I just returned from the dentist with a numb mouth and tongue; they feel five times their normal size. The pasta salad I was looking forward to isn't tasting right, so I thought I'd type for a few minutes while the girls are otherwise occupied.

I'm a romantic. I romanticize things. I dream about living in a little cottage (could be Ireland, maybe England), surrounded by my gardens, a few sheep, goats and chickens. Life is simple. I grow my own food, I have no need for fancy gadgets or clothes. I have my books. The hearth is in the center of the house, and my tea kettle is always ready. Here in this place I can ignore Iraq, terrorism, race relations, CEO's with $40 million salaries and just focus on the good. My husband would do well here, too. He was not cut out for this fast paced life in the consumeristic society; we call him 'Pa Ingalls'. He could dig in the dirt, care for the animals and have his solitary time he so desperately needs. I can picture this. I swear I can even taste and smell it. The vision is that vivid. But then I open my eyes, and here I sit with a fat lip, a pain in my jaw, health insurance issues, job insecurity (at the age of 50 in my husband's case), taxes plus everything else. That old voice starts to creep in saying something like, "The Lord never promised you happiness here on earth." But now I'm telling it to shut up and go away. I'm not listening to it as much.

When I was about 19 or so I decided I wanted to be a nun. I think it had a lot to do with In This House of Brede. I would live in a convent in the country, I would till the ground, I would eat simple meals, and I would have my books. All of them. Until my dad pointed out that I might not be able to take all my books (in the 100's). In his day nuns renounced those material possessions. Renounce books. That stopped me in my tracks. Then when I was 21 I met Tim. It didn't take long to acknowledge that the celibate life wasn't for me. And I never looked back.

Of course I romanticized the religious life just as I romanticized the married life. All in all though, the married life has been good. I'm fortunate. Ups and downs are inevitable when you've got a male and female living together. We are different, and isn't that the beauty of it. I've never believed in soul mates. The idea that there's one person out there who is my soul mate is not reasonable to me. How in the world could I find him? But, you know, over the years Tim has become my soul mate. We've grown into it. I have had friends in bad marriages; they truly were miserable. Some divorced, some would not consider divorce and tried to make the best of it, but they're not content or happy. I don't know the answer. But it does make me wonder how Tim and I came together. Was it coincidence? Was it prayer? Just simple luck - in the right place at the right time? I don't know the answer but the romantic side of me likes to think it was prayer and a connecting energy that brought us together.

Where was I going with this? Oh, how I romanticize things. Well, the religious life was out. Marriage was in. I needed to find my spot, my spiritual spot. I've always felt this need to be centered spiritually. I need to feel peace and contentment. But I think I tried to force things that looked good on other people to fit me instead of just being silent and listening to me.

Through Tim I met a woman who was married to his friend. She was a convert to the church and totally devoted to Mary. She started asking me to prayer groups, and since I'm always looking for where I fit in, I would go with her. They were usually wrapped up in some Marian apparition and would discuss that, read messages from Mary, say the rosary. That type of thing. What I really looked forward to was the the coffee and conversation afterwards. They were nice women, and I enjoyed our time together. I didn't mind praying the rosary with other ladies because that way I wouldn't fall asleep. It felt good. Around 1990 we decided to go to Medjugorea. I will be honest. I was excited about going because I love traveling, seeing new things, experiencing how others live. I wasn't either a believer or a disbeliever in the apparitions. I went because it's exciting to get on a plane and head out.

It was a good trip. Everybody around me had this hyper type devotion to Mary. I did not. I tried, and it never happened. Everybody wanted something to happen: the sun to dance in the sky, hear voices, mysterious pictures to appear. I was just enjoying my time. Now while I was there two things happened to me. I've never really talked about them to anyone other than my husband. By the way he finds it easy to believe in miracles; I'm more the cynic.

The first thing that happened was this: I standing with my tour group, probably 50 people. We were gathered in the street underneath the balcony of a house where one of the visionaries lived. She was standing on the balcony, talking to the crowd. I don't remember what she was saying. Anyway, as I was standing there, suddenly this incredibly strong scent of roses surrounded me. No one had walked away, no one had joined the group. In fact, no one was moving; they were are rooted to the spot listening to this girl talk through interpretor. The scent was so strong I thought I might have a hay fever attack. I looked around me, and no one seemed aware of anything. They were all looking at the girl. As far as I could tell, it was just me. The only person I ever shared this with was my husband. He's always maintained it was a gift from Mary.

The second happening. I had this medal that my parents had given me when I was in high school. It was a Miraculous Medal made out of pewter. I always wore it. Probably more so because my parents gave it to me rather than having some devotion to the Immaculate Conception of St. Catherine Laboure. It was a couple days before we leaving to return home, and my friend looked at me and asked where I had bought the new medal. I hadn't bought a new medal; it was the same old one. She thought it was new because it was gold. Sure enough, it didn't look pewter, it looked gold. Now a lot of people were saying their rosaries were turning gold and such, but there was no denying that my medal was a different color. The medal not only turned gold (color) but the link that connected it to the chain was gold also. The chain was the same. Some years later I was leaning over a chain link fence and caught the medal on it. When I jerked up the it pulled the medal off. I found the medal but could never find the link so I put a new one on. It was silver, just like my old chain. The next day the link was gold. Well, the medal was old and wearing thin. I was afraid where it would wear through where it connected to the link. I took it to a jewelry shop, and they tried filling it in but I always worried about it. So I put it in a special drawer.

When my dad was in the hospital the first time and they thought there was no way he could survive, I needed something desperately. I didn't know what that something was, but for some reason I went to my armoire and opened that drawer. There was my medal, still gold. I put it on. Throughout the day I would constantly pray that prayer: "O Mary, conceived with sin, pray for us who have recourse to Thee." My dad recovered. I still have my medal, in the drawer. I looked at it the other day. The chain is gone. The medal is still a gold color. I haven't felt that need for it, so it waits.

Anyway, back to the story. After we got back, the women seemed to get more and more fanatical. They lived by the messages. They fasted on certain days, said prayers a certain amount of times. It became unbelievably legalistic. I felt that some of them had moved from devotion to worship. Catholics are always being accused of worshiping Mary, and, of course, Catholics will say they only worship God. I'm not sure how I feel about this. I have met some people who call Mary a Goddess. I still don't know. I'm thinking. And I'm getting sidetracked again.

Back to the story. Then some of them got into Garabandal after a man spoke at a local church about those apparitions. They were a little too out there for me. In fact, they made me down right uneasy. I started to drift away. The conversation at coffee after the prayer group was always about 3 days of darkness, or a cloud pillar in the sky, or the end of the world. I was expecting any moment for one of them to start talking about the rapture. It wasn't working anymore.

About this time this same friend asked me to a new prayer group. It sounded a little more grounded so I went. They were called cenacles and focused around a Fr. Gobbi - I think, the memory fails. He was an Italian priest who received messages from Mary. I remember reading these messages and some of them not sitting well with me. They always focused on sin and hell and being good and heaven. I know one of them said something about Mohhamed and the anti-Christ and the year 666. Again, not for me. But one thing came out of this. I met the woman who become my closest friend. The cenacles were held at her house.

She was a mom of 5, I was a mom of 2 at the time. She homeschooled, and I was planning on homeschooling. She liked to sew, cook, bake bread, garden. I did too. So shortly I romanticizing the 'little woman' role. I was still working at the time but was planning on quitting and she encouraged me in this. We became very close friends. She, too, drifted away from the Marian apparitions and finally stopped having the cenacle at her house. She was more of the intellectual type. She read Aquinas, studied encyclicals, was raising her children to be apologists and save the church from the Satan led liberals. Well, it was also easy for me to romanticize that. Saving the church. Sacrificing myself for the good of the church. Noble. And she and her friends got together weekly to talk, discuss, drink coffee and eat pie. I had found a new group. Little did I know that this one would be catalyst for me falling away from traditional Catholicism and Christianity.

My kids need some snuggling and a book. I need a cup of tea. This computer needs a rest. So until later....