Schamelot

A Birthday Poem for Caroline from Mamina (and Paw Paw)

noreply@blogger.com (MedievalMama) — Sun, 10 Apr 2011 22:21:00 +0000

I know you don't remember
When you were only three,
And like a little cream puff,
You sat upon my knee.

All the day you sang a song
As different as could be,
And I wondered what was in your soul
That made you fly so free.

"What's in a name?" asked Juliet,
Her Romeo in mind.
I dreamed a dream and then I heard
The secret word for Caroline.

They say it's weird, and so it is,
Really quite insanely wacky,
And yet it's true, although absurd,
The name I heard was Cacchi Lacchi!

~~Mamina Hudson, April 2011

Befana the Housewife

noreply@blogger.com (MedievalMama) — Sat, 04 Dec 2010 15:42:00 +0000

Befana the Housewife, scrubbing her pane,
Saw three old sages ride down the lane,
Saw three gray travelers pass her door-
Gaspar, Balthazar, Melchior.

"Where journey you, sirs?" she asked of them.
Balthazar answered, "To Bethlehem,
For we have news of a marvelous thing
Born in a stable is Christ the King."

"Give Him my welcome!"

Then Gaspar smiled,
"Come with us, mistress, to greet the Child."
"Oh, happily, happily would I fare,
Were my dusting through and I'd polished the stair."
Old Melchior leaned on his saddle horn.
"Then send but a gift to the small Newborn."

"Oh, gladly, gladly I'd send Him one,
I'll fetch Him a pillow for His head,
And a coverlet too," Befana said.
"When the rooms are aired and the linen dry,
I'll look at the Babe."
But the Three rode by.

She worked for a day and a night and a day,
Then, gifts in her hands, took up her way.
But she never could find where the Christ Child lay.

And still she wanders at Christmastide,
Houseless, whose house was all her pride,
Whose heart was tardy, whose gifts were late,
Wanders, and knocks at every gate,

Crying, "Good people, the bells begin!
Put off your toiling and let love in!"

~~Phyllis McGinley

A Legend From Russia

noreply@blogger.com (MedievalMama) — Wed, 06 Jan 2010 20:24:00 +0000

Today is the anniversary of Caeli's First Holy Communion--the greatest gift of all!
Happy Epiphany!

A Legend From Russia

Babushka, the Grandmother, snug in her room
Sat nodding and nodding over her loom,

Sat suppered and snug with no desire
But a welcoming bed and an ample fire

When out of the winter’s rush and roar
Came shepherds knocking upon her door,

“Grandmother, Grandmother, old and wise,
In Bethlehem’s barn a princeling lies;

“Lies Mother and Child where oxen feed.
Hurry, Babushka, to nurse their need.”

Babushka listened, but made no stir.
She thought of the sheets turned down for her,

Of shutters latched and the larder dressed
And her bones that ached for rest.

“Tomorrow,” she muttered. “Wait till then.”
But sternly the shepherds knocked again.

“Grandmother, Grandmother, rich and skilled,
Then send but a kindly basket filled

“With comforting gifts, with meat or bread,
And we will carry it in your stead.”

Babushka listened, nodding anew.
“Tomorrow,” she murmured, “Tomorrow will do.

“I’ll bring the best from my cupboard’s store,
Tomorrow.”
The shepherds knocked no more.

Babushka slept though her dreams were troubled.
At dawn while the porridge bubbled,

She packed a basket brimming with sweet
Loaves and oranges, cakes and meat,

A shawl for the Lady, soft as June,
For the Child in the Crib a silver spoon,

Rattles and toys an ivory game,
But the Stable was empty when she came.

So now with provender weighted down
She wanders the world from town to town

At Christmas time, though the winds are shrill,
Through brier and brush, over heath and hill,
Seeking the Manger still.

And wheresoever a good child sleeps,
Dreaming of day, Babushka creeps

Silently, hopefully, up the stair
And leaves three gifts from her basket there—

One to marvel at, one to enjoy,
And one for the kingly Boy.

Crochet an Babushka for your Own Wreath of Christmas Legends! You can change the colors to make her look Russian.

Why The Owl Wakes At Night

noreply@blogger.com (MedievalMama) — Tue, 05 Jan 2010 20:27:00 +0000

Poor Owl! We have an owl in our woods and every once in a while I hear him calling, "Who? Who?" This one reminds me never to be lazy or procrastinate--a good one to start the new year off with.

Why the Owl Wakes at Night

The owl that hunts
A shadowy prey
Loved morning, once,
And honest day

Like his sun-striding
Brotherhood,
Till Wise Men riding
Through a wood

To bear the Word
Of Bethlehem,
Summoned each bird
To follow them

“You, feathery nations,
Quick, take wing.
Come greet Creation’s
Newborn King.”

From sleep, like arrows,
All arose—
Doves, linnets, sparrows,
Cackling crows.

Faithfully through
The holy dark
The heron flew,
Flew the meadowlark,

Chanting in wild
Ecstatic chorus,
“A kingly Child
Is waiting for us.”

Fled every fowl,
Forsaking rest.
Only the owl
On his warm nest,

Grudging to see
Finch pass, and swallow,
Croaked, “Who is He
That bids me follow?

“Who? Who?” he muttered,
Loath to fly.
“Who, who?” and shuttered
His round eye,

Nor left his bough
Nor way the glory.
And penitent now
(So runs the story),

Nightly must mourn,
“Who’ll guide me to
The small Newborn?
Who, who? Oh, who?”

Must for distress
Stay broad awake
And comfortless,
That would not break
His comfort for Love’s sake.

Crochet an Owl for your Own Wreath of Christmas Legends!

The Legend of the Cat

noreply@blogger.com (MedievalMama) — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 20:28:00 +0000

This one may give our cat-hating husbands "paws"! Naaaaah, probably not.

The Legend of the Cat

At midnight’s stroke,
On the first Christmas, half the world awoke.
Then out of the nest and lair
Came thronging to Bethlehem the wordless folk;
Hurried the beasts of the forest, the birds of the air,
To pay the Lord their homage and His due.

And Cat came, too.
Minding on delicate feet to see the Child,
But being shy and wild,
Approached no nearer than the hearth; lay dumb
And distant there.
While the rest knelt in praise,
The Cat by too much glory overcome
Could not withdraw her gaze
From the Nativity; could only stare
Through slitted eyes as things of fur and feather
(The deer beside the lion, the pheasant, the hare
Safe in the fox’s paws) bent down together.
Although their anthems lifted all around,
She, in her throat, made only a trembling sound
And could not bow her head.

Yet as the morning dawned
And one by one the other creatures fled
Each to his habitat—
The eagle to his crag and to his pond
The otter—only Cat
Remained beside the dying fire, unable
To quit the place that was both Crib and Stable.

Then Mary spoke aloud.
“Dear Cat,” she said, “dear, stiff-necked, proud
And obstinate beast, I bless you. From this hour
Leave wilderness behind you.
Because you stayed, though none shall have the power
To call you servant, yet the hearth shall bind you
Forever to itself. Both fond and free,
Wherever Man is, you shall also be.
And many a family
Will smile to hear you singing (where you settle)
Household hosannahs like a pulsing kettle.”

Some winter night
Observe Cat now. Her eyes will suddenly gleam
Yellow against the light,
Her body shudder in a jungle dream,
Her claws unsheathe their sharpness. She remembers
Old times, old barbarous customs, old Decembers
Before she called the tribes of Man her friends.
But the dream ends.
Then, reassured, she curls herself along
The floor and hums her cool, domestic song.

Crochet a Cat for your own Wreath of Christmas Legends!

The Ballad of the Robin

noreply@blogger.com (MedievalMama) — Sun, 03 Jan 2010 20:29:00 +0000

This one's my favorite!

Ballad of the Robin

Long ago, long ago,
When the times were stranger,
Once a Lady and her Son
Rested in a manger,

In a manger on the straw.
The night was shrewd, the wind was raw,

And the dull fire, untended, kept
No comfort where the Infant slept.

Then she, too spent to mend its spark,
Spoke to the beast-enfolding dar,.

“Oxen, lest He should come to harm,
Rise up and blow these embers warm

“With your great breath, for mercy’s sake.”
But the rapt oxen did not wake.

“Ass, will you breathe upon the flame?”
But the ass, dozed nor heard his name,

While heavy the cart horse dreamed beside
His feeding box that Christmastide.

Then suddenly the midnight stirred,
In from the winter at her word
There flew a brown, South-seeking bird.

Bravest of all created things,
He made a bellows of his wings.

He puffed his feathers to a fan,
Singing, until the ash began

To kindle, glow, to burn its best.
The flame leaped out. It seared his breast,

But still the robin, loud with praise,
Beat his quick wings before the blaze

So all the stable was beguiled
To warmth. And softly slept the Child.

“Kind Robin,” then the Lady said,
“Wear from now on a breast of red.

“Where the fire was, let fire remain,
A blessed and perpetual stain

“Burnt on your heart that all may see
The signature of Charity.”

Long ago, long ago,
When the times were stranger,
Once a robin served the Lord
Who rested in a manger.

Crochet a Robin for your own Wreath of Christmas Legends!

The Ballad of the Nightingale

noreply@blogger.com (MedievalMama) — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 20:30:00 +0000

Listen to the nightingale's song! How lovely is the chorus of God's creation, singing lullabies to the baby King. Who needs modern technology!?

Ballad of the Nightingale

Hark! when on hill and dale
Hang the night-hushes,
Then sings the nightingale,
Sole among thrushes.

Sole among thrushes, she
Pours out of shadow
Torrents of melody
Over the meadow.

While lesser birds devote
Nighttimes to slumber
Ravishing from her throat
Note after joyful note
Flows without number.

Why does she shun the day
For dark and danger?
There was a Child that lay
Cold in a manger,

Cold in His narrow bed,
Wakeful and chilling.
Him once she comforted
With her sweet trilling;

Sad that a babe should lie
So undefended,
Sang Him a lullaby
Till the night ended,

Sang like a Seraphim.
Then spoke His mother,
“You brought your song to Him,
All the night long to Him,
You and no other.

“Lone on your leafy bough,
Brave though imperiled,
You shall forever now
Be the moon’s herald.”

When over hill and dale
Fall the night-hushes,
Then sings the nightingale
Queen among thrushes.

Crochet a Nightingale for your own Wreath of Christmas Legends! Just change the colors.

The Legend of the Holly

noreply@blogger.com (MedievalMama) — Fri, 01 Jan 2010 20:31:00 +0000

Happy New Year!

The Legend of the Holly

The holly berry that burns so red
(Raise high the holly!)
Once was whiter than wheaten bread
(As love is better than folly.)

Whiter than shells along the shore
It blooms on its tree by a stable door.

Villagers come there, half-afraid,
Gifts in their hands for Child and Maid.

And one has nothing of note, so he
Fetches a branch of the holly tree.

Alas, alas, the little Newborn
Has pricked His finger upon a thorn,

Has left His blood on the spiny leaves.
Heavy of heart the holly grieves,

Sees in a terrible vision how
A crown of holly shall bind His brow
When Child is man.

For sorrow and shame
The berries have blushed as red as flame,
Says Mary the Mother,
“Take no blame.

“But be of good cheer as ever you can.
Both foul and fair are the works of man,

‘Yet unto man has My Son been lent.
And you, dear tree, are the innocent

“Who weeps for pity what man might do.
So all your thorns are forgiven you.”

Now red, rejoicing, the berries shine
On jubilant doors as a Christmas sign

That desolation to joy makes way.
(Hang high the holly!)
Holly is the symbol of Christ’s Birthday.
(When love shall vanquish folly).

Crochet a Holly Sprig for your own Wreath of Christmas Legends! Crochet two together for a stuffed Holly Sprig.

The Night

noreply@blogger.com (MedievalMama) — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 20:31:00 +0000

Be of good cheer!

The Night

On the night that Christ was born
The rivers, one hears, ran fine
And sweetly between their banks,
Filled not with water but wine.

And any man who drank
Of that beneficent tide
(Though he had stooped in anger
To drink), grew pacified,
Loving even his foeman
As dearly as his bride;
Wholly at peace with himself,
The world and everything.

While the trees in the forest blossomed
As if the winter were spring.

Crochet a Bunch of Grapes for your own Wreath of Christmas Legends!

My Little Darlin's are Growing Up!

noreply@blogger.com (MedievalMama) — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 19:09:00 +0000

Canticle of the Bees

noreply@blogger.com (MedievalMama) — Wed, 30 Dec 2009 20:32:00 +0000

I thought it appropriate to read this poem on the Feast of the Holy Family (I should have posted it yesterday), since it is also appropriate to eat milk and honey on this feast. This is a beautiful poem! May we hear the bees and all see God one day.

The Canticle of the Bees

Bees in winter
Weather keep,
Rapt, a garden-haunted
Sleep,

Dream of summer,
Still as stone,
Save on Christmas Eve,
Alone,

When that honey-havened
People,
Roused by bells
From every steeple,

Wake and sing
With one accord
Alleluias
To the Lord.

“Praise Him,”
Sing the choiring bees,
“Lord of limes
And locust trees,

“Him Who has
Dominion over
Fields of amaranthine
Clover,

“By Whose providence
We fare
Daily through
The throbbing air

“And return
In drowsy flight
From the pastures
Of delight,

“From the many-petaled
Rose,
Hiveward
When the shadows close.”
So, at least,
The legend goes.

Visit them
When bells arrive.
Cup your ear
Against the hive.

You may hear them
Singing thus,
Small
But multitudinous:

“Alleluia
Lord of all
Things that flutter,
Fly or crawl,

“Now Your Star
Has shone again,
Bless Your swarming Bees.
Amen.”

Wondering, walk there.
Do not fear them.
But remember
As you near them,
Only the pure in heart
Shall hear them.

Crochet a Bumble Bee for your own Wreath of Christmas Legends!

Ballad of the Rosemary

noreply@blogger.com (MedievalMama) — Tue, 29 Dec 2009 20:33:00 +0000

Rosemary has always been one of my favorite herbs and now I know why! And tiny baby clean smell is one of the most intoxicating fragrances on earth. I LOVE this poem! Hope you do too,

Ballad of the Rosemary

Rosemary, lily, lilac tree,
Kind in the dooryards thrive all three,
But the kindest of them is rosemary.

When Mary rode to Egypt
Who bore the Christmas King,
Flowers along the wayside
Began their blossoming.

To fill His path with fragrances
The lilac lifted up
Her proud and plumy branches,
The lily spread her cup,

And only the green rosemary,
Born petal-less and mild,
Grieved that it owned no benison
Of sweetness for the Child.

The evening fell in perfume,
In perfume rose the day.
Said Mary, “Out of weariness
We’ll make a moment’s stay.

“Beside this running river,
Here where the willows lean,
I’ll set the Baby sleeping
And wash His garments clean.”

But when the clothes were wholesome,
Where could she hand them all?
“The lily breaks beneath them,
The lilac stands too tall.”

So on the trembling rosemary
She laid them one by one,
And strong the rosemary held them
All morning to the sun.

“I thank you, gentle Rosemary.
Henceforward you shall bear
Blue clusters for remembrance
Of this blue cloak I wear;

“And not your blossoms only,
I give you as reward,
But where His raiment clung to you
Which clad the little Lord,

“All shall be aromatic,”
Said Mary, “for I bless
Leaf, stem, and flower
That from this hour
Shall smell of holiness.”

Rosemary, lily lilac tree.
Sweet in the doorways thrive all three,
But sweetest of them is Rosemary.

The Pine Tree

noreply@blogger.com (MedievalMama) — Mon, 28 Dec 2009 20:34:00 +0000

We tried in vain to find a cross-section of a pine cone that bore "the imprint." I wonder if it has to be a certain genus of pine. No matter, the poem is still a beautiful reminder of that creative power of the Infant God.

The Pine Tree

The pine was mortal, once, like other trees
That lift their boughs in air;
Wearing in summer its green fripperies,
In winter going bare
And desolate of birds.
But that was in an old, forgotten age
Before the words
Of Wise Men stung King Herod to such rage
That his loud armies went
About the land to slay the Innocent.

Then there was consternation and no joy
In Israel. Joseph and Mary, flying
Into another country with the Boy
Came when the day was dying,
Houseless to the edge of a green wood
Where valorously stood
A needled pine that every summer gave
Small birds a nest.
And half its trunk was hollow as a cave.
Said Joseph, “This is shelter. Let us rest.”

The pine tree, full of pity, dropped its vast
Protective branches down
To cover them until the troops rode past,
Their weapons jingling, toward a different town.

All night it hid them
When the morning broke,
The Child awoke
And blessed the pine, his steadfast lodging place.
“Let you (and your brave race)
Who make yourself My rampart and My screen
Keep summer always and be ever green.
For you the punctual seasons shall not vary,
But let there throng
A thousand birds to you for sanctuary
All winter long.”

The story tells us, too,
That if you cut a pine cone part way through,
You find it bears within it like a brand
The imprint of His hand.

Crochet a Pine Cone for your own Wreath of Christmas Legends!

The Stars' Story

noreply@blogger.com (MedievalMama) — Sun, 27 Dec 2009 20:35:00 +0000

This explains why we go to so much trouble over decorating these Christmas trees. It took John 6 hours to get our pre-lit fully operational!

The Star’s Story

When the great Star shone
From its mighty station
So shepherds, tranced,
Knelt down in the dew,
It was not alone
In its jubilation.
The little stars danced
By the thousands, too.

They danced on high
In that peerless hour,
Till giddy with praising
The Christchild’s birth
They reeled from the sky
And fell in a shower,
Burning and blazing,
Down to earth—

Slid in astonished
Avalanches
(But leaning to listen
Along the way)
To lodge in a burnished
Pine tree’s branches
Where still they glisten
To this very day.

For if you believe
What pale and shaken
Home-returning
Travelers tell,
On Christmas Eve
Those little stars waken
As bright and burning
As when they fell.

Look out of the West
When the year’s unwinding.
Perhaps they will dance
And you may see
A pine that is dressed
In light so blinding
It dazzles the glance.
And that will be
The world’s first, merriest
Christmas tree.

Crochet a Star for your own Wreath of Christmas Legends! You can add a picture of the baby Jesus, or crochet two backs and omit the picture.

The Stork

noreply@blogger.com (MedievalMama) — Sat, 26 Dec 2009 20:36:00 +0000

I should have posted this yesterday, but we got busy rearranging furniture!

The Stork

When Christ was born on Christmas Day
The birds and the beasts knelt down to pray.

In wonder all,
Adoring, kneeled—
The ox in his stall,
The fox in the field,

While badger and bear and each wild thing
Flocked round the manger where slept a King
Housed in a stable at Bethlehem.
And the long-legged stork was there with them,

Her feathers white,
Her crest held high,
And awe in her bright
Compassionate eye.

“Alas,” she mourned, “how poor His bed
Who rules the universe overhead!
“Though cozily curled
Sleep all my breed,
The Lord of the World
Lies hard, indeed.

“Unpillowed is He who should wear a crown.”
Then out of her bosom she plucked the down.

The plumes from her breast
She tugged and tore
That the Child should rest
Like a beggar no more

But fine on a pallet fit for a prince.
And blest has the stork been, ever since—

For the gift she gave of her body’s wear,
Blest on chimneys, blest in the air,
And patron of babies
Everywhere.

Crochet a Stork for your own Wreath of Christmas Legends! Just change the colors.

An Irish Legend and The Birthday

noreply@blogger.com (MedievalMama) — Fri, 25 Dec 2009 20:37:00 +0000

Both these legends "happened" to us. John's grandmother died one Christmas morning when Rachel was only three. Rachel was very close to Gramma, and we didn't want to spoil her Christmas by telling her right away that Gramma had died. We actually decided to put it off for at least a week (we were living in Okinawa and it really wasn't pressing). Before the octave was up, Rachel told us that she'd dreamed that Gramma was in jail and the "jaws" were going to eat her, but Rachel took the key and set her free. Think what you wish, but we believe Rachel saved Gramma with the prayers she had so piously been saying everyday for her.

The second legend involves Cæli. When she was very young, before I had even read this poem, she insisted that she had been to heaven one evening with the angels--for a party! No one familiar with the legend could look into her blue eyes and doubt that it's absolutely true!

Merry Christmas,

An Irish Legend

Whoever’s born on Christmas
Is favored from the start;
Has laughter and good fortune
And a contented heart;
Is loved by noble company,
Has all that should suffice.

But he that dies on Christmas
Goes strait to paradise.

Crochet a Shamrock for your own Wreath of Christmas Legends! Crochet two together for a stuffed Shamrock.

The Birthday

One Christmas Eve, some say,
Tall angels chosen for their sweet address
And reassuring aspect, take their way
To earth. There in all gentleness
They lift on either arm
A few most fortunate children sleeping warm
In their December nurseries, kiss them twice,
And bear them off to visit Paradise.

It is the Christ Child’s Birthday and the East
Is lit by a bright star. These children come
As playmates for Him, keepers of His feast.
They bring with them such pandemonium,
Such singing and such laughter
That Heaven shakes to its remotest rafter.

Along the tasseled floors
They drive their rainbow hoops like charioteers.
They toss gold balls; make kites of meteors;
Listen with Him to the melodious spheres
Chanting in chorus; climb the unfading trees
Of that celestial weather;
Reach forth to touch the spinning galaxies;
Then all together,
Bidding their Host affectionate goodnight,
Blow out the stars like candles where they burn,
And drowsily return
(Nodding upon soft pinions in the flight)
To their accustomed beds.

Yet when they seek
To tell that journey and the Birthday games,
They falter in the tale. They cannot speak
Such wonders by their names,
So presently fall silent. Parents, shaking
Incredulous heads can only shrug and smile,
Saying, “They dreamed a dream who now are waking.
They will remember nothing after while.”
But they are wrong. That child whom Christmas captures
Grows beautiful and wise,
Possessor all his days of arts and raptures
And heaven-dazzled eyes.

Crochet an Angel for your own Wreath of Christmas Legends!

Lift Up Your Heads, Ye Mighty Gates

noreply@blogger.com (MedievalMama) — Fri, 25 Dec 2009 09:00:00 +0000

Marvelous!

Children's Choir Singing Come Thou Long Expected Jesus

noreply@blogger.com (MedievalMama) — Fri, 25 Dec 2009 09:00:00 +0000

Precious.

Beautiful Rendition of Carol of the Bells

noreply@blogger.com (MedievalMama) — Fri, 25 Dec 2009 09:00:00 +0000

Simply Glorious!

O Come, O Come Emmanuel

noreply@blogger.com (MedievalMama) — Fri, 25 Dec 2009 02:00:00 +0000

Creator Alme Siderum

noreply@blogger.com (MedievalMama) — Fri, 25 Dec 2009 01:54:00 +0000

Enchanting

Story for an Educated Child

noreply@blogger.com (MedievalMama) — Thu, 24 Dec 2009 09:57:00 +0000

This is a medieval legend from a book of poems that I LOVE! I usually send them out by e-mail every year. This year I decided to just post them on the blog. There are 15 of them, so I'm starting today, Christmas Eve, and we'll end on Epiphany (I'll post two tomorrow!). I've been wanting to make a little "ornament" for each legend and affix it to a wreath to make our own "Wreath of Christmas Legends." Maybe one of these years. Anyway, I hope you enjoy them as much as I do!
This one got Caeli so excited she told the check out boy at the grocery store that she was going to Midnight Mass and at midnight she and McGregor were going to sneak out into the barn and listen to the animals talk in Latin. Poor guy stood in flabbergasted astonishment as she rattled on. He had no earthly idea what to make of it all and only said, "Well, enjoy your service," as they parted. John was laughing so hard he had tears streaming down his face. Children do make Christmas!
Enjoy,

Story for an Educated Child

It used to be, when the world was young,
Animals spoke a Christian tongue,
Articulating clearly.
And still do those of peaceable bent
Practice the kind of accomplishment
On Christmas evening, yearly.

With human wit, in a human voice,
The beasts of the barnyard all rejoice
From Vespertime to Matin,
Recounting tales of the little God
Over and over. But isn’t is odd?
The speech they speak is Latin.

The strident Cock lifts up his crest,
Stuttering, “Christus natus est!”
Till midnight splits asunder.
Laborious from his stable box,
“Ubi? Ubi?” lows the Ox,
Bemused with sleep and wonder.

The somnolent Sheep, adrift from dreams,
Bleats “Bethlehem!” and her quaver seems
Half question and half promise.
Then Ass that wears by an old decree
A cross on his back for prophecy,
Brays forth his laud “Eãmus!”

And there they gossip while night grows gray
And curious stars have slipped away
From shimmering thrones they sat in.
So many a child might brave the cold
To hear them talking. But I am told
He mustn’t be more than six years old.
And who at six knows Latin?

THE TRANSLATION
Christus natus est! Christ is born!
Ubi? Where?
Bethlehem! Bethlehem!
Eãmus! Let us go!

Croche a Rooster for your own Wreath of Christmas Legends!

The Feast of Sts. Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, Patriarchs

noreply@blogger.com (MedievalMama) — Sun, 20 Dec 2009 21:27:00 +0000

For today's feast of Sts. Abraham, Isaac and Jacob we've made a beautiful triptych with card stock, glitter glue, and gold spray-painted masking tape.

Using two pieces of black card stock, I cut one in half lengthwise, then laying the two pieces over the remaining whole piece, I cut them into an arch. Actually, to keep the arch symmetrical I cut the two halves into half arches first, then cut the whole piece. I did the same to the backgroun d, making them about 1/4 inch smaller than the black card stock all the way around. I taped the two side pieces to the center piece with scotch tape that I'll cover with the gold masking tape which I'll cut into a hinge shape. I cut out each of the patriarchs.

I glued the background to the card stock. I swirled a thin track of tacky glue all over the back of each piece and then used a hatpin to spread the glue into a thin layer and reach all the way to the edges. I did the same for the patriarchs.

To paint the masking tape gold I just sprayed it on the roll. After it was dry I cut it into four equal pieces, being careful not to let the sticky side touch the painted side. I cut the gold masking tape into hinge shapes and covered the scotch tape. Then I outlined all the background pieces and also the halos of the patriarchs with gold glitter glue.

I'm really happy with how it came out. From a distance it could almost pass for an expensive, professionally done work of art. Up close you discover the truth!

Befriend a Saint

noreply@blogger.com (MedievalMama) — Sat, 19 Dec 2009 12:46:00 +0000

From "Around the Year with the Trapp Family"

"After our first gathering around the Advent light, and the singing of the first Advent hymn, an air of expectancy spreads over the family group; now comes the moment when the mother goes around with a bowl in which are the little cards with the names of the new saints. Everybody draws a card and puts it in his missal. This saint will be invoked every morning after morning prayer. Everyone is supposed to look up and study the life story of his new friend, and some time during the coming year he will tell the family all about it. As there are so many of us, we come to know about different saints every year. Sometimes this calls for considerable research on the part of the unfortunate one who has drawn St. Eustachius, for instance, or St. Bibiana. But the custom has become very dear to us, and every year it seems as if the family circle were enlarged by all those new brothers and sisters entering in and becoming known and loved by all."

Using this list of Companion Saints, we're each going to draw a new saint every First Sunday of the month and keep a picture of and a prayer to that saint in an album. I've made a document with different pictures of All Saints to use as the covers for each of our albums. I think we'll try to celebrate each saint's feast day as well, having the family member who's saint friend it is tell us a little about each saint. In this way we hope to increase our familiarity and deepen our intimacy with many of our lesser known spiritual family members.

The Expectation of the Blessed Virgin Mary

noreply@blogger.com (MedievalMama) — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 09:46:00 +0000

The lovely little music book, The Story of the Redemption for Children, contains a song to commemorate the Annunciation on this the second day we celebrate the Incarnation of Our Lord during the year.

The collect for the day is:

O God who didst will that Thy Word should,
by the message of an Angel,
take flesh in the womb of the Blessed Virgin Mary,
grant unto us, we beseech Thee,
that all we who do believe her to be in very deed
the Mother of God,
may be holpen by her prayers in Thy sight.
O maiden of maidens,
how shall this be,
since neither before nor henceforth hath there been,
nor shall be such another?
Daughters of Jerusalem,
why look ye curiously upon me?
What ye see is a mystery of God.

And to commemorate her perpetual virginity:

Gaude Maria, Virgo, cunctas haereses sola interemisti:

Rejoice, O Mary,
by whose mighty hand the Church hath victory
over her foes [every heresy] achieved,
since thou to Gabriel's word of quickening power
in lowliness hast listened, and believed
-- thou, still a virgin, in thy blessed womb
hast God Incarnate of thy flesh conceived,
and still, in heaven, of that virginity remainest
after childbirth unbereaved.
V. Blessed art thou that hast believed,
for there is a performance of those things
which were told thee from the Lord.