knowledge through suffering
Our move to the opposite coast was a feast in many ways: we lived in a wealthy area just north of Boston only a half-mile walk from the beach. We lived near many beautiful Catholic churches, historical landmarks, cultural hubs, and natural beauty. We had few friends, but they were amazing people. I assumed we would stay there—in the area, at least, maybe further south in Rhode Island where it was a little more our pace. The house and job north of Boston was supposed to be temporary; God would open a door somewhere else.
My husband and I also refer to this 3-year period as The Years of NO. The doors just wouldn’t open, try as we might, pray as we did. We needed to change our situation, but kept getting no’s from job possibilities and alternate housing. We felt like we were living under a cloud of confusion. What did God want us to do? At times I was angry—I felt like we’d been faithful, made sacrifices—where was the pay-off? I was starting to worry that our entire married life would be this: uncertainty, jumping from one job to another, uprooting our family every few years, barely scraping by. The first several years of it were an adventure. But it was growing tiresome.
In December of 2013, my kids had the stomach flu. In a moment of reprieve from nursing and laundry, I decided I would take a break from sitcoms and watch The Song of Bernadette. It was surprisingly fruitful: I realized I didn’t understand the implications of the Immaculate Conception. I also began to think about the real poverty of Bernadette’s family, and how Our Lady had told St. Bernadette, “I cannot promise to make you happy in this life, but in the next.” What right did I have to expect the right job, the right house, the right conditions—to feel obligated to have a comfortable life, as though that were the goal? I realized one of my biggest hang-ups was my perspective: I was so focused on what we didn’t have and hadn’t succeeded at, that I was lacking basic gratitude, which was the real cause for the loss of my joy. I felt pretty rotten, and resolved to change.
Lucky me, I came down with the stomach flu the next day, and in that moment over the toilet bowl I knew I needed to draw closer to Mary if I really wanted to understand joy in suffering.
In January of 2014, I started the five first Saturdays devotion to learn more from Mary’s Immaculate heart (read more about that here). A lot happened in those five months: I found out I was pregnant with our fifth child; my grandmother came to visit and I had, what would be, my last conversations with her; my cousin and her two babies died tragically in a fire; then my grandmother passed away on Mother’s day. Over this five-month period, while growing new life inside of me and grappling with death in my family, things became clearer. The knot in our lives had more to do with our own pride over what we would have willed for our family, not what God willed. We needed to be completely open to any possibility, not look for answers within the limits of our own understanding. And, man, were we lucky to just be alive and have each other.
Slowly over time, it became clear to my husband and I that if, for three years, the doors on the east coast kept closing (and in strange ways), then maybe we should move back to the west coast where we had more connections and more of a support structure. But it sounded impossible—where would we live? Where would we work? Oh, and I was very pregnant?? And yet, we needed to move somewhere, our time was running out.
In the end, my grandmother paid our way home, posthumously. It was a beautiful final gift. So at 7 ½ months pregnant—I had to get a permission letter from my midwife—I boarded a plane with my incredible mother (who had helped me pack boxes, insisting I elevate my tree-trunk ankles) and four other children while my husband drove a moving truck from one side of the country to the other.
My in-laws graciously lent us their basement. In we piled, the kids crammed into one room (which they actually loved), cement floors, a woodstove, a sink, a griddle, a microwave, and mini-frig. My husband did not yet have a job, though he was frantically re-connecting with former colleagues and friends. There were times I was really stressed out—I mean, how long were we going to be living in a basement? And every time I lamented about having to bring my newborn baby home to a drafty basement, I thought of the Holy Family in the stable and had to shut myself up. If the God of the universe could be laid in a manger, my baby would be fine in a fully plumbed basement. And I tried to keep up the practice of counting our blessings instead of our losses.
Our fifth child, a little girl whom I call Blossom here, was born on September 8, Our Lady’s birthday. I knew she was Mary’s baby, not just because of her birthday, but because of all that had quietly transpired between Mary and I during that nine-month period.
We spent the fall in the basement, learning patience and trust, embracing temporary poverty, learning compassion for those stuck in poverty, and why hope is a virtue. One of the gifts of my husband’s temporary unemployment was how much time we all spent together. And our kids reminisce about that time as though it was a great adventure: “Remember when the basement flooded? That was so cool!” (Um, guys, no it wasn’t.)
My husband started his new job the following February, on the feast of the Presentation, a little reminder that everything is a gift and good in God’s time. THAT was cool.
{I also want to recommend two books which were very helpful during this time: Perseverance in Trials: Reflections on Job by Carlo Maria Martini, and Happy Are You Poor: The Simple Life and Spiritual Freedom by Thomas Dubay.}