Just a Picture, or the Meaning of Life?

I'm on a roll here, feeling exceedingly nostalgic about my childhood and getting a bit teary-eyed over grainy little snapshots from the 1960's, pictures so small and out of focus that you can barely recognize the people in them.  I shared one of these vintage photos in my last post, from the time of my First Holy Communion in 1966.  

Today, I'm sharing some pictures taken on my second birthday in 1960.

I mentioned in that last post that my mother was a prolific scrapbooker and photo album organizer, truly a memory keeper of the highest order (and that I am very much like her it that respect).  When she died, she left behind an extensive archive of family memories: countless photos, letters, cards, and various bits of memorabilia, dated and organized with care.  And finally about a year after Mom's passing, my youngest sister (with whom she lived for the last seven years of her life) took it upon herself to go through it all.  Binders and bins and boxes galore.   She tossed out what no one would want, took photos out of frames, and carefully took apart dozens of photo albums and scrapbooks so that she could divvy it all up with her four siblings.   It was a gargantuan undertaking, but she did an amazing job (which is par for the course for this sister), and she put together a big personalized treasure box for each of us (with the photos even organized in envelopes by year!).  We got back all the baby pictures, school pictures, and wedding pictures of our kids that we'd shared with our parents over the years, and any other photos in our mother's vast collection that would mean the most to each particular sibling.  It was just extraordinary what she did for us, I'll tell you.  I love this sister and admire her so.  She’s the youngest, but I think she’s the glue that holds us all together.

In the box my sister gave me last month, there was a page torn from one of my mother's scrapbooks, filled with black-and-white snapshots from my second birthday party. 

Apparently, there was a puppet show!  
And it looks like the whole neighborhood was invited!

I used my phone camera to zoom in on one of them, where I'm sitting on a blanket in the grass, with all the birthday party guests facing me.  I was a shy kid, and I don't think being the center of attention was a comfortable thing for me (in the almost 66 years since these pictures were taken, I haven't changed much!).   My mom was an extreme extrovert, always the biggest person in the room.  And while the apple doesn't fall far from the tree when it comes to hanging onto and organizing family mementos, it does fall pretty far from the tree when it comes to being the life of the party.  God did not give me my mother's big, engaging personality. If those kids wearing festive party hats were expecting some sort of cute show from the little birthday girl, I doubt they got it.

The shy introvert: "Why is everyone looking at me?"

My mom, the fun extrovert, entertaining the troops.

It's funny what happened to me when I saw these pictures, which have been tucked away amidst my mother's things for so long that I really can't remember ever seeing them before. I had a rather profoundly emotional reaction, if you want to know the truth.  And I'm not even sure I can adequately describe how and why I was so moved, but I'll try.

As I said, I was a rather shy and quiet little girl, cute enough surely (because all two-year-olds are inherently adorable, IMHO), but relatively unremarkable.  But seeing these photos, seeing myself as that little person, I was struck with feelings of immense gratitude that I'd even been born, that God had made me just the way He had, that He'd given me life at all.  My eyes filled with tears, thinking about how incredibly blessed my life has been since I turned two. What if I'd never been born, I thought, or if I'd contracted some terminal disease as a child?  What if I'd never gotten a chance to grow up?

If I'd never been that shy toddler, if I'd never been fortunate enough to stay healthy for 60-plus years beyond this little backyard birthday party, if we hadn’t left NJ and moved to upstate NY because my dad missed the area of the country where he’d spent his boyhood—if my life hadn't gone exactly as it had, I would never have met my husband (the best man I know), married him, and given birth to five sons whom I adore with every fiber of my being...not to mention that I wouldn't have 23 beloved grandchildren, precious souls made in God's image and likeness. As my mother-in-law always used to say, “You change one thing, you change everything.”  Every single piece of my life's puzzle, every turn in the road, led me to where I am.  And God’s plan for me has been better than I deserve and more perfect than I ever could have imagined.  Oh my goodness, looking at those old snapshots, I couldn't help thinking about how incredibly lucky I've been to have lived this wonderful life I've lived.  What a gift!

I know that you can't mourn the loss of something you never had (and that when you die as a child, innocent and unblemished, your chances of going right to Heaven are infinitely better than they are for a going-on-68-year-old!); but for some reason, these photos made me imagine all that I would have missed out on, if the little girl who was the reluctant star of the show in them had not been graced with such a long and happy life after this birthday party.

Do you do this, dear readers?  Are you reduced to tears by a simple photo sometimes, when suddenly its blurry images seem to hold the very meaning of life? Or is it just me?

Little did this wee birthday girl know the wonders
God had in store for her!

All I can say is this: thank you, God, for the gift of my life!

My string of Pearls.  ❤️

Four Recent First Communicants (and One from Long Ago, Too!)

Yesterday, on Mother's Day, four of our beloved grandchildren made their First Holy Communion together at an 11:30 Mass: son #4's triplets (identical twin boys and their sister) along with one of son #3's daughters (the middle child of his five).  They are all in second grade together at the same Catholic school; one of the boys is in the same class as his sister, and the other has his cousin as a classmate.  How great is it that these kids get to grow up together, go to school together, and receive the sacraments together?  To receive the Holy Eucharist for the very first time together?!  What a blessing it is, for them, and for all of us Pearls.

At the after-party, at son #3's house.

Speaking of Pearls: the names of the eight children who were making their First Holy Communion yesterday were listed via projector on the wall of the church before the Mass started; and how awesome it was to see that half of the kids on that list had the same last name.  None of my first cousins lived anywhere near us when I was growing up (there were only eight of them, all on my mother's side).  I can't get over how special it is that these eight Pearl cousins are neighbors and classmates, and they have five more Pearl cousins who live less than two hours away and with whom they get to spend time regularly.  (And thank goodness for our Vrbo lake house up in NY, where all 23 of our grandchildren get to spend a week together every summer!) 

I can't imagine what our life would be like if we hadn't had the courage to leave NH in 2017 and move down here. When we first got to VA, the four First Communicants were all still in their mothers' wombs. The triplets would be born shortly after our move, and their cousin a few months later.  We have literally watched them grow up; we've had front-row seats. And we got to watch them receive Our Lord for the first time yesterday--what an honor for their Papa and Grammy.

As their big day was approaching, I got all nostalgic and wanted to look for pictures of myself on the occasion of my First Holy Communion.  But unfortunately, very few of those exist.  I remember seeing one many years ago, a blurry black-and-white snapshot of me in my white dress and veil, standing in front of our house, holding a little white purse and the missal I'd received during my Catechism classes leading up to the sacrament...but I couldn't tell you where that picture is.  (I was at a public school then, and wouldn't start attending Catholic schools until mid-way through third grade; so I was in CCD classes for Communion prep.)  I do have one small color snapshot of me in my Communion dress, taken at a May Crowning ceremony where I had been given the honor of being crown bearer.  I have vague memories of being surrounded by much older kids, and from the looks of them in the photo, they were probably high-schoolers.

My mother was an archivist of family memories, a scrapbooker and photo album keeper; she saved every scrap of memorabilia imaginable (and the apple doesn't fall far from the tree when it comes to her eldest daughter--I am just like her in that respect!). So years ago, she passed this photo on to me along with the May Crowning program, stained and yellowed with age.  I love that she even saved that program!

My mother used to sew quite a bit, and she had made my dress herself.  It was cotton eyelet, an A-line number with short puffy sleeves, and it had an empire waist with a white velveteen ribbon around it, tied in a bow in back.  It was a fairly simple dress.  One of my memories from the day I made my First Communion was of another little girl in white in my First Communion class informing me, "You have the wrong kind of dress."  (I was a shy kid and I'm sure I said absolutely nothing in reply.)  I do remember looking around after she said that, at all the lace and tulle and long, full skirts, and thinking that my dress was indeed different than most of the others.  But because my mother had made it, I thought it was the best. That comment might have cut me to the quick another time; but I don't remember feeling hurt by it that day.

I would have been devastated, however, if I’d been chastised for showing up wearing the wrong shoes! My only good shoes at that time, my “church shoes,” were black Mary Janes.  My mom thought I could wear those, until I told her that the nuns at CCD had insisted that all the girls must wear white shoes.  I remember feeling a bit panicky about it, but then waking up one morning close to the big day with a shoe box at the end of my bed.  My mom had gone out shopping the evening before and bought me brand new white patent leather shoes. I was thrilled, and so relieved.

Maybe the only thing I do wish was different about my sweet little First Communion dress, looking at it now, is that it had been a bit longer and had fallen below my knees. But this was 1966, and I think hemlines were creeping upward.  Look at the gal in pink, though--I'm just loving her 60's vintage dress.  And her lace chapel veil. 

I still have the beautifully illustrated little missal that I received shortly before my First Communion day.   Sixty years later, I still have it.  I cherish it.

This sweet little book is one of my most precious possessions.

We gave each of our grandchildren Rosary holders that I'd found on Etsy, featuring St. Michael for the boys and Our Blessed Mother for the girls.  Also, cards with $10 in them.  I wonder if any of them will have those Rosary holders 60 years from now?  I wonder if any of them will be as sentimental as their dear old Grammy?

Probably not.  But I hope at least that they'll always remember how much I loved them!!