Hot Off the Press

Did you know that Papa Benedict's audiences draw larger crowds than JP2 ever did? This great Newsweek article explains why Benedict XVI is A Pope of Quiet Surprises.

Farewell, Rosa

This morning, my job, being committed to "strengthening democracy" and all, had us go out to the Capitol Rotunda and view the casket of Mrs. Rosa Parks. I thought it was nice that this former seamstress received honours befitting a President. She deserved it.

Contemporary protestors release pre-action press releases. But when Mrs. Parks performed her valiant work of glory, she was very much alone. There was no Jesse Jackson, no media spotlight, no hint that anyone would pay a whiff of attention to an uppity little black lady on a bus. Hers was a singular act of personal courage, which affirmed the dignity and value of every human life. All Hail the Victorious Dead!

Seeing Mrs. Parks today reminded me of a speech I overheard, while riding, of all things, the city bus. There was a black gentleman sitting directly behind me, drunk as a skunk. But he had some very wise things to say:

"I don't got white friends or black friends, I got friends. White or black, don't matter, all blood is red, and we all got to die."

What made me feel very rah-rah was when he said:

"I ain't no African-Amurrican. I'm an Amurrican!! What is this African-Amurrican crap. I been born here 54 years last Saturday. I'm an old man. Dang if I ain't an Amurrican!"

Cool Beans

Pope slips out of the Vatican for sneak trip.

In other news, a sparsely equipped, very banged up Ford was auctioned yesterday. It was the only car John Paul the Great ever owned; he used it to run around Rome in disguise. (He was apparently a rather bad driver.)

Crafty guys, these Bishops of Rome, aren't they?

Back to the parish thing ...

So ... the parish I talked about in my post a few days ago, St. Stephen the Marytr's in Foggy Bottom. Yup. Go and see their snazzy, new website.

I posted a picture of the exterior long, long ago. Pretty yucky, right? Well, the interior isn't that bad ... (can you spot the Divine Mercy portrait?) ... it's modern in a "National Shrine" sort of way.

Saint Stephen's, in addition to serving GWU students, is the parish for the Kennedy Center as well. That means ... good music!

That means Lauds chanted at 10:30, followed by a Solemn High Mass sung in full by a professional Schola Cantorum.

Right now they're building a new, million dollar Spanish organ.

Drooling yet?

Attention Word-Smiths!

I have found your El Dorado! It is World Wide Words, compiled by Micheal Quinion. Mr. Quinion's schpeel informs me that he "writes about international English from a British perspective." How lovely!

Listed here are definitions and histories of all sorts of fascinating mutant spawn of the English lexicographical machine.

For example: " Gadzooks!" Mr. Quinion reports that "His Royal Highness, Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh [...] has been widely reported recently as uttering this imprecation upon seeing a new portrait of himself by Stuart Pearson Wright in which he is bare-chested, with a bug on his shoulder and a plant growing out of his finger."

There's also:

Namby-pamby,
Skillygalee,

And my personal favourite, Oyez. You know, as in, "Oyez ! Oyez ! Oyez ! God save the United States and this Honourable Court!"

Hahaha. I don't know whether to laugh or cry.

Good News!

I got a spiritual director! (Clicks heels.) If you've ever looked for a spiritual director, you know they're in high-demand. Stay back ladies and gentlemen, I saw this one first, and he's mine!

Happy am I that Harriet Miers pulled herself out of the running. She's a nice lady and all, but I don't think she has the gravitas to sing with the Supremes.

I'm dead-beat tired from painting a mural all day, but I promise to be lucid and witty tomorrow.

Today is the Feast of Saints Simon and Jude. Saint Jude is the awesome patron Saint of hopeless causes. And I mean hopeless. Apostle-martyrs are the best ever.

Meme-tastic

Daniel at Mirror of Justice has tagged me with a lovely meme. Here goes:

1. Go into your Archives.

2. Find your 23rd Post.

3. Find the fifth sentence (or closest to it).

4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.

5. Tag five other people to do the same thing.


My 23rd post was entitled "Happy Festivus." The fifth sentence:

But not under any conditions at all will I utter that phrase which, by default, has become the mantra of those at the ACLU who froth at the mouth: Happy Holidays!

I can't do #5 just right. I'm far too tired, and too lazy. But I tag my sister at In Nomine Domini and my friend, Shannon, at Natural Blue for sure.

Ordinarily I would respond in the comment box ...

... But the hulaboo happening below deserves a post-length reply.

First: Zadok and Hilary are right. Any parish hoppers who have tried to get married or baptize a baby have run into the canon law which strictly organizes parishes. Priests tend to be a little jealous of their people, and rightly so; all sorts of problems arise when those who are supposed to be served by a certain parish go elsewhere. Then again, emergencies are emergencies. If a pastor disobeys the Church, then he has, to some extent, forfeited his right to shepherd my soul. That said, I strongly suggest that parish hoppers financially support their "home" parish, as far as they are able.

Second: Mr. Anonymous, who obviously didn't bother to read the Commenting Rules, is a chicken. Also, he qualifies as a sort of Oblivion.

Francis Arinze is a black man from Nigeria. He is also a Catholic Cardinal (shocker.) In Nigeria and many African countries, clapping, rhythmical movement and that sort of thing, is an expression of worship. It is a part of their culture. Arinze, as prefect of the Congregation for Divine Worship and the Discipline of the Sacraments, nevertheless forbade those practices during the Mass in the Latin Rite. Why? Because in the Latin world, dancing, clapping, and rhythmical movement are profane things. We do them when we're being entertained by a performance. The Mass is not a performance.

When I wrote that I supposed the clapping was a cultural thing, I was trying to be charitable. This part of DC is an enclave of Ethiopian and Nigerian immigrants. So ... And when I wrote that the laity were probably ignorant of the rules, I was trying to be charitable. In other words, these people are not maliciously, purposefully undermining the authority of the Church. I was giving them the benefit of the doubt.

As for hand-holding, that is a perfectly ooey-gooey kumbaya practice common among white and black folk. When the Our Father is recited during Mass, I don't want to hold hands with anyone ... not the American President, not the Pope, not Francis Arinze. Because holding hands during that part of the Mass is against the rules for very fundamental theological reasons. If any of my readers care to expound on those reasons, by all means feel free.

Thirdly: Old St. M's is only the best ever. It was there that I experienced my first Tridentine Mass! I promised the Virgin on Mother's Day of 2004 that I'd pray for Fr. Conway every day of my life, and I've been true to my word pretty well. It's a wonderful old building, and an extremely reverent Holy Sacrifice at which I still assist occasionally.

Oh ick.

Everybody needs a parish. Why? Well, everyone needs to go home once in a while. And the Church likes to check up with the kids. And Father can't keep an eye on you if you're bouncing around all the time, can he?

Since I moved back to DC a couple months ago, I've been going to the Basilica down the street. It's the nearest place Mass is offered, and boy is it marvelous. The Liturgy is simply majestic. Gorgeous.

But recently I decided to buckle down. Enough of this "a pilgrimage every Sunday" nonsense. I found the neighborhood parish, St. Anthony's, (a good 10 minute walk past the Basilica,) and attended there last week.

The results: Oh ick.

There was ample clapping during Mass for (and along with) the children's choir, which sang many a holy-roller tune. I told myself that this was a cultural thing (it's a mostly black parish,) but it was not-solemn to say the least.

Then they all did a VERY aggressive hand-holding during the Our Father and a VERY rowdy Sign of Peace. Now those things are decidedly NOT allowed. I can't blame the people, they're probably ignorant of the rules. But I find it hard to believe that priests (who after all do this for a living) and the attending deacon (who is studying to be a canon lawyer,) don't know any better.

I tend to be a snob about these things, I know. But I was trying really, really hard, I promise!

Good News: Father took his time during the Consecration. I saw a habited nun running about with the children (who were all in Catholic school uniform.) The Tabernacle was smack behind the altar, decorated with flowers. The homily about idol worship was sort of edifying, in a way.

I was going to talk to Father afterwards, introduce myself and ask to register, and all that. Maybe talk to him about my vocation (I still don't know any priests well enough for them to write a letter for my application, let alone advise me about this stuff!)

But I felt so out of place, I just said my thanksgiving and took my leave.

So, sigh. I know it's not proper not to have a parish. So I've decided to go back to St. Stephens, where I was Confirmed, on the other side of the city. Gee whiz, that's a long ways away. But I know the place, and their Liturgy, while by no means as majestic as the Basilica's, is at least observant of the rules.

One thing makes me hesitate. Sitting in the back pew at St. Anthony's was a veiled lady. Among women, the veil is as sure a sign as any of devotion. I felt really very badly for this youngish, modestly but prettily dressed lady, who I know must be suffering a great deal from the Liturgy at this parish. But she seems to be sticking with it. She came, and left by herself.

That's what you call a white martyr.

ROTFL

"Cardinals Call On Pope To Save Latin From Last rites"

O TEMPORA, o mores! The rolling thunder that is the Latin language is in such trouble, even in its last redoubt, the heirarchy of the Roman Catholic Church, that cardinals and bishops have begged Pope Benedict XVI to put it on a life support machine.

The Princes of the Church appear to have the same problem that bedevilled generations of baffled English schoolboys battling their way across the three divided parts of Gaul with Julius Caesar — they don’t speak it, read it or understand it. And while the grandly dressed and highly respected congregation at the Vatican’s Synod of Bishops may not have to write out 100 times Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres as a punishment for their ignorance, they appear now to be at least as embarrassed as any ink-stained duffer who confuses the vocative with the nominative.

Click here to read the honest-to-God real story at the UK's Times.

Breathing Moussaoui's Air ... Phew!

Today work had us at the Eastern District of Virginia US District Courthouse. This place is known affectionately as the "Rocket Docket," because of its reputation for speedy delivery of legal resolutions. They're very proud of it. Outside the building is a statue of Lady Justice, leaping forward in a big fat hurry. She's mounted on a marble block above the door, over the words "Justice Delayed Is Justice Denied."

We sat in the courtroom where they tried that American Taliban kid, the 20th highjacker, Zacarias Moussaoui, and this other guy who was apparently plotting to kill El Presidente. They showed us the holding cell. Pee-you, smelled like some terrorist meanies had been hanging out there right before we got there.

We got to see some criminal proceedings ... I saw a bank robber get sentenced. He got extra time for recruiting a formerly squeaky clean 21 year-old kid to help him. The judge was especially cranky, because this kid had a lot of things going for him. If he hadn't met up with this 60 year-old man, he would have been fine. Now his life is probably ruined. Anyway, the old man got 14 years. This is probably a life sentence for him, since he's facing additional charges in Virginia.

Then we saw a case presented by two long-winded lawyers involving money and assets, etc. It was very boring. The judge had his head in his hands. But occasionally something interesting would pop up. It was: "Blah, blah, blah, the money he got to assassinate a Saudi royal prince, blah blah blah."

The best was saved for last.

This lady came in, crying her eyes out. I felt badly for the translator, who had to decipher all the sobs. She was a Mexican immigrant who had been paid $500 to help other Mexicans come into the country illegally. She told the judge that she was sorry, that she wanted to be deported, and that she would never, ever commit that crime again. She begged the judge to send her back to her country.

The prosecution wanted to give her six months. The judge sentenced her to "timed served," because she was a first time offender, she was repentant, she had a baby with a heart condition back in Mexico, and she'd already served 80 days.

When it was over, the lady was so grateful. "Gracias, Gracias, Gracias," etc. The judge ordered the prosecutors to get her to the airport immediately. "I will not have her languishing in an immigration prison," is what Her Honour said.

I felt so happy for this lady! Bad news: this man caught with over 500 kilos of cocaine got just over 5 years. He'll be out in three. I would have thrown the book clear across the room and upside his head! Guess that's why I'm not a judge, right?

Interesting Development ...

So, it looks like I'm going to be going to Nashville this January. If you know what I'm talking about at this point, consider yourself a bona fide Sister Dork.

If you need me to tell you that I mean I'm going to the vocations retreat at the Motherhouse of the Dominican Sisters of St. Cecilia in Tennessee, then you may consider yourself a bona fide D.C.

That stands for "Deprived Child."

Papa Talks to the Polskies

A great interview given to Polish TV.

On meeting the then Cardinal Wojtyla for the first time:

"I had also heard from university friends about his stature as a philosopher and thinker. But as I said, the first personal encounter took place during the Conclave of 1978. I liked him from the beginning and, thanks to God, without any merit on my part, the then Cardinal immediately made friends with me. I am grateful for this trust that he showed me. Above all, when I watched him pray, I saw and understood, that he was a man of God."

On leaving his diocese for the CDF appointment (you American prelates take note, this is the way to love your people):

"It was hard for me, because when I was made Bishop of Munich, with a solemn consecration in Munich cathedral, I felt I had an obligation towards this diocese, almost like a marriage. So I felt bound to this diocese. There were several difficult unresolved problems and I didn't want to leave the diocese that way."

Describing his last meeting with the late Pope:

"The second encounter was the day before his death: he was visibly in great pain, and was surrounded by doctors and friends. He was still very lucid and he gave me his blessing. He could not talk much. The patience he showed at this time of suffering was a great lesson for me: to see how he believed he was in the hands of God and how he abandoned himself to the will of God. Despite his visible pain, he was serene, because he was in the hands of Divine Love."

On his mission in relation to JP2:

"My personal mission is not to issue many new documents, but to ensure that his documents are assimilated, because they are a rich treasure, they are the authentic interpretation of Vatican II."

How his relationship with the late Pope continues:

"A man who goes to the Lord doesn't disappear: I believe that someone who goes to the Lord comes even closer to us and I feel he is close to me and that I am close to the Lord. I am near the Pope and now he helps me to be near the Lord and I try to enter this atmosphere of prayer, of love for our Lord, for Our Lady and I entrust myself to his prayers. So there is a permanent dialogue and we're close to each other in a new way, in a very deep way."

Spot on, Papa!

Ten Year-Old Asks Pope: When I go to Confession, my sins are usually the same. Why is Confession before Mass important?

Pope Answers: "Don't we clean our houses-- every room-- once a week or more, even though the dirt is always the same?"

What I Do All Day

Well, one of my teammates quit today. She suddenly got up and left, in the middle of a lesson, and told the Boss that she didn't want to be there anymore. So, geesh. Hence forth opens the floodgates! I bet dollars to donuts, once one person on our team leaves, there will be more. The remaining malcontents are already rumbling.

I think they're nuts. This is one of the best jobs in the known universe.

Anyways, I thought you guys might like to know what it is I do all day. So here goes:

Mondays and Wednesdays

8:15-2:00 ... Head Start. 12 Ethiopian/Nigerian 4 year olds. Can't pronounce any of their names.
3:00-5:30 ... Garrison Elementary. Teach Reading Literacy, Spelling and Comprehension for fourth graders.

Tuesdays and Thursdays

8:15-9:30 ... Inspection and Unity Rally
10:15-1:45 ... Maya Angelou High. T.A. Mathematics Class, Grammar Class, and AP English class. Take that Mrs. Lustic!
3:30-5:30 ... THEMBA homework tutoring ... second, fifth, and eighth graders.
6:00-8:00 ... Turning the Page Literacy Program ... second/third graders.

Fridays

8:15-9:30 ... Inspection and Unity Rally
9:30-5:30 ... Physical Service ... Usually painting, landscaping, something like that, at an elementary school, park or playground.

Saturdays

8:15-9:30 ... Inspection and Unity Rally
9:30-5:30 ... Physical Service, Corporate. This is physical service with our sponsors, at least one weekend a month, sometimes more often.

There you have it. The open bits of time are reserved for traveling and "RASL" ... basically research statistics stuff, when we callibrate how many kids we're reaching and how many hours we're working, and all that jazz.

It's a full, but very energizing schedule. The bambini are soooo cute!

Hide and Seek, Roman Style

An interesting tid-bit from Zadok the Roman involving that ever-entertaining game of spot-that-cleric-in-disguise. Highly amusing is his remark that incognito Bishops can be spotted a mile away by their tie-less shirts buttoned (horrors!) to the very top button. If you take a look at the comments on his post, you'll see that poor Zadok had to shut down the old "shouldn't he be wearing his collar" frakas that starts bubbling over whenever a priest turns up in civvies.

I understand the sentiment, but I have never been unduly upset by such things. Especially if said priest is usually to be found donning the black and white. I seem to remember reports of the late Great Giovanni Paolo Secondo sneaking out in ordinary garb and tooling about the countryside unrecognized as the Sucessor of St. Peter that he was.

Around here, of course, I rarely have to guess. I notice that the priests who walk around the Basilica and attached institutions are usually in uniform. And the Dominicans across the street (being part of the way POD St. Joseph province) are always in full regalia. The problem arises when I want to say "good morning Father," to a collar-wearing fellow, but I always have to stop and consider whether this is indeed a priest, or only a priest-to-be studying at the seminary here.

I'd say "Good day, sir," but I'd rather not have the man think I'm some kind of Call-No-Man-Father-And-I-Mean-Not-Ever Protestant.

Sigh. Soo Cute.

This afternoon, Papa taught catechesis to Rome's First Communion children,
as promised. I blogged about this before, confident that all sorts of cuteness would result. Boy did it ever.

The young man on the right was the child lucky enough to welcome the Holy Father to St. Peter's square. He asked to give Papa a hug "for all us children." Following the traditional catechetical "dialogue" formula, the bambini asked Holy Father 6 questions ... including "What was your first Holy Communion like?" and "Will you please tell my parents to take me to Mass on Sunday? They like sleeping!"

The Sister who always does the simultaneous English translation for CTV (she is absolutely wonderful, by the way,) explained that the children were asking their questions "in a typically Italian" fashion, and that was why the Holy Father "is so amused."

It was very nice, and the Pope pounded forth the fact of the Real Presence, the importance of Confession, and the necessity of attending Mass on Sundays. Things climaxed with Eucharistic Adoration. The kids brought candles and flowers to decorate the Monstrance (hands folded in the proper upright and locked position!) The orchestra played hymns (in Latin) and Holy Father belted 'em out with the best of them.

(By the way, you can watch the Vatican Television Center's stuff here. Their archived material covers all the Pope's funeral stuff, the black and white smoke, Papa Benedict's General Audiences, the Angelus, etc. Its a goldmine.)

Egad.

Oh, for the good old days ... When the Church churned out Mit Brennender Sorge, the 1937 encyclical thrashing Nazism, and the Allies air-dropped Vatican proclamations over the Third Reich, in an attempt to destabilize the regime ...

But the gumption and righteous indignation that once produced the 1939 document Summi Pontificatus, which condemned dictatorship, is sadly lacking in the Vatican's contemporary diplomatic office.

Sandro Magister reports on the definitely nauseating, mind-bending
footsie certain people played with certain since-defeated fascists.

Ay, posting has been light. I still haven't adjusted to the long shifts at work. Don't worry, there are plans to organize and start agitating for the 10-hour day. We factory girls are on it ;)

I promise to write more tomorrow!

Thank You, St. Anthony

As those of you who heard the hysterical monkey screeches of terror already know, I lost my mobile phone last Thursday. I was riding home on the subway at eight o'clock at night, coming home from a long day at work. I felt for my phone, and it was gone! Yikes, I was ready to be sick.

So I prayed to Anthony of Padua, patron Saint of Lost Things and special friend of my family, for help. I sent emails around to everyone at work, and after a few days, I had given the cell up for dead.

But lo and behold! Today at the office, Miss. Melissa, one of my PMs, had it! She explained that it must've slipped into the seat cushions when I rode out to the high school last week. She says she kept hearing this buzzing noise in the van, and it was seriously starting to freak her out. Hehehe.

My experience this go around has confirmed my general suspicion about lost things. My idea is that sometimes God lets things get lost, because we're getting too attached to them. And sometimes He lets them stay lost, because He wants us to recognize the impermanent nature of material things. Or because He wants us to see that we can rely on Him to take care of us, even when we misplace "important" stuff.

So, when I pray to find something, I make an act of detachment too. Because maybe its God's Will that you find what you're looking for, if, the experience is an occasion for you to grow in love and attention for, and trust in, God.

What's New at Casa Maria

October is the month of the Rosary, so the Sister Servants had a Marian Procession. No one believes me, but I keep insisting, its like a little piece of Heaven down there. Seriously.

Hack, hack, Drip, drip

Last Friday was Appreciating Islam day. The one Muslim girl in the organization gave us a talk at the office about what is and what is not true to Islam. Terrorism, for example. Then some guy stood up and said: "but that's your personal interpretation. What about people who read the Koran and think it supports terrorism?"

Internally, I ballyhooed and did a few jumping jacks. The intelligentsia say that the Islamic world needs to experience
"the Enlightenment," and then everything will be okey-dokey. Naw. What Muslims really need is a Pope.

People forget that the Pope job isn't so much about telling folks what to believe, as it is about telling folks about what they can't believe.

"YOU CAN'T BELIEVE TERRORISM IS OKAY AND STILL BE A GOOD MUSLIM," SAYS ISLAMIC POPE.

Now that would be a useful newspaper headline, wouldn't it?

Alas. All the Islamic religion has in terms of authority are these fatwa things, which are really just "declarations." I mean, I could go issue a fatwa saying that chunky peanut butter is soooo inferior to smooth peanut butter. It means nothing.

Of course, even if you've got a Pope, that won't stop some idjits from doing stupid stuff in the name of your religion. During the lecture, a girl raised her hand and said that she knew a woman in Mexico who was working for a woman's "right to decide" or some such thing. And she said that this woman's belief in Catholicism was what got her up in the morning to do her work.

I was ready to bust a gasket, of course. But I got to cool off. They made us walk 45 minutes in the pouring rain, and I caught a cold. That means I'm probably going to get bronchitis, ewwww.

We visited a mosque Friday, and heard the Imam talk, too. I think the Virgin Mary is going to be instrumental in the conversion of Muslims.

On a final, happy note: I love Autumn! I love Fall! Go Yankees!

Le Morte de la France

That murderer of French culture, Jean Paul Sartre, has a hilarious cookbook. Read and be delightfully irritated.

Tuna Casserole
Ingredients: 1 large casserole dish

Place the casserole dish in a cold oven. Place a chair facing the oven and sit in it forever. Think about how hungry you are. When night falls, do not turn on the light.

While a void is expressed in this recipe, I am struck by its inapplicability to the bourgeois lifestyle. How can the eater recognize that the food denied him is a tuna casserole and not some other dish? I am becoming more and more frustated.

Going down with the sinking S.H.I.P

I came across a funny thing in the Washington Post Magazine today, a tongue-in-cheek appraisal by Joel Achenbach. "It's a Man Eat Man World," is his headline:

"It's curious that when people talk about the Big One, they don't actually worry about dying. If you die, your problems go away. It's the surviving that's hard. We fear the social breakdown: the power grid failing, hoodlums running loose, cops quitting, Balducci's closing early, book club meetings degenerating into statements that can't be logically defended -- the full urban nightmare.

[...] I worry about the moment when things get so brutishly primitive, the competition for resources so vicious, that even the bonds of friendship shatter. I worry that, in the darkest hour, when every family on the street is down to its last wedge of brie, Angus will try to kill me. We have a lot of conversations that seem jovial at the start, but gradually degenerate ...

Me: ... I worry about ... The ejecta darkening the planet for decades, shutting down photosynthesis.

Angus: Humans reverting to the condition of animals.

Me: We will have to hole up at your country place and stave off the ravenous hordes.

Angus: I'm sorry?

Me: I'm staying with you. Remember? After the Big One.

Angus: Remind me what your skill set is. I don't need a typist.

He will have a frightening look in his eye, a reptilian gleam. He will be sizing me up for my utility in the post-civilized world. I can tell that, in his head, there are scenarios in which he is forced to harvest me for meat."

Haha. Very funny. So what's with Angus? And what's with the title of this post? SHIP is a fuddy-duddy acronym for "Shelter-In-Place," the method of emergency response recommended by the powers that be. Even in this computer room, there are posters pasted on the walls, reminding us that in the event of an attack, "Survival is Your Top priority," (no, duh,) and we should be ready and able to SHIP at a moment's notice.

When people hear about SHIP, they very often roll their eyes. I admit, I am one of them. It reminds me of that "duck and cover" stuff: Johnnie, get under your desk and cover your head, that will save you from incineration, blah blah blah. But with the scare today in NYC, I can tell that the DC Metro authority is just itching to break out their code orange reflective vests, and its time to get serious (again.)

I like blaming the Israelis, and the thing is, it is usually their fault anyway. They have all the best thoughts. Two years ago, when the cops started cruising around with their lights flashing, it was the Mossad's idea. When they took the trash cans, that was the Mossad. Those funny orange vests and the new emergency preparedness announcements on the subway, Mossad, Mossad, Mossad. You'll all be shocked to hear that SHIP is a Mossad thing, too.

The first thing you need if you're going to SHIP is a safe room. The thicker the walls, the fewer the windows, the better. Then you need a pair of scissors and painters tape. Get some money, most of it in small bills. Store some jewelry, things that you can and won't mind trading, in your safe room. Buy a walkie-talkie. Hoard a month's worth of your medications. You need a crank operated radio and flashlight. And if you can, make sure you take your Blackberry with you. The internet will stay up when everything else goes dark.

And what about food and water? And what about sitting in a room sealed up like a coffin and running out of oxygen? Nevermind. A saferoom is not a place to live, its a place to "duck and cover." You need enough food and water to last at most a week. After that, you're going to have to run, anyway. Which brings me to my next point: you need to get a backpack, even if you're long out of school. All the necessities you've stored in your safe room have to be portable, so you can take them with you when you escape.

I of course, do not take Mossad's, Peggy Noonan's, or my own advice. I don't have any plans for the inevitable. I imagine I'll probably be toast before I get to my non-existant safe room to start SHIPing. I don't have kids or anything, so I'm only responsible for myself. I guess if IT happens, as it surely will, and I'm in the neighborhood, and I somehow survive the first 10 minutes, I'll figure out what to do from there.

Nashville Pictures Have Arrived!

15 Postulants



15 Novices
(Sr. Julie, now Sr. Regina Marie among them! I heart the white novice veil)



8 First Vows and 10 Perpetual Vows



You can find all the goodies here.

Don't You Just Love Mass Post-Traumatic Stress?

My Polysci prof told me a story once, about how he was riding the subway system, when this Middle Eastern-looking guy got on and started singing in Arabic. Now, when just anyone starts singing on the public transit system, the reaction is usually a mix of amusement and concern. But a young, Arab looking man? Singing Arabic? In DC? Post-9/11/Madrid etc? My Polysci prof considered tackling the guy. The entire car was completely silent, everyone frozen by fear, staring at this maniac who was about to blow them up. The maniac got off at the next stop.

The point of the story was, to demonstrate to us that anyone who was inside America during the "siege" mentality of 9/11 was inflicted with a touch of shell-shock, so that now, usually unremarkable things have become, well, occasions of terror. Last Saturday night, I had a little experience with the thing.

Me and the flatmates were hanging out doing nothing ... when suddenly ...

This banging sound started. It came in two spurts, and I don't know how to describe it, exactly. Kind of like rapid explosions. Meg came flying out of the shower in a towel, Dani and Brian came out of their rooms, Andrew turned off the TV and I quit talking on the phone. I ran to the blinds and pried them open, but the backyard was completely dark. We stood still in the common room a minute, looking at each other.

Then I said: "If it were the terrorists, there would be sirens."

And it was a relief because, we were standing there, listening to silence.

And that was that.

Yesterday night I got a look at the day's Washington Post, and I found an article on the front page about the hundreds of people who "took cover in buildings, raced to outdoor balconies and made panicked calls to local police and fire departments Saturday night, unaware that the loud explosions they heard were from a fireworks display" they were having at the Kennedy Center.

I say, geesh. Can't we leave fireworks for Independence Day? Geesh.

"I'll blow the damn thing up before you get your hands on it."

So spoke Mother M. Angelica, to a prelate from the Bishop's Conference. She was referring to EWTN, the largest religious media corporation the world over, which the Bishops were trying to wrest from her control. Mother got to keep her network, which she had built from the bottom up. The bishops learned an important lesson: don't mess with cloistered nuns.

And now for our Happy Ending! EWTN has been irritating liberal Catholics for a quarter century now. Do yourself a favour, and tune into the TV and Radio coverage of their celebrations. If you don't have EWTN on your cable system, you can see and hear the broadcast live off their website. Happy Anniversary, Mother!

These words were published in 1957:

"People don't have excuses for getting married, except that they fall in love. And of course there's no excuse for falling in love. Vocation is another word for love. There's no excuse for it, and there's no defense for it ... except love.

There is no one moment, no one circumstance. The seed of a vocation falls into a soul -- how or when is not always certain; but it grows there and makes itself evident by many a little sign along the way. These signs are different for each person. I've asked many Sisters how they knew they had a vocation, hoping some pattern might emerge, but I can only report that God has called us to religion in as many ways as there are Sisters. If anyone doubts that His finger is in our lives, that nothing is accidental, let him ask any group of nuns how each happened to come to the convent.

For myself, when I was in the sixth grade and the class was assigned a composition on "My Vocation," I wrote: "I would like to be a Sister, but I do not want to be a common ordinary Sister." (I probably had the Carmelite Order in mind for myself.) I remember this clearly because my very understanding sixth grade teacher asked me, with a twinkle in her eyes, whether she were the "common ordinary" kind I had referred to. I admitted that she was. Years later I wrote to that sister: "I have decided to become a 'common ordinary' Sister, if they will have a 'common ordinary' girl."

~ Sister M. Gretchen, CSJ. Excerpted from "A Seal Upon My Heart: Autobiographies of Twenty Sisters," edited by George Kane.

Incidentally, the Congregation of the Sisters of St. Joseph of Boston, to which Sr. Mary Gretchen belonged, has not kept well post-Vatican II. Their benignly named "Development Office" solicits money to arrange for the future of the dying, increasingly elderly Community.

Today Is Saturday

But no sleeping in for me! Up and at 'em at 6:30 this morning. I'm sort of cranky, because the job has not been going, and did not go, well.

Why? Mark Shea has a good explanation:

When the Son of Man comes, he will separate the nations as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. To those on his right, he will say, "Enter into the Kingdom prepared for you by my Father."

To the rest he will say, "Break into small groups..."

Bright spot: on my walk home, I pass by the Basilica! And today there was a Eucharistic procession going on! I was too late for Adoration.

But I could hear "Tantum Ergo" floating out over the air, and I saw, from far off, the Lord advancing down the stairs.

Papa visits the Holy See's Children's Hospital, and calls the kids his "little guests." All kinds of cuteness ensues: