I Grew Up Wealthy. Did You Know?

I'll bet you didn't know I grew up rich.  It's not something I brag about, and anyway - it's not as if my wealth had anything to do with my father's salary. 

Here's the truth of it:  I am a bona fide baby boomer. One who spent my childhood fashioning cardboard dollhouses, taking my protesting puppy for rides in a doll carriage, and spending hours crafting my own paper dolls.  I knew the wealth of not having technology to think and play and create for me - and how thankful I am for the luxury of those times. They helped, in ways known to God alone, to form me into someone with a spark of creativity in my bones.  When I did sit in front of the black and white TV, I found nothing to pollute my young mind. Loretta Young twirled onscreen to present this week's half hour drama (always with a lesson). Bishop Sheen taught things I didn't "get," but I liked it when an unseen angel seemed to clean his blackboard.  Bud learned again that Father Knows Best. 
 
I don't have to point out the fact that things have changed.  Even those much younger than I know this. Some even realize that society as a whole has traded oh, so many riches for poverty. We probably all know just what I mean.

Still, we uncover wealth where we can. God is with us, and by His amazing grace we can find Him.  We who know Him have a wondrous inheritance to pass along to our families.

With that in mind, I look around and realize that I'm wealthier now than when I was a child. For one (main) thing, I know God better.  For another, earthly treasures are piled so high that people can barely walk around in my house.

You should see it!  The floors around here are littered with grandchildren's dolls and trucks and board games and papers.  And yes, money as well.  "Dollar bills" that we've colored and cut (more or less in rectangles) from printer-paper.  And such an abundance of food!  Roundish paper cookies my granddaughter Bunny made for her collection of dolls.

Oh, and you should see the art on our walls; there is a virtual gallery covering doors and windows ... and well, of course, the 'fridge. 

I do not want to see my grandchildren deprived of the treasures that have been my entitlement.  Not when they have a grandma wealthy enough to provide paper and crayons when they want tea-party cookies, a cardboard box when they'd like a playhouse, a round coaster to serve as the steering wheel for their (sofa) car.

I share less "simple" things with the grandchildren as well, of course, as do their parents and other relatives and friends. But I would be remiss if I hoarded my stash of boomer-treasures and refused to hand them on.

Most importantly (it goes without saying), I'm privileged to help pass along the incomparable treasure of shared prayer and casual discussions of Christ's love.

In a world that seems to be sliding ever further from the wealth of creativity, simplicity.... and most of all, truth and morality and integrity... I don't intend to be stingy.

I intend to pay the Truth forward.  I intend to pass it on.

Painting: Gerda Tirén-Brudföljet 


© 2013 and 2015 Nancy Shuman.  thebreadboxletters.blogspot.com
 
 

This gently re-edited post was originally published in 2013. I am linking it up with Theology Is A Verb, where a group of Catholic bloggers re-post favorite articles on “It’s Worth Revisiting” Wednesdays.
 









 

I Have Right Now

Several years ago, I had what I would call an "awakening." Feeling that I'd given too little time to God over the course of my life, too little time to prayer, too much time to trivialities, I experienced a different reaction than I'd had to such thoughts in the past.

Rather than my usual "woe is me, I've wasted too much time, I'll never 'make up for it..,'" I felt a gentle whisper of hope.  If I could put it into a sentence, it was as if I sensed the words: "but you have right now."

I have right now.  Knowing this in a kind of "flash," I realized that I could not turn back the clock and re-live minutes of years ago, last week, or even yesterday morning.  However, I had the moment of right then.

I could pray at that very instant, and I did so.

I could choose anew to live for Christ, in that moment, and I did so.

I have forgotten to pray more often than I'd like to admit during the course of my life. Sometimes I find prayer a struggle.  But in each moment, I am given a new opportunity.  A fresh, shining, precious chance to at least speak to God when I think of Him.  A moment in which I can connect with Him, offer a word of thanks or praise - a moment in which I can start anew.

"Every moment comes to us pregnant with a command from God, only to pass on and plunge into eternity, there to remain forever what we have made it."  (St. Francis de Sales)

I have Right Now.


Painting above: Gara, Still Life 1914, in US public domain due to age {{PD-1923}

This gently re-edited post was originally published on June 21, 2012. I share it here in order to link up with Reconciled To You and Theology Is A Verb, where a great group of Catholic bloggers re-post favorite articles on “It’s Worth Revisiting” Wednesdays.
 

I Am Partly Sorry

I often sang along with the radio in my youth.  Never mind that I was a far from engaging vocalist.  Never mind that I was shockingly oblivious to lyrics as well. 

I remember croaking along merrily with a soft ballad describing "white on white, lace on satin, blue velvet ribbons on purple cake..."  I even went so far as to discuss this unusual lyric with a friend.  

"Doesn't that sound like the ugliest wedding cake ever?!," I tsk-tsked, never questioning the validity of my perceptions.  Either my friend had the same hearing problem as I, or she was too kind to correct me.  But we seemed to both envision a towering cake of dark purple, ringed round with turquoise bows.  I'm ashamed to admit how old I was before I found out the truth about this, but let's just say that it was my husband who told me.  And we were already married.  "...it's 'blue velvet ribbons ON HER BOUQUET'," he clarified.

Oh.

It seems my hearing lapses were not limited to lyrics.  I learned the Act of Contrition in first grade, and recited it in Confession at least bi-weekly.  I was in fourth grade when the priest on the other side of the dark shadowy veil stopped me just after I'd begun my usual:  "O my God, I am partly sorry for having offended Thee, and I..."  

He broke right in.  

"Are you only partly sorry?", he asked.  I knelt there in panic.  Well... well, of course!, said I.  That's what the prayer says, that's how I learned it, yes Father I'm sure I must be partly sorry, I'm at least partly sorry and that's a good thing isn't it Father? (am I passing this test?).

Father was kind in his correction.  And I've been heartily sorry ever since.  Although...

There are times when I think about Father's gentle question.   It's not a bad one for an examination of conscience.  I mean - how many times do I confess sins and faults for which I'm only partly sorry?  If I'm really honest with myself, how much thought do I give to what I have done, to the pain it might have caused someone?  To the pain it might bring to Our Lord?  

Yes, perhaps I have before me a good point for reflection.  If I said the Act of Contrition right here, right now, and if I were really honest with myself... what kind of sorry would I be? 


Painting: Alexei Harlamov, in US public domain due to age
© 2015 Nancy Shuman.  thebreadboxletters.blogspot.com

This gently re-edited post was originally published on September 6, 2012. I share it here in order to link up with Reconciled To You and Theology Is A Verb, where a great group of Catholic bloggers re-post favorite articles on “It’s Worth Revisiting” Wednesdays.

Revisiting Honey

Most people don't realize who they're quoting when they speak of catching more flies with honey than with vinegar.  I was well into adulthood when I learned that this bit of wisdom had come from one of my favorite saints. 

'You can catch more flies with a spoonful of honey than with ten barrels of vinegar.' (St. Francis de Sales)

I often think of this in connection with another quote from this Doctor of the Church.   

'It is an act of of charity to cry out against the wolf when he is among the sheep"  (St. Francis de Sales)  

These two thoughts may not appear to have much to do with one another.  But in my mind, they work together.  In fact, I often strive to "navigate between them," as one might drive between two lines painted on a highway to keep vehicles moving safely. 

As one of Our Lord's sheep, I have seen wolves come amongst us, oh - so many times.  In saying this, I'm not thinking of people, but of ideas and ungodly "values" that creep in, usually in sheeps' clothing.  They enter in the name (very often) of freedom, tolerance, rights, prosperity, pleasure, modernization, fairness, justice for all.  Not wanting to be unkind, we can let them prowl freely among our families and groups without our uttering so much as a whisper of protest.  We don't want to rock boats, ruffle feathers, stir waters, or cause anyone to be uncomfortable.  Besides, we don't want to appear, well... you know.  Uncool.  Behind the times.  Uncharitable. 

It can take a lot to not go along with the popular, trendy wolves.  But if we know the truth and refuse to share it, are we acting in genuine charity toward the sheep?  Francis would say no.

However, there are a couple of ways of sharing.  We can lash out in anger, in sharp words that can sting and personally wound our "opponents"... in other words, we can dish out the vinegar.  Or...

we can speak in honeyed tones.  Not in fake ones, but in words and actions that carry a genuine kindness that enables our fellow sheep to hear.  After all, ears tend to turn off at the sound of vinegar.  The truth we're trying to communicate can pass by totally unheard if we allow frustration and anger to "vinegar-ize" what we say.  

We all know there are wolves of ungodly values running rampant.  I don't have to name them; we see them everywhere. They rob children of innocence, families of stability, societies of integrity, preborn babies of life, and individuals of eternity spent with God.  The cost of silence could be staggering.

But we dare not speak without honey.

We dare not speak without love.

'I take in my hands the two rays that spring from Your merciful Heart; that is, the blood and the water; and I scatter them all over the globe so that each soul may receive Your mercy...'  (St. Faustina)

This was first posted here in 2012. I share this slightly edited version as part of "It's Worth Revisiting Wednesday." Click this line to find gems from other Catholic bloggers.







© 2015 Nancy Shuman
thebreadboxletters.blogspot.com

Go Through the Motions, Again

Today I'm doing something a little different. Assuming it's fine to "just link up" to this beautiful gathering, I'm offering an older post and sharing it again here - and with everyone at It's Worth Revisiting Wednesday. Click this line to see what others have to offer!

This was first posted on July 29, 2013.... 

I sometimes must wrestle myself into prayer.  It often seems that I'm waging an all-out battle against distractions, laziness, daydreams, aridity, and sudden inexplicable desires to latch onto any shiny bit of trivia that will keep me from praying. 

This makes no sense. 

God Himself, the Creator of the universe and the One Who loves me beyond all imagining, is waiting to comfort and heal and bless and listen to me.  He is, quite literally, waiting. 

And I, in effect, ignore Him so I can turn my attention to....... what?

Let's see.  In just the last few days, I've put off prayer in order to focus my attention on junk mail, crossword puzzles, television, a book just borrowed, idle chatter, tiredness, a fleeting headache,  various Internet links, and at least one catalog order that suddenly "had to" be placed right then and there and not half an hour later. 

Interesting.  I don't see anything at all there about my family or the work I've needed to do.  All I see is a list of totally inconsequential things that suddenly become of paramount importance when weighed against spending time with, well... with the Author of Life.

See what I mean?  It makes no sense. 

This morning I was graced with a glimpse of the senselessness.  Weakly, I asked God for help.  That's when the thought crossed my mind:  "at least go through the motions."  Don't feel like taking time for prayer?  Take a few minutes anyway.  Don't feel inspired?  Pick up a prayer book and mouth some words.  The Bible and Breviary seem to weigh a ton today? ("oh...hooow will I ever liiift them?!").  Pick one up anyway.  Make the effort.  Do something.  If your heart feels wired shut, at least open your mouth. 

Go through the motions.  

So I did.  With a heart that felt like dried, fissured, ancient rock, I tried to focus while my mind flitted .... somewhere.  With mind unengaged, heart uninvolved, attention scattered to dusty winds, I went through the motions. 

Then it happened.  Like a lamp in a house whose electricity had been out, suddenly I knew I was connected.  It felt as if chains were shattered, and indeed - I think that's true.  But that would not have happened if I hadn't begun by going through the motions.  

Tomorrow is another day. I know how this goes: it's a daily battle. I will face it again, and again.

I pray for grace to go through the motions.

Painting above: Sir Samuel Luke fildes 1882

With thanks to It's Worth Revisiting Wednesday for the link-up!