My Catholic View
 Welcome to My Catholic View! I’m here to discuss the “hot topics” of the day that are of interest to Catholics striving to live an authentic life of faith in a secular culture. Sometimes you can feel you are wandering alone out there in the wilderness. Rest assured you are not, and it is my hope that My Catholic View can be a meeting place for those looking for a voice to join with theirs in crying out to God with joy, supplication, happiness, confusion, sadness, distress, triumph – whatever is called forth by the events of the day. My goal is simple – I desire to help others find Him in this world where we often have trouble seeing His face.
About the Author – My name is Tracey Rockwell and I am a full-time wife, mother, keeper of the house and car keys, as well as a part-time lawyer, writer, editor and publisher. In my spare time I read. A cradle Catholic, I experienced a conversion to a deeper faith in the year 2000 and credit myself with coining the phrase “Millennium Catholic”. I welcome this opportunity to share my observations and comments on our peculiar age and time. Remembering always that God is the architect, and we are called to continue Christ’s work of building His Kingdom on earth, I continue to search for firm ground.
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My Catholic View
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Written by Tracey Rockwell
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Friday, 19 November 2010 07:18 |
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October has come and gone, and as the holidays quickly approach, it’s easy to let the focus of Respect for Life month fade into memory. As I write this, I am thinking of my father-in-law. Ill with Parkinson’s for over a dozen years, a series of strokes in the last several months has robbed him of his mobility and impacted his speech. A vibrant, brilliant, active man, he is relegated to his bed for most of the hours of the day. Throughout this fall, his eight children and their families have traveled to their hometown in Idaho to spend some of these precious days with their father and grandfather.
Respect Life month is a time for Catholics in the United States to reflect with gratitude on God’s priceless gift of human life. It is also to be an occasion for to examine how well we are doing as a people to protect and promote the rights of those who, due to age, dependency, poverty or vulnerability are at risk of their very lives. Most often, the focus is on abortion, and rightly so, as unborn children are the persons whose lives are most at risk in America. However, other protections for the sanctity of life continue to be eroded with little notice. In the last several years here in the Northwest, state-sanctioned physician assisted suicide has become an option for terminally ill patients in Oregon and Washington. I remember two years ago at this time when the issue was before the voters in Washington State, and that feeling of helplessness and sorrow and anger as the initiative passed quietly and with little debate, into law. The proponents claimed that each person should be in control of when they die, and should be able to choose to die before they become a burden to others, or before they have to endure too much suffering, or before their families had to suffer by watching them die. To sacrifice oneself in this manner – to take one’s own life, is to “die with dignity”.
I have seen what it means to die with dignity, and it isn’t getting a prescription from your doctor for a lethal cocktail to be consumed after a final farewell bash with all those who love you so much that they couldn’t stand to see you sick. To die with dignity is to let go. It’s to resign yourself to the rhythm of life. It’s to give up your control to One Who has always had the control, but you were too strong, too powerful, too competent, to always recognize it. It is allowing your loved ones to see you vulnerable, to care for you, to re-prioritize their over-scheduled lives so they can travel great distances to be near you. It is letting all those who love you so much love you openly, and without embarrassment or shyness or self-consciousness. It is to expose yourself to suffering and to cry out to God to give you the strength to get through it because you know you can’t do it on your own.
My sister-in-law has been sending updates on my father-in-law’s condition to all of us who live far away. Two days ago she wrote this: “His hands are swelling, and hardly work anymore. He was reading a Tony Hillerman novel one day when I came, the book propped on a pillow, and said, ‘Did you ever think, Carol, that your dad wouldn’t be able to hold a book?’ Actually, I hadn’t thought that he would always be Mr. Atlas, but it takes getting used to. One day there was only me, and I wanted to help him scoot back so he could sit up straighter. Together we couldn’t move ¼ inch! Gasping and giggling, I said, ‘The Lord gives and the Lord takes away,’ and he picked right up with, ‘Blessed by the name of the Lord.’”
As we enter this busiest of seasons, let us take time to Bless the name of the Lord, love each other with gentleness and humility, and remember that, for those that follow the way of Christ, every month is Respect Life month.
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My Catholic View
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Written by Tracey Rockwell
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Friday, 27 August 2010 11:48 |
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Today is the feast of St. Monica – the patron saint of mothers. St. Monica was the mother of St. Augustine, one of the great Doctors of the Church. St Augustine was possessed of a brilliant mind, charismatic personality and physical beauty – gifts that proved just as dangerous and seductive in the fourth century as today. St. Augustine was always seeking the truth, but the route by which he traveled was neither straight nor narrow, and St. Monica spent many years in prayer and supplication to our Lord on her son’s behalf.
I am a great admirer of St. Monica, because she pursued her son’s holiness and redemption with a ferocity rarely seen or experienced. As well as praying constantly for many years, she followed her son from country to country, unwilling to let him freely continue a lifestyle that would be so much easier to conduct away from her disapproving eye. She made it hard for him! She wouldn’t let him destroy himself.
We live in an age that advocates personal liberty and tolerance, to the point that we passively stand by while our children choose paths that we know are leading them away from the Lord. Who are we to judge? I mean, he/she is eighteen – the magical age where suddenly freedom is given over in so many areas without so much as a warning label. Besides, this is the age most kids quit going to church, youth group, etc., so we shouldn’t be worried. They’ll come back. Probably when they have their own kids. But what if they don’t? What if something happens? What if they marry someone who doesn’t want to “go back” with them?
Today I’m praying for my mother, and for the trials she has endured for more than fifty some odd years on behalf of her children. I’m praying too for my children, that the Lord will keep them close, and that He will grant me the grace of perseverance in prayer for them. Would I risk the loss of their love to follow them around the world, praying for their salvation? I don’t think I have the fortitude or conviction. So I pray for that too.
Happy St. Moncia’s Feast Day to all you wonderful mothers and grateful children.
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My Catholic View
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Written by Tracey Rockwell
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Wednesday, 25 August 2010 10:36 |
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Knocking on a Stranger’s Door
When I showed up at the neighbor’s with two naked toddlers in the middle of one of the hottest days of summer, I wasn’t thinking of what it would look like. All I could think about was my baby hanging off the side of the couch, perhaps already fallen onto her head, and screaming and crying. Hopefully screaming and crying, because the alternative would mean something much worse. I was, quite simply, out of my mind. I think the neighbor, a person I had never seen, could sense that. She ushered me in, listened to my frantic story, and fetched a phone book. While I called a locksmith, she got two tee shirts that belonged to her teenage son, and put them on the kids. She also sent her son over to the house to check to see if he could get in. “He’s pretty good at that stuff. If anybody can get in, he can.” Even in my wild-eyed state I remember feeling a little uncomfortable with that knowledge.
We followed him over, and while he canvassed the outside of the house, I ran to the glass door off the deck, dreading what I might find. I looked in the window, and immediately started crying again. My daughter had fallen asleep, teetering on the edge of the couch, head upside down. Oh thank the Lord!
Was that the first time in this whole ordeal that I muttered a prayer? I don’t remember. It would have been appropriate. But what is striking is that I don’t remember praying. I like to think that if this happened today, at the place I am now, praying would have been the first thing I thought of – before the panic, before the tears, before the overwhelming dread and self-recrimination. I imagine experiencing the situation from the perspective of faith – the sure knowledge that God had the situation in hand, and that He was with me as I ran to the home of that person I didn’t know, that He was soothing my screaming baby, that He was inspiring the kindness with which my neighbor received me and my two naked kids.
I don’t imagine things would have been different, but I would have been different. I missed an opportunity to witness how God cares for me and my children each and every day. I let a “teachable moment” in the faith lives of my young children go unrealized. How much would my serious, thoughtful son have benefitted from the knowledge that the greatest power in the world was assisting us? Instead of appreciating this excruciating experience as evidence of His goodness and grace in even the worst situations, I emerged as one shell-shocked – a near miss, a close call that demanded that I be ever more vigilant, that I live ever more afraid of the unexpected, that I tighten the reins on how much and how far the fun could go, and that I not let down my guard for a minute.
Living without faith is living in fear. It’s taking on ourselves all the burden of a life that often does not go according to plan, and then, when it doesn’t, scrambling to rework the plan to address the particular contingency. It’s a life fraught with insecurity and disappointment and frustration. Because however much we seek to control our lives and the world around us, we can never be fully successful. We live in a world where a slow easy afternoon in the dog days of summer can turn into a catastrophe.
Today I look back and see the great care God had for me and my children that day. The baby continued sleeping, and the locksmith showed up within the hour. As he came looking for me in the backyard, he informed me that “someone was in your driveway.” I ran around the house to discover my husband had returned early from his fishing trip, and had been home for half-an-hour unloading his gear into the garage. He hadn’t made it into the house yet. I laugh about it now, although I wasn’t laughing then. So many graces He gives us. So many gifts. Always and everywhere with us. With a decidedly keen sense of humor.
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My Catholic View
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Written by Tracey Rockwell
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Tuesday, 24 August 2010 10:22 |
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The dog days of summer used to mean that time in August when things slowed way down, and it was too hot to do much of anything but lie around in the shade like the family pooch. I don’t think I’ve experienced the dog days of summer since 1991. I remember the exact day when it happened – the day that I realized that when you have children, there is no such thing as a completely lazy, anxiety-free day.
It was a day in August, and it was blazing hot. I had set up the little blow-up pool on the deck off the family room, and my 2 and 3 year old were throwing water around and having a great old time, while the baby crawled around getting splashed and wondering where the water was coming from. I went in to the family room to change the baby’s diaper when a shriek from the pool brought me dashing out onto the deck, the family room door slamming shut behind me. Once I ascertained there was no blood involved, I peeked in the window at the baby lying peacefully on the couch waiting for her diaper, waved and made faces, and then turned the door handle to get in. Locked. Unbelieving, I pushed and turned shoved. Tight as a drum. A creeping sense of panic began from what I would call the heart area. Maybe the stomach. The baby had her eyes fixed on me. I was still smiling and waving somewhat frantically as I tried the windows next to the door. I called my three-year-old over. “Watch the baby while mommy runs around the house.” He thought it was a game, and so cupped his hands around his eyes like goggles and put his face against the window, sticking out his tongue and laughing. I tore around the corner of the house, knowing with a certain dread that all the doors were locked. I had done it myself. We were in a new house, had been here less than a year, and my husband was away for the weekend on a fishing trip. Still I tried every possible entrance. As I came into the back yard, I could see my son had tired of watching his sister, and was once more happily splashing in the pool. “The baby’s crying,” was all he said. I took the steps two at a time. The baby was screaming, her face red and tear stained. She has moved around until her head was hanging off the side of the couch. A few inches further and she would fall on her head.
I was at full tilt panic, at a complete loss, crying in tandem with the baby. My other two started to get concerned. “What’s the matter mommy?” I could see some tears starting to well up. What what what to do? I explained that we were locked out, and needed to find a phone to call someone to help us get in. I gathered them up, cast a last glance at the baby, still hanging in the balance, and pointed at the house behind us.
“Let’s run to the neighbor’s house to use the phone.” “We don’t know them,” my son said dubiously.” I was just beginning to realize the depth of his cautious nature. “Well, we’ll meet them,” I said brightly. “We don’t have any clothes on.” Somewhere in my frantic state I recognized that as a possible problem, but the situation was too dire, too overwhelming to think about what it would look like to show up at a stranger’s house with two naked children and ask to use the phone. “We’ll get some at the neighbor’s house!”
Tomorrow: Knocking on a Stranger’s Door
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My Catholic View
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Written by Tracey Rockwell
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Tuesday, 10 August 2010 15:15 |
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We attended the wedding of one of our son's friends a couple of weeks ago. It was a beautiful affair - went off without a hitch. The couple is young, successful and very much in love. Everything ahead of them. As Tom and I are working on a book on marriage, I tend to look at all things marriage a little more closely these days. Maybe it's because I've known the groom and his family since he was six years old, but for some reason, I felt like I had a stake in this wedding. Like I wanted them to really concentrate on those vows, and take in exactly what they were pledging on that gorgeous sunny afternoon when every color is brighter, and the meaning of every gesture is heightened, like the air is vibrating. Do you know what you doing, saying, pledging? And the answer, as we all know, is of course they don’t. There is no way to tell a young couple what “for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, as long as you both shall live” will mean for their lives. Because it will manifest itself differently in each marriage.
Last Thursday would have been my parents’ 60th wedding anniversary. The last one we celebrated was their 40th. My mom didn’t want a big party – my dad had been in and out of the hospital for extensive chemotherapy treatments for several months. I don’t remember if we even asked dad, although I think he would have wanted it. He was always up for a party, particularly the big family gatherings where aunts, uncles, cousins, (first, second, once, twice removed) would travel from all over the state to come together to eat and drink and laugh while the kids ran wild. He wasn’t a gregarious man; in fact, he was quiet, except when he had had a few drinks. Then he was expansive, funny, a natural story-teller.
Dad was tired though. The three-week long hospitalizations had done him in. At this point, he wasn’t thinking that the cancer would win. He thought he was ahead of the pitch, and if he was just patient, he would at least come away with a walk. But we, the kids, felt something was at risk in letting the occasion go by to celebrate another day. We had watched dad dwindle in strength, size, energy and spirit, and we were afraid. We wanted to gather our extended family and all those friends that had been a part of my parents’ lives in all the different phases of their marriage. The intent was to honor our parents - to hear all the old stories, and some new ones. We wanted our mom and dad to see how many people they had touched in their lives together as a married couple, and to witness the joy that rekindling old friendships would bring them.
We held the party at a hotel in Ocean Shores, a vacation community on the Washington coast where the year before my parents had set up their beach home that would become their permanent residence when my dad retired in a couple of years. A 40th anniversary is the ruby anniversary. We decorated in red and white, displayed their wedding pictures and told the story about how dad drove up on the lawn of my grandpa’s house, right to the front door when he discovered that his friends and mom’s brother had hidden her suitcase on her wedding day and so delayed the beginning of their honeymoon. We gave mom some ruby earrings. We had a video camera, and each of the six kids took a turn interviewing friends and family - these people that loved my parents at all different stages of their lives.
My dad died of leukemia three months later. We kids thought we were doing our parents a favor that day. We wanted them to draw strength from all those gathered in love. But we were the ones who drew strength. We were the ones who needed the reassurance that everything was going to be all right. And for that day, it was.
Even though my son’s friend and his new wife don’t know exactly what shape their vows will take in their married lives, they will be called upon to honor them day to day, not just in extreme circumstances. How well they do that will make all the difference in the lives of their children, and all those that love them. All of us gathered to celebrate that wedding have a stake in that marriage. We pray for a union built on a solid foundation. So when the rain falls, the storms come and the winds blow and buffet the house, it will not collapse. (Matthew 7:25)
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