Aw nuts!

Pecans are a guaranteed autumn treat in southern Louisiana. Autumn would come along, the warmth of summer slowly drifted away and became chill. The days were shorter and school was in session. After school Mom would check our homework and send us out back to gather pecans in buckets or bowls. We had a tree and all of our nearby neighbors had trees. So those of us who had feet to walk, walked. And we stepped out, crunching leaves beneath our shoes and gathered up pecans. We checked them over looking  for rot or the appearance of squirrel bites. If it was whole and intact we clunked them into our buckets.

If not we played with them, chunking them against trees or tossing them playfully at one another.

And we'd go inside after a good haul and place the loads of pecans on the kitchen counter and every autumn mom would say she was going to use them for pecan pie but every autumn we would end up eating them plain. Some times I would crack them open with my teeth and Mom would say "Rhea go get the nut cracker," and smile or elbow me playfully. But I would catch her doing the same and get a good chuckle. Opening pecans with your own mouth is not a brilliant idea. Trust me. It makes your jaws sore and then sometimes the nasty bitter part of the nut gets caught in your teeth and you taste it forever. 

In Ohio the thing to gather from trees: Buckeyes. Michael says they aren't so good. I will take his word for it.

Insisting that your children go to Mass can save their lives

As Catholics we realize that going to Mass is good for your body and soul. And we believe this, truly. However, I have a true story, as true as I'm sitting here typing this up, that kind of "brings home" that point. So let me get right to it and explain how going to Mass literally saved the lives of my two oldest children.

It was late spring, 2011, Mother's Day to be exact. The Novus Ordo parish I was accustomed to attending was having a Mother's Day Mass. My husband was not interested in going to Mass he was at the time staunchly Protestant. However, he gave in to my whims and drove me to Mass almost every Sunday. Sometimes he insisted on taking our children home. He assumed having the children there was too much of a distraction. So I'd allow him to occasionally take them back. This Sunday was different, it was Mother's Day. I wanted my children to be with me on Mother's Day. We pulled up to the large church in downtown Akron and parked. I rounded the car to the passenger's side. My youngest was crying and my oldest was fidgety.
 "Let me just take them home" said Michael to me, seeing the children were not in their "church ready" state of mind.
I could see Angel, who was 3, was wriggling and moving about, unfocused and being....3. Abel, who was not quite 1 was crying in his infant carrier, fussing loudly.
"I can just take them with me," I said, rather meekly.
"No, no for once you should be able to go to Mass and just listen and take it all in. Its Mother's Day" Michael insisted.
My shoulders slouched as I thought about what he was saying. In my selfish mind, being child free for one mass couldn't hurt. I started to step away from the back door of our Saturn. I let out a sigh. I almost gave in.
Then I thought about all the other mothers at Mass and a voice of reason resounded in my head from weeks ago
"If you dont take them to Mass now they will not ever learn with repetition how to sit still and behave"
So I stepped forward, leaned into the car and said "No I will take them. I promised to raise them Catholic and that includes going to Mass"
Mike shrugged and helped me get Abel's infant carrier out of the car.
"Okay but they can just come home with me," he insisted one final time.
I smiled and said "I know, thank you but I can handle them. You go home I will call you at the finish of Mass."
I lugged a diaper bag and infant seat into an empty pew with Angel at my side. We went through the motions of a typical Novus Ordo Mass. There was even one, most embarrassing part, where the "priest" had all the mothers stand to  be applauded. I stood like everyone else but I loathe to be noticed so I didn't like it and at every moment that we had to stand I was praying to be allowed to sit. I would have liked to not stand but an Indian woman behind me tapped me when I didn't and basically gestured for me to stand.
Before the Mass was ended the back doors to the chapel swung open. My husband came to our pew in a hurry. He leaned over and whispered "Come on we have to go there's been an accident"
Michael explained to me every moment of the accident. He explained that he was not the driver at fault but that a woman in a minivan who was not looking at the road and ran her light was the driver at fault. It was a 3 car crash and our car had taken significant damage.
He also said the car seat I left behind had taken a hit from some 75 pound speakers he had attached to the back of the car for more listening power. But that's not all the other 75 pound speaker landed in the seat that would have held Abel's car seat.  The impact of the speakers would have killed our infant son and possibly if not definitely put Angel in intensive care or worse...dead.

So that's the story of how, as invalid as that Mass was, insisting my kids always go to church, literally saved their lives. They are here today because of that nagging voice that reminded me to take the kids anyway. Take them anyway so they will learn to sit still.

Mass or Mess, my kids are still here.
Every so often I will hear Michael say to me "Thank God the children were with you on the day of the accident"
I usually hear him say this when he is holding his back in the spot that was most affected during the accident. He will hold his back and groan about the pain. And then he will say "But because of your insistence that the children be with you that Sunday, they are still here. Thank God!"

Yes, thank you God for sparing my children. Thank you for making us Catholic. And thank you for the little things too.

That's my story from Mother's Day 2011. The best Mother's Day present I've ever gotten was a hefty miracle from God. My children's lives.