When Facing the Impossible, Turn to the Saints

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Catholic Digest, Flying Novena, God, Lori Hadacek Chaplin, Lost things, Mother Teresa, St. Anthony of Padua, St. Teresa of Calcutta

Photo credit: Don Lush

Do you know that feeling when you are sure that God has answered your prayers?

I have felt heaven’s touch in my life mostly through the intercession of the Blessed Virgin and St. Anthony. Of course, I know that I can pray directly to God, but although I think about God daily, I mostly ask his Blessed Mother and St. Anthony to approach him for me. I ask Mary because Christ worked his first miracle for her at the Wedding at Cana even though he didn’t want to. “‘Woman, how does your concern affect me? My hour has not yet come’” (John 2:4).

I reason that Jesus will help me if his Mother asks, even if I don’t deserve it.

I turn to St. Anthony of Padua — the patron saint of lost items — because God must have a special place in his heart for this saint. Our Lord appeared to St. Anthony as baby Jesus and let St. Anthony cradle him in his arms.

When things are dire, I turn to the Blessed Virgin, asking her intercession by saying the Flying Novena — reciting the Memorare prayer 10 times consecutively. This practice originated with St. Teresa of Kolkata (Mother Teresa), who moved mountains with this quick efficacious novena — like the time her biographer, Msgr. Leo Maasburg, got entrance to see the pope without an invitation.

Mother Teresa’s Flying Novena

When Mother Teresa had an emergency, she and her sisters would pray the Memorare nine times for what was required, adding a 10th prayer as a thank you for the Blessed Virgin’s intercession.

Msgr. Maasburg in his book, Mother Teresa of Calcutta: A Personal Portrait (Ignatius Press, 2015), said this about the saint’s practice: “She took the collaboration of Heaven so much for granted that she always added a tenth Memorare immediately, in thanksgiving for the favor received.”

The saint didn’t dub the devotion the “Flying Novena.” That title came later when people realized that this prayer works fast when said with confidence and faith.

A toothache and a photographer’s nightmare

Two of the most memorable answers to this novena happened when I prayed for my eldest daughter, Ella. She was suffering terribly from a toothache. Feeling helpless about what I could do for her, I said the Flying Novena. After I finished the prayer, I called her, and she told me that the pain, mercifully, had eased up noticeably.

The second time was when Ella was photographing a wedding. I got a frantic message from her, saying that the lens cleaner had seeped inside her portrait lens and the liquid had completely fogged the lens making it unusable. I told her that the lens would clear when the cleaner evaporated. She said she didn’t have time to wait — a quick search had told her that it could take days to clear — and asked that I pray.

As soon as I finished the 10 prayers, the lens was back to normal.

Ella told me, “Mom, it happened too fast to be a coincidence.”

St. Anthony finds

My go-to saint when I am struggling to find something is St. Anthony. I am not saying that the saint sits in heaven waiting to retrieve something for me, but after asking for his intercession on so many occasions and having received answers, I know that he’s looking out for me. To show him how much I appreciate his heavenly help, I named one of my sons after him — Trystan Anthony.

If it can be found, I am confident that St. Anthony will help me. Sometimes it happens quickly as the time last summer when my daughter, Ella, was searching for an apartment or house to rent, and she was looking for roommates. We were overwhelmed with trying to find her a place to live.

One morning, I was asking St. Anthony for some help because Ella was getting discouraged about finding a place and because three of Ella’s potential roommates had backed out. A few hours later, we went to a birthday party, and I was telling a friend about our apartment-hunting struggles.

She said to me, “I think our property manager has a place that is coming available soon.”

Her husband called the property manager immediately and set up a time for us to see the rental. It was a beautiful potentially four-bedroom home in a sought-after neighborhood. The kicker was that the rental price was a couple of hundred dollars below the average rental costs. A few days later, Ella not only secured the property, but she also found three women who were looking for a place to rent.

It took a year

Other times, it takes St. Anthony a lot longer like in 1984 when my class ring with a sapphire-colored stone went missing for a year. We looked everywhere but to no avail. Then exactly one year later, my little brother, Tom, crawled under the back deck to pet our dog Old Pup. While under the deck, he spied a glint of blue amidst the rock.

He yelled at me, “Lori, I found your class ring!”

I couldn’t believe it. The ring had been a size too big, and it must have fallen off while I was walking on the deck. After having recovered a ring that might never have been found, I always feel sure that if a lost item hasn’t been destroyed, then I will find it.

Looking for a husband?

St. Anthony also finds husbands. When Ella and her roommates moved into their house, they had it blessed, and they dedicated it to the saint. The girls also said a novena to St. Anthony to find husbands, and shortly after one of the roommates met a young man. She’s now married and expecting her second baby.

Some may argue that the resolving of problems and finding of lost things are coincidences or natural occurrences, and some may be, but I have received help too many times from Our Lady and St. Anthony to explain it away. Heaven helps when you ask and if it’s for the good of your soul.

© 2018, Lori Hadacek Chaplin, CatholicDigest.com Everyday Miracles,

The Power Of Mother Teresa’s Flying Novena And Praying To St. Anthony

When God Gives You a Second Chance

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Everyday Miracles, faith, four last things, life, meaning of life, near death

Photo by Russ Ward on Unsplash

My van skidded to a stop when the sign by the railroad track flashed red — there hadn’t been any advanced warning light. Seconds later, I felt the impact of the other vehicle crashing into my van, but at first, I didn’t know what had happened. Dazed, I heard the shrill whistle of the train before I saw it.

Still disoriented from the impact of being rear-ended, I hadn’t realized that the SUV behind me had been traveling fast enough to push my van onto the railroad tracks. Then — like something that happens only in movies — I saw the arms of the gates hem me in, and I heard the involuntary scream of terror escape my lips.

There are different pitches to screams. As a parent, you know when the note of your child’s scream means that there is a danger because it’s the kind of cry that sends a shiver up your spine. I have been scared many times in my life, but it was the first time I had heard a blood-curdling scream come from me. I have often wondered if the passengers in the SUV heard me. They must have braced themselves, thinking that my van was going to get pulverized by the oncoming train.

I remember how my scream filled my van. I recall turning to see the train coming toward me and hearing the whistle blaring. I thought, “I have to get out of the van; I am going to die, and my four children are not going to have a mother.”

Thank God, my mind started to work. I came to my senses, realizing that there was room to drive around the guard arm. Less than a minute later, the train passed by as I sat shaking in my seat.

All in the space of a minute, my life flashed before my eye, and for a couple of years, I experienced PTSD when driving.

It was the second time in my life that God had given me another chance. When I was six, I saw — or imagined — my funeral as I bobbed up and down in the water, leaping up for a breath and a holler for help just before the water shrouded my head again. It was my brother’s friend, Mark, who finally pulled me out coughing up water and shivering with fright.

Week of second chances

For me, recently, this has been a time of meditating on second chances and how God allows close calls to happen to us to wake us up — to give us another opportunity to amend our lives and to stop wasting time.

The terrifying railroad track experience happened in 2014, and I had not thought of it in a long time until this month when two people that matter to me had a brush with death.

On Feb. 9, the father of my eldest daughter, Ella, died and was brought back to life. He and a friend were kayaking in a state park when their kayak T-boned a fallen log and capsized. Ella’s dad was trapped under the water, and by the time his buddy found him and pulled him out of the water, he was blue and without a pulse.

Only six days before, the friend had taken a recertification course for CPR, so he knew what to do. He performed three rounds of CPR before reviving Ella’s dad. The two men — shivering from the frigid waters and the falling night temperatures — waited for five hours on a 1-foot-wide muddy embankment that was up against a 100-foot cliff of granite before a large rescue team finally located them.

Ella was able to be by her dad’s side while he recovered in the hospital. It will take time, but he is on the mend.

Always ready to die

A few days later, on Feb. 11, a friend and colleague of my mine, Leticia Velasquez, also had a brush with death. As she was leaving evening Mass at the Cathedral of Saint Patrick in Norwich, Connecticut, a speeding red sports car barreled toward her as she crossed the street using the crosswalk. Fortunately, the vehicle came to a screeching halt in the nick of time.

“He stopped close enough to me for me to touch the hood of the car while I looked at him in disbelief,” said Velasquez, author of A Special Mother is Born (WestBow Press, 2011).

She added, “There was a news camera team on the corner, and they remarked on what a close call it was. I answered, ‘Good thing I was just leaving the church, so I was ready to go to heaven!’”

Speaking with Leticia about how a near-death experience gives one a new lease on life, she said, “I had an Irish grandma who thankfully reminded me that we must always be ready to meet God, so I grew up with eternity in mind and the urgency of being in a state of grace at all times.”

Pondering death

These two close calls with death made me meditate on my own near brushes and whether I have made good use of my second chances.

As I prayed for Ella’s dad — fearing that he could die again — I wondered if God called me home today, was I ready? Have I done enough to make the world a better place? Have I loved unselfishly? Have I put God before myself?

Taking a hard look at myself, I see that I have made some improvements, but I also own the amount of time I waste seeking comforts and living my life vicariously through Netflix and Hulu rather than really living and loving deeply.

Coincidentally — though I don’t believe in coincidences — the morning I decided to write about this topic for my Everyday Miracles column, I received in the mail a review copy of Remembering Your Death: Memento Mori (Pauline Books & Media, 2019) by Theresa Aletheia Nobel, FSP. This book is a devotional designed for use through Lent to Easter Sunday. Memento mori means to “remember your death” and is an ancient practice in the Church too long forgotten by most Catholics.

Sr. Nobel writes about the fruits of contemplating your death:

Even if one does not believe the Christian message of salvation, the rich, ancient tradition of remembering death can bring joy, focus, and fruitfulness to anyone’s life. However, for the Christian, it is a practice that extends beyond the reality of the earthly life and bodily death. In the power of Jesus Christ, the Christian practice of memento mori reaches past the horizon of this life and into the eternal happiness of heaven. The power of the cross amplifies the benefits of memento mori because the practice is fueled not merely by personal discipline but by God’s abundant living grace. As Christians, we remember our death in order to remember our life.

© 2019, Lori Hadacek Chaplin, CatholicDigest.com Everyday Miracles

 

Crown of Motherhood

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Catholic Digest, CatholicDigest.com, children, Everyday Miracles, life, Lori Hadacek Chaplin, love, Miss America, motherhood, Pageants, parenthood, prayer, Self-worth

A friend told me that he saw my picture in a 30th-anniversary issue of my hometown newspaper, the Forest City Summit. It was a picture of me along with the other members of the Miss Forest City Pageant court smiling at the camera. Miss Forest City was a preliminary to the Miss Iowa and Miss America pageants. I competed in two local contests, but I never made it to the state level.

A crown would mean I was worthy

Gazing at my young face awoke an old memory in me of how much I used to want the Miss America title. I grew up watching the beauty contest on the television and the contestants looked like they had it together. Unlike other pageants, Miss America contestants were also judged on talent.

In my teens and early 20s, there was an emptiness in me that I was trying to fill. I was looking for validation — that I was worth something — and everything I saw in the culture pointed to the idea that a woman’s worth was dependent on what she looked like on the outside. I mistakenly thought that winning the Miss America crown would make

Lori, 25, pregnant with Ella.

feel loved. I’m not saying every contestant feels the same — I am sure they had many reasons for entering.

In my mind, being crowned and walking down the stage with an arm full of flowers while Bert Parks crooned, “There she is Miss America” would mean that I was someone, and I would finally feel good enough.

This silly idea only grew when the guy I was dating happened to meet the reigning Miss America, and he asked her out. It was an amusing machismo move on his part, but it fueled my insecurities.

When I was a senior at the Minneapolis College of Art and Design, I even filmed a humorous short called, “I Want My Crown.” It was about pageants and how having a Miss America crown would make me feel beautiful.

A former professor told me something I will never forget

Two years after graduating from college, I came back to Minneapolis to visit one of my favorite media arts professors, Robert Lawrence. We were in an elevator together on our way up to the art institute’s restaurant, and he guffawed, pointing out to me, “Lori, you finally got your crown.”

Professor Lawrence was referring to my 6-week-old baby daughter, Ella, who lay sleeping in her car seat. His eye-opening words were like a whoosh of wind opening up the curtained windows of my mind.

Lori with baby Ella, 6-month old.

Unexpected pregnancy

I was 25 when I found out why the Catholic Church wisely has rules regarding premarital sex. The young man that I was sure I would marry broke off our 16-month relationship, so the next day I took a pregnancy test without anticipating that two pink lines for positive would emerge.

Discovering I was pregnant and alone was, at that point in my life, the most devastating thing to ever happen to me. I was terrified to tell my parents, and I didn’t see that there was any way that I could raise a baby on my own. I had two part-time jobs and no health insurance. I was only scraping by.

I was alone and fearful of the unknown. I thought I might lose one of my jobs, and I was worried that my parents might reject me.

Still, I wanted my baby.

A male co-worker scoffed at me and resented me for continuing with the pregnancy. I think he thought I was ruining my life. Fortunately, I didn’t listen to negative advice, and I went to Birthright, a crisis pregnancy center. My counselor showed me compassion and helped me solve my problems — from finances to telling my parents.

Motherhood is a glorious crown

Ella & Lori (Photo: Tiffany Hicks)

From the moment I found out I was pregnant with Ella, my perspective changed. I realized that I had to stop thinking so much about myself because another life depended on me. In becoming a mother, I finally found my self-worth. Looking into my baby’s eyes, I saw a different me reflected.

I saw a mama, and I liked her.

Becoming a mother was the most precious gift ever given to me. My baby didn’t care if I was put together or not. I was her world, and she was mine.

She did for me what a Miss America title could have never have done. Professor Lawrence’s declaration was apt. I finally got my crown. I was blessed, after marrying my husband David, to have three more crowns named Gemma, Trystan, and Max.

In motherhood, I finally realized my self-worth. Being a mother didn’t take away

Ella with her siblings.

anything from me — it completed me.

© 2018, Lori Hadacek Chaplin, CatholicDigest.com Everyday Miracles

The Day ‘Old Pup’ Saved My Big Sister’s Life

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Catholic Digest, dog, electricutio, electrocution, English Shepherd, family dog, hero, Iowa, miracle, near death, saved life

When I was a kid, growing up on a farm in northern Iowa, we had a plump, white and shades of brown English shepherd dog named “Pup” — later called “Old Pup” when she started getting on in years.

She was a gentle and helpful beloved family pet who herded the cattle, barked to warn us when strangers and visitors came on our property, gave us many litters of frolicking puppies, and was an eager and devoted companion to my siblings and me. I’ll never forget the day “hero” made it on the list of Old Pup’s virtues.

Cathy at age 15.

At one time or another, most of the five Hadacek kids helped our dad with the morning and evening milking of 10 to 12 cows. The summer of 1979, 15-year-old Cathy typically assisted with the 6:30 a.m. milking.

As usual, our dad had hurried off to his job in town — he worked as a road engineer for the Iowa Department of Transportation — while Cathy remained in the milk house cleaning the equipment. Knowing that one of the valves on the milker was plugged, my sister headed to the air compressor that was kept in a shed up the hill from the barn to blow the blockage out.

Cathy, always free-spirited, flung off her shoes and trapesed barefooted to the shed, walking across grass wet from morning dew.

Mom was making breakfast

Mom was in the house — located about 30 feet from the shed where Cathy had started up the air compressor — washing my dad’s breakfast dishes and making breakfast for the rest of the kids, who were still sleeping. Humming and going about her morning tasks, the sound of a squealing pig could be heard, but she thought nothing of this commonplace farmyard noise.

Prayers to Mary

When Cathy walked barefooted into the shed, she flipped on the switch to the air compressor —unaware that there was an electrical short in the unit — and instantly the force of electricity coursed through her young frame throwing her onto the concrete floor. Thinking that she would surely die, she prayed to the Blessed Virgin Mary to save her.

No one knows exactly how long my sister lay on the concrete with electricity vibrating through her body, draining the life from her. I can imagine time slowed down for her. Cathy recalls the excruciating pain she felt and seeing Old Pup come bounding into the building.

Hero

With a yelp, Old Pup pounced on the air compressor’s cord with enough force to pull the plug out of the socket, freeing Cathy from the grip of the electrical current. Then Old Pup ran over to Cathy, whimpering and licking her to see if she was OK. Somehow, my sister found the strength to get up off the floor to find mom.

Old Pup II with our little brother, Michael.

Nearly 11 years old at the time, I remember being awakened by loud wailing. I raced out of bed into the living room to see what on earth was the matter. Seared on my memory is the vision of Cathy collapsed on our floor. Her body wracked with sobs as she tried to tell us what had happened to her, and the voice of our mom saying, “I thought it was a pig squealing!” as she realized that, but for Old Pup, it could have been her eldest daughter’s last cry.

Lasting impact

What I witnessed made me forever extra careful when dealing with electricity — no wet hands or feet. I could — and still can — imagine the pain Cathy felt because I had, more than once, experienced the bite of the electric fence as it grazed my back when I failed to duck low enough to avoid a shock. I was aware what my big sister experienced was much more painful.

Ever since Cathy’s brush with death, I have often contemplated and marveled at the mysterious ways in which God works — that he even uses four-footed friends as instruments to aid us. I am sure that God had and has a special role for my sister. I like to think one reason is for me. Since our parent’s death — mom in 2011 and dad in 2014 — she has remained my strongest and most faithful link to my childhood family.

As for Old Pup, she died years later and was so missed that we named our second English shepherd — you guessed it — “Pup.” Curious, I looked up information about the English shepherd breed on DogBreedInfo.com. They are known as, “[E]nergetic, intelligent, very active, agile, courageous and gritty. Fearless for its purpose.”

© 2018, Lori Hadacek Chaplin, CatholicDigest.com Everyday Miracles

Drowned Toddler Makes Full Recovery

Tags

Catholic, drowning, Joy Loboda, miracle, near drowning, prayer, vision

On May 22, 2017, Joy Loboda celebrated her second birthday and is swimming in the pool that nearly took her life on December 29th, 2016. Read her story and a recent update posted on NCR on 6-19-17.

Drowned Toddler Is Making Miraculous Recovery

After falling into a pool, little Joy Loboda did not have a heartbeat for some 20-30 minutes. She should not be alive today, but she is.

Matt and Kristin Loboda, from Tampa, Florida, and their five young children were visiting family in Phoenix, Arizona. On Dec. 29, 2016, Matt suddenly noticed that his 19-month-old daughter, Joy, was missing. She had been with them just before that. “In my heart, I knew something was terribly wrong. So, I ran down to the Koi pond on the property. I ran around it four times looking between the shadows and fish for Joy. Momentarily I was relieved. But, [then] I heard the Holy Spirit tell me to run to the pool,” writes Matt on his Facebook page.

When Joy disappeared, Matt hadn’t considered the possibility that she was in the fence-encircled pool. He sprinted there, and the sight he saw was enough to make any parent’s blood run cold: there was Joy’s little, lifeless body floating on top of the water. Matt leaped over the five-foot fence and dove into the water, bringing Joy out of the pool, so he and his brother-in-law could perform CPR while they were waiting for the ambulance.

“As I breathed into Joy, I prayed that my breath would be the breath of God into her,” says

Matt, a graduate of the Franciscan University of Steubenville. “In between breaths I

Kristen, Joy’s mother, feels some relief and hope as Joy continues to improve.

begged for the Ruha of God to enter her. Her lips were blue, and her beautiful blue eyes were wide open. I could see her pupils shrinking at an alarming rate. Then I started to pray in between breathes in the words of Jesus, ‘Talitha Koum,’ which means ‘Little girl, I say to you, arise.’ I knew we needed a miracle because I could actually feel her slipping away.”

First Responders

Sergeant Ronald Bryant, a policeman for the Phoenix Police Department, was just pulling out of the police station when he got the urgent call that a baby had fallen into a pool and was unresponsive. Racing to help Joy, he drove right up where Matt was trying to revive her.  “I found Joy surrounded by frantic family and concerned workers. Dad, soaked from the cold pool, was doing a great job with CPR and mom, Kristin, was kneeling, holding Joy’s head in hands and praying like no mother ever wants to pray for their child,” Officer Bryant writes on his Facebook page.

He continues, “I scooped Joy up and ran her out to the front gate, giving her compressions and a couple of breaths as we ran out to meet Fire Paramedics who were almost on the scene. Fire immediately took over and got to work on Joy’s tiny, cold, blue, lifeless body. My heart was broken. I was convinced she had passed.”

With 19 years of service, this was not Sergeant Bryant’s first experience with infant death. Joy’s stiff body spoke volumes to him. “Everything in me said it was too late, and she was gone, but I had to try everything I could,” he said.

Although the paramedics were doing everything they could to save Joy, Matt could feel the cloud of doom that had settled over them.

As the detective drove Matt and Kristin to Phoenix Children’s Hospital, Matt closed his eyes and prayed to God: “‘I know she is your daughter, but she is my daughter too. Now is not the right time.”

Heartbeat

At the emergency room, a doctor came in and informed the Lobodas that the prognosis didn’t look good, but that Joy now had a heartbeat. This news was enough to bolster Matt’s hope. Filled with supernatural confidence, he felt in his heart Joy would make a full recovery and said as much to the doctors.

Little Joy was put in a medical coma and placed on a ventilator, but by Jan. 7, 2016 she was responsive and breathing on her own. Kristin writes, “She’s in my arms, reached for my face, and said, ‘Mamma.’ Tears are flowing, and my heart is so full. Your prayers have been our strength and brought healing to our baby.”

On Jan. 9, Joy was able to latch on and breastfeed for the first time since the accident, and though she was still experiencing pain, she was doing well enough that doctors transferred her out of pediatric intensive care. On Jan. 10, she broke out into a smile and laughed—a miracle. She is making marked improvements every day.

When Sergeant Bryant learned that Joy was recovering, elated, he stopped by Fire Station 17—the paramedics who had worked to save joy—to tell them she was alive. “They were amazed,” he says.

The Efficacy of Prayers

Fr. Ignatius Mazanowski, F.H.S, Kristin’s brother, told the Register, “Her recovery, in my opinion, is a testament to her parent’s love and care and the thousands of people who have been praying for little Joy.”

It surely is also a testament to the most powerful prayer, the Mass. For the first seven days, Fr. Mazanowski offered Mass at the foot of Joy’s hospital bed, choosing the First Eucharistic Prayer because he wanted to call upon the intercession of the saints for Joy and her parents. “To be honest, at first it was simply something I could do, and it provided a way to pray and offer this whole situation to the Lord. Each day, as I said Mass, I saw Joy get stronger, and her parents become more encouraged. I began to realize, in a way I never did before, how much healing comes through the Mass.”

Fr. Ignatius Mazanowski offering Holy Mass

He continues, “One Mass in particular, on the Feast of the Holy Family, became the means through which my sister Kristin’s heart found healing as I led her through self-forgiveness prayers. As any parents would, she was blaming and condemning herself for Joy’s accident. They lost Joy for three minutes, and Joseph and Mary lost Jesus for three days. Self-forgiveness in such a situation is so important. I believe my sister’s healing is tied to Joy’s healing, and for sure, it helped Kristin to be in a better place to help Joy heal.”

Joy’s Miracle Offers Encouragement

When miracles happen, we know that God is near and watching over us, but it makes me wonder why some prayers go unanswered? “All I know is that, in my experience, miracles happen for two reasons,” replies Fr. Mazanowski. “First, God wants to reveal His love to that person, and second, He wants others to come to faith and to come to know Him as a result of the miracle. In Joy’s case, I know God loves her, her parents, and our family very much, and I am grateful He has chosen to restore her to health. I also know from the many people who have contacted us that God is, in fact, bringing people back to the Church and back into relationship with Him as they receive encouragement through following the story of Joy’s miraculous recovery and her parents’ deep faith.”

Copyright ©2017, Lori Hadacek Chaplin. This article was first published on January 12th, 2017 for the The National Catholic Register.

A GoFundMe page has been set up for the Lobodas at https://www.gofundme.com/prayforjoyloboda.

Read update: An Update on the Drowned Toddler Who Made a Miraculous

An Open Letter to a Woman Considering an Abortion

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Abortion, abortion alternatives, babies, Birthright, God, Idaho, Infant, Iowa, life, love, Mother, pregnancy, Pro-life, Pro-women, unplanned pregnancy

An Open Letter to a Woman Considering an Abortion

Dear Scared,

When the home pregnancy test was positive, I was numb with disbelief. Surely another test would yield a different result. Again, I peered into that prophetic window hoping that the pink would not come, but the lines materialized, taunting me to deny them. I needed to find help, so I looked in the yellow pages and I saw that downtown Minneapolis had a Birthright crisis pregnancy center. On the drive to Birthright, I recall idling at a stoplight

A Kiss for Baby Anne (no. 3), 1897 – Mary Cassatt

shaking and sick with the fear that was consuming me. I was terrified of the unknown; I particularly feared how my deeply religious parents would react to my news and the prospect of raising a baby alone. Only hours before I discovered I was pregnant, my boyfriend of 16 months had told me through a rush of guilty tears that he didn’t want to be with me anymore. I felt betrayed because he had promised me marriage.

Waiting at that stoplight, I had a moment where, for the first time in my life, I could empathize with a woman who would choose abortion; I understood the sheer terror one could feel about being found out. I felt the full weight of the realization that I was now responsible for a small person who would be completely reliant on me even though I was unprepared for this kind of commitment. But I ask you to ask yourself, “How can a decision to abort your baby based on fear or shame be a good one?”

At Birthright, I met the loveliest, soft-spoken woman named Bernadette; her Irish brogue calmed me. Tearfully, I told her that I thought I was pregnant and I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t afford to have a baby. I was barely supporting myself waiting tables and working at the Minneapolis Institute of Art, and I had no health insurance. She asked if I wanted to take another pregnancy test.

I did.

I smile to think of it now; I was so much in denial that I was sure this time the test would say that I was not pregnant.

One of the smartest things that I did was go to a crisis pregnancy center as soon as I thought I was pregnant. I had so many questions. I had heard that it cost thousands of dollars to deliver a baby, and money was a big concern for me because my roommate was moving out to get married, and I would have to find a less expensive apartment. All of my concerns about having a baby poured out of me and Bernadette calmed me by having the answers. She explained to me how I could have my prenatal care and delivery through Catholic Charities. She said not to worry about finding an apartment; there were families that took in pregnant moms, and she would make the arrangements. We talked about my own family and about telling my parents. I told her that I was waiting until I could go home to Iowa to tell them face-to-face. She advised me not to wait to call them.

I understand that telling your parents is weighing on your mind; you’re wondering and imagining how they will take the news. The fact that I was 25-years-old did not make breaking the pregnancy to them any easier. I was especially close to my mom, and I dreaded hurting and disappointing her. When I called to tell her, she was furious with me; she felt betrayed because she had thought I was the kind of young woman that would save myself for marriage.

Mom’s disappointment and coldness cut me like a knife. My phone would ring, but I

Lori with baby Ella, 6-month old.

wouldn’t answer it because I knew it was she. A wedge had been driven between us, and it was extremely painful for me. I tell you about this painful rift because I don’t want to soft-pedal this difficult task of telling your parents. I want you to know that sometimes mothers and fathers need time to digest this life-changing news. You see, part of the anger she felt against me was because she felt shut out. In our phone conversion, I had told her that I wouldn’t be coming home because I didn’t want to be a constant reminder of how big of a disappointment I was. Once I came to my senses and I realized that I could not raise a baby without her help, it didn’t take long for our relationship to mend.

Another difficult aspect of my pregnancy was the knowledge that I was bringing my baby into the world without a father. I longed for my boyfriend to come to me—for him to tell me he wanted to marry me. I still loved him, and I deeply desired us to be a family. Even so, I wanted him only if he came to me of his own free will. He stayed away, and I taught my heart to move on without him. Maturity has taught me that it was for the better that we did not marry.

She arrived as the first snowflakes of winter danced to the earth, swirling up the inaugural blizzard of November. I named her Ella Philomena; Ella, after my maternal great-grandmother, and Philomena, because it meant full of light—a name that represented what my daughter was bringing to my life. While the world slept, I fumbled to figure out how to be a mother to Ella. Before Ella, my experience of love had been superficial—more lust than love. Now I was discovering that true love is intertwined with sacrifice, but it is also real and rewarding.

Lori and six-year-old Ella.

Because of Ella, I left my life in the city so I could be near my parents for support. I missed my job and my old life terribly, but all I had to do was look at her sweet face to know that she was the best thing that ever happened to me. In choosing to raise Ella, a whole chain of events was set off that made my life develop into something much more wonderful than it had been. I had long had a rocky relationship with my father. The day I called him at his office to tell him I was pregnant, he surprised me; I had expected him to be furious with me. Instead, he was compassionate. That phone call was the salve that began the healing of a long-open wound that had prevented me from loving my father as he deserved. Before that day, I had doubted his love for me.

For five years, Ella and I lived with my parents and two younger brothers. You might cringe at the thought of an adult returning home to live with her family. Yes, it was humbling, but it also was a time that I cherish like no other. Unlike my teen years, this period of living with my parents was peaceful. I got to know them more deeply and understand them more fully. In return, they loved Ella like she was their own child.

Something else I want to tell you is that an unplanned pregnancy, like a planned pregnancy, brings a woman incredible inner strength. I never realized how strong I was physically and mentally before my daughter came along. might cringe at the thought of an adult returning home to live with her family. Yes, it was humbling, but it also was a time that I cherish like no other. Unlike my teen years, this period of living with my parents was peaceful. I got to know them more deeply and understand them more fully. In return, they loved Ella like she was their own child.

Having my daughter also made me strive to be a better person. I had graduated from art school, but I was floundering without a set career path. Ella’s existence was the catalyst for a series of events that made me realize my vocation as a writer.

Unexpectedly, choosing to have Ella brought me another grace—true friendship. Since childhood, I had longed for a kindred spirit. I would mourn the loss of friends who would come and go in my life. I sometimes wondered what was wrong with me that I could not maintain friendships. I often felt a deep and sorrowful loneliness. After Ella came into my life, I have never felt lonely. God not only gave me a baby but also gifted me with a best friend who understands me like no other person.

If I could have glimpsed 22 years into the future while sitting at that stoplight sick and trembling with fear, I would have seen a visage of a young woman who resembled me. I would have seen a girl who loved to laugh and spend time with her mother—a daughter who would be a rock during her mother’s most vulnerable times—her steadfast friend and companion. I would not have been afraid. I tell you that your fear will also pass, and by giving your baby life, new and unexpected doors will open.

Twelve years ago I married a wonderful man. Ella now has three siblings to love her.

A plea from Ella:
If my mom had not had the courage to weather this trial, I would not be alive today. I would not have known her love and dedication—the comfort of her embrace. I would never have known my two brothers and sister. I would have never felt the unconditional love of my grandparents.

Ella, 23, taken the day before she graduated from college, May 2018.

Like her, I know that you can be brave for your baby. The good news is that you do not have to do it alone. There are so many people from Birthright and from the surrounding community that are waiting and willing help you. No problem is insurmountable. My mom and I are living witnesses to this. Love, Ella

Copyright ©2016,  Lori Hadacek Chaplin.

 

The Sacraments Bind Us to God and to Generations of Catholics

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Catholic Digest, confirmation, first confession, Iowa, rat terrior puppies, tornado in Duncan

“Tornado Touchdown” by Toni Grote

One night, my four children and I were sitting on the basement stairs in my parent’s home in Forest City, Iowa. Typical of the region, fierce spring winds howled around the house. I had gotten my sleepy little ones up in the wee hours of the morning so we could be near the cellar in case of a tornado. My father was already up. Since he had been diagnosed with blood and bone cancer, he often had wakeful nights. As the six of us sat there listening to the wind shaking the windowpanes, my dad started reminiscing about his first Communion and confirmation. My seven-year-old daughter, Gemma, would be making her first Communion in a couple of weeks, and it must have made him think of his own. I marveled at the story because I never remembered hearing it before.

My dad, Robert Hadacek, with his rat terrier pups.

My dad recalled how on the way to his first confession in 1946, his parents took him to buy a Rat Terrier puppy for a first Communion gift. Listening to him tell the story, I could imagine my dad as a little six-year-old boy with just his dark head peeping out from a long, oversized dress coat. I could see him choosing that puppy with the black-and-white spots. Dad told us, “It was freezing that day, so I put Peewee in my big pocket to keep her warm, and she went into the confessional with me.” That little puppy wasn’t the end of the story; she made it possible for my dad to do something generous for his parish priest, Monsignor Hradecky.

St. Wenceslaus Catholic Church after the tornado.

A week before my dad’s confirmation, on June 25, 1951, a devastating tornado hit the small, Czech town of Duncan, Iowa. My dad’s family lived on a farm in rural Duncan. My dad remembered how that tornado had torn through his town and dumped water and mud from a 10-acre pond onto the demolished houses. Still marveling at the memory, he told us how the church, St. Wenceslaus, was destroyed, but the sanctuary was left untouched and the flame from the sanctuary candle continued to burn.

Young Robert Hadacek’s first Communion picture.

The following Sunday after the tornado hit, Bishop Binz came to confirm my dad and the other children of the parish, and a tent was set up in place of the church. My dad noticed that Monsignor Hradecky wasn’t wearing his biretta with the red pom-pom. (A biretta is three-peaked hat that was worn by the priest during the Latin Mass, and red signified monsignor). Though just a 12-year-old, my dad demonstrated generosity and maturity by taking the money he earned from selling a litter of Peewee’s puppies and buying Monsignor Hradecky a $40 biretta to replace the one lost in the tornado. Hearing his story reminded me how receiving the sacraments bind Catholics past, present, and future together. We came to Iowa thinking that my dad was near his end of his life. We got permission from our parish priest in Idaho to have Gemma’s first Communion at my dad’s church, Our Lady of Ransom Oratory, in Guckeen, Minnesota. This way my dad could be a part of one of the most monumental days in the spiritual life of a Catholic. I am happy to say that though it has been a rocky road for him, he is still with us, and he looking forward to another grandchild’s first Communion this year.

Postscript: My father didn’t make it to see his third granddaughter make her first Communion. He died on March 11th, 2014. He put up a good fight against the cancer, living almost 14 months after the diagnosis. Just days before he died, I read this story to him. He cried tears of joy because I’d written about him; he had seen many articles about my mom, but none about him until now. It’s a good thing I read him the story and showed him the layout before it was published because his copy of Catholic Digest, which included this tale from his youth, arrived in the mail a few days after he died. May God rest his eternal soul. 

© 2014, Lori Hadacek Chaplin. First published in Catholic Digest in Spring of 2014.

My Mother’s Handwriting

Whenever I see my mom’s handwriting, I feel a tearing at my heart—a fresh jolt of anguish. She died in October 2011 from cancer, and a piece of me went with her.

My four kids and I have stayed with my dad for several weeks for the past two summers. Coming back is always tinged with sadness because she’s gone. My mom’s personality blankets their home. I hear her voice in my mind reminding me how I should do things as I clean her home, help my eldest daughter bake bread in her kitchen, and preserve summer vegetables from my dad’s garden—the garden my mom spent hours tending when she was healthy. I imagine her saying, “The green beans your dad picked are too big for canning; they won’t taste good.” I tell my dad, but he’s too stubborn to admit I’m right. “Mom wouldn’t can them,” I say to him, shaking my head.

I had had some experience with death, but until I lost my mother I couldn’t fathom the deep sense of loss and helplessness that would enshroud me beginning during the end stage of her illness and then more fully after her death. Mercifully, I don’t feel sad all of the time. Poignant feelings flit in and out of my days whenever something provokes me, such as a dream about her, an urge to call her when something good or not so good has happened, or when I need cooking advice—and especially when I see her handwriting.

I promised my dad that I would go through my mother’s things, so I got busy sorting through Mom’s clothing; throwing away what is old and dividing into piles the clothes to give to her close friends. I didn’t like the idea of strangers wearing her clothes, but the thought of her friends wearing them comforted me.

This is one of my cherished pieces of my mom’s handwriting. When she was a young girl she drew this picture in her mother’s Searchlight cookbook and signed it.

I tried to sort through her desk and the laundry baskets containing piles of newspapers, magazines, mail, and papers. The last eight months of her life she wasn’t able to do any housework. She spent most of her time in a rocking chair or lying on the the couch. It seems that everywhere I turned was a list or an address written in her neat cursive. Looking at her distinguishable penmanship made me feel like she’s close by. It felt like she had only just jotted down one of her lists and had left it to go into another room. For a few seconds, I pretended this was true, but the reality that she was never coming back left me feeling empty and lonely.

Mom holding me when I was three days old.

It was because of that emptiness and loneliness that I started to go to daily Mass. Something told me that this was the path of healing for me, and it has been. It is in taking Holy Communion that I feel closest to her. Like seeing her handwriting, receiving Communion makes me feel her presence keenly, but instead of feeling empty inside the Precious Body fills me up and comforts me that someday the divide will be lifted.

Postscript: Mom has been gone four years. I still miss her everyday, but it’s thoughts of my dad, who died March 11th, 2014, that fill my mourning cup. Maybe it’s the passing of time that has eased my mourning for my mom or maybe it’s because it’s too difficult to grieve more than one person at a time. Daily Mass continues to be my balm of healing.

©2014, Lori Hadacek Chaplin. This article was first published in Catholic Digest in May of 2014.

You Love the Child with the Birth Defect More—Not Less

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birth defect, Catholic Digest, Congenital disorder, Craniosynostosis, Health, Helmet, Infant, Lambdoid, Surgery

Our baby, Max, has been wearing a helmet since he was a six-month-old. When he was born, his head looked perfectly normal. However, by the time he was six-weeks-old, I’d wonder out loud to my family about its peculiar shape. There was an odd ridge at the back of his skull, which wasn’t perfectly round.

Since Max’s head was growing at a good rate, his doctor said there was probably nothing to worry about. I wanted to believe him, so I stopped worrying. At my baby’s five month checkup, I was shocked when he referred me to a plastic surgeon. At the top of the referral form I saw the diagnosis Craniosynostosis (a birth defect that causes one or more sutures on a baby’s head to close earlier than normal). I felt sick to my stomach, but I clung to the thought that he had to be wrong.

He wasn’t.

The CTC scan confirmed that our baby did have Craniosynostosis. His was a rare form which caused the Lambdoid sutures in the back of his head to close prematurely. He needed surgery, and would have to wear a helmet to shape and protect his head.

During the month we waited for Max’s surgery, we lived under a cloud of disquiet. The surgery was potentially dangerous. Our hearts ached to know that this could possibly be our last days with our baby. We put our trust in God and His Blessed Mother and asked everyone we knew to pray for Max.

Before we gave our son to the surgeons,  my husband and I were trying to memorize every one of his features. Our hearts felt heavy with grief—as if they were filled with lead. We were handing over our baby to the doctors for surgery on his skull, not knowing for sure if they were going to bring him back alive.

Max, six-month-old, right after surgery, in May 2011.

After a successful surgery, we had the next hurdle to face—the shaping helmet. I cried when he initially started wearing his helmet. It was heavy and sat close to his eyes. When I looked at him, all I could think was my baby has a bowling ball for a head—a “bowling ball” that he was required to wear 23-hours a day. Nursing him felt cumbersome and uncomfortable. I yearned to have his soft head lying against my breast, not this cold, hard plastic.

A few weeks after getting his helmet, Max tugged on the telephone cord and the phone fell from the desk and bounced off his head. He didn’t even look fazed by the impact. This was my dawning—a sort of an apple hitting Sir Isaac Newton in the head moment—that Max’s helmet was going to be a blessing for him.

I was correct. My mischievous Maxi was always falling and bumping his noggin. The day he rolled off the pew in front of me in Mass I was mortified that I let him get away from me, but I was also grateful that he had a helmet to protect his head. After Mass, I joked with the concerned older lady who witnessed Max fall: “My baby wears a helmet to protect him from his mother’s foolishness.”

Max just turned one-years-old.

More than once, I have marveled at how Max’s birth defect was an unsuspected blessing for our family. I have learned from this experience that it is just as natural and easy to love a child who has a birth defect as it is to love a healthy child. Whereas first his helmet seemed a curse, I came to see that it was God’s way of protecting our baby. 

(Postscript: Max just turned three-years-old. He wore his helmet for six months. Except for the long scar hidden beneath his dark, blonde hair no one would guess what he has endured. He’s a resilient and joyful child with a zest for life.)

©Copyright 2013, Lori Hadacek Chaplin. This story was excerpted from an article called Blessings in Disguise, published in Catholic Digest, May 2013. http://www.catholicdigest.com

 

Easy as pie

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Catholic Digest, cherry cranberry pie, Ella Hadacek, flaky pie crust, Grandmother, homemade, Lori Hadacek Chaplin, pie, Sharon Hadacek

While watching my 17-year-old daughter, Ella, deftly roll out pie crusts recently, I noticed that her hands look just like her grandmother’s. “You have my mother’s hands,” I told her. “That must be why you make such good pies!”

My mom, Sharon Hadacek (1941-2011), was renowned for her baking skills. Ella spent many hours of her childhood in Grandma Sharon’s homey kitchen, standing at her elbow, watching her bake. When Ella turned 12, my mom actively began to pass on her expertise to her. She had given up on her own two daughters—who had arguably grown into decent cooks —but lacked the patience to fuss with baking.

Love in every bite

My mom had comedic disdain for processed food, and store-bought crust was at the top of her list of worst foods. She wondered why anyone would want to serve crust that resembled cardboard in taste and texture when it was so easy to make flavorful, flaky piecrust made not by machines but by loving hands.

Making food was my mother’s love language. She did not talk about love; I never recall her ever saying the words, “I love you” to me, but she was a very loving woman. She showed her family her love by baking goodies, simmering hearty soups, and cooking entrées, using the fresh fruits and vegetables she grew in her prolific garden.

Mom taught Ella not to be afraid of making piecrust—or any recipe for that matter. When it came to baking and cooking, Mom was fearless. She threw herself into the task and wasn’t worried about failure. She’d say matter-of-factly, “Even if it’s not perfect, it will get eaten!” And it always did. She taught Ella not to give up, because most cooking has a learning curve that, once mastered, is easily remembered.

One of the important bits of wisdom my mom conveyed to Ella was not to get too caught up in worrying that the pie wouldn’t look professional. People are more likely to prefer a pie that doesn’t look perfect, because it looks homemade—and any homemade dessert is superior. It’s also important to note that, as the crust bakes, many irregularities in shape will literally melt away.

Grandma’s Basic Pie Crust

Mom taught Ella that the key to making piecrust is that all of the ingredients—even the bowl and rolling pin—should be chilled. If everything is cold, the dough will be easier to handle.

1/2 cup of refrigerated, unsalted butter

1 cup of flour (chilled, in the freezer)

3-5 tablespoons of ice water

1/2 teaspoon of salt

Pulsate the butter and the flour in food processor until the butter forms pea-sized beads. Transfer to bowl and place in the freezer to cool. After approximately ten minutes, remove the mixture and add water, one tablespoon at time, until it is moistened and forms a rough ball. It is helpful to move dough that has already been moistened to the opposite side of the bowl. This prevents the dough from being over-worked.

Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and place in the freezer for 15 minutes for easier handling. This also gives the dough more time to develop the gluten that will hold it together. Divide dough into two balls and roll them out in a circular motion on a floured surface, flipping often to prevent sticking. Makes one 9-inch piecrust.

Ella’s Sweet and Tangy Cherry-Cranberry Pie

This pie recipe, created by Ella, gives traditional cherry pie a new dimension with the addition of tangy cranberries and two kinds of cherries. If you prefer a not-too-sweet pie with a bit of zing, use the smallest amount of sugar called for.

1 can of red tart cherries in water

1 can of Bing cherries in syrup

1 cup of fresh or frozen cranberries

3/4 to 1 cup of sugar (depending on tartness preference)

2 1/2 tablespoons of cornstarch

2 unbaked 9-inch piecrusts

Preheat the oven to 400°F. Drain juice from cherries and combine with cranberries, sugar, and cornstarch. Roll out piecrust, flipping periodically to prevent sticking. Pour half of the mixture over rolled-out piecrust that has been placed in pie plate. Place top rolled-out crust over cherries and pinch top and bottom crust together. Score six small slits into the crust with a sharp knife so the crust doesn’t bubble up. Bake for 50 to 55 minutes, or until golden brown. Makes one 9-inch pie.

©Copyright 2012, Lori Hadacek Chaplin with Ella Hadacek. Excerpted with permission from Catholic Digest’s November 2012 issue. http://www.catholicdigest.com/