A Tip for Scream-Free Parenting

Carried in my heart until we meet again in heaven ... Counting my Siblings For as long as I can remember, when I met people who would ask, “How many siblings do you have?” my answer was always “one.” But I recently had an epiphany: That answer isn’t true. I don’t have just one sibling; I have two. So why wasn’t my eldest sibling in the count? I never met Paul Francis. He lived—and died—before I ever came to be. Why should my sister be acknowledged because she has lived 40 years (and counting), but my brother not because he lived only 6 weeks? That I never had the chance to play Hide & Seek with him doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be acknowledged. That I never rode my bike to piano lessons with him doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be remembered. That he never got to experience family trips to Scotland and Nova Scotia, road trip adventures, and lots of singing and silliness, doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be counted. I don’t know why Paul Francis died, but I do know how he died (miscarriage), and more importantly, I know that he lived (albeit briefly). So why do the early miscarried get swept aside? “It’s common to miscarry, especially your first child,” people will say. So what? Why should the fact that the loss is common to make us act as though the individual never existed? “It hurts to bring it up,” others might suggest. That reminds me of a Facebook post by a friend of mine whose child died several days after birth. She shared this quote by Elizabeth Edwards: “If you know someone who has lost a child, and you’re afraid to mention them because you think you might make them sad by reminding them that they died—you’re not reminding them. They didn’t forget they died. What you’re reminding them of is that you remembered that they lived, and... that is a great gift.” A beautiful remembrance Paul Francis lived, and he deserves to have that acknowledged. If the mere mention of a miscarried child’s short life brings indescribable pain and one run from referencing him or her as a result, burying the reminders not only doesn’t serve those little lives, but it doesn’t serve the grieving heart, whose incapacity to acknowledge is evidence of a need for healing. And we don’t find healing by stuffing—we find healing by releasing, wrestling, grappling, and honoring. Those who have lost a child to stillbirth or to miscarriage late in pregnancy often—and rightly— memorialize their children with hand and footprints, even photos. But such tangible memories can’t be made with children like Paul Francis, who die as young as 6 weeks post-fertilization; so what can be done? One website about miscarriage shared this quote from a grieving heart: “The mention of my child’s name may bring tears to my eyes, but it never fails to bring music to my ears. If you are really my friend, let me hear the beautiful music of his name. It soothes my broken heart and sings to my soul.” My sibling can have a name. My parents never knew if Paul Francis was a boy or girl, but if they’d had a son, that would have been his name. Incidentally, Paul means “small; humble” and Francis means “free.” My sibling can be continually referenced in my life. Now, when asked how many siblings I have, my response is matter-of-fact: “two.” And I leave it at that. If asked, “Brothers or sisters?” and “Are you the oldest?” I casually reply, “My brother is the oldest, and he’s in Heaven; then there’s my sister, then me.” Sometimes there are no further questions. Other times, there are, and I treat the conversation about the life, and loss, of Paul Francis before birth, as I would if any other sibling of mine lived and died after birth. My sibling can touch lives. As someone who spends her life advocating for the rights of pre-born humans, I realized my lack of reference to Paul Francis was a betrayal of my beliefs—for if the pre-born are as valuable as the born, if I would reference a sibling who only lived until the age of 2, 10, or even 20 years, why not acknowledge this sibling? Do I really believe Paul Francis was just as human, just as precious, just as unrepeatable as a late-term fetus, infant, toddler, or teen? Would I hide the death of an older sibling? Then why hide the death of a younger sibling? Truly Life-Worthy By referencing my deceased sibling, some people inevitably ask what happened, and when you explain miscarriage, that individual is challenged to look at miscarriage in a different light—to look at it as a great loss, as losing a born child is a great loss. As a result, my deceased pre-born sibling becomes the impetus for a discussion about how we view the pre-born, and an opportunity to normalize treating the pre-born like the born. By not dismissing his death as “oh, well, it was just a miscarriage” but treating it seriously, my example invites others to share their stories of loss, revealing even their own miscarriages. At which point I can ask questions to further healing such as, “Have you named your children? Have you thought about planting a plant in memory of your children to have an object of life to remember them by?” When we do this, we often validate the feelings many women and men have silently felt, but never viewed as legitimate. In response to this new approach of my sibling count, a friend responded, “If I were to do that, when people ask how many siblings I have, I’d have to say 17 because my mom had 7 miscarriages.” Well, what an opportunity! You can be guaranteed my friend will get some kind of reaction to an answer of “17,” and it surely will open doors to talk about how we view the pre-born and how we work through the heartbreak of losing children. It will also acknowledge each and every one of her siblings as valuable enough to warrant attention. Had Paul Francis not died, he’d be celebrating his 41st birthday right about now. And as I think about it, I’m a lifetime overdue on writing him a poem (something I like to do for loved ones) to honor his life: I do not know what it is like, To live with an older brother. But one thing that I do know, Is that you made our mom a mother. You were first to grow in her womb, And in that way, we’re connected. We both spent time beneath her heart, And with love, we were infected. Would you have written poems like Dad? Or, like mom, sing me to sleep? Maybe like our sister you’d have been a peacemaker, Or an avid reader of all things deep? I tell others about you now; I didn’t do that before. I pledge to remember your existence. Telling of you opens a door. Why, Paul Francis, was your life so short? Do you have the answer now? For us we stay in mystery, Trusting God, to whom we bow.  

In times of great distress and loss would you still hold on to God? Awaiting Love I would like to share a small piece of my life in testimony to Our Lord, Jesus Christ. Like many couples, my husband and I had married planning to raise a family and modestly prayed for the grace to nurture them in holiness so that they could become great saints. However, during the early years of our marriage, we delayed pregnancy, because we believed our love for each other needed to mature before we could enter parenthood. Although we barely acknowledged God’s plans for us, when we felt it was “the right time”, we expected Him to readily supply the gift of a child. Our happiness knew no bounds when we discovered that I was pregnant! The joyful days we shared with our beloved child sustained us when that short life on earth ended in miscarriage. Despite our devastating grief, my husband and I grew stronger in faith and hope. About ten months later, our journey into parenthood took another turn when we were blessed with our second pregnancy. We were elated that God had favored us by allowing our love to bear fruit again! Our parents were overjoyed at the long-awaited answer to their prayer on the auspicious Feast of Divine Mercy. I remember how my husband and I thanked the Lord before the Blessed Sacrament for endowing us with His abundant graces, in spite of our unworthiness. Turn of Life We booked our appointment with the OBGYN the following week and looked forward to seeing our precious child at the first ultrasound. The mixed emotions of anxiety and excitement, like butterflies wobbling inside me as we waited, are still fresh in my memory. As the doctor prepared for the ultrasound, I constantly prayed with my eyes closed. Much to our consternation, the doctor could not confirm the presence of our child , giving us two possibilities – we had either walked in too early, or it could be an Ectopic Pregnancy, which can be life-threatening. Although we had never heard about ectopic pregnancy, we turned to the Lord with faith, hoping that he could turn the situation around. For what is impossible for man is possible with God! I had been feeling a slight stomach ache due to gastric trouble, I thought since the pain wasn’t excruciating. It was evening before we got home after completing all the blood tests. Suddenly, I started feeling suffocated and the pain in my stomach became excruciating. I did not know what was happening to me, but my husband wasted no time summoning emergency care. They rushed me to the nearest hospital where he was informed that immediate surgery was required. Shocked beyond Grief My husband was shocked into silence. He began to question God, “What wrong have we done to be tested like this?” A storm of random thoughts started popping through his head, but at the same time he felt blank and desolate. Once the surgery started, one of our friends joined him and they began interceding for me, calling out to Mama Mary for help in the Holy Rosary. They continued to pray the Rosary until the doctor emerged with the good news that the operation was successful. Although she had only seen such a complicated case twice in her twenty years of medical practice, I had miraculously survived. My left fallopian tube had ruptured, resulting in the loss of half my blood volume and the consequent struggle for the doctors to maintain my heartbeat. Afterwards, I had to be kept intubated in the ICU for almost a day without being allowed even a single drop of water. In spite of my torment, I took the chance to share my suffering with Jesus Christ on the cross when He cried out, “I Thirst”. I offered up my sacrifice for the reparation of sins, particularly that of abortion, and other evils spreading throughout the world. Finding Solace Although this cross is very heavy for me and my husband, God has never, ever forsake us. Throughout this ordeal He has consoled us through His Holy Spirit, sending us holy people to give us solace in our distress. Truly, it was God speaking to us through them. My husband and I wrestled with God for almost a week, until we realized how grateful we should be for my deliverance from imminent death, rather than crying over what we had lost. We committed our little one to the Lord and I started to speedily heal, by God’s grace, physically, mentally and spiritually. I am certain that the Lord offers immeasurable grace where there is intense suffering. Jesus knows our anguish and looks at us with compassion and tenderness from His cross. We know that He is doing something tremendous in our lives through this pain and hardship if we just rest at His feet and glorify Him through our wounds. We completely trust Our Lord that He will bless our marriage with fruitfulness in His time if we patiently surrender ourselves totally to Him without reserve. Nothing is impossible with our Almighty God. To the Lord Jesus be all Glory and Honor, now and forever, Amen.

One of the hardest things to do is to keep silent in the face of false accusations, but know that God speaks in your silence. Split Second It was one of those usual days in a busy mom’s life: doing the laundry, cleaning, washing the dishes, cooking, feeding the kids, putting up with the tantrums, changing diapers ... the list goes endless. I was giving a cozy, warm bath to my four-year-old daughter, Anna (Ann Maria), while my six-month-old was fast asleep. Being affected with severe cerebral palsy, Anna cannot sit by herself and has to be supported. I was giving her a nice bubbly scrub, accompanied by the usual rhymes I often entertain her with; and all of a sudden the grip I had around her chest loosened, and she slid away right through my fingers, with her head hitting the edge of the tub. It happened in a split second and my heart wrenched at the thought of the pain on her forehead and the subsequent scream that would wake the baby. As I quickly lifted her back up, to my utter surprise, my little girl neither screamed nor showed even the slightest expression of dismay at her mom’s inattentiveness. I couldn’t control the tears rolling down my cheeks as I watched my little girl with a reddish mark on her forehead, sitting calmly as if nothing had happened. A Deep Imprint in Heart I was immediately reminded of Jesus with the crown of thorns on his head; being hurled with insults, beaten, and spat on. Despite all of this he never expressed the slightest hint of dismay. However, unlike Jesus who sat silently through all of this suffering, I have on many occasions lost the opportunity to be silent in my trials. Throughout the rebukes of our bosses, taunting by colleagues or lack of consideration from our loved ones, we often feel lost. When one is unjustly blamed for the errors of others, questioned for competency, or worthiness of doing the job, demeaned for all the little and big things done around the clock, it is little wonder some fall into the shadows or strike back in retaliation. But is this the right way to approach? A Life to Follow The life of Saint Zita of Lucca clearly imitates the way Jesus himself dealt with such situations. She is popularly known as the patron saint of domestic workers and housemaids. Zita lived in the thirteenth century near Lucca, in Tuscany, Italy. Brought up in a poor but devout Catholic family, Zita at the age of twelve went to serve the Fatinelli family of Lucca. Being humble and sweet- natured she was initially very well thought of by her employers. Very soon her co-workers grew jealous of her. Though she carried out her household duties well, the other servants blamed her for anything that went wrong in the house. These false accusations were believed by her employers and life for Zita became very difficult. She continued to be patient in doing her daily tasks, and humbly accepted the punishments that came her way. In the end, her silence triumphed. The Fatinelli family recognized her goodness and raised her to the position of chief house-keeper and children’s nurse. Zita never abused her position of authority to repay those co-workers who had given her hardship but instead was ever more generous and kind in helping them out. Impossible feat! Is this possible? Saints might find it easy to be silent but how about the rest of us? Does this make sense? Yes! However, unless we see Christ in those around us we really can’t love properly. Just as my little Anna, brought to mind the image of a ‘silent Jesus’ at his passion, so can you discover his reflection among your friends, colleagues or even strangers. At times you may be on the other side, finding fault and accusing your co-worker. Not to mention those casual gossips over coffee. Unfortunately, we fail to realize that it really is Jesus whom we are accusing... He stands before us just like he stood before Pilate, waiting for the judgment. So we need to tie a knot on our tongues not only to prevent harsh words but also rash judgments. Did you know that Saint Zita had a strange habit of bringing Heaven on Earth when she uncovered the Hidden Jesus in her neighbor? She was never troubled by those who unjustly accused her because for Zita he or she was Jesus in disguise—the same Jesus who had forgiven all her failings. By our own will it is impossible to hold back those words of justification or accusation, but with God’s grace everything is possible. Let us humbly pray, “Set a guard over my mouth, O Lord; keep watch over the door of my lips.”(Psalms 141:3)

Growing Up As a young girl of the age of 7, I loved to jump rope. My rope wasn’t a fancy one, but it was solid and that was all I had. Jumping made me feel light and free, for in that moment I would imagine gravity could let go of me and I might be able to fly. I could jump forward and backward, very fast or very slow, and twist the rope to make hoops to jump through. When there were deep 7 year old thoughts to think, I would just jump rope. Singing and talking to myself and God as I jumped, helped me to figure out my place in this world and helped me to sort through varying problems, worries or predicaments in my life. Sometimes I was impatient with the pace of life growing up in rural Kentucky and jumping rope helped to reel away the time. That piece of rope with wooden handles helped navigate me through my childhood. One day, I needed that jump rope and I couldn’t find it. I searched all the usual places it could be, but it was gone. I asked my family members if they’d seen my jump rope and no one knew or seemed concerned of its whereabouts. I searched for days and felt hopelessly hopeless. How was I to deal with or figure out the important details of my life without my jump rope? A very small and simple idea entered my mind. I stopped what I was doing, went to my bedroom and told God all about my situation. I told him how much I loved that jump rope and how much it meant to me. I cried when I told Him how I thought life would be like without it. I didn’t know what to do, for I was certain there would be no replacement one in my near future. Specific Request Then I asked Him if He would help me by finding it for me. I figured He knew everything and He would know where everything was anyway. However, I didn’t stop there. I prayed that when He found it, to please put it in a very specific place so I’d know where it was. Although, no time limit requests were asked of Him, I assumed it would only take Him a day to find it. My request was for Him to put it in my on my tricycle in the garage next to the Mom’s washing machine. My thought was that I would play with my tricycle the next day and I would see it, but if my Mom saw it first, when doing the laundry, the next morning, she would tell me. It was all very practical in my little mind. I thanked Him and went on to play something else. The next day when it was playtime, I went into the garage looking for my jump rope, expecting God to have already found it for me. I went to my tricycle, but there was no jump rope. My heart sank for a moment, but turning my head a bit, I saw it laying in the little red wagon that was next to my bike. I had looked in that wagon over and over again for days, so I knew it was not there to begin with. I was so happy to be reunited with my jump rope, but a bit disappointed that God had not followed my instructions as to where to place it, when did He find it. I shrugged it off. Afterall, He was a boy, and boys don’t always listen very well, so that was close enough. Not fully absorbing what I’d just experienced, with childlike innocence I skipped off to happily jump rope again. Expectations of a Child A day later I mentioned to my Mom that I had found my jump rope. She told me she was glad of it, but she already knew. The morning before, she had gone into the garage to do laundry and saw it on my tricycle. She was afraid it would fall off, so she laid it into the wagon for me. She thought I was the one who had found it and placed it on the trike. Little bells and whistles began to go off in my head. I was beginning to realize something extraordinary had happened the day before. I asked her to repeat EXACTLY where she had found it. For some reason, even as a little girl, I knew to test everything. Throughout the day I asked the rest of my family if perhaps they were the ones who had found my jump rope and placed it on my tricycle. None of them knew the importance and significance of their negative answers. With each no, my heart soared a little more. The story my mom retold was the prayer I had prayed. He had listened! God had not only listened, but He heard and helped me. I had a friend in heaven who heard and answered me! My life was never the same since then. God broke through the heavens to help me; a child with childlike innocence, childlike expectations and the faith of a mustard seed. Many years have passed since I have jumped rope. I smile and cry each time I recall this story. I smile because as I have reflected on the significance of this event I know it was pivotal in learning to place my trust in God. Trust was the foundation of my relationship with Him. My relationship with Jesus made my faith grow. My relationship with God fills me with joy and childlike innocence again. I cry because when I humbly think about who God is and how He made time (then and throughout my life) to answer my little insignificant prayers, I am overwhelmed by His love for me. They too are tears of joy. Be rest assured Today, take a deep breath, and remember His words, “Be still and know that I AM God” (Psalm 46:10). Approach God as His child. Tell God the things you wish to jump forward into, the things that frighten you and make you jump backward. Tell Him about the things that make you feel rushed and the things that slow you down and try your patience. Tell Him about all the twists and turns of life that make you jump through hoops. He is right there with you, listening to every detail you share with Him. Offer Him your mustard seed faith. St Paul tells us in Philippians 4:6-7, “Have no anxiety at all, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, make your requests known to God. Then the peace of God that surpasses all understanding will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus”. Rejoice because you have a friend in heaven who will hear and answer you too. How blessed we are to be children of God; to have as our Father, the great I Am! God bless you all!