As I sit here attempting to write my annual post on Roe vs. Wade, I struggle to make sense of what is happening in this country. There is no doubt, dark days ahead. We have now an administration who is traitor to our countries ideals as well as to their professed religious beliefs. Already, threats of rolling back protections for the unborn have been aired. Worst of all, the March for Life has been cancelled due to increased military presence in the principle streets of Washington. 

Yet, we are not entirely without hope. We have seen Missouri recently declare itself abortion-free...only 49 more states to go! And there are still local advocacies and spiritual warfare that are still happening at abortion clinics. Court cases are still going through, with the hopes that the dreaded Roe vs. Wade will be killed at last. 

For the past three years, I have made attempts at eloquent speeches, full of feeling and hard truths. This year, I have decided to put that aside and talk about something a little more personal. I want to share something that has convicted me of my humanity, now more than ever before. 

To understand this, we have to go back a little bit in time to Christmas Eve night, 2020. 

It had been raining hard all day, melting the numerous inches of snow we had received during the previous week, not to mention ruining any chance of a white Christmas. At 5pm, my brother Anthony's guardian angel prompted him to go pray in a quiet place and so he went to the basement....

And discovered that there was 1.5 inches of standing water on the basement floor. 

Cue the family panic and the donning of boots for a fast salvage action (and, quite a few scares, including the smashing of a mercury bulb, but that is neither here nor there). 

Now, to be fair, the basement had flooded many times since we had moved in, but this particular flood was one of the most serious. While the majority of the items stored in the basement were in fact in waterproof tubs, there were still several boxes of paperwork and books that got water damaged. 

It is one of those boxes that my story concerns with. It was a long cardboard box, chock full of folders of financial and medical records from the mid-90s. My parents had simply not gotten around to shredding the stuff. The bottom of the box had gotten wet, but it was uncertain whether the paperwork had been completely ruined or not. Therefore, it was my job to remove and sort the contents so the wet box could be disposed of. 

I reached for a folder and opened it. There on the top was a photocopied medical record for my mother. Being the snoop that I am, I flipped idly through it. 

And then I got to the last page....and found something that shook me to the core. 

It was this: 

Now anyone with two eyes can see that THAT is a baby. Another check of the record soon confirmed that I was staring at one of my mother's OB records. The question was...which kid was it in the picture? 

A quick check of the dates and the location of the clinic soon confirmed it....

That baby was ME. 

How can I describe that kind of a moment? All I could do was stare at that picture. There were in fact two others, but they were rather unclear, just as I would expect photocopied early ultrasounds to look like. I wasn't expecting one with such a recognizable face, even down to the sassy smile that I still own. 

I later found out that those pictures were from when I was 12 weeks into gestation. You'd think from the picture that I would have been a little older, but I was a big baby (8lbs 11 oz at birth). 

And yet it's horrible to think about the fact that this is among the most common ages for babies to be aborted. 

So many of us never see these kinds of pictures of ourselves. I'm not sure when the printed ultrasound pictures became available, but I would guess that it started with my generation. 

Yet the reality remains the same. 

God knows us from conception, even if we are hidden from the world. Therefore, we all deserve a chance to save their souls. With abortion, these innocent babies don't get that chance. 

Therefore, we must strain every effort to eradicate this greatest killer of mankind. Even with national efforts being suppressed, we can still participate in local pro-life affairs. Because of the spiritual nature of the fight, the spiritual weapons of prayer, fasting and giving alms to pro-life causes are our best weapons. I would heartily recommend the Novena for the Protection of the Unborn especially. 

And most of all, let us keep HOPE. For "rebellions are built on hope", as Jyn Erso says in Rogue One. And it's quite safe to say that we are in full rebellion from the demonic forces that attempt to shut us down again and again. 

Old-fashionably yours, 

Catherine

This is one part of me that I do not understand. 

Of all the languages that I have attempted to grapple with - and believe me, there have been a few - why choose a primary language that is not connected with any of my family history? Or one that is connected to a culture that I find....weird at times?

Well, you know what they say, you never forget your first one. So I suppose it has to do with my schooling. 

Like many high school students, I had to take two semesters of a foreign language. And like many small high schools, the language choices were slim. In fact, there were only four - French, Spanish, German.....and I think Italian? 

Considering that high school me had little interest in the others (future me is ashamed of her), I picked French. I did enjoy my two semesters, even if the Powerglide software was the literal bane of my existence. Seriously, when they teach you one word in the lesson and throw in a completely another one in the exercises for the same thing, it's a recipe for disaster. 

But that course was memorable. For one thing, I learned how to pronounce Quebec correctly (my French teacher was a naturalized citizen from that particular province). And in that course, there was one thing that got hammered into me. And that is "thinking in the language". 

You see, langauge is not just vocabulary. Language is made up of concepts. Which is why language learning by immersion is generally more effective than the standard vocabulary approach. I mean, we learned English as babies by immersion first. We learn to "think" in English. Not only does this help us practice the language, but it helps with retention as well. 

Now, most people forget nearly all of their language once they leave school. Apparently mine was a weird case because some French stuck with me. I kept the French dictionary that I used for high school. And occasionally, I would dig up the immersion video series French in Action, which was an extra resource in high school that I enjoyed immensely. (in fact, I have just found it again, I link it HERE for my fellow French learners). 

Fast forward to 2019...and my brothers discovering Duolingo. Of course big sister had to get in on it. And guess which language I gravitated towards again? 

French. 

Except this time, I had a better reason for it. Not only for the previous French background, but I had an opportunity to use it...somewhat. 

You see, before the pandemic, our Bob Evan's restaurant would gets the occasional visitor (or tour bus) from Canada. Even though our menu is pretty simple to understand, there is the occasional clarification parley. Which is frustrating because I actually understand what they are saying a lot of the time but I am like a baby and can't speak back to them! 

Now granted, this link is even now tenuous. So why do I bother learning French? 

Maybe for when I actually make that pilgrimage to Chartres. Maybe for when I visit eastern Canada. Or maybe God intends me to have a French/Canadian husband. 

Or maybe I'm just going to keep it for the heck of it. It will be another one of my eccentrices. 

Well, this is a rambly post, I must say! What sort of eccentric thing have you picked up for the heck of it? If you are actively learning a language, what is it?  

Old-fashionably yours, 

Catherine