Tag: God’s will

An Extra Hard Mother’s Day with an Extra Bit of Grace

I thought I was ready for Mother’s Day. I spent the week meditating on what a gift mothers are and on how spiritual motherhood is real motherhood. I read a few old messages from former students thanking me for being their mom. I woke up today to a dozen people wishing me a happy Mother’s Day–the mothers of my godchildren, a friend from high school (who offered her Mass for me today and not for her mother), one from college, a former student, a new friend, my own mom. Most of them are moms themselves, but they reached out because they see me as a mother, to them, to their children, to other spiritual children the Lord has given me.

I went to a different church today because yesterday’s had been rather more focused on motherhood than on Jesus, and the music at today’s church was powerful. I praised God and thanked him and surrendered my heart to him for the thousandth time. It was beautiful.

And then they asked all the mothers to stand. And as much as I try to believe that spiritual motherhood is really motherhood, I knew they didn’t mean me. So I sat. And they handed flowers to every woman I could see. They asked me to pass flowers to the women who had earned them. And I trust God so much and I love him so much and I’m so content to be in his will, I really am, but I sat there and sobbed.

Not just for me, for the thousands of devastated women in pews around the country. Women who have lost children or aborted children or placed children for adoption, women who long for motherhood or resent their motherhood, women for whom today is already painful. And then they’re asked to watch every other woman stand and be recognized, not knowing if they should stand too, or certain that they shouldn’t. I thought of the hearts being broken by well-meaning people in churches across the country, and I wept.

This is why we ask you, Fathers, not to do this. It’s not because people get offended, it’s because people’s deepest pain is laid bare in a place that ought to be safe.

I didn’t sing the closing hymn–I couldn’t sing without starting to ugly cry. And the moment the song was over, I knelt, hoping that the people around me wouldn’t turn to tell me what a nice voice I have or ask if I was visiting. I didn’t want to deal with it.

But a young woman came over, a student at Texas A&M, and told me she recognized me from St. Mary’s. She thanked me for the work I do and told me how much it matters. And she prayed over me, a little balm for my soul.

Another lady came over afterward and asked how I was doing. The body of Christ, my friends.

And when I finally got myself together and finished talking to Jesus, I turned around to grab my things and saw that someone had given me a flower. Had given me *her* flower, most likely. Had seen me in my pain and reached out to tell me that I count, too.

So I cried some more and took the flower over to Mary, who had asked her Son to send those women to love on me. And I didn’t really feel any better, but at least I felt seen.

If you’re struggling today, I see you. I’m sorry it’s hard and I’m sorry we’ve made it harder. If you’re missing your mother or wishing your relationship with her was different, I offer you the Mother of God to take her place. If you’re feeling your empty womb or empty arms or empty home, I promise you this: spiritual motherhood is not a consolation prize. It’s not the same as physical motherhood, but it’s real and it’s essential for the salvation of souls. You matter. Your motherhood matters.

If you’ve got someone in your life who might be struggling, take a page out of the book of the many people who love me far better than I deserve and reach out. Tell her how she’s been a mother to you or your children. Thank her for the way she loves the people around her. Offer to pray for those grieving the loss of their mothers.

I wanted to spend today just celebrating the many, many amazing moms I know. But instead, God asked me to sit with the many other women who are suffering. Their pain shouldn’t take away your joy–you don’t have to feel guilty about having children or a great mom. But knowing how other people are suffering today should make you even more grateful for what you have and should call you to reach out to them in their pain as well.

It’s a hard day. It’s a beautiful day. Because motherhood–womanhood–personhood–is hard and beautiful. Happy Mother’s Day, friends. I hope the Blessed Mother holds you close today. 

I Talk a Big Game

Remember when I told you how I’m so good at trusting God now? Ha. Just like 2 years ago, I trust him plenty in the big things. The day-to-day gets a little dicier. Let me tell you what happened the very day I wrote that post about trusting God in Turkey.

Boiled pigs' blood that takes like floury charcoal. Glad I tried it, but next time I think I'll pass.
Boiled pigs’ blood that takes like floury charcoal. Glad I tried it, but next time I think I’ll pass.

The day started off a little rough with black pudding, which is (unsurprisingly) not my new favorite food. After Mass, I headed to the train station to get on my way to lovely Oxford. I waited in a long line at the ticket counter only to discover that I could have saved 30 pounds on my train ticket if I’d bought it the night before, as I was considering doing. 30 pounds! I stewed over the money for a while (as I am wont to do) but really had a rough time getting over it. I’ve got the money to spare, I just hated that being stupid cost me 50 bucks. Pride.

Nursing wounded pride, I caught my train to Oxford, where I was planning to head straight to Littlemore to see the home of Blessed John Henry Newman, a great favorite of mine. But, of course, I have no data plan over here. So I asked how to catch the 16 bus and tried to follow the directions I was given through the winding streets of Oxford. With no map and no sense of where I was going, it took me a frustrating hour to find the stop. By the time I got there, I had only an hour before Newman’s home closed for the day and a 20 minute bus ride still to take.

Rushing unaware past beautiful and historic things the whole time. Like this church, where Newman preached his last sermon as an Anglican before draping his master's hood across the altar as a sign that he was renouncing his preaching authority in the Church of England. Quite a flair for the dramatic, that one.
Rushing unaware past beautiful and historic things the whole time. Like this church, where Newman preached his last sermon as an Anglican before draping his master’s hood across the altar as a sign that he was renouncing his preaching authority in the Church of England. Quite a flair for the dramatic, that one.

So I got in what I thought was a “queue.” My bus pulled up and I waited patiently as the line inched forward, pleased with myself for doing the proper British thing. Until my bus pulled away. At which point I discovered that people getting on that bus got out of the line to board the bus while the others moved forward to wait for a different bus. I had missed my bus even though I was standing there! I was furious and near tears. The next bus wasn’t due for half an hour. By the time I got to Littlemore, I’d only have ten minutes!

But I’ve loved Newman for years, so I stayed in line, trying very hard not to hate my stupid self. When my bus finally came, 30 agonizing minutes later, the old lady in front of me told the driver she was getting off at Catholic Church, Littlemore. Generally, I try to take care of myself, but after the afternoon I’d had, I wasn’t above asking for help. I had to endure some awkward racist comments1 but she pointed the way and I was off for a few minutes with Newman!

Except the door was locked.

Me with a bust of John Henry Newman. At his house. In the room where he was received into the Church. Across from the desk where he wrote his Essay on the Development of Christian Doctrine.
Me with a bust of John Henry Newman. At his house. In the room where he was received into the Church. Across from the desk where he wrote his Essay on the Development of Christian Doctrine.

But Ivy hadn’t left me yet. She and her friend Ruby were waiting at the corner to see if I’d gotten where I needed to go. And when it was clear I hadn’t, Ruby took me around to every door—even behind gates I would never have opened—until someone answered. Turns out the place had been closed all day. But since Ruby knew the community running it, I got a private tour of Newman’s library (the room where he was received into the Church) and bedroom and chapel. How marvelous!

If I hadn’t been lost, if I hadn’t missed my bus, if I hadn’t been so frustrated that I caved and asked for help, I never would have gotten in. Every single stupid, frustrating thing of my day was leading toward this. Everything I was so upset about, angry and lamenting my terrible life, was making such a beautiful afternoon possible.

God isn’t just in the big things. He’s in the small things, too. Maybe God isn’t protecting you from riot police. Maybe he’s just getting you a little lost or making you miss your bus. Or maybe he’s putting Ruby on the bus you’ll be on. Somehow he’s working, in big things and small. Especially in small.

It’s easy to tell the stories of how all the bad things were leading to a good thing that ties up all the loose ends and makes for a pleasant resolution. I tell those because I know the happy endings. But there are other upsetting stories whose happy endings I don’t know. The traffic jam that kept you out of a car accident. The broken bulb that sent you to the store where you walked by an old man and reminded him to call his daughter. The bad grade that made you stop at the library where you checked out a book that was then at the top of the pile where someone who needed it could see it.

One day, we’ll know all the happy endings. One day, we’ll know the only happy ending that matters. Until then, I’ll keep trying to trust the Author that the plot twists are working to resolve something, in my storyline or another.

Oh, and by the end of the day, strangers had given me 30 pounds. They probably would have anyway, but I wouldn’t have seen the hand of God in it so well if it hadn’t been exactly the amount whose loss I was lamenting. Glory be to the God of small things.

With the lamp post that inspired the Chronicles of Narnia. I almost died.
With the lamp post that inspired the Chronicles of Narnia. I almost died.

  1. When a Muslim lady got on the bus: “There’s too many foreigners here now.” “Well, I’m a foreigner.” “Oh, no you’re not dear. I mean those Muslims.” “I love her scarf. Isn’t that pretty?” I mean, how do you correct the racist remarks of an old British lady who’s doing you a favor? I just changed the subject. [↩]