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!!

The Finished Art Project!

In my last post, I showed you a colored pencil drawing that I'd made for the wife of son #5 as a belated birthday gift.

That's just a photo of it taken on my phone, and the color is a little off...but essentially, that's how it came out.  (I know I should have scanned it, but I've had trouble in the past scanning these sorts of pastel-colored drawings, because often the colors look too muted.)

I texted the photo to son #4, who is so talented, and he was able to add some subtle translucent shading on the left and two streaks of sunlight on the glass of the door.  Then I adjusted the color just a bit using basic computer editing (because the photo came out a bit darker than the original) and sent it off to Walgreen's to be printed.  My drawing was 9x12", but I had it enlarged to 11x14", thinking that at that more common size, it might be easier to find a frame for it.

Amazon had the perfect matted poster frame.  And voila!  C'est finis!

We are heading to Savannah today, for the Saturday morning wedding of one of our nephews, the oldest child of one of my husband's sisters.  We have been up in NY for the past two weeks or so, spending time with another sister of his who is battling cancer.  I haven't mentioned her plight yet here at the blog, due to privacy concerns that are too personal to go into; but I think what she'd appreciate now more than ever is any and all prayers.  She has a PET scan this morning (in fact, I think she's about to go in for it any minute now).  Months ago, she got PET scan results that were truly miraculous: she'd been diagnosed with stage 4 cancer that had spread to all different parts of her body; but after a number of treatments, every single tumor was gone without a trace, except for the one in her colon--and that had shrunk!  Please pray for another miracle for her today, dear readers. 

I'm going to see my D-I-L in Savannah, and I can't wait to give her the picture, which was a fun joint project with son #4 and truly a labor of love.  Have a great weekend!

When Artwork is a Labor of Love

A while back, my daughter-in-law (wife of son #5) showed me an old photo of the firstborn of her two little girls with one of the cats they used to have (and had to give away to family members out in the Midwest, due to allergies--but that's a story for another day).  It was so adorable: the two were sitting side-by-side on the floor, a toddler in footie PJ's with her pet kitty-cat, gazing at the world outside the front storm door.  I told my D-I-L that I thought it looked like it should be a painting, and that I wished I had the talent to do it justice.

When her early-April birthday was approaching, I actually entertained the idea of doing that for her as a gift. I thought I could make either a painting or a colored pencil drawing inspired by that endearing photo. I started working on a rough sketch; but a bit intimidated by how difficult the project seemed (I mean, the photo was tad dark, and there were objects blocking a perfect view of the two sweet creatures I would want to highlight), I ultimately put it aside.  We never did get a gift in the mail on time for my D-I-L's actual birthday. Then when I asked her during a FaceTime birthday call if she had any special wishes, she mentioned that she would like me to try to do what we had talked about.  If I was up to it, of course.  

I don't like to say no to my kids if at all possible.  And this was going to be a very belated gift, but... I got right to work after that call, excited to pour all my love and energy into this gift.  The first thing I wanted to tackle was the star of the scene, my sweet golden-haired granddaughter, and here's what the piece looked like on April 9, which was day one. (Excuse the poor lighting/quality of the photos I’m about to share.)

When it comes to drawing or painting, my very favorite subjects are living, breathing creatures: people and animals (especially cute furry ones).  I'm not very interested in--or good at--landscapes or buildings or vehicles. However, some of those not-so-fun-for-me inanimate objects were part of the scene these two were looking at in the photo I was using as inspiration.  So I added them.  But honestly, I would have loved to just stop after my granddaughter and her cat were finished. Maybe have a blurry garden or woodsy scene showing through the glass door.  But I sketched in the details (poorly) and forged ahead.

As I told son #4, who is a gifted artist, my go-to style seems to be "children's book illustration."  My work is not at all realistic, and when I do colored pencil drawings, I always default to using a fine-tipped black Sharpie to outline everything.  (Self-trained artist, here.  Obviously!)  I was going to try something different with this piece of artwork, but I'm an old dog and you know what they say about new tricks and whatnot.

I worked on this project diligently for close to two weeks, in fits and starts.  Here's how things were progressing on April 18. 

As you can see, my humble little labor of love barely resembles the photo that inspired it.  I call "artistic license!"  Yes, that's it, that's the ticket!   And thank goodness I can erase colored pencil marks, because I had to do lots and lots of tweaking and fixing.  Also, I decided to add a little bird to the scene.  No doubt these two would both be fascinated by that.  By April 21, I decided the picture was finished.

I sent a photo of the drawing via text to son #4 to see what he thought.  He has this very cool art program for his tablet, with which he creates truly professional works that blow us all away.  He said that if I wanted, he could add streaks of light on the glass of that front door, or blur the scene showing through it so that the two figures in the foreground are the main focus. I was excited about the idea of collaborating with him. This will be the first time we've ever done anything like this!

Once my talented boy has edited it for me, I'll be back to show you how it came out.  (I'm sure you'll be on tenterhooks until then, ha ha!)

Happy Sunday, dear readers.  😊

Easter 2026

Yes, this is my Easter post.  And I'm a little late, I know—but what else is new when it comes to me and updating this blog?!  I think it's a good thing that I'm having hardcover blog books printed up yearly now as family keepsakes, because it makes me more determined not to let too much time pass between posts!  If possible, I'd like all of our most important family get-togethers to be included in those books. Also, technically, there are still four more weeks of Easter!  We are still in Easter celebration mode, liturgically; so I guess this post isn't so late after all.

On Easter Sunday, we had a lovely after-Mass brunch at our house, with 12 adults and 17 kids in attendance altogether. Joining us were: our three VA sons and their wives and children (which means 14 of our grandchildren); the parents of one of our daughters-in-law, who are local; an old college friend of two of our daughters-in-law; and our niece (with whom I share a name) and her three girls.  It was so much fun—a bit crazy, of course, but we like it that way.  We set up the dining room table with a buffet that included egg-and-spinach casserole, quiches, hash brown casserole, sausages, fruit, cinnamon coffee cake, and assorted pastries.  One daughter-in-law brought a Greek salad, her friend brought deviled eggs, and our niece brought two dozen out-of-this-world doughnuts. Oh yes, and we had lasagna, too—-although everyone was more into the breakfast fare and that was mostly ignored.

We were able to get everyone assembled around the table so that my husband could say grace before we started eating.  And he ended with, "He is risen!"  To which we all enthusiastically responded, "Truly, He is risen!"  It was wonderful.

We had an Easter egg hunt afterward, and all the kids (ranging in age from two to twelve) got along extremely well and kept themselves happily occupied with—minimal adult intervention—all afternoon, so my husband and I were able to really enjoy visiting with our boys and their wives and everyone else who'd come to celebrate with us.  

Easter might be my favorite holiday (although check in here again in early December, and you might get a different story, LOL).  It fills me with such joy, it truly does. Because it’s springtime, and the days are getting longer and sunnier, and the earth is blooming once again. But mostly because He is risen.  Truly, He is risen.  Alleluia!

Now for the proverbial photo dump:

I absolutely love the days leading up to events like this, when I am in party-prep mode and making whatever dishes I can ahead of time, and then deciding how I'm going to set everything up. And post-party, I always think of how I could have made things better.

This was the first time we ever set up the food buffet-style in the dining room, because we usually like to keep that table free for anyone who wants to eat there. But when it’s set up in the kitchen, it gets so crowded and chaotic when everyone is trying to fill their plates. Now that the grandkids are getting older, I really wanted to try it this way. I thought it would seem special, and it did.  But…for future Pearl brunches, I'm going to work on making the spread look truly spectacular and inviting, with foods set up on all different levels (and I have plenty of footed bowls and tiered cake plates that I could use for this, I don't know why I didn't break them out on Easter!). I’m going to have more savory dishes and fewer sweets! Also, I think next time I’ll pre-cut the quiche slices and arrange them on pretty platters (or better yet, make mini quiches instead of big pies!), so that it will be easier to get them served. That goes for the coffee cake and pastries as well—plates of bite-sized squares might work better, especially with all the littles we have at our shindigs.  I have lots of other ideas, too—I guess I tend to overthink everything...but that’s all part of the fun for me.  And now I can hardly wait for another excuse to have my gang over!

Happy Easter, dear readers!  And God bless you all.

Three Beautiful Moments in an Ordinary Day

I’m on Substack now, and I recently saw a great post on my feed by one of the people I follow there (because her thoughts on homemaking and motherhood are profoundly beautiful, and I think her writing is a wonder).  She called it “6 Beautiful Moments in an Ordinary Day,” with captions for each of the six pictures.  I loved that idea: showing gratefulness for all the small, ordinary moments that we experience in the course of a mundane, average day, which are actually blessings and even almost miraculous.  So I thought it would be fun to try a similar post here at the blog (or better put, to be a total copy-cat!).

Here are three beautiful moments in my day, from about a week ago.

1

I was out walking in our neighborhood, and looking at this view of our house really struck me. It got me thinking about how much I absolutely love springtime in VA, when the cherry blossoms are blooming on our tree out front.  Between that glorious tree, and the white picket fence, and our garden statue of Mary near the front walk, I think this scene looks almost too beautiful to be real. As I stood there on my interrupted walk, I was reminded of the movie The Quiet Man, starring John Wayne and Maureen O'Hara (one of our very favorites, which we always watch on St. Patrick's Day).  O'Hara's Mary Kate Dannaher and Wayne's Sean Thornton get married and move into a darling thatched-roof cottage with an emerald green door, the most perfect little Irish cottage imaginable, but they have a rocky start to their union. Mary Kate is a girl who loves keeping her home, loves to have her things about her (I can totally relate to her!). Twice in that movie, she says to Sean, "It's a pretty cottage, isn't it?" To which he replies, "I think so."  That's the way I feel when I look at this house: I think it's such a pretty little cottage, and I couldn't be happier to live in it.  I feel so blessed to have it!  When we moved here nine years ago, leaving behind a much bigger house that had been our home for over a quarter of a century, I never would have believed I could feel this way about another house.  But oh, I do.  It will be the house that my grandchildren remember.

2

Speaking of how much I love springtime in VA--look at this spectacular view!!  Two of our boys, sons #3 and #4, live about 35 minutes south of us, and this is a view from the highway that connects our town with theirs.  We pass it every time we go back and forth to visit with them.  There are lots of similar views along the route, but this particular spot is just the best of all, with the wooden fence, the sprawling green fields, and the outlines of the Blue ridge Mountains in the distance--and no houses or other structures in the way to spoil its perfection.  For years, I've meant to take a picture of it, but it always rushes past before I remember to pull over.  Well, last Sunday son #4 and his gang were at our house for after-Mass brunch, and our daughter-in-law Braveheart mentioned that the view from this spot was better than ever right now. I mean, it's always so lovely, at any time of the year; but she said that there was currently a riot of daffodils blooming in the foreground.  Later that day, close to the dusky time of day photographers call the "magic hour," we were heading over to have dinner with son #3's family, to celebrate the fourth birthday of his fifth and youngest child; and my husband, God bless him, made this moment happen: he remembered to stop on the side of the road, so that I could snap a few quick pictures with my cell phone camera.  This scenic vista is just breath-taking; to me, it looks like an oil painting.  Almost too perfect to be real.  It makes me feel blessed to live in such a beautiful part of the country.

3

And finally, here is maybe the most beautiful moment of the three, captured for posterity: our sweet little grandson, the newly minted 4-year-old, playing with the present I made him for his birthday.  He is an absolute animal fanatic; so I painted a giant canvas play mat for his toy creatures to inhabit.  It's 24x36", so pretty good-sized, yet not nearly big enough for the extensive menagerie that he has these days!  But he did seem to like it, and watching him put it to use made his Grammy very happy.  Watching the grandchildren do anything at all tends to do that, actually.  Those are always some of life's most beautiful moments.  And I feel so blessed that I get to experience them on a regular basis.

There are so many moments to cherish, such beautiful daily proofs of the existence of God, on even the most ordinary of days in the most ordinary of lives.  God is so good!  We just have to keep our eyes open so that we don't miss them.

Have a blessed Easter, dear readers.

Canonized and Yet-to-be Canonized: A Tale of Two Saints

Hello there, dear readers, and God bless you!

I meant to post something about our St. Patty's Day party two weeks ago, and also about the recent tragic loss of a young man who may not be as famous as Ireland's patron, but who was a brave victim soul in his short life and is probably up there shooting the breeze with St. Patrick himself as I write this...but such is the state of my blog these days.  Well, better late than never, I guess.

Ever since we moved down to VA back in 2017, we have had a yearly St. Patrick's Day party at our house, on or close to March 17, for the sons and their families who live near us here.  (For the first four years that we were Virginians, that was 4 out of 5 sons; these days, we still have 3 out of 5 living close by, and with 14 kids between them that still makes for a rockin' celebration of Ireland's patron saint.)  There was just one year, 2020, when we cancelled our St. Patty's shindig, regretfully...because of all the dire warnings in the news about a novel, deadly virus spreading around the world.  The night of the scheduled party was going to fall within that timeframe they called the "two weeks to flatten the curve," when supposedly having 10 or more healthy people gathered in a house together could be a life-threatening situation for all.  GRRRRR. 

Anyway, enough of dredging up those bad memories!

We almost canceled our party this year, too, because on March 12, the beloved 19-year-old nephew of our daughter-in-law Ginger (who is married to son #2) lost his heroic 19-month battle with brain cancer. (More about this extraordinary young man in a bit.) With her family in mourning, I wasn't sure it was appropriate to have a Pearl family party just days later on March 15.  But when we asked son #2 if we should cancel, he wanted us to go ahead with it, saying that his five sons could use a diversion and his wife could use a few hours to herself to deal with things.  The funeral had been scheduled for March 19, the feast of St. Joseph, and there was a lot to do to get ready for that.  So he and his boys came, along with sons #3 and #4 and their gangs.  And a great time was had by all, as always.

Our boys have lots of Irish blood in them.  Their dad's side is almost 100% Irish.  We've got a bit o' Celtic blood in us on my side, too; however, we're more of a mix--more British than Irish, with a few other European nationalities thrown in there for good measure.  But the whole extended Pearl clan is crazy about all things Irish--including, of course, Notre Dame's football team--and we love to celebrate with the wearing o' the green and all that good stuff.

I made corned beef and cabbage for our party, but we had chicken nuggets and French fries on hand, too, for the young'uns who aren't into that sort of fare.  The bar was serving Irish mules for the adults (ginger beer and lime juice, with Jameson's Irish whiskey in place of the usual vodka or bourbon).  For dessert, there were plenty of options: iced shortbread cookies shaped like shamrocks, mini cupcakes, and a brownie trifle that had cream layers laced with a splash of Bailey's (an experiment that met with mixed reviews). And of course, we had lots of tacky St. Patty's party favors for all the wee lads and lasses.  

It's always so much fun (crazy, but fun!) to get the grandchildren together.  Not to mention our boys and their wives.  I can honestly say that my own people are my favorite party guests.  They're just such a joy to be around.  They're the sweetest people I know, the smartest, the funniest--and I not only love them to the moon and back, I LIKE them.  A lot!

So on that beautiful Sunday afternoon we enjoyed a family party for one of my favorite canonized saints (and I have more pictures to share, which I'll save for a future post).  Good times, good times.  But life is indeed a series of peaks and valleys, of great joys and unbearable sadnesses.  Such is the human condition, as painful as that is to accept sometimes.  For within four days of this happy celebration, we were attending the funeral Mass of our daughter-in-law's saintly nephew, a young man of inspiring faith who had suffered with incredible grace and courage, so terribly and for such a long time, and whose short but extraordinary life has undoubtedly brought many souls closer to God.  Now I have a new favorite saint--not a canonized one (not yet, anyway), but a person whom I can't imagine being anywhere else now but in Heaven with Our Lord, to whom he'd wholeheartedly dedicated his life.

His name was Christian, and I can't think of a more fitting name for this beautiful soul.  Christian Spicer. He was the oldest son of our daughter-in-law's oldest brother.  He has two younger brothers. 

Raised a strong practicing Catholic in a close-knit family, Christian suddenly took his faith to the next level in 2022-2023, when he was about 16-and-a-half. His soul was absolutely set on fire with love for God and a burning desire to learn all he could about the Truth, with a capital T, of the Catholic Faith.  He began spending hours in Eucharistic adoration and at daily Mass, started going to Confession very frequently, and encouraged his friends and family to go along with him. He thought he might have a vocation to the priesthood. Either that, or he said that perhaps he would be a "Catholic evangelist."  This endearing boy began evangelizing whenever and wherever he could--everywhere, even with the woman who cut his hair. He was a joyful and enthusiastic warrior for Christ.  As his family says now, it was as if God was preparing Christian for the epic battle He had in store for him.  Because in early 2024, Christian began showing signs of illness.  He was unable to eat and lost an alarming amount of weight.  His parents kept taking him to doctors, knowing something wasn't right, and eventually, his problem was misdiagnosed as a serious eating disorder (although Christian never thought he had one).  He coded at the hospital and was resuscitated and intubated, and from that time on, he was paralyzed--but fully aware of all that was happening.  Finally, at the end of the summer, he was properly diagnosed, but the prognosis was grim: he had an aggressive type of cancer on his brain stem. Without surgery, he was told, he would surely die, and the surgery itself might kill him; and if he did survive the procedure, he would probably be left with serious disabilities.  Christian was 18, so the decision was his to make.  He decided that he wanted to go ahead with the surgery.  His grandfather recounted this story at the reception following his funeral Mass and burial on March 19: A priest visited Christian in the hospital before his surgery.  This priest was former military, and he told Christian that he was going into a "hot zone" (which in the military means a place where there's going to be enemy fire and imminent danger of death).  He gave Christian a Rosary and said, "This will be your weapon."  Then he asked Christian if he was willing to offer up all of his sufferings to come, in union with Christ's suffering on the Cross, for souls in need.  And he said that he was.

That right there...that pretty much tells you all you need to know about Christian.  And it answers the question, "Why him, God?"  Why?  I think because God knew that he was no ordinary boy; God knew that he was destined for greatness.

After his surgery, Christian would never eat or drink again, except through a feeding tube.  A boy who had always been a chatterbox, he would never speak again because of the trach he needed to assist with his breathing.  He would never move or walk again.  After about two months of treatments in the hospital, he would spend the rest of his life (almost a year-and-a-half) on palliative care at home, in a hospital bed, being lovingly cared for by his utterly amazing parents.  His mother became so proficient at tending to all of her beloved son's needs that his dad said she was like a trained ICU nurse.  His large group of devoted friends, former classmates at his Catholic high school, visited constantly, throughout his illness and right up until the end.  They played music for him, read to him, talked to him, prayed Rosaries at his bedside. Our daughter-in-law, his godmother, brought him Holy Communion almost daily (he could take only tiny particles of the Host), and she sat and talked to him for hours, even when he could no longer communicate with even eye blinks or other minor facial expressions.  She asked him once if the Blessed Mother was comforting him in his suffering, and he was able to express that yes, She was. Priests visited and gave him blessings.  The bishop visited--more than once!  And so touched by this boy was the bishop that when he heard that Christian had passed away, he called Christian's parents and said that he was planning to go to the funeral anyway; would they like him to celebrate the Mass?

The wake the night before was like nothing I've ever seen.  So many people came to pay their respects, and to pray beside the body of a young man who was likened to St. Carlo Acutis by a healing priest who'd spent a lot of time with Christian during his months of suffering. Christian's mother even said to a friend at one point that she didn't know half of the people who were there.  And the next day was more of the same. The church where the funeral Mass was celebrated seats 1,200, and if it wasn't completely full, it was certainly close to capacity. Obviously, Christian had touched the hearts of so many people!  The bishop was the main celebrant, but 11 other priests concelebrated the Mass with him.  The bishop gave a glorious tribute to Christian in his homily.  Before the service began, our daughter-in-law gave a 10-minute eulogy that was heartbreakingly beautiful. Listening to these testimonies about the deep faith of this young man who died just shy of his 20th birthday (I had heard many of the details already, but learned so much more that day), I have been inspired to grow stronger in my own faith, to spend more time in prayer and adoration, to be as ready to meet my Maker as I feel confident that Christian was.  

On his death certificate, Christian's parents had to list an occupation, since he was over 18 years old.  They wrote, "Catholic evangelist."  Some might think that he died before he was able to play that role to the fullest; I contend that he'd already brought many folks back to the One True Faith or inspired them to grow deeper in their faith, before his death; and I feel confident that after death, he is still evangelizing from where he is now.  My husband and I will never quit praying for his devastated parents and other grieving relatives, and we will never quit praying for his soul (in case he is in need of our prayers); but I also intend to pray TO him.  He may never be officially canonized; but I believe he is a saint.

I thought I'd share this comforting image of Christian in the arms of Jesus, which one of his aunts had made in order to explain to her young children what had happened to their cousin.

I imagine this is where Christian is now.  And he is whole, and healthy, and happy.  And chatting away non-stop with Our Lord and Our Lady and all the saints in Heaven.  His suffering is over, thanks be to God.  It’s the family he left behind here in the Valley of Tears, his parents in particular, who must endure the pain of missing him for the rest of their days.  So if you’re reading this, please, please keep them in your prayers.

St. Patrick, pray for us!

St. Christian Spicer, pray for us!

Just Over Here Bragging about My Baby

On Monday of this week, my husband and I returned from a week-long road trip to TN to visit our youngest son, his wife, and his two adorable little daughters (aged just-turned-one and about-to-turn-three).  So of course the youngest of our five boys--our baby--is very much on my mind right now.  How I wish he lived closer to us so that we could see him and his family on a regular basis!  Saying goodbye after a visit really stabs at my poor heart.  (This of course goes for his oldest brother, too, our firstborn, who's a two-day trip away in WI; but today, at least, this post is dedicated to son #5.) I am well aware that a mother's heart can be much more violently pierced by suffering than mine has ever been, God having thus far spared me any truly heartrending tragedies; but still, it pains me to have two of our boys living so far away from us.  My husband and I cherish every minute we get to spend with them.

I adore this boy of ours.  He was born an "old soul," in ways, and spent much of his childhood wanting to catch up to his older brothers.  We had our first four boys in a span of four years and three months; then just about exactly five years after son #4 was born, our youngest joined the team.  There was a bigger gap between sons #4 and #5 than there was between #1 and #4!  And that gap must have seemed far too wide to son #5 for many years, because those older brothers were his heroes, and he wanted to follow directly in their footsteps.  He wanted to be counted as one of the "big guys."

Well, that long-awaited day did come, that's for sure. I told you that he was five years younger than his next oldest brother; well, he got married five years after that brother did.  They were both 26 years old on their wedding days.  Do you see a pattern here?

And now, like the brothers he always looked up to and admired, our baby is also a father; and like them, he has embraced this role whole-heartedly.  It was a delight to watch him interacting with his little blond angels last week, snuggling them, reading them stories, and tossing them on the bed in a game which his father used to call "Sack of Potatoes" but which in their household is known as "1-2-3!"

Our baby with his babies.

These kids, these two young parents, are in a phase of life that's challenging and difficult, trying to manage a lot of moving pieces at once.  Our son is working hard to make his freelance business a success, and his helpmate works as an accountant from home (mostly) while the girls are at a sitter's house nearby.  We were happy to be able to take care of our two darling granddaughters while Mommy and Daddy were working from Monday through Friday, and we enjoyed daily outings with them--to the park, to the Discovery Center, and to the zoo (twice!).  It was a tiring week for Papa and Grammy, but in the best possible way.  And we know how much our son and his wife appreciated having us around.

The almost-three-year-old kept randomly telling us, "I'm glad you're here."  We were glad we were there, too.  Very, very glad.

Since we've been home, I've been doing a little bit of organizing in our office.  I am a collector of photos and paperwork, a scrapbooker, an archivist of memories who has an enormous amount of trouble throwing away anything with the least bit of sentimental value.  I realize that when I die, my poor children are going to have to wade through all of my boxes, storage bins, and trunks of memorabilia, and they are going to wish I'd culled through it all while I was still here.  I get these urges to stop hanging onto the past and just start throwing things out, finally. But then I come across some of the old letters I've kept, or the emails I've printed out and put into plastic pages in three-ring binders for safekeeping...and I realize that my kids will probably be stuck with the task of doing the culling after all, because I just can't do it yet!

For instance, here is a treasured email that I received way back in 2016, from someone who worked for a Catholic publishing company. At the time, I was still a pretty regular blogger and often posted book reviews at String of Pearls. The young gal who sent it had found my name as a possible book reviewer in a random search, but then after doing some digging was amazed to realize that she'd been on a date with my youngest son, when she was a junior at St. Mary's College out in South Bend and he was a senior at Notre Dame.  The world is so much smaller than we realize!  I've made some redactions for privacy's sake, but I thought I'd share the first page of this email here today.  Partly because of the way this girl speaks about my son (it brings a tear to my eyes, all over again!); and partly because it's a testament to the fact that we all touch the lives of others in the course of an average day in ways that we might never be aware of (and therefore, imagine how many souls might be affected by our interactions over the course of an entire lifetime!).

She went on to offer the opportunity to review one of her company's titles and gave me a list of choices, etc. It was all business after that touching paragraph that involved my boy.

I will always be so grateful for the random Google search that led to this beautiful, unexpected message, one that moved me profoundly.  If this girl hadn't emailed me to request a book review, I would never have even known that she'd gone on a date with my son. I never heard anything about this date from him. (Moms of boys, you know how good they are at giving all the deets.  NOT!)  So I treasure this small peek into my son’s story.  I feel privileged to have knowledge of it--to hear that the kind and respectful way he treated this girl (whom I will never meet in this lifetime, I'm sure) on their one and only date made a huge impression on her and changed her life for the better.

And that boy who was about to graduate from Notre Dame in 2015 is now a married father of two little girls.  When they grow up, they will know what to look for in a husband, because they will have their dad as a model: "a Godly and genuine young [man]...seeking truth."

Yes, dear girl, I AM a proud mama.

I always have been, and I always will be.  

#ihavethebestboys  #itsjustthetruth  Does that sound like I’m bragging?  I suppose I am, dear readers.  

P.S.  In my last post, I showed you a little birthday gift that I was working on for my granddaughter.  I believe it was a success, if this picture of her playing with it is any indication. 

Until next time, God bless you and yours!

Saints Everywhere I Look

I was sitting in my living room this morning, listening to the Hallow app, doing my morning prayer routine, and soaking in my surroundings with feelings of utter peace and contentment. Every wall, every tabletop in this room is decorated with reminders that our goal here on earth is to one day become saints in Heaven.

There are framed pictures of the Sacred Heart of Jesus and the Immaculate Heart of Mary hanging above the loveseat, vintage prints that I discovered a few years ago buried in a box of paperwork in the basement of my husband’s a childhood home and was given permission by his siblings to take and cherish.  There is an icon of the Blessed Mother and Baby Jesus hanging above the bay window, a souvenir that my husband brought home from a trip to the Holy Land, back when he was working as an international commercial pilot. And there is a statue of Our Lady of Fatima, which he purchased on a working trip to Rome, up high in a place of honor in a corner niche. Not to mention a little brass sign that reads "Rosary Room," because this is the quiet place where we often say our Rosaries.

You might think that some of the framed artwork and photographs in this room have nothing whatsoever to do with sainthood or our beautiful Faith, but there you would be wrong.  There is a trio of lovely botanical prints on the wall above the loveseat, gifts from our oldest son and his wife.  But they aren't just special because they're beautiful to look at; these prints are from a shop which many of you Catholic blog readers will recognize,  Rose Harrington, and each of the five flowers depicted on each print represents a different mystery of the Rosary.  (We have prints of the Joyful, Sorrowful, and Glorious Mysteries, but the shop sells the Luminous as well.) There's also a sweet framed photo of my husband holding our newborn oldest grandson, with me peeking over his shoulder, emblazoned with a quote about the importance of grandfathers--a gift from son #3 and his wife.  Again, this picture reminds me of life's ultimate purpose--not only because grandparenthood is an unequaled joy and privilege, but because I'm confident that my husband, a man of deep commitment to practicing and living out his Faith, will be a saint one day. Hanging on the wall above the couch are canvas photo portraits of all of our grandchildren at age one, but again: I expect that these beloved children will one day be numbered among the saints.  That's what I think of when I look at those precious faces.

I have added a few saints to the mix this past week. On the little table in the bay window of the living room, I have placed small framed portraits of two heavenly helpers about whom I knew very little before they wove their way into my fictional stories but who have become dear friends to me: St. Gertrude of Nivelles (patron saint of cats, among other things), to whom I dedicated Marguerite's Diary; and St. Barbara (patron saint of field artillerymen), to whom I dedicated The Boy in Blue.  I also have a small framed cross-stitch image of Our Lady of Knock that means the world to me, for two reasons: because it was handmade by a beloved 12-year-old granddaughter and given to me as a Christmas present; and well, because that apparition of Our Lady took place in Ireland, and I love all things Irish (dontcha know!).

Saints everywhere I look, that's what I see when I sit in my living room.  [Sigh...]  Someday, I hope to see all of them together, in person--the great canonized saints and my own humble string of Pearls--in the glorious presence of Our Lord.

We're off to TN to morrow for a week or so, and I will probably be too busy enjoying my two wee granddaughters to think about blogging.  See you on the other side, dear readers.

The Joy of Gift-making

Although it is not my first love language, I do so enjoy gift-giving; but I enjoy it most when I've been able to come up with an idea for something hand-crafted or homemade.  The love language in which I am most fluent is time spent together (and that one is pretty much tied with expressing love for others through acts of service), so it makes sense that making gifts is so much more satisfying and fun for me than buying them. Homemade gifts truly do become labors of love, and my thoughts are focused so much on the recipients as I work on them.

(That's not to say that there haven't been store-bought gifts that have given me great joy to give; I'm just saying that, in general, making them is preferable to me.)

We are going out of town in a few days to visit our youngest son and his wife and two daughters.  Both his 33rd birthday and his baby's first birthday happened in January; and his older daughter will turn three in early March; so we are bringing along gifts (and a cake) and will be celebrating all three of them while we're there.

Our darling almost-three-year-old granddaughter loves to play with little animals and dinosaurs, "small stuff" as she calls these kinds of toys.  (I actually blogged about this recently in post called "Not-So-Small Stuff.")  She already has miniature sets of zoo animals, farm animals, and dinosaurs; so when I asked what she might like for her birthday, our son advised me that perhaps a set of miniature woodland creatures would be appreciated.  Grammy had them ordered within a few minutes of receiving the Amazon link from my boy.

Manufacturing plastic animal toys is well beyond my skill set; but I decided that perhaps I could fashion some kind of play mat to use with them.  At Michael's, I got a 9x12" canvas stretched on a wood frame, and with the help of  acrylic paints I proceeded to create a small landscape for my granddaughter's small creatures to inhabit.  Once I realized that I had to throw the idea of "perspective" out the window and remember that this humble little canvas isn't going to be hanging in an art gallery, it was smooth sailing. And oh, I can't tell you how much I enjoyed making it!

The hippo and elephant can hang out at the watering hole, while the zebra walks down the dirt path...

The monkey can climb into the trees, the lion mountain can climb onto the rocks, and the cheetah can be restrained inside a zoo fence...

And although it is not an ideal size for them, larger toy animals like this thirsty elephant can make good use of this play mat, too...

I'm also stitching up twin dresses for those two precious little birthday girls, but I've got some work to do yet. (I got sidetracked by that painting project mid-way through my sewing project!)  I'm trying something new, mixing two different (and not necessarily coordinating!) floral fabrics.  I hope the end result will be pretty, but we shall see...

My goal is to finish the dresses in time to bring them along on our trip to TN, and I'll try to get a picture of my granddaughters together, modeling them. 

I'm glad I have so many indoor hobbies to keep me busy, because I sure don't want to be outside.  It's been SO COLD here in VA--this is the coldest, snowiest, iciest winter we've had since we moved here in 2017. When we left NH, I thought we would no longer have to deal with these frigid Northeast-style temperatures, and I feel like I've been tricked!  But that's a story for another day!

Speak your love languages loudly, dear readers.  And have a  great week.

Not-So-Small Stuff

Our youngest son texted me a few weeks ago to tell me that his older daughter, who will be turning three in a couple of months, was randomly "reminiscing about Grammy helping her with 'small stuff.'"  (She is a petite little thing and was an incredibly verbal child from a young age.  She has an enormous vocabulary now, and she's very in tune with what grown-ups are saying; so she's a tiny person who often says big things.) Awww...that text just melted me, and it made me start reminiscing about her family’s week with us in November, when they came from TN for Thanksgiving.

That adorable little girl loved being here--and she really loved playing in our basement.  It's a bit of a kids' paradise down there, with ride-ons and building blocks and lots of vintage children's books and boy-friendly toys from when her daddy and his brothers were little, as well as lots of new (make that thrifted) items we've acquired over the years we've been in VA, such as a toy kitchen, dolls, dollhouses, etc. Every day we'd head down there and the first thing she wanted to do was to raid the dinosaur and animal bins to find all the smallest ones. 

My little sweetie knew just where to look for the small stuff she wanted to play with, because Papa and I are insanely organized when it comes to putting things back where they belong after the grandkids have been wreaking havoc playing down there.  I say "insanely" because we get teased about this by one of our darling daughters-in-law and her husband--my very own son, the traitor!--about how OCD-like we are when it comes to toy organization in our playroom. (They might have a point: we have separate storage areas for the "regular" dinosaurs and the much cooler Jurassic Park ones.  Is that crazy?)  But imagine if the small stuff was all mixed in willy-nilly with the cars and trucks, the blocks, the baby doll accessories, the Lion King toys...it would be mayhem, I tell you, utter mayhem!  My little angel would have had to dump all eight bins in this storage unit every morning to find her favorite little animals and dinosaurs!  Thanks to our much-mocked system, she only had to dump two!  (One of these days, I'll treat you to a post all about our basement playroom and how organized it is.  Stay tuned...or perhaps the better way to put it is be warned.)

So my little granddaughter and I would gather up all the small creatures and line them up and play with them, and that is how we spent many happy hours while she was staying with us that week.  And then sometimes, all that playing would get too exhausting; once, she even crawled into my lap mid-play and crashed. I was, as her mommy and daddy call it, nap-trapped.  And I was quite okay with that.

I miss that little peanut, and her baby sister. (Not to mention her parents.)  It's hard for a mother not to have all of her chicks in the nest anymore, or at least to have the nests they're building with their own chicks a few trees over from hers.  I have three of my five boys and their families living close enough to see regularly, though, and I count myself as very blessed. And thank goodness for FaceTime!  Lately, whenever we FaceTime with this little girl, she reminds us, "I came to your house."  Yes, she did. And I hope she comes here many, many more times in the years ahead.

We will be going to her house in a matter of weeks, and I can hardly wait.  The fact that she was reminiscing about playing with small stuff with her Grammy here a couple of months ago made me realize that she's getting old enough to remember things between visits; so I look forward to making some new memories with her there. 

The small stuff, it's really the big stuff.  But you know that, dear readers.