Ambrose worked hard on his first loose tooth for several days. He twisted it at bedtime, he wiggled it during storytime, and then finally, in the middle of the second reading at Mass this weekend, he pulled it out. He handed me the tooth in triumph and flashed me a jack-o-lantern grin.

I held it in the palm of my hand and examined the small bit of bone flecked with blood. It seemed somehow smaller and less significant now than it had in his mouth. Was this the first eagerly-anticipated tooth that had appeared in his gummy little mouth as a baby? I could not remember.

Years ago before I was married, I once read about a study where scientists were able to determine the levels of radiation children had been exposed to years before by analyzing their baby teeth. The study was successful only because so many of the children’s mothers were able to supply the scientists with samples of their children’s teeth long after they were grown. I was fascinated by this idea. I remember wondering about what all those women were doing holding onto their children’s teeth–their teeth!–after so many years. When Dan took Ambrose’s tooth from me, though, and tucked that tiny piece of DNA, Ambrose’s babyhood, and family history safely away in his wallet, it all made perfect sense.

Jesus said to her, “Everyone who drinks of this water will thirst again, but whoever drinks of the water that I shall give him will never thirst; the water that I shall give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.”

The woman said to him, “Sir, give me this water, that I may not thirst, nor come here to draw.”
John 4:13-15

Lord, this week remind us that we will only be truly satisfied when we quench our thirst with You.

I hate Burger King kids meal toys. If they aren’t vulgar, they are just plain stupid. Why don’t I ever hear the environmentalists complain about these things? They are made of plastic, they last forever, and they (I suspect) reproduce themselves. My family does not often eat fast food and I throw away useless, broken toys at every opportunity, and yet the kids’ toy box is overflowing with the darned things–a fish that swirls around and spits water in all directions, a dragon-looking creature with a light-up tail, a hand-held “game” that bleeps and blinks

Like I said, I hate kids meal toys. So, why then did I feel a twinge of sadness tonight when 8 year old Eamon announced that he didn’t want one and would rather have a grown-up double cheeseburger?

“My little children, your hearts are small, but prayer stretches them and makes them capable of loving God. Through prayer we receive a foretaste of Heaven and something of paradise comes down upon us. Prayer never leaves us without sweetness. It is honey that flows into the souls and makes all things sweet. When we pray properly, sorrows disappear like snow before the sun.”

–St. John Vianney

Did you know that pretzels are Catholic food? Their traditional shape represents arms crossed in prayer and they date back to the fifth century when they were eaten only on the days of the year between Ash Wednesday and Good Friday. Even the word pretzel is a modification of the original bracellae which means “little arms.”

The kids and I plan to make homemade pretzels this weekend and I thought I would share the recipe here:

Homemade Pretzels
(from A Continual Feast by Evelyn Birge Vitz)

1 Tablespoon honey or sugar
1 ? cups lukewarm water
1 envelope active dry yeast
1 teaspoon salt
4 cups flour
Coarse salt
1 egg beaten

Add the honey to the water; sprinkle in the yeast and stir until dissolved. Add 1 tsp salt. Blend in the flour, and knead the dough till smooth.

Cut the dough into pieces. Roll them into ropes and twist into pretzels shapes. Place the pretzels on lightly greased cookie sheets and brush them with the beaten egg and sprinkle with salt. Bake at 425 degrees F for 12 to 15 minutes or until golden brown.

Caution: Do not attempt this recipe if anyone in your house is on a low-carb diet–the smell of them baking is irresistible!

It’s all about attitude. Gabrielle’s gone through a growth spurt recently–her fuzzy footed pajamas have been fitting her pudgy little body a little too snugly. Since it is so late in the season, though, I have been reluctant to pull out a whole new bin of girls’ winter clothing in the next size up to find her a new pair.

So, last night at bedtime I decided to check her older brother Stephen’s dresser drawers. There, sure enough, I discovered an old pair of winter pajamas he had outgrown. Light blue and well-worn with even the feet cut off, they weren’t exactly girly attire. But never mind–Gabby loved them. Her eyes widened with surprise when I first put them on her, but then she marched proudly over to her brothers and sisters to show off her new duds.

“Ook!” she told them. Her small face beamed with pride as she thrust out her fuzzy blue belly and patted it with fat little fingers. Once everyone had made an appropriate fuss over her sleepwear, she strutted, still smiling, to her bed. She was still giggling and patting herself when I tucked her in and closed the door.

Babies don’t need fancy clothes or big houses or expensive material goods in order to be happy and feel good about themselves. My daughter’s simple contentment was a gentle reminder that I don’t either.

My kids have been developing a keen interest in reading the Bible. I’d like to say it’s been my holy example and the inspiration of the Holy Spirit that have motivated them, but I’m afraid that is not at all the case. For the most part, kids are just fascinated by wild and crazy stories and the Old Testament happens to be full of them.

They listened with rapt attention as I read to them about the young David killing a lion and a bear with his sling shot. They were mesmerized as I told them about Samson foolishly confiding in Delilah and the subsequent plucking-out of his eyes and tumbling of the pillars.

Yesterday’s story, however, beat all. Have you read about King David’s son Absalom and how, while riding his horse he got stuck in a tree, hanging by hair? He was leading an army against his father at the time, and so when he was found hanging there helplessly he was justly stabbed to death for his rebellion. If a movie had a plot like this, my kids would not be allowed to watch it. I suppose that’s part of the appeal.

As a matter of fact, Ambrose found the story of Absalom so captivating that he couldn’t wait to tell his father all about it at the dinner table last night. As he hurried to sputter out the details, including the fact that Absalom’s hair weighed 200 shekels on the king’s scales, Dan suddenly interrupted him.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” he said. “Is this a story from Scripture?”

Ambrose rolled his eyes. “Nooooo,” he sighed, dismissing his father’s ineptitude with a wave of his hand. “It’s from the Bible.”

Oh well. At least he remembered the story.

When I was about 9 years old, I came home from school one day to find that my pet hamster, Peanut, had undergone a dramatic personality change. When I reached into her cage to pick her up as usual, she bit me. Ferociously. I looked at my bleeding finger and then back at her in complete bewilderment. She gave me a glare that seemed to dare me–just dare me–to put my hand back in the cage. I didn’t.

Unbeknownst to me, my precious pet was on the brink of giving birth on that fateful day. Though I was puzzled and insulted at the time, all these years later I think I am finally beginning to get it. At 35 weeks pregnant and counting, I haven’t bitten anyone yet, but I am not making any promises.

In fact, I think I saw a familiar look of bewilderment in Ambrose’s eyes this afternoon when I asked him, with as much self-control as I could muster at the time, to please stop rubbing-rubbing-rubbing against my arm. Although affectionate bodily contact between mother and child is usually permissible and even encouraged in our household, today I just could not bear another minute of it. Gabrielle had been pawing at me since before breakfast. During morning lessons, Stephen did not let the fact that I no longer have a lap dissuade him from trying to sit in it. Even the dog was forever underfoot. By afternoon, I felt like a laboring hamster trapped in a cage with swarms of juvenile hands threatening to abuse me.

Thankfully, God has provided a solution for motherly moments like these. It’s called: “GO OUTSIDE AND PLAY. RIGHT NOW. I MEAN IT.” I used it on the oldest boys this afternoon with great success. Right now they are burning off all that pent-up male energy with a game of snow basketball in the ice-covered driveway. They probably won’t think to thank their irritable, pregnant mother for forcing them to have such fun, but that’s okay with me. A quiet house and a little bit of personal space are thanks enough.

People make up all kinds of excuses for why they don’t go to confession. One of the funniest ones I have heard is “I don’t have anything to confess.”

By this, I suppose people mean they haven’t murdered anyone or embezzled large quantities of cash. Well, I haven’t committed these kinds of sins either, but I’ll be the first to admit that I am a big fat sinner and I need confession. I need the spiritual clarity that comes with frequent confession. I need to be held accountable for even the smaller things I do wrong. I need God’s grace.

Like all of the sacraments, confession incorporates our human nature and our physical bodies. You can’t receive reconciliation over the telephone–it requires the physical presence of both the penitent and the priest. No matter which priest is on the other side of the screen and regardless of whether or not he has particularly brilliant words of wisdom to share with me after my confession, I am continually struck by the familiar rush of relief that envelopes me when I hear him speak the words of absolution. It feels like healing.

This past Saturday, Dan had a retreat to attend and so I didn’t think I would make it to confession. He arrived home just in time, though, and I hurried out the front door. I’m glad I did. I was prepared to have to hunt down the priest and badger him into entering the confessional, but to my surprise he was already in there, waiting for me, and the door was wide open. Afterwards, I thought about the gift of confession as I spent a few moments alone in the peaceful, familiar surroundings of the quiet, empty church. I wasn’t really alone, though. Christ is truly present to us in the sacrament of confession, as surely as He comes to us in the Eucharist. I only wish more people knew the joys of meeting Him there.

Does it not sicken and frighten you that, despite her family’s desire to care for her, Terri Schiavo’s estranged husband might be given legal permission to starve his disabled wife to death? This man is already living with (and having children with) another woman. He stands to gain financially from his wife’s death. What is the logic behind allowing him to make the decision to kill her?
Click here to read a short, informative article by Fr. Frank Pavone, executive director of Priests for Life, where he describes his recent visit with Terri. You can also read all the latest news about her family’s battle to save her life and learn about ways in which you can help at the Terri Schindler-Schiavo Foundation website.

Many of us are fasting and making other sacrifices this lent. Let us offer up our sufferings and prayers for a righteous outcome in this case.