A sword wielding kind of night

So, my big hafla this past Saturday. It went well. :) I was nervous because I had many more people than usual attending to see me dance, and you know, you really don't want to screw up and make a fool of yourself. I like to keep those humility-inducing occasions to an absolute minimum.

The day started off fairly hectic with a trip to see the twins (so cute! I would *still* be kissing their faces if they were here) and then an attempt to straighten the house and bake red velvet cupcakes for Anne's birthday party the following day. Well.

I shouldn't be allowed to bake, let me tell you. Cooking I'm good at, but baking? Even making something out of a box appears to be just too much for me to handle. As evidenced by my work product every.single.time. I mean, *every* time! What is it with me? Do I not have the baking gene? I don't know, but it ain't pretty.

I read the box carefully (snort!). I painstakingly measure out one and a quarter cups of water. Next comes the vegetable oil. My brain tells me that the box just said to add one and a third cups of oil. "Gee, that sounds like an awful lot of vegetable oil," I say to myself as I fill up a measuring cup and dump it in.

People, let this be a lesson to you; learn from my baking mistakes so that you too do not have to suffer from bad cupcakes:

WHEN YOU HEAR THAT LITTLE VOICE OF DOUBT IN THE BACK OF YOUR MIND, LISTEN TO IT.

Did Tiffany listen to the voice? SHE DID NOT. The instant the oil hit the mix I knew something was wrong. I carefully pick the box back up and examine it. It did NOT say to add one and a third cups of oil. It said to add *one third of a cup*.

Yeah, that's a big difference.

I had only put in one cup at that point but seriously gentle reader, THAT'S STILL A LOT OF OIL.

I panic. In a lucid interval, I realize that the oil has not absorbed into the mix, so I can dump some of it out. Said dumping is undertaken. I eliminate much of the oil, but I don't get all of it, and the mix does need *some* oil, so I leave the rest. I'm feeling anxious about continuing on, but going to the store to get another mix is just not a possibility given the schedule I have for Saturday. Mike is on a Cub Scouts hike with Hank, and poor Anne has been abandoned in front of the t.v. watching Dora so that I can bake and hear myself think at the same time. After my baking attempt, I have tons of dance preparation to do and I just don't need this complication.

In a frenzied call to my sister, she suggests scraping the mix and making the cake from scratch. It's not a bad suggestion, but I know I'm not up to the task. If the mix fails Plan B is to go to the bakery and buy a cake. I continue on with the mix and pray for the best.

As I talk to Shauna'h, I try to spoon the mix into the cupcake wraps. Right, it was runny. Far too runny to be normal. I contemplate crying, but instead do the mature thing and just messily continuing spooning the mix in while swearing at it. I stick the cupcakes into the oven.

They puff up quickly. That seemed abnormal but then again I was really feeling paranoid by that point. As they finish I really thought I was going to have to run to the bakery, but an inserted toothpick comes out clean, much to my shock. I let them cool and notice that they are all greasy on  their little cake cup bottoms.

Much sighing commences. I'll preview for you the birthday party post which will appear tomorrow by saying that they were deemed safe to consume, but frosting them resulted in pulled up cupcake bits everywhere and just an overall odd look about them. My next text to my sister:

"Your mission, should you choose to accept it: get everybody drunk so that they don't notice the cupcakes. Go!"

Ok, so back to dancing. I was nervous. I packed up 3 costumes, all my assorted dance junk, practiced all my numbers, and told myself that I was excited and ready to dance like I may never belly dance again. I'm not making that up, I *really* told myself that. Out loud. In the car on the way to the studio. Yes, I was talking to myself. Desperate times call for desperate measures.  I was already shaky enough from the cupcake debacle.

I arrive, drop off some hummus at the potluck table, and suit up. I'm nervous. Really nervous. We had a group number first, in the new gold costumes. It went fine, but my veil got caught on my top and resulted in a yank followed by a rhinestone rocketing off my chest at an alarming speed and into the audience. Oh, and I couldn't get my veil tied around my hips at the requisite moment, but I'm happy to report that I did not panic. I refolded and reapproached and it did tie nanoseconds before I had to turn around. Then when I had to *untie* it for the dramatic finale it gave me a hard time coming untied. Have I mentioned that I frequently hate my veil? He and I do not get along as well as Sword and I do.

Anyway, dramatic finale. The audience was kind of quiet, that happens a lot when we dance with canes. Perhaps people are scared. :) Other group numbers followed, and then our group had another piece. That one went really well aside from a bad traffic pattern at the very beginning. Then it was time for the solos.

Oh sigh.

I'm always nervous when I solo, but I was especially nervous on Saturday because of The Sword Factor. And when I get nervous, my palms get sweaty and I get a little shaky. I think we can all agree that:

Sweat + Shaky = Not a Good Combination When You're Going to Wield and Try to Belly Dance with a Sword Balanced on Your Head.

I'll spare you the nausea-inducing lead up details. Suffice it to say I was feeling uneasy. But I had prepared, what more could I do?

Claire placed my sword. I was introduced. My music started. I strut out.

The beginning was really good. I had a little sword lead up process that worked really well. When I picked the sword up, I balanced it on my arm to carry it up to the audience.

Really hard to see, but that's what I was doing. :) Mike, my photographer, was sitting toward the back.

I balanced it on my hand a bit, and generally swirled it around while I danced prior to balancing it on my head. Then the big moment arrived.

I lifted it to my head. Everybody is staring at me. This is the moment that I remember from the restaurant that made my heart stop, but this time I was prepared for it. I placed the sword and I *knew* that I was going to feel that it was unsteady. I gave it one more nudge to "screw it in" for good measure and took my hands off of it. It stayed on.

:)

I knew that would happen, but it's still quite nerve wracking, as you can imagine. People applauded, which made me happy. I danced, and I knew that I was nervous, and you know, I was dancing with a sword on my head, so it's not like I could go crazy. I traveled a little, dipped down (one of my favorite sword tricks) and generally tried to call to mind movements that fit with the music. It went well. I spun at the end, which earned me more happy applause. I didn't spin at the restaurant because I was just too nervous, so I felt really good to have gotten back on that horse.

Soon enough, the music ended and I struck my final pose. I always feel like my practicing goes better than my performing because my performance nerves diminish my dance ability a bit. But every time I perform that gets better and better. And I felt good about the performance. It was definitely worlds better than my sword dance at the restaurant, and I got lots of very nice compliments from the audience after the show. They loved Sword as much as I do. I even had someone ask if they could take a picture of me with it.

I felt glowy and happy. :)

The comfort of liturgy

I sense that this will be a multi-post day :) so stay tuned for some belly dance talk if you enjoy that sort of thing. But it's been a tough couple of days and I wanted to write a bit about that first.

Death is one of those situations in which we take comfort in ritual and being in the presence of others, of our community. And ritual doesn't just involve a religious ceremony. The "wake" process always struck me as being a death ritual that many people find great comfort in. Having the deceased laid out for us to pay our respects to and pray in front of their mortal remains, leaving flowers, gathering together to talk and support each other, processing to the cemetery, etc.

And as a Catholic, I obviously find great sacredness, joy, and comfort in religious ritual and liturgy. It struck me anew yesterday at the funeral, which was at a Christian church of a decidedly non-liturgical bent. We sang some hymns, the pastor presented a sermon, the associate pastor read some scripture. All of these are very good things, things that Catholics do too, of course. :) I just find such great comfort in the standard words and pace of the Mass, in physical sacramentals like holy water and incense, in the presence of holy reminders like icons, statutes, candles and stained glass, in the Eucharist. Everything feels empty to me without the Eucharist, but I understand that not everybody believes as I do.

I'm certain plenty of non-Catholics feel uncomfortable in a Catholic worship experience, so it goes both ways. But I did miss my Catholic "stuff" yesterday quite a bit. This church, though, was very welcoming and the pastors very kind.

We're all still incredibly sad but glad to have the formal events behind us since those do suck the life right out of you. I found out about Michael's death this past Sunday morning, right before I went to Mass for the feast of Pentecost. To be honest, I didn't really feel like going anywhere after I found out, but I knew that Mass would be soothing, and it was. As I reflected on the death of someone that I loved, I realized that someone was being baptized during the Mass. Not an infant, but a young girl of maybe 13. She had on a beautiful white dress, it was so lovely. So it was a full circle sort of day. Someone had died, but there is also life, and where there is life, there is hope.

After Mass Henry and I lit a 7 day vigil candle for Michael. Henry's dream is always lighting a candle after Mass, and he was thrilled to be able to get "the big one." I appreciated having him there with me.

What a weekend...

And although there was a lot of good that happened this weekend, I don't mean that title in the good sense. I'll write separate posts about my hafla and Anne's birthday and my sister's visit, but everything was overshadowed this weekend by a tragic event.

Sunday morning I found out that my mom's first cousin, whom I've known and loved throughout my life, had died. That's always tragic, obviously, and he was only in his 60's. But to make the news even more difficult to bear is the fact that he took his own life.

Suicide. That single word brings forth pain in a way that is just unspeakable.

When somebody dies, in our human nature we want answers. How did they die? *Why* did they die? And with suicide, it's really impossible to get inside somebody's head to understand what would drive them to feel that this is their only option. I don't know right now if he left a note or not, but even then, those left behind never have the answers that they feel they need.

We're all still very much grappling with this news and the wake and funeral hang on the horizon like depressing black clouds. It feels surreal, like he isn't really gone, and nobody can picture the man that we knew doing this.

But let me tell you a little bit about him, because it's a beautiful story, albeit tragic. His name is Michael. He comes from a devout Catholic family. His mom, Marie, and father, John (both now deceased) were devoted to each other, to their children, and to their Catholic faith. When the rest of their extended family left the Church for nondenominational Christianity, Aunt Marie would love to come talk to us about her love of the Blessed Mother and the rosary since we were one of the few remaining Catholics in the family on that side.

She told me a story once that I never forgot. When Michael was a little boy, she was very much wanting to conceive another child. She had some sort of health complication, and her doctor told her that he didn't think she would conceive again. Thus, she developed a prayer plan. Every day in 9 day segments, she would take little Michael and they would go to church to pray a novena in front of a statue of the Blessed Mother, asking the Lord to bless their family with another child.

After a time, she did conceive, and bore a healthy daughter that she named Francesca. Francesca was just a light in the family. She had this loud, infectious laugh that you could hear no matter where she was in the house. Michael did too, in fact. You could always identify their location based upon hearing them laugh, which was frequently. :)

Aunt Marie died when I was a teenager, and her husband John was just lost without her. He went to live with Francesca and her family. Not very long after, Francesca, who was in the mid-30's at the time, was diagnosed with breast cancer. She lived for a few more years with treatment, but died at age 38.

Her death was a devastating blow to the family. She had a husband and young children left behind, and now her dad was reeling even more. Francesca and Michael had both chosen to be members of an Assembly of God church as adults, but Uncle John never lost his Catholic faith. It was a source of comfort to him during this painful time.

This was one of my first experiences with Hospice care, and with seeing somebody die well before their time when we all knew it was coming. It was horrible. It always bothered me that Aunt Marie had prayed so hard for Francesca to be born and yet she died far too young.

Some years later, Uncle John passed away. And then there was just Michael.

He had a family. A wife, 2 grown daughters, and grandchildren. A successful career. Apparently his wife had started to suffer from dementia, although none of us knew this until this weekend. If this factored into the situation, I do not know. But my mom has spoken to him a lot recently and nothing ever seemed amiss. On Wednesday, I posted a photo of Anne on Facebook, and he commented on how beautiful she is. I clicked the "like" button on his comment. I've "seen" him a lot on Facebook over the past couple of years, and I enjoyed having him called to mind since I didn't physically see him much in my day-to-day life outside of big family events.

He was extremely affable, easy going, funny and sweet. Would do anything for you that you asked. His Facebook profile picture is of his grandchildren. I see that he checked into Facebook Wednesday evening via his mobile phone, that's when he saw Anne's picture and commented. Two days later he killed himself.

It's almost like my heart breaks for my Aunt Marie even though she isn't here anymore. This is her child. And I cry thinking about what he must have been thinking right before he did this. How much emotional pain he must have been in that none of us even knew about.

There are no answers, no explanations. And the older one gets, the more death you experience. It never gets easier.

Please pray for the repose of Michael's soul. He was a devout Christian, and I know that he would appreciate it.

This week I will post about the hafla and the party, both of which have some good stories attached, so stay tuned. But obviously, this was much more important. My heart is heavy, but I press on. What other choice do we have, really?

A week in review, and a weekend preview...

Things are getting back to normal in the CL household. The furniture is all moved back, the new couch is installed, the children are cavorting in the freshened space. Things are good.

In an answer to prayer, Henry is absolutely loving the Cub Scouts, and is now officially a member at our parish's pack. He's a wolf cub; did you ever?! It's just the cutest thing of all time. He now has an official tee shirt, a badge, and a handbook. He's going on his first hike on Saturday and is terribly excited. I'm SO happy that he seems to have found a niche that he likes.

Anne (who will be the birthday girl on Saturday, *sniffle*) has been talking a blue streak and seems to have mastered a new skill daily. She asked to wear a *tutu* last night and paraded around the house singing and dancing. Where did this extroverted kid come from?

My sister and the twins arrive tonight for a visit, and I'm *terribly* excited. It is going to be a packed weekend of baby squeezing, birthday partying, and belly dancing.

Speaking of belly dancing, my sword and I have been communing nightly and our rapport is excellent. A classmate of mine and I were writing back and forth to each other in a Facebook private message about the coming hafla, and she remarked "I can't wait to see you and your sword!" It was adorable, reminded me of when Claire called my sword my "dance partner," lol. Every time I practice dancing back to retrieve the sword during my number, I telepathically send him his message:

"I respect you. I'm going to handle you carefully and show you off."

I hope that means that he will remain preening on my head, but of course, there are no guarantees. But my practicing is going well. I'm looking forward to performing (or, at least, I keep telling myself that) and thus I should just relax and enjoy everything. Life is short; I shouldn't waste it being a wallflower. 

I practiced in my gold costume last night, since I haven't worn it in awhile. The usual checks were employed:

(1) stayed on body, check.

(2) modesty panels did not shift, check.

(3) no leaking beads, check.

(4) no otherwise unforeseen malfunctions, check.

All systems are a go. You can bet that I will be reporting in.

Happy Feast of St. Isidore the Farmer!

May 15th is the feast of St. Isidore the Farmer, patron of this humble blog for the year 2013. :) Interestingly, he has become a favorite of Henry's since he appears in one of his children's saints books. He has requested that I read St. Isidore's story at least a half dozen times this year, and I can't help but think that this saint has taken a special interest in our family.

Cam, he has requested a St. Isidore peg doll, so I'll be visiting your saint store again soon. :)

Henry was all excited today that since St. Isidore was specifically noted in his school planner, this means that the principal will read his story during the morning announcements. Precious.

From American Catholic.org we have this blurb on St. Isidore:

"Isidore has become the patron of farmers and rural communities. In particular he is the patron of Madrid, Spain, and of the United States National Rural Life Conference.

When he was barely old enough to wield a hoe, Isidore entered the service of John de Vergas, a wealthy landowner from Madrid, and worked faithfully on his estate outside the city for the rest of his life. He married a young woman as simple and upright as himself who also became a saint—Maria de la Cabeza. They had one son, who died as a child.

Isidore had deep religious instincts. He rose early in the morning to go to church and spent many a holiday devoutly visiting the churches of Madrid and surrounding areas. All day long, as he walked behind the plow, he communed with God. His devotion, one might say, became a problem, for his fellow workers sometimes complained that he often showed up late because of lingering in church too long.

He was known for his love of the poor, and there are accounts of Isidore’s supplying them miraculously with food. He had a great concern for the proper treatment of animals.

He died May 15, 1130, and was declared a saint in 1622 with Ignatius of Loyola, Francis Xavier, Teresa of Avila and Philip Neri. Together, the group is known in Spain as 'the five saints.'"

Henry's saint book notes that sometimes angels were seen to be pushing the plow in St. Isidore's absence, this is one of his favorite parts. Stories of saints from centuries ago are rife with these pious details, and I always make sure to tell Henry that while some such specifics may simply be legends, the person was definitely real and holy in their example.

Good stuff. :)

New floors...

Here are the promised photos of our hardwood floor. :)

You can see all of the paint that was splattered and the plywood they previous owners inserted when they widened the entryway between living room and dining room.

Here is Anne, with the plywood. :) Can you believe that my precious baby girl will be *2* this weekend? Where does the time go?!

*sniffles*

Another area of heavy damage, over by the fireplace.

And now for the after:

Plywood all gone. :) You can see a bit that the newer wood looks slightly different than the older, but all in all it looks worlds better.

So, so much better.

This is that area by the fireplace. You'd never know it was the same floor.

We're very, very happy. We're homebodies, and we spend a lot of time in our house, so it's nice to have it looking its best. Our new couch is coming today and we should be fully back to normal by tomorrow. We still haven't moved all of the furniture back because Mike is so worried about scratching the new floor. Isn't he adorable? I came in to find to 2 recliners, our coffee table, several lamps and the entertainment center/television all arranged carefully on the area rug on Sunday. I told him that he was precious, but that we simply *had* to find another solution so that we could live like normal people again. :) We're bound for Home Depot tonight to find some felt pads to put underneath the potentially scratchy stuff.

I'm also taking Hank to Toys 'R Us to pick up a birthday gift for Anne that he's chosen. Toys 'R Us sent her a birthday card with a birthday club voucher that we can use. It's for $3. Didn't it used to be $5? Man, everybody is cutting back. :)

But before all of these errands tonight, I'm going to confession this afternoon and taking Henry with me. This will be only the second time he's received this sacrament. He's nervous, and it's very cute. But it's so nice that I can share this experience with him now.

Breaking pro-life news...

And now I feel guilty about my Mother's Day rant, because even if I dislike the commercialism and exhaustion of Mother's Day I do love being a mother and I certainly don't want to give the impression otherwise, even in an attempt at humor. Because in decidedly less than humorous news, abortion provider Kermit Gosnell has been found guilty of 3 counts of first degree murder, and 1 count of involuntary manslaughter, as well he should have.

Reading about this case just tears my heart wide open. Even though I consider myself staunchly pro-life, I rarely talk about abortion on this blog. It's not because I don't care, I care very, very much. I just think that oftentimes the discussion isn't productive and prayer is more effective.

But this is a case on which a person cannot remain silent. It's so disturbing and extreme that I think we would be hard pressed to find anybody, no matter how firmly pro-choice, who thinks that what this man did should be legal. I know that many proponents of legal abortion are worried that this case may mean a tightening up of restrictions on it, and frankly they are right to be worried.

We cannot live in a civilized society and let this man go unpunished. I don't think he should pay with his life, although hundreds of precious babies paid with theirs. I do hope that he is imprisoned for the rest of his natural life.

May God forgive us all, and may Our Lady of Fatima pray for us.

Who hates Mother's Day?

Inquiring minds want to know. :)

I give you the story of a Mother's Day journey, one that started out fairly innocuous, but somewhere along the line went terribly awry. Let us begin some 30 plus years ago, in a land not so far away...

When I was a little girl, Mother's Day was, you know, fine. I don't really remember it too much. I would get my mom something nice and that would be the end of it. That's the innocuous part.

Fast forward to my first Mother's Day as a mother. Henry was about 6 months old. At this point, I hadn't slept through the night uninterrupted since the moment he was born. Oh, and tack on an additional 9 months since we all know you sleep like crap when you're pregnant. So it's been well over a year with foul garbage sleep. Henry was NOT a great sleeper. And he was an early teether, so at 6 months we're talking multiple, multiple wake ups that, as a first time parent, I was completely unprepared for. In hind sight, I really think I had some postpartum depression in the year after I had Henry.

On that particular Mother's Day we had had an especially challenging night. Bone weary, I went to Mass and then hustled around to get ready to meet my parents for brunch. Somehow, in our delirium, Mike and I manage to get Henry buckled into his car seat and we're underway to the restaurant. Upon arrival, I make an upsetting realization: I was so out of it that I left my mom's gift at home.

What does any mature, self-respecting woman do at this juncture? She bursts into tears, of course. As in uncontrollable sobs, right in the middle of the restaurant.

Everybody was very worried about me. "What's wrong?!" they all want to know.

I've always remembered my answer. "I'm just so tired."

And I meant that in every possible sense. Physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually, I had nothing left to give.

The exhaustion had nothing to do with Mother's Day, but it seems that somehow it left bad karma for every future Mother's Day to come. Regularly, each Mother's Day, we're dealing with:

(1) extraction of a tantruming child from Mass;

(2) extraction of a tantruming child from a restaurant;

(3) travel to multiple locations to see both mothers and any grandmothers;

(4) Mike and I picking fights with each other because we're both so tired and aggravated.

To illustrate, we have Mother's Day 2013:

We all go to Mass as a family, something that doesn't happen as much as I'd like and that I treasure. The Gospel hasn't even been read before Anne causes trouble out in the aisle and has to be picked up. Her arched back response is an immediate clue that she needs to be extracted. Mike does the honors, and I don't see him for at least 20 minutes. They come back in right before communion and Anne does behave for the rest of Mass. A short, frantic time at home and then we have to leave for brunch with my family. This is right during Anne's nap time. She cries upon being buckled into her car seat and is surly at brunch. Toward the end, she flings herself on the floor and we exit the restaurant in disgrace. We (oops, Freudian) *she* sobs for half the ride home. Upon arrival at home she is immediately escorted to her crib where she screams again for a short time before passing out (and clearly, this is all due to her not getting a properly timed nap, which is *our* fault, but the Mother's Day plans always aggravate this problem). During the nap, we move furniture back into our main living spaces. Anne wakes up in such a foul mood that I have to *chase her around her crib* to pull her out, and I think it was around this time that I thought to myself,

"Good gracious, I hate Mother's Day."

Mike's parents come over just as I get Anne calmed down. We visit. They leave and we deal with a whiny Henry and an oversensitive Anne for the remainder of the night. We're all far too stuffed from our late brunch to make the nice dinner that we had planned. Neither child goes to bed soon enough to suit me. By the time they are finally both asleep, I'm too beat to even have a glass of wine.

Happy Mother's Day to me.

Which I hope doesn't come across as selfish. I mean, I don't really care if I have a nice Mother's Day because I think that Mother's Day is a made up Hallmark holiday that I wish we could all forget about. Except if we did that other people would think that we were horrible, horrible individuals with no souls.

All weekend long, I hear "Happy Mother's Day!! Do you have any nice plans?"

There are lots of people on this Mother's Day bandwagon, and I think everybody is so afraid that if they don't wish a woman a happy Mother's Day some permanent black mark will be entered onto their record. I find this very awkward, because I don't always know if I can say "and to you too!" back, because I often have no idea of whether a particular woman is a mother. And if she isn't, perhaps this is a painful topic for her, and I don't want to make her feel worse than she invariably already feels on this day.

Yes, my name is Tiffany, and I am an anti-Mother's Day-ite. Should there be a support group for us?

Mother's Day just feels so forced to me. I know that my family appreciates me, I don't need a special day for it. I truly hope that I make my mother and grandmother feel appreciated all year long, I know that I strive to.

Perhaps I'm just getting crotchedy in my old age. Use of the word "crotchedy" unfortunately bears this theory out, methinks. So, what say you? Does anybody else dislike Mother's Day?

Pray More Novenas, and a spring Knit-along...

After I signed up for the Holy Spirit Novena reminder yesterday (the first day is today for anybody that still wants to join along :)) I realized that the site that is running it actually does a novena every single month that you will automatically continue receiving in your email for as long as you stay enrolled. They correlate the novenas with given Church feasts, and there is usually some commentary along with the novena prayer. I was impressed. I had Day 1 of the Holy Spirit Novena waiting in my inbox when I logged in this morning. The site is Pray More Novenas. I really like it so far.

In other news, I'm participating in a spring knit-along, and as is usual, I'm all excited.

It's being run by Lion Brand yarn, and for anybody else that knits, all of the blog posts are here. I chose a forest green cotton/acrylic blend to make my tank, and I'm already to the armhole shaping on the back piece. Excited. :) I have to say, I'm glad this knit-along isn't a mystery. While I did very much enjoy the Downton Abbey Mystery KAL, I don't know when I'll do one of those again. The same company ran another Mystery KAL for Game of Thrones, which I didn't do because I don't watch that show. And I'm glad I didn't. :) I wasn't crazy about the finished object that it ended up becoming. This knit-along is refreshing. I have the whole pattern, so I know what I'm making and what is coming next. The KAL community simply provides some strategies each week and support via the group on Ravelry. I'm loving it.

In yet other news, our floor will be finished today, and it looks stunning. In a bold move, we took the kids out to dinner last night (to Chipotle - this is our absolute favorite place for fast food) and to a furniture store. Yes, we bought a new couch. This is the only new piece of furniture that Mike and I have purchased together in our entire married life save for our bed (meaning, a mattress, box spring and frame, not a real bedroom set) and our dining room set. Everything else we have received as hand-me-downs (which we're very grateful for) or purchased at a thrift store. We found something we liked that was within our budget, it was on sale, and the delivery price was more than reasonable. It's being delivered on Tuesday, and we're so excited we can hardly stand it. The thought of dragging our old sofa back into the house was just too depressing to contemplate. It's so large that we have to take our front door off the hinges to get it out, it's seen better days, and we just don't like its style. Slowly but surely, our house is becoming our own. :)

Novena to the Holy Spirit and a few liturgy musings...

Me again. :) I found a great site for the Holy Spirit novena that is slated to begin tomorrow and continue to Pentecost. This is a site that not only includes the prayers, but will email them to you each day so that you won't forget. I'm signed up. :)

In other news, I attended Mass this afternoon for the Feast of the Ascension like I mentioned, and I was left pondering something: what is the best way to address things that happen in Mass that go against Church law/rubrics? It wasn't like anything major happened at Mass today, but I did notice a few things, and then I kind of berated myself for noticing them. I should just be focusing on the Mass and the Eucharist, I told myself. But I can't help but notice such things. I'm not accustomed to seeing them, I guess I've been very lucky at the parishes that I've attended. But this was the Newman Center at the university I work at, and I get the feeling things are a bit more loosey goosey there. :)

I don't really think one *can* do much, unless it's something really egregious, which this wasn't. I don't want to sit there being "judgey" but on the other hand I don't think it's unreasonable to want the liturgy celebrated in the proscribed manner. It's all very curious.

Anybody have any wisdom to share?