Blessed indeed is the man who hears many gentle voices call him father.
Lydia M. Child

I allowed myself to get sucked into another debate about the church’s teaching on birth control. Admittedly, I am somewhat like a Pavlovian dog on the topic, particularly when the Catholic church bashing starts. I guess it’s like when someone makes fun or your kid sister for having a big nose or something – it’s just not something that I can let go undefended.

So after some extended times trying to convince someone that God really is guiding the Catholic church, and that there is a huge difference between putting on a prophylactic or using NFP, and all the subtle nuances in between – my heart always feels heavy, my spirit low.

Maybe my guardian angel knew I needed a little pick-me-up. I found the above quote as I was cruising through some of the blogs on my blog roll. I’m sure Mr. Pete would agree with it. I thought about how my little girl climbs on to his knee and touches his whiskers as she sings in her precious voice, “Daddy.” I remember all the times one of the boys have crawled into bed with us, to be encircled in their father’s strong arms as they get over a bad dream, or a tummy ache, or because they wet the bed. Sometimes its harder to be that daddy than others, but those little voices are always so appreciative. It just makes it all so worth while.

I told a lady in my most recent debate that sometimes you just have to live this stuff, even if you can’t intellectually accept it. She implied that I was coercing her, and that this is how terrorists brainwash people. She didn’t get it. She didn’t try.

Mr. Pete holds Rosie on his lap and says, “I’m your daddy.” He gets it. Thank God.