"For Real" Friends

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Someone recently told me that she didn't have time to blog or message board because she was too busy with her "In Real Life" friends.  She went on to say, somewhat disparagingly, that internet friendships were shallow and somehow false.

I disagree.  We got internet access almost ten years ago.  Since then, I've made friends who are truly precious.  They have seen me through some very trying times.  They've rejoiced with me in some very good times.  And, on rare occasions, they have hurt me like only someone real can hurt.

There are people out there in cyberland who know me very well--we've been writing back and forth for years and we've met in person and we talk on the phone.  And there are some people out there who know me better than I recognize. 

A couple of weeks ago, an internet friend asked if we'd chosen a baby name.  Then, she wrote back and told me she'd remembered it was a secret.  But she guessed anyway.  And since her guess was eerily accurate, I let her in on the secret.

A few days later, after a rousing diaper discussion on the 4Real boards, I had a diaper order ready to go.  And then my mom offered to buy the replacement liner and extensions I need for the co-sleeper. I found both sites, filled both carts and just couldn't press "buy." 

I'm readying the house, but I can't seem to bring myself to ready the baby things. I told my husband about it the other night, but he was the only person on the planet who knew that I can't bring myself to buy anything because I'm scared.  After a heartbreaking miscarriage and two years of infertility, I'm scared to believe this is really true--we're really going to bring home a baby.

At least I thought he was the only one who knew.  Silly me, in this world of connected Catholic moms, I should have known better.  Today, as I sat at the computer, looking again at the crib order, my son brought me a box.  It was a gift from Donna, who knows more than I can bear to contemplate about loss and hope.  In the box was a beautiful pink quilt, perfect for the bed I really do need to assemble.  And with the quilt was a note, encouraging me to revel in these last few weeks of joyful anticipation. It was the first time I've seen the baby's name in print.  She was one who'd guessed.  These friends--these women scattered across the whole wide world and joined in mission and in prayer--these friends are as real as friends get. Not only that, I really think that they are often instruments of the Holy Spirit, real answers to prayer.

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A Lady Lives Here--Our Lady Lives Here

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It must be that nesting urge, combined with all those rosaries, but my thoughts these days are turning evermore to hearth and home and how we can live here with the gentleness and grace of Our Blessed Mother. Donna Marie has posted such an inspiring look at Elegant Simplicity. And, in true traditional style, we’ve talked about it at 4Real. But still, my mind is a whirl.  Where I am from, homes look perfect. But it’s been far too long a road back from the misery of perfectionism. I know that’s not what Our Lady wants for me and I know that’s not what the home of a lady is. Homes where ladies live are homes where the words of John Paul II are taken to heart by the homemaker who lives there:

By taking Mary into his own home, John showed her his filial affection...John's action was the execution of Jesus' testaments in regard to Mary.  But it had symbolic value for each one of Christ's disciples, who are asked to make room for Mary in their lives, to take her into their own homes.  By virtue of these words of the dying Christ, every Christian life must offer a space to Mary and provide for her presence.

Certainly a devotion to Mary is obvious in home where she lives.  Carefully chosen statues and images are nicely displayed there.  Alice is so good at welcoming Mary with style that rises above the cheesy, sanctimonious religious arts and crafts.  If something is truly precious, it needs to look that way. Collections, whether they are polished rocks or religious icons, should never be clutter. Instead, if it matters enough to be invited into our homes, it should be treated and displayed like it matters. A cluttered, disheveled home is much like an unkempt, disheveled woman—certainly not the look of a lady.What is truly important is not the statue or the icon or any of the "stuff" at all, but the palpable presence of Our Lady and the way it is infused in the atmosphere.

However, homes of true ladies are not magazine-perfect, nor so clean that they are sterile.  Instead, they are inviting.  Beauty is not a buff, polished, dyed, surgically-corrected woman in clothes that could finance an Indian family for a year. Beauty is the acceptance of the body created perfectly for the soul He infused in it. It’s good stewardship and care of that temple.  It’s attention to detail but not obsession and vanity. It’s being ladylike:  with gentleness and grace that are a style of their own. And so it is at home.

Sights and smells and even sounds of those ladylike homes welcome the weary to stay and be comforted.  Whether it’s a simple vase of flowers on a dreary January day or freshly squeezed lemonade in the heat of July, the home cheers its inhabitants while not being wearisome or ostentatious.  It’s not about the show; it’s about ministering to souls with gentle, thoughtful, grace.  And the homemaker who lives there calls frequently upon the Blessed Mother for the grace she needs to see to the all the details with calmness and composure.

The ladylike homemaker goes about her daily round with one purpose:  to live as God wants her to live. It does no good if her house shines from top to bottom and her drapes coordinate perfectly with the upholstery and she has hand-glazed all her walls if she has done it all to impress her neighbor and she has been less-than-gracious to her children in getting it that way. We want to be perfect as our heavenly Father is perfect, not as the lady across the street is perfect.

So what does that mean for a house with seven children, a dog, a traveling husband and a baby on the way (which means a mom of limited mobility and energy)? To some degree, it means lower standards and higher goals. It means I can’t be on the phone the way I was yesterday morning--trying to talk, barking at my kids, and becoming increasingly frustrated with everybody’s imperfections (not to mention their lack of cleaning finesse). It means I need to take a deep breath and think about how I want our home to be when we welcome our baby. What’s really important?  Order? Yes. Beauty? Definitely.  Comfort?  Certainly.  Peace? Absolutely.  Perfection?  Only in God’s way, in God’s time.

Poetry Friday

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I had planned to post this last Friday, but couldn't bear to sit with it at the computer.  This poem was given to all who attended Nicole's funeral.  Sadly, it is even more appropriate this Friday, as grief is compounded with the news of Joshua's death.

Death is nothing at all...
I have only slipped away
into the next room.
I am I and you are you.
Whatever we were to each other,
That we still are.
Call me by my old familiar name.
speak to me in the easy way
Which you always used.
Put no difference in your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed
At the little jokes we enjoyed together
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word
That it always was.
Let it be spoken without affect.
Without the trace of shadow on it.
Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same as it ever was.
There is absolutely unbroken continuity.
Why should I be out of mind
Because I am out of sight?
I am waiting for you,
For an interval,
Somewhere very near,
Just around the corner.
All is well.
--Canon Henry Scott Holland