I walk almost every day on the same route, through a park, over the highway, around a corner, across the river, and out between the cornfields to the brick house, and then back again. It's about three miles roundtrip, and it's a predictable walk, for the most part, from the particular cars that I pass, to the point at which I will finish saying the Rosary and put in my headphones to listen to music.
Oh the sense of doom is everywhere. It's nearing the end of 2012, which according to a John Cusack movie I watched, just might signify the end of the world, and at about that time I'll be having a baby ("Woe to those who are pregnant and to those who are nursing babies in those days."). Contentious election season is upon us, the economy is supposed to dip again, and I cross a scary bridge every day on my walk. What else could I work myself up about?
Something sort of interesting happened to me recently--a strange coincidence--being that at this time last year I began my retreat for total consecration to Jesus through Mary according to the teaching of St Louis de Montfort. I have to admit, that I sort of forgot over the year exactly what that consecration entailed. Once or twice, it had crossed my mind to revisit the whole business--but it wasn't a high priority for me.
My friend Irene accidentally purchased three copies of a book called '33 Days to Morning Glory' which is sort of a new, more streamlined approach to Marian Consecration by Father Michael Gaitley, who also penned the book, 'Consoling the Heart of Jesus.' Irene apparently ordered the book on Amazon, then forgot she had done so, and bought two more copies at a bookstore. She gave one copy to Pedge, and then when the other copy arrived in the mail, she passed it on to me.
So, I started reading it Friday night, and began the process of renewing my consecration, which is perfectly timed to occur on the feast of Our Lady of the Rosary, in October, which is the same day I completed my consecration last year.
I love it when things work out like that. I didn't ask for a sign, and it may well just be a coincidence. The four seasons, after all, repeat themselves every year too. It's put me back on track, however, in a way that nothing else I've tried lately has done--given me the assurance of efficacy in my prayer life. The most efficient way to become like Jesus is through Mary--it's one of those tropes you hear all the time, and wonder now, how, how is that so?
I picture Mary like a short order cook in Heaven, taking in all the orders, collecting ingredients, then distributing the food to the hungriest patrons first--and I'm there in the background, getting eggs out of the fridge and handing them to her, or something, bringing in the choicest veggies from my garden. Some of them are harder to part with than others--the biggest ripest tomato, I sort of want to save for myself. But the cooks always eat last, and while you might feel hungry in the interim, it's a very good feeling at the end of the day.
It's so much better than having an over-abundance of veggies and a bunch of kids who don't want to eat them, and you know you've got to process them all quickly or they'll go bad, and inevitably, some of them do. So much pressure. Such a wide margin for failure.
It's sort of a silly metaphor, I know, but just to complete the whole picture, I need to say that God is the proprietor of the restaurant, so we're doing his work--and by signing up to assist Mary, I get to partake in a small part of the goods and work of Heaven right now, where I'd otherwise just be spinning my wheels and hoping to get a foot in the door at the end of my life.
Pedge had tickets to the PGA tournament at Crooked Stick this weekend, so...guess who got to go sit on the eighteenth hole and watch a steady succession of golf celebrities arrive to sink a little white ball. I am the least likely candidate for an invitation to a PGA tournament, because I've played maybe one game of golf in my life (on my husband mine's first date), and I have no idea who any of the players are, or why they're important, or even what their scores indicate.
But! I saw famous people! A real-live sex addict named Chigger or Tiger something.