I can still see the scene in my mind's eye: the cafeteria of St. Mary's School, surreal to me at night, with an assortment of neighborhood children pressing round a fortress of cardboard milk cartons. The gang of us are singing at the top of our lungs, before bolting forward with a whoop to topple the flimsy firmament at just the right moment. This simple, boisterous game was all part of "Family Night," an event promoted in those days by a young priest named Father Daly and filed away forever in my treasure chest of joyful childhood memories. I am not sure what I knew about Joshua or Jericho at the time, yet the fun and wild abandon of the game remains with me still.

Then there was Lent at St. Mary's Church and the 7:30 evening Mass in its dimly lit basement. My mother and our neighbor, Mrs. Maloney, would rarely miss it. Anne Maloney and I could not wait to pile into the car for the novel nightly outing, or better yet walk under the train trestle with its florescent lights and cooing pigeons, pretty sure of a soda at Alexander's afterward, and, if we were very lucky, a piece of creamy white chocolate to split between us. How I loved those Masses with holy Father Callahan on the altar and Anne beside me. The memory of them brings a pleasing mist to my eyes even now.

Looking back on these early spiritual experiences, I see now that, although they were in some ways less than ethereal, those blessed moments are cloaked in a mantle of simple childish gladness and mirth. To this day, I love the Mass and the Church and the Holy Bible and our parish priests, and, it seems to me, the seeds of Faith and love and loyalty were sown deep, sown in the ready heart of a child and fed and fertilized with soda and smiles, war whoops and white chocolate.

In passing on the Faith to our children, it is a great hope of mine that we will allow them to form many happy associations like these. Armed with a childhood of fond religious memories, they surely will fare far better against the world's onslaught than those tottery milk cartons in the cafeteria. With this in mind, we have begun a new tradition in our home — First Saturday Outings.

The idea was born over hot chocolates in Starbuck's back in December. I had taken the four older girls — ages 12 to 7 — to do a little Christmas shopping while Daddy watched the toddlers at home. The night was pleasingly temperate, and our spirits were so high that it made me wonder why we rarely go out together in the evening. It happened to be First Saturday, reminding me of the Fatima devotion of Mass, Confession, a Rosary, and a quarter hour's meditation on the Mysteries for five consecutive months.  I suggested we begin this practice, concluding with a pleasant monthly evening out together. The girls were at once taken with the idea and talked about the first Saturday of January for weeks. Even the wonders of Christmas and New Year's could not dilute their eager anticipation.

First Saturday morning, the children awoke already talking about Mass and Confession and the special trip planned for afterward. January's outing consisted of omelettes at a local diner with a walk through Border's Bookstore afterward. Daddy and I decided to spring for a round of hot cocoa at the cafe, but, much to everyone's dismay, they were all out of (gasp) cocoa powder. Fortuitously, the girl behind the counter offered white chocolate as a substitute, and, you will be glad to learn, the pale variety was accepted by today's young Catholics as readily as it was by Anne Maloney and Alice O'Brien those many years ago.

We arrived home late and began the usual bustle of tooth brushing, pajama hunting, and laundry rounding ("It's like herding cats," quipped Daddy.) The little three were asleep in an instant, when I remembered we had not yet said a Rosary or meditated an extra fifteen minutes on the Mysteries for First Saturday. The four girls were only too happy to stay up a while longer for a cozy, quiet Rosary, and I was just about to remind them of the quarter hour's meditation, when an idea struck me.

"Get on your coats, girls."

Eight eyes opened wide, and even Daddy uttered a disbelieving, "Did you say 'coats'?"

Within two minutes, we were outside under the stars — barely chilly with the spring-like weather we have been having — and singing around our outdoor Nativity scene. Everything but the creche was pitch black, and the children's voices rose sweetly in the thin night air. Hymn after hymn of their own choosing: "Lo, How a Rose E're Blooming," "Adeste Fideles," "Hark the Herald Angels Sing," "Do You Know What I Know?" "Away in a Manger"–they formed the most agreeable little quartet of carolers you ever heard, inventing harmonies and smiling toward the stable. I listened silently, my heart swelling with hope that these blessed hymns might be their "Joshua and the Battle of Jericho," with each heartfelt note girding them for adulthood.

As we walked back to the house, I found more than one young hand had made its way into mine, and a couple of the girls walked ahead arm in arm. Nine-year-old Clair turned to me with a face as bright as the moon above our heads and proclaimed, "This was such a fun day!"

More music to my ears.

I am speaking, of course, about our stunning array of Christmas photos — sent from around the country by loving friends and family.

Even now I am smiling as I carefully remove each image from our two bulletin boards. We received close to one hundred family photos from friends and relatives this year, and I am amazed to consider the love and care needed to stage, snap, develop, write, address, stamp, and mail them all. For every single one of these cheerful images, there is a parent, usually Mom, working, often frantically, behind the scenes. Like me, she is in love with her children, and the best way she can possibly imagine of sending good cheer to others is by sharing those faces, the most beautiful faces in the world.

There are many different families represented in our collection. Large families with infants teetering on the laps of siblings, small families with one beaming "pride and joy," new families with red-velvet-and-lace garbed "first" babies, happy families with smiling fathers and mothers, dog-loving families with Fido front and center, prosperous families with professional portraits in foil-lined envelopes, religious families with children surrounding the Nativity. Each one has a merry tale to tell.

Some sad stories too lie hidden in these photos. This blue-eyed baby in a cowboy costume lost his only brother this year, a precious ten year old who finally succumbed to a lifelong illness. Will the little guy even remember him, I wonder? And what about the families who should have had newborn infants gracing their photos this year? I cannot help but grieve thinking of the bitter loss of miscarriage. These families have felt the sting of tragedy, yet someone, again probably Mom, found within her the strength to send out not just Christmas cards, but photos. Someone rose above grief and disappointment to share with us her greatest treasures. These images are worth that much more because they are a testament to hope winning over despair.

Many of our pictures have another striking aspect as well. Look, here are the son and daughter of my childhood playmate. With over a thousand miles between us, I have never met these young ones in person, yet, I distinctly recall that very same little girl ringing my doorbell to invite me to play not so long ago. This pile of photos shows my children's many beautiful cousins. Here and there, in eyes and smiles, I catch glimpses of my husband's own large, happy family. What an astounding thing it is to see those faces and forms return to adorn a new generation.

Musing about family resemblance calls to mind these lines from Thomas Hardy's "Heredity:"

I am the family face. Flesh perishes. I live on,

Projecting trait and trace, through time to times anon

And leaping from place to place, over oblivion.

The years-heired feature that can, in cure and voice and eye

Despise the human span, of durance-that is I

The eternal thing in man, that heeds no call to die.

These are thought provoking words, and yet Hardy misses the mark. The "family face," though beautiful and heart warming to behold in these young ones, is certainly not "[t]he eternal thing in man." The legacy we must leave our children is not blue eyes and straight teeth, for these things are passing away with all speed, no matter how many descendants we have. The mark of the "family face" must be left on the only thing that truly "heeds no call to die," their eternal souls.

According to the Catechism:

"In our own time, in a world often alien and even hostile to faith, believing families are of primary importance as centers of living, radiant faith. For this reason, the Second Vatican Council, using an ancient expression, calls the family the Ecclesia domestica [the Domestic Church]. It is in the bosom of the family that parents are 'by word and example . . . the first heralds of the faith with regard to their children.'" (CCC, Section 1656.)

I am deeply grateful that so many friends and family took the time to send a postcard from their Domestic Churches to us this Christmas. Our scrapbook will be as full as our hearts, and we will not forget to pray for these loved ones throughout the year.

Years ago, my mother began slipping away quietly on Saturday mornings. She would leave before my father and I were up, and, truth be told, had almost always returned home before either one of us was fully wake. We knew where she was going and agreed that it was a good idea — admired it even — especially because it did not disturb our sleep and gave her an excellent opportunity to bring home goodies from the bakery.

She was going to pray in front of an abortion clinic with The Helpers of God's Precious Infants.  

For years and years, it went on, through blazing heat and biting cold. My mother could be counted upon to say a Rosary with the Helpers. I, of course, was never with her. After all, my college schedule was grueling, and those grades I was bringing home were not happening by accident. My heart was in the right place–I abhorred even the thought of abortion. Mom never nagged or tried to drag me along. She just said her prayers quietly and slipped back home, week after week after week.

During those years, Mom would always talk about one Helper in particular, a woman named Margaret. Mom was, in her own words, "strictly a pray-er," but Margaret was a sidewalk counselor, one of those courageous souls who actually stops and speaks to women about to make the mistake of their lives. "Young and beautiful," as my mother frequently described her, she reportedly looked something like my cousin Eileen, so much so that we stopped referring to her as Margaret around our house, but re-christened her "Eileen."

Week after week, my mother would come home with stories of "Eileen," of her tireless devotion to the cause of life, her courage in the face of derision and rejection, her hope through disappointment, her tender heartedness and unwavering faith. "Eileen" was, for me, the first person I ever felt I could love without having met.

Time and life being the way it is, I never did meet "Eileen" until my father's wake ten years later. She and a huge contingent of the Helpers of God's Precious Infants were there, including the famous Monsignor Reilly, who concelebrated the funeral. As is typical with prayerful, Catholic groups, it was clear to me that these good people loved my mother and would do anything for her during her time of need. Even in that blessed company, one face stood out to me in the crowd–an attractive young woman with the Irish eyes of my cousin Eileen — it was Margaret.

In her guileless, friendly face, I recognized the sanctity my mother knew, and, as she offered her condolences, I felt vaguely as if she was the sister I never had.

Now, four years later, Margaret Driscoll has entered my life once more, this time through her book, "Saving Women and Infants from Abortion: A Dance in the Rain," co-written with Emily Faugno (Paulist Press).

In eighty pages, A Dance in the Rain escorts us into the life of two sidewalk counselors through a series of first hand accounts, cut-straight-to-the-heart reflections, and insights from the front lines. Not one word in this compelling book is wasted, perhaps because the authors know better than anyone that sometimes you only have a moment to reach a heart and save a child. It is written with the urgency of a seasoned veteran, someone who understands that a life may depend on the right word, a warm expression, or a pair of rosaries pressed into a quivering hand. Pro-life though I may be, this book did more than merely preach to the choir. I feel transformed by its hopeful yet somber message and recognize now for the first time how very much I missed by sleeping in all those mornings.

It makes me wish for a second chance to dance in the rain.

The aging socialite going in for a nip and tuck and the graying executive behind the wheel of a brand new Porsche were, to my way of thinking, the poster children for this type of infantile and downright embarrassing late-life episode.

That was before over a dozen happy, harried, hurried years fled by, leaving behind a bewildered woman in her late thirties wondering what ever happened to the time that once seemed to stretch out indefinitely, time I thought would leave numberless opportunities to live out all my plans, to have babies, to write books, time to dream a million dreams and accomplish every one.

Pondering the dizzying rapidity of these years, my mind turned to a specific point in the past. I was twenty-four years old and wearing a dark pink suit with gold buttons. My long hair was curled, and I smiled at the world, pausing now and then to laugh with friends, stepping across a large reception hall, being introduced for the first time to a tall twenty-five year old man….

Looking back upon that blessed moment, I shed a single, almost inexplicable, tear, a tear born not out of any sentiment or sorrow. It was a tear for that long-haired girl. I could read her story now and knew she would have a happy and blessed life, but where was she? Was I still that girl, or was she gone, vanished in the hazy blur of memory?

(Now I realize this thought sounds just as trite and vain and silly as ever a mid-life crisis could, but there is more.)

At that very moment, my husband strode into the living room, mercifully unaware of the deep thoughts scattered round the place like spare throw pillows, plunked down beside me and our placid baby girl on the couch, and said, "Honey, I love you. I have loved you since the first time I met you."

I am chuckling to think of it now, feeling a bit like the dramatically swooning woman from an old movie speedily treated with smelling salts, or perhaps just a swift pat on the back and an urgent "snap out of it!" Of course I was still that girl — he knew me even without the curls and the gold buttons. In that instant, I saw more clearly than ever before how Christ, through the sacrament of Holy Matrimony, measures out His grace and mercy:

Christ dwells with them, gives them the strength to take up their crosses and so follow Him, to rise again after they have fallen, to forgive one another, to bear one another's burdens, to be subject to one another out of reverence for Christ, and to love one another with supernatural, tender, and fruitful love. In the joys of their love and family life he gives them here on earth a foretaste of the wedding feast of the Lamb" –Catechism of the Catholic Church, Section 1642.

Thus, a perfectly good, budding mid-life crisis was stopped in its tracks, all through Grace and a well-timed kindness.

If I were to attempt to put into words this bittersweet and beautiful time of our life, with the children all still home and a baby asleep in my arms, I would compare it to a long anticipated trip up a mountain. At the outset of the journey, the mountain seemed so grand and imposing. I could not even see the top of it. Much preparation and thought were put into the trip, and my husband and I set out excitedly, confident that endless adventure lay before us, certain we would explore each peak and ridge for a thousand years. Then, before we had even mounted the first hill, I realized we were already at the top with seven dear traveling companions. The summit is sunny and warm, and we are all in a circle round the campfire, yet I am surprised to see that the view beyond is not as far as I had understood it to be. Hold on a minute, I falter, this was supposed to be a long, long trip. How is it the end seems so near?

Just as I am about to feel crestfallen, my husband passes me a pair of binoculars. Lifting them to my eyes, the exuberance returns, for I can see there is more beyond this paltry hill, miles more — the vista goes on forever, rolling and sweeping into the distance, with faraway peaks dappled in a rosy mist only hinting at the endless expedition to come.

It turns out our dear little hill is but a stepping stone, a threshold to a Land of far Greater Promise, our merry campfire a foretaste of the jubilation and cheer to come.

But, for now, how blessed we are to bask in its glow together.

Just as the children settled down to their seats in the indoor cabin, a graying homeless woman hobbled on, looking confusedly left and right. The older girls instinctively made room for her, and she fell into the bench between five-year-old Patrick and his sisters with a thud.

She was already in mid-conversation before even hitting the seat, telling me immediately that she was a Vietnam Veteran. "It's Fourth of July, and I'm a Vietnam Veteran," she insisted, "but nobody cares. It don't matter to them." The row of passengers across from us fell as silent as a radio unplugged, all eyes soberly fixed out windows and in books. "I am clean," she continued loudly to me — or to no one in particular, "I am a Vietnam Vet'ran."

With that, Patrick, who was paying no attention to her exclamations, jumped up to get a better view. He bounded past the woman and seemed bent on reaching the outdoor cabin. "Patrick," I called to him urgently, sit down — you could fall out!"

The woman turned in her seat to glare at me, as if I had been interrupting. "Nobody ever listens to me!" she shouted. "Nobody cares! Nobody listens!" "Oh, excuse me," I said, weakly, "I was listening, but I was afraid my little boy would…" "Nobody ever listens!" she cut me off, pulling a white hood over her head so that it almost covered her eyes and leaning forward to rock back and forth. "You are going to push me over the edge, you and all the rest of you! You don't care! Nobody cares!" The passengers opposite kept their eyes trained out windows and in books, the natural human response when closed in with an erratic person.

Rattled by her display, Patrick cuddled up a bit closer to me, so that there was room for a person to sit between himself and the woman. A wave of passengers clambered in at a stop. "Look at them all!" she sobbed, still rocking. "I guarantee not one of these people will be willing to sit down next to me! I'm clean, but not one of them will sit here! Not one of them will sit next to me!" With that, Patrick, who had been clinging to me, relaxed a bit, inching ever so slightly toward her. He gingerly pushed my shawl into the empty place as if trying to fill up the seat.

She noticed the shawl out of the corner of her eye and stopped rocking. "You are trying to fill up that seat, aren't you young man?" He did not answer but looked back at me. She continued, her face and tone suddenly serene, "You don't want me to be alone, do you?" The entire cablecar held its breath, and a few eyes even peeped up from books. "Thank you," she murmured, "thank you young man, for showing me some love." He did not look away, but listened, unblinking.

"Young man," she continued, her poor withered face wreathed in smiles, "you showed a woman named Roxanne some love tonight and gave her hope. You are a fine young man, and do you know why you are such a fine young man?" Speaking now for the first time, Patrick softly whispered, "Why?"

"Because," she said, "you have a good mother, a mother who teaches you not to look down on anyone." Hearing her response, Patrick turned his head back to me, and from the depths of his innocent little heart he said, "I love you, Mom," planting a kiss on my cheek. Several "awwwws" from the other passengers were audible, and Roxanne beamed approvingly as the cablecar ground to a halt. "Thank you, young man, thank you!" she repeated, rising and stepping toward the exit. The girls called after her, "Happy Fourth of July," as merrily as if she was packing to leave a picnic, and she replied in kind, "Happy Fourth of July!" knocking on the glass behind us for a few more waves. As the cable car rumbled on, we could see her staggering from the street to the curb, almost too impaired to make the step.

Although I felt a measure of relief to roll away in safety with the children, two quotes from the Bible began playing in my head, repeating themselves as insistently as the rhythm of Roxanne's rocking:

"Foxes have dens and birds of the sky have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to rest his head." (Matthew 8:20)

"'Amen, I say to you, whatever you did for one of these least brothers of mine, you did for me.'" (Matthew 25:40)

Our Lord not only did not look away from people like Roxanne. He sought them out as companions and friends, living among them and asking us to treat them with mercy and love.

Our trip completed, we set out for home still chattering about the night's excitement. In the distance, a tall man carrying a toddler wrapped in a long pink poncho was walking toward us, the steep terrain no hindrance to his steady, quick step.

And the children sprang up the hill to meet their father.

As we approached the register, the hostess' eye darted left and right, taking us in with what looked to me (and I hate to say this) like a glint of disapproval. "Eight?" she asked, with a straight face and arched brow, snapping an oversized pile of menus to her chest.  She led the way briskly to a half moon booth, and the children slid into their seats. An elderly couple at the next table caught my eye. The wife beamed affectionately, saying, "Your family is lovely," and I gave her my earnest thanks.

As we were leaving, I passed the baby to twelve-year-old Agnes and lingered a moment leaving a tip. The couple waved goodbye to each child in turn, warmly complimenting our family once more.  

I reached the register still smiling and found our formerly chilly hostess had thawed considerably. "Would it be all right if I gave the children lollipops?" she asked, reaching for a plastic bucket. I nodded readily, wondering if the fact that we had not turned out to be disruptive had anything to do with her pleasant demeanor.

Twelve-year-old Agnes was still carrying Eileen as I pocketed my change, and I noticed that two teenage girls working behind the counter had stopped her to talk. The first girl, clad in dismal double spaghetti straps asked, "Is she your baby?" Agnes beamed back, "Yes, she is," with a smile of unreserved sisterly pride. "But," said the second spaghetti-strapped girl in a tone impatient for clarification, "Is she your baby?"

Agnes appeared perplexed by the question. I understood all too well and strode over in an instant to take Eileen, thanking Agnes for holding her, and saying in a voice remarkably calm considering the heat rising up within me, "She is only twelve years old," and managing — though I know not how — a weak smile. The pair met my gaze with unabashed worldliness, lingering as if this response had not yet answered the question, so I hastened to add, "They are sisters." The first girl grunted "Oh!" and the other nodded and shrugged, as I ushered my young ones away from the counter, past the register, and out into the freezing darkness for warmth.

It has been a few months now, and I'd almost succeeded in suppressing this troubling little exchange, remembering it vaguely as I would a belt once snagged in the doors of a departing train. Then this week, in considering the words of the Catechism, "Sacred Scripture and the Church's traditional practice see in large families a sign of God's blessing and the parents' generosity" (CCC 2373), I began to realize what really happened in that diner. It seems the teenage girls were completely unprepared to see a large young family, and the experience left them groping for an explanation. In their world, it was easier to understand a twelve-year-old mother than a mother of seven. It was as if they had stumbled upon a unicorn for the first time and could make neither head nor tail of the beast.

At the end of the day, our reception varied by generation. The elderly couple hearkened back to a time when unicorns were plenty and felt a wave of loving, hopeful nostalgia upon seeing one of the dear old creatures alive and well. The hostess (a woman about my age) expected the unicorn to tramp its dirty hoof prints about, but was kind enough to offer a conciliatory carrot when she discovered it harmless enough. The teenage girls, sad to say, could not begin to fathom a mythical unicorn come to life in their midst and reflexively probed the base of its horn for Velcro or straps, dismissing the thing as a sort of parlor trick.

It seems to me there must be a connection made to the Feast of the Immaculate Conception — a day we rejoice in Our Lady's purity from the moment of her conception. My heart aches to recall the hardened countenances of those teens, jaded and faded during what ought to be the fairest bloom of their youth. Jesus once said, "Whoever causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him if a great millstone were put around his neck and he were thrown into the sea." Two thousand years later, He has entrusted parents to fasten the millstone round the neck of the impurities of today's culture — fashion, music, movies, magazines, and any evils blighting our children and quenching the holy light of innocence in their eyes. If we fail in this, what will He say to us?

My thoughts turn to the beauty and gentleness of the elderly woman, with her feminine dress and ready smile, compared to the cool crassness of the teenage girls. She was like a verdant, venerable oak fed on spring water alongside two wizened young saplings in acid. What a sorrowful thing it is when seventy-year-olds seem younger, fresher and more full of hope than seventeen-year-olds.

Our beautiful Catechism guides us in what it so rightly calls "The Battle for Purity" calling for modesty and teaching "Modesty is decency. It inspires one's choice of clothing. It keeps silence or reserve where there is evident risk of unhealthy curiosity. It is discreet" (CCC 2522).  "Christian purity requires a purification of the social climate" (CCC 2525).

When it comes to our children, the Battle must be fought and won by stalwart parents. Let us see to it the saplings in our care are fed on the sunshine and spring water known as Faith and Purity. And may we always remind these young ones to believe in unicorns.

Sometime in the middle of the 1960s, an engaged couple sat making plans for married life. They longed to hear the fabled "patter of little feet," praying it would rise to a clamor before long. The two hailed from large and loving families and were eager to fill a home of their own with new young lives.

They married on a windy day in October of 1964, with a spray of rice and squall of bells. Already, the bride, a resourceful seamstress, was mentally calculating the lengths of fabric she would need to create a quilted crib set for her first little one, wondering if she ought to cut up her gown for a Christening robe. Her head swam with favorite names for future children: Alice, Mary, Florence, Eileen, Joseph, Michael, James, John…. So many beautiful possibilities.

The couple returned from Atlantic City and settled into normal life, looking forward to the hour they would welcome a first child into their home. Days passed, dissolving into weeks, then dragging on to months, but still no babies came. Each page ripped off the calendar was itself a wrenched hope, wrinkled into the dismal wastebasket of years.

One chilly afternoon, the wife was feeling especially downcast. She blessed herself at the door of a local church and sank at the foot of an imposing statue of St. Joseph. Unexpectedly and insistently, the turbulence in her heart swelled into tears — tears of grief and desolation, and tears of something teetering near, but never quite falling into, despair. She cried to the Saint from the depths of her heart (a "prayer" she would often recount to her daughter later):

"How could you let this happen to me? I've always been so devoted to you, even as a child! Why don't I have a baby?!"

Later that day, she felt remorseful and foolish for having spoken so sharply to Good St. Joseph, but he, having been the most perfect of spouses while on earth, surely understood the lamentations of a sorrowful wife. He also seems to have had a word with his foster Son, because, two weeks later, she found out she was expecting.

I am an only child. My mother bought her milk by the quart and frequented the express line at supermarkets. My father brought me to work with him now and then, and, unlike most of the families on our block, we never needed a Station Wagon. I had my own room, first choice of afternoon television shows, and the prizes in every box of cereal. Our home was calm, content, and quiet.

By God's grace, the only child is now a mother of seven, and I cannot help but celebrate the gift of a bustling, busy family. Yet in my quiet moments of reflection, I remember that our large family, in many ways, sprang from a quieter place — from the recesses of a home with only one small olive branch lovingly tended. If the truth is known, the desire for children burning at the very dawn of our marriage came, not from any wisdom or foresight, but because of the example of faithful parents who taught that children are indeed a precious gift, but by no means assured. Thanks to their example and even their disappointment, time seemed of the essence, even at twenty four. Perhaps this blessed sense of urgency was God's gift in the days when I thought time and childbearing would go on forever. I like to think it was His answer to my parents' desperate prayers so many years before.

According to the Catechism, "Sacred Scripture and the Church's traditional practice see in large families a sign of God's blessing and the parents' generosity" (CCC 2373).

Large families are a vivid and visible sign, a beacon of Faith in a world that has too often rejected God's gifts. Yet we know with certainty that our Father in Heaven also sees in secret. He notices the mother shedding a tear as she puts her only child's crib in storage or the father praying for his wife on the way to work, and, in their grief and anxiety, He Himself sees "a sign of God's blessing and the parent's generosity." He holds their hearts in His and knows that their suffering is not in vain. These couples tread a path that "radiate[s] a fruitfulness of charity, of hospitality, and of sacrifice" (CCC 1654). Theirs is a hard fought tribute to the Sanctity of Life.

When our dear Lord came to earth, He blessed small families forever by choosing one for Himself. May we never cease to praise Him for the hidden violets in His heavenly garden.

Watching these two girls — my own daughters Theresa and Eileen — it struck me how unusual a thing it is these days to see sisters a decade apart.  My mind wandered back to a time in the almost-forgotten past:

My fiancé and I are leaning over black and white composition books, comparing the answers to questions asked of us at the Cana Conference Retreat.  We are completing an exercise meant to ensure we each know the other's plans for married life.  The first question reads:

"How many children do you hope to have?"

An optimistic "At least eight" appears in my feminine slant, and in my fiancé's masculine scrawl, "About half a dozen."

We both want a large family.  So far, so good.

The next question continues:

"How soon do you want to start a family?"

A confident "Right away" appears plainly in the feminine slant, but this time the masculine scrawl is nowhere to be seen.

What is the meaning of this, I wonder.  Aren't we both ready to start a family?

My fiancé looks at me seriously and explains, "I would love to begin a family right away, but my fear is that, years from now, you will remember the career you left behind and feel sorry.  I don't ever want you to have any regrets."

"I will never feel that way," I assure him with confidence.

"How do you know?"

"Because I know myself.  It would not be possible for me to feel that way."

And that was that.

I woke from my reverie to find my husband motioning something to me, his eyes twinkling meaningfully — our little boy was on the dance floor attempting the "Cotton Eye Joe" in awkward, oversized red snowboots (none of us had noticed his unconventional footwear until we arrived at the party).  We laughed as only two parents, united through the Sacrament of Matrimony, but also in infinite love for a child, can laugh.  Sitting there at that table, with our children dotting the dance floor like violets in a May meadow, we shared another moment among millions to remember the undeniable Truth of the Catechism: "Children are the supreme gift of marriage and contribute greatly to the good of the parents themselves" (CCC 1652).

And I secretly gloated thinking upon my own prescient words of self-awareness, "It would not be possible for me to feel that way."  Indeed, I never have and never will.

Years ago, I remember telling a dear friend and former classmate of mine we were expecting our first child.  She responded as our culture has taught her, and, as she heartily believed even without any real life experience, "What a waste!"

Please understand, as I repeat these words, they held no sting for me then or now.  I know, in fact, she meant them as a backhanded compliment, a tribute to my "worth."  Her sensibilities were steeped in society's pervasive notion that children should be, particularly for the educated woman, an afterthought, best left until prominence, profit and partnership are all checked off the to do list.  (Here I am not talking about the many mothers who sacrifice for the good of their families by working outside the home, but those trapped in a spiral of unnecessary ambition, postponing the deepest joys in life.)  My heart went out to her in honest sympathy, as I imagined her wearing her youth away, perhaps never tasting the joy I was already feeling just knowing a precious heart was even then beating beneath my own.

And what of that to do list?  What price would have been exacted for prominence, profit and partnership?

Prominence would have required my twenties.  The children of my twenties were Agnes, Theresa, and Margaret.

Profit would have sought my early thirties.  The children of my early thirties were Marie and Patrick.

Partnership's capital investment would have been paid during my late thirties.  The children of my late thirties were Catherine and Eileen.

Somehow, I think I would have been working off the wrong list.

Is it any wonder I reaffirm today, but with even greater fervor and emphasis, that promise, spoken all those years ago:  "I will never feel that way.  It would be impossible for me to feel that way."

But this time, I am uttering a heartfelt Deo Gratias to go along with it.