Faith

Reconciliation

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This year our older son will make his First Reconciliation (Penance, Confession). This sacrament involves an examination of your conscience and then a confession of your sins to a priest. My husband and I went to the parent meeting this morning. The very scattered, but in the end very wise, Religious Education Director asked us to go around in a circle (shudder, shudder) and share our experiences with this sacrament. I am a “cradle Catholic,” meaning born and raised. I went to Catholic grade school, high school, and even college. I cannot remember the last time I went to Confession.

As we went around the circle sharing our experiences, a common and very sad theme emerged. Few of us in that room had a positive experience with Reconciliation and only one parent continued to go regularly. Many of the people in the room were in my age cohort and our early, formative experiences of church and sacrament were focused on shame, guilt, and fear. One woman shared that her first Confession was so awful that she is still getting over it. Oy.

Almost all of my early experiences in church were focused on things that I had done wrong (shame). I had chosen to sin (guilt). I had made God angry with my bad choices (talk about fear! Yikes!). At my grade school, we had to carry a discipline folder at all times. It had one piece of paper in it and one piece only. The color of that paper changed every quarter. If you committed some sort of infraction, you were given a check on your discipline sheet. Ten checks equaled a major, which equaled a detention. Not having your folder was check-worthy. What the what? The focus, as I remember it, was punitive. The focus was on doing wrong, not on striving to do better.

Somehow I managed to never get a detention. Although in sixth grade, I dropped the F bomb at recess, which should have been an automatic major, but the teacher took mercy on me and instead, reamed into me in the hallway so all my peers could hear. That was uplifting and life-giving.

My #oneword2014 is risk. I am taking a big personal risk here and for the first time publicly calling out the church. You failed us. You failed an entire generation of young people who are now trying to raise our children in the same faith that failed us. You taught us to live in fear. You taught us that we were beings who needed fixing, not gifts that could be polished or refined or shone for a greater, higher purpose.

I made my first confession in second grade. Everyone did. It was just the hoop that you went through. The only things I remember from that day are: one of my classmates bawling his eyes out because he was so nervous and me making up some story about not eating my vegetables and disobeying my parents. I have no idea what I wore, how long it lasted, or how many times I have gone to Confession since then. Clearly a formative experience that stuck.

In my time to share, I stated that I could not remember the last time I went to confession. Yet, I feel deeply connected to the Eucharist and we attend Mass regularly as a family. Both of these are true. I love going to church and I love going to our church in particular. It feeds me, literally and spiritually. I love the music, the sense of community, the diversity.

I started the meeting with a chip on my shoulder, thinking that L would jump through this Reconciliation hoop too and then that would probably be the end of it. I don’t go to Confession. I don’t need to because I confess my sins before I go to Communion. I pray for forgiveness and strength, daily. Isn’t that a confession of sorts? As the meeting progressed, the Religious Ed Director shared her own experiences with the sacrament. She joined the church as an adult and said, “I feel very fortunate that my own formation was so positive.” She then shared a new analogy for the sacrament. She encouraged us to think about it like you would a relationship with a personal trainer. You don’t go and get beat up because you ate a doughnut or didn’t work out. You go to make improvements, to get better, more fit. Confession is not a program about what you did wrong. It’s about a clean slate so you can be the best version of yourself.

Whoa! What a refreshing and life-giving idea! Talk about a complete paradigm shift from the lessons I learned as second grader in 198…. What a wonderful way to think about this sacrament. She then encouraged us to think about going to Confession regularly (whatever that looks like for you personally). If we go, then our children will go. If you only do something once, “it won’t stick” she said. And, they will value it even less because there was no purpose or meaning behind it.

Gut check.

I grew up in a household where one parent’s motto was “Do as I say, not as I do.” I often feel that this was the motto of the church in which I was raised as well. This is hypocritical at best and the first violation of good parenting. Children will see everything you do and remember very little of what you say. Yet, when I acted in a way that was consistent with what I observed, I was shamed and made to feel less than. I do not want that for my own children. If I am going to require that they invest time in the sacraments, then I must as well. Do as I do, not as I say.

So, in keeping with my #oneword2014, I will be going to Confession. Soon.

“Reconciling” childhood cancer and my faith

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The anxious perfectionist in me hesitates to write most days. I think. A lot. All the time. All day. But, I post very little. I think a lot about why that is. Fear, anxiety, wanting to be liked, time, energy, laziness. Insert excuse here. Trying to find my voice on this blog is interesting. I am not entirely sure of who my audience is, or why those who have read before come back, or don’t. I am sure there are analytics about that somewhere. Maybe some techy blogger will help me figure that out.

Then, there are days like today where the universe send me multiple messages and it feels like I am being hit over the head with a baseball bat and the message is “Write, Monica!” You have something to say, write about it. Tell a story. So today my story is about the messages that I receive/see/choose to see about our journey with childhood cancer and trying to reconcile that with my faith.

I am following Saya Hillman on Twitter. She is a fellow Boston College alumna (Go Eagles! Women and Men for Others!) who is living with purpose in Chicago. She runs Mac and Cheese Productions, which is a company that helps people “live a life of yes!” Anyway, today on Twitter, she sent a link to this piece by Nate Pyle about the lie of God not giving you more than you can handle. I can’t remember how many times people said this to us, or about us, or near us, while L was in treatment. I have always hated this phrase. Detested it with the fire of a thousand suns. It has always rung false for me. Trite and condescending. And, in my experience, it is usually uttered by people who had experienced very little suffering. I know. It’s all relative. But, when your kid has stage four cancer and is being pumped full of poison, and you fear for their very lives, well, your perspective is different. My perspective is different.

I clicked on Nate’s blog and read through some of his posts. So far, I like what I have read. He is a man of faith, partner, parent, trying to do the best he can. He is also a Reformed minister. S and I met 13 years ago at Hope College in Holland, MI. We were the two Catholic people on staff at a Reformed institution, who after six weeks of intense Residence Life training decided we had crushes on each other and we should start dating. So, although I am not Reformed, my experiences those three years in Holland are very near and dear to my heart. They brought me my best friend, which brought me to my journey as a mother, and as a momcologist. See, signs everywhere.

I really love Nate’s raw honesty in his post. He is grieving, hurt, angry, confused. All of these things are okay. They are good. They are real. You have to go deeper into these feelings if you are ever going to heal. He recognizes this. He shares it publicly and in so doing, gives others permission to do the same. That rocks. That is what sharing your faith is about. I think. At least, that is what I look for and appreciate in others and their writing. I also love that he calls out “bumper-sticker theology” and challenges people of faith to ask tough questions. Yes. This. Asking the tough questions eventually leads to emptiness. In the emptiness is where the “answers” come.

S. and I talk almost daily about what it means to be blessed. Is there a difference between a gift, good fortune, a blessing, and just plain old luck? As a person of faith I sometimes think that I am supposed to think I am blessed. That all the good things I have, create, am, or will be, are from God. Okay. If this is true, then as a person of faith, I am bound by this tenet’s logical opposite, which is that all bad things also come from above. Does God have a curative and causative will? Is God a puppetmaster up in the sky pulling strings? Yikes! I sure as heck hope not. I personally don’t believe this.

I continue to stay involved in the childhood cancer community on Facebook and Twitter and my volunteer work with St. Baldrick’s. Some days this is harder than others. I see posts about “God answering prayers” or “Yes! God healed my grandson” or “believe in miracles!” juxtaposed with posts by my Momma friends who are missing their babies, grieving for lives cut too short, for miracles that didn’t come. Did God take their children to save others? Did they get chosen to walk this road because God believed that they could “handle” it? Are my friends who lost their babies more or less blessed? Are the same people who praise God when they get good news also praising them when they are hurting? No. I don’t believe this.

I can only speak for myself, but when my son was diagnosed, I felt totally and completely unprepared. I was a full-time PhD student, mom to two very young boys- still breastfeeding one of them- a wife, and part-time employee. At that time, my life was about me. Was I being punished? Or, did God send L. to me and S. because God knew this would happen to him and God knew that as L’s parents we could “handle” it?

I don’t have answers to most of these questions. How I see myself as a Christian has evolved over time and been deeply changed by my experience as a wife, mother, and momcologist. I grapple with these tough questions almost daily. I think, I pray, I (sometimes) write. So far, this is what I have come to believe:

The universe is random and chaotic. Bad things happen to good people. Good things happen to bad people. God did not give my son cancer. God did not take my son’s cancer away. My son wasn’t saved because I prayed harder, better, or more faithfully. If anything, I doubted more then (2008-2010) than I ever have before or since. God didn’t give my son cancer because he knew I could handle it. We are blessed. We are lucky. We are fortunate. All of them, none of them? We have health insurance. We have an amazing team of nurses and doctors at a world-class hospital less than 100 miles away from home. We have supportive family and friends who rallied around and behind us.

The God I know, love, wrestle with, and shout at, and thank, that God laughs when I laugh and weeps when I weep. That God holds me up and gently helps me choose to search for meaning and to embrace mystery.

Weeding out the garden

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We have a community garden plot again this summer. Because our neighborhood is so shaded, there is no room in our own yard for a garden. We rent a plot in an open field/park area about 1/2 mile from our house. This year we are growing tomatoes, radishes, beets, cucumbers, and beans. I will confess that overall, the gardening experience has been less than magical for me. I feel bad that our plot is not as well groomed as others. I hate mosquitoes. And most nights, the last thing I want to do after work is fill up every possible gallon container in our house (you have to bring your own water), load it into our car, convince the boys to come with me, and then drive over to the plot. We have been less than diligent this summer.

After being away for a week, my husband drove out to the garden yesterday to assess the damage. I was secretly hoping that it would be beyond repair and we could say “oh well! We tried!” and be done with it. No such luck. He called to say that the vegetables were still there and that they were growing. In his words, it was “worth salvaging.” There were even enough radishes there to harvest. I grumpily packed up the car and headed over to help. When I arrived, there were weeds and grass as tall as my knees. The vegetables looked like they were completely gone. Where was all this stuff that could be saved?

It was there, growing in spite of the weeds. Growing under the weeds. Growing within the weeds.

The ground was moist and soft after all the rain last week. So, pulling weeds was actually quite easy. My husband taught the boys how to look for the plant first. Squat down right next to it. Find the plant with your eyes and your hands. Then, gently pull the weeds away from the plant. Work closest to the plant first, then move in a circle farther and farther out so the plant has room to grow. Especially the cucumbers. They need a lot of space.

The dirtier I got, the better I felt. It was fun to see something overgrown and unruly turn into an actual garden that will provide sustenance for our family. We worked hard and we made a lot of progress. There was a great sense of satisfaction that came from putting in that time and effort. And, the quiet time I spent on the ground helped me think about the weeding out that I need to do in my own life.

There is someone who I need to forgive. I know in my heart that I haven’t yet and I know in my heart that I need to and that I want to. Holding on to my anger and frustration is only making more weeds and more work for me. Holding on is doing me no good. I’ve been close. And, I am closer now than I was before. But there is part of me that is hanging on. Part of me is still attached to the righteous indignation that I feel at having been betrayed by someone whom I once loved and trusted. Part of me is still hoping for a happy ending. Part of me is secretly hoping that I do not have to forgive her ever, that I can just let the weeds overtake the fruit.

Relationships are like gardening. Results yielded are directly proportional to time spent. I know this. I’m hoping to find the courage to keep digging and get dirty. Forgiveness is tough stuff.