Matilda and Melissa have their cute lambs. I have a tree. We’re adding a leaf per person per day if we’re good little boys and girls (and the term is loosely applied).

Note that brown paint, folks. We had no brown paint, but I made do with purple and yellow. I suppose I do have a crafty trick or two up my sleeve when necessary.

I got the tree idea from The Forty Days of Lent from the Celebrating the Faith in the Home series. I love these books. I own them all and have gifted them out. If you need a resource with good ideas for making the Church seasons real for yourself and your children including the research as to why we Catholics do the things we do, these are the books for you.

I’ve a lot of thoughts in my head this Lent, and I’m trying to sort these ideas out. Such heavy concepts and I feel like there is an elusive lightbulb moment. I read a bit here or a bit there and they all seem interconnected, but I’m not getting it. Yet.

Four years ago, I took a blank book and labeled it the Reitemeyer Family Prayer Journal. We began listing things for which we were thankful and things for which we were praying. We did it for three whole days. But I kept the book, and have decided to use it for my Lenten reflections. Maybe in a few weeks some of these random thoughts will make more sense. I hope.

It’s a shame that we didn’t keep that book up. I enjoyed remembering our prayers from years ago. We prayed for healing for a man with cancer. He has since died, so I remembered to pray for his soul. We were praying for my sister’s move (that was three moves ago). She assured me today that her memories of that move were that all went well. We listed being grateful that Bill was home from his deployment. But my absolute favorite prayer was:

In thanksgiving for…fond and selective memories.

Amen.

Sarah, the Snoring Scholar, is hosting the latest Catholic Carnival, and I finally got off my duff and put something in.

7″ of snow delayed Bill’s school day, and he didn’t get home until after the late Mass tonight. I love God, but I don’t love the idea of dragging 6 children through snow covered streets and sitting through an hour plus Mass with no help, so no ashes for us. Mea culpa.

Last week I posted about one of my boys thinking that girls should go first (note: this would be done out of love for God, and, being a fallen creature, one would not expect him to actually do this, routinely, especially not when his sisters would be the ones benefitting). My sister commented that she had read an article where the consensus among four young women was that chivalry was creepy.

Sad.

I wasn’t raised to think I needed a man (or a boy) to open doors for me. I certainly never expected a man (or a boy) to stand when I walked into the room. But I don’t think I ever thought chivalry was creepy.

As my little group approaches doors, I’ll say, “Where are my gentlemen?” It’s my way of reminding the boys to move forward and open the door and hold it open for the rest of us. My girls are not usually strong enough to open heavier doors, but I do encourage them to hold them open as well. I think the main point in these exercises is to teach all of my children to be situationally aware, to be polite to others, and to help out. I’m sure that mother carrying a baby can open the door all by herself, but how nice to have a considerate person offer assistance.

Is there anything more annoying than a door slamming in your face just as you reach it?

I think that the issue of chivalry being perceived as creepy is also a matter of lack of humility. I know I am certainly guilty of this. It is very difficult to accept help. Having a man open a door for me is polite. I can accept good manners. But having a man or even a woman offer to help carry something? No, sir! Thank you very much. I can manage just fine. This is pride in the worst way.

We have a big dog, so I frequently find myself in the dog food aisle, very pregnant or with a baby in a sling, wrestling a 40 pound bag of food onto the bottom of the cart. Almost always, somebody stops and asks me if I need some assistance. If I could take a step back, I might see myself looking absolutely ridiculous as I insist that it’s no trouble for me at all to get that bag loaded in without banging the baby’s head on the cart or dropping her out of the sling. Who am I kidding?

I’ve been trying hard over the last few months to supress that instinct to decline help. Yet, even in my acceptance of assistance that ugly pride rears its head. There now, I say to myself. They can feel that they did a good deed by helping me. It isn’t me who needs help so much as they need to feel good about themselves, right?

It’s a long road. Fortunately, I discovered that the 20 pound bag of dog food is cheaper per ounce than the 40 pounder!

I’m learning that as I work on humility, I need to teach my children not just how to help others but also how to accept help graciously. In The Four Loves, C. S. Lewis echoes this in an example of a young man struck down with an incurable disease who is tended lovingly by his wife. “The man who can take this sweetly, who can receive all and give nothing without resentment…in such a case to receive is harder and perhaps more blessed than to give.”

As I begin Lent, I can reflect on receiving forgiveness when I have nothing to give in return. Am I humble enough to accept the gift?