A SIGN OF HOPE - THE MIRACULOUS MEDAL

 

Miraculous medal, front and back

Luky:

THE SEVENTH of November has always been a red letter day in my life, as it marks the birthday of a near and dear one. When she was small she'd be counting the weeks and days leading up to it for months, giving us no chance to forget it.

One year's birthday was probably a lot different. As mother (at the time) of two and expecting her third child in another six months' time, she had enough to occupy her mind.

All the same, I phoned her that morning and she enthused about the lovely gifts her husband had brought her.

Unsuspecting

I on my side had good news too. My own husband, having successfully got over his operation, was coming home the next morning. We mutually expressed our pleasure and rang off.

Little did I know then that I was about to remember November the 7th for quite a different reason.

Just before ten that morning one of the matrons of the local hospital telephoned me. My husband was back in the intensive care unit of the surgical ward, she said, and she was sure I'd be wanting to see him to encourage him as soon as I could.

A nod is as good as a kick to a willing horse, so I went to my boss and got permission to go to the hospital.

Plugged in

Having arrived there I found my husband lying on a bed, tubes and bottles attached to several parts of his body. He was barely able to speak but the matron had explained to me that he had either got a clot in the lung, known a a pulmonary embolism, or in the heart; called a coronary thrombosis.

He had complained of a very severe pain across his chest. "I've nursed Mr Whittle for years", the matron said, "and I know him well enough to be aware that by the time he finally complains there is something seriously wrong."

Strong friend

I can't tell you how kind everyone was. As parents of one of the hospital's student nurses at the time, we received VIP treatment.

My old neighbour grabbed me as I was leaving the hospital on my way to I know not where and steered me back to the ward. She's a nursing sister and midwife and was a tower of strength to me in the eight years we lived next door to each other. It was like living next door to my doctor.

Complicated prang

When I pranged my car that morning, trying to get out of a parking place, three men helped to liberate me. If you gave me five thousand rand to repeat what I must have done to steer my car into such a position, I'd have to decline because I just don't understand how I managed it.

Please pray

Early next morning I telephoned my sister. My husband was on the critical list and my brother-in-law came to the phone and asked what he could do.

"Take all your children to church now on their way to school and have them pray a Hail Mary for their uncle", I pleaded.

He did that and more. That afternoon as I arrived again at the hospital, he was sitting outside my husband's ward. He had taken the day off and spent four hours driving my mother and sister to see me. I've always thought that man was a jewel; now I have proof.

My mother stayed and looked after the children for the next few days, much of which I spent as hospital.

It's good to have a family.

More to come

A second clot was to pass through my husband's lung before his agony was over. I received a letter from my colleagues at the office; all of them had gone into one office and prayed together for my husband's recovery. Everybody was praying, especially the lady who worked for us. 

"I was so scared Mr Whittle was dying", she said.

The younger children, aware of the tension, became unbearable, looking for attention, arguing and quarrelling and crying hysterically over nothing.

Interesting incident

The day I knew things would improve I was seated in a little room outside the intensive care unit, talking to my daughter. I had been given permission to look in at my husband on the half-hour.

She had taken off her miraculous medal and handed it to me to put round her father's neck.

We were talking and I was gesticulating with the hand which held the medal. Suddenly I looked down on my knee, and there to my astonishment I found that the chain had arranged itself into the shape of that peculiar broad flat "M" on the back of the miraculous medal.

People have laughed at my assertions of miracles all my life so I said nothing about it. I wanted to make sure I wasn't mistaken.

'That's odd", I said to my daughter, "What does this remind you of?"

"The M on the back of the miraculous medal", she said. "And look next to it, that's a heart shape, also found on the back of the medal."

"Your father will be all right now", I said after marvelling for a little while, and handed her back her chain. "He won't need this."

I went into the ward and spoke to the heart specialist.

"Your husband is improving", he informed me, "though he's not out of danger yet."

It was all I could do not to tell him he was wrong. With such a powerful patroness as our Lady showing her very personal concern, I knew that no power on earth could prevent my husband from recovering.

Catherine Nicolette

Dad went on to make an uneventful recovery - an amazing turnaround as he had been critically ill. I have great devotion to Our Lady of the Miraculous Medal and both Mom and I received much comfort from the configuration of the chain. Do I believe this was a sign from God? The comfort I received when I saw the symbols of holiness was deep. In that moment I knew: all will be well.

Having been witness to many signs and wonders from God throughout my life, I would encourage you to look out in your own life for those moments in which God is present with comfort and hope.

The Miraculous Medal is a holy devotion which brings special spiritual protection and comfort. Why not find out more?

https://youtu.be/C2pF5XhNSJk

Visit for petition to Our Lady of the Miraculous Medal

at https://lumierecharitymarian.blogspot.com/2017/08/petition-to-our-lady-of-miraculous-medal.html

MIRACLES HAPPEN ALL THE TIME

 

Luky:

There was a song we used to sing in church when my eldest daughter played the organ. Our best singer would sing each verse, and we'd all join the refrain:

"I believe in miracles; I've seen a soul set free / Miraculous the change in one redeemed through Calvary / I've seen the lily push its way up through the stubborn sod / I believe in miracles, for I believe in God. "

Do you believe in miracles? I do. Plenty have happened to me in my life.

I was there

The big ones I don't talk about much, because people always get an odd little smile on their faces when I do, as if to say "poor fanatic - and you can see she actually believes it. "

Well, I do, because I was there when they happened. And it's those who believe in miracles that they do happen to.

If you truly believe that a piece of bread and a drop of wine change into the Body and Blood of Christ when the words of consecration are spoken by an ordained priest, then the little miracles that have happened to me are puddysticks by comparison. But, being human, I love my little miracles and get much comfort from remembering them.

Lord said it

At one time I was praying in a certain way, and got the feeling that I was unworthy to pray that way because of my sinfulness. That very day I opened a dusty volume of an old Dutch series of books about our Lord's revelations to Saint Gertrude.

Sweet memory

My eye fell on a paragraph which quotes our Lord as saying to the saint: "why do you feel reluctant and unworthy to pray to me (in the way I was praying)? Do you not know that the fragrance of the perfume is not impaired by the simplicity of the container?"

That day sweetness filled my heart and mind, and the memory of it still fills me with joy.

In a smaller way, something strange happened some years ago. I was having an argument with one of my children (that's not strange; it's normal.)

The child had mowed the lawn and tidied the garden, and was demanding payment. I felt as though I had failed in bringing up my children.

I said, "How can you, as a Christian, demand payment from your parents for lending a hand? If you need money, tell me how much and I'll make a plan. But surely you don't expect payment for helping your hard-working parents?"

Got soft

Well, my child gave as good as he got. Gone are the old days when I was strict and they would have run a mile before they dared to answer me back - I became soft in my old age.

Just then a song started playing on Springbok Radio. Rooted in my tracks, I listened; then I hauled the child in to listen too.

You may have heard the song. It's about a boy who brought his mother an invoice, detailing various chores he had performed for her and stating what each cost.

The mother produced a pen and wrote out an invoice of her own. "To nine months carrying you in my womb - no charge; to bringing you into the world in sorrow and pain - no charge; to the tears I shed for you - no charge."

Nothing owing

By now I was shedding some tears of my own and ducked into the sitting room, but I could hear the end of the song. The boy wrote at the bottom of his invoice: "Paid in full."

My heart was full, because I felt that again our Lord had performed a little miracle. The child was very quiet too, looking rather taken aback.

I'm no diplomat. I like pressing home my advantage, so I wiped my tears and said:

"I was trying to tell you something in the passage there, but I hadn't the eloquence. So our Lord allowed a small miracle to happen by inspiring the disc jockey to play that very song to show you how He would feel about your demanding payment.

"As a rule, Jesus doesn't go in for performing miracles; He has nothing to prove. So if you're wise, you'll remember this one for the rest of your life"

The child still regarded me mutinously, so I added:

"That piece of advice comes to you at no charge." 

Catherine Nicolette

My, it is many years since I thought of that beautiful hymn we used to play. As a teenager I loved the words and melody.

Now in my mature years, I have experienced many signs and wonders of God in my life. Having travelled in many countries, it has been amazing how God cared for me in many ways, small as well as large.

The greatest miracle, however, is to be part of the wonder when the moment of grace comes for an individual. We never know when one word, one prayer, one sermon or one song is the one which will change the road for another from struggle to the grace of faith.

As Mom said on so many occasions about Jesus Christ, "For one drop of His Blood Which for sinners was spilt,

Is sufficient to cleanse the whole world from its guilt."

The price is already paid, the miracle already granted. Jesus came to earth, lived and died for us and we had to make no payment. The Son of God took the consequences of sin and death upon Himself, conquered death through resurrection and gave us remedy for sin through baptism and sacraments.

We did not have to pay anything in order for God's Son to love us and set us free.

Let us pay Christ the compliment of our deepest love, respect and sincere gratitude for the price He paid.  

ARE CHURCHGOERS HYPOCRITES?

 

Catherine Nicolette

Imagine my surprise when I opened a spiritual magazine recently and found an article questioning whether churchgoers are hypocrites. The query reminded me of many years ago . . .

As a young child and member of a devout church-going family, I was called aside one day by one of my little peers. She explained to me that all churchgoers are hypocrites. By eschewing to attend Mass, she explained, she was not a hypocrite pretending to be holy. As, she explained, I was. Her remedy was for me to leave the church and thus no longer be a cause of dismay to other more enlightened little peers.

I was completely nonplussed, faced with my ardent hypocrisy for attending church. Further, I inwardly shuddered at the thought of telling Sean and Luky Whittle that their little daughter would not toe the line and attend church. That most certainly would not have gone down well. Finally, my heart wept at the thought of not visiting the Blessed Sacrament regularly. What to do?

Then all of a sudden I knew how I felt about this issue. I looked at my little friend, and told her,  "I know I am not perfect." As there was no surprise there, she nodded sagely. I went on,  "That's exactly why I go to church. Because I need help from God. We all need to go. You should go, too."

Having put her hand to the plough, my little peer was not going to give up. She replied, "There is no need for me to go to church. I can stand in a field in nature and worship God quite well." I asked her, "And when last did you worship in a field?" She hesitated, then flushed and turned away. I heard her mutter later, "It's no good arguing with that one. She's got all the answers!"

She got me thinking, however. In later years, I often pondered over her words, especially when, sighing, I realize that I haven't measured up to Christ's expectations of me - yet again. But, you know, I don't lose hope. I just keep on trying. Reality helps to give rational perspective. I realize I can't go it alone. Thus, I go to church, to pray to God to ask for help. Spiritually sick need the Divine Physician for healing - and there is not one of us who does not have a soul hurt or spirit wound needing His care. Basically, churchgoers don't go to church because they are perfect. They go because they are not.

Every time I pass a field, I think of my little friend from long ago. My answer to whether churchgoers are hypocrites is that churchgoers are realists. All have but one life, and each will be called upon to account to Almighty God as to how that life has been spent. Why not both attend church and pray in fields while we still can to help us towards serenity on that day? 

As the sunflower turns towards the sun, let us all turn our faces towards God. . .

With thanks to free clipart library

TRANSITION REGRET

 

Catherine Nicolette

Words of wisdom are that gender reassignment surgery procedures for youth are permanent changes to a very young body. 

When I was a teenager, I found the teen years to be a time of rapid change, confusion and - sometimes - emotional turmoil. Looking back now, I realize that many of the emotional issues were natural effects accompanying teen hormonal changes.

When I talked to my mom at the time about the issues which I felt I faced, she said that the experience was the same for her, her mom and her mom's mom. 

Teenage years - Mom said - are a time when the teenager is "neither fish nor flesh". I was ready to be indignant; what did this idiom mean? What it meant, explained Mom, is that you are no longer a child and not yet a full adult. 

Teenager years are themselves a time of transition, where hormones such as growth hormone, progesterone and oestrogen in a female and testosterone in a male are flooding the system. These cause a child's body to turn into that of an adult.

True, at times a child may need hormone therapy, such as a child who is deficient in growth hormone requires hormonal assistance in order to achieve relevant adult growth and attendant functional fertility. However, this instance is not the norm.

Usually, a teenager needs to have patience: give Mother Nature a chance to complete her work of turning you into a man or a woman.

If an individual is hermaphrodite (has both male and female gender organs), supportive psychology service will assist to determine whether emotional identity is male or female. Gender surgery at a relevant age will be of assistance if chosen after a period of expert medical assessment and assistance.

Emotional gender identity develops in stages. Some may experience distress or unease between their physical identity and their emotional identity. Counselling and psychological support may prove invaluable when a mismatch is experienced between birth gender and emotional gender identity. 

The crux of the matter is that the emotional suffering of those experiencing gender dysphoria is both real and a difficulty for those experiencing the dysphoria.

Yet it must be remembered that not every teenager who experiences confusion or moodiness is experiencing gender dysphoria. Sensible prudence would appear to guide that - except in cases of hermaphroditism and clear gender dysmorphia - give Mother Nature a chance.

A teenager is still undergoing tremendous physical, psychological, neurological and spiritual changes. Neuroscience is giving increasing evidence that brain development has not completed by age 21; according to studies, brain maturation only completes at age 25. [1] 

It would be deeply unfortunate for youth to make life-changing gender reassignment decisions at too early an age, only to regret these decisions later.

Which leads me to my next point. Gender transition regret has become a real issue for many in recent years. It is heartbreaking to hear the emotional pain of those who reassigned gender, only to realize that in fact this is a path they no longer wish to follow. 

Yet those who regret transition struggle with changes to their physiques which in many cases may prove difficult to reverse.

The moral of the story would appear to be: don't swiftly reach for the scalpel or body-altering medication to medicate the teen years. It may prove an experience with deep regret in its wake.

Prayer Chapel for Detransitioners who regret gender transition; Words of Comfort

https://eventslumiere.blogspot.com/2022/06/prayer-chapel-for-detransitioners-who.html

[1] Brain Maturity extends well beyond 21 - the moral implications of placing undue responsibility at too young an age

https://churchinterfaith.blogspot.com/2015/05/brain-maturity-extends-well-beyond-21.html

Gender ideology harms children - American College of Pediatricians

https://churchinterfaith.blogspot.com/2016/04/gender-ideology-harms-children-american.html

HOUSEWIVES MUST PRAY AS WELL AS WORK

 

Luky:

WOULD you describe yourself as a Martha or a Mary type of person?

Years ago I tried to get someone to promise to pray the rosary daily with her family. A friend and I obtained such pledges on behalf of the World Rosary Crusade for Peace. 

When I had used up all the arguments in favor of the rosary I could think of, the person tersely said: "You pray! I work!"

Balance needed

What the Marthas of the world don't always seem to realize, however, is that working and caring for the home are just not enough; you've got to pray a little too.

"You tell me", another housewife said, "Do I drop everything at the busiest time of the day to recite my rosary with the family? What about my cooking, dishes, the children's baths? Which would you like me to skip?"

I was amazed to hear myself answering: "None. You see to everything, but make sure our Lord gets His share too."

Why?

For what purpose are we washing nappies, serving meals, cleaning dishes, pulling out weeds, or playing chauffeur, chef and nanny, if these and our other daily chores are not backed by a meaning? Would you want to continue living if you truly believed that life were one continuous effort, terminating in the grave?

Only prayer and meditation can give meaning to these seemingly meaningless tasks.

Like all other human beings, the housewife has a contemplative side to her nature, although it may seem to sit ill on one wearing an apron, holding a baby and a broom or a duster. It isn't strange, when you think about it, because she has been used as an instrument in the miracle of creation, and that should make anyone thoughtful.

When she hears words like: "My soul is thirsting for the Lord; when shall I see Him face to face?", the housewife may be moved to tears of longing. But then again, if her doctor told her she had a fatal disease, she'd make straight for the church, light a candle and pray for the joy of seeing the Lord face to face to be deferred till her children were off her hands.

I don't meditate

I read with interest the exchange in the letter columns about meditation on the rosary, and have come to the horrible conclusion that I don't meditate properly, either on the mysteries or on the words of the Our Father and the Hail Mary.

I try to, honestly, but I fail time and time again. I've been tempted to leave off reciting the rosary, but can't because of my pledge.

Fortunately God knows I've a lot on my plate, so I continued rounding up the family for the rosary. Maybe one day I'll learn to meditate properly as I pray.

Simply beautiful

And yet I wonder if perfection is what God demands of His children as much as the desire to become perfect. One of my children used to bring me a bedraggled bunch of veld flowers, picked daily on the way from school. The smile on the child's face would be so devastating that I'd arrange the flowers in a good vase, where they would flop gracelessly.

I suppose my rosary, when it reaches Mary's feet, looks as bedraggled as those veld flowers. But I hope and believe that when she in her turn presents my bouquet to Jesus, it will look beautiful.

Catherine Nicolette

Ah, the rosary - what a blessed prayer. If you would like to join the Rosary Crusade for peace, click in the link

https://www.mdrevelation.org/rosary-crusade-for-peace/

If you do not know how to pray the rosary, and would like to do so, click in the following link

https://www.praytherosary.org/how-to-pray

If you wish to join worldwide prayer of the rosary, this is made possible in the following link

https://www.comepraytherosary.org/

With thanks to mdrevelation.org, praytherosary.or and comepraytherosary.org

Clip art with thanks to free clipart-library.com

MOM WENT TO HEAVEN

 

Requiescat in pace

Lucia Antonia Whittle

21 May 1940, Amsterdam

7 December 2021, Kroonstad

Dear Readers,

Our dear Mom went to Heaven on 7th December of last year. Words cannot describe the loss. Mom bequeathed to me her literary writings, and had asked me to ensure that articles, manuscripts and books she left ready, continue to put on the blogs which she treasured so much. This I consider an honour to do.

Please remember Mom in prayer.

Blessings,

Catherine Nicolette

How Coffee Break began

https://lumierecharitycoffeebreak.blogspot.com/2011/12/how-coffee-break-began.html

Marian Praise

http://lumierecharitymarian.blogspot.com/

Quilt of Memories - My Dappled Life

https://quiltofmemories.blogspot.com/

Lumiere Charity English Academy

http://lumierecharity.blogspot.com/

Koinonia Academic Journal

https://koinoniajournal.blogspot.com/

TREES OF FAITH

 

Catherine Nicolette:

And so I have a story to tell. This photo is such an evocative one. Lush greenery of great beauty making a verdant landscape; and I was there at the beginning . . . 

When we moved to the mining town of Welkom in the Free State when I was a very little girl, the landscape was very sandy and we experienced frequent dust-storms. The heat could be oppressive at times, and I remember that one heatwave was so blistering that some of the neighbourhood teenagers fried an egg on the bonnet of their car. A bird dropped dead from a tree in front of me from heatstroke. 

Water resources literally dried up, and we used to line up at the municipality tankers to receive a weekly ration of water. I used to walk to and fro from school, and on the way back it would be so hot that I hung my blazer over my head to prevent sunburn.

The school was beautiful, newly built. Long cloisters hearking back to missionary cloisters kept us cool, while mole-hills dotted the large erf. The Sisters built rockeries from hewn stones, and only bristle-thorned cacti and vygies could grow in the arid heat. The front erf was a sandy desert, and we longed for shade where there was none.

One day, a Sister came to call me to help her. "I think you would be interested, " she told me. We went out to the rockeries, and Sister showed me how to plant twig like branches. "What are we planting, Sister?" I asked. Sister twirled around with her arms in the air. "Look around you," she told me. "See all the trees and greenery!" 

Puzzled, I looked about Sister. There was no greenery to be seen at all. She pealed with laughter at my face. "Yes, many trees and plants are there, but you must see them with the eyes of faith. They are in the future," Sister said. "One day when I'm dead and gone, and no-one will remember me, you will come and see the beautiful trees that we planted today. Then you will remember me and the beauty that we planted. That is faith," she said very seriously as she looked at me, "We plant today that others may reap. We may never sit in the shade of the trees we planted, but many in the future will. God will take these small branches and make them grow. He always blesses our efforts!" 

I looked at the small twigs in that vast expanse of sandy desert. There was not a hope, I thought, that they would ever grow. But I wanted Sister to feel happy, so I merely nodded quietly.

Well, I was at that school until I graduated, and we had arid heat and sand with thin little branches that struggled to grow. After my graduation, I moved on with life. A few years ago, I went with my brother for a walk down memory lane. We went back to my old convent school, and I marvelled as I walked down verdant avenues. I had never thought of that conversation again: I had been too young to realize the depth of the truth that Sister had taught me. Indeed, she had never enjoyed the fruits of our planting. Sand and dust-storms had been her lot. Now the greenery grew lush and cool, and I remembered that I had been part of it all.

Dear reader, it is so true. That wonderful missionary Sister who had come from the wooded glades of her youth to minister in a newly developed mining town heavy with sand had explained a deep truth to me. We sow that others may reap. We plant in faith that others may benefit. And we look to the future to see how God brings forth faith and eternal life from the lessons of faith we pass on to younger generations.

 As I stood quietly under the trees which you had helped me to push into rocky ground, I watched students walk quietly past, cool under the sheltering leaves.

Sister, I salute you.