How to Make a First Holy Communion Cake Big Enough for a Crowd

Written by Sue Elvis

Six year old Charlotte couldn't wait to receive her First Holy Communion. Everything had been arranged: she’d learnt her catechism, prepared for confession, tried on her white dress and veil. Only one more thing needed to be done: bake a celebratory cake.

Now there is nothing difficult about baking an ordinary sized cake, but what about baking a cake big enough to feed a crowd? Charlotte’s First Holy Communion took place at a homeschooling camp. There were thousands (really only a hundred or so!) children there. And all those children loved cake.

This is how we solved the huge cake problem:

I decided I would make a very simple cake using bought packet mixes.

I bought two large rectangular tins to bake the cakes in. (The kind used for roasting potatoes or chicken.)

I worked out how many packet mixes were needed for each large tin. To do this, I had to compare the capacity of one large tin to an ordinary sized cake tin, by filling the larger tin with water using the smaller tin as a measure.

I then decided how big a cake I wanted, using the large tin as my basic unit.

I can’t remember the exact measurements but let’s suppose…

One large tin equals 4 small cake tins…

And I wanted a cake 4 times the size of the large tin…

Then I had to buy 16 packet cake mixes.

Is this getting confusing? I feel like I'm doing a homeschoolers' maths problem…

I made up the cake mixes, poured them into the large tins and cooked them in the oven, two tins at a time.

I then wrapped each cooked-and-cooled cake in plastic wrap, and froze them until the day before the First Holy Communion.

Andy bought a large board from the hardware shop, and a packet of prepared white cake icing.

He designed some simple and appropriate decorations to go on top of the cake: a chalice, crosses, the Host… He drew them on baking paper and cut them out to make templates.

Andy then divided the icing into three pieces. One piece was coloured blue and one yellow, using food dyes. The third piece remained white. The icing was rolled out and the decorations were cut out using the paper templates. The decorations were then wrapped in plastic wrap and refrigerated.

On the morning of the First Holy Communion, we made up a large batch of simple butter icing: we creamed together softened butter and icing sugar to taste. (There are lots of recipes online.)

The thawed cakes were placed on the board. They were covered with the butter icing. The decorations were added to the top of the large cake. Voila! The cake was ready to be eaten after the First Holy Communion Mass.

Of course, if your cake doesn’t need to feed such a large number of people, and you want it to be very special, you could bake your cake from scratch. Here’s our favourite celebratory cake recipe.

You could also make a Confirmation cake the same way, using prepared icing Fruits-of-the-Holy-Spirit decorations. This is only a small cake but a larger rectangular cake could be made...

Or a baptism cake.

How about a simple wedding cake? This is the cake Imogen made for her big sister’s wedding. Each cupcake was decorated with silver balls and white icing flowers.

Charlotte’s First Holy Communion cake looked impressive. No one realised it was a packet mix cake. There was plenty for everyone. It was a great success. 

One very simple but delicious cake. And one very happy First Holy Communicant.

I blog at Sue Elvis Writes. Please visit to share more of my posts!

St Joseph's Sofa

Written by Sue Elvis

It is Sunday and my favourite day of the week. Here I am, relaxing and enjoying some quiet time after the busyness of the past week. I’m sitting on my favourite sofa.

Let me tell you about my favourite sofa. It came to us via St Joseph. Whenever our family needs anything, someone says, “Ask St Joseph!” And he never fails to intercede for us.

Some years ago, we had a very embarrassing sofa. On the surface it looked fine. But lurking under the plump, welcoming cushions was a hungry trap just waiting to swallow an unsuspecting guest. Entertaining was stressful. We couldn’t relax. We’d be waiting for that inevitable moment when our guest would start disappearing, the sofa slowly sucking him inwards. One day I’d had enough. “That sofa has to be replaced!” I shouted. So we all started praying, “Please St Joseph, we need somewhere safe and solid where our friends can sit!”

St Joseph never takes very long. Within a day or two, the phone rang: A friend: “Can you use a lounge suite? It’s an antique.” An antique? Wow! That sounded posh. Yes, please, we’ll have it.

I rang Andy. “St Joseph has answered our prayers. We’re getting a new lounge suite…an antique. It sounds wonderful. It’ll be here when you get home.”

I immediately got to work heaving the old sofa and chairs out to the shed. Their day was over. They had swallowed their last guest.

After lunch, a truck arrived. We could hear it reversing up the drive and we all dashed out eager to see what St Joseph had provided for us.

The driver jumped out of his cab and said, “I could keep on driving, you know. If you want me to take it to the tip, that’s no problem.”

Take my new, antique lounge suite to the tip? I didn’t understand. “What do you mean….?”

“Take a look,” the man advised coming around to the back of his vehicle.

There in the back of the truck was the shabbiest sofa and chairs I had ever seen. Their gold (or was that green?) upholstery was torn in many places revealing another layer of threadbare red fabric. The ruffled trim around the bottom of the sofa was more off than on.

For a moment I was stunned, speechless.

“To the tip?” the man asked, trying to be helpful.

I was inclined to agree but what would I tell my friend? She would notice the absence of the lounge suite next time she visited. And what would I tell Andy? He was expecting to see a new, antique sofa. And the lounge room? I suddenly remembered the empty space we had created that morning. I absolutely refused to get the other sofa back out of the shed. So I said, “No. Unload it. It’ll be fine.”

Later than evening, Andy and I were sitting in the lounge talking over the events of the day.

“I was so excited.”

“It sounded so perfect.”

“I thought St Joseph had come to the rescue again.”

“Yes, sending us not just an ordinary sofa but an antique sofa.”

“Antique!” I laughed and Andy joined in. Everything seemed so funny.

Then suddenly the giggles disappeared. I had noticed something. “You know what?” I remarked. “This is a really comfortable sofa! It mightn’t look very good but it feels wonderful.” I relaxed back into the firm upholstery, secure in the knowledge that none of me was going to do a vanishing act. “This must be the most comfortable sofa we have ever had.”

That was 10 years ago and we still have that lounge suite. It is getting shabbier and shabbier and sometimes I think we really ought to replace it. But I just can’t quite come to the decision to part with it. Maybe one day we can get it reupholstered. Then it would be absolutely perfect.

We learnt a lot from this shabby sofa story. Firstly, things can sometimes seem disappointing on the surface, but if you look closer…there are treasures waiting to be discovered. How many gifts have we not seen because we haven’t looked properly? Secondly, St Joseph always sees to our needs and never lets us down. What did we ask for? A solid sofa, safe for guests. And that is exactly what we got. Next time we shall have to be more specific: “ Please St Joseph, we need a new sofa. It needs to be solid and safe and comfortable...and could you possibly arrange one that looks good too?"

Please share more of my stories at my blog, Sue Elvis Writes

Unschooling: The Little Way

Written by Sue Elvis

I would like to tell you a story of Suzie Andres and St Therese and homeschooling. But first I must start with a tale of grief. Grief? Yes, it was through grief I first met St Therese and her Little Way.

Our son Thomas died as a baby and I grieved for a long time. But one day the pain lifted slightly and I felt pure joy and was glad to be suffering for God. Love overflowed my heart and I suddenly had the urge to suffer anything for God. I wanted to be a saint. And not just a little saint but a big one. I felt I could follow in the footsteps of St Teresa of Avila or St John of the Cross, whose books I was reading at the time. But this worthy thought lasted only a moment. With the next wave of grief came the plea, “I’ve had enough. Please help me, Lord.”

I had a prayer card. I can’t remember exactly what was on it but I knew I was a bit afraid of it. The words said something like “I offer my whole life to suffer greatly for the souls of my family and friends.” Perhaps there was something about how this life on earth is so short and we should suffer as much as possible while here. And there is nothing better we can do than to ask for suffering that will win the eternal souls of our loved ones.

I agreed entirely with the thoughts on the prayer card but I couldn’t pray the words. I’d pick up the card and read the words but I always made sure God knew I wasn’t really praying them. I was frightened. I knew what suffering was. I was right in the middle of it. How could I suffer this for the rest of my life? Some days I just begged God to take away the pain. No, I wasn’t made of the right stuff to be a big saint. However much I wanted to be big, I knew I was really just a little soul. I just wanted God to lift me right up in His arms and take care of me and make things right.

Then I discovered St Therese of Liseaux. Of course, I’d heard about her but I’d been avoiding her. I remember a friend telling me that she’d chosen Teresa of Avila as her patron saint and not Therese of Liseaux. The reason? The friend had always had this idea since childhood that The Little Flower was a sickly sweet saint, a saint without substance. I needed big help from a big inspiring strong saint. So I turned to St Teresa of Avila. I knew she’d suffered greatly. What was that famous quote? Something like “God if this is how You treat Your friends, it’s no wonder You don’t have many of them.” I was going to be one of God’s few friends. So I read The Complete Works of St Teresa of Avila and then went onto The Complete Works of St John of the Cross. And I tried to follow in their footsteps. But it was too difficult.  I wasn’t brave. I didn’t really want to suffer. I wasn’t a saint.

Then somehow I came into contact with St Therese of Liseaux regardless of my belief she couldn’t help me. I read The Story of a Soul, and later, I Believe in Love and I discovered The Little Way. Suddenly I realised that maybe I could still become a saint after all. Not a big saint but a little one, a little one supported by God’s arms. I could be a full little cup instead of a full big cup.  Or perhaps, as Suzie Andres would say, I could become a great saint through the little way of love. I started taking life one day at a time, not asking for suffering, but asking God instead to help me accept and bear whatever came my way.

But what has grief got to do with homeschooling? Just as I wanted to be a big saint so I wanted to be the perfect mother and educator of my children. I made big plans, bought the right resources, did my research. How could I fail? But some days I suffered. There were times when I just wanted to lie down and never get up again. “I can’t do this God. It’s too big a task. I can’t give my children all they need. I don’t have the inner resources to give them the perfect education. I am not enjoying this at all. It was never meant to be this way.” How would I teach my children everything I thought they needed to know? Some days they seemed to learn nothing. Other things got in the way or they were uncooperative, not fitting in with my grand plan. Were my children getting ‘behind’? Was I jeopardizing their futures?

I thought about the alternatives, about sending my children to school and I realised I didn’t have a choice. The educating job was mine and mine alone.

Gradually I changed my style of teaching my children. I stopped making plans we never got around to using. I stopped writing timetables that we were unable to keep up with. I didn’t worry about completing particular curricula. I decided to just enjoy my children and trust that they would learn as we spent our days sharing and doing things together and just being a family. We had discovered unschooling. In public, I called our homeschooling method ‘doing our own thing’. I’d vaguely refer to good books, enjoying our interests, music, writing… But to myself I called it ‘my lazy way’. Yes, there was a bit of guilt. Should we enjoy homeschooling together so much? Shouldn’t homeschooling be a bit more difficult? Perhaps we were just being lazy.  Maybe I’d just given up.

Then I discovered Suzie Andres’ book A Little Way of Homeschooling. I jumped up and down with excitement. It all made perfect sense. We were following St Therese’s Little Way while we were homeschooling. I’d given up trying to be the big saint, that perfect mother and homeschooling parent. Instead of trying to educate my children on my own, I was listening to God and to my children. I trust they will learn what they need to know. I no longer worry about that endless list of absolutely essential knowledge I thought I should stuff into my children. I am now living each day, one day at a time. I don’t believe God means homeschooling to be difficult. I don’t see homeschooling as a sacrifice and a suffering that I am just meant to endure and offer up. I think God wants us to delight in our children. And to trust in Him.

There are so many wonderful excerpts I could quote from A Little Way of Homeschooling. Here are just a few, written by Suzie, I hope you will enjoy and find helpful.

Therese was a realist, and knew there was work to be done, but she decided to do whatever came here way without fear without worrying about the outcome, without the false notion that it depended on her…

… I think that one of our methods for multiplying worries is telling ourselves that our job in educating our children is to do our best, to pack as much knowledge into them as possible. How much more profitable to us to begin from Therese’s reminder, “It’s only in Heaven that we’ll see the whole truth about everything. This is impossible on earth.”

God will give each of us the time that we need to learn everything He wants us to know; this applies to both ourselves and our children. Why do we expect we must teach it all to our children in our homeschool? And why do we automatically assume that this burden of prospective learning will be painful for them, arduous for us? There is a less frightening way….

… In the spirit of St Therese, we as Catholics ought to realise that Jesus has set us free. If we believe His words, if we strive to believe Him more and more, we will start by living one day at a time, letting tomorrow take care of itself. Already we will have made progress if we refuse to see the whole future of a child contained in today’s accomplishments, successes and failures…

…Spend time listening to Him, and let Him tell you what He desires for your family. It may be unschooling… Whatever it is, you will recognise it by the peace it brings to you and your children. Do not settle for anything else.

Yes, peace.

Eventually I felt peace despite my grief as I started living one day at a time: “I accept how I feel. You allow this grief. But I need You to help me through the day.” I began to trust God. He was looking after me. And peace followed.

In the same way, I know God is looking after our homeschooling family. When I started listening, He led us to unschooling. And I know this is what He desires for us. I can feel it. No longer do I feel guilty. Instead I can feel peace… real peace.

A Little Way of Homeschooling is available both as a paperback book, and an ebook as epub and Kindle editions. I thoroughly recommend Suzie’s book.


Please share more of my posts on my blog Sue Elvis Writes

Taking Children to Mass

By Sue Elvis

There’s a young, slightly dishevelled father who always appears for 7.30 am Mass each Sunday. He has a gorgeous, curly-haired baby who spends the hour wriggling in his arms, pulling on his hair. He also has a lively toddler who likes to balance on the hymn book ledge and swing back and forth over the pew while he sings to himself. Long before Mass is over, the children start making impatient noises and it takes all the young father’s ingenuity to keep them happy for the last minutes. It mustn’t be easy but each week, he returns with his children.

I look along the pew at my own children. I don’t have to think about keeping little ones entertained and babies quiet. I don’t have to remind anyone to sit up straight or pay attention. But it wasn’t always like that. I remember when Gemma-Rose was two, I read an article in our diocesan newsletter called Children at Mass. The article concluded with an invitation to share our own experiences of taking children to Mass. So I wrote:

We have a large family with children ranging in age from eighteen down to two. Although it is not always easy, we have always celebrated Mass together as a family. We have never left our babies or toddlers at home even though there have been times when I have felt very frustrated with the problem of keeping our little ones quiet during Mass. The benefits that come from including our little people in our celebration of Mass are well worth the effort involved. As babies grow into toddlers and beyond, they gradually absorb the beauty and significance of the Mass. They observe our example of reverence and attentiveness and will over time, conform their own behaviour so that it matches ours. They know that they are an important part of our community as they have never been excluded. I have no experience with children who begin attending Mass at an older age and maybe this works out well for some families…

Of course, it is a challenge for any parent to sit with a little person in Mass and having a ‘game-plan’ worked out ahead of time can make the experience less stressful. I have learnt never to enter a pew until Father is ready to begin Mass. I don’t want our toddler’s patience to expire even before Mass has commenced. I try to prepare myself for Mass while I take our youngest on a tour of the Stations of the Cross or statues. We go and say, “I love you, Jesus” to the Sacred Heart statue or I point out Jesus, Mary, John and the soldiers on the Stations.

During Mass, I will whisper in my daughter’s ear explaining what Father is doing. I will point out the candles and the statue of Mary, encourage her to fold her hands or kneel next to me. If you sit at the front of the church, a toddler will have a better view of the altar. However, if you are like me, you may prefer being able to exit quickly from a rear pew. When our toddler’s attention span has been exhausted, (sometimes this happens almost instantly!), I will move onto our own version of the ‘Mass Kit’.

The idea of a ‘Mass Kit’ for little children is wonderful. At times, other parents have told me that they believe children should learn to sit quietly through Mass without the aid of toys or books. They suggest that toys and other distractions will lead to bad habits and children will always expect to be entertained during Mass. Little people are not designed to sit still quietly for long periods of time, and perhaps it is unrealistic to expect them to do so, especially when they do not really understand what is going on. When I am tempted to think I am spoiling my young ones by letting them have a snack or a toy, I just look at my older children. They were once babies themselves but they are no longer demanding crayons or sultanas. They are quietly attending to the Mass and one day, our two year old will reach this stage herself.

If our little people cry or scream, I will remove them from Mass until I have quietened them. Because we are at Mass as a family, my husband or older children are present to keep an eye on the younger ones while I am absent from the pew. (I know that some parents are less fortunate than me, having no one to help them with their other children while they attend to their youngest.) Standing at the back of the church, I often hear comments from other exiled parents such as “Why do I bother? This is just too hard. He won’t behave. I’m getting nothing out of Mass.” Yes, sometimes I feel frustrated myself, especially in winter when I am closed out on the wrong side of the door in the cold with a fretful child. It is easy to envy those without children who can focus on prayer. However, I believe God does not penalise parents for their seeming lack of attentiveness during Mass. We are fulfilling the duties God has given to us by seeing to the needs of our children and He will reward us for the sacrifices we make. By patiently accepting my situation, I like to think that God will bestow many graces upon me.

I try to be considerate of other parishioners. I know that older people have trouble hearing even without the noise from crying children. Being prepared to remove excessively noisy children and apologising to those around me for any disturbances caused by my children, has opened the way for many encouraging comments: “We know what it’s like having children. We’re parents ourselves. You’re doing a fine job. Please don’t feel you have to take your children out of Mass. We like the sound of children’s voices.” Our family is so fortunate: we feel totally accepted by our parish.

Taking children to Mass is difficult but I would encourage parents to persevere. Children grow so quickly. Attending Mass won’t always be such a difficult experience. In the meantime, you will be blessed with much grace and your example will be an encouragement for other young families. We need our families: they are the future of our parish. Let us go out of our way to welcome and support those with little children.

It seems such a long time ago that I wrote that article. Those days of wriggly toddlers, noisy babies, frustrated feelings and exhausted parents are now just a memory. Why did we put ourselves through all that? I look at the young father on his own at Mass, juggling his two beautiful children. Why does he do it? Maybe he, like us, wants his children to grow up in front of the tabernacle, absorbing the beauty and appreciating the great Miracle of the Mass where everyone is welcome, regardless of age.


Please share my stories at my blog, Sue Elvis Writes

Four Girls Sew Felt Decorations

By Sue Elvis

Fa la la la Felt by Amanda Carestio

Please share my stories at my blog, Sue Elvis Writes

The Beautiful People

By Sue Elvis

My youngest daughter Gemma-Rose is extremely fair. She needs to be very careful in the sun.  When I was slopping a handful of sunblock onto her skin the other day, I started thinking about my own childhood. I’m fairly certain we never used sunscreen. Even though we lived in the harsh, hot Queensland climate, I can’t remember my mother ever saying, “Don’t forget the sunscreen!” She didn’t even remind me to put a hat on my head.

If anyone should have taken care in the sun, it was me. I have red hair and fair skin. I can remember my mother’s friends laughing at me: ”She’ll turn into one huge freckle before the summer is over!” I wasn’t amused. I longed for the sun to toast me an even brown colour.

Every week during summer was the same: beach on Sunday, red on Monday, sore on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, peeled by Saturday, back to the beach on Sunday.

I grew into a teenager who was obsessed with the idea of a tan. I was small and pale and freckly and unremarkable in appearance. But I wanted to look like all the popular girls at school. So every lunch time when they took up their places on the benches in the sun, I did the same. Everyone would grab their bottles of baby oil. Liberal quantities were applied to smooth legs which were then stretched out to receive the full effect of the hot rays. Of course, every leg slowly turned a gorgeous shade of brown except those belonging to me. My legs were quickly fried to a startling shade of red.

It is remarkable how persistent and optimistic children can be. An adult would have given up on the idea of a tan almost immediately. But I didn’t. “Perhaps next time”, I’d think, ever optimistic. Ignoring the pain of burning skin, I would again and again return to the sun. It must have been very important to me otherwise why else would I have persisted in such a senseless and unsuccessful activity? I think I must have wanted so much to be one of the ‘beautiful people’, to be popular, to be accepted and liked by the other girls and it seemed to me as a teenager, that appearance was everything.

I am much older now. I know there are so many things that are much more important than having a tan. I never think about the colour of my skin. I guess we live in a different era these days. Everyone is very concerned about being ‘sun safe’ and avoiding skin cancer. Those people who deliberately expose their skin to the harsh sun’s rays are actually considered rather foolish and uninformed.

No, I am quite happy with my pale, fair, totally untanned skin. Well, not exactly happy... Nowadays, I am more inclined to gaze in the mirror and wish I didn’t have wrinkles. Are we never satisfied? Always longing to be something we aren’t?

I have seen people with serious skin problems, disfigurements or unsightly blemishes. When I consider the difficulties they have to deal with, I am ashamed I spend so much time looking in the mirror wishing I could change my appearance. I have a perfectly normal and acceptable face. Does it matter about the freckles and the wrinkles?

I guess our appearance is that part of ourselves that the world sees. It is what we are judged on. It tells others a bit about who we are. The difficulties arise when our outward image seems to be in conflict with how we feel on the inside. I feel like I am in my twenties. I am fit and active and feel quite attractive. I don’t at all feel like a middle-aged woman. I really am quite happy until I glance in the mirror. There staring back at me is an aging woman who, I am sure, is not really me at all. Perhaps the answer is not to look in the mirror.

I wonder if I am alone in my struggles to come to terms with my appearance, and especially the effects of aging. Probably everyone else has already come to the conclusion that what really matters is inner beauty, the kind of beauty that will last forever. Yes, the genuine ‘beautiful people’ are those that possess the virtues, those people who never have time to glance in the mirror. They are far too busy thinking and caring about others to worry about themselves. 


There is something else I have noticed. Inner beauty is eventually reflected on the outside. Grace cannot stay hidden. It shines out and the beautiful people truly end up being 'the beautiful people'.


Freckles, suntans, youth, wrinkles... grace. Will I one day end up beautiful?

Benjamin

By Sue Elvis

I often wish there was a Catholic children’s fiction section in our local bookshop. I’d love to be able to browse the shelves when I went into town and come home with something worth reading to our children. Obviously, the mainstream publishers don’t think there is a big enough market for Catholic fiction. They are not interested in this type of book. But there are good Catholic books being published. And there must be lots of families like ours who want to read them. We just have to do a bit more work to discover them.

Some months ago I heard that Fr John O’Neill had written another book for children, Benjamin. We’d read a couple of his previous books and enjoyed them immensely so we couldn’t wait to find out what his new book would be like. We all waited impatiently for Benjamin to be published and when we saw the book for sale at a recent homeschool camp, we didn’t hesitate. We knew we had to have a copy.

I have just read Benjamin aloud to my girls aged 6, 9 and 13. We read a chapter or two a day until we finished the book last Friday.

On the back of the book it says:

As a young Jewish boy, working on the family farm in Galilee, Benjamin wants to experience so much more of life. After a bitter argument with his older brother Reuben, Benjamin leaves home, his flute in hand, searching for adventure.

Benjamin’s journey takes him to Rome, where he makes both friends and enemies and learns just how difficult life can be, before returning home to Galilee.

In Galilee, Benjamin again crosses paths with his childhood friend, Youshua. Their encounters will have a deep and lasting impact on Benjamin’s life, as the story reaches its dramatic conclusion.

This blurb accurately describes the story but leaves so much out.

Fr O’Neill is such a clever writer. As we were reading the book, we met so many of the familiar stories of the New Testament but they were presented from a different angle, one which really engaged our imaginations, got us emotionally involved and gave us much to think about.

I think we all guessed how the book was going to end but I don’t think we were quite prepared for how that ending was going to affect us. I began to wonder if I’d be able to finish reading the final page. My voice started to shake but I did make it right to the last word. Then I looked up. Charlotte had streams of tears running down her face. Sophie was about to sob. That was it. I burst into tears myself. Gemma-Rose grabbed the tissue box and handed it around.

“That was a really good book, wasn’t it?” I managed to ask. All the girls nodded their heads vigorously. I think we will remember this story for a long time. I hope that the truths that Benjamin finally learnt will also ‘have a deep and lasting impact’ on my own children.

Cardinal Newman Faith Resources is stocking Benjamin. They might also have copies of Fr O’Neill’s previous children’s books Cappy and Nor Life, Nor Death, both of which we enjoyed immensely. But be warned: Nor Life, Nor Death, like Benjamin, might reduce you to tears. We sobbed our way through the final chapter.

I’d love to hear about any good Catholic children’s books you have read. We are always on the lookout for new treasures.


Please share more of my posts on my blogs Sue Elvis Writes, Stories of an Unschooling Family and Stories of Grief, Love and Hope

The Big Crunch

By Sue Elvis

Can you believe I let my son have a ferret for his 14^th birthday? Well, perhaps you can. You might know about my silly too soft heart.

“Please, Mum! I’ve always wanted a ferret. They make good pets. They become real friends,” begged Callum.

I didn’t think our pet shop would have a ferret. They’re not exactly run-of-the-mill pets. Perhaps it was safe to say, “Well… we could go into town and have a look. No promises though.”

Just as I expected, the pet shop was all out of ferrets and I drew a sigh of relief. Callum looked very disappointed. He’d set his heart on having a furry ferret friend.

“Can I ask if they expect to get any ferrets soon?”

I didn’t think there was much chance the pet shop was expecting a shipment of ferrets so I let Callum ask. How was I to know it was ferret season, the only few weeks of the year when ferrets are available?  Two ferrets would be up for sale in two weeks’ time. And yes, Callum could reserve one for his very own.

Callum’s face lit up. His subdued mood disappeared instantly. “This will be the best present ever, Mum! Wow! You’re the best mum in the whole world. I can’t wait… I don’t suppose I could have both ferrets? No, of course not. One will be just fine!”

Two weeks later we went to collect our new family member: a long, wriggly, white creature with pink eyes and sharp teeth. Callum called him Finn.

We’d done a bit of reading about ferrets. Ferrets are very much like cats or perhaps a tiny dog. They can be given the run of the house. They will curl up on their owners' laps. They enjoy being taken for walks on the end of a lead… apparently…so we were told.  Callum could just imagine it. Finn would become his constant companion. He’d sleep on his bed, sit on his shoulder and nuzzle his ear while he was studying. He’d go everywhere with him. He’d be a real friend.

But before the dream could come true, Callum had to overcome one little problem. He was afraid of those sharp, sharp teeth. Whenever he approached too closely to Finn those teeth snapped shut, trapping a mouthful of skin. The ferret would then hang in the air, refusing to let go. It was almost impossible to dislodge him. And it hurt! We tried squeezing Finn’s jaws. We tried spraying him with water. We tried spraying our hands with a foul tasting liquid. Eventually we would escape his clutches. We’d regain our freedom…until the next time.

How can you become best friends with something that attacks you as soon as you come within striking distance? Did Finn sense Callum’s fear? “He’ll settle down soon. Handle him firmly. He’ll learn you’re the boss.” But Finn didn’t learn. He knew who was in charge and it wasn’t his owner.  It wasn’t long before Callum’s inclination to go near his new animal disappeared completely. Finn became a neglected pet.

“You can’t just leave Finn in his cage all day,” I pointed out. “He gets bored and he needs exercise. You need to walk him and let him out for a run.”

Reluctantly Callum agreed. He tried dragging Finn around the garden. Then he tried letting him run around the lounge. Unfortunately he didn’t warn the little girls. Soon Finn was hanging from the bottom of a skirt. Terrified girls screamed. The next time Callum let his animal loose he made sure the girls were safely on the other side of the door. The rest of us sat with our feet hidden under our bottoms in an attempt to preserve our toes from being pounced upon. We braced ourselves for possible attack as Finn charged from one end of the room to another and back again. Around and around he went, occasionally choosing a victim to leap upon. After a few minutes I could stand no more and ordered Callum to return the animal to its cage.

Callum was not happy. Finn had changed his life. He was no longer a carefree teenager who looked forward to each day. No, every day he had to face ‘the problem’. He had to face those teeth when he cleaned Finn’s cage (ferrets are so stinky!) and when he exercised him. Callum knew nobody liked his pet. We were all afraid of it. Finn hadn’t become part of the family. He hadn’t become Callum’s friend. He was ‘the enemy’. Callum no longer wanted to own a ferret. What was he to do?

Callum returned to the pet shop and asked if they’d take Finn back. But the pet shop didn’t want him. Callum wrote a notice: ‘Ferret free to a good (any) home’. But no one with a silly too soft heart read the notice. We started asking around: “Does anyone know of someone who wants a ferret?”

Surprisingly, a friend said, “My neighbour is looking for a ferret. He wants to get rid of all the rabbits on his farm.”

Someone wanted a ferret? I couldn’t believe it. Please take ours! We packed up all Finn’s food and cage. We enclosed him in a cardboard box, put him in the car and escorted him under guard to his new home, as quickly as possible before the farmer changed his mind.

Life returned to normal. Callum was no longer stressed out. His day no longer revolved around an ungrateful pet. Our home no longer had a strange unpleasant odour. The girls sighed with relief. We didn’t have to worry about our skirts being attacked. Peace returned to our home.

Occasionally we wondered how the farmer was getting on with Callum’s ex-pet. Was Finn earning his living? Or did his new owner regret accepting our vicious animal? We didn’t dare ask. We didn’t want to know. We didn’t even want to think about it. All we wanted to do was forget we ever had a ferret.

That was five years ago.

The other week we got together with our friend, the farmer’s neighbour. Somehow the conversation got around to rabbits.

“Hey, you remember that ferret of yours?” I tensed up wondering what our friend would say next. “He was a great rabbit catcher. Cleared my neighbour’s farm and all the farms around… “

“Really?”

“It’s a pity he isn’t alive anymore.”

“Oh?” I decided it was safe to share our sorry tale. I could admit we'd felt we were passing on our problem to someone else. I could say how frightened we were that the farmer might want to give Finn back to us. It was quite ok to be honest: the animal was dead. He could never be returned to our home to terrorise us all.

“How did he die?”

“It was a dog.”

“A big crunch?”

“Yes, a big crunch. I wasn’t going to tell you the details. I didn’t want to upset you. I thought you loved your ferret.”

Loved our ferret?

Crunch, crunch, crunch… then one day, no more crunch: Finn's reign of terror came to an end. He encountered a crunch bigger than his own. Crunch, munch, no more ferret.

Whoops! Just had a thought. Could there be some ferret lovers out there, who may be offended by my story...



Finn you were a good ferret. It wasn't your fault that a too soft hearted woman bought you and took you home to a house full of screaming, terrified girls. It wasn't your fault your owner was the possessor of sensitive skin. You were designed to run free and chase prey. And what a fine rabbit catcher you turned out to be. We are all very proud of you. 


You came to a sad end, Finn. A tear forms in my eye as I contemplate the 'Big Crunch'. Not a nice way to go. I wouldn't like to be big crunched.


Rest in peace, good and faithful ferret. You will never be forgotten.

Stories of Grief, Love and Hope

By Sue Elvis

Some years ago, I used to say, “I’m ready to do Your Will, Lord but please don’t send me any suffering.” Perhaps this wasn’t much of an offering. I knew suffering would involve much pain and I was afraid.

Often when I try to push fears to the back of my mind, God arranges matters so that I have to face whatever I feel I can’t deal with. And this was the case in 1999 when, for the first time in my life, I was plunged into a sea of suffering like nothing I’d ever experienced before. One day I was in full control of my life, the next, my world was in pieces and I was choked with the feeling that I wouldn’t survive. Finding out that our unborn baby was unlikely to survive after birth was a very frightening, distressing feeling and I was full of panic as I looked ahead to what should have been a happy event in our lives.

The next five months were a mixture of calm as I tried to place my trust in God, and despair as I contemplated holding our dead child in my arms. How could a mother be expected to survive the death of her own child? I prayed so much during those months asking God for a miracle of healing for our child.

Thomas was born and it was soon obvious that God had not healed him. There are not enough words to describe our pain and suffering. We watched Thomas been wheeled away to the intensive care unit, seconds after his birth, and our first look at him came hours later: a tiny body hooked up to a life support machine. Thomas lived 28 hours and that time seemed like months. We arrived back home 48 hours after setting off for the hospital and it was inconceivable that we had been away for such a short time. Our lives had been changed forever and it was difficult to come home and pick up the threads of everyday life…

This is the start to one of my Thomas stories. It comes from my book Grief, Love and Hope.

I started writing my Thomas Stories quite a few years ago. At first I just wanted to record our son’s life. He lived for only a fleeting moment and I wanted to say, “I have a son. His name is Thomas. He didn’t live very long but his life was valuable. And we love him so very much.”

Later a friend suggested I share my stories so that I could connect with other bereaved parents. Grieving is such a lonely existence. Sometimes we feel we are going crazy. Does anyone else feel like we do? And does anyone survive the deep sorrow of losing a child? By sharing we can encourage each other, give hope and lessen that feeling of isolation.

I wrote my first Thomas Stories for a homeschooling newsletter. Then I gathered these stories together, and added some more: my book Grief, Love and Hope came into existence.

After the publication of the book, I was very surprised to find I had still more to say about Thomas. He might have lived only for one day but he has affected our lives forever. I am continually amazed how our son works his way into my writing. So more Thomas Stories were written and I have been posting them on my blog Sue Elvis Writes, as well as on The Apostolate of Hannah’s Tears blog.

But now I feel my stories need a home of their own, a blog just for Thomas. So I have created Stories of Grief, Love and Hope.

I will be gathering all my Thomas stories together and posting them on this new blog. Some you will find in my book Grief, Love and Hope. And some have been published on other blogs. I am sure Thomas will keep on inspiring new stories so there will probably be entirely new posts too.

I would also like to write about the experience of miscarriage after losing seven little souls much too early.

Maybe you have experienced the sorrow of losing a child yourself, or you might be supporting the bereaved, or maybe you’d just like to learn more about the experience of grief.

If you would like to share my stories of our precious son, please visit my new blog, Stories of Grief, Love and Hope. I would feel very honoured if you read my posts.

And if you know of anyone who is suffering and might want to connect with another bereaved parent, I would be grateful if you told them about my blog.

Please visit Sue Elvis Writes and Stories of Grief, Love and Hope

The Joys and Frustrations of Being a Creative Mother

By Sue Elvis

Our house is Mary’s house. Pictures of Our Lady adorn every wall, and my favourite of all is the one drawn for me by my sister Vicky.

It is a pencil drawing based on Raphael’s Madonna della Seggiola. Vicky gave it to me, and for many years, it remained rolled up in a protective cylinder awaiting a frame and a picture hook. When we moved to a house of our own, several years ago, and I was allowed to knock as many nails into the walls as I desired, I unrolled my treasure. I framed the drawing and hung it in the lounge as part of my ‘gallery’, a row of pictures that are especially dear to me.

I cannot draw. My penciled people don’t even look as good as stick figures, and so I am in awe of Vicky’s talent. It seems rather miraculous to me that she is able to create such beautiful images. I watch transfixed as her pencil flies confidently over the paper.

But even though I am not an artist I feel a bond with Vicky. I understand her need to create. I also have an urge to make something unique, something beautiful, something that expresses the inner me.  I guess that drive, to bring something individual and beautiful into being,  is a faint reflection of God’s creative ability. We, who are born in His image, want to imitate our Maker. But for me, creation does not result in exquisite works of art. On the days when I am bursting with the need to make something, I will sew an embellished skirt for one of my daughters, or a fluffy rabbit with clothes for all occasions for my Goddaughter, or an intricate, redwork embroidery for a friend. Or create a story. What satisfaction there is in finding just the right words to convey an idea or conjure up a picture in the mind.

For a mother, there are often times when creativity must be put aside. The demands of children take first place. That longing to create when it is impossible can be frustrating. There have been times in the past, when I’ve wanted to sew but my arms have been full with a needy baby. Or I have wanted to sit at my computer and let the words flow onto the screen but I have had to nurse a sick child. There have been times when I have just entered that higher plane of creation and then had to bump suddenly back down to earth at the cry of, “Mum, I need…” How difficult that can be. But recently, with my children growing up, I have regained my own quiet time. And how I appreciate being able to use it to create.

I think of Vicky and her talents. I know there are many times she’d like to move into that other world of creation together with her paints or her pencils, but she can’t. Her little creations here in the real world are still demanding her attention.

 I came across a poem by Jan Owens which expresses this dilemma perfectly. In Young Woman Gathering Lemons, a young pregnant mother notices the light gleaming off the lemons she is gathering from a tree. She has an urge to capture the colours on canvas but she knows she hasn’t the time to create, and so tears fall from her eyes. Then her child tugs on her dress and she gives her attention to what is really most important in her life.

 ‘Who’s got a silly old mother, then?’

 She kneels to hug him close and breathe him in:

It dizzies her, the fragrance of his skin.

He nuzzles under the hair come loose.

The fallen lemons, nippled gold,

wait round them in the grass.

Vicky has drawn many pictures of Mary. It is one of her favourite subjects which makes me smile. I remember when Vicky, my sister-in faith, told me she believed in the truth of the Real Presence. She knew she wanted to join the Catholic Church. But there was still so much she felt uncomfortable with: “Sue, I am not at all sure about Mary. I don’t think I could have a devotion to her. It doesn’t feel right.”

I told Vicky not to worry. “Give it time, Vicky. Keep reading and keep praying. I am sure you will come to love Mary. You will soon think of her as a mother.” And as the Holy Spirit worked within Vicky, she came to accept and be thankful for the gift of Our Blessed Mother, whom she’d previously been wary of.

And looking at Vicky’s artwork and her favourite subject, there is no doubt in my mind that my sister loves Our Lady so very much.

Vicky once said to me, “Sue, what will I do with all my time when I no longer have a baby who needs me?” Again, I told her not to worry.  I am sure my sister is going to be very busy sharing her talents. She will create beautiful religious images that will capture our hearts and turn our thoughts to God. Or she will delight us with her unique portraits.

Update: Vicky has created her own blog, Victoria Leach- Portrait Art and a connected website. You can visit Vicky's website to enjoy a gallery of her work. Vicky is sharing her works in progress, as well as her entertaining articles of artistic hints, on her blog. Please visit and stop and say hello. She will be most encouraged if you take the time to make a comment. 

Please share more of my stories at my own blog Sue Elvis Writes

PS Vicky's drawing is much more beautiful that my blurry photo.