Life Goes On...Incredibly

Tomorrow it will be exactly one month since my mother took her last breaths, with four of her five children gathered around her hospital bed, shortly after hearing the voice of her one missing son (her firstborn) on speaker phone.  All five of us were able to spend the week-and-a-half before she died with her almost constantly, reminiscing about our history as a family and telling her how much we loved her.  And she died peacefully, without pain, after 89 years of living a rather blessed life.

We all have to go; and that being the case, she had an extraordinarily beautiful death--one you might plan out for yourself, if given the option to do so.

I did the second reading at my mom's funeral, Corinthians 15:51-57.  I'm sure you know it, this part at least: "Death is swallowed up in victory.  Where, O death, is your victory?  Where, O death, is your sting?"  (Getting through that reading without breaking down entirely was a victory for me that day, I'll tell you.)

Yes, it was a beautiful passing from this earthly life, which is so very short compared to the eternal one into which Mom has entered.  But still, it does sting.  For those left behind, it stings indeed.

I think about my mom all the time.  About how she lived.  And how she died.

I mostly feel fine, staying dry-eyed more often than not and getting on with life...but in spite of all this "fineness," tears are always lurking, hidden right beneath the surface.  And the most random, unexpected catalysts can set them off when I least expect it.

I have great hope that my mother is in Heaven already, and my dad is there, too, so happy to be with his best girl again.  And that she's continuing to enjoy her great-grandmother role with the five tiny little Pearls none of us ever got to meet down here (what a comforting thought!).  But there's still that stinging sensation.

While my husband and I were up in NY for the funeral, on our way out of daily Mass one day we picked up two free copies of a book called 33 Days to Eucharistic Glory, a guide to Eucharistic Consecration. We are reading through a chapter each day, and we often discuss our thoughts about them afterward.  On the second day, the readings and reflections had to do with this question: Are you a pilgrim or a tourist?  This chapter was filled with reminders that this world is not our home, that we are just pilgrims passing through, on a spiritual journey to a sacred destination.  "If you go on vacation for a week, you don't consider the hotel you stay at to be your home.  You know it is a brief stay.  In the context of eternity, your life [on earth] is like that hotel stay.  Brief."  I try to remember this all the time, that life on earth is fleeting and it's the next life that will last forever.  But we do get caught up in what's going on in our lives here, don't we?  We forget all the time that this isn't all there is.  We forget all the time that the purpose of this life is to live it in such a way that it brings us back to God for all eternity.

I'm human, though.  And I do enjoy so many things about my ridiculously blessed life here on planet earth. I love my home here in VA.  I'm trying, as best I can, to make it a reflection of Heaven for my family.  To make it as beautiful, cozy, and inviting as it can be, so that they always feel happy to come and spend time with us here. 

Yesterday, I had glimpses of Heaven when two of our boys and their families came for a little after-Mass lunch gathering, and the nine kids they brought with them spent a few hours playing together (leaving our house a good bit less beautiful than it was when they got here--ha ha!).  

Seriously, though: nothing makes us happier than seeing the grandkids hanging out together in this basement playroom that my husband finished off for them about five years ago.

 

And I didn't get a picture of this, but while the kids were playing downstairs and outside, our daughter-in-law Braveheart snuck away for some quiet time alone in our living room.  Our grown kids often retreat to this room and fall asleep on the couch, right in the middle of noisy family parties.  Our house is a bit too "open concept" for this space that we call the "Rosary Room" to be a true getaway; but it is just separate enough to make you feel like you've escaped the chaos.

When I'm in there, I feel a little closer to Heaven.  Maybe our kids do, too.

I can't remember crying yesterday.  I think I was distracted by getting all the food ready for our visitors, and then filling cups with chocolate milk and ice water, running upstairs to get computer paper from the office for the little artists to draw on, cleaning up spills, snuggling with five-year-old girls who are not only cousins but besties, and...well, you get the picture: it was a busy day, in the best possible way.  And by 9:00, I was falling asleep in my chair, so we went to bed much earlier than we usually do. 

That's the key, I guess: to keep living life to the fullest, but as a pilgrim and not a tourist, always remembering that the home I've made for my family here (however cozy it might be) is not my real home. My mother has completed the pilgrimage, but I'm still on the journey to that real home. I hope I get there.

And if I do, and I hear, "Hi, Pussycat," I'll know she's there already and she's been waiting for me.

My Mother Has Passed Away, May She Rest In Peace

Please pray for the repose of the soul of my mother, who died peacefully on March 1 at the age of 89.  She passed into eternal life with four of her five children gathered around her hospital bed, just minutes after she heard our absent brother's voice on speaker phone.

After many illnesses over the past year that landed her in and out of the ER (including a stroke in December or January, which went largely unnoticed because it didn't incapacitate her; followed my a number of mini-strokes or seizures afterward, also misdiagnosed because they were so mild), she was hospitalized in mid-February. After tests, and about a week in the hospital, it was determined that it was time for palliative care because there was no more that they could do for her.  Within days of her hospitalization, she could no longer eat more than a few bites of soft food or drink more than a few sips from a straw, and even then, she had to be reminded to swallow.  And then she could no longer even do that.  She was as weak as a kitten in many ways; her digestive system began to shut down.  She couldn't move, speak, or open her eyes.  But the one kidney she still had was functioning and her heart was still beating strong.

It doesn't surprise me at all that her heart was still strong.  My mother was all heart, and a fighter, a woman of fierce determination and legendary energy.  It was so hard to see her brought to such a weakened state. But let me start from the beginning.

My husband and I had been in the Nashville area for two weeks, meeting the newest of our 23 grandchildren (born on January 30).  We had just returned home on February 17.  We knew that my mom had gone to the hospital and had been there a few days, but we were planning to rest up for about a week at home in VA before we headed north to see her.  Even though she was pushing 90, we had every confidence that she would pull through and go back to her new mini-apartment at an assisted living home, where she'd moved in December (after living with my youngest sister and her husband for seven years, until she required a higher level of care and could no longer be left alone in the house for even a short time).  Mom always pulled through; we'd already been through two stretches where it looked like we would lose her: once in 2008; and again in 2016, right around the time my dad died.  But she bounced back both times, living up to her "Energizer Bunny" nickname.  We liked to joke that she had nine lives, and truly, she had regained her health and vitality at times when no one thought she ever could.  In 2008, she got down to about 89 pounds and had to have a feeding tube.  In 2017, she needed almost round-the-clock aides at my sister's house, because she couldn't even get out of bed on her own anymore.  But just last summer, in July 2024, she looked like this:

My baby sister (Mom's caretaker for 7 years), Mom, and me.

So we thought this most recent setback might be the same sort of thing.  I fully expected that by the time we got up there, she would be settled back at the assisted living home and that's where we would be visiting her.

But this time was different.  The news from up north was grim.  Make sure you get a priest in to see her, I told my baby sister.  And my husband and I decided to cut our time at home short and get up there to see my mother as soon as we could. We left early on Wednesday, February 19, and while we were on the road, my sister texted me a video she'd taken of Mom receiving Last Rites and Holy Communion that morning. In this video, her face was infused with the innocence of a small child, and she mouthed all the prayers along with the priest.  That was the one thing I wanted to see happen--for my mom to receive those sacraments before she died--and watching the video made me cry happy tears.  It was so beautiful.

My husband and I arrived at the hospital Wednesday afternoon, after a 10-hour trip from VA. On Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, we spent long days with Mom. She was still eating and drinking (although not more than about 300 calories a day) and still lucid, still talking happily to my children and grandchildren on FaceTime (albeit softly and with great difficulty).  On Wednesday night, she lit up when our toddler grandchild (son #3's youngest) kept saying, "Hi, Mimi!" and, "Miss you, Mimi!"  And when he asked, "Okay, Mimi?"  she answered, "I'm getting to be okay."  I believe she thought she was going to win this latest health battle, like she always did. And her sense of humor was intact.  In her airy, diminished voice, she told son #2 about how she'd been flirting with a male nurse, calling him cute.  When he told her he was happy to see that she hadn't changed, she joked, "I'll never stop flirting."  She was completely herself, in spite of all the injuries to her brain.  Still engaged, still knowing the names of each and every great-grandchild, still very much loving life.

During our long visit on Friday, February 21, my husband blessed my mom with holy water from Lourdes, which my older brother had brought for her.   And he put a brown scapular (an old one of mine) around her neck.

Friday night...my beautiful mother, teaching us all a lesson about humility
and detachment. I will never forget that last week-and-a half-with her.

Mom's room that night was filled with her children, with visiting and laughing, with my older brother and me spoon-feeding our mother like she did for us as babies.

Every doctor and nurse told us the same thing: Mom could have days, or weeks, or perhaps even more time. These sorts situations were hard to predict.  My husband and I thought we might have to prepare for a longer stay up north, so we left to go back to our home in VA on Saturday morning, planning to stay a week or so and then head back up to NY to be there however long was necessary.  But while we were on the trip south, we got word that my mother had declined radically and was no longer responsive.  My younger brother (the family rock star, who I half-jokingly refer to as her favorite) had come that day with his whole family and played his guitar and sang for her, and even that didn't evoke the smallest response.  She wasn’t opening her eyes anymore and looked like she was in a deep sleep.  If my mom couldn't rally even for her grandkids and great-grandkids, things were getting very serious. When we got that news, we decided to turn right around on Sunday, February 23 to head back north, because it looked like she could have very little time left.

As it turned out, she had only a week.  While we were in VA on Saturday, I got the first class relic of St. Therese of Lisieux that had belonged to my mother's mother and had come to me a number of years ago, so we were able to pin that on Mom's hospital gown when we got back.  I also got my Rosary-making supplies, and on the trip north in the car I made a mother's Rosary for her, with each of her five children's names spelled out in letter beads on it, one name in the middle of each decade.

My siblings (along with my husband and one of my sisters-in-law) and I all rallied and made sure that our mother was rarely alone--even often having at least one sibling staying overnight with her.  We spent many hours in that third floor room letting her know how much we loved her.  Also praying Rosaries and Divine Mercy Chaplets and the Catholic prayers for the dying, telling her how happy we were that she was our mom, but also that if she needed to go, we would be okay. (And reminiscing and laughing and getting a lot of comfort out of being together at this difficult time, gathered around our mom and having a sort of family party—something she loved so much.)  Even though she couldn't respond, we have every hope that she heard everything we were saying.  Eventually my two bothers and one sister-in-law had to head home (one brother lives five hours away from the hospital, the other two hours), but my two sisters, my husband, and I were still around, spending as much time as we could at Mom’s bedside. 

I don't think I could ever adequately describe how extraordinary the care my mother--and even all of her visiting family members--received was during those grueling last two weeks of her life.  It was worth it to have her at that exceptional teaching hospital in VT rather than the one closer to her home, even though it meant many ferry rides back and forth across the lake to visit with her.  The nursing staff brought a cart of coffees, fruit, and all kinds of snacks to the room.  One of the nurses who so lovingly cared for Mom during her last days remarked to my baby sister, "Y'all are making me want to have children.  It has been a pleasure serving your mother and your family."  We were told by other nurses that the constant gathering of family in our mother's room was not typical, and that many of their patients die alone.  Also that grown children of elderly patients often argue about their care, which we didn't do--thank God!  We were all on the same page: we just wanted to be with her and we wanted her to be comfortable.  Her pain was managed so well by the staff at this wonderful hospital that every time a doctor or nurse came in to check on her, they assured us that she looked comfortable.  We would know, they said, if she felt pain; but there was never even the slight furrowing of a brow or the hint of a grimace.  Mom did look at peace, and for that we were very grateful.

Mom got Last Rites a second time--I forget which day it was, because I wasn't there yet when it happened.  

On Friday, March 28, my youngest sister, my husband and I were at the hospital with Mom in the early afternoon.  (My other sister had been there through the night and had gone home to shower and get some sleep.)  We were getting conflicting opinions: it could be hours.  It could be days.  It could be weeks.  We decided to go home and sleep and come back in the morning. Her breathing seemed a tad more labored, but none of the staff who'd seen her that day had spoken of any new concerns.  But when she heard we were all going home, the nurse who'd been on duty with Mom that day said to my sister, "I think you should stay.  And you should call your other sister."  Suddenly, we had a feeling that it wouldn't be much longer.  So my other sister was called to come back, as well as the brother who lives two hours away (my older brother and his wife had had to travel out to Ohio to babysit for grandchildren and would not be able to come).  Once the four of us were all there, we decided that we would stay overnight with Mom.  I almost went home across the lake with my husband, because I worried the room would be too crowded, but he encouraged me to stay with my siblings and I will always be so thankful that he did that.  The nurses had already removed the second bed in the room to make space for Mom's many visitors; now they set up four recliner chairs for us and we had the most significant sleepover of our lives.

On the morning of Saturday, March 1, it became noticeable that my mother's breathing was much more labored.  

About three hours before my mom died, a lovely young nurse of Irish descent, who had the voice of an angel, sang Danny Boy to her while she turned her and administered her meds.  And then about an hour before she died, another nurse who'd taken care of her earlier in her stay stopped in to see her.  And In the softest of voices, while tenderly stroking my mother's cheek, this nurse leaned down and quietly encouraged Mom with these amazing words (which I've transcribed from a video my sister took, because I simply can't share something so private here in this space):  

"You and God, you've got some business.  You're working it all out, and you're taking care of that business.  And until that business is dealt with, I think you're going to stay right where you are. That's what I think.  But try to rest.  Relax. Your whole family is here, everybody that loves you is here.  And the person that loves you more than anyone is God, and He's wrapping His Holy Spirit around you, and He's going to wrap His Holy Spirit around all of your children.  They're going to be perfectly fine.  They're going to miss you, because they love you so much.  But they're going to be okay.  Because they know exactly where you're going.  You're going to go to Heaven, you're going to be with Jesus.  Just try to relax.  Think about all of that love--the love of your family, the love of the Lord, the love of Mother Mary and all the saints.  All right?  And we're all going to see you again.  Okay?" 

Then this nurse told Mom that she was going to pray for her in church the next day.  Let me be clear: this is a secular hospital, not a Catholic one.  But Catholic nurses kept finding their way to my mother's bedside.

When Mom's breathing really started to change, we thought of what several of the nurses had told us during those final days: that some dying patients seem to be waiting for everyone to leave, while others are waiting for someone to arrive.  Four of my mother's children were gathered around her bed that Saturday morning. The only one who wasn't there was her oldest son, who was out in Ohio.  So we got our brother on my sister's phone and put him on speaker, and he said his good-byes through tears.  Then about fifteen minutes later, with a tear rolling down one cheek, she died.

My mother had not been able to open her eyes for a whole week.  But right as she took her last breath, she opened them.  

I believe that my mother was seeing those people whom that nurse was talking to her about just an hour earlier: Jesus, and Mother Mary, and all the saints.  

As if this post doesn't already describe a passing from this earthly life that is so very beautiful, so filled with the love of God...I need to tell you about one other thing that happened, which we all believe was divine intervention.  I said above that on Saturday, February 22, my mother's condition changed drastically and she was no longer responsive, and it was determined that they could do no more for her than keep her comfortable.  At that point, we were faced with keeping her in the hospital on palliative care or taking her home to care for her in hospice.  The four oldest of us immediately thought that the transfer to the ambulance and the long ambulance ride across the lake to NY, etc. might kill her in her diminished state.  We also loved the kindness and efficiency of the hospital staff, who were always so gentle and patient with our mother, always said her name and spoke to her when they were taking care of her.  And we worried that we would not be able to keep her as pain-free as she'd been up to that point if we had to take her off the IV morphine (IV's are not allowed in hospice care, we were told).  My youngest sister, however, felt strongly that Mom should go back home to her house, where she'd lived before going to the assisted living home in December and where she still had a hospital bed in her old room.  The rest of us decided that even though we'd thought that our mother should stay where she was, our baby sister had been her main caretaker and health care advocate for so many years, and she deserved the make the final decision about where Mom would die.  We all agreed to have Mom go "home" and take care of her ourselves.

On February 24, the very morning when my youngest sister would be signing the papers to schedule the ambulance and the transfer and my mother's discharge from the hospital, her daughter sent her a text.  My niece was pregnant with her second child, nine years after the first, and she was scheduled for a C-section on March 4 unless the baby decided to come sooner.  She texted my sister to say that she was having contractions two minutes apart, but not to panic.  She said that she would text again later with updates after seeing the doctor.  But when the hospitalist arrived with the transfer paperwork shortly after the text, my sister said, "Hold on.  There's been a development."  My sister and her husband were the ones who were planning to drive down to MD to help out when the baby came; now, it looked like it might happen early, even that very day.  Maybe it was better if Mom stayed in the hospital, my sister thought, so she could be ready at any moment to make that trip south to meet her new granddaughter and know that Mom was in good hands.

The funny thing is, once the decision was made to keep Mom in VT at the hospital and all five of us siblings were in perfect agreement about her care, our niece never had another early contraction.  Not one.  Each day my sister would check in on her: no news.  Nothing happening.  Mom died on March 1, and my sister was in MD on March 3 as planned all along, so that she was in place to watch her older granddaughter while her daughter was in the hospital giving birth to her new granddaughter by C-section on March 4.  Amazing, isn't it?  Do you think God might have had a hand in how it all turned out?  I certainly do.

And talk about the circle of life!  My mom loved the role of "Mimi" to her 17 grandchildren, and she was so incredibly proud of being a great-grandmother to so, so many!   Shortly before her death, great-grandchild #35 (our youngest son's second daughter) came along; and shortly after her death great-grandchild #36 (my sister's second granddaughter, whose timing was practically miraculous) joined the family.  God is so good!  All the time!  And I know that Mimi is smiling down on all these young ones in the next generation, many of whom were fortunate enough to know her.

I will always miss my mother.  In life, she was one of those "larger than life," "life of the party" people. Dressed to the nines for every occasion in bright colors, with earrings and necklaces to match each outfit, Mom always looked like a million bucks.  She was a friend to everyone she met and was loved and admired by many. As she grew closer to death, I feel like she became a small child again.  Helpless and weak, with no possessions anymore (except the hospital gown on her back and the wedding rings we had to remove from her fingers), it was obvious that she'd left the world behind and all she cared about was the love of her family and of God.  It was tough to be there as she lay dying.  But it was a privilege as well, and the lessons I learned from that experience--about detachment, and acceptance, and childlike innocence, and trust in God--will be with me until the day I die.  

Twinning in 2021, when Mom was 85 years young.

Heaven on Earth

Is this what Heaven might be like for me?  Snuggling a beloved baby, whose precious sleeping face is resting on her Grammy’s shoulder?  I sometimes think so.

Of course, I realize that this is only the sort of Heaven a mere mortal's brain would conjure up. Being in the presence of Our Lord, seeing the glorious Beatific Vision, is reportedly something so incredibly beautiful, so awesome, that it's beyond my feeble human ability to imagine it.  I hope to see it when my life on earth is over. God have mercy on my soul, let me see it!

But in the meantime, there are infinitesimal glimpses of Heaven here in this earthly life, I believe.  And mine do look like this.

By the way, these photos were taken by my daughter-in-law as we sat on the couch together while the baby’s big sister napped, re-watching “Downton Abbey” and passing that little angel back and forth.  The new mom has been very generous with that darling baby of hers, sharing her easily with me when I know how attached she must feel in this early stage of her daughter's infancy.  I have the best D-I-L's, truly I do.  I always hoped that our boys would bring us lovely young ladies to love like daughters, and did they ever. 

I saw this X or IG post recently and thought I'd share it here; it's a must-read if you are raising a son who might take a wife someday.  It's perfect advice for any Boy Mom.

You too might have a slice of Heaven here on earth, when your son marries, if you heed those wise words!

P.S. Who is that old lady holding that baby?!?!  She kind of reminds me of my Grandma!

P.P.S. Happy Valentine’s Day! ❤️

Heartache and Joy

Before I begin this post, I have a prayer request for an 18-year-old boy named Christian (the oldest son of our daughter-in-law Ginger's brother) who is battling a particularly aggressive form of brain cancer.  Doctors feel that they have done all they can for him and at this point he needs a miracle.  I know there are powerful prayer warriors who stop by here, so if you have a minute, please ask God to help Christian (he could not be more aptly named, I assure you)--ask Him to give Christian courage and peace as he carries his unspeakably heavy cross, and to heal him completely, if that is His will. 

I've been thinking a lot lately about how unfair it often seems, that some people are asked to carry such tremendously unbearable burdens in this life on earth while others--like my husband and myself--get to live a life of relative ease and comfort.  My heart goes out to everyone in Ginger's family who loves Christian and is suffering alongside him.  As grandparents ourselves, my husband and I can imagine the tremendous heartache of Ginger's parents, who are bowed down under the weight of their beloved grandson's illness while also dealing with other family crises that have arisen (because as any parent of grown children will tell you, parenthood doesn't end when your children become adults.  Not by a long shot). And it wasn't that long ago that they had another young grandson battling leukemia--which he has beaten, thank the Lord!  Why is one family asked to bear such pain and another, like ours, given so much more joy than heartache?  Ginger's parents have five children and more than 20 grandchildren, just like we do; and yet, thus far they have suffered so much more than we have.

We have been ridiculously, inordinately blessed, and I would not trade places with another living soul; but I know that those who more closely share the burden of Our Lord's Cross are much closer friends of His than we are, and I look on those people with awe and admiration.  Through such trials, great saints are made!

I'm sure you've heard the story about St. Teresa of Avila, who suffered many trials in life.  Whatever the circumstances, she would hear Jesus say to her, "This is how I treat my friends," to which she would reply, "If this is how You treat Your friends, it is no wonder You have so few!"  I love St. Teresa, her sense of humor is so endearing!  And whenever I see people going through particularly agonizing situations, I automatically think that perhaps they are especially beloved by God.  I believe that these people are Jesus's special friends.  (Christian is, I am positive.  What a beautiful faith he had developed in the year before his cancer diagnosis--almost as if God was preparing him for the coming trial he would face!)

Ginger said that a priest came to give Christian and his family some comfort recently, and he talked about how there is a cross that has been fashioned for each one of us, carved and finished uniquely for us, and that no two are exactly alike. I wish I could remember exactly how she told the story; I am not doing it justice. But the gist of it was that we are all asked to carry different crosses, depending on our own particular needs for salvation, and if one person's cross looks smoother and lighter and easier to bear than someone else's, that doesn't mean that person will get to Heaven without some form of suffering. This is the promised Valley of Tears, after all. But it will look different than the crosses others bear, for it will have been fashioned uniquely for that person, according to his needs and God's will for him.

So I know that just because my husband and I have had it relatively easy thus far, we will undoubtedly be asked to suffer at some point before we leave this life behind. That being said, I'm trying to embrace the joy of each day, without worrying about what might be ahead.  You know, like it says in Luke 12:25:  "Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to your life?"  Or in Matthew 6:34: "Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.  Each day has enough trouble of its own." I wasted a lot of time as a young mother worrying about things than never happened.  My boys all grew up healthy and happy, and I got to watch them become men, fall in love, marry, and become fathers.  I might have taken it for granted back then, but I definitely don't anymore.  Our life over the past 44 years could have been so different, so much sadder and more painful.  But for whatever reason, that was not God's plan for us Pearls.

I dearly hope that when the time comes to suffer, that when I am asked to carry my individually fashioned cross, I will do it well.  I hope I will remember that it doesn't mean that God doesn't love me or that He's abandoned me--that it means quite the opposite, in fact. 

But for now, I will try with all my might to avoid worrying about what might come.  I’ll just enjoy every single minute of the blessed life I've been given—and a big part of doing that is hanging out with some adorable little people God has sent for me to love.  Like this sweet little animal-obsessed toddler, the youngest of our middle son's five kids, who is kind of my boyfriend these days.  (Someday I'll explain what that means, but until then, I'll let a couple of pictures from last night do the talking!)

***Please pray for Christian (and his family)!

Junior's First Holy Communion

We had another red letter day in the Pearl family yesterday, when our second-oldest son's firstborn (who was named after him, and thereby has the handle "Junior" here at the blog) made his First Holy Communion. 

Don't you love this idea?!  They can take a picture of him holding this
picture when he gets confirmed; and then holding the Confirmation
picture when he gets married (or ordained!).

Junior is the oldest of five boys (with a tiny sister in Heaven), and he is the most patient, caring, loving big brother imaginable.  I have watched him in action with the younger ones, and he will definitely roughhouse and wrestle with them because, well...they're BOYS (and I don't care what people say about the two sexes being just alike, without society's interference; boys love--and need!--to roughhouse!  It's in their nature and it's good for them).  But he never goes overboard and always seems to be aware of his superior size and strength; he instinctively holds back just enough that it's still fun, but not dangerous.  Junior is a leader and the younger brothers all look up to him.

This sweet young fella might be all boy (active and sports-obsessed and competitive, and not at all averse to getting dirty), but he also has such a tender heart.  We were with him and his brothers at their house not quite a year ago, when the call came from the hospital that baby #5 was another boy.  His eyes immediately filled with tears--not because he minded having another brother in the family, but because he wanted his sister Monica (who passed away in utero in 2019, but is still very much a remembered and beloved member of his family) to have a sister.  It took lots of gentle encouragement from everyone who loves him to convince him that Monica would be just as thrilled with another brother as she would have been with a sister.  He kills me, that kid.

I think of sweet Monica, who is no doubt a tiny saint in Heaven, looking down on her ragamuffin crew of little men and loving them fiercely.  Junior and his four brothers have a mighty intercessor and protector up there.  And when the occasion calls for it, they sure do clean up nicely.  She must have been very proud of them yesterday.

XO

Especially of her oldest brother, Junior.

We weren't supposed to take pictures during Mass, so I have no shots of our sweet grandson reverently receiving Our Lord in the Eucharist.  But Papa and "ReeRee" got a picture with him afterward.

It is the greatest joy on earth to have so many much-adored grandchildren, and to see them being raised in the Faith by our boys and their wives.  God is so good.  We are blessed beyond measure.

Happy Sunday, dear readers!

Princesa's First Holy Communion

One of the great joys of having so many grandchildren is watching them receive their Sacraments.  So many Baptisms!  So many First Holy Communions!  What could be more wonderful?

Last Sunday, our little Princesa, the second-oldest child of our middle son, received the Body and Blood of Jesus for the very first time, and it was a beautiful day.

First of all, the blog name I picked for her surely fits, for she did indeed look like a princess in her lacy white First Communion finery.

Our sweet girl was very reverent and serious while receiving, and then after she got back to her seat, she folded her hands and bowed her head in prayer.

Then she looked up, with a joyful expression on her face--just the sort of expression one should have after receiving Our Lord for the very first time!

Princesa had both sets of her grandparents there for this very special event in her life.  My husband and I count our blessings all the time, knowing that not every grandparent is as lucky as we have been (especially since our move to VA, which makes us practically neighbors to so many of our beloved children and grandchildren!).

Along with her parents and four siblings, and the aforementioned four grandparents, our sweet First Communicant had lots of other family members there to share her big day as well: two sets of aunts and uncles, ten cousins, and one of her dad's cousins (who is also local and came with her hubby and three kids). We actually managed to get a photo of our whole group, which is nothing short of a miracle.

Afterward, we all went over to son #3's house and enjoyed a celebration for her, along with a very good friend of hers who was in her group of First Communicants that day.

I made the cake.  Her other grandmother made some of her famous decorated sugar cookies.

It couldn't have been more perfect.  God is so good!

And in less than two weeks, we'll get to do this all over again, when son #2's oldest boy makes his First Holy Communion.

It's a wonderful life.  Deo gratias!

Our Lady Speaks to Us, Part 2; and a Birthday!

Today is our middle son’s 38th birthday.   He is the most pleasant, easygoing, fun person to know: whip smart yet humble, a sports fanatic, unfailingly sweet to his parents, a devoted husband and father, and a friend to all.

On a dream trip to a football game at Notre Dame, his alma mater, with his firstborn, in 2022.

With his nephew, who shares his name.  Who wouldn't love that face?
(Either of those two faces, that is!)

Our boy's beautiful family.

But that boy of ours has never liked to have a big deal made about him, or to be the center of attention.  So I won’t go on and on about him in this post, because that would make him uncomfortable.  Instead, I’ll turn my attention to one of his precious loved ones, the youngest of his five offspring. When you read this post, you will understand just how special our son must be, and how well he is passing on the Faith to his children.

Happy Birthday, son #3!  We love you!  (Now enjoy reading about your little man.) 

Way back in 2011, shortly after I’d set up shop here at String of Pearls, I blogged about a rather humble garden statue of the Blessed Mother that we had outside our house in NH.  Our across-the-street neighbors were Catholic, but non-practicing and not very religious at all.  So imagine how surprised and touched I was when the mom told me that her 3-year-old boy had stopped in front of our house one day when they were out on a walk and said, "I have to kiss the Lady."  By that he meant that he had to kiss the statue of Mary that we had out in our front yard, not far from the sidewalk!  Here's that old short-and-sweet post, Our Lady Speaks to Us, if you're interested.  It's only been visited by 87 readers in all these years...)

We brought that statue of Mary with us when we moved to VA in 2017, but it had developed cracks and wasn't holding up too well anymore.  So we replaced it with a bigger, better one (a 36-inch faux granite beauty from Walmart).

This is my favorite time of year here in VA,  when those flowering bushes
bloom behind our statue, and this area looks like a "Mary Garden."

Recently, I was reminded of that poignant incident I’d blogged about all those years ago, when another sweet and pure-souled little boy (our 2-year-old grandson, who was visiting us on St. Patty's Day with a bunch of his cousins) was similarly inspired to give our Marian garden statue some love.

He stared at her face.  He patted her cheeks.

He held her hands.

And then he went in for a hug.

It was the sweetest thing ever.

My grandson didn't call her "the Lady," or anything else, for that matter; he still doesn't have a huge vocabulary. But he knew just who She was, I'm sure of it: his non-verbal actions told the story better than words ever could.

This wee fella is a little wild man, into absolutely everything, a real Bam Bam (although you won't understand that reference if you're not old enough to remember The Flintstones cartoon--I'm revealing my age!).  He's a climber (he has a zipped-up tent over his crib now, so he can't escape).  He likes to throw things (and can be very destructive at times).  He's all-boy, hilarious, and about as cute as they come.

But even the wild little heart of a 2-year-old mischief-maker can be tamed by Our Lady.  She speaks to us. And little ones always seem to hear Her voice the most clearly.

July 2022 Recap: The Baptism of Our Youngest Grandchild

If you haven't been here lately, I recently blogged about a Pearl family wedding.  Our youngest grandchild (#19, who I’ve decided to call "Jet" here at the blog) was one of the wedding guests.   In between the Mass and the reception, he and his dad relaxed at the family homestead by the lake.  The happy expression you see here pretty much sums up this little fella's personality.

That picture was taken on his daddy's cousin's day; the day after the wedding, however, it would be all about him.

In the same church where his Papa and Grammy were married more than 41 years ago, which is also the same church where his Papa was baptized 64 years ago, which is also the same church where his godfather (our youngest son) was baptized more than 28 years ago, he would receive his first Sacrament of Initiation and officially become a Christian. Lots of family history in that church!  Could this weekend we were having get any better?  Filled with sacramental grace, that's what it was.

I made this gown from some linen-and-lace fabric that belonged to my mother-in-law
(so there's history there, too), and it was worn by his four older siblings.  :)

In typical Jet fashion, he never made a peep.  Such a sweet baby!

Our youngest son and his wife were proud to be named the godparents.  They live in Nashville and had traveled to NY for the wedding and our family vacation week at Oyster Haven afterward; so son #3 and his wife decided that this would be the perfect time to have the youngest of their five kids baptized. 

 

My 86-year-old mother was able to be there, which was also very special.  Jet is great-grandchild number 28 for her.  (She is so proud of this that she routinely checks the obituaries to see if any of her peers has more great-grandchildren than she does.  So far, she's the "winner.")

 

Four generations.

God bless this sweet baby boy.

Reflections on Our Beautiful Catholic Faith

In the most recent edition of a Catholic newspaper called The Wanderer, I read an article by Donald DeMarco entitled, "The Invulnerability of the Catholic Church."

Here is the opening paragraph of the article (along with the first sentence of the second paragraph):

"The Catholic Church is a paragon of balance. In this regard she has no peer.  There is sin, but there is forgiveness.  Punishment is tempered by mercy.  Nature is elevated by grace.  Sex is conjoined with responsibility.  Rights are counterbalanced by duties; work is counterbalanced by prayer.  Will is tethered to reason.  Where there are difficulties, there is hope. Where there is doubt, there is faith. Where there is goodness, there is love. Problems are resolved; order is maintained.

The secular world knows no such system of balance."

I read that and all I could feel was a deep gratitude that God had sent His Son into the world to establish this Church, which as those words describe has no peer.  I felt gratitude that Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, God's Only Begotten Son, died on the Cross so that our sins could be forgiven.  I felt gratitude, too, that I was fortunate enough to be exposed to our beautiful Catholic Faith from my earliest days on earth and was given the grace to believe it was the One True Faith.

I thank you, God, for the gift of Faith.  And I pray for all those unhappy souls who wander the earth searching for the Truth, searching for peace.  May they be led home to the peerless Church established by Our Lord, where all the answers to life's toughest questions can be found.

God bless you on this Holy Thursday, dear readers, as we prepare to celebrate the summit of the liturgical year, the Easter Triduum. ❤️

Inspired to Paint

I have been dabbling in the fine arts of drawing and painting for as long as I can remember.  I am mostly self-taught, aside from two art classes that I took in college (but honestly didn't much enjoy, because the professor was a huge fan of modern art—which is not really my cup of tea.  At all!).  So my work is not professional quality by any stretch of the imagination.  But I have a compulsion to draw and paint and these hobbies have given me an inestimable amount of joy throughout my life. 

In 2020, I was suddenly inspired—by a prayer, actually—to try to paint the face of Jesus.  I blogged about that painting awhile back, and included the prayer that inspired it, in a post called “Tears Become Pearls.”  

I was happy every minute that I worked on that painting, feeling very close to Jesus the whole time, and the hours flew. The first "finished" painting looked like this.

It was so finished that it was even hanging in our house...But after a while, the facial hair started to look wrong to me. I began to wonder why I hadn't connected the mustache to the beard.  I also wished I'd made Jesus' halo larger and lower down, closer to his shoulders (my husband admitted that he thought it might look better that way).

The facial hair was an easy fix.  But I didn't want to mess too much with the halo, since it had been a long time since I'd worked on the painting, and I was afraid I’d have to totally redo the background if I couldn’t match the original colors; so I opted to keep it where it was and just enlarge the circle. 

Better?  (You don’t need to answer that!)

Recently, I started to think about painting a companion for this portrait of Jesus.  His beautiful Mother, Mary, seemed like the perfect choice.

I wasn't sure how I wanted my Mary to look; but I didn't want to peruse all the famous images of Her, because I was afraid I'd just try to imitate them.  Then while scrolling through my phone’s camera roll, I came across this photo of me holding my granddaughter Hermanita, when she was in the PICU battling RSV back in December of 2019.  (The mask and gloves were RSV visitor protocol, not Covid-related!!) On a whim, I decided to use that photo to do the general sketch of Madonna and Child, and then I just went from there.

Day one, this is how it was looking.

And about a week later, this was the finished portrait.

Of course, I thought that painting of Jesus was finished, and then more than a year later I tweaked it.  This painting may get a little belated TLC, too, I guess.  But I have found over the years that if I try too hard to make something "perfect," I sometimes overwork it and ruin it altogether.  So for now, I'm going to leave well enough alone.

When I wrote Finding Grace and Erin's Ring, I was inspired to tell stories that would positively reflect our beautiful Catholic Faith, fight the dangerous messages the world was sending to vulnerable young readers, and bring glory to God.  I think any time we use our talents and gifts in this life, in every single endeavor we undertake, that should be the ultimate goal: giving glory to God, from Whom all blessings flow.  Forget money; forget worldly successes and accolades: they mean nothing.  I should have been using whatever artistic talents God gave me to do the same when it came to painting.  I don't know why it took me until I was in my 60's to finally become inspired to paint holy images, but better late than never, I suppose.

I am often brought to tears because of the state of our world, and I'm sure I don't have to elaborate about what I mean by that.  You know just what I'm talking about, if you've been alive the past two years.  And it seems as if things just keep getting worse.  I can become consumed by fear for what the future will bring for my kids and grandkids.  But creating these images of these beloved faces helped me to remember Who is really in charge and therefore, how pointless worrying is.  He's got this.  We just have to have faith that He knows what's best for our souls.  We need to pray unceasingly and take comfort in the fact that God loves us even more than we love our own children.  Hard to imagine, but true.

I will not find paradise in this life, even though I have been inordinately blessed.  But being surrounded by comforting holy images helps me to imagine what it will be like if I get there.  And creating them is a balm for my soul.

(I haven't blogged in more than a month!  Yikes, time flies these days--and so much has happened while I've been away.  I plan to do a catch-up post sometime this week.  Also, thank you to the wonderful readers who've left comments on my last few posts.  I have not gotten around to replying to all of them, and I hope to do a bit of catching up there, too!)

Happy Sunday

 Happy Feast of Christ the King!

We have an exciting week coming up!  On Wednesday, our youngest son and his wife are traveling from Nashville  to spend Thanksgiving with us.  (They will be with her folks in Michigan for Christmas.)  We will have three of our sons and their wives, nine of our grandchildren, and one daughter-in-law’s parents gathered with us at our table on Thursday, so 19 in all. Blessings abound.

And next Sunday we get to light the first candle on our Advent wreath!  I love this time of year so, so much.  

And I’ve started my decorating early, because I want our baby to come home to a Christmasy house.  Lots more to do (or overdo!); but I’m already feeling very merry.

Have a lovely, family-filled, tukey-and-gravy-filled week, my dear readers. ❤️

Tears During Mass, Revisited

I sometimes cry during Mass.  I have found that if I forget to pack tissues in my purse, there's a good chance that's the day it's going to happen.  I was going to say, "That's the Sunday it's going to happen," but these days my husband and I are daily Mass-goers (for two reasons: he took an early retirement, so he's always home now and we can do everything together; and as he likes to say, the battle for the salvation of our fallen world, of good versus evil, is being fought on the altar, and therefore that's where we need to be present as often as possible); so really, any morning of the week, you might find me sitting in the pew sniffling and wiping my eyes.

It’s usually just a matter of getting choked up and having leaky eyes and a runny nose, and I find I can't sing or recite prayers aloud until I regain my composure or I will surely lose it.  Sometimes, though, it's bad enough that I fear a true bout of sobbing might commence; but I can usually keep it under control.  I dread the day I can’t and the floodgates open up.

My heart is so full these days, weighed down by worries for the world and worries for my beloved family members who have to live in it.  But getting emotional during Mass is not really anything new. Even when my worries were fewer, it could happen at any time. 

Way back when my youngest son--now 28, married, an Army vet and grad student--was just a lad home for the summer, getting ready to begin his senior year of college, he inspired this post titled "Tears During Mass."  I thought I'd share a link to that post today rather than write a new one on the subject.  (#lazyblogger) I read it again recently and marveled at all the changes that have occurred in our ever-growing family, not to mention our ever-scarier world, since I wrote it in 2014.  We still lived in NH (we would not make our big move to VA until 2017).  Just three of our five boys were married and we had only three grandchildren.  Now they're all married and within a matter of months, we will be Papa and Grammy to 19. 

2014 seems like a lifetime ago.  (Cue the tears!)

Click on this link if you have a few minutes and want to read that old post.  (You might want to grab a tissue first.  You've been forewarned!) Meanwhile, I'll try to come up with some new content here at the blog.

Until next time!

(P.S. That photo up there is of the church where my husband and I got married in 1980.  And speaking of tears during Mass, I may or may not have gotten a bit weepy during our wedding ceremony there, when it came time to look into his eyes and recite my vows...)

An Open Book: The Lacemaker

Anne Faye's latest book, The Lacemaker (A Novel of St. Zelie Martin) has been on the top of the “to read” pile on my nightstand for a while now.  It's not that I wasn't eager to read it, having enjoyed several of Faye’s earlier novels; it's just that I've been busy enough lately that reading (one of my favorite pastimes ever!) has taken a back seat to other more pressing endeavors.  

But that book, with its appealing cover--featuring a sepia-toned photo of St. Therese of Lisieux's mother, St. Zelie, surrounded by Alcenon lace--has definitely been calling to me.  And once I started reading it a few days ago, I had a hard time putting it down.  Two sittings was all it took to finish it.

Faye has done an outstanding job of making St. Zelie come alive for me, and after devouring this novelized version of her life, I intend to read more biographical works about this extraordinary woman.  She was a saint who was also a wife to a saint and a mother of saints.  And as if those accomplishments weren’t enough for any soul, she was also a successful businesswoman who was a maker of exquisite French lace.

 

Zelie Guerin never thought she would marry and have children; as a young girl, her dream was to enter the convent. But God had other plans for her, which included making lace and meeting Louis Martin, who had also dreamed of a religious vocation but instead would become her partner in marriage, parenthood, and sainthood. Zelie and Louis had nine children in all, four of whom died in infancy or early childhood; the five daughters who survived to adulthood all grew up to become nuns.  One of them, of course, was their youngest, Therese, a well-beloved saint known as  “The Little Flower” (a Doctor of the Church no less).  These are facts that you might already know about St. Zelie, but Anne Faye goes behind the scenes and into the mind and heart of this popular modern saint, making the busy and sometimes complicated family life in the Martin household very real and relatable.

Working mothers of big families will especially relate to Zelie Martin’s struggles to become a saint while dealing with the daily trials and tribulations that come with trying to balance it all, sacrificing sleep and longed-for solitude and personal health to attend to the needs and demands of her business and her home. She suffered unimaginable losses and endured tremendous physical suffering as well, yet through it all her deep Faith sustained her.

Zelie Martin wasn't a perfect person; she was quite human and had many of the same faults we all struggle with.  She often felt overwhelmed with worries about her children, and was always happiest when they were gathered under her roof (which for various reasons, they often weren't).  Her lace business seemed to operate on a feast or famine basis, so if she wasn't complaining about being overworked she was feeling stressed that it would fail.  She got tired of sacrificing sometimes, and Lent could seem very long.  She struggled to understand her most difficult child.  She was not always pleasant and patient and thought most of the people around her were much holier than she was.  But when it came to the heaviest crosses she was given to bear, she carried those with saintly determination.  I know that Faye used actual letters that Zelie Martin wrote to family and friends as a resource, paraphrasing and adding color; so I believe this book is an accurate portrayal of Alencon's famous yet extremely humble maker of lace and saints.

I can so relate to this quote!  Lots of stone-hard
wood to chop here.

I’m so glad I read The Lacemaker, because if there's anything I need more of during these difficult times, it's inspiration for ways to become a saint while living in the world.  What a beautiful example Zelie Martin's life gives for achieving holiness while working both inside and outside the home!  I highly recommend this book.

If you're wondering what you should read next and need some more good book recommendations, head on over to Carolyn's October An Open Book link-up.