason, the little priest's request was granted. Francis Gajowniczek was led back into the ranks, and the priest, Maximilian Kolbe, was led away with the condemned. He was thrown with the others into the starvation chamber and locked away until his death. The prisoners who were in charge of tending to those in the starvation chamber testified later that, contrary to other instances where condemned prisoners had been thrown in there to await their deaths, those in this chamber were calm and peaceful. They spent their days softly singing hymns and reciting prayers. Usually, it was said, within a few days there would be howling and screaming, cursing and anguish. Not this time. There was only peace. One by one the prisoners died. Over two weeks passed. Maximilian Kolbe was the only one still alive and conscious, leaning weakly against the wall and actually smiling at the executioner who came in to give him a lethal injection because the starvation chamber was needed for other prisoners. He willingly gave his arm to the executioner, and faintly mouthing a prayer, passed into eternity on August 14, 1941. Word of his sacrifice and death spread like wildfire throughout the camp. Those who survived testified that his story was a ray of hope and peace in the horror and darkness of a place like Auschwitz. Why did I tell you this story? I do have a reason. It really is a story for our times. We can all learn from St. Maximilian Kolbe to sacrifice ourselves for the love of God, and living our lives truly as a living sacrifice. It is a story for our times for another reason as well. In Florida there is a woman, also in her forties, who is dying a similar death. She has been condemned to die of thirst and starvation, one of the most cruel ways to die. It will not be long before she, too, passes into eternity. Unlike Maximilian Kolbe, however, this woman did not volunteer for this. It was decided by her husband and by the courts that she suffer this fate. She is unable to speak up for herself, and those who have been speaking for her have been continually rebuffed and brushed aside. A mother and father are at this moment sitting by the bedside of their starving daughter, watching her die moment by painful moment. This woman, Terri Schiavo, is becoming a martyr. She is a martyr for all those who are unable to speak for themselves and who are at great risk now of suffering a similar fate. The Right to Die movement is a terrible evil. Call it what you will -- mercy killing, euthanasia, dying with dignity, whatever. It is a terrible evil. I tremble for the severely handicapped in this country. I have worked with many of them, some even more disabled than Terri. I truly fear for them. When you think of this story that I have told you today, don't just think of it as something that happened a long time ago, during a war that occurred when our parents were only very small children, or even not born at all. Think of Maximilian Kolbe as he truly is - alive and well in the arms of His blessed Savior, Jesus. Think of Terri as she, too, is passing from this earth into the arms of God. Think of her parents and pray for them. Even pray for her husband, as monstrous as he is, because his soul is in grave danger. Think of all those who are hidden away in hospitals, hospices, group homes, nursing homes, etc. Think of them and pray for them. And fight for them. They cannot fight for themselves. Goodbye for now, everybody. I'm sorry this was such a lengthy blog, I hope you stuck with it to read it to the end. It was something that has been really laying on my mind, though. God bless!

Easter ramblings

2005-03-27T23:05:00.000-08:00

Hey, everybody! Happy Resurrection Day! This will be a short blog, because I am very, very tired and it is late. Today a friend helped me realize something. I had a very hectic week. My supervisor is leaving soon and has been dumping more and more of her workload onto me, on top of my own. I've been exhausted and very frustrated. Holy Week was nothing but work, work, work for me. I was running ragged all day, every day. I didn't get to Stations of the Cross on Good Friday like I wanted to because I was so exhausted, I felt drunk, literally drunk. It was too dangerous for me to risk driving home any later than I was, so I went home at 3:30. It was an awful day. Anyway, I feel like I've barely had time to think about Jesus and His sacrifice for me this Easter week. Today was no different. I went to work early, got Wayne all ready to go, got to church late, and as a result had to go to Mass in the school gymnasium instead of the sanctuary. It turned out to be a blessing in disguise, though, because Wayne was having severe problems with the incense, and could not sit still or pay attention at all. Since I hadn't brought any toys for him to play with during the service, and since the incense was really bothering him, we went into the foyer of the gym for the duration of Mass. I stood right in the back where I could both see Wayne and the priest at the same time, and I felt sorry for myself. I thought "I want to sit with everyone else. I want to be able to take part in the service like everyone else." Then, Father held up the Eucharist and my self-pity went away. I realized that it was such a joy to be in the presence of Jesus, even if it was only by standing in the back of a gym. Anyway, tonight after work I was reading my friend's blog, and she was talking about Easter and different things her priest had said, what her dad and step-dad mean to her, what her spiritual Fathers mean to her, etc. I felt conviction. I had been selfish all week. I couldn't help being busy, not with the kind of job I have. Retarded people have to be cared for, Holy Week or no Holy Week. But I realized after reading my friend's blog that I had a rare privilege today that so many in this world do not - I got to be in the presence of Jesus! I was thinking of the people I met in China and realized that they risked their lives to worship Him. I even met people who had spent time in prison because they were caught preaching the Gospel. And here I was feeling sorry for myself because I had to stand in the back instead of sitting down with the others. I was convicted. Thank you, T., for your blog. It brought me some insight. That's it for tonight. I'm falling asleep, as usual.

On becoming Catholic...

2005-03-26T20:12:00.000-08:00

Sometimes other Christians ask me why I converted. I've been told that I've done things backwards - usually people convert from Catholicism to the Protestant branch of Christianity, not the other way around. I've met several people like me, though, people who were raised in one church their whole lives, who wandered around a bit in adulthood - not getting away from God, just not sure where to settle, and then finding their home in the Catholic Church. Here is my conversion story: I was raised Baptist from the ages of two to twenty. My whole upbringing years, except for those first two where we wandered around a bit. My only memory of the church we went to before Bethel is a vague impression of stained-glass windows and puppet shows - things that would impress a toddler, I suppose. My whole life was wrapped up in my church - not a bad thing, mind you. I went to school there. I worshipped there. All my friends were from there, and most of my parents' friends, too. I was baptized a total of two times - once as an infant in the UCC church, and when I was ten at Bethel. I was "sprinkled and dunked" as my mother used to say. At exactly four-and-a-half years old, I realized what Hell was, decided I most definitely didn't want to go there, and promptly asked Jesus into my heart and life. Honestly, though, my faith didn't become real to me until I was grown. At 18, I realized I had to start taking God seriously, and have been learning and growing ever since. So what brought me to the Catholic Church? Well, when I was around 18, my parents became annoyed at something I no longer remember and left our church. I was traumatized. My friends all went off to college and I was left all alone. I was even more traumatized. I was utterly miserable going to church by myself, as superficial as that sounds, and so I started wandering around to different churches. I went to my parents' new church for a little bit, but decided they were too stuffy and cold for me. For three years I went to a Messianic synagogue. While I liked it very much at first, it turned on me and I realized that, for one, there were very few Jewish people in that synagogue, and, two, they were a little off. I'm not dissing Messianic Jews, not at all. I just became very unhappy there and eventually left. I didn't go anywhere for years, too traumatized and disgusted after that experience to even look for somewhere to go. In time, I became convicted that I should be going somewhere, but everywhere I visited, I was miserable. This went on for quite some time. I would go to different churches to visit them, and sit in the balconies so people wouldn't notice me crying. I didn't know what was wrong with me. I loved God very, very much. It's just that everywhere I went, I was very unhappy. I just felt cold, shut out, unloved, and unnoticed. I felt alone. I know very well that going to church isn't about what we "get out of it." It's to worship God, to learn, to just spend time in His presence. However, as much as I tried, I couldn't do those things. I was miserable. I just wanted to find a church where I could just plain worship Him - no frills, no hour-long praise and worship song sessions, or even longer messages that I could not pay attention to after spending such a long time singing. I wanted something simple, yet something genuine. I just wanted to go somewhere where I could just love Jesus and be with Him. Then, two Easters ago, a good friend invited me to go to Mass with her. I had nothing else to do that Easter, so I went. It was, and will always remain, I think, the most beautiful moment of my life. It was where I found Jesus, plain and simple, no frills, no gimmicks, just Jesus. I felt this radiance of warmth just rushing out and embracing me during the service. I felt like God was saying to me, "Welcome home. I've been waiting for you." I never left. I never attended any other kind of church again, I never wanted to go anywhere else after that. I had completely and with great joy found where God wanted me to be. That is a wonderful feeling, it really is. I truly understood the title of C.S. Lewis' book "Surprised by Joy." That was how I felt. I was so surprised, because being Catholic was the last thing my Baptist self would have ever imagined. Yet, I was so filled with joy at rediscovering the beauty and pure love of Jesus, I felt like God had given me this beautiful, tremendous gift. I will be forever grateful to my friend for inviting me to Mass that Easter. It changed my life like nothing ever has before. I'm very tired now, and you're probably bored to tears reading this, so I'm going to go now. I'll continue my thoughts on Catholicism and what it's like to be raised one thing and then convert to something that seems, at first, to be so different. But for now, I am falling asleep. Good night, everybody!

Disadvantaged People

2005-03-26T07:45:00.000-08:00

I have exactly fifteen minutes before I have to get ready for work, so I will do my best to fit everything in. First of all, there are too many disadvantaged people in this world for me to possibly talk about in one blog, so I will talk about just one group: the mentally retarded. As those of you who know me are well aware, I spend most of my time with my mentally retarded clients. There are four of them and they reside in a group home in Bucks County. In a later blog, I will go into my "peeve" about how group home workers are treated and how badly the company (and like companies) are run. For now, I will talk about my clients and others like them in general. I think the mentally handicapped are among the most vulnerable members of our society, and the least protected. Crimes against them are rampant, such as having their money being stolen from them, beatings by their own staff who are supposed to be there to protect them, sexual abuse, verbal and emotional abuse, and so on. Each resident of a group home is assigned a County case worker to try to keep tabs on them and to make sure these kinds of abuses don't happen, but it is not enough. I have known many, many residents of group homes who have been sexually abused - sometimes by staff, sometimes by other clients, sometimes by their own families or friends. Rarely, very rarely, is anything done about this kind of abuse. They rarely have medical examinations to determine if rape has occurred or if any STD's have been transmitted. The higher functioning clients who are able to comprehend what has happened to them rarely, if ever, receive counseling. Even when the police do become involved, there is usually not much of consequence done about the crime committed. I have seen clients come home from home or friend visits with bruises, and have nothing more than an Incident Report be done about those bruises. I have had co-workers who were fired for emotional and verbal abuse from one home have no punishment other than being transferred to another, lower-functioning group home where the residents can't talk or fight back. I know one woman who works in the community who is the "guardian" of a very low-functioning client who cannot speak, wears diapers and urinates in a bottle, is wheelchair-bound, and generally very handicapped. This woman, I'll call her Miss Evil, has sex with this client and lives with him. They sleep in the same bed. They go to romantic hotels in the Poconos (the ones with the wine-glass jacuzzis). Everyone, even the upper administration, knows of this and does nothing. Miss Evil justifies her actions by saying that her client can point to a message board that says "Yes" or "No" and always points to "Yes" when asked if he'd like to have sex with her, so he is a consenting adult. In my opinion, that is equal to the crime of child abuse. This woman should go to jail for doing this to him. The worst thing is, his own family knows of and approves of this sick relationship. They are glad that he "has a woman." This woman even tried to bear his child, but was unable to get pregnant. The family approved! What a sick world we live in. I could go on and on and on, but I have to go get ready for work now. Some day I'll tell everyone the heartbreaking stories of my own clients, who have gone through horrific abuse, often at the hands of other staff or family. It will break your heart and make you very angry. This is enough for now. Goodbye, everyone!