Here are a few Catholic Memes to brighten your day. Some are old, some are new.

This reminds me of my time at Redeemer:

This Easter one really says it all, doesn't it?

For some reason this one always makes me laugh:

I'm sure Becca will be quick to point out that she does all the separating of light from dark in our home:

Groan:

An oldie, but a goodie:

My new favourite!:

Flannery

I'm pretty excited about the latest course I'm starting on May 13th. I'm taking a Eucharistic Theology course. While I've obviously studied a great deal on the Sacrament of Sacraments, especially through the lens of Aquinas, this course will be especially fruitful. The reason is because I am taking it with Professor Van Slyke of Holy Apostles College and Seminary. Dr. Van Slyke is an extremely intense and thorough professor who happens to be one of the sharpest and orthodox theologians I have encountered. He will get the most of out all of us students.

One of the books I will be studying from, The Hidden Manna by Fr. James O'Connor, had in its Foreword a quote from Flannery O'Connor. I don't care for her writings, but this quote is good. Really good. In regards to the true nature of the Eucharist, the Foreword reads:

"Flannery O'Connor talks about it [True Presence] in one of her letters in The Habit of Being, in recalling a visit she had made to another well-known author and former Catholic:

[She] said that when she was a child and received the Host, she thought of it as the Holy Ghost, He being the 'most portable' person of the Trinity; now she thought of it as a symbol and implied that it was a pretty good one. I then said, in a very shaky voice, 'Well, if it's a symbol, to hell with it.' That was all the defense I was capable of but I realize now that this is all I will ever be able to say about it, outside of a story, except that it is the center of existence for me; all the rest of life is expendable."

Poor Me

I remember leaving the church late one morning after a Sunday Mass in Barry's Bay. As I was walking home I overheard a man, actually a father of I think 8 children, talking with another father (of many children). The father of 8 was explaining that he'd give his little business another week or so to try and make it work. If not, he was hopeful he could get a job at a nearby town (a job that would pay around minimum wage).

I knew very little about the father of 8. I knew that he drove his family to Mass frequently, in their big old 15 passenger van. I knew his oldest son, who served with me at Mass. And I had a hinting suspicion that this family, like many families in the area, was extremely poor.

As I continued walking home that morning I wondered how this father of 8 expected to feed his family on a non-existent home-based business. Or, better yet, how he expected to feed his family on a minimum wage salary. I thought of how anxious and concerned he must be. Yet there he was, sitting and chatting freely in the church parking lot as his kids ran outside happily with their friends.

* * *

Several months later I was walking down the street in Barry's Bay when I walked by a famous little house owned by two brothers, one a professor, the other a truck driver. These two men were sitting on their steps and so we started chatting. They began telling me, in bewilderment, about the day they had. Apparently they helped move this father of 8, his entire family and belongings, to a house way out in the country (close to 35 minutes away). The professor brother described the scene very candidly. It was a tiny tiny rundown house being moved into. Boxes completely filling the entire house so that there was no room to even walk, let alone let a large family live in and move around. All the while the father of 8 kept enthusiastically proclaiming: "Oh yes, this is great! Yes, this will work!" Apparently he had obtained a very low paying job in another town just recently, and this new house (or rental) was a cheaper way to make ends meet. After all this talk the truck-driver brother turned to me and said: "that will be you in 15 years! Yes, you'll have 10 kids and be moving into a small shack! Babies will be screaming! Your 15 passenger van will be half-rusted. In 15 years that will be you!"

The truck-driver brother loves to kid, even if it is a little insensitive at times. But his words struck me that day. I vowed I would try at all costs to avoid such an impoverished fate. I knew that many families in this area lived similar poor lives, yet you'd never know it by looking at how happy they appeared. The thought of such complete poverty shook me. Truthfully, it still shakes me.

* * * 

It's been a few years since I was last living in Barry's Bay. I now have a teaching position (at least until June) in Saskatchewan that pays 80% of a full-time wage, at the basic first year salary rate. It's not a lot of money, especially when the many teacher fees and deductions are added into the equation. Truth be told, our salary actually puts Becca and I under the poverty line in Saskatchewan (based on the calculation of a couple with kids). But we're by no means poor. We have money to spend. We actually have too much stuff, and continue to buy too much stuff. If we lived in the Barry's Bay area we'd probably be one of the richer families around. Success! Right? I am well on my way to avoiding the 15 year curse set out by that one truck driver brother in Barry's Bay! Why, if I land a full-time position as a teacher, that will guarantee a life of financial stability. Not financial ease, but at least stability. Alleluia! Right?

* * *

Today Becca and I drove out to the Saskatchewan Pro-life convention in Melfort. Some days just don't go the way you envision them. While many such conventions provide a great optimism and hope going forward in our daily battle against the forces of evil in this world, today's convention did not provide this much needed renewal for us. I think it had more to do with Becca and I. We just couldn't snap out of ourselves (or at least I couldn't). Nevertheless, we attended the convention, and were given the opportunity to meet some great people (including Dr. Chris Kalenborn). As planned, however, we left the convention early. We missed the banquet and final talk. Why? Because we wanted to be back in Tisdale for our 7pm Saturday night Mass.

That's right. Becca and I attend a Saturday night Mass instead of a Sunday Mass. It is the only way we survive. The liturgy in this town, and actually in all surrounding areas, is a combination between a folk/hippy reunion and a competition between how many "jobs" each person over 50 can do during Mass to make them look busy and wonderful. In short, Becca and I really really struggle going to Mass on Sunday here. Forgive me for saying this, but on a bad day I would say I don't enjoy going to Sunday Mass at all. This is from a guy who has loved Mass more than anything in the world. But I said it. I don't enjoy going to Mass on Sunday. It really hurts. I don't know what it means for me to say that. Probably not good stuff. I'll figure that out as time goes on.

So Becca and I skipped the final banquet to go to Saturday night Mass. The Saturday night Mass is where there is no hippy choir, and no old people wandering around looking busy. In short, it's just Mass. Just Mass means the world to us. Why? Because we can pray (insofar as Joseph lets us) and simply be there with Jesus at Mass. We skipped a banquet, which was the big ending to the convention, to simply go to a Mass that we could pray at. Further, our priest has been away since Easter, and so this was to be his first Saturday night Mass with us in over a month. I'm glad he's back!

Note, I said this "was" to be his first Saturday night Mass with us in over a month. We got to the church tonight and there was no priest. We waited and prayed, along with a few other people, but it quickly became clear that the priest wasn't going to show up. At that point, after a check of the new bulletin, we learned that all Saturday night Masses from this point forward had been cancelled. I really felt like crying.

* * *

My mind raced around tonight wondering what on earth we would do. How we could possibly live going only to these carnival Sunday Masses that really (I mean really) get under my skin, while somehow trying to either get through the Mass, or drive somewhere far to go to a prayerful Mass. Then it suddenly hit me: I am the one who is now living in poverty. I am the one who struggles, week after week, to find a decent place for my family and I to pray and receive Jesus. I am the one who sometimes isn't able to provide these basic Catholic spiritual needs for myself of Becca and Joseph. As far as spiritual needs go, I live week-to-week, or even day to day. The father of 8 struggles to feed his family physically. Meanwhile, his family feasts on the spiritual and liturgical life of where he lives. I am blessed with a job that more than provides for my family. Meanwhile, we oh-so-painfully go about each week without that spiritual anchor of a prayerful and full Sacramental life.

Who is really poor?...



Lesson learned.



Thank you Jesus.

Domestic Endeavours

I don't consider myself very successful when it comes to creative domestic endeavours. Things like growing flowers, sewing curtains, decorating, beautiful foods... well, if I endeavour to attempt them at all and they actually turn out, sometimes I'm in utter amazement.

The other night I decided to make some strawberry jam. I'd never made strawberry jam. I'd never made jam by myself. The only time in my memory that I've made jam at all was last summer, under the step-by-step supervision of my mother-in-law. Seeing as that jam turned out beautifully, I figured I'd try my hand at it solo. I had only been preparing for this endeavour for, well, about 4 months now. "Buy pectin" had been on the "to do" list numerous times. Our freezer had gone from overflowing -- which is when I first decided it was necessary to make jam to free up space the strawberries were using -- to spacious. My mother-in-law had even brought us jam from her stores and so delayed my progress. But on Tuesday I was finally going to make jam. Dan was out at Student Led Conferences and Joseph and I were going to make jam. 

I read a couple blogs on "making jam from frozen berries" and found that it was pretty much a "no-fail" route. I had thawed the berries in sugar throughout the day, bought pectin, and cleaned the jars and sterilized them. I wanted this jam to be sort of healthy, so I figured I'd try to use less sugar than the pectin package and other recipes said. I decided against measuring to see how much fruit/liquid I had -- after all, that would dirty my measuring cup and I could just "gestimate." I got the liquid happily boiling, added some more sugar, stirred in some pectin, and waited for it to thicken. It didn't. So I added more sugar and more sugar. One of the blogs had said it might take some time, so I waited and waited. I added more sugar and more pectin. According to my "gestimates," I was still well below the sugar called for on the pectin box -- which was probably far too much sugar anyway. After some time, I decided to let my liquid cool a little because I remembered something about it thickening as it cools, although I was quite certain that it still had to be thicker than it was before putting it in jars. 

Low and behold, it started to thicken. I added more sugar -- why, I don't know. I reboiled my liquid, poured it in jars, and capped the jars. At this point, I had no idea how much sugar I had added nor what my original "gestimate" was for how much fruit/liquid I started out with.

Boy oh boy, did that liquid thicken. Suffice to say that it didn't move at all once it was partly cooled in the jars. The next morning, Joseph and I tried it on our toast -- yep, it was thick alright and as sweet as any store-bought, unhealthy jam you could buy. This morning, after its first night in the fridge, I could barely spread it on my toast. It found a home in the cupboard instead. 

Note to self: measure your fruit/liquid, have a plan/recipe for how much sugar to be added (not just at random), and never, ever underestimate when others think something is easy and no-fail. You are no domestic goddess!

To make up for the jam-fail -- well, not exactly a fail, but not exactly what I imagined either -- I decided to finally start growing my sprouts. As with the 4 month jam-planning, this has been in the works for a good 2 months now.

I remember growing Alfalfa sprouts on our counter when we were little. We were fascinated watching them grow and delighted to eat them when they were finished. It was super easy too -- just put your seeds in a little container on a paper towel, spray them with water, and let them grow. So about two months ago, when the seed racks started appearing I scouted out sprout seeds, brought them home in triumph, and made ready to grow them. I excitedly told Dan about my idea. 

To my dismay, Dan picked up my seed package: "These aren't Alfalfa sprouts." "What?" "They say Mung Bean." He has since reminded me that I'm not always the most observant when reading labels -- yep, I did also buy Safflower oil once, because in my excitement that it was 50% off I thought it was Olive oil.

But, as you can see from my little picture above the Mung Beans are actually growing. I think they're supposed to be growing in dirt, seeing as that's what the little picture on the back of the seed package shows, but we're trying them this way.

I may not be a domestic goddess, but surely I can't fail at growing sprouts. Right? Right?

   

Report Card Day

My second round of report cards go out today. I was a little nervous the first time creating them. I heard nothing but horror stories of how much work it is to make them, and how it would mean I'd working on them late every night for a week. Report cards used to be an actual card that simply had letter grades and a general comment at the end of the term. Now they involve four pages with several grades for each subject according to curricular strands evaluated on a four point system. Each subject also has to be evaluated according to five behaviour criteria, and then the teacher must give a specific comment or feedback for each subject.

Well, it turns out that reports cards are just about the easiest thing in the world to put together, thanks to technology and awesome software programs. Copy. Paste. Insert {Given Name} here, {he/she} there. Click the: Save For All Students. Then hit the: Add Line button for this student... voila! Twenty individualized report cards!

Nevertheless, there still were many teachers here at the school stressing out over their report cards. Why? Because they don't enter any assignment marks into the system until a few days before the report cards must be finished. Remind any of you of University?

Ahh University. All those students who leave their essays until the last possible minute. Then, with a series of all-nighters, a few gallons of coffee, and several crying-fests, somehow an entire semester of work gets completed in just one week! How efficient! How stupid!

How dangerous!

I remember at the end of my first year in the Education program at Redeemer I was talking to a guy in my class (one of the few males in the program). He had roughly 3 days left to complete an entire semester of work. He had just started an essay which had been due three days earlier. He hadn't even started THE major teaching unit which was due the next day. And he somehow had to write a few exams throughout all of this. We sat there in the computer lab. I tried to say something encouraging to him, but it was very clear that the situation was hopeless. I wished him luck and left.

I never saw him again.

That's probably for the best. If he did make it as a teacher, dare I say he wouldn't be able to get his report cards done in time. There are no second chances or rain checks with report cards. Either you get them out on time, or the principal will find another teacher who can. It's simple and fair.

So, today I get to hand out report cards to my little students. Like I said, it's not that difficult. Now... having to meet all their parents next week... that might not be so easy.

7 Snippets

{one}

We have been enduring a long, long, long winter in these parts. In fact, according to an article Dan read recently in the Star Pheonix (which we later couldn't find), stats are showing that this winter is the longest on record. We had our first snow fall in mid-October and that snow has yet to melt. Sure, we're starting to see puddles on "warmer" days and there's a little patch of very brown grass emerging in the back yard, but we still have almost two feet of snow to melt. And we haven't seen any fully above 0 temperatures. So, while it was +18 degrees in Southern Ontario yesterday, we had a balmy -2, without the wind. This Ontario girl can't wait to pull out her sandals!

{two}
After walking around town here swinging our imaginary lassos for a few days and checking out cowboy gear in every clothing store window (and believe me, Tisdale seems to have only clothing stores), we headed out to the Rodeo on Saturday. It wasn't the official Rodeo, but rather barrel racing that only cost $5. But when we couldn't find anyone selling tickets, we walked right in like everyone else and didn't even pay (don't tell anyone, lest we discover there was actually a ticket booth). Joseph loved the horses! And the sheep in the corner (he got them mixed up with cows and moo-ed at them). And, especially, the little 4-wheeler that raked the wood chips after the horses ran through. We got right into it, cheering and neighing! Unfortunately, none of our pictures turned out because the horses were going too fast!

{three}
The Trade Fair was also held at the RecPlex to coincide with the Rodeo, so we wandered over in the hopes of finding some Mother's Day gifts (oops, don't tell Grandma we never found one!). We spent a considerable amount of time admiring the Kubota tractors and farm equipment. What could be better than kicking huge wheels!

{four}
I mentioned we have a few puddles, right? Every day when we go out for a walk, Joseph incessantly points to the water, excitedly crying, "l'eau, l'eau." Then at the end of our walks, we release him from his stroller and he stomps in the l'eau. He's only managed to fall into the muddy puddles twice so far and even that didn't make him want to come inside.

{five}
This morning, Joseph took a very long time finishing his breakfast. While cleaning up in the kitchen, I turned around to find this leaning tower of Pisa, with the proud engineer:

{six}
Joseph's favourite game of late is to play "baby." To say he's fixated on being a baby would be an understatement! I think it was initially inspired by meeting his little cousin, Michael, but discovering Robert Munsch's Love You Forever has added considerably to the play game. After every bath, I'll wrap Joseph in a towel and say, "aww, baby" and then he'll want to go show the "baby" to Daddy. Often he'll bring us his blanket, saying, "baby" and we'll have to wrap him up. "Waa, waa," he'll cry, giggling. Dan asked him yesterday, "Where's the baby?" and Joseph pointed to himself!

{seven}

Beautiful mangos! And yes, that's my egg, Mom!

And... mangos were on sale again! 12 for $10. But for some reason we only bought 10. We filled a bag with the beauties, then double bagged them because it was awfully heavy, then realized we hadn't counted them. So we took them all out again and divided them into two bags of five. When we got to the cash register, I kindly told the cashier, "There are 10 in each bag!" Instantly, Dan cried: "Whoa! Five!" Yep, open mouth, insert foot. Give me a break, I was tired! But they sure are delicious or, as Dan commented: "God must sure be smart to come up with something so good!"

Joseph the Moseph

A long, long time ago, we dubbed Joseph "the Moseph". Since then, we've been asked again and again why he's the Moseph and while most of our immediate family members probably know the story behind the name, I've been told I should write a full-disclosure blog.

It all started with an Archie comic. The Millettes have a hefty collection of the old Archie's {from back when they were decent} that are a necessary accessory in every bathroom. Long before Joseph was born {maybe even before I was expecting him} I happened to be reading one in which famed actor, Rock Bottom, is schedule to visit Riverdale High to perform as lead role in their school play. The girls are all ga-ga over him, fighting for the role as his heroine. With dreamy looks on their faces, they stare at his figure on a poster, saying, "He's the most!" Caught up in the moment {or laughing hysterically at their antics}, I immediately started calling Dan "the most". 

It stuck. I became "the mostest" {the feminine of "most"}. When Joseph made his appearance some months later, it was only a matter of a few weeks before he joined us as "the Moseph".

Officially, he is Joseph the Moseph. But soon we started shortening the nickname: Mr Moseph, Moseph, Mosepher {which we quickly threw out for it's similarities to another name}, Mosephat, and more permanently, Mose {pronouced with a long "o" and a short "s"}.

We'll be out for a walk, with Joseph in his forward-facing stroller:

"How's it going, Mose?" I'll ask.

"Good," Mose replies.

"You named your child 'Mose'?" Dan will say *insert gullible, confused voice*

Yes, we named our child Mose!

Time Flies...

Three whole years of marriage. Where does the time go? Well, the following 13 reasons explain some of the time:

1) We've moved 6 times

2) We've lived in 5 different places

3) I've taken 24 different University Courses

4) I've held 4 different jobs

5) I've either interned or taught 5 different grades

6) Becca has probably changed 2500+ diapers

7) Becca has worked 3 different jobs, all before Joseph was born

8) We've had 6 different pastors in charge of our spiritual care

9) We've been to 3 Riders' games, with 2 of them being in Toronto.

10) We've put 48,000km on our van

11) We've travelled to or through places such as Edmonton, Trois Rivieres, Barry's Bay (ON), Redvers (SK), Ottawa, Portage la Prairie (MB), Hamilton, Montreal, Dryden (ON), Saskatoon, Niagara Falls, Thunder Bay, Regina, Island Falls (Northern SK), Toronto, Deloraine (MB), and, of course, Brantford and Nipawin.

12) We've spent $4000 fixing the van

And, finally...



13) We've shared a million laughs!

Happy Anniversary!

Easter Joy

Jesus Christ is Risen Today, Alleluia!

It's Easter all week, so I can say it again and again! What a joy to come to the end of Lent and celebrate the Resurrection of Our Lord. Our Catholic faith is so rich and beautiful in providing for our souls and bodies exactly what they so desperately need. Because, let's face it, we all need seasons of discipline for our bodies and renewed times of reigning in our souls to a more spiritual life. We fall into laziness and Lent is the perfect {slightly enforced} opportunity to make some new resolutions and do a bit of Spring cleaning. And, having submitted to the disciplines of Lent, we can celebrate Easter all the more joyfully {and eat lots of chocolate without any guilt}. 

As my sister-in-law, Lynda, put it: "This is a great Easter! It's even better because I didn't cheat during Lent."

We came home from a couple days in Nipawin to full-grown, beautiful smelling hyacinths.

My Challah bread waiting to triple in size.

The finished Challah. Joseph couldn't stop eating it.

A very blessed Easter season to you and yours from the Millettes!

The New (Little) Man

At 19-months old, with wild bed head lasting throughout the day, we figured it was high time for Joseph to have his first "real" haircut. Aunty Rheanne had trimmed it a few times, but never the whole do. You'd think we'd have had it together to cut his hair before Easter, but no such luck. 

Before.

 We stripped off the shirt and opted for a folding chair so Daddy could better reach the back. Then we turned on a Corner Gas episode (The Littlest Yarbo) and got to work with the clippers! There was hair everywhere: in his eyes, his diaper, his pockets. Hard to believe he had that much on his head.

And when the dust settled, a little boy emerged! Honestly, he looks so grown up with his new buzz. 

That Easter Tide with Joy was Bright

He is Risen, indeed!

It was an Easter to remember on the Millette farm. We were surprised to learn that Grandma (mom) had purchased a new horse for Lynda. The horse showed up unexpectedly on Easter day, as some neighbours, who have horses, dropped it off. What a great surprise! Lynda kept jumping around saying "this is the best Easter ever!" How could it not be? His name is John, in remembrance of how John ran "faster than Peter" to the tomb.

Our yard is a little snowed in, so the horse can't use the fenced in area yet. It'll have to be satisfied with being tied to a tree I picked out in the front yard. Needless to say, he won't be short of company!