For years, the Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday of Holy Week have been my spring cleaning days. I love to clean, and I especially love to enter the Triduum with a tidy house to match my freshly laundered soul. Ah, the symbolism!

Some years are better than others, but whenever there is an infant about, the reality naturally falls well below my goals. As much as I love a clean house, I love happy babies more. I squeeze the extra chores into naptimes or I get up early or I stay up late, and I do the best I can.

But this year, I haven’t had many breaks from baby-duty. Baby’s first cold turned into baby’s first ear infection, and baby’s preferred place to sleep is in my arms. When I’ve managed to put her down, I am lucky to get a half hour. I’ve gotten most of the dust bunnies out of the upstairs, and some of the windows washed, but the closet organizing and wall-washing will just have to wait for another day, possibly in June, possibly never.

And just in case Mary’s perking up after 24 hours of antibiotics this evening had me thinking I might squeeze in a full day’s labor and get my house shining, I finally concluded, after several days of troubleshooting, that my Animal was not doing its job; it is, in fact, broken! I called the company and they are sending me, for free, a new brush roller, but it won’t get here for seven to ten days.

I’ll keep my hyperventilating to myself.

So in a week or so with no vacuuming, I’ll have fresh dust bunnies to go with my cleansed soul. Lovely.

Hopefully, tomorrow, I will get the kitchen shaped up. I don’t need a vacuum to do that. Holy Thursday Mass is at 5 pm, so we’re having our Passover remembrance meal tomorrow night. I dislike swapping things around, but the schedule will just be too pinched on Thursday. Semper Gumbi.

I eagerly anticipate Easter.

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?

My running partner, Greta, is injured. I haven’t been running without the dog since October, when I ran the Army Ten Miler. I’m not sure I know how to do it alone anymore.

Last night I found myself in an awkward corner. A friend of mine had one of those parties where you come and buy stuff. Worse yet, it was jewelry. I just don’t wear jewelry, and I have a difficult time thinking things like, “Oh, this would look just simply adorable on my mother!” I really should have declined the invite, as I have done with all the other invites I’ve gotten for similar parties during Lent, but the friend wasn’t sure many people would really come and I wanted to support her. So the checkbook and I went, leaving the kids with their doting father who put them all nicely to bed.

There were only a few people there when I arrived, and so the hostess gave me a personal tour of the food selections which she had made herself. It was a limited array, because it wasn’t a big party: brownies, mini-pecan pies dipped in chocolate, cheese pinwheels with marinara sauce, stuffed dates wrapped in bacon and sesame bread sticks wrapped in bacon. And after proudly showing off the result of her labor, she stood expectantly waiting for me to sample them and tell her what I thought.

I felt badly. I really would have enjoyed tasting her food, but I had no good excuse for eating bacon on a Friday in Lent. Had I found myself at a seated dinner at which my presence was required, and the host served roast beef, it would be awkward indeed to refuse the food. But these were appetizers in the evening, and I had already eaten dinner. I politely explained that if there were any leftovers, I would happily sample them the next day, but that I couldn’t eat the bacon on Friday. Naturally, as a hostess, she was terribly upset that two-thirds of her finger foods were off limits to her guest. She asked about the desserts, and I told her I had given up chocolate too. I tried to reassure her that I would not starve, that I had eaten dinner, that those cheese pinwheels looked yummy (they were!). Thankfully, the doorbell began ringing, and she was soon distracted by the needs of other guests.

My two Catholic friends who came later were spared a similar scene because there were enough people there that the hostess just waved in the direction of the food and drinks. Mental note: arrive a half-hour after the start time of the party next time.

I did try these bacon wrapped delicacies this morning, and they were delicious. I’ll have to call my friend to tell her so, and I will have to clarify that she should never feel she has to cater to the dietary limitations of a Catholic. I do know how she feels, having frequently had vegetarian guests and once having hosted a boy who was allergic to pork (hooray for Hebrew National hot dogs!). But still, I don’t expect a non-Catholic to remember the no-meat-on-Friday rule and to provide a vast selection of acceptable alternatives.

I’m definitely going to bake this bread today. Thanks, Suzanne.

I have to laugh at myself sometimes. I don’t know how many times I have read the book of Exodus. There the Israelites are, led by a pillar of fire or a pillar of cloud (depending on the time of night or day), and what do they do? Complain. They moan and whine from thirst, and God gives them water. They cry from hunger, and God gives them manna. And what do they do? Claim that things were better when they were slaves because they had meat and honey.

Every time I read this account, I marvel that a people could be so ungrateful. Every morning, they wake to find a miracle: thin wafers of life-sustaining bread resting like the dew on the field. There is plenty for everyone to get their fill. Nonetheless, after a bit, the Israelites dream of better meals: heartier breads, fresh fruit. This daily gift from God is taken for granted and even despised.

Before meals, we ask God to bless us and the gift of food He has bestown upon us. Yes, perhaps I labored to make that lasagna or bake that pie, just as the Israelites had to labor to gather the manna, but ultimately, those dishes are from God. The more removed I am from the creation of the dish, the harder it is for me to appreciate its Divine origins. And so, during Lent, I avoid restaurants and take out food. I avoid social situations where someone else prepares the food. I eat simpler meals, no sweets, very little meat, and I try to avoid extras like salad dressing and mayonnaise.

Nothing makes a ripe juicy pear taste sweeter than having no other source of sugar.

My main food options are soup and bread. Often, the soup is from scratch. This week I made tortilla soup from a package. I didn’t want to put the effort into a flavor I wasn’t sure I would like. Oh, goodness, this soup is fantastic, and I can’t wait to try one of the many recipes I’ve seen for it. And most of the breads I eat are homemade. I use the bread machine to make the dough, and then put it in a loaf pan. For the kids, I use this pan to make mini-loaves, and they love the slices that are just right for their hands. But the little slices don’t go in the toaster well, so I prefer normal loaves for my cinnamon-raisin bread and onion-rye bread. And, since I am very weak, I did not give up the butter that I generously spread on each delicious slice.

Unlike the Israelites, I am not at a loss for flavor. I’m not restricting myself to broth and plain bread. My food is quite enjoyable. And yet…

And yet, I found myself looking longingly at the lunchmeat I was serving my children yesterday. Under normal circumstances, I eat lunchmeat about once a month. It’s not my first choice for lunch, when I typically eat leftovers. But there I was thinking that a few slices of salami slathered with some Hellman’s on my homemade bread would really hit the spot.

{sigh}

In my misery yesterday, I recalled my judgement of the Israelites as ingrates. They did not even have cinnamon-raisin bread or the decadent cream-of-tomato soup that is in my freezer for next week. Two weeks of Lent, and I am longing for salami, yet I dare criticize those who had plain wafers for months for not being happy with what they have? Oh, how the Lord knows us so well.

Every Lent, I am reminded just how attached to this world I truly am. Perhaps I don’t need a big house or a fancy car, a plasma TV or a spa tub. Perhaps I can pat myself on the back because I do recognize the obvious blessings in my life like a high-speed internet connection and central A/C. But the bottom line is that I take for granted my basic requirements of food, clothing and shelter. I pray “…give us this day our daily bread…” the way my children mutter “thank you” out of habit and not true appreciation and with the expectation that there is always more just waiting for them.

I have a long way to go.

…do the Girl Scouts schedule their cookie delivery to coincide with Lent?