Of Trads and Deconstructionists

A few years ago, I got a little bug to start a blog which highlighted all the negative things I've been experiencing in my traditional community. It was going to be sort of tongue-in-cheek, but focused on the many true reasons why the traditional communities sometimes get a bad rap. It was to be called, "Clutching My Pearls," after the silly phrase people use when they're making fun of us trads. 

Funny, right?

Well, I decided not to do it after all. I realized that if I did that, I might be tempted to fall into the same mindset as deconstructionists, because I was coming from a place of hurt. I have had trad friends hurt me. Trad priests, and higher leadership have also let me down. There have been trads who hurt my children, too, which, as a mother, is really a difficult kind of injustice to contend with. But I didn't want to align myself with all the many minds out there that deconstruct generally good things solely because they have been hurt by them. 

Here are just three reasons why:

1. In my experience, the main objective of the deconstructionist (in this sense), is to destroy stuff in order to make themselves feel better. It's the weaponizing of strong feelings in order to tear down someone else. When you're hurt by someone over and over, it's understandable to want to find a place where your feelings have a voice, but it's easy to fall into the false mindset that you're doing something about your pain by deconstructing that person or group. Trying to destroy someone isn't really productive in any sense; it is literally destructive. 

2. It's a dishonest and fruitless way to heal. It's not only a false narrative about an entire group of people, it's also not a genuine path to healing. Usually, people don't find healing when their MO is to deconstruct. They end up in an echo chamber, which illuminates their pain and magnifies the imperfections and sinfulness of other people. It also isn't healthy, and it certainly won't incite healing. If anything, it'll just perpetuate a cycle of anger and pain. I've noticed a rising theme of anger within the deconstructionists, and a lack of peace. This is not a healthy path to healing. Deconstructionists usually paint these dark pictures of what they perceive is the cause of their pain, when most of the time, the truth is that it's one person who happens to be such and such a way, or it's one small group, not the entire group of whatever category they fall under. For me, I could easily deconstruct the traditional Catholic world as a whole, but it wouldn't be productive, nor- most importantly- honest. It's important to not place blanket statements on a group of people, especially when you know for a fact that not every single one of "them" are that way. 

3. Aligning myself with the same mindset of deconstructionist would be to cut myself off from the truth, goodness, and beauty found within our faith. One example of what this looks like is their deconstruction of the lives of some saints. Like totally rewriting their story, spreading a false narrative about the reality of their saintly lives, perhaps in order to quell some growing guilt in their own life, perhaps to water down the faith, and spread doubt within the minds of those still searching or still unsure. I don't know the reasons. However, it's one thing to recognize that NONE of the saints were perfect, and many led sinful pasts before becoming saints. It's totally different to put a slant on their lives that questions their sainthood entirely, when we have so much in the way of proof, tradition, and teaching to honor the original belief about them. 

Listen, I'm somewhat of a "trad life refugee" myself, having experienced a well of hurt and pain, judgment, control, pretense, (and gosh, the unhappiness, what's with all the unhappiness?) coming specifically from some of the people (including priests!) who identify as trad Catholics.... I get it. I've been betrayed, abandoned, and let down by people I thought I could trust within the traditional community, because of radical beliefs or superior attitudes. Or just plain brokenness which, in trad communities is sometimes twisted into virtue, and weaponized. I just don't believe that "deconstruction" is the way to go, and I think I'd say this even if my trauma was deeper than it is.

To my fellow traditional Catholics who have suffered at the hands of their own trad community: 

Don't be a deconstructionist, tearing down the beauty of the traditional faith because of the ones who have hurt you, and painting it into some warped picture because of your trauma. It isn't everyone who aligns themselves with trad life who are that way! I'm still a trad in most ways (specifically, I am still in love with the TLM, my husband is still the head of our household, and we are still open to life), and I don't operate in that manner.

Also, PLEASE don't leave the faith! Especially for your children's sake. Sort out what is actually true (for instance, veils are NOT about keeping the guy creep behind you from being distracted by your uncovered hair), and find your ground within the actual teachings of the Church, the lives of the saints, and most importantly, Jesus Christ in the Eucharist- the source and summit of the faith. Yes, I'm aware that this process can also be somewhat of a deconstruction of its own making, but the goal is Truth (which you have in the Catholic Church, the fullness of God's Truth). It is not searching for an outlet for your pain. And it is honest and good.

Remember: Always view it from the humble lens of LOVE for Him Who is LOVE. The traditional Catholic life is very beautiful if you shut out all the noise and opinions of extremists and liars, and listen to the Holy Spirit within you as you search for the Truth.  

 And...if you have been hurt in this way, my inbox is always open. ❤️‍🩹  

All The Things Pale in the Shadow of Christ's Cross

So I'm laying here, nursing a sick baby, fighting my own sickness, exhausted.  I was up most of the night feeling like my head was caught in a vice, unable to breathe well, and then Little Miss decided it was time to party at 3 AM.  Hubby and I didn't get back to sleep until after 5, then up at 7:30 when the first set of little feet came padding through the door.  In any case, it's second nap time and I'm laying here in my bed, listening to her labored breathing, the melody of a sleepless night and the remnants of that week-long cold winding down to a steady rhythm, and my mind wanders, as it's wont to do.

I am taking inventory of all the things:

How this time last year we were still battling an even worse sickness, and I was just beginning to recover from everything that had happened with this baby's birth.

How since then, it seems like one thing after another keeps tumbling down upon us.

How starting even further back, there was all this stuff...  All this stuff that began in our life that seemed to just keep piling up, overflowing.

How our life, believe it or not, has seemed- for the last year especially- much like a windowless, doorless room, filling up with sand.  There are a couple of major things that are out of our control right now, things we just need to wait on God to take care of.  He hasn't opened any doors or windows and there are literally none even to be seen.  And so we wait.  And pray.  Meanwhile, little and big things (the sand) continue to tumble down, filling this desperate place with the heaviness of a hundred crosses...

Then I look up.

I look up and I see this:

Jesus.

On His cross.

And I think to myself, Gosh... How long have we faced what we have and it hasn't been our doom? How long has He held us up with the very same strong hands that were nailed to that rough-hewn tree?  

All the things pale in the shadow of Christ's cross.

Then I realize that in thinking of all the things, I'm still at peace.  I'm at peace and have been most of this time, and I didn't even realize it until now.  I just kept a hold of my husband's hand, putting one foot in front of the other, continuing to labor forward.  I remember talking to a good friend one day about one of the major things going on.  It had come up in conversation about a related subject, and when I told her, she replied that she had no idea how I wasn't freaking out.

The only thing I could say is that it's been by God's grace alone.  

In reality, sometimes I start to hesitate, slow my pace, but I am continuously, gently called back, back to the way of the cross.

I am kinda excited to see what comes of all the things:  The inescapable room that is our life, the sand pouring in...  I don't really believe that there is no purpose to them.  I don't believe it's just bad luck, Murphy's law, or punishment for my sins. I think that once it's all said and done, there will be an amazing testament to God's perfect love, timing and plans.  Even if our circumstances never change; even if all of the things continue to rain down, there will be beauty in our path. There will be growth.  There will be light shining in the darkness.  And to Him will be the glory.

So, dear friends, if you are struggling with some things right now, take heart!  If you are currently living in a windowless, doorless room, especially one that is also filling up with sand, don't give up!  Keep putting one foot in front of the other and keep moving forward.  Christ wasn't stripped bare, scourged, and nailed to a tree to die just to leave you in despair.  He rose, and so will you.

Pick up all your hundreds of crosses, even the last splinter of one, and unite yourself to Him on His.  He will surely lift you up.





PS. On a particularly "sandy" day recently, my husband was in the Catholic goods store getting our newest goddaughter a gift for her baptism, and sitting RIGHT NEXT to the item he was in there for was this:

If you don't know this already, this verse, Jeremiah 29:11, is very near and dear to my heart, and this would be the second time it was "left" for me unexpectedly at a moment in time that I needed the reminder.  And of course my hubby bought it for me.




I'm praying for you. Please pray for me!

Trust

A thousand times I've felt the weight of my laboring through this season of my life, felt its jagged edges scrape against me, the burden of carrying six souls through this world, hoping that they make it relatively unscathed. Hoping that they are not marred too much by its ugliness, and in particular, not by the failings of their haggard, desperate mother.

A thousand miles I've tread the path in stark silence, memories aching to be expelled, worries drowning out my inability to just do the next thing. Just staring into blank space.  With joyful feet around me, kid-noise echoing, and I, too unwell to even crack a smile through my pain.

I wrote once that I used to think God made a huge mistake in giving mothers just two arms to care for their babies.  I wrote this at a time in my life where that weight and the shifting grief within me over a life I had to let go of, was heavy on my mind.  When the few children I had then already felt like too much for me, and I wasn't sure if I was capable of living the life I was called to. 

Motherhood.

Of course I could live it.  Of course.  But could I live it well?

I look behind me and see the tiny toes in the sand which follow their mother's path out to sea, to the raging waters of this life where the world is vast and often dark, the depth of knowledge and understanding and love not quite known..  Those little toes stepping lightly into the weathered boat made in the crooks of arms encircling, trusting and seeking and ready.  And I, unable to shove off, to let go.  To take their small hands in mine and set sail.

I cry out:

What if I lose sight of the beacon?  What if even in the calm, angry gray clouds threaten on the horizon, and I become lost? What happens to these babies of mine?

The Lord's answer:
 

Ah! But I do not make mistakes, and it only takes two arms to clasp your hands in prayer.  Stop wringing them in worry, stop faltering upon the shoreline and focusing on the horizon, imagining things that have not yet even come.  My lighthouse looms, always in the peripheral, the light of My Love a clear direction even against the raging waters.  The silence is for rest, rejuvenation. It is not for staring into the darkness, seeking out the jagged edges felt sweeping past raw feet in the surf.  Never mind those.  Never mind the hastiness and urgency welling up inside. Let go and realize that the I, the One who made those babies and called them out to sea, also made you, their mama, strong enough to bring them safely back to Me.

Shoes By the Door

The kids wanted to go to Bass Pro Shops on Father's Day.  After the eternity of digging out all our shoes from the pile by the door or tracking a stray match elsewhere in the house, we ventured out into the merciless heat to make the 20 minute trip up there.  As usual, once arrived and before we got out of the minivan, I voiced our regular "what we expect" spiel, which usually goes something like this:

"Remember, kids, we expect you to be quiet and calm.  You need to respect other people's space and their right to not have craziness and noise around them.  We are representing big families and Jesus.  Show the public how awesome both are!"

Or something along those lines..

Honestly, this actually works about 98% of the time.  There's something to be said for offering an outline of your expectations JUST before you want them carried out.  If I had said anything when we got into the vehicle to leave, by the time we got to our destination, all would have been forgotten, lost in the excitement of getting out of the house and all the shiny things to be found.
In any case, this trip proved to be, for some of the kids, in that other 2%.

By the time we got to the checkout where the nine year old was buying himself a froggy doodad (not official fishing lingo), I was D-O-N-E.

The kids had asked if they could spend their dollars on something. "Something" led to picking out nine different things and not being able to decide which ONE they wanted.

And then...there it was...

"Are they all yours?"

GAH!

I sighed really loud and rolled my eyes away from stranger, pretending to focus on helping the kids pick their one item, but really just cursing low underbreath.

I was livid, really.  For so many reasons.  I took the two babies in the stroller and left.  I didn't abandon hubby, I did ask if I could take them to the car while he had the big 4 at the checkout and he said yes. They had finally picked out their loot and were somewhat quiet again.

Mind you, they weren't even loud or crazy as they chattered and chose their items.  I have serious issues when we go out. Everything they do, the decibels of their noise, it all seems to me to be so much MORE when out in public. As if I'm constantly aware of the scrutiny we get as a big family.  As if we actually are constantly under said scrutiny.  It agitates me.  I sometimes freak.

And there is the problem.

It's not really them, it's me.

I think about this fact, that I probably wouldn't be so agitated if I didn't care so much what other people think.

And then I started thinking about how it's not just the general public with their unfiltered thoughts and their self-imposed "right" to say whatever they want to anyone at all.  It's even within my own social circle.    I recently had a discussion with a friend about how she feels she is judged by big families for NOT having one.  We are both Catholic and it's interesting to me that in the same arena she feels judged for not having a big family, I feel judged for having one.  I can't even tell you how many Catholics asked me after having my fifth if I was "done."  Like the fact that they graciously brought me a meal while I was recovering lent them license to ungraciously ask me such a thing.  But not only did they ask, they then went on to talk about why they could never have more than the two or three they have.  Like having to dig out 8 pairs of shoes instead of 4 to go out somehow equals mission impossible.    That projects onto me.....how?


In any case, I was sitting here thinking about it for a minute and in case there is some lost soul who wandered here to read, I just wanted to encourage you (and this is as much to myself as to you):

DO NOT BE AFRAID.
DO NOT WORRY WHAT OTHERS THINK.

You may wonder, which is right, a small family or large one?
My answer is this: When we are steadfast in prayer and desiring to do what God wants with our family life, NOTHING else matters.  Not that nosy stranger at the checkout, not the generous meal-making mama who comes over after you've had baby #2...or baby #8.  Not Catholics with bigger families or ones with smaller ones.  When you are following the designs of God's will for your life and as a Catholic, the Spirit-inspired teachings of the Church, you are doing exactly what you need to be doing.  Everything else is just white noise.  Our lives are meant to be lived for eternity, not here on earth. Meaning while we spend our days growing, raising and loving our babies- however many we have- if it's all for the Lord, if it's all for God's glory, that's all that matters.

When we stand before God to answer for our lives, being able to say we followed Him instead of the world will be HUGE.  What following the Lord looks like in your life may be different than what it looks like in mine.  Your pile of shoes by the door might be larger or smaller.  Neatly ordered and matched, or strays lost somewhere within the belly of your home.  And that's ok. How boring would the world be if we were all called to have the same exact family size and dynamic?  God is a god of order, but He isn't a bore.  We aren't measuring our worth by the number of shoes by the door.
All of our families vary in so many ways.  As long as we are chasing His plan for our lives, the number of children matters not.

There is no point in having one or two kids and then stopping just to appease the world.  What does this teach your children about following God's will instead of the ways of the world?  There is also no point in having a dozen or more just because you can/feel you should, without also grounding their souls in the Lord.  Quality trumps quantity every single time.

Live life for the Lord, not the world, and you are always right.

Stripped Bare

Life can be difficult.

[Duh.]

When you're facing something that is difficult, human nature often makes you feel a little afraid.

You look down the long, dark corridor and reach into the space beside you, hoping there is a hand with which to cling.   When it's the corridor of labor, as in to bring a child forth from your body, hopefully that hand is your husband, your midwife, your doula, someone who loves your heart and is trustworthy in the feat of guiding you through.  It makes it easier.  Somehow, you are not so afraid.  When someone is with you, each step forward is much less scary.

In life, it is much the same.  But...sometimes there isn't a hand there.  Sometimes you just have to have faith that though you see no hand to hold, nothing tangible to cling to, you can walk through the corridor and come out on the other side unscathed.  Because even though there is no human hand to hold, Christ is there holding not just your hand, but your whole life.  Every breath. Your feet, your movements, your meager steps, each counted and upheld by the same hands and feet which were pierced through to save.  To save YOU.

Jude, a dear friend of mine, recently told me that my current life-state sounded so much like Lent, she wondered what Lent actually looked like for me.  That was even before Lent began!

I try not to complain but I feel like I have a lot lately.  I am weak.

But in my weakness, Christ's strength is made perfect.

Ya know, every mama gets to that point where enough is enough is enough.  It's one thing after another and in this long labor of raising children and keeping a home, there are bound to be a few moments years of rough patches, where things just keep rolling along, gathering momentum, pulling in anything and everything in its path.... One big gigantic snowball looming and ready to roll over and crush you.

I'm at that point of throwing my hands up and shaking my fist at the sky.  But....BUT last night, I remembered Jude often encouraging me to just surrender.  SURRENDER.  So I did. Palms up, in my kitchen, I surrendered.

The moment was heavy and broken.  Shards of my life weighed me down.  I was attempting to pull out a plastic cup which got lodged in the garbage disposal.  This, after retreating from a battle I didn't even begin with the hot water heater which was leaking all over the laundry room floor, soaking blankets and other random clothes awaiting wash.  That, after spending the last three days cleaning up puke and washing my hands a thousand times because my two boys have been sick with "THE PLAGUE," one currently at the hospital.  And ALL THAT after the last two years of other devastating and difficult things.  Don't get me wrong, I know everyone is battling so much. I know this. I'm not an exception. I'm not saying my issues are bigger or more terrible than those of anyone else.

But even Christ needed help carrying His cross.

So there I am, trying to dislodge this cup which was the proverbial straw for me, and I felt like I might explode. I am in the middle of this dark corridor of life, crying out into a vacuous space, and I hear a voice telling me to just surrender.   I am being stripped bare.  A lodged cup or a busted hot water heater, or even sick kids puking for 3 days is NOT the end of the world.  This I know.  But those little things on top of the larger things that remain a constant, they were just too much at that moment.

Strip me away, Lord.  Strip me away.

So last night, my dear friend Jude lends me some really beautiful words.  Words that soothe; balm to my soul. 

"Try to imagine that you are tending to Our Lord as he makes his way through the narrow streets toward Golgotha. Be Veronica...with every puke sheet you wash, every bottom you wipe, every drink of water you offer...tend to Jesus in His Passion.  Imagine Our Blessed Mother and how her heart was aching to see his open flesh and dripping blood. Imagine how she, too, must have felt that God, Her Father in Heaven was stripping her, like you, to bare bones that first Lent. Imagine how she must have felt that she could not bear one more moment. But, she did. And, so will you. You are a STRONG WOMAN, Rebecca."

Being stripped bare is no joke, people.  And if you are unwilling, it can be all the more painful and messy.  But as I look around my house, disheveled, filled with germs, laundry piling up, broken things to be fixed, and as I look into the deepest darkest corners of my heart, my life, my personality, broken me to be fixed, I see a mess, yes... but it's a beautiful mess.   All this stripping down to bare bones is teaching me something.  Everything.  I have to conform my sufferings to Christ's sufferings and continue down this dark corridor of labor, of life. 

My friend had a few other words for me which gave me pause. Made me think.  Ushered in a new perspective.

“You ARE truly the Cyrenian; helping Jesus to carry His cross. It is good that you surrendered. He WILL provide the grace for you to persevere and because you are willing to accept that grace, you will make it through.”

I am helping Christ carry His cross?

Apparently I am.  And I have no doubt that He is indeed giving me grace.  I have no doubt on that dark day when Jesus was crucified, Simon the Cyrenian was given multitudes of grace.  That his selfless act of helping a broken Christ to literally carry the weight of the world up a mountain was more for his benefit than Jesus'.  Simon himself was being stripped bare, even though he could not know this.  What an amazing gift to a poor sinner to suddenly without notice be given the opportunity to carry Christ's cross!

Life can be difficult, yes.  The sufferings we experience, be they marathon sickness or broken appliances, losing a loved one to cancer or rejection of family, are all meant to gift us with grace.  To draw us to Christ.  To bring us home.  In our weakness of being stripped bare, we are made new and Christ's strength is seen.  Do not run away from suffering.  Stop living your life trying to avoid every single uncomfortable thing.  Pick up that cross and allow yourself the gift of suffering, the weakness and humility, the hardship. There is a point to it.  When the gray skies clear and the heaviness has rolled away, there is light.  A purpose.  A hope.

So step forward into the darkness!  Trudge on!  Labor away! You. can. do. it.  He will give you grace and you WILL make it through.

I promise. 

Motherhood Is The Longest Labor

They who I labor for

The Lord has blessed me with babies.  Lots and lots of babies.  He’s also given me a somewhat-introspective personality, and the desire to convey my thoughts to others, in order so that they may grow in understanding of themselves and of the Lord’s will for their own lives. (Specifically as it pertains to motherhood, but other aspects of life as well.)  I love to not just sympathize with others, but empathize.  To commiserate.  To encourage.  I want to cry with people as well as laugh.  Sit and ponder, as well as dance and sing. I want to go deep, and then deeper still on the important things in life.  The truth is we all have our little nuances.  We all have our distractions.  We all have the things that seem so big and so blaring in our minds every single day.  Facebook. Television.  Music.  Our jobs.  Shopping.  Food.

But those things, while aspects of our life here on earth, do not indicate to ourselves or to anyone, or most importantly to God, that we are really living.  And that’s what this is about.  I want to really live.  I want to live and I want to be a light.  Especially to other mothers, other parents.  I want to let my light shine.  Not because I think I’m so important or special; but because I’m not.  I’m just like you. I’m just like every other mama on this earth, going through the parenting tunnel, trying to do my best.  Sometimes I have good things to say. Other times, I’m just a shout in the void.  

But here I am anyway, trying.

The inspiration for this blog came from a piece I’m working on.  I say piece but I’m hoping it’s a manuscript.  I’m hoping that in the midst of homeschooling, chaos, coffee and laundry, I can etch out the parts of motherhood that really mean something important enough to share.  But not just share- make a difference.  I spent the last ten years of my life being told that I can’t make a difference.  That my attempt to share my little light with people was my trying to be controlling, or my trying to change people.  That what I had to say didn’t matter.  I spent this time with negative people who were always downing me, my words, my desire to help or console or encourage, and I started to believe them. I started to believe all of it- I have nothing new to share, nothing important to say.  I can’t save anyone.  

The truth is I don’t want to save anyone.  That’s not my job.  My job is to be a light. To serve.  It’s such a simple concept, one we were taught even as wee ones in Vacation Bible School.  We sang it loud with the song, “This Little Light of Mine.”  While making sheep-shaped soaps to go with our wooden shepherds and elbow-macaroni Crosses, we were taught to be servants.  We were taught to have compassion.  To love.  To bring others to Christ.

Motherhood has given me that platform, to rise up with my light and draw others into the light of Christ in our vocation.  

Motherhood is in fact the longest labor of our lives, and we need to encourage each other through it.