Theresa Marie Schiavo (1963 – 2005)

Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord, and may perpetual light shine upon her.

When it comes to Easter candy, Dan and I subscribe to two very different philosophies. I am the cautious one, telling the kids to enjoy just one or two pieces at a time–after eating a proper lunch, of course–so that we avoid belly aches and no one’s nutrition or dental hygiene is compromised. Dan, on the other hand, believes we should throw caution to the wind and let the kids dive right into their baskets. The sooner we consume the last jelly bean, he says, the sooner life returns to normal around here–complete with regular, healthful mealtimes and stable blood sugar.

Naturally, the kids are more sympathetic to their father’s point of view and so I find myself fighting a losing battle against an onslaught of high fructose corn syrup and yellow dye #6. This morning, as I swept up yet another pile of marshmallow egg wrappers and plastic Easter grass from under the kitchen table, I consoled myself with the thought that the baskets are nearly empty and a handful of malted milk balls.

to change her mind.

This winter, Gabrielle made a sudden and surprising decision to loathe her bath time. Once a carefree, happy tub time splasher, she made an abrupt change one day and refused even to climb into a tub filled with bubbles. Ironically, her newfound dread of the bath seemed to stem from a fear of getting dirty. She would stand naked and terrified in the bathtub frantically brushing soap suds from her chubby little legs and shrieking, “Nooooooo! Blech! Yucky!” Getting a shampoo was even more horrifying. Bath time got to be such an ordeal that I was grateful she didn’t need to take a daily bath in the winter months.

Yesterday, however, when Gabrielle tried out her new pink rubber mud boots by wading through a thick and slurpy mud puddle, she suddenly found herself falling face first into the murky stuff. Though I rushed to her rescue, it was too late. She was covered from wispy pigtail to fat little feet with a thick coat of Mother Nature’s finest, darkest, thickest grime. I stripped her on the spot and carried her screeching little body into the house where I ran a warm bath.

I was certain she would scream all the louder when I plunked her into the tub, but she didn’t. The sound of the running water calmed her and the sight of bath toys and bubbles multiplying in the tub intrigued her. She splashed. She giggled. She played.

I counted my blessings as I marveled at the simple joy and peacefulness of bath time without tantrums. Those didn’t come until it was time to drain the water.

I think this must be my laundry machines’ favorite time of year. After all, don’t we all like to feel needed and appreciated? It’s during these early muddy days of spring that my washer and dryer typically run and run and run– every day, all day, and even a load or two at night. With a new baby added to the springtime scene this year, I find myself saying a thankful prayer for our modern conveniences several times a day.

Thank you, Lord, for bleach, I find myself saying as I slam the lid on yet another load of mud-spattered socks and T-shirts. Thank you, Lord, for hot running water and electricity, I think as I toss another a pile of laundered baby blankets and sleepers into the dryer.

I’d like to complain about the extra laundry–trust me, I do like to complain–but this year I just can’t bring myself to feel anything but grateful. After a long winter, it’s hard not to feel gratified by the sight of our mud-puddled, soggy field dappled with patches of melting snow. An afternoon spent sloshing around outdoors in the fresh air collecting sticks and rocks is more than worth the heap of laundry it produces. Likewise, after a long pregnancy, Raphael’s sweet little breath on my neck and the thrill of being un-pregnant enough to bend over more than make up for the additional work of baby laundry.

So this year, instead of dreading New England’s mud season, I am embracing it. So far. Just do me a favor, though, and don’t remind me of this annoyingly cheerful post 6 weeks from now when the washing machine breaks down from overuse and the electric bill comes due.

The news coming out of Florida regarding the Terri Schiavo case has weighed heavily upon the hearts of many Christians, making this a somewhat somber Easter for many. After all, what sense does it make to celebrate Christ’s resurrection while the nation sits idly by and watches the legalized death by starvation of a helpless, handicapped woman? How can this be a season of new life while death and Godlessness are heralded by so many in our modern society?

I’ll tell you how. Baby Raphael was baptized at our parish’s Easter Vigil Mass and he shares his baptismal day with many new Catholics around the world. When hundreds of thousands of new Christians are baptized and fully welcomed into the Catholic Church around the world each year, we have reason to hope.

Raphael’s bright innocent eyes and the lingering fragrance of sacred Chrism on his tiny head give testament to the spotless beauty of his grace-filled soul. Through his tiny life and through the new life embraced by newly baptized Christians everywhere this Easter season, God reminds us that we are called to be a hopeful people. We are obliged to believe in the ultimate triumph of good over evil, of life over death. This Easter, as every Easter, Our risen Lord wipes away the tears of the sorrowful, invites us to examine his wounded hands and feet, and commands us to believe.

O God who gave joy to the world
through the resurrection of your Son
our Lord Jesus Christ, grant, we
beseech you, that through the
intercession of the Virgin Mary,
His mother, we may obtain the joys
of everlasting life, through the same
Christ our Lord. Amen.

A Blessed Easter to All!

Lord Jesus, at our baptism
we were marked for you
with the sign of the Cross.
May your cross inspire us
to act justly and love tenderly.
May the crosses in our lives
be for us invitations for growth and new life as we place our trust in you.
Renewed by your love, may the way we live proclaim you as Lord: you who are the Way, the Truth and the Life.

Amen.

We adore You O Christ and we praise You.
Because by your Holy Cross You have redeemed the world.

Some years I am well-prepared for a holy Holy Week with the kids. We spend the early days of the week cleaning the house in preparation for Easter. I pre-plan our Bible story readings so that we are arrive at the washing of the feet and the Last Supper just in time for Holy Thursday and at the crucifixion for Good Friday. I order Stations of the Cross coloring books and hand them out early in the week so that we have plenty of time for reading them together and coloring the pages. I bake bread on Holy Thursday night for a Good Friday bread and water fast. Then on Holy Saturday we dye Easter eggs and bake Resurrection Cookies before going to bed.

This is not one of those years. Baby Raphael has been keeping me on a short leash. The sweet little guy spends most of the day in my arms–simply because that is where he prefers to be. When he falls asleep and I think it might be safe, I try putting him in his bassinet or in an older sibling’s arms while I race to get something done. He usually senses this abandonment rather quickly, though, and just as I am reaching for the broom to sweep up the gritty floor that has been bugging me all day, he awakens and demands my return loudly.

I have to admit, though, that I am flattered by his preference for me and his recognition of his mother’s touch even at just five days old. Though he screams with all his tiny might when I leave him, he settles almost immediately upon feeling my hands upon his small body.

So I am spending this Holy Week learning to tie Stephen’s shoes with one hand, delegating typical “Mommy” tasks such as buying the girls’ Easter shoes to my helpful husband, and resting with Raphael. This morning as I snuggle with my sleeping bundle, I have no regrets. This too is a holy Holy Week.