At the back of our lot is “God’s little acre,” a section loaded with brush and brambles as far as little eyes can see. Wild blackberries ripe for the picking — and every time they bring in a Cool Whip carton full, I pull out a little “Mommy Magic” and whip up a pie.

Now, many days I will send them out into the acre so I can have fifteen minutes of peace and quiet to do something daring, like scrub the kitchen floor. But today, I went with them.

Clambering down the back steps leading down from the deck, Christopher turns and gives me a quizzical expression. “I can’t believe it.”

“Can’t believe what, Sweetie?”

“You came outside. You NEVER come out here with us. You never go outside.” (Which of course was not the truth, but perception is reality.) “But today . . . you came with us!”

Three cheers for Mommy. Who by this time is feeling more than a bit chagrined. Of COURSE I go outside! But I was determined to make THIS adventure a memorable one.

“So… where are we going?”  Sarah took me by the hand and led me through the prickers. (Ouch.) Squished up to our ankles in mud. (Yuck.) Listened intently for buzzing or hissing or any other evidence of wildlife. (Eek.)

Finally … There it was. The fairy castle. Right beside a bend in the “river” (a little spring bubbling out of the ground), a natural rise in the ground surrounded by wild grapevines. “You know what would be fun, Mommy?” pipes Sarah. “A PICNIC! Peanut-butter sandwiches, and Rice Krispie bars, and grapes. An CREAM soda!”

Both kids looked at me expectantly. It was only nine o’clock, but suddenly a picnic seemed the most reasonable thing in the world. Must have been all the fairy dust … “Okay, kids. Let’s do it.”

“Oh, boy!!! We get to be the BOSS today!”

And so, “Bossing Day” was born.  We went inside and made our picnic, went to the Fairy Castle, and listened to the birds. Then we changed our clothes and headed for the library, and picked up a half-dozen books about Mackinac Island, and went to the park to read them.

We played “spider” and examined spider webs and got Dum-Dums at the post office. We went to McDonalds and tried on sneakers at Meiers, and I even let Sarah pick out the “cover-up” I needed for our outing to the Grand Hotel next week. (Yards and yards of black, flowing material to cover yards and yards of white, flowing body.)

Finally, we headed to the mall and I promised them we’d go bungee jumping (kiddy style) if they would sit VERY quietly while I got my hair cut. So Sarah brought in four “Biscuit” books and Christopher took in his Judy Blume (he’s on a Blume kick lately) … and, lo and behold, I discovered it IS possible to get a decent haircut while your children are watching. Who knew?

All in all, it was a very good day . . . almost all of it kid-directed. We talked about books they were reading, and what they wanted to do this summer, and what they think about late at night, and all kinds of stuff kids will talk about when you REALLY listen.

As parents, all too often we can get so caught up in the daily stressors of parenting that we forget to find the joy of it. Bit by bit, the deadly sins of anger, gluttony, envy, and pride creep in and rob us of the contentment found in reveling in the gift of the present moment. The book of Galatians, St. Paul reminds us …

For you were called for freedom, brothers and sisters.
But do not use this freedom
as an opportunity for the flesh;
rather, serve one another through love.

Note to self:  Schedule more “Bossing Days” into our summer schedule.

As the Judice family anticipated little Eli’s arrival, Dad Chad — a basketball coach for a local Catholic high school — began writing of how that unborn baby renewed the faith and invigorated the devotion not only of their own family, but of the entire school community. In the words of Mr. Judice: “God [uses] . . . the weakest, the most powerless, and fragile among us to bring a community to Himself.”

As we look ahead to Father’s Day, we honor such men among us, men who act courageously to protect and provide. Sometimes — as in the case of Chad Judice — those men share a biological link with their children. Other times, fatherhood is of a spiritual, rather than biological, origin. In either case, the connection is breathtakingly “real.”

Children in families formed through adoption, foster care, or remarriage experience this special kind of love. Love in action, lived out according to the credo of my own parents when they learned we were going to foster-adopt a sibling group, “You bring ‘em to us, we’ll love ‘em.”  And so they have. And so they do.

This kind of self-donating love is a rare and beautiful gift — perhaps especially in men, who express it distinctively, in strength and security. We see it in the men who “mentor” fatherless children in their churches and communities, playing ball and helping with homework and leading Scout troops. In men who fix the sinks and mow the lawns and install cribs for families whose husbands have been deployed. In men who become teachers, daily offering their students a living example of manhood that boys with fathers are absent or neglectful desperately need.

And men like Chad Judice, sentries of courage and witnesses to truth, no matter what the cost. Thank God for such extraordinary fathers.

Like most adoptive mothers who hear this question, my heart broke a little. I couldn’t help but agree with my daughter. Lord, why DID you not see fit to send my children to me directly? Why did they have to bear so much neglect and suffering before we found each other?

There are no easy answers for this, certainly not within the boundaries of my own personalized sense of justice.  So I improvised. “Sweetheart, when God sends each baby into the world, He sends three things along: a special gift to share, a special burden to carry, and a special job to do before she goes back to God.  It’s all a part of a story that belongs to no one else in the world.”

Surely the scars that were inflicted on my children in those early months have no redeeming value, in and of themselves, no lasting sense of good. Yet those months, too, are a part of my children’s story.  Part of the job they have to do, the burden they need to carry, the gift they will share.

I was reminded of this conversation again the other day when I came across this story of Lin Yu Chun, the portly Taiwanese crooner who at 23 took the world (via YouTube) by storm.

Like last year’s British sensation, Susan Boyle, Lin’s appearance belies the gift inside.  His bowl-on-the-head haircut, rotund physique, and slightly pigeon-toed stance don’t exactly shriek “Super Star.” And yet Lin reminds us that sometimes God puts miracles in the unlikeliest of places.

For Lin, that gift must have seemed burdensome at times.  Imagine 15 or 16-year-old Lin getting picked on in the schoolyard because his pure, clear soprano had not yet “hit the basement” like his peers. “Hollywood Gossip” reports:

“Lin … suffered from a lack of self-esteem growing up because ‘being fat draws a lot of mockery in our society.’ However, those difficult times helped the aspiring singer hone his talent. To cope with the taunts from peers, Chun locked himself in his room and sang along to hits by Celine Dion and Mariah Carey.”

The gift, the burden, and the task: these three combine to accomplish a perfection God first designed in us, a quality uniquely our own.  No cookie-cutter saints and sinners, we are called to be a distinct expression of the creative, providential, life-giving love of God at every stage of our lives.

“Why wasn’t I born in your tummy, Mommy?”  Why did Susan Boyle spend the first forty years in an obscure church choir, tending to her elderly mother alone? Why did Lin Yu Chun spend his teenage years fending off the taunts of his schoolmates?  It’s all part of a story still to unfold.

What’s your story?

Rather than do something to incite additional road rage, I smiled and waved in my friendliest fashion, as though greeting a long-lost friend.  Then I rolled down my window and motioned her to do the same. Reluctantly, she did.

“Hello! I’m so sorry about the light,” I began.  “I was just at a funeral, and I guess it shook me more than I realized.”

The woman’s shoulders sagged visibly.  “I’m sorry for beeping,” she said. “My brother died yesterday, and I’m not myself.  I’m sorry for your loss.”

The light changed, and our cars pulled away from one another.  Each of us still carried a burden of grief – but thanks to our exchange, the added burden of anger was gone.

As we enter Holy Week, the thrill of Palm Sunday gives way to the sober dread of Good Friday.  The cross must have loomed larger than life as Jesus anticipated the physical and emotional torture that was in store for Him.  On a purely human level, it would have been impossible not to be petrified, offering context for His agonized plea in the Garden:  “If it be possible, let this cup pass from me.”

But the cup did not pass. His was the unhappy lot to drain every last distasteful drop, to fulfill the role that He had willingly taken up, at His Father’s bequest: to become the Lamb of God.

All along that Via Dolorosa, whispers of grace were sent with momentary consolations:  the Cyrene who shouldered His burden to spare Him the weight upon His wounded shoulders, the woman (whose deeds are not recounted explicitly in Scripture) who wiped His face of blood and sweat, the sight of the disciple He loved best tending to the needs of the Blessed Mother, the Woman He loved most.

Even so, the Lord’s brain must have felt Jell-O-like, barely able to take in what was going on around Him.  Each step required His full attention, each word spoken with the economy of suffering as His mind struggled to make sense of it all.

Finally, at the last, He clung to a final bedrock truth: “Into Your hands I commit my spirit.”  At the last, He did not turn away from the One He knew could be trusted, in spite of it all.  He did not spit out His life in bitterness, but submitted Himself to the mystery of what His Father had promised.

And so, dear readers, must we.  This week I’ve been walking alongside a couple of friends trudging along a Via Dolorosa of their own.  As much as I want to lift their burdens from them, in the end I can only minister a temporary balm, like Veronica and Simon.  The path itself is theirs to walk.

There is no choice in the matter.  We must get through this, one agonized step at a time.  For, in the words of a wise deacon friend of mine, “Without Good Friday, there is no Easter joy.”

Have a blessed Holy Week!

[Looking for a memorable First Communion gift?  Heidi’s latest book, My Big Book of Catholic Bible Stories, is available through her website. Just click here.]

This fictitious account, which has elements of a true story that TIME magazine covered in 2008, "The Pregnancy Pact" is difficult, but necessary, viewing for families with teenagers – especially those whose teens are dating.

I started watching the movie just waiting for the current wisdom: "They’re gonna do it no matter what, so give ‘em condoms so they don’t ruin their lives." And for the first hour, that did seem to be the way the movie was going.

Fortunately, the Lorraine Dougan character (Nancy Davis), offered a sympathetic – and credible – middle road, a woman who passionately believed in abstinence before marriage, and the danger of offering contraception, and finds herself on the horns of a dilemma when her own daughter becomes pregnant. And the reporter – whose own pregnancy has clearly had lifelong affects on her own journey – provides a point of view that provides additional conversation points. (The outcome of that pregnancy isn’t revealed until the last five minutes, and I don’t want to address that here and spoil the movie….)

What I liked about this movie is that it reminds families of the importance of talking – really talking – with their teens BEFORE trouble brews. As Catholic parents, we hold ourselves (and our children) to high moral standards. In truth, we often expect our children’s moral boundaries to exceed what we observed at their age, in part because we now see the dangers of youthful impulses. And yet, wishing doesn’t make those impulses go away. Our kids need to know how to cope with those impulses in a real, adult way – with a full appreciation of how short-term actions can have long-term consequences.

Our job as parents is to help our kids form long-term plans for their future, and to understand how their present actions can help or dash those plans. Our daughters and sons, both. They need to understand how our own dreams were helped or hindered because of the choices we made early in life. Not just sexual choices – all choices.

Our daughters need to understand the difference between infatuation (based on strong feelings that pass with time) and true love (based on a lifetime of sacrifice) – in order to understand WHY sex is a gift that is best expressed within marriage. They must understand that the gift of sex, misused, makes it difficult or impossible to think clearly about whether the young man they are dating is the best choice for a lifetime partner. (I thought the children’s book "The Princess and the Kiss" was a wonderful introduction to this message.)

The idea that these messages should be impressed on our daughters in a unique way will raise some eyebrows. Shouldn’t the message be stressed equally with boys and girls? Although boys are responsible for their sexual choices, the lion’s share of the consequences of misused sexuality usually falls squarely on young women. Therefore, the girl must set the pace of the relationship, knowing that their ability to bring life into the world carries a singular responsibility. Only she can choose – a choice that begins not with whether to become a parent, but whether to become sexually active.

And it is up to us, their mothers, to give them ALL the information they need so they have a full understanding of why these choices are so critical. Simply saying, "Don’t" isn’t enough. The challenges of engaging our daughters in dialogue are real. While God’s law is absolute, human nature is frail. Our daughters need to understand in concrete, practical terms the nature of both our hopes and our fears for their lives – based on our own experience. They need guidance, acceptance, and love. Above all, they need to be heard if we want them to listen.

If sex feels good, and makes you feel connected to the one you love … why does God want us to save it for marriage? Why not get closer to the one you love right now, and let that love grow INTO marriage? And if all I ever want to be is a mother, why not start now? And if he says he loves me, why shouldn’t I?

Let the conversation begin there.

The Faithful, Wounded Heart

Frankly, by the time I met my husband at the age of 34, my heart had so many battle scars, it was a wonder that I had anything left to offer him.  Each of us had memories and habits to overcome.  And by the grace of God, through the sacrament of matrimony, we built a life together, choosing each day to trust in the fidelity we had promised to one another.  A decade has passed, and we are still learning what it means to give of ourselves completely in authentic, life-long love.  Some days I wonder if I will ever catch up to my husband, who exhibits heroic virtue in the areas I am weakest, such as patience and compassion and gentleness and self-control.  It really can be trying … then again, I’m sure I’m no picnic.

Because of our respective pasts, some scars run so deep that there is really no getting rid of them entirely, though marriage has in a very real way been a sacrament of healing as well as vocation.  Every once in a while a twinge resurfaces. Which raises an important question:  When such memories resurface, what is a faithful soul to do? What does fidelity demand?

Have you ever wondered this? If so, pick up a copy of Elena Maria Vidal’s The Night’s Dark Shade. When the heroine’s fiancé and father die in battle, so crushed is Lady Raphaelle that nothing is left for her but duty. Day after anguished day she trudges along and hopes for … if not the best, at least a measure of peace.  Instead she finds herself trapped by circumstances, surrounded by “good Christians” who do not reverence the cross, bear witness to the goodness of creation, or regard pregnancy as a gift to be embraced within marriage.

In the words of King Solomon, there is truly “nothing new under the sun.” Although Vidal’s latest novel is set in medieval France, The Night’s Dark Shade is richly textured with two perennial truths: From one generation to the next, faith and love are tested by any number of devilish counterfeits.  And each in turn discovers that the surest pathway to happiness lies not in surrender to the sham, but in resistance.

Vidal has a loyal following of readers because of her lyrical, thoroughly Catholic treatment of medieval French history. Her first two novels, Trianon and Madame Royale, offer unexpected glimpses into the life and faith of Marie Antoinette and her extended family.  The Night’s Dark Shade examines a different period of history, and yet this book also raises important questions and draws connections that are as relevant now as they were hundreds of years ago.  Well worth reading.

The Night’s Dark Shade and Elena Maria Vidal’s other novels are available through Amazon.com or directly through the publisher; be sure to peruse her blog, Tea at Trianon, as well.

[CE editor's note: Elana Maria Vidal's first two books are available in CE's online store. Click here for Trianon and Madame Royale, Also be sure to see the interview with the author here.]

A supersized black kid wearing shorts and a polo shirt, carrying a plastic grocery sack, wandered aimlessly in the frigid night air.  He had run from multiple foster homes, most recently from a black family that had gotten him into Briarcrest Christian School.  (The football coach had taken one look at Big Mike and seen next season’s star offensive left tackle, not realizing the boy had never touched a football, and was in fact a “big marshmallow.”)

Alone and penniless, Big Mike spent the following weeks just trying to survive. Then one night, alone on a deserted road, an affluent white family, the Tuohys, found Michael and brought him home. “It’s just for one night, right?” Sean Tuohy (Tim McGraw) asked his wife, Leigh Anne (Sandra Bullock).  Sitting beside me in the theater, my husband chuckled. “I know that look,” he whispered to me. He was right. Michael stayed.

Now, Michael was not good at many things.  He could barely read.  He didn’t know how to study.  He rarely talked.  And, much to the chagrin of the football coach, he didn’t know what to do with a football.  But he was good at one thing:  he had strong, protective instincts.  With family, “I’ve got your back.” 

And that one, single gift – his drive to protect – set his life’s course with an unforgettable story of second chances and redemption.

Life Behind the Christmas Card

When the Tuohys found Michael on that deserted road, my eyes filled with tears as I thought of the thousands of kids like Michael, who never get a ride home.  Thought of how much better this world would be if more families were like Michael’s adoptive family.

There were a million reasons for them not to get involved – what people might think, what Michael might do, the fact that he was a chronic runaway.  Despite their best efforts and intentions, they could never hope to relate to him and to assimilate him into their family as a black family would.  Indeed, some accused the Tuohys of exploiting and controlling the young man for their own selfish purposes. And yet, they needed only one good reason to act: because Michael needed them.  

Blind Side is a heartwarming story, without a doubt.  I hope that it will inspire hundreds of families to go out and adopt a teenager in need of a home.  And yet, they should also be aware that “life behind the Christmas card” is rarely so idyllic.  Most kids touched by the state system don’t fold their sheets neatly on the sofa in the morning.  They don’t seat themselves at the dining room table while the rest of the family eats Thanksgiving dinner on TV trays.  They do remember the past, and the family from which they were torn so violently and permanently.

And yet, if the past is painful, the future for these children is truly a nightmare in the making. For every Michael Oher, there are hundreds of others who never get that hand up, never have someone to care whether they make something of themselves.  Instead they languish in children’s homes, or worse.  They become one more name on a social worker’s caseload.  If they’re lucky.

And until more families – black, white, and every other color – step forward, willing to risk loving a scared and troubled teenager out of love for Christ, the best we can hope for is that these children never make the headlines for a far more ignoble reason. 

Every child deserves a family.  Every child deserves a safe and loving home.  Every child deserves to grow up with the unshakable conviction that from the moment of conception God had bigger dreams for him than the human mind can conceive.  Who will carry that message . . . to just one child?

One week later, the ring is still missing. I finally told Craig about it, who promptly said he’d replace it (as though such a thing could ever be replaced). Then I went online and bemoaned my fate. “St. Jude … help!”

Moments later, I saw with crystal clarity the cultural and theological “devotional divide” that splits my circle of friends and family.  The camps were fairly evenly divided between unequivocal support (“Tony, Tony come around . . .”) and chastisement (a.k.a. “Don’t you know you can go straight to GOD for this kind of thing?”).  Theology, Facebook style.

Didn’t I know I could pray directly to God? Uh-huh. Well aware of that. God and I have been on regular speaking terms for about forty years now. That doesn’t stop me from calling in reinforcements. The last time I lost my ring, I asked my guardian angel to go and sit on it until I could find it. When Craig and I discovered the ring in the middle of a snow-covered strip mall parking lot, the ring was centered in a heart-shaped “bald patch” on the asphalt. As though the angel had literally sat upon it until we arrived.

Friends in High Places

For centuries believers have sent their petitions in care of Mary and the saints, confident that those perfected in heaven are in a better position to pray in a way that is consistent with the will of the Father. Here on earth, so much obstructs our view: selfishness, pride, and weakness keep us from persevering in the battle as constantly and vigorously as we ought. The saints do not have this problem; the “cloud of witnesses” of which Scriptures speak (Hebrews 12:1) provide essential spiritual reinforcement.

The Catechism (2683) says:

The witnesses who have preceded us into the kingdom, especially those whom the Church recognizes as saints, share in the living tradition of prayer by the example of their lives, the transmission of their writings, and their prayer today. They contemplate God, praise him and constantly care for those whom they have left on earth. When they entered into the joy of their Master, they were "put in charge of many things" (Mt 25:23). Their intercession is their most exalted service to God’s plan. We can and should ask them to intercede for us and for the whole world.

Does God care about the little details of my life, including missing wedding rings? No doubt.  He is big enough and wise enough and all-loving enough to handle this and every other crisis that comes my way. And yes, because I am a daughter of God, my every need is only a whispered prayer away from the ear of God.

So why bother to ask others — in heaven or on earth, for that matter — to take up my intentions? Why are we commanded to confess our sins and to pray for one another (James 5:16), and why do the prayers of the saints ascend to the throne of God (Rev 8:4), if each believer has within himself the power to get everything he needs directly from the throne of grace?

Could the answer be . . . because we are a Body ? Because the God who created us, made us to be in relationship with one another? When Jesus returned to heaven, He did not leave behind a book but a group of men to guide His Church. And when He spoke of being the Vine (John 15:5), He said that those who continued to “abide in me” would bear “much fruit.”

Nowhere do the Scriptures say that we get cut off from that Vine when we leave earth. Rather, the ongoing teaching of the Church has always been that the faithful are perpetually connected in Jesus.

The Church, in Christ, is like a sacrament — a sign and instrument, that is, of communion with God and of unity among all men." The Church’s first purpose is to be the sacrament of the inner union of men with God . Because men’s communion with one another is rooted in that union with God, the Church is also the sacrament of the unity of the human race . In her, this unity is already begun, since she gathers men "from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and tongues"; at the same time, the Church is the "sign and instrument" of the full realization of the unity yet to come (CCC #775).

When we include the saints in heaven in our intercessions, asking them to join our chorus of adoration, petition, supplication, and blessing — from heaven — we bear witness in a particular way of this unity, which will be perfected in heaven.

It is this witness , this acknowledgment of our utter dependence upon God and our need for one another, that is the real need for prayer. Not primarily to get us the parking space, or to find the ring, or to get a temporary reprieve from illness or pain. But, in the words of C.S. Lewis:

I pray because I can’t help myself. I pray because I’m helpless. I pray because the need flows out of me all the time…waking and sleeping. It doesn’t change God. It changes me.

“God of the Gumball”

This realization — that we are in fact in need of changing — is something we as human beings are prone to forget at times. We want God to change our circumstances : find the parking spot, heal the disease, find the wedding ring. We forget that it is precisely through these little struggles that we are forced to grow stronger and taller in grace.

When we lose sight of this, we begin to serve the “God of the Gumball Machine”: put in a prayer, get out what we want. A deeply felt sense of failure washes over some Christians when they ask God for a specific intention, and the answer is not what they’d hoped.  Some see it as a signal to pray even harder… or to give up altogether, as though the battle has no intrinsic value.

The Catechism offers a third perspective:

"Pray constantly . . . always and for everything giving thanks in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ to God the Father." (1 Thes 5:17) St. Paul adds, "Pray at all times in the Spirit, with all prayer and supplication. To that end keep alert with all perseverance making supplication for all the saints." (Eph 6:18) For "we have not been commanded to work, to keep watch and to fast constantly, but it has been laid down that we are to pray without ceasing." (Evagrius Ponticus, Pract . 49: PG 40, 1245C.) This tireless fervor can come only from love. Against our dullness and laziness, the battle of prayer is that of humble, trusting, and persevering love. This love opens our hearts to three enlightening and life-giving facts of faith about prayer (#2742).

The Catechism defines these three facts as follows:  (1) It is always possible to pray; (2) Prayer is a vital necessity; and (3) Prayer and the Christian life are “inseparable.” Furthermore, John 15:16-17 shows that there is an intrinsic connection between asking the Father . . . and truly loving one another.

Never Walk Alone

Is there ever a time when we should just hunker down on our own knees, and abandon ourselves to “the Great Alone”? Absolutely. The intimate conversation of Father and child is an indispensable part of family life. And yet, it is not the only part. Most of life is spent in the company of one another, helping each other and conversing with one another.

To abandon oneself to Divine Providence in abject humility and deliberate solitude, is one thing; to suppose oneself not to need — or be in the invisible company of — other members of the Body is a prideful delusion.  Just as the Trinity is an eternal flow of love from one divine person to the next, so the Church — the Bride of Christ — is sustained as a Body with an eternal infusion of Spirit.

The “Jesus and me” — devoid of any other spiritual attachment — that predominates in some Christian communities has no more to do with true spiritual intimacy than a teenage crush has to do with married love. True attachment is anchored in family; isolation produces delusion, confusion, and death.

This revelation of unity is more important than any earthly possession. So when I ask the saints to help me find my wedding ring, I’m simply asking my big brothers and sisters in faith to give me a hand. And like any good parent, the Father smiles to see His children working together, and loving each other. He doesn’t worry that they aren’t focused totally on Him. He just sits back and enjoys the camaraderie.

Are we never to approach God on our own? Can we not speak to Him, heart-to-heart? Will He not hear our prayers? Of course we can, and do, and He does.

As does the entire company of heaven, who intercedes on our behalf.

In this sentimental story of second chances, Esther Hobbes (Ellen Brye) was happily married to a wealthy man for thirty years when suddenly she found herself widowed and penniless. Her friends evaporate, her assets liquidate and all she has left in the world is a pile of clothes, three porcelain dolls and a dilapidated old home several states away. When her taxi pulls up outside the “Old Boarding House,” its current residents – Tony and Ramona and their five foster children — are understandably resentful of this “rich lady” who has come to evict them. In reality, they need each other more than they realize.

I watched this movie shortly after seeing America , the Lifetime Channel movie starring Rosie O’Donnell -– which frankly may be too much stark reality for most families. By comparison, The Lost and Found Family is the heartwarming family-friendly version (rated PG for certain mature themes) of life in a foster family – for every tear, there is someone to wipe it or hug it away. Frankly, I wish that were the case . . . and I’m hoping that, by watching this film, more families will be encouraged to invest themselves in the life of a foster child.

In some ways, the film paints a much rosier account than many foster families experience. The kids in the cast of this movie are undeniably cute;  despite their troubled pasts they are remarkably well behaved. My favorite was little Crystal, who hates her own name but figures out in the first five seconds of the movie that Ester’s dolls (Lilac, Olivia, and Violet) spell “LOVE”. The foster parents, Tony and Ramona, are generous and kind (Ramona bears a striking similarity to Rosie O’Donnell). Even at their worst — such as when the teenage girl hands her pills over to her brother for safekeeping, and their little brother accidentally ingests some of them — the consequences of such bad choices are often much more drastic in real life.

I was most intrigued by the main character, Ester Hobbes (Ellen Bry), who added such dignity and grace to the film. Ellen was kind enough to talk with me about the development of her character. When I first saw the movie, Ester’s plucky “can-do” attitude bothered me — how could a pampered society girl endure such profound loss with such calm, patient optimism?

“[In playing Ester Hobbes], I wanted to look at some of the overall themes that were part of her journey,” says Ellen. “The more she divested herself of material goods, the more she let go of her fears and opens up to change and to God. As her faith and trust in God awakens, the more she can let go, the more love comes into her life. Forcibly removed from her protected, insular, cushy life as a suburbanite in a little bubble, she is thrown into a completely foreign situation. She has to learn how to survive in an alien territory. She decides to go with the idea that her husband must have had something in mind… God closes one door and opens another.”

We find evidence of this in a message Ester’s husband left her on his last seconds on earth: “What impresses the eye is never apparent at first glance. But shut them, and see what lingers there, seared on the retina. …How you linger, year after year on my closed eyes, in the unprotected space of my heart. In the whites of your eyes glow dark, flickering promises like hallucinations on the edge…”

These flickering promises, banked on the hearth of her soul, sprang to life only after the ashes had been ruthlessly, unexpectedly blown away. Only then could she fulfill the unspoken promise her husband had seen in her. Jesus said it best, “Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.”

The Lost and Found Family is directed by Emmy-nominated television and film producer Barnet Bain (What Dreams May Come, The Linda McCartney Story ). The DVD debuts nationally on September 15, 2009. Groups specializing in outreach to teens, the bereaved, or anyone needing to come in from the margins will find a rich story and grounds for important conversations. Any family will find The Lost and Found Family an evening enjoyably spent. The film retails for $24.95, and is available at the movie’s website or wherever movies are sold.

From time to time, people ask us why we chose charter schools for our kids. We have several good Catholic schools nearby, and the two public school systems near us have solid reputations. We also know several families who have chosen to home-school their children. However, we live about a mile from the second-highest-ranking charter school in the state of Michigan, which has a dual focus on academics and character formation in the “global virtues.” To us, the National Heritage Academies were a natural choice.

In the four years we’ve been a part of this school, we’ve been increasingly impressed. The families who attend want to be there, minimizing behavior problems and maximizing parental involvement. The waiting lists are long. (My son wound up 90th on the kindergarten waiting list, and got the last open spot in his class by winning the “academic lottery” on the first day of school. Because her big brother was already enrolled in the school, Sarah easily won an open slot two years later.)

There are drawbacks. There is no bussing, so each year there is a scramble for carpooling. Some kids are less-than-thrilled with the dress code restrictions (my daughter routinely expresses her individuality with brightly colored toenails under her sensible shoes.) Even younger kids have considerable “homework time” every night.  And because we don’t receive the same government funding as public school kids, fundraisers are a fact of life. But parents persevere, too, because it’s in our children’s best interest.

What Are Charter Schools?

Charter schools are publicly funded schools that are typically governed by a group or organization under a contract (charter) with the state. In return for funding and autonomy, the charter school must meet accountability standards to retain its charter. According to MAPSA, 223 of the 4136 elementary schools in Michigan are charter schools. The National Center for Educational Statistics reports almost 1.2 million students were enrolled nationally in 4,132 charter schools (2006–07). And the demand is growing. The US Charter Schools website states: “In the past four years, 1,600 new public charter schools opened and 500,000 additional public school students chose to enroll in public charter schools.”

Not all charter schools perform equally well, and charter schools do have detractors in both the public and private school sectors, as schools must compete for students and funding. In an article in its recent Catholic school education issue, “U.S. Catholic” featured an article that stated “Charter schools are ‘one of the biggest threats to Catholic schools in the inner city, hands down’” (pg. 17).

Yes, the existence — and increasing popularity — of charter schools does have very real implications for other institutions of learning. However, charter schools clearly offer an attractive alternative to traditional public schools, especially for poor and minority families who cannot afford parochial school tuition (NCEA puts the median annual cost of parochial school tuition at a little over $3,100 per student, less financial aid). Sixty percent of public charter school students are minorities; 52 percent are eligible for free and reduced-price lunch. (By comparison, the NCEA website indicates that minority students represent only 29.3% of parochial school enrollment.)

Charter schools are not for everyone. Review your options and weigh the needs of your own children, then make a prudent decision. Some parents choose to home-school, while others feel a parish school is truly the best choice for them. Still others monitor their child’s progress in the local public school, and find their children’s needs are being met there. All these are viable options, so long as we do not abdicate our responsibility as our children’s first and most important teacher, especially in the areas of faith formation and moral development.

I didn’t become Catholic until I was 30, so I don’t have a built-in bias toward parochial education. Craig was also educated in public schools. So when it came time to choose a school for our kids, Craig and I considered our options, then we set our sights on the charter school down the street, which advertised a “private school education at a public school price.” The cost of tuition was just one of many factors we considered — we were impressed with its academic achievements and appreciated the close proximity to our home. We liked that parents frequently volunteer in the classroom. After four years, we believe we’ve made the right choice for our family.

Are Catholic Schools Always Best?

In reality, there is no perfect choice, as each has its strengths and weaknesses. Catholic school parents can sometimes fall into the trap of “catechesis by checkbook,” assuming that sending their children to parochial school absolves them of any additional responsibility to instruct their own children or engage them in the learning process. In her article published at Catholic Culture entitled “The Parochial School,” author Mary Reed Newland observes, “Teaching nuns and Brothers are not the equivalent of parents, and no parochial school can substitute for a home or the example and teaching of parents. Together, the home and the parochial school can work into a whole piece the two phases of life which do the most to make the man.” This is as true today as it was in 1961, when the piece was written.

Catholic school and even homeschooling parents also need to guard against a kind of creeping elitism that effectively prevents their children from interacting in meaningful ways with families who don’t look and think exactly as they do. We experienced this “ghetto mentality” a few years ago when we enrolled our (then) foster son in a nearby Catholic Montessori preschool. Within a few weeks a small group of “concerned parents” confronted the teacher about the negative influence Christopher had on their children. Recently separated from his birth parents and older brother, and already demonstrating signs of the learning disabilities with which he continues to struggle, Christopher was undeniably rambunctious. He used words like “dead” and “kill,” and didn’t have nice table manners (I had only recently managed to get him to stop hiding food in his closet and smearing unmentionable substances on the wall).

As Christopher’s mother, I found myself shut out of this discussion. Only one other parent — herself a foster mother — had a kind word of encouragement for us, and only one parent had the courage to invite us on a play date and talk with us directly about her concerns. Others banded together to build a solid case, then badgered the teacher until — faced with the real possibility of losing the other students — she called a conference and suggested mildly that we needed to work on our parenting skills, and urged us to reconsider Christopher’s readiness to be in a formal program.

Feeling humiliated and betrayed by these “good Catholic families,” we withdrew our son, and enrolled him in a local preschool co-op a month later. Christopher thrived in this classroom — a more play-based environment. The teacher was surprised when I told her our son had been removed from the previous program. “But your son is such a sweet boy. Active, but then all children are at that age, aren’t they?” I could have kissed her, and I redoubled my efforts to help her in any way I could. I would teach my son about his faith — as I always have. But his early school experiences would be positive ones… and he would always associate “Catholic education” with acceptance and love, rather than rejection and criticism.  I would make sure of it.

Today Christopher continues to struggle at times; both kids have special processing challenges that make it difficult for them to focus in the classroom. But at National Heritage Charter schools, teachers work with parents to help students reach their full potential — both academically and morally.

So this year when the leadership team of the South Arbor Booster Club introduced its “Boosters Plus” fund drive, I was the first to whip out my checkbook. I believe in the goals and values this school has set for itself, and I want to be a part of that vision. Later this week, I’ll also write a check to our church to pay for their religious education instruction. The checks are roughly the same amount (actually, the religious education costs quite a bit more when you factor in the at-home resources). But then, the return is… priceless.