Be the Buttercup: August 2016

Tuesday, August 30, 2016

" I was Thinking of You."

I have made it a habit to immediately pray for the priest who hears my confession. My most recent confession was heard by a priest I had never talked to before and may never talk to again. Not wanting to divulge the personal content of our encounter, I will only add that this particular Reconciliation with my God, though very ordinary, included an answered prayer and spiritual condolences for which I had long waited. :)

Placing my heart (spiritually), at the door of the Tabernacle I whispered my thanksgiving for such a sweet encounter with my Lord, through His priest. The Child Jesus responded , "I was thinking of that particular confession when I called him. I was thinking of you when I called Fr. __ (my pastor), too."
All things are of Divine Providence. There are no coincidences. May we continue to Trust that we are just where Christ wants us. God knows how to put us in our place. :)

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Blessing on the hand of women! Angels guard its stregth and grace, In the palace, cottage, hovel, Oh, no matter where the place; Would that never storms assailed it, Rainbows ever gently curled; For the hand that rocks the cradle Is the hand that rules the world. Infancy's the tender fountain, Power may with beauty flow, Mother's first to guide the streamlets, From them souls unresting grow-- Grow on for the good or evil Sunshine streamed or evils hurled; For the hand that rocks the cradle Is the Hand that rules the world. Woman, how divin your mission Here upon our natal sod! Keep, oh, keep the youn heart open Always to the breath of GOD! All true trophies of the ages Are from the mother-love impearled; For the hand that rocks the cradle Is the hand that rules the world. Blessings on the hand of women! Fathers, sons, and daughters cry, And the sacred song is mingled withthe worship in the sky-- Mingles where no tempest darkens, Rainbows evermore are hurled; For the hand that rocks the cradle Is the hand that rules the world. William Ross Wallace (1819 - 1881)

Discontent, by Sarah Orne Jewett

Down in a field, one day in June,
The flowers all bloomed together,
Save one who tried to hide herself,
And drooped, that pleasant weather.

A robin who had flown too high
And felt a little lazy
Was resting near this buttercup
Who wished she were a daisy.

The daisies grow so trig and tall,-
She always had a passion
For wearing frills around her neck
In just the daisies' fashion.

And buttercups must always be
The same old tiresome color-
While daisies dress in gold and white,
Although their gold is duller.

'Dear robin,' said this sad young flower,
'Perhaps you'd not mind trying
To find a nice white frill for me
Some day when you are flying.'

'You silly thing!' the robin said,
'I think you must be crazy.
I'd rather be my honest self
Than any made-up daisy.

'You're nicer in your own bright gown,-
The little children love you.
Be the best buttercup you can,
And think no flower above you.

'Though swallows leave me out of sight,
We'd better keep our places;
Perhaps the world would all go wrong
With one too many daisies.

'Look bravely up into the sky
And be content with knowing
That God wished for a buttercup
Just here, where you are growing.'

Sarah Orne Jewett