For Her Own Sake

Part of how I knew my parents’ love for me was by their love for my siblings. They welcomed 8 more children into our family after me. I remember the elation we all had at each announcement of a new baby on the way. The first time I encountered an outside negative reaction was with baby #6. Yes, it did take that long for me to realize there was something different about our family size! Big families were common in our Baptist community. But when I went to Sunday evening service with the happy news, my friend scrunched up her face and asked why my parents were having another baby. This question truly puzzled me. I didn’t see babies as a decision. Babies were simply what happened in families - they were occasions for celebration - unquestioned blessings.

I came to understand what my friend meant as time went on and I heard couples say things like “our family is complete,” “we’re done trying for a boy,” or “we have our three.” I realized that many people chose how many children they wanted ahead of time, or stopped having children once they achieved a boy/girl set. In my own imaginative world, I planned my future family too. I picked names for my sons and daughters to be and even made them little chore charts and school schedules. But I ended up having a list of names so long that I had to found an orphanage too! There was no limit to the new lives I imagined. In my world, children were not pieces to complete a family collection. They were individual people with their own names, stories, duties, and personalities, and they were each celebrated just for the sake of existing as themselves.

My parents’ openness to life soaked into my own understanding of who I was and why my siblings and I were alive. Very simply, we existed because it was good to be alive. I remember a stranger freely commenting to my mother, “You must be crazy!” as she was walking around with the crowd of us at our county fair. She smiled and responded that we were all gifts from God. I knew I had been received as a precious treasure just like each of my little brothers and sisters. We weren’t the derailed result of an attempted plan, we weren’t “oopsies,” and we weren’t the successful outcome of any personal project either. We were just there, and we were loved for it. 

In every stage of life, this outlook has grounded me. In the years when I wished for a family, but didn’t have a partner to share it with, I remembered that a husband and a baby weren’t a given. They WERE given! I could hope for them as for a bonus and not mourn the loss of something that hadn’t ever been guaranteed. And I could look at all the people around me, already bonuses in my life, and be grateful. After marriage, months went by without a pregnancy. I admitted that, as much as I would like to control the process, if I were in control, a child would no longer be a gift. Now that we are expecting our daughter, we delight in the gift and remember that we’re still not the ones in control of her little life. We receive her as a blessing, and love her for her own sake.

The Fourth Year of My Twenties: Dr. Barber & Dr. Bergsma

    My third year of teaching, I was finally out of survival mode and in the groove enough to have a life outside of school. A masters degree had been a long-time bucket list item. I had always said my undergraduate degree was for the job, but my future graduate degree would be for the education. Now with some money in the bank account, I could pursue an online M.A. in Biblical Theology from a Catholic University. Two standout teachers made this an incredibly enriching year of study and growth for me - Dr. Michael Barber and Dr. John Bergsma. 

    Dr. Barber, a founding university faculty member, taught THEO502: Foundations of Biblical Theology. One of my first impressions of him came from opening the reading lists for the class. The required readings were extensive and challenging, and the recommended readings were so far overshot that I didn't have a chance of getting through a quarter of that material. He immediately earned my respect simply for having a book list that long. It gave me to know two things right away: Dr. Barber was at least 700% better read than I was, and the bar was high. 

    Dr. Barber's classes were fast-paced, but followable. He provided a detailed outline of the content of each lecture. I had never seen notes with their own footnotes before, but I realized quickly that Dr. Barber was extremely detail-oriented, and he expected the same of us. He spoke in a combination of being both quick and succinct, which allowed him to cover a lot of content over a relatively short period of time. His planning and organization kept the classes purposeful and productive. As a teacher, this was a lesson inside a lesson. Not only was I learning the basics of theology - how and why to study it - I was seeing how extensive work outside the classroom brought about the learning inside it. We respected our professor for the rigor he imposed on himself, and it motivated us to aim higher. 

    The content he covered gave a much wider context for the theological books I had read in the past. It gave me a sense of where we had landed in the whole history of the discipline. I remember slogging through Ratzinger's The Nature and Mission of Theology, enough of it now unlocked that the margins were popping up with exited notes and connections. This foundations course was not only providing the necessities for the degree; it was also providing motivation and inspiration to do the work that would be required. 

    If Dr. Barber was the setter, Dr. Bergsma was his outside hitter. In BIBL511: Pentateuch, he applied practically what Dr. Barber had laid out theoretically. A visiting professor, his class was uniquely timed to overlap with my short enrollment. From the very beginning, I knew I was very lucky to take his course. One of the main texts for the class was the draft of an Old Testament commentary that Dr. Bergsma was co-authoring. My two favorite undergraduate courses had been ones where the professors authored their own textbooks. These teachers can present a depth of content that only comes from years of their own labored study. Just like Dr. Barber, Dr. Bergsma was meticulously prepared, and we students reaped the benefits. 

    The fact that Dr. Bergsma was advanced in his field did not mean his presentations went over our heads. He had a knack for simplification of complex ideas, and his dry oversimplification of humorous ideas kept us all laughing. He was known for his stick-figure illustrations and goofy impersonations of biblical patriarchs. Again, lessons in pedagogy underlaid the lessons in theology. Complex ideas can be distilled into accessible language, and the entertainment value of a class should never be underrated. 

    Dr. Bergsma illumined parts of the Bible that had been nonsensical to me. Leviticus is usually the book that bogs down well-intentioned readers attempting the Bible from beginning to end. Only 3 books in, they get dietary laws, washing rituals, and even guidelines on baldness. I had usually heard of these as reasons to discount the Scriptures; if such were God's laws in the Old Testament, certainly current laws of the Church were just as ridiculous. But Dr. Bergsma put these codes, so seemingly out-of-touch, into a historical and whole biblical context. I saw how fitting they were for the purpose at hand, and Leviticus unexpectedly became one of my favorite Scriptures. 

    This "hermeneutic of unity," this way of approaching the Bible as a tightly interwoven story, was absolutely thrilling. Of course, the Bible is mysterious, containing many seeming contradictions. But digging deeper and looking for ways to reconcile the surface-level questions was more satisfying than any deconstructive tack. Dr. Barber and Dr. Bergsma exemplified this approach in their scholarship and, in their own individual styles, modeled the highest quality teaching. 

The Third Year of My Twenties: Cyndi

    A few weeks ago I opened a new document and titled it Pacing Guide 2023-2024. From now until August, I will piece together the skeleton plan for my tenth school year as a teacher. This approaching milestone has me reflecting on my first co-teacher, and one of the most influential women of my twenties. 

    Cyndi was a special education teacher at my first school. I was hot off the press from college, and my first impression of Cyndi was her command. While I was struggling to cajole rowdy 10-year-olds with sweetness and convincing appeals, she walked into a room and told them what to do. They always did it. She carried herself with authority and walked with confidence. Not only confidence, but speed. She was always on the move, going at a pace about 2.5 times faster than everyone else around her, but never frantically. It was a purposeful urgency, and it caught on with her students. They worked with her when they wouldn't work with anyone else, and this was an invaluable to the whole staff. 

    I understood right away why she was respected. I came to understand later why she was so loved. The students formed strong attachments to her, and at first, I wondered how such a strict and often harsh-sounding teacher could create such bonds. But it became clear that Cyndi combined a firm consistency with what I can only describe as excessive care for her students. She went far above and beyond the given duties of a teacher, and made absolutely sure that they got to have experiences they never would have gotten otherwise. 

    Cyndi took charge of a big range of fun projects throughout the year, but the absolute best and most important in my eyes was going to camp. She planned and worked for months to make sure that all the 5th graders had the chance to play in the creek, look for fossils, catch crawdads, climb rock walls and ropes courses, ride on a zip line, play field games, hike through the woods, and have the time of their lives with an outdoor education. She traveled and stayed overnight to make it happen, almost staying overnight at school beforehand when an issue with school IDs meant we were printing our own last minute at 8 pm. 

    My second year of teaching, Cyndi and I were co-teachers on a new team. In this model, struggling students remained in the classroom with both of us rather than getting pulled back and forth from the regular classroom to intervention. With our rotating small group system, we were able to give those kids the attention and help they needed, and we had a great time doing it. If our principal ever questioned our teamwork, he was assured we enjoyed working together when he passed the door of our classroom and saw us both laughing as Cyndi was putting a cupcake into my open mouth. I don't remember why she was feeding me at that moment, but I remember our boss saying he was glad the new arrangements seemed to be working out well for everyone. 

    Cyndi invested in our relationship outside of the professional sphere. She took an interest in my plans to become a religious sister, and invited me over to her home for dinner before I took off for the convent. She and her husband told me all about their story which included their first meeting (it was at a fist fight) and his first impression of Cyndi (he was impressed that she won), and they asked about my motives and feelings as I embarked on my next step. 

    Cyndi not only took an interest in my life, but gifted me by letting me into hers. I was privileged to mourn her father's death with her, and watch as she cared for her feisty Italian mother in her final years. I was familiar with a daughter's love, but had never thought it out to its completion. What did it look like at the end? This was my first glimpse into the sacrificial love and life-shattering loss of an adult child now orphaned. Cyndi shared many of her mother's religious items with me - crucifixes, rosaries, and a tarnished old scene of Mary's appearance to St. Bernadette. I treasured these and prayed for the souls of the family from which they came. 

    Years have gone by, and the rosary bracelet Cyndi gave me is lost. The winter headband she crocheted specifically for my then high bun hairstyle is obsolete. But every once in awhile, I still reach into an old jacket pocket and feel one of the small crucifixes Cyndi passed to me. I thank God for my friend from those years, and I pray that she is blessed.  

The Second Year of My Twenties: Fr. Mike

    When I was 21, I got my first teaching job and moved out on my own for the first time. There was only one small Catholic Church in my new, very rural, town, and it wasn't long before Fr. Mike came up to ask about me and how I came there. He introduced me to all the people standing nearby who had stayed to chat with each other after Mass. I will always be thankful for that warm welcome. In the 3 years I spent there, I saw that warmth bring others back into the sacraments, or into them for the first time.

    Fr. Mike had no sense of embarrassment, which was part of what made him put others so at ease. If you were socially nervous about making a fool of yourself, he would quickly make a fool of himself first and dissipate your worries. He was the loudest one in the room, told the worst jokes, and laughed the most about them. He would ramble on about his cats and forget what he was going to say or where he was going next. I don't know that he was ever on time for anything. Daily Masses were especially bad. The 9:00 Massgoers would often see him at 9:15, shuffling through the attached rectory door in his socks, peeking around the Church and happily greeting everyone by name. Then he would head back into the sacristy announcing, "Well, since you're all here, let's go to Church." One time I remember that he came in proudly showing off his latest thrift store find: a post-it-note yellow pullover with a cat playing bingo - the letters "BINGO!" printed loudly underneath. 

    Fr. Mike had been a priest for a long time, but St. Mary's was his first assignment as pastor of a parish. Before that, he'd spent 30 years as a chaplain for the children's hospital. I always wondered if his goofy persona came from years of cheering up sick children, or if he received that placement because he was so much like a child himself. It was probably a mixture of both. My dad worked in the same hospital, and was familiar with him, describing Fr. Mike as "a big clown." At the time, "big" was as apt a descriptor as "clown," but by the time I met him, he had gone on an intense, triple-digit weight-loss journey. As jolly as he was, and as much as he loved food, he swore off all pasta, bread, and candy permanently (among other things), with no exceptions or cheat days. His motivation? He wanted to be healthy to serve the Church as long as possible. His intention was never to retire, to "die with his boots on." He knew the need for priestly ministry and he took on the weight loss battle as a spiritual battle for his flock. 

    While I loved Fr. Mike's friendliness and all-out commitment to the people he served, when silliness, informality, and disorganization interrupted the Sacred Liturgy, it was a difficult experience for me. I didn't feel that the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass was rightly reverenced. Serving on the worship commission added a whole new layer of discomfort. Now I was called upon by my conscience to speak up about these and more issues while still trying to respect my pastor and show him deference. This was an important growing experience, but just as important (if not more) was a single, short moment when the Spirit broke through my heart during one of Fr. Mike's homilies. 

    The homily was about the Israelites and their demeanor toward God's presence in the Ark of the Covenant. Fr. Mike showed how they came to see the Ark as a kind of magical, good luck charm that would protect them from defeat no matter what. He warned us of the danger of seeing the Eucharist this way. It was a simple message, but exactly what I needed to hear at that point in my life, and I realized what I had already known but not acted out in reality: that I need to listen and learn from those with whom I disagree. He may not have done things in the way I believed they should be done, but that didn't justify dismissiveness. No matter my qualms, I needed the good guidance he offered so sacrificially. 

    At the end of my time at St. Mary's, Fr. Mike was very supportive in writing a reference letter for the convent. When the letter was lost and I needed another, he rewrote it graciously. When I came back from the convent in confusion and near despair, he agreed to counsel me. Upon arrival for our meeting, he wasn't there. I assumed he was coming late, so I waited until I was sure he'd simply forgotten. He was the same scatterbrained priest, but the priest whose weekly ministry of Penance and the Eucharist had been a waterfall of grace more meaningful than I could begin to understand in this life. And I am so very grateful that, through the weaknesses he offered to Jesus, Fr. Mike powerfully encouraged, challenged, taught, and guided that 21-year-old he welcomed to St. Mary's Church. 

The First Year of My Twenties: Debbie & Leslie

This will be the year I turn 30. Before the new decade begins, I want to reflect on each year of my 20s and the people who impacted me. December is already the time of thinking of far-away loved ones, writing cards, and praying blessings on all the friends collected in different stages of life. Two mentors in particular are on my mind tonight.

The summer I turned 20 I was working in College Hall. One work study job had led to another work study job which then opened up a summer nine-to-five. Really I should say that one great boss recommended me to someone who became another great boss who then created an entirely new job description so that I could work there full time after the end of the school year. These two women took me in and looked after me as if I was a family member. In a way, the whole school community was like a family. Debbie and Leslie were two of the reasons why it felt that way. 

I met Debbie on my first college visit. She was the administrative assistant for the education department. I was trying to decide between two schools and this one was in 2nd place. After a few minutes in that office, it moved into 1st. I was hesitant about how it could work, but the department head Michele and her secretary Debbie immediately put their heads together to puzzle a way for me to graduate in 3 years. From the beginning I knew both practically and personally that I would be taken care of there. Debbie cared for me so well that she became the only person other than my own mother for whom I have ever written a “Happy Mother’s Day” card.

Debbie took me on as her student worker my freshman year. My first day on the job, she gave me an envelope and an address to print on it. She left for a meeting and let me figure it out on my own. Sure enough, it took me the length of the meeting to wrangle the software and printer to produce the single envelope. She always gave the help I needed while expecting just the right amount of independence. She expected my mistakes and encouraged my ideas. Even though she wasn’t technically a professor in the education department, I learned just as much about teaching from her as any member of the faculty. 

Debbie was a true friend and Friend. Her Quaker faith permeated every calm word she spoke in that office where so many things tested her patience day in and day out. It stood the test. She discussed the deepest of theological differences with absolute peace and openness. We worshipped in silence at the Wednesday Quaker meeting. I loved God more because of her love and dutifulness toward Him.

When Debbie heard that the president’s office was looking to hire their first student worker, she connected me with Leslie. Leslie was at the center of all the madness in this college, and yet her office was the place everyone felt most relaxed. She was so congenial that people would flock to her desk just to talk with her. The constant distractions made it hard to get anything done, but she couldn’t help that people wanted to be around her. Leslie made you feel like a fellow conspirator in a secret mission to have fun in every task. She was so popular that in order to get any work done, I would have to take her place in grand central station while she hid away in my closet of an office. 

Leslie laughed easily and kept everyone else laughing too. She had a funny way of saying absolutely normal things as if she were confiding something embarrassing to you. She made tedious tasks bearable. She always misheard things incorrectly in a harmlessly ridiculous way. And most of all she took a genuine interest in each person who walked into her office. We all felt that genuine concern through the way she asked questions about our lives and the chocolate she offered from the candy bowl as consolation for our worries. We had so many encouraging, deep, spiritual, and personal discussions that were just what I needed at that point in my life. 

I learned from Debbie and Leslie that professionalism didn’t mean knowing what to do in every circumstance. They had to figure things out as they went. They built the confidence in me to make decisions and take responsibility for whatever came my way. They showed me how to gracefully handle the stressors of day to day life, Debbie with a calm persistence and Leslie with a sense of humor. I saw them go out of their way every single day to be kind to the people around them, and I still feel blessed that I got to be around them during that exciting crossroads of the first year of my 20s. 

Countably Infinite

I've attended enough school plays, middle school sporting events, and children's holiday concerts to know that I need to mentally prepare for them. They particularly amplify my feeling of singleness and childlessness. You would think that bridal showers, weddings, baby showers and meal train visits to families with new little ones would be the more likely events to do this, but oddly they don't. It's sitting in an audience, watching from a distance, clapping and cheering and watching the parents and grandparents around me take pictures. For some reason, that's what wakes up the feeling in me most. I wonder what it would be like to watch my child grow, and what it would be like to look over at the seat next to me and see my child's father watch him or her grow too.

I know ahead of time that these events require a balance beam act inside my heart and mind. I have to allow the longing for something beautiful without tipping over to the natural feeling of bitterness. To prepare my heart, I pray. To prepare my mind, I consider countably infinite sets. 

Some types of infinity are larger than others. The countably infinite sets (integers, natural numbers, rational numbers) go on without an end. So do the uncountably infinite sets (real numbers, irrational numbers), but these contain more numbers than the countably infinite sets. What does all this have to do with hoping for a family? Understanding that there are different types of infinity justifies my aching and condemns my bitterness all at once.  

In this metaphor, family life is an uncountably infinite set. It's the vastest and highest thing I can imagine on this earth. I watch in awe as my friends marry and become parents. They are swept up in something far beyond them, creating with God and caring for eternal souls of priceless worth. The layers aren't countable - they have depth within depth and color within color. Being a mother is the most real and most irrational thing a woman can do. Of course I am enthralled by its enormity. I wouldn't want to give up the awe for the sake of coping. I believe some women have traded their awe for motherhood for cynicism in order to protect themselves. Many could not get it back even when their children were born, and their families suffer deeply. 

I want to hold on to this regard toward family life, even when it's painful. A future husband and children would be more than worthy of all this longing. Even if I never receive the gift, the world needs men and women who regard the family as it should be regarded - an infinite gift. Fewer careless vows would be taken, fewer children born unwelcomed, fewer people abandoned and alone. 

The uncountably infinite is worth the awe. But the countably infinite keeps me from heartbreak at the infinite loss of not being a wife and mother. What is the countably infinite? This smaller set of numbers still goes on forever. Is it more graspable because it is smaller? No, it is still far beyond anything I can fathom. And this is a metaphor for the gifts I receive every day in my current state of life. The treasures of these eternal souls are no less priceless to me because instead of "mother" they call me "teacher." The role I have in the lives of many dear children is a high calling far above what I could reach in a lifetime. A parent's role is higher, and I acknowledge and honor this, but try not to waste time comparing infinities. My countably infinite world holds enough awe to last forever. So when I see the light in the eyes of the children who call me neighbor, cousin, teacher, sister, or godmother, I soak it in, and my heart overflows. 

Interjection

What is really going to change at Christmas? 

I wondered this as I struggled through a very turbulent Advent. The season was burdened beyond my strength to carry and strung with regular breakdowns. People kept trying to encourage me by saying Christmas break was coming, but I only felt dread at the huge workload built up to fill any amount of "time off." Ground down to a state of rawness, old feelings were exposed and burned redder. Old hopes were still deferred, swollen by time. Inadequacies were confirmed by repeated failures, and disappointments seemed perfectly timed for Advent verses including such phrases as "the night is advanced" (Romans 13), "on that very day his plans perish" (Psalm 146), and "take as an example of hardship and patience" (James 5). I felt like "the desert and the parched land" in Isaiah 35, but I knew that would not go away just because the calendar advanced from December 24 to 25. It's unpleasant to admit, but my thoughts were stuck on the fact that Jesus was already born and he wasn't going to be born in some new way at Christmas. He came a long time ago and it didn't change the reality that I was miserable. 

I did know, at least, that there was a point to the misery. Every wave of unfulfilled longing could push me further out from the illusion that earthly things fulfill. Part of the purpose of liturgical seasons like Lent and Advent is to isolate the ache for God. I was definitely aching, and doing my best to orient that in the direction of Heaven. But Heaven was still just as far away as before I pointed my pain toward it, and it (probably) still would be when Advent ended in bells and feasting. How could I set aside the pain for joy at Christmas? 

The Church is wise to recognize the holy place of suffering in God's redemptive plan for us. Friday penances, Lenten fasts and Advent practices all draw our attention to this. For those who are already suffering, liturgy comes alongside and lift up what is already there (as it did for me this December). But of course the patterns of our lives don't follow systematic calendars, and sometimes liturgy interjects suffering into an otherwise happy season as a difficult reminder or discipline. That is how I have usually experienced penitential seasons, but this year Christmas became the difficult interjection - the reminder of the holy place of joy in God's plan. 

The same thoughts and feelings still weigh on me even now that the priest wears white instead of purple. But the practice and discipline of joy means that I choose to spend time in thoughts of Christ's victory. He will surely come again! The surety comes from the knowledge that he already came and put into motion the victory that cannot be reversed. Right now it's easy to focus on the ways I am apart from Him and suffering for it. But it's my duty to remember that He will raise me to Himself. From here, the road ahead looks long and painful, but from Heaven it will appear beautiful because it will have led me home to my God. It is an exercise of hope and trust to place my mind in that state of future joy, and in that perspective to celebrate the season. The thoughts on which I choose to focus are what change at Christmas: "the day is at hand," "let us go rejoicing to the house of the Lord," "indeed we call blessed those who have persevered," "the desert and the parched land will exult," "a savior has been born to you."