Openness. Acceptance. Wholeness. In this collection of letters, Catholic women share how they’re learning to receive and accept the unique realities in each of their lives — from a new medical diagnosis to a new a person; from a major life transition to the reality of death.
When I first started processing my abuse, my relationships with the men in my life suffered. […] My anxieties and fears sent me into panic attacks every time one of them asked to get together.
To say this year was an emotional roller coaster is an understatement. I was stretched and challenged in many ways, but the ultimate challenge was and in many ways still is to really believe I am a daughter of God and thus, I have reason to hope.
We all are in need of healing. I want to tell you a story of suffering and healing; a story of how Scripture brought me back to God. Two years ago, my husband and I journeyed towards first-time parenthood blissfully unaware of the challenges bringing a child into the world could hold.
In high school, I handled being alone very well. I was a floater, the girl who was known for being nice to everyone. On most days, I told myself I loved this role. I stayed out of drama and was able to spend time with all different types of people. I would hang out with my friends at school, and our relationships would pretty much end there. I never really had a best friend growing up anyway, so I was used to doing my own thing. It was my version of normal. I prided myself on being independent. I handled being alone very well. Until I didn't.
I find that the most fascinating aspect of literature is the way that stories and characters can completely change our lives, especially when they reveal the presence of God in everyday life.
I often joke that my life is composed of a series of coffee dates. From one day to the next, I am typically found either chatting in the local coffee shop or on a facetime call. The gift of love found within these times of intentionality has made such a significant impact on my life that now I never fail to appreciate the beauty of conversation.
When I said my wedding vows, I didn’t know what relevance “in sickness and in health” would soon hold in my life. The morning of my wedding, I distinctly remember noticing stiffness in my fingers. It only lasted for a little bit and I didn’t dwell on it too long (Afterall, I had more important things going on that day.) But it was the first time I remember noticing anything different about my body…
Can I be honest with you? If I could, I would stay right where I am and never leave my comfort zone, but that wouldn’t be living the life God has called me to live. Opening myself up to share part of my story isn’t the most comfortable thing to do. It’s certainly not comfortable admitting our weaknesses either, but that is when growth begins.
I don’t know if the experience at that church was the origin of my religious obsessive-compulsive issues, but it has always stood out in my mind as a piece of the puzzle. I think I was born naturally inclined to seek control, and so a mixture of fear and a desire for control propelled my faith forward as I grew up.
I wanted close friends so badly because, as an only child, I never had a sister of my own. I had supportive family relationships and friendships, which more than made up for not having siblings. But, instead of receiving their love as a gift from God, all I could see was the hole left in my life by the sister I'd never had.
It all started with Lent. I wound up experiencing a lot of suffering throughout the Lent of my junior year in college in various different aspects of my life. In my relationships, in my schoolwork, and even in my mental health… Coping with my depression and anxiety started to become more and more difficult.
So what is the truth of what it means to be a Catholic woman today? The truth is that our vocation is not found in one single decision in time. Our vocation is not proven through what we went to school for, our ability to hold a job, or where we live. Our vocation is not necessarily one thing. Our vocation can change with the seasons. Whether we are married, single, or a religious, God can call us all over the place, to a number of different careers or workplaces; we should not be convinced that one path is the only path.
Upon returning home, I did a lot of reflecting on this trip and why God called me there. And I realized that God doesn’t always give us the answers to our prayers in simple terms. At some times, I’m still confused as to what my calling might me. But through this experience, through God’s love, and through the sense of community I found in Honduras, I’ve learned that I am called to simply love my neighbors. Yes, I’m still unsure of what career I should pursue, but I’ve learned that if I love the people right in front of me and treat them with kindness, God will provide the rest.
I am coming to realize that being surrendered doesn’t have to mean accepting every possible tragedy in advance. Being surrendered doesn’t have to mean having a nonchalant attitude towards the things you love and care about. I don’t need to stake my identity in my ability to surrender “correctly.” Surrender can simply mean loosening my grip on expectation. Surrender can mean practicing gratitude in the moment.
Our Lord took this hardened heart of mine, this heart that had kept people and Him at a safe arm’s length away, and softened and molded it into a new creation. Day by day, the Lord helped me recognize and receive love. At first in the smallest of things: a friend doing my dishes after a dinner party I hosted, a coworker buying lunch for me, a stranger leaving an encouraging note on my desk.
In the past, I thought suffering was something to be avoided at all costs. Now I know that when suffering comes, I can offer it as a gift to God on behalf of my brothers and sisters in Christ. While it might not take the pain away, I trust that God uses my humble gift to add seeds of grace and light and peace to a world that desperately needs it. We all suffer in some way, whether it is physically, emotionally, or a combination of both. Sister, I want you to know that God can make your pain beautiful if you let Him.
Savoring these moments with my children doesn’t mean letting those goals go. It has meant that they take on a different character. The beauty of this is that, although the dreams I had for myself were big and exciting, they were still somehow less than what God is doing with my heart. What he is doing with me now is more wild and untamed than the conventional way I could have imagined my life unfolding. Is this strange to say about a life of domesticity?
The consoling knowledge of the “communion of saints” continues to support me on my journey of grief. It is wonderful to know that those that we love need not be dismissed as “dead and gone.” There is the wonderful Reality that life goes on, beyond the grave. I can hope that my dad is “putting in a good word for me” now, that he is currently experiencing reality more fully than the rest of us in the Church here on earth.
As I cried in my bathroom, I told God how sick I am of fighting against my body. I told Him how exhausted I am of trying to love myself only to fail. I told Him how I didn’t understand how I was good even in my overweightness. I told Him how frustrated I was that I didn’t feel comfortable dressing in the clothes I wanted to.
I got out of the shower and stared at myself in the mirror once more. Suddenly, God said:
“You are so, so much more than the clothes you wear. There is so much more to you than that.”
The Church can manage your hunger. The Church asks you to come, to ask, to walk bravely forward with your palms turned upward, cupped and ready to receive the good gift.
My faith was characterized by busyness: read my Bible, volunteer at youth group, journal, go to church, teach my children Bible lessons, read something spiritual, lead a Bible study—and I was exhausted.
Depression came like a tsunami, I was completely submerged and there was no coming up for air. People who I called friends turned their backs on me. I was judged because of my nationality and skin color. My relationship with my parents was struggling. I didn’t know where I fit in or where I belonged.
(I) encourage you to not be so quick to categorize the crosses in your life as just suffering you’ll need to buckle up and deal with. Allow yourself the space in your spiritual imagination to envision how something really hard in your life could actually be a wildly massive gift.
I find myself overwhelmed by the many endeavors I want to pursue, the vastness of improvement that I can still make in so many areas of my life, and the restlessness of my longing in general to find lasting and satisfying happiness in my current walk of life.
It seems that no matter how much we try, loving ourselves and the physical bodies God gave us can be a never ending cycle of good days and bad days. Everywhere we look, we see other women to whom we compare ourselves, always finding something wrong with what we have and something beautiful with what they have. I should know. I was born with one breast.
At a young age, sporting soccer shorts and a mullet, all I cared about was climbing the next tree and wondering when the new issue of LEGO magazine would arrive at my door. I asked for hot wheels for Christmas and role-played as the boy character for all our childhood adventures. I looked around me, saw my friends and sisters and knew I didn’t fit the mold. My (little) heart ached and wondered, “why am I so different?”, “am I good?”
Your identity is not found in your pants size, or the parts you deem imperfect, or in competition with other women, but in being fully known and loved as a daughter of God.
If we are all called to be like Christ, that must mean we are also called to be vulnerable and not only that, but to be held by Mary.
Suddenly a piercing thought came to mind and focused my attention: “Do I believe in the resurrection of the dead?” Of all the things running through my brain, this one moved to the front of the queue.
There’s a word in Welsh, “hiraeth,” that embodies what this new normal meant for me. The word hiraeth means a homesickness or nostalgia for a home that you can’t return to, or maybe never was. It is a deep longing for something that no longer exists. And that feeling – of a longing that can’t be fulfilled, a thirst that can’t be slaked – is exactly what it felt like, trying to “move on” from the grief, to find a new home.