A Trip to St. Joseph's Oratory

 Last Friday we traveled to St. Joseph's Oratory in Montreal as a sort of mini pilgrimage.  Both Sarah and Isaac were in a mood which required me twisting in the passenger seat so that I could simultaneously touch and stroke both of their legs so as to stop the tears.  When the numbness set in I declared that I could no longer perform such contortions.  Amazingly, they listened and found comfort in one another.  Note the look of scorn on Sarah's face.

 We made it to the Oratory in the late afternoon and the kids and I knelt our way up the stairs as an act of penance.  The bone spur on my left knee made itself known.  Perhaps the greater penance was finding several pictures of my bottom on the iPhone.  Thank God for that purse slung strategically across the backside.

 Reserved for pilgrims who kneel to climb.  Or something like that.  By the way, if you have ever heard that the future of the church is not in the West (or definitely not Caucasian), the Oratory bears witness to this.  We were the only 'pale' (my attempt at political correctness) family on the premises.  The Church is alive and well in Africa, South-East Asia and India.  Somehow, though, we still had the most kids.

 Stairs, stairs and more stairs.  We forgot to bring the diaper bag from the van with us as we made our way through the Oratory.  Thus, that saggy diaper of Sarah's got soggier and saggier:  make a note of this.

 She has also learned to walk but is still not entirely sure of herself.  Consequently, there is a lot of the above.  If we tried to carry her up the stairs she would simply dive out of our arms until she was allowed to walk.  It is far easier to aid a toddler in the walking process than to carry a diving 23-pounder.

 We made it to the top where Dave's shadow loomed large.  By this point Joe was beginning to doubt that we would ever see St. Andre Bessette's incorrupt heart; anger was setting in.  Note his body language.

Before the anger reached a boiling point we attempted to look pious in the main cathedral.  (Is it a cathedral?  Did I just make a big mistake?  After all, the bishop doesn't sit there, right?)  Many petitions were prayed for on this pilgrimage, friends and family.

 A side trip to the original chapel where many of the crutches of the healed are left hanging on the walls.  Joe wanted to try them out but obeyed when he noted the ropes encircling the sanctuary.  We eventually made it to the incorrupt heart which was, according to the little boys, disappointing in its lack of grossness.  Hannah was happily relieved.

 Perhaps one of the shortest male saints on the Roman calendar.  My sister tells me a story of a scantily-clad woman coming to see St. Andre in hope of a miracle.  She appeared before him and he said, "Well, no wonder you're sick if you're dressed like that."  She, in a state approaching fury, ran from the chapel where she soon found the friend who had accompanied her.  She began to rant at the impertinence of this supposed saint.  The friend replied, "But where are your crutches?"

 This is the hallway outside of the tomb of St. Andre where candles can be lit for various intentions.  It was tough to convince the boys that only one candle could be lit at a time.  Remember the saggy diaper?  Well, by this point, the saggy diaper was also soiled and had been refastened several times in an attempt to thwart the forces of gravity.  As I knelt before the tomb of St. Andre the diaper also felt a similar reverence and hit the floor.  It was Dave who had charge of Sarah at the time and I exited the tomb only to be called back in by Hannah, "Mom, Daddy needs you."  I reentered and found Dave looking helpless with Sarah in one hand and the diaper in the other.  I wonder if Sarah is the first baby to lose her diaper in the presence of a saint.  At least she'd already done her business.

St. Andre Bessette:  "I don't do babies."