It’s a fresh start, a chance to begin again, a chance to do better. It’s joyful confidence in God’s plan for me, even though I do not know the details of that plan. Hope is the virtue that breaks within us in the morning if the day is to have a blessed beginning. Hope says to us, “Press on! Go forth with faithfulness and be diligent in your tasks and then trust the result to God, knowing that God is all good, all the time.” Hope isn’t just something we think about heaven. Hope is for every day.

Like other virtues, hope can be cultivated in our lives and the lives of our children. I think it’s both a gift and a choice. We pray (and we teach our children to pray) for the grace to persevere in our duties, to be faithful to all the other virtues, and then we are blessed with the hope of happiness, both in this mortal life and in an eternal ever-after. In his “decalogue for daily living,” Blessed Pope John XXIII reminds us that we can wake each morning and assert with confidence, “I will be happy in the certainty that I was created to be happy, not only in the other world but also in this one.” The certainty! Begin a new school year knowing with certainty that we were created to be happy. That’s very hopeful!”

We can teach our children that when we are a people of hope, God doesn’t promise us that we won’t have to work hard and that we won’t suffer. Instead, He promises that He will be our companion and He will always help us to endure the suffering and the challenges that come with striving to live a holy life.

In “Spe Salvi,” the Holy Father’s encyclical on hope, he writes:

“We can try to limit suffering, to fight against it, but we cannot eliminate it. It is when we attempt to avoid suffering by withdrawing from anything that might involve hurt, when we try to spare ourselves the effort and pain of pursuing truth, love, and goodness that we drift into a life of emptiness, in which there may be almost no pain, but the dark sensation of meaninglessness and abandonment is all the greater. It is not by sidestepping or fleeing from suffering that we are healed, but rather by our capacity for accepting it, maturing through it, and finding meaning through union with Christ who suffered with infinite love.”

The start of a school year brings many new variables to the life of a family. There are new teachers and new coaches, new friends and new social challenges, new academic challenges and new ideas. In reality, with every child venturing forth into this world in the fall, the opportunities to suffer, to be hurt and to be challenged multiply like mushrooms in the rain. So, too, do the opportunities to see God’s goodness and His gracious providence when we need Him in the midst of trials. God will be there in every detail of the new year that lies ready and waiting. And that is why we hope with confidence. That is why we look forward with joy to the newness of it all.

It was Jenny Sanford who ultimately spoke words worth printing and pondering. Rare is the family whose painful drama is played out on the national stage the way the Sanford family’s will be, but all too common is the experience of living and loving and having to forgive something which at first seems unforgivable. Jenny Sanford took an opportunity to rise above her pain and set an example for all of us who endeavor to love our families the way Christ loves us.

“I believe wholeheartedly,” she said, “in the sanctity, dignity and importance of the institution of marriage. I believe that has been consistently reflected in my actions. When I found out about my husband’s infidelity I worked immediately to first seek reconciliation through forgiveness, and then to work diligently to repair our marriage. We reached a point where I felt it was important to look my sons in the eyes and maintain my dignity, self-respect, and my basic sense of right and wrong. I therefore asked my husband to leave two weeks ago.

“I believe enduring love is primarily a commitment and an act of will, and for a marriage to be successful, that commitment must be reciprocal. I believe Mark has earned a chance to resurrect our marriage.

“Psalm 127 states that sons are a gift from the Lord and children a reward from Him. I will continue to pour my energy into raising our sons to be honorable young men. I remain willing to forgive Mark completely for his indiscretions and to welcome him back, in time, if he continues to work toward reconciliation with a true spirit of humility and repentance.”

Jenny Sanford is a leader in the truest sense of the word. In a society where relationships are cast aside just as soon as they require work, she is ready to roll up her sleeves and act as if “love” is a verb — a messy, scrappy, tough, working-class verb. All husbands and wives and, indeed, all parents and children, can read the statement above and know that chances are good there will come a time in the life of a family to be reminded that “love is primarily a commitment and an act of will.”

Almost as soon as Gov. Sanford spoke, the cry went out that this is not how a Christian man behaves. In one particularly convoluted “discussion,” I heard conservative pundits saying that he should at least have the decency to leave his wife and allow her to start fresh. Seems to me that would be the easy road.

True, as people of God, we are called to a higher moral code. We’re not supposed to sin. By definition, though, Christians are sinners in need of a Savior. We are broken. We need healing. We need the Great Physician. We need Christ. And we need to be Christ to one another.

We will disappoint each other. Husbands will disappoint their wives and wives will disappoint their husbands. Children will hurt their parents by the choices they make. And parents, too, will never be perfect. We are fallen people surrounded by fallen people and if we keep at this long enough, like Jenny Sanford, chances are good that we will find ourselves in a place where we “seek the wisdom of Solomon, the strength and patience of Job and the grace of God in helping to heal (a) family.” Thank God we can seek those things in prayer and be assured that our Lord will provide them.

Often, when I look for ways to inspire virtue in my children, I find instead that virtue is inspired in me first. This one hit me between the eyes. St. Jean Vianney piqued my interest immediately by pointing to the example of a favorite saint. He wrote, “St. Francis de Sales, that great saint, would leave off writing with the letter of a word half-formed in order to reply to an interruption.” Hey, Elizabeth, saints don’t say “just a minute” and then finish writing the sentence or the paragraph or the entire post or project while toddlers melt down and little boys wrestle. They leave the letters half-formed.

Since neither St. Jean Vianney nor St. John Bosco was a mother who worked at home, it probably wasn’t little girls with big blue eyes and crazy curls who interrupted them. No, they probably put their pen down for older people, people who really could wait. People who pretty much didn’t depend on them for the whole world. But my small people depend on me for everything and still I sometimes see them as interruptions.

Surely children must learn to wait; I don’t dispute that fact. Often, though, adults must learn to stop and see the child and to respond with careful attention and thoughtful gentleness. Children can teach us to be present in the moment. They can require us to slow down and truly listen, because, frankly, no one can readily understand a two-year-old without focusing and looking at context and listening carefully and asking clarifying questions. No one can listen to a two-year-old with absentminded attention while attempting to multi-task and really understand what the child is saying. And neither mother nor child grows in virtue if interruptions are met with anger.

Children can teach us gentleness, if only we have teachable spirits. Gentle mothers make an effort to speak softly and less often, to listen carefully and more often. Mothers who are able to permeate the atmosphere of their homes with gentleness can see God’s hand when a child interrupts her work. As the monastery bell calls a monk, the child calls Mother to service and her work with the child becomes a prayer. If she is wise, she will see opportunity to grow in holiness in every interruption. She will count every call to gentleness over exasperation a blessing.

Father John Hardon reminded us, “Gentleness is the virtue that restrains the passion of anger. Over the centuries it has been variously described. Sometimes poetically, sometimes theologically. Where anger flares up, gentleness calms down. Where anger is a bursting flame, gentleness is a gentle rain. Where anger asserts itself and crushes, gentleness embraces and quiets and soothes — yet as we hear these and similar descriptions of gentleness we are liable to make the mistake as I dare say so much of the modern world makes the mistake of identifying gentleness with weakness.”

It is not a weak woman who is gentle when her home is bustling with activity and several people are dependent upon her for their very existence. It is a strong woman who gathers the grace necessary to respond with goodness and gentleness and brings peace to her family. This summer, I pray for the strength to be gentle.

First of all, I don’t have a reality TV show. As much of my family as I share in this column and on my blog, I don’t live my life publicly. Families are places for little people and big people to grow. In the heart of a family, we all make mistakes, seek and find forgiveness, and learn to be more like God. It’s very difficult to do all of that with a camera trained on you.

Karoline is two now and she is certainly struggling to find her “church voice.” I remarked to Mike that it was my intent to spend the entire time before Mass practicing a reverent whisper with her. We began in the lower Crypt Church. Everyone lined up outside the confessional and one by one, we each went in to receive the full offering of grace available there. Everyone, that is, except for Karoline. She protested. In her strong, clear voice, she declared, “I had my half birthday! I am big enough to sin and I want to go to confession, too!” The nuns waiting in line with us laughed so hard without appearing to laugh that they had tears in their eyes.

From the confessional, we made our way to the Crypt Church. There is a statue there, with a small fountain. Karoline blessed herself with the water; she’s very proud of her ability to make the sign of the cross. Then, noting the money in the bottom of the fountain, she asked if I had a penny to throw. I did not. “That’s all right,” she declared in that all-too-loud voice, “I’ll recycle one.” And she reached in shoulder deep to retrieve a penny. We fished her out before she was swimming and reminded her again of church manners.

We made our way up to Upper Church for Mass. It was the Memorial Day Mass and the Knights of Columbus were there in full regalia. As they solemnly processed in and lined the altar at a salute, Karoline noted their hats, “Oh, it’s beautiful. A purple hat with feathers. It’s my favorite color. I want a hat like that.” Thank goodness the music trumpeted above my sweet child’s still loud voice.

We lasted in the pew until the homily began. Then, Miss Noisy asked to hold the baby. I sternly shook my head and put my finger to my lips to remind her to be quiet. Her lip quivered. “I love my baby. I need to hold her.” Three ladies in front of us turned around. My cue to leave. I took the baby and Karoline to the Queen of Ireland chapel. This has long been a favorite. I remember Katie sitting with me there when she was Karoline’s age. I nursed the baby. Karoline talked to Mary. At first, she was whispering, but as she grew more excited her voice rose. Finally, she burst into song:” Jesus, Mary, Joseph, too. Watch over me and all I do! Help me be like you each day…” Her voice rang out, clear and true, and she was just out of reach as I tried to disconnect the nursing baby and get to her. I reminded her that we were in church. She noted that this statue, too, had pennies just waiting to be recycled.

We walked past a small rosary chapel. Karoline went in and knelt ever so quietly. She had her brief moment with Mary and skipped away. I adjusted the baby in her sling and hastened to keep up. We stopped briefly and watched the altar from the back of the church. “Karoline,” I whispered, “let’s just wait here quietly. I don’t want to miss Jesus.”

“Oh, Mommy,” she informed me, loudly enough for all to hear, “I’m so sorry. Don’t you remember? We had Easter. He’s already in heaven.” Back out to the vestibule.

Now, there was a darling two-year-old girl in the rosary chapel, dancing. She beamed at us in the doorway. Karoline graciously accepted her invitation. I stepped inside to find another mother, nursing a baby, drinking in the utter beauty of this place, and trying to enjoy a child’s enthusiasm while instruct on the finer points of good behavior. Kinship.

Not long after, we went back into the church for communion. Mary Beth carried Karoline, who was crying by now and insistent that she wanted Jesus for her tummy, too. Out the back door, one last time.

As we made our way back to the Queen of Ireland Chapel and her darling Holy Toddler, I kept my own toddler firmly by the hand, sweet baby going along for the ride in her sling. Karoline dragged me past the statue of St. Therese, undoubtably eager to return to fountain and the pennies. I couldn’t stop to read the St. Therese prayer suggested there. But the Little Flower and I are good friends, so my mind began to whirl all the same. This curly-headed two-year-old is named Karoline Rose. Her middle name is “Rose,” because we believe that she is indeed a rose sent to us through the intercession of St. Therese. It is fitting then I was reminded me that the dear saint said:

“For me, prayer is a surge of the heart; it is a simple look turned toward Heaven, it is a cry of recognition and of love,… I have not the courage to look through books for beautiful prayers…. I do as a child who has not learned to read, I just tell our Lord all that I want and He understands.”

All I can do is offer observations from experience gained in more than 20 years of parenting a large family. From my own experience, in my own house, my overriding parenting principle is to stay close to your children and to stay close to God. It’s simple advice, but not easy advice.

In the excellent book, Hold On to Your Kids, the authors write:

“No matter what problem or issue we face in parenting, our relationship with our children should be the highest priority. Children do not experience our intentions, no matter how heartfelt. They experience what we manifest in tone and behavior. We cannot assume that children will know what our priorities are: we live our priorities.

“Many a child for whom the parents feel unconditional love receives the message that this love is very conditional indeed … unconditional acceptance is the most difficult to convey exactly when it is most needed: when our children have disappointed us, violated our values or made themselves odious to us. Precisely at such times, we must indicate, in word or gesture, that the child is more important than what he does.”

There are two aspects to staying attached to children that I want to unpack from that quote. And then, I’ll look at staying close to God.

The first aspect of attachment is that we absolutely have to be honest with the way we spend our time. If our families are our first priority, then we need to devote more time and attention to them than anything else (except Our Lord — but I think we serve God when we serve our families). That means that every time we are presented with a choice about how to spend time — and there are countless times every single day — we choose according to priority. It’s not a stretch to say that most parents don’t do this. They choose work. They choose adult social relationships. They choose hobbies.

“But I need to work to support them!” goes up the cry. “But I need friends, too!” “But I need to pursue a creative outlet or a sport of my own.” Of course you do. So do I. It’s disordered, however, to ignore our children in order to support them. It’s ridiculous to spend more time developing and nurturing relationships with our neighbors, while our precious child gets the leftovers of our social attention. It’s silly to devote time to creative or athletic endeavors to the neglect of the children we co-created with God. It is up to each of us to discern if we truly manage our time according to our professed priorities.

The second aspect of attachment addressed in the quote is the idea that we love our children even when we don’t love what they do. This seems so simple and every parent I know would affirm that they do, indeed, love their children unconditionally. But many a child would tell you that they don’t know that.

I was in a fast food restaurant the other day. I spoke with six of my children at the table before leaving them to go order our food. I made my expectations for behavior clear. This was one of those times when all the stars lined up and every single one of them was good as gold. Sometimes, it happens. Actually, often it happens, and it has very little to do with the stars and everything to do with how hard we work as a family at behaving well so that we can all enjoy each other. The man in the booth next to them was not enjoying his children. And he told them so. He pointed to mine and asked his why they couldn’t be more like mine. Then, he looked at me and said, “You’re really lucky. You have good kids.”

I caught the eyes of his children and I wanted to cry. His implication was that he did not have good kids. I am certain that this man loved his kids, but if I had been his child at that moment, I would have asked myself if my dad valued me at all or if he valued some stranger’s children more than me.

One thing is certain: I wouldn’t be inclined to go out of my way to be particularly well-behaved for him. If he acted that way often enough, I’d just give up, resign myself to never “winning” his love and move on to other relationships. The best case scenario would find me flourishing in a relationship of well-expressed unconditional love away from my father. The worst case scenario would find me in a string of hurtful relationships. Chances are good I’d not be inclined to behave well.

The point is that everything we say and every behavior we manifest toward our children has an effect on them for good or ill. They feel and absorb our every action. We need to act with them in mind, every single time. Parenting with empathy is good parenting. Period.

We need to stay close to our children and we need to stay close to God. Attachment parenting requires sacrifice. God is the expert at sacrifice. There is no mentor better than Christ on the cross. We are good parents when we embrace our vocations with our whole beings; when we see that there is no greater privilege than to be someone’s parents; when we love wholeheartedly, unabashedly and with the self-donation of the Savior Himself.

There was the baseball coach who insisted that a parent must be present for the entirety of every practice and every game. When it was pointed out that he was making baseball inaccessible to any child with a sibling (or eight) playing other sports, he just repeated the policy.

There was a basketball coach who was clearly “disappointed” we were unavailable for a tournament Easter weekend. There was a frank conversation about the way Christian young ladies behave when we were confronted with young ladies who clearly hadn’t had such a discussion. Everywhere I turned it seemed, the big, Catholic family was sticking out like a sore thumb. I felt it and so did my children.

Those are the times my husband and I genuinely smile all the brighter and remind ourselves that this life is a blessing — that the crosses, though real and rough and heavy, are our privilege to carry. I want to run for the hills, to build a house on the mountain and gather my children around me.

It’s a lot of work to interact with so many people who touch the lives of my many children and don’t understand why we live the way we do. Instead, I try mightily to smile and give an authentic Christian witness with my entire being. Those are the teaching opportunities, the chances to show the children by example that being Catholic isn’t something we do for an hour on Sundays, nor is it something we do when it’s convenient. Being Catholic is who we are, all the time.

I think that’s why it was particularly disturbing to me this week when Georgetown University shrank from its Catholic identity. Instead of proudly being Catholic for the world to see, instead of proclaiming itself Christian, the prestigious Catholic university cowered in the corner like Peter before the cock crowed. True, they didn’t honor the president with a degree the way Notre Dame plans to do. Instead, they just obliterated Christ.

According to news reports, President Obama asked that the “IHS” inscribed behind where he was speaking be covered. The White House made it clear that the monogram, which stands for the Greek translation for Jesus Christ, not be visible to cameras. It was covered over with a piece of black painted plywood, which remained in place even the next day. As a parent who teaches her children to be authentically Catholic every day, I am dismayed at Georgetown’s decision. I don’t take down my crucifix or hide my statues when non-Catholics come to visit.

From a purely secular perspective, I might even understand why Obama would ask to have the IHS covered. It’s a politically-motivated, misguided communication strategy. Such a request is disrespectful to the host, but I understand it.

What I don’t understand is why Georgetown would agree. To remove the ancient symbolism of Jesus Christ Himself from a Catholic institution in order to placate one of the most extreme anti-life, pro-abortion-under-any-circumstance politicians in the history of the our country shows a clear lack of character.

They could have said, “No, we won’t deny Jesus at the nation’s oldest Catholic university. Respectfully, Mr. President, you’ll need to find another place to deliver your speech.” We practice responses like that with our children all the time. Perhaps if the folks who make decisions at Georgetown were made to practice authentic Catholic responses, they, too could answer readily in defense of the Faith.

Perhaps Catholic University spokesman Victor Nakas would coach them. He said, “I can’t imagine, as the bishops’ university and the national university of the Catholic Church that we would ever cover up our religious art or signage for any reason. Our Catholic Faith is integral to our identity as an institution of higher education.”

On Good Friday, when I talked with my children about Peter’s denial of Christ, and then we prayed the Stations of the Cross, my 8-year-old’s eyes filled with tears.

“Why,” he cried, “why didn’t anyone step in? Why didn’t the Apostles stop them? Why did everyone just let Jesus die?”

In this country, He’s dying again and again and again. It’s time to speak up before the cock crows.

It started Sept. 23. That was the first day of bedrest. For six weeks, I was confined to my house, my room, my bed. And then, there was a baby. And I was confined to the hospital, to the well-worn path to the NICU. We brought that sweet baby home. And the doctor said solemnly, “Keep her inside, away from crowds, and out of public places until the end of flu season. Probably late March, early April.”

I was going to be stuck at home until Easter. I tried not to cry. I reminded myself that I am an introvert, a homebody. I got to know the extraordinary ministers of the Eucharist. I counted my blessings and there were many.

But, slowly, I started to feel it creep in. The cold. The loneliness. My walls grew closer around me. The baby fussed. The big kids acted needier than the baby. I resolutely told myself a hundred times a day that this was not postpartum depression. We hit rock bottom.

A Package arrived in the mail. A lovely Package. A Package that made me smile to see the name in the sender’s corner and brought tears to my eyes when I saw what it contained. It was a hat and booties — a darling hat that fit just perfectly. A hat with sweet hearts over baby’s ears. Ah, but I sighed. We never go anywhere. And an urgent need made itself known. I had to get out of this house with the baby. I had to go somewhere worthy of The Hat.

Yesterday was one of my top five worst home-schooling days ever. And I can’t even think of what the other four are. As I went to sleep last night, I remembered The Hat. I told Mike that I was taking the children to Bull Run.

Bull Run — Home of the Bluebells — is the place where we go every year to herald the spring. It’s the place where I am happy and relaxed and content just to be. It’s our springtime. Gently, the love of my life reminded me that the forecast called for cold drizzle. Doesn’t matter. I have The Hat. I had to be at Bull Run.

The day dawned a bit gray and windy, but not all that cold. The forecast was for rain by noon. No bother. I was up early. I had The Hat. I told the children the plan. Nicholas balked. He doesn’t like rain. It’s not a typical “not like” — it’s sort of a “thing” with him. It’s a really big deal “not like.” I wasn’t going to fight it. I told him he could stay home with Patrick. No matter. This wasn’t about them. It was about me. And my baby. And my place. And the Hat.

We took the familiar road and parked at a familiar place. We hiked in to “our spot,” all the while noting how gray it all seemed. The landscape had changed. The log I posed the children on every year had decayed to the point that no one could sit there. Right next to it, however, a new tree had fallen — bigger and sturdier and longer. “Just perfect,” Katie declared. “There are too many of us now for the old log anyway.”

Several trees had fallen. The top of their favorite climbing tree was now laying across the river. I thought of those windstorms last month, the tree that fell and claimed the life of a beloved pastor. I heard trees creaking around me and branches snapping in the not too distant distance. Good thing Nicholas stayed home, after all; he would not have enjoyed this time at all. We tried mightily to find signs of spring. There were a few small buds and some tiny shoots.

I snuggled my sleeping baby (she sleeps?) and breathed deeply of the fresh air. Oh how this place speaks to me, even in its grayness. I thought of how much I missed it last fall, when the leaves were changing color, and my only glimpse of fall came in my inbox through the kindness of a friend’s photos. I remembered my long talks with God and how I begged Him to grant me many springtimes to hang out with my children in the woods. I thought about how much I wanted to walk that trail with this baby. I breathed gratitude. And hope.

I just sat there, nibbled on pistachios, and watched the delight of my two-year-old as she saw this place anew. Marveling at the familiarity and the changes, I understood that this place is ever old and ever new. My children looked different to me in the natural light. They were sweet and innocent and silly and fun. The baby slept soundly on my chest, warm and loved beneath The Hat. My head cleared. My shoulders relaxed. I had faith that I could cast aside the grayness of winter and reach confidently for the holiness of spring.

[There we were], on the eve of the Triduum, with Love ready to burst into bloom. My baby is fat and happy and healthy. Our long days of silence and solitude are nearly over. Easter! Soon, very soon, I will embrace the world that waits with a heart made new. I will rise with the waiting Church and turn my face towards the Son.

I was overwhelmed by all the details of daily life and I didn’t want to lose the peace and clarity that prayer had brought to my time of bedrest before the birth of our baby girl. Now, let’s look at the fourth key. Moms with newborns are notorious for being sleep-deprived and I’m no exception. To the typical newborn waking, I’ve added the nighttime parenting that comes with having teenagers in the house. We truly burn the candle at both ends here.

So, it strikes me a bit funny to write about how to get a good night’s sleep. This component does not guarantee your baby will sleep, nor does it guarantee your teenager will sleep. It does, however, bring peace to the sleep your children allow you to have.

In our house, we like to end the day with family prayer. Often, we are praying a seasonal novena. Patmos publishes a beautiful book called Night Prayerbook: Compline, which pulls the compline from the Liturgy of the Hours, offering a perfect way for families to end their day praying with the universal Church. This is a brief 10- or 15-minute prayer time that isn’t too long for small children.

After the children are off to bed, with their own bedtime prayers said, I do my own examination of conscience. I have some favorite tools for this — books I have gathered over the years that are now out of print and even examens written by friends of mine who are also committed to striving for holiness. I also look at the resolution made during my meditation time. Was I successful in doing what I resolved to do?

This period of self-scrutiny at the end of the day has practical purpose. After looking at both my failures and my successes, I can put the day to rest. I can offer a sincere act of contrition for my sins, beg for help with the things that cause me to struggle and give thanks for the good things in my day. And then, I can literally close the book on the day, grateful for its blessings and hopeful for the one that follows it.

I don’t have much trouble getting to sleep — my days are busy and active and my time of prayer before bed usually brings me peace. Many years ago, I acquired a habit that ensures that I fall asleep in the presence of God. I pray myself to sleep. I’m careful not to make these prayers spontaneous prayers. A spontaneous prayer before sleep more often than not becomes a laundry list of all the things that might cause me anxiety the next day.

For me, it’s better to pray rote prayers before bed. It’s not uncommon to awaken with the rosary in the bed. My favorite prayers before sleep are the rosary — though I rarely can say a whole rosary before nodding off — or a St. Anne’s chaplet. I know that if I fall asleep before I finish the prayers, God smiles at me, pulls up the covers, kisses me goodnight and listens as my guardian angel completes the prayers for the day.