For my prayer buddy on the Eve of His birth

Dear prayer buddy,
My prayer for you and for me, over the past few weeks, has been that the Infant Christ would fill our hearts as a baby would fill our wombs. That He would be our source of fulfillment and joy in this difficult season.

I know you have had it very rough these past weeks, and my heart is aching for you. I hope that the season of Christmas will provide peace, if nothing else. Please know that I am praying and fasting for you, and loving you from over here in my corner of the blogosphere.

I hope you will be comforted by this, and I hope that in our hearts, we might bear the Lord joyfully and in the spirit of Mary's Fiat during this season of Christmas.

O Magnum Mysterium
O great mystery,
and wonderful sacrament,
that animals should see the new-born Lord,
lying in a manger!
Blessed is the Virgin whose womb
was worthy to bear
Christ the Lord
Alleluia!

Jesus Christ the Apple Tree

A few weeks ago I referenced what might be my favorite Christmas song ever. On this last Sunday of Advent, I want to share another one of my favorites. I find it so fitting for the final week of Advent because the entire song--its poetry and its melody--speaks of this longing for Christ, a longing which no other thing can fill.

I loved this article about the song, which reflects my own love for it. I'm hoping to make some time to reflect with this song today, in order to prepare my heart for the coming of our Lord.

The Robin

Last weekend I had a rare few hours to myself while my husband was going to pick up little A from her Oma's house. I decided I had better get some gifts wrapped while I was alone, so I turned on some Christmas music and set to work. Our apartment is on the third floor of our building and so, even in the end of December, it can be pretty hot in our living room. I opened the window just a small space to let some cool air in (I think it was less than 20 degrees outside). 

All of a sudden, in the middle of winter, while I wrapped Christmas gifts, a little red-breasted robin perched on our balcony railing, just outside our living room window. He whistled a little song, and I noticed him, thinking how strange it was that in this cold the robin would be perched there, exposing himself to the snow and wind. He seemed to be listening to the Christmas music I was playing. I went on with my wrapping, thinking about how oddly special it was to have him there quietly keeping me company. I expected him to fly off any moment. 

Yet, twenty minutes later, there he remained, listening to my music. He was even so still and lingering that I was able to snap a picture of him. 

It's a very far-away picture, but I didn't want to scare him by getting too close.

I went back to wrapping, and about ten minutes later the playlist I was listening to was coming to and end on this song:

When the song ended, I looked up and the robin flew away. 

Now, I'm not suspicious, and I am skeptical of "signs" most of the time. So I'm not taking this as a life-changing event. I did look into the symbolism of the robin, however, and I found a few interesting insights:

First, this short one. 

Then this from Catholicism.com: 

There is a legend that the robin received his red breast as a reward for protecting the Christ Child from the sparks of a fire, which he caught on his breast, while the Holy Family rested on their flight into Egypt.

Then I encountered this explanation, which does not come from any creditable source, but it did seem to pertain to my ongoing efforts in detachment and starting afresh with the Lord's vision of my life. 

The robin redbreast is a bird of Spring, a time of new growth and new beginnings. It flies into our lives on the winds of change asking us to weed our personal gardens and plant new seeds for our future. Rebirth and renewal require changes in all areas of life that have become stagnant and outdated. The robin redbreast teaches us to how to make these changes with joy in our hearts. Its song is a happy one reminding us to let go of our personal drama and learn to laugh with life...Learning how to release our attachments to the old is one of the life lessons the redbreast helps us master.
This bird packs a powerful punch. It holds strong significance in ancient myth and lore. One legend had its origins in European mythology, in which the bird of Spring was associated with the New Year and represented divine sacrifice and the rebirth of the spirit. In Medieval Europe the robin redbreast was often depicted attending the Christ child, an emblem of the Passion to come. It was told how, at that fateful hour, it was the tiny robin who flew to Jesus' Crown of Thorns, striving valiantly to pluck the spines away with his beak. Unfortunately the bird succeeded only in tearing his own breast on the thorns. Ever since then it was thought that all robins wore red feathers on their bosoms as a badge of honor. The robin redbreast is a bird of divine service... (emphases mine)
I'm not confident that I know what any of this means for me, and honestly, I'm content not to try to extract meaning from it. What I do know is that I was comforted and that all comfort comes from Christ. A couple of posts ago, I concluded that my longing to hold my baby in my arms is, at its root, a desire for the infant Christ. I think this is why this moment with the robin inspired me so much. The robin, in the dead of winter, comforts the Christ Child, and tends to him, as I wish to do.  

The Stranger's Unseen Wounds

I have a boss who likes practical jokes. He likes doing small things that bother people to tease them. I am usually very good about playing along and not taking his jokes personally. They aren't meant to really hurt; and usually they are funny. Except one time.

When we lost RG, I had just started a new job. I had not yet accrued any vacation or sick time, and I was trying to make a good impression. So when he died, I did not take any time off of work at all. In hindsight I probably should have just explained the situation and taken some time for myself. I'm not sure which scenario would have been better.

About three days after he was gone, I was at work, sitting at my desk, trying to focus on my work (really, I was just trying not to cry most of the day). My boss came by my desk, and, seeing that I was focused intently upon something, he slapped his hand on my desk really hard, making a very loud noise. Of course, I jumped out of my seat, and tried my best to laugh it off as he walked away. But then I went into the bathroom and cried. It left a great impression upon me.

I have read that, post-miscarriage, women can have symptoms of PTSD, including sensitivity to sound and the tendency to be easily startled. I don't fault him for playing a joke on me; he couldn't have known that I had just been through a seriously traumatic event. But I wish I could tell him that you never know what someone's story is. You never know what she might have just endured. You never know when it might take someone her utmost effort to just show up that day.

Aside from the spiritual fruits of this cross, this is probably the most practical of the lessons I have learned from this experience: empathy for the stranger's unseen wounds.

The Holy Innocents

I have not written of them yet.

It is not because I've been living under a rock or because I'm insensitive to the affliction that has occurred in Newtown, CT. It is because I can hardly think of the killing of children without feeling the reopening of the wound left by my own child's death. I know it may seem hyperbolic--perhaps overly dramatic--to think of a miscarriage in comparison with the immeasurable pain of these children's deaths. And maybe I am way out of line--for some, my making this association is probably hurtful. But I can't see it that way. I know that my words will probably seem trite to those so closely connected to this outrage. I only hope that my reflection here breathes empathy, not false comparison, because when I think of those poor babies in Newtown, I think of my own.

What I see is the wound in my heart which is identifiable with those parents who have lost their children due to this evil. What I see is the injustice of this, the unfairness, the horror, the trauma, the inconsolable grief of these parents, which are akin to my own suffering. The circumstances are very different, but they were our children all the same.

"Then was fulfilled that which was spoken by Jeremiah the prophet, saying: A voice in Rama was heard, lamentation and great mourning; Rachel bewailing her children, and would not be comforted, for they are not."  Matthew 2: 16-18.

The prophet, Jeremiah, was a "youth" himself, asked by the Lord to witness to His Truth. It was into his mouth the Lord literally put His words (Jeremiah 1: 4-10). It was to Jeremiah that the Lord revealed His providence and omniscience: "Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you." How chilling it is that this young prophet would reveal the horror of the slaying of the Holy Innocents. And yet, how perfectly fitting it is that he would be one to reveal the Lord's promise of hope in this darkness:

"Do not be afraid of them, for I am with you to deliver you."

***
Oh, you darling babies. You beautiful, innocent children. May your lives be witnesses to the gift of life which is so much taken for granted here on earth. May your eternal lives comfort the hearts of your parents and heal the wounds against life in our society. May you, along with our massacred unborn, and all the saints in heaven help us to repair those wounds for the sake of His sorrowful passion. Holy Innocents, who died for the life of the infant Jesus, pray for us. Lord, have mercy upon us.

I highly recommend this article by Dr. Gerard M. Nadal.