The Contrarians' Review
A Monthly Online Opinion Journal Produced By Flying Ostrich Press
Mrs. Triolo's Column-- By Anne Triolo
A Catholic wife and mother, Anne Triolo was raised (along with her 7 brothers and sisters) in the Extraordinary Form of the Roman Mass. After graduating from
Anne recently gave birth to her first child and will be taking a break from writing. She expects to return in two months.
15 April 2008
Passing the Time
I am, as I have mentioned, expecting the birth of my first child. He is due soon, but it looks like he intends on coming sooner, and so I am on bedrest. For the last week (8 days) I have been sitting on the sofa in my living room noticing things like dusty table legs, and being disgusted by the impious lady bugs which crawl into my water class, my butter dish, and even the overhead light where they roast themselves with a wretched stink. I have watched, despite my husband’s best efforts, as dishes and laundry pile up and slow but endless supply of papers, books and mail accumulate on the surfaces. I have been attempting to distract myself from these things with instant online Netflix videos and my old standby hobby, quilting. But also, as I attempt to restrain myself from jumping up and returning my small house to order, I have been thinking about time management.
I have been thinking about the satisfaction of making a list and watching the list get shorter. The pleasure obtained from the sense that a job has been well done, or a day well planned out with complimentary tasks organized in a time saving sequence. I am thinking about Saturdays full of the extra things that get left out during the ordinary maintenance of the rest of the week. Saturday was the hardest day for me so far. On Saturdays I get to do the big things that I can’t fit in during the week, building the crib, organizing the closets, running those out of the way errands that don’t fit into my normal weekly run. Exhilarated by my habitual sense of Saturday and by the lovely spring weather, I found sitting on the couch very hard that day. And then there was Sunday. I love Sundays. John and I get up early for church then we come home for brunch and an afternoon nap, after which we get to decide if we should spend the evening visiting with the family or stay home and enjoy our own quiet company. This is a restful and satisfying end to a full and busy week.
Now, haven’t I drawn a virtuous picture of myself? The conscientious housewife, abhorring her time off. What I have left out is that my husband NEVER has an ironed shirt to wear and that because I HATE washing the dishes I frequently put off that chore till my empty silverware tray forces me to face it. Some days I am lazy and can’t seem to get myself started, other days I am frenzied and can’t sit down till I’m so worn out that I am illogical and peevish. At the end of it all, I complain about there not being “enough time” do everything I need to do.
I am reminded of a conversation that I had with a friend some years ago. He said that not having enough time is never a good excuse. If we find ourselves feeling that way we need to remember that God gave us the time he wanted us to have. If things aren’t fitting in, we should take a second look at what it is we are trying to fit. This dear friend of mine is a notorious work-aholic; still, his advice was good.
God set us a perfect example in Genesis. He did everything that was important, everything that was necessary (including all of the lovely details) in six days, found time at the end of each day’s work to praise what was Good, and then, on day seven, to rest. As I sit here, unable to use my time to fulfill my ordinary tasks, I am making a resolve to try to appreciate the time God has given me and not to chafe against it, whether that means resting as it does now, or working, cooking and cleaning as it will again soon.
Passing the Time
I am, as I have mentioned, expecting the birth of my first child. He is due soon, but it looks like he intends on coming sooner, and so I am on bedrest. For the last week (8 days) I have been sitting on the sofa in my living room noticing things like dusty table legs, and being disgusted by the impious lady bugs which crawl into my water class, my butter dish, and even the overhead light where they roast themselves with a wretched stink. I have watched, despite my husband’s best efforts, as dishes and laundry pile up and slow but endless supply of papers, books and mail accumulate on the surfaces. I have been attempting to distract myself from these things with instant online Netflix videos and my old standby hobby, quilting. But also, as I attempt to restrain myself from jumping up and returning my small house to order, I have been thinking about time management.
I have been thinking about the satisfaction of making a list and watching the list get shorter. The pleasure obtained from the sense that a job has been well done, or a day well planned out with complimentary tasks organized in a time saving sequence. I am thinking about Saturdays full of the extra things that get left out during the ordinary maintenance of the rest of the week. Saturday was the hardest day for me so far. On Saturdays I get to do the big things that I can’t fit in during the week, building the crib, organizing the closets, running those out of the way errands that don’t fit into my normal weekly run. Exhilarated by my habitual sense of Saturday and by the lovely spring weather, I found sitting on the couch very hard that day. And then there was Sunday. I love Sundays. John and I get up early for church then we come home for brunch and an afternoon nap, after which we get to decide if we should spend the evening visiting with the family or stay home and enjoy our own quiet company. This is a restful and satisfying end to a full and busy week.
Now, haven’t I drawn a virtuous picture of myself? The conscientious housewife, abhorring her time off. What I have left out is that my husband NEVER has an ironed shirt to wear and that because I HATE washing the dishes I frequently put off that chore till my empty silverware tray forces me to face it. Some days I am lazy and can’t seem to get myself started, other days I am frenzied and can’t sit down till I’m so worn out that I am illogical and peevish. At the end of it all, I complain about there not being “enough time” do everything I need to do.
I am reminded of a conversation that I had with a friend some years ago. He said that not having enough time is never a good excuse. If we find ourselves feeling that way we need to remember that God gave us the time he wanted us to have. If things aren’t fitting in, we should take a second look at what it is we are trying to fit. This dear friend of mine is a notorious work-aholic; still, his advice was good.
God set us a perfect example in Genesis. He did everything that was important, everything that was necessary (including all of the lovely details) in six days, found time at the end of each day’s work to praise what was Good, and then, on day seven, to rest. As I sit here, unable to use my time to fulfill my ordinary tasks, I am making a resolve to try to appreciate the time God has given me and not to chafe against it, whether that means resting as it does now, or working, cooking and cleaning as it will again soon.
15 March 2008
Into Your Hands, Oh Lord...
My husband and I like reading aloud together. We spent a good deal of our honeymoon obsessively reading the Lord Peter Wimsey novels until our voices gave out. Our most recent book choice was a little heavier though and I found myself needing more breaks. We read The Faithful Departed, by Philip Lawler, a sort of history of the decline of the Catholic Church in Boston, leading up to and including the recent sex-abuse scandals. While the book was certainly eye-opening, I had to keep convincing myself to go on. It was a painful read from the perspective of a faithful Catholic learning of the abuse that has been heaped on my Holy Mother Church. It was also painful from the perspective of a sister whose parents and brothers make real sacrifices in order to have the privilege of serving the mass. But, perhaps most strikingly, it was troubling as a new mother, realizing that as soon as my baby is born the fight for his life and soul begins in earnest.
One particular story struck me the hardest. It was the story of a whole family of brothers and cousins who had all been abused by their parish priest. It was told through the letters to the bishop from the children’s aunt, a loving, caring, respectful woman who eventually lost her faith in the face of what her boys suffered and the Catholic leaders’ lack of response to their suffering. I kept thinking of those young alter boys whose mothers took time out of their busy schedules to cart them to and from serving lessons, and to make sure they were early for mass when it was their turn to serve. It made me think of my own brothers and of the sacrifices my own mother makes so that all four of my brothers can serve the mass. I thought of how they sometimes complain about how they “have” to serve “so much,” and of how my mother reminds them of the great privilege and honor it is to participate that way in the mass. It is an honor for a young boy to assist at the Holy Mass. It just seems so unfair that boys who are making sacrifices to do this holy thing should be punished as were the children in the book, with a punishment that lasts, continues throughout their lives, jeopardizing their very souls.
Not only is it unfair to the altar boys themselves, but also it is unfair that mothers who worry and care for and tend their children should be dealt this treacherous blow. I watch the way my mother watches her boys. The heart ache with which she sees them grow and mature, always afraid that she is not doing enough, not giving enough, not able to reach them, to reach their souls. These mothers full of painstaking anxiety brought their boys to church, to their spiritual home, to what Christ promised would be our safe-haven from all the worldly chaos. And that is where they lost them.
So, I lay awake that night wondering, worrying, and praying, fully aware that this was not the first time I had done so and nor would it be the last. “How will I keep my baby safe in a world where no one and nothing can be trusted?” I asked myself. And then I remembered the words of a very dear friend of my family. We recently told her how great her two teenage children are and how much we admired them. Her response was very sincere, and very typical of her. “Oh, it’s not me,” she said, “just desperate prayer.” At the time I smiled at her good hearted anxiety, but lying awake that night, I knew that it was true. I knew that that was the only answer. I can’t hope to keep my baby safe myself, but I can pray desperately.
My friend’s humility and self-doubt led her to a great faith in God’s mercy, guidance and care. Her simple testimony to this faith in God’s care of her children gave me hope. That is where I pray the stories of abuse will lead more and more Catholics. The sex-abuse scandals were and are a great wound to our Church. Many people have felt so let down by the misconduct of Catholic leaders that they have turned away from the Church with broken hearts. I pray that these people will receive the grace to realize that there is no where else to turn in the face of sin, in the face of suffering, heartbreak and human frailty, no where to turn, but to the hands of God.
Although The Faithful Departed was a harder and much more emotional read than Lord Peter Wimsey, I think it came at a providentially perfect moment in my life. It caused me to step back and remember one more time, in my new state as a mother, that all of my anxieties and all of my cares accomplish nothing without God’s grace. Grateful as I am for that experience, I think I’m ready for another mystery.
Want to talk about it? Go to the Forum.
Into Your Hands, Oh Lord...
My husband and I like reading aloud together. We spent a good deal of our honeymoon obsessively reading the Lord Peter Wimsey novels until our voices gave out. Our most recent book choice was a little heavier though and I found myself needing more breaks. We read The Faithful Departed, by Philip Lawler, a sort of history of the decline of the Catholic Church in Boston, leading up to and including the recent sex-abuse scandals. While the book was certainly eye-opening, I had to keep convincing myself to go on. It was a painful read from the perspective of a faithful Catholic learning of the abuse that has been heaped on my Holy Mother Church. It was also painful from the perspective of a sister whose parents and brothers make real sacrifices in order to have the privilege of serving the mass. But, perhaps most strikingly, it was troubling as a new mother, realizing that as soon as my baby is born the fight for his life and soul begins in earnest.
One particular story struck me the hardest. It was the story of a whole family of brothers and cousins who had all been abused by their parish priest. It was told through the letters to the bishop from the children’s aunt, a loving, caring, respectful woman who eventually lost her faith in the face of what her boys suffered and the Catholic leaders’ lack of response to their suffering. I kept thinking of those young alter boys whose mothers took time out of their busy schedules to cart them to and from serving lessons, and to make sure they were early for mass when it was their turn to serve. It made me think of my own brothers and of the sacrifices my own mother makes so that all four of my brothers can serve the mass. I thought of how they sometimes complain about how they “have” to serve “so much,” and of how my mother reminds them of the great privilege and honor it is to participate that way in the mass. It is an honor for a young boy to assist at the Holy Mass. It just seems so unfair that boys who are making sacrifices to do this holy thing should be punished as were the children in the book, with a punishment that lasts, continues throughout their lives, jeopardizing their very souls.
Not only is it unfair to the altar boys themselves, but also it is unfair that mothers who worry and care for and tend their children should be dealt this treacherous blow. I watch the way my mother watches her boys. The heart ache with which she sees them grow and mature, always afraid that she is not doing enough, not giving enough, not able to reach them, to reach their souls. These mothers full of painstaking anxiety brought their boys to church, to their spiritual home, to what Christ promised would be our safe-haven from all the worldly chaos. And that is where they lost them.
So, I lay awake that night wondering, worrying, and praying, fully aware that this was not the first time I had done so and nor would it be the last. “How will I keep my baby safe in a world where no one and nothing can be trusted?” I asked myself. And then I remembered the words of a very dear friend of my family. We recently told her how great her two teenage children are and how much we admired them. Her response was very sincere, and very typical of her. “Oh, it’s not me,” she said, “just desperate prayer.” At the time I smiled at her good hearted anxiety, but lying awake that night, I knew that it was true. I knew that that was the only answer. I can’t hope to keep my baby safe myself, but I can pray desperately.
My friend’s humility and self-doubt led her to a great faith in God’s mercy, guidance and care. Her simple testimony to this faith in God’s care of her children gave me hope. That is where I pray the stories of abuse will lead more and more Catholics. The sex-abuse scandals were and are a great wound to our Church. Many people have felt so let down by the misconduct of Catholic leaders that they have turned away from the Church with broken hearts. I pray that these people will receive the grace to realize that there is no where else to turn in the face of sin, in the face of suffering, heartbreak and human frailty, no where to turn, but to the hands of God.
Although The Faithful Departed was a harder and much more emotional read than Lord Peter Wimsey, I think it came at a providentially perfect moment in my life. It caused me to step back and remember one more time, in my new state as a mother, that all of my anxieties and all of my cares accomplish nothing without God’s grace. Grateful as I am for that experience, I think I’m ready for another mystery.
Want to talk about it? Go to the Forum.
