tough stuff

Growing up, I didn’t live in an extremely religious household. We believed in God, we were baptized into the Catholic faith, we attended Catechism and we made our first Holy Communion. But to say we were a practicing Catholic family would not be entirely accurate. Sure, our family’s name was on the record books at St. Michael’s Catholic Church, but we rarely attended mass. In fact, we weren’t even one of the ‘Christmas and Easter’ parishioners.

When I first began dating my husband, his faith and trust in God was apparent. Each Sunday, he would attend mass, even if he attended the service alone. Just three short weeks into dating, we attended our first mass together at Holy Redeemer. I remember feeling completely inadequate and ashamed that I didn’t know the hymns or the prayers as he spoke them with ease. Over the course of our relationship, we began to attend mass together on a semi-regular basis. The concept was foreign to me. I felt as though I had a relationship with God, but standing next to Marty at mass made it seem significantly inferior to the relationship he had within his faith.  Through the years as our relationship progressed from dating, to engagement, to marriage, Marty consistently encouraged and guided me to building a better relationship with God and understanding in my faith. I’d like to say that I would have gotten there on my own, but I know that isn’t true.

I’m slightly ashamed to say that I still frequently question what it is that we are taught in the Catholic faith. My husband laughs because I obsess and continue to think about things that seem incredibly easy and second nature to him. For instance, when we were newly married we attended mass and listened to our priest speak of the Kingdom of Heaven. On the ride home, I was quiet. When Marty asked what was on my mind, I replied that I had a question about Heaven.  He smiled and asked me to explain.

Hesitantly I said… “Alright. We are married right? We promised to love and honor each other until death do us part. When we die, our souls should live together in Heaven, right? Well, what happens if we are married for three years and tragically I die and go to Heaven. A few years later, you marry again. You have a family, you grow old together, and then after 60 years of marriage, you both die. Who does your soul rest with in Heaven for all of eternity? Is it with me, your first wife? Or is it with your second wife, the wife you devoted 60 years to?”

Marty smiled, kept his eyes on the road and said “I have no idea.”

I was flabbergasted. How could he not know? What confused me even more was how this didn’t seem to bother him. And I told him so.

“I guess, I just trust that God will direct me where I am meant to be.”

As if I wasn’t flabbergasted enough already. Part of me envied his faith and his trust. Part of me wanted to grab his shoulders, shake him and say “really? That is your answer?!”

When he glanced in my direction and clearly recognized my disappointment that he could not provide me with a solid answer, he told me I should talk to our priest about it.

I never did.

Recently, as I have eluded to in my most recent posts, I have been struggling. Recently, friends of ours tragically lost their young daughter and while I can’t even begin to understand the pain and the grief that is flowing through their hearts these past few weeks, I do know the confusion, the anger, and disbelief that consume my thoughts.  There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t wonder why. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t pray for answers. But at the same time, I know in my heart, that those answers aren’t likely to come… at least not here on earth.

And I would be lying if I said that it didn’t frustrate me to my core.

In truth, a few weeks ago, I thought I was doing fine. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to shake this funk that I was walking around in. It wasn’t until after talking with a friend of mine when we realized, we were both in a funk, and for the same reason.  The accident shook us harder than we thought. (Again, I can not stress enough that our emotions are not a fraction of what our dear friends are  experiencing and I would never dream of comparing the two).  After a few weeks, I begrudgingly made an appointment with my family physician. In complete honestly, I was just hoping for a short term anxiety prescription to help me through the course of the month, but what I got was much more.

As I began to explain why my anxiety had soared in recent weeks, the words flew from my mouth at lightening speed. I talked about the pressures of my job (ones that he surely understood), the worries associated with being married to an officer, and lastly our police family’s recent tragedy. Tears flowed at the mention of her name and as much as I tried, I couldn’t get the tears to stop.  As he handed me a box of tissues, my doctor spoke words of wisdom, ones that he surely didn’t learn from medical school. He said, “I can not pretend to know what you are going through. But what I can tell you is what I have been through and what I believe will help you.” He proceeded to tell me about his life experiences, briefly explaining the pain that has left scars on his heart, and how he was able to heal.

He encouraged me to seek help from others, start exercising more, attend church regularly, and if need be, pop a Xanax or two. But what helped the most, was the most surprising of all. He lent me his personal copy of a movie that he felt may help me. “Courageous” is far from the type of movie that I would normally watch.  No predictable romantic comedy plot, no wizards or vampires, and no musical numbers.  But the Christian-based movie, it shook me. I felt every last bit of that movie, every emotion as it played out in front of me, because it hit so incredibly close to home, it felt like it was made for us.

A group of officers, devoting their lives to serve and protect.
A group of fathers who do what they can to be ‘good enough’ for their children.
A group of men who are shaken when tragedy strikes one of their own and suddenly realize that being a ‘good enough father’ is not good enough. And while wearing the badge is a mark of bravery, raising a child into your faith, takes courage.

Did the movie bring me peace, knowledge, and acceptance over this tragedy?
Absolutely not.

But what it did provide me with was hope.

A hope for better friendships, stronger marriages, devoted parenting, and unrelenting faith.

Hope that out of tragedy can come greatness and out of sadness can come love.