If only I had a camera...

I have a camera on my phone but seriously, I have never used it. If you know me, my cell is for making phone calls. 

After the funeral mass last week, I was in the back of the church with the girls, talking quietly with some friends. Angela was also pal-ing with a couple of her friends and I was keeping her in my peripheral to make sure she didn't cause any trouble in the meantime. I had not looked directly at her in a few minutes, and when I did, I observed her saunter over to the gorgeous large Michaelangelo "Pieta" replica statue, which depicts Our Lord in the arms of His Mother following His crucifixion. There was a kneeler in front of the statue. She knelt down slowly and just stared at the statue briefly. She carefully made the sign of the cross and folded her hands. I could see her lips moving. She kept studying the figures. She was kneeling there in front of Jesus; her head was almost up to where his hand was lying there before her. Ever so slowly she stood up and reached over the kneeler and placed her tiny hand in Jesus' hand and she gently caressed his wounds, carefully and sweetly. She must have done this for 30 seconds. I was tearing up; it was something you can't force, you can't teach. And I didn't have my camera to capture it to remember it forever.

Angela knelt back down briefly and made another sign of the cross. She sauntered off as quietly and thoughtfully as she had approached, then walked over to me. "Jesus has a boo boo," she said, pointing to the palm of her hand. "That is where the nails on the cross were," I replied. "I'm sure you made him feel better." If only we could all love like that, with the simplicity of little children.

RIP Fr. Schoenbaechler

               I must preface that I didn't know Fr. S. very well at all. I had
met him a couple times, but never really chatted with him. My more recent memories of him are within the past year, when he would come to holy mass at Guardian Angels parish, slight and quiet in his long black cassock, bent over in prayer throughout. He was there early and left late. He came on Christmas morning too; I would like to think he enjoyed the Gregorian chants as he taught Latin for many of his 70 years as a priest. My favorite thought, however, is this. Two weeks before he died, the children at our girls' school went to visit the nursing home where he had been staying for awhile. He was the person the children wanted to see most, but he was too weak and tired for visitors, let alone spending time downstairs listening to the songs the children had prepared for the retirees. When preparing to leave, we received word that he was awake and could see some visitors in his room. Rita and three schoolmates, three teachers, and Rita's Latin teacher were able to go visit. Rita recounts the visit as this: They had prepared some Latin recitations and hymns to sing for him. He was frail but happy to see them, and they did their recitations, which he loved. He then gave them an impromptu quiz on their declensions (uh oh!), which they passed, and then they asked him if they might sing for him the Victimae Paschale, the beautiful sequence from the Easter mass.  When they started to sing, Fr. S. jumped right in and sang the whole piece with them. Before they left, he gave them his blessing...what a blessing it was. He was such a treasure. You may hear (and sing) the Victimae Paschale Laudes here:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aueJzA1uCj0

The girls and I were able to attend his requiem mass on Monday. It was somewhat of a large affair with the Archbishop in attendance, one of the Resurrectionist priests, and several other priests participating, as well as several altar boys and two or three hundred of the faithful. And of course it was his beloved Latin mass. I recalled a letter he had written years ago and want to share it as well...
                                                          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I began serving the “old Mass” as an altar boy in 1927. I am now 88 years old, 62 years as a priest. As a lad, knowing the perfect recitations of all the Latin Mass responses, I dealt with priests of every age and devotion and I do not recall any who deliberately mumbled their prayers. The churches were not air-conditioned in those days and in the hot summer days it was not uncommon to omit the sermon; Low Mass might last for only 20 minutes, and Communions were much fewer in those days. Now with the Novus Ordo, I have attended Mass in 10 minutes. A possible scandal.

The only scandal I can recall in the old days was people sleeping during the sermon. Nobody complained about the Eucharistic fast from midnight; nobody complained about Communion on the tongue or about the Latin. In fact, we were proud of the Latin we knew. Non-Catholics marveled at the piety and the reverence of the congregation and the head-coverings of the women. Those were the glory days of the Church when our Catholic faith was a family thing, a treasure we prized. Our faith was so much a part of our life that it colored our moods, shaped our social activities, influenced our style of dress, and flavored our conversation. How many families can make the same claim today?

Last Sunday I experienced what perhaps was the greatest joy of my priesthood. I could scarcely contain myself. Indeed, my cup runneth over. I celebrated the Tridentine Latin Mass with a congregation of two hundred people. It was like a repetition of my First Holy Mass 56 years ago. It was a Missa Cantata — those sacred Gregorian melodies so fitting for worship: the solemn Trinity Preface, the solemn Pater Noster, the Holy Gospel, and the Orations.

My daily vernacular Mass has been a joy in my life, but there was always something about this Tridentine Latin Mass that went beyond all telling. I’ve found something that I had lost some 35 years ago. All those years my heart ached for the Latin Mass that I had lost, always hoping that some day, please God, I would find it. Last Sunday I found it. And like the widow of the Gospel who found her lost coin and who called in her neighbors to rejoice with her, now I was the one who wanted to call in the whole world to share in my joy. It was like being away from home all these years and always hoping that some day the permission for me would arrive to return home and share again with my dear ones the joys of long ago. It was home sweet home again. My joy knows no bounds.

My humble and ineffable thanks to our good Holy Father, Pope John Paul II, the Good Shepherd who went out looking for all those abandoned sheep to lead us back home again — to Rome, sweet home.

Would I go back to the new Mass? No way!

Rev. Charles Schoenbaechler, C.R.

Louisville, Kentucky

If anyone ever wonders why I love the Latin mass, Fr. S. describes it here for me.

Here ye him.

Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. +

What was that again?

So I'm sitting in the waiting room at Angela's speech therapy place. A nice, well dressed "older" lady comes in, apparently late for her physical therapy appointment. She checks in at the desk then has a seat next to me. I smile nicely at her as she sits down. Older lady: "Oh, I'm so late! But you know I went in to get my hair done, and she colored it for me and it took longer than I thought." Me: "Well your hair looks really pretty. I like it a lot." (It was really pretty, a short mocha brown with pretty caramel highlights. Very nice.) Older lady: "Well thank you, I wasn't sure if I would like it or not." Enter young male physical therapist. PT: "So are you ready?" Older lady, walking off with male PT: "Oh I'm sorry I'm late! My hair dresser wanted to color my hair. I was afraid she put too much blonde in it. Do I look slutty?" Then... backward glance over shoulder at me sitting in the chair as she leaves the room... "Oh, she's blonde..." Hmmm. That totally made me laugh (as did the PT). Just another day at speech therapy...

We love her just the same.

I know I always write about sad stuff, so I am trying to turn a new leaf. I was mopping cafeteria floors the other day, which is always prime time for thinking and pondering life's important moments. Which in turn is suitable fodder for blog entries. I was thinking about my life before I was acquainted with the special needs community, and my life after. The difference, the sameness. The difference is that I am 100 times the person and Catholic. I have been a pro-lifer for many many years, despite secular education's best efforts to make me otherwise (into which I will not delve because I made a committment to have a happy blog post). Because of the special needs community, I am even more so, since I have a better understanding of "quality of life." Before, I may have thought quality of life meant whether or not a person can do things, especially the things I find fun like running and hiking or learning new research or going to wrestling tournaments. I learned that quality of life is in our relationships, being with the people we love, being loved by them, and loving God. The "activities" are the side show. Enjoyable or exhilarating, yes, but not really necessary for a "quality" life. I know a young man who has been blind and wheelchair-bound since birth. His parents treated him "like any other child" and expected him to try and do, and make the most of gifts he had. They love him unconditionally. And despite the fact that he could be so limited (at least by society's standards), he is happy. His parents are happy. He has used the gifts he has, which are many, and does good with them. I have met many many families who have children with Down syndrome as well. We love our children because of who they are, not how complete they are. I don't think I could have grasped that before I had Angela. I recall talking to a priest when Angela was first born, and he was saying how he supposed she could attend Mass if she could "not disturb others." Huh? At first I was thinking, is he for real?! But then realizing that he had no idea what a person with DS is like, I didn't get too bent out of shape... But I knew at that moment that, frankly, few care about people with special needs if it doesn't affect them; therefore, few care to educate themselves. I know because I was one of them. I was SO one of them. I would not have dug into every piece of literature I could get my hands on to read about DS if I didn't have a daughter with it. I wouldn't strike up a conversation with an adult with DS out of the blue. Anything other than "normal" was not important. The difference. When Angela was itty-bitty I had to take her for a hip x-ray because the Dr. thought she had a "hip click." I was unconcerned, as was the other Dr. who gave her the once-over and said, "It won't hurt to check it but I doubt they'll find anything." But I marched her dutifully in for her x-ray and I was sitting in the crowded waiting room with her all bundled up in her car seat. In the melee came a harried-looking older gentleman, pushing his daughter in a wheelchair. He was looking all around for a place to park her; I motioned for him to come over by me and I moved Ang's car seat over so he could park the wheelchair close to me. He walked up to sign in and I sized up his beautiful little girl. She looked to be about 8-10, thin as a rail, with what I suspected to be CP or some similar diagnosis. Her hypertonia was excessive, and she had a hard time moving her head around. She had a little homemade shawl around her. When Dad came back and wearily sat in his seat beside me, he arranged his daughter and tucked her shawl more tightly around her. She could not talk other than slight murmurs. I said to him, "Is this your daughter?" as I reached out and held her hand and said "Hello! Aren't you just a beautiful girl!" and continued to hold her hand because it was icy cold. Dad went on to explain to me that she was in for a back x-ray because her scoliosis was starting to cause problems and they would likely be fusing her back at some point. She was however, very thin, and they would undoubtedly want her put on weight if she was to have a surgery like that...which inevitably meant a feeding tube. It was so obvious this Dad was exhausted; he didn't want her to have back surgery, and he didn't want her to have to rely on a feeding tube. He just wanted her to be happy and feel good and be well, so he was doing whatever it took. It hit me right then and there, she was his Angela; he loved her so much, and would do anything for her. To the outside world looking in, that precious girl was so broken...but to Dad she was his girl. I knew then and there it's just what we do, the people to whom God gives these precious people. We just love them, without strings attached. If there is sameness, it's in the imperceptable yet awesome responsibility we have daily in raising children. Whether they have a "diagnosis" or not. So our hopes and dreams for Angela are similar to our hopes and dreams for Maria, or John. We want them to avoid sin, obey the commandments, follow Christ in His Church. Be good examples to others. Be brave and courageous. Stand up for people who can't do it themselves. Work and pray. When our Lord told us to have faith "like little children," there is a reason for that. You don't have to be highly educated or rich to be good. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

There are no accidents...

I've been wanting to write about this a long time. In the midst of all my relief, happiness, and blessings, the reality check comes. It comes hard and fast and when it's not expected. It comes in the blink of a teary eye. I see an email note that tells me little Madeline McConnell is gone, snatched from her beautiful family, a family I barely know. I never met Miss M in person, only through little pictures on my computer screen. Yet Jeff and I sit staring helplessly at the monitor, tears streaming down my face, silent, Miss M's round mug peering out atop a busy bee costume. Not much cuter than that, to be honest. Not much in the whole world.
I'll retrace my steps. Madeline's Mommy is my dear friend Amy from college. Amy was an enigma to me, because she was one of the first devout Catholics I had ever known in my life. If I knew any, I wasn't aware of it. Amy hung her rosary on her maple bedpost in her dorm room in Case Hall. She actually prayed it when we weren't bothering her with our petty dumb freshman college drama or worrying about our dates or our hair. She didn't get sucked into all that. In hindsight, I realize it's probably because she prayed her rosary. She was captive by a bunch of protestants and non-believers, including me, who didn't have a clue. One of my funniest memories is of my sweet Baptist roommate, noticing the rosary on the bedpost, exclaiming, "What a pretty necklace Amy, how come you never wear it?" But none of us ever actually asked to learn how, or why, or simply join in. Amy was undoubtedly praying her butt off for all of us hopeless waifs, but never let on. Her beautiful humility was intact and she probably knew her prayers would be answered in some way, whether it helped us convert or not. It would help someone somewhere.
Fast forward 20+ years. Facebook connects me and my friend Amy. She's got a wonderful husband and three handsome little sons...and expecting a daughter with Down syndrome. I have one of those daughters, so I was more than happy to share with her that our daughter with DS is amazing, beautiful, the only one in the family who doesn't have a disability. But I knew Amy and her boys would just have to find that out themselves. And did they ever! Madeline was, well, the star of the show. Gorgeous beyond belief. Full of spunk and fight, which she needed for her laundry list of health problems including her little heart that needed all kinds of fixing. Ending up with a trach tube was the last of her major obstacles. At about sixteen months old she had the world by the tail, and as far as we humans could tell, things would get "normal" at some point. Until the trach tube came out. One minute Maddie is playing, the next she's not, and there was no warning, no sound, no message.
No one can "explain" how these things happen. It happens all the time though. But one thing is for certain- there are no accidents when it comes to death and judgement. God knows when and why and how the beginnings and endings of our lives occur. We certainly don't understand it though, and even more certainly aren't happy about it. Amy's pain must be excruciating. I've prayed and prayed, asking God to take care of her, to comfort and console, give her peace. The sorrow is hers. Maddie's little baptized pure soul is so dear to God; she must be even more beautiful in His presence, no worries. No more doctors and checkups, no trach tube mishaps, no midnight runs to the hospital. Things are infinitely better for her now, whether we can fully appreciate that or not. Meanwhile, Amy will "get it." I know she will, because He doesn't abandon those who love Him. He will not lead the McConnells to something then not lead them through it. He will bring about some great good, somewhere, somehow. Amy has already endured and conquered more than she ever dreamed she could...and this is no different. Meanwhile I will pray that Amy redoubles her efforts, finds a way to pass on this huge amount of knowledge she now has, of which most of us aren't privy, that she can await with love and patience the day she will see Maddie again. She needs to know this friend indeed is praying and doing penance for her, and she is remembered every time I pray my rosary. Rest in peace, little Madeline, and live in peace, Amy.

Talking about Jessica...

It's been one of those weird kind of springs, full of highs and lows and normalcy all jumbled into a rush of minutes and hours and days that simply won't slow down. On May 20th, after weeks of intense suffering, beautiful wife, mother, daughter, sister, aunt, and friend Jessica Lichtsteiner-Hosking lost her mortal life to cystic fibrosis. The fact that the disease had taken its toll in recent years, and the knowledge that it was inevitable that the CF would eventually kill her doesn't really make it any easier. Faithful folks say that knowing you are going to die is a blessing, a grace, because it allows you to become closer to God in preparation for death and judgement. I have no doubt this is true, and find comfort in that. And our Faith encourages us to be hopeful, all the while praying for the dying and the dead, that their souls may be together with God in eternity, and eventually we may be reunited with our mothers and fathers and friends there too...It's the human factor that is the hard part. We are people who live in groups- beginning with our own family unit and radiating outward to our schoolmates, relatives, coworkers, parish members, and communities. And though Jessica, who lived a whole 27 years, was not part of my daily life lately, I have so many memories of her, and to self-soothe my own heart I wanted to write about her.
Jessica was the oldest of eight beautiful children born to two of the most beautiful people I know. Talk about do anything for anybody- it's an amazing bunch. I met Jessica when she was perhaps 10 or 11, but she was one of those children with big doe-brown eyes and a sprinkling of freckles and sunny brown locks of hair- the genuine smile of someone who just means it. I taught her in school from the sixth grade on, pretty much all her science classes. I think I may be correct in saying those were her favorite classes as well, because she always had a penchant for anything science. It was no surprise to me that she went into a medical profession when she became a respiratory therapist.
She was always polite and kind-hearted; she called me "Mrs. Lampe" until the last time I saw her several weeks ago. I know she was her mother's helper always, but not because her mom "made" her do it, but because she was part of the family and wanted to help. Back in the fall she came into school to watch my daughter and some other little ones for a couple of hours while we taught class. It doesn't sound all that taxing, but she came in looking thin as a rail, on antibiotics and oxygen, obviously tired, but willing. Her attitude was one of resignation but it wasn't depressed or sad. It was realistic yet hopeful. Her smiling brown eyes and huge grin said it all.
The night she died, I was actually out on the trails out back, running as hard as I could. I knew through the grapevine that it was probably her last day on earth. I was striding along, and I was crying for her, for her suffering, for the suffering of her sisters and brothers, her friends, her parents, her husband and tiny daughter who would only know her mother by photos and stories. I would go from elation in knowing that her suffering on earth would soon end, hoping in her redemption, to bitterness that God chose to take her now and leave everyone behind to miss her and feel that vacuum wherever she had been before. I felt a piece of agony with her parents who had cooperated with God in bringing her here, only to see her leave forever, and thought that my heart would break.
As I ran along, I started climbing hills and sucking in air, gasping in the strain of it, and I felt a part of Jessica's torture. I felt that sensation of gasping, needing that oxygen, and I offered it up to God for Jessica alone. The hard part was that when I stopped I could get that oxygen. I could stop and take a deep deep breath and feel it fill me and save me. Jessica could do no such thing. And I so wished I could run over there and give it to her myself and say "here, I brought you some air! Take it! Fill yourself up with it!" And I knew I couldn't do that, but I just wished I could. So I was running along crying by myself in the woods, sobbing over loss and change and pain, not so much for me, but for good people, wishing it didn't have to be so. Because I know what happens. We all keep going. We move on and on and on and on. People come and go, we start thinking about school and bills and what to do with the car problems, what movie to watch, what shoes to buy. We meet new people and love them, people we love move away. And maybe that's the only way we could all possibly survive losses like that.
I hope Jessica's husband and family know she was loved and admired and will not soon be forgotten, lost in the runaway train that is life here on earth. I for one will say hello to her often and say a little prayer for her while I'm at it. Her humble life will sit quietly with us all, and memories of her will patiently hold us over until we see her again, God willing. Rest in peace, Jessica.

Sweet Summer...

Where is the summer going? June was a wash, mainly because Chief (our puppy) caught parvo, and he required round the clock care for about 2 weeks. I was in class for a week, the boys were off wrestling for a week. It just disappeared. John has turned sixteen and gotten his permit, Dominic turned twelve, and Ang will soon be 3. Our high school 25 year reunion is around the corner. Hard to believe how fast time goes.
Angela will "age out" of her First Steps early intervention program when she turns three in August. It's a little traumatic only because she's had THE BEST team of therapists as our safety net to keep us helping her grow- we will soon be on our own! We chose not to send her to public preschool; I realize that there are aspects of that which would benefit her greatly, but I see more benefits with her being with her family, who love her and want her to do well more than anyone else could. So I'll be signing her up for Down Syndrome of Louisville's playgroups for her age, where they have a very capable DI teacher doing preschool stuff with them. She can go twice a week, and I'll go with her. I also need to get her going to a private speech therapist weekly. Her speech has seen a lot of improvement the past couple of weeks- let's pray it continues! She had her last therapy session this week with her Developmental Interventionist, Sarah. Sarah is moving to China with her family in August, and she is going to work with children in a school and orphanage there while her husband does his doctoral work and teaches school. It's kind of a neat course of life, since Sarah's little boy she adopted is from China! It was extremely sad for me to see her leaving the house, knowing she won't be back to see little miss Angela like she has been doing for some two years now. AND, she was a great inspiration for me to follow her into the world of being a DI. We will miss Sarah. Thankfully, I will at some point in the next couple of years be actually working with Angie's other therapists as a colleague when I become a DI, so I know I'll see them often, which is a real blessing.
Do you like the chicken pictures? Rita and Maria like the chickens a lot, and they are kind of nice animals outside of being smelly. We had two broody hens this spring and have seven little chicks now- too cute. Pray they are hens so their lives may be spared! ;-)