When this child was born, in my bed, in the bleak midwinter in Ulaanbaatar Mongolia, my midwife from New Zealand stood over me, watching me give. I received him into my own hands and I laughed. She said, “I’ve never seen anything like it. If everyone had a birth like this, they would wonder what the fuss was all about.” This isn’t a flex. This is a grace. And I know full-well that I am completely unworthy.
He was the funniest child from day one. As soon as he could talk he learned to burp the alphabet. He would tell jokes, attempt breakdancing, or pull any prank. If he thought it would make me laugh he would be about it.
He was the first child to send us to the ER. (A dislocated elbow from jumping on the bed after specifically being told not to jump on the bed.) When he was about three years old we bought him a Superman cape. It had a hood–macho libre style. He thought he was superman. He would don his cape and would jump off any service. Chairs. Tables. Shelves. Couch. It did not matter. He was genuinely surprised every single time that he did not fly. He spent a year or more with a black eye, fat lip, bruises. And I spent a year or more on my toes, constantly on high alert to catch Superman. Never once did an injury deter him from his belief in his power of flight.
Years before our separation and divorce my ex-husband stopped celebrating our anniversary. He said he had no interest in it. I would still make an attempt every year because I kept trying to heal the brokenness with every tool at my disposal. The last year I tried I created a basket of all his favorite foods–Mongolian fried dumplings and Mongolian salads, cherries, wine and brandy. I had cigars and candles and music. And I set up a little picnic in the backyard. I invited him to the table I had prepared. He said, “What the hell is this?” I reminded him it was our anniversary. He had some choice expletives but, he sat down, ate the food, smoked a cigar, and as the sun set he told me all the reasons he despised me. It went on until the moon rose and the stars came out. When he went inside, I stood alone in our backyard, tears rolling down my cheeks and said, “OK, Lord. It’s yours now.”
From that time on, I never tried to celebrate our anniversary. But I have never dismissed the day. It is still a day I mark faithfully, religiously. Yet, I never mark it with sadness. The kids and I redeemed that day and call it the birthday of our family. We celebrate like a birthday party. Cake, candles, champagne for the big people, mocktails for the littles. We go around the table and everyone says what they love about our family. Often it ends with a living room dance party, which is our little tribe’s default. We cannot help ourselves.
In this way I affirm that although my marriage did not work out, although it was riddled with brokenness from the beginning, and although the Church has ruled it null, I do not for a moment regret my tribe. My beautiful, loud, tender tribe. To celebrate the act that gave me this family–even though the act itself is tinged with grief–is to say to God, “Thank you.” Thank you for the unmerited blessing of being allowed to raise these children, to delight in their warmth, to hold them close to my heart, to teach them your ways. Who am I that I get the abundance of their tenderness and their humor? I get to walk them through their sorrows and rejoice with them in their victories. I get to be a steward of their growth and see them launch into the world, tucked into the Sacred Heart. This family is a blessing. I can only say, “Look what God has done.”
This is the Lord’s doing; it is marvelous in our eyes.
Psalm 118:23
Last year, two days before the birthday of our family, I got the notice from the Tribunal that my marriage was annulled. There was a combination of crying and laughter as I soaked up an intense sense of freedom I have never known.
I was willing to carry the cross of my marriage if Holy Mother Church said it was mine to carry. But I was also committed to not rely on my own wisdom and authority, but the submit myself to the wisdom and authority of the Church. Christ through the Church set me free.
On my way home to celebrate the birthday party I stopped at the store for champagne. I bought the one called Patriarche. It made me joyful as we raised a toast to our family and to the authority of the Church that brought healing and wholeness.
The birthday of the family is coming up this weekend. The spirit is one full of so much gratitude for how far we have come as a family. This isn’t something I could ever imagine. We owe it all to the Sacred Heart. We are tucked in him behind the thorns–which we also passed through. Happy Birthday to my little tribe. I am forever and ever grateful to be your mom.
I have started this post multiple times and I have other iterations of it saved to drafts. It’s vulnerable. It’s a sensitive topic that not only may make others feel judged, it also makes me feel judged. But several of my beautiful readers have specifically asked I address this and so, here I am….doing some difficult examinations of how I got to where I am now and how I will get to the next stage of my theosis.
Where to even begin? I feel it should begin with one very particular incident that is seared into my memory. I know exactly where I was standing and what I was doing when I verbally lit into one of my kids who was just about 8 or 9 years old. This child was whining about something and it was really getting on my nerves. I needed it to stop and for this child to knock it off already. I let them have it. I was not compassionate, kind, attached, or empathetic. I was not leading by my example in the least. I needed my child to control their emotions and exercise self-mastery, while I lost my temper and displayed the worst sides of myself. My words, my tone, the body language was all very cutting and demeaning.
I can see this child’s eyes even now more than a decade later. The hurt that welled up in those eyes. And the little voice that said, “Mom, do you really mean what you are saying?” This child’s courage, honesty, and vulnerability in that moment, instantly crushed me. I hugged this child, I apologized, I sent myself to my room and sobbed. What was wrong with me?!
You may have stumbled upon this little corner of the internets because of columns I used to write for dating apps. Yes, I am divorced and annulled and have never actually dated. Those who can’t do, teach. Right?
About a year and a half ago I suddenly stopped writing for dating apps. I tried to write. My gracious editors tried to offer me topics that I could write within my wheelhouse. However, this perverse sense of integrity stopped me in my tracks every time. I just couldn’t do it anymore. It took some time to sort out all the whys about being absolutely done. Now that I have some distance on it, here is why I am no longer writing for dating apps. But first a disclaimer:
Yes, I am aware of the many success stories of people who have met online. In fact, some of my closest friends met each other online through an app. I am happy they found their happily ever after. My take on the dating app approach is not a judgement in the least on those who have met their partners online. Just like I have friends who have met their spouses in college, in middle school, through Bible studies, at work, in bars, at parties and hook-ups, and on blind date set-ups by nosey relatives, I am happy for them all. I can hold that happiness in one hand and still hold the idea that I don’t think their method of getting together should be trademarked and marketed as THE method of finding a spouse. My grandfather proposed to my grandmother after 3 weeks and they were happily married for life. But, I wouldn’t recommend marrying someone you met three weeks ago, despite the obvious lovely success of my grandparents. Let me say this again very clearly, I am happy you found your Love, however that came together whether through an app or not, and I will not judge how you got there. The following then are generalities, not specific to your situation. [end disclaimer]
This post is not a flex by any means. Maybe it will be a comfort to my fellow mommies in the trenches who lay awake at night pondering all the things left undone on their lists and all the unmet desires of their hearts.
I am not a great homeschooling mom. Since day one 16 years ago, I have been thinking that I haven’t done enough. Other parents are teaching more subjects in far greater depths. If I hit 2-3 subjects on a given school day, I feel like we got a lot done. Other parents are lesson planning in the summer while I am laying on the grass reading Anne of Green Gables to the kids. Other kids are enrolled in all sorts of lessons and classes half the nights of the week. We are playing Uno and stress baking brownies at midnight.
I am not being self-deprecating. I am being brutally honest. We never do enough, not nearly what we “should” be doing.
You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might.
Deuteronomy 6:5
I worked an insanely long double shift recently. And I got home so late, so hungry, but too tired to eat. I fell into bed completely exhausted. Morning prayers came early. Too early.
I took my son to work and then went to daily Mass. I was so spent that my voice could barely chant the Syriac, as it cracked on the in-between tones. I could scarcely focus on the homily. The thought came to me that it would have been better if I had skipped Mass and just stayed home. Maybe sleep would have been a better use of my energy.
Then I felt the Lord say, “Your body is here in my presence. Your will is here. Your heart is here. If your mind isn’t, three out of four isn’t bad.”
Your favorite mommy-blogger loves to talk about work-life-balance and that all important “self-care.” (Aside: To hear them tell it, self-care always seems to involve cheap wine? I am not about that life.)
The social media world is rife with “hacks” to somehow achieve said balance.
I’m not sure how that new water bottle, blender, concealer, or skin moisturizer someone is literally obsessed with will help achieve any measure of balance. Likewise I don’t think there is a master-course you can build that will help anyone to find that level of Zen in the chaos of life–especially a life lived externally online in lieu of that work of deep interior conversion.
Here’s the truth, if you want it (bearing in mind I am the queen of oversimplified answers to complicated questions and that I would almost always rather be a mystic than a theologian. Do not forget that I am more likely to put herbs under my tongue and practice breathing than take an advil. So, if that is not the kind of advice you are searching for, you can move right along, because that is what I’ve got. OK, enough of the fine print.):
If you are not a person who randomly scribbles notes in journals, in tiny booklets lost in the bottom of your purse, and on the backs of envelopes of bills you forgot to pay you might not understand this. If you do not find yourself saving little bits of poetry in your phone, dog-earring pages of books so that best lines can be found again and again, or hear yourself saying things like, “What is that one thing Flannery said?” then maybe this will not resonate with you.
I process my inner world in words. In revisiting some words, I find they no longer fit–like shoes I have outgrown. Sometimes however I find old words that still feel like putting on that favorite sweater you haven’t worn in years–it still smells, feels, and fits like a cozy skin.
something hastily scribbled in a notebook living in the bottom of my purse
Four years ago my life changed in one dramatic moment of just unbelievable courage. I had lived in the oppressiveness so long that one could say I was used to it. I rationed my peace like someone with limited oxygen at the bottom of the sea. I could live on so little peace that it seemed normal. But, God, who bottles tears and lines his throne room in perfect symmetry with my wonder and prayers, had a plan to rescue me and bring me back to the surface. Four years ago I set a boundary I didn’t know if I could keep. Four years ago I said the words I meant with my marrow. In that moment my life and the life of my children changed. I said, “That’s enough.”
Hey, guess who was spotted speaking her mind outside the blog? This girl.
First, I was honored to be asked to be on the Ideas Digest podcast taking up the question of whether it was an objective good to have children.
I decided not to make any overtly religious arguments, but to be more philosophical in my approach. It was loads of fun. Give it a listen and tell me what you think!
Next, I was asked to be on the Catholic4Rednecks podcast telling the story of my journey from charismatic Protestantism to Catholicism.
What a delightful and fun conversation!
This one comes in two parts:
Besides my obviously epic taste in jewelry, tell me what you liked about my public appearances!
I will preface this disjointed post by saying that I don’t expect everyone to follow my train of thought here. It IS rather disjointed, but it flowed in my stream of consciousness this way as I talked with two friends: one in the afternoon with tea around my fire. The other way late into the night with vodka on the Feast of the Annunciation. Which, come to think of it, is a perfect feast for pondering this idea of voice–whose voice, how it is heard, and what it all means.
So, let me begin with Drama of the Gifted Child by Alice Miller. A week or so I was reading along being all open-minded, but on the struggle bus. It’s not a difficult book to read in the sense that the ideas are not difficult–even if I disagree with some of them, I do understand them. It’s not a particularly long book either. But I was just so unnecessarily annoyed with it. For such a popular book I found myself ready to chuck it across the room in exasperation with how poorly it is written. I had a little check-in with myself, asking myself why I was so irritated with it. And it came to me that it is the voice. What voice is this? This was not written nor translated by someone who has English as their primary language. I realized that unaware I was reading it in my head with a Russian or Eastern-European accent. It was not the ideas that annoyed me so much as the clumsy way they were being communicated–which pointed to it much more being a me-problem. Mea Culpa. (I then googled it and confirmed my suspicions.)
This episode of me trying to sort out whose voice something was written reminded me of early in my conversion to Catholicism. I got a Catholic Bible from my BFF. I took up the Deuterocanonical books with enthusiasm. Then I struggled to get through them because I didn’t know the voice. You see, I had read the 66 books of the Protestant canon so many times. Those books felt familiar and comforting, like walking into your grandmother’s house and knowing where she keeps the treats, where the best books are on the shelves, and to immediately get dibs on the coziest chair.
These new books felt awkward to me, not because of the truths they contained, but because I simply didn’t know their voice. I had to sit with them awhile and learn their rhythm. It was like I had to tuck myself next to the Holy Ghost and ask to see things through new eyes. What are you looking at? May my eyes rest there. Now they feel so much more alive and active and beautiful and tender then when I first started reading them. I can find my place amongst their images and listen to God point out the intricacies.
