"Your Parents Didn't Want You."

Today, for the solemnity of the Immaculate Conception, we celebrated a Mass as an M.Div community.  We packed our sizable group into a small, log chapel near the lake.  In the warm and cozy space, we settled into the liturgy with beautiful hymns and some thoughtful readings.  The striking point came next - the homily.

The priest looked out at our group after proclaiming the Gospel, and in a solemn tone he declared, "I have some bad news.  Your parents didn't want you."

You can probably imagine the looks of surprise and sounds of uncomfortable shifting in chairs that immediately ensued.  Add in the soft utterance of "dada" from the one baby in the room followed by nervous laughter from everyone and you now have the complete picture.

The key to the homily, though, came in the follow-up sentence.  "No, I'm sorry your parents did not want you.  They wanted a son or a daughter, they wanted a healthy and happy baby.  But they didn't want you.  They couldn't.  They didn't know you yet.  But God wanted you."

The homily continued on, considering different questions presented in Genesis, some thoughts to consider about vocation and ministry, and then concluded with the beautiful statement:

"I'm sorry your parents didn't want you.  But I am so glad that God did."

What a poignant message.  I was admittedly utterly thrown off by the priest's initial remarks - they hit me like a punch to the gut.  Perhaps because these words seemed too familiar, because I'd played them over and over in my own head many times before.  As a girl born to parents when they were 40 and 41 years old, and being 9 and 12 years behind my siblings, the nature of my conception and birth is something even perfect strangers feel comfortable commenting on.  Being called an anything from "oops baby" to an "accident" to a "mistake" to a "last-ditch effort to save a failing marriage" - I've heard it all.  And yes, I've internalized it all as well.

As I've battled self esteem and identity issues throughout my life, my difficult relationship with my family and my place in the birth order have always pressed on my heart.  Today, hearing the priest say, "Your parents didn't want you," felt like a confirmation of words I've mulled around in my head but have feared to speak aloud.  I almost hesitated to raise my eyes and look directly at him, out of some insanely irrational fear that he was in fact speaking directly to me.

As my head was spinning and my stomach in knots, the words "but God did" washed over me in a wave of peace.  Pushing back tears, I allowed myself to sit in this statement.  God wanted me.  God knew me before I was born, or even conceived.  God knew me, and he loved me, and he wanted me.  He put me here, and he has a purpose for my life.  All the times I tell myself I don't belong or I am unwanted, God must be pushing back saying He wants me, He put me here, I do belong.

I am still processing these thoughts and feelings, and what they mean for me going forward.  All I know now is that a spark of that Advent joy I have been anxiously awaiting is sneaking its way into my life.  Thank you, Spirit, for inspiring this homily, and making my heart a home for You.

 

Making Room for Christ

In secular society, the month of December is often spent decorating, shopping, baking, wrapping, and busily preparing for the momentous day of Christmas.  As Christians, though, we know that the true joy of Christmas does not come from giving or receiving presents, indulging in special foods, or watching our favorite classic movies on television.  No, we instead recognize Advent as a season of joyful anticipation and preparation for the coming of Christ.  But, what does this really mean?

After Mass today, I was reflecting with some people from church on this very topic - what it means to prepare for Christ.  A friend posed the simple and yet thought-provoking question - well, how do we prepare for other events in our lives?  The wheels in my head began turning, and I immediately thought back to the past week during which I prepared for my dear friend Tara to visit my apartment.  I lived in community with Tara last year, and this would be the first time she would visit me in my new (temporary) home.  In anticipation of her arrival I diligently cleaned my apartment, stocked up on coffee and treats I hoped she would enjoy, triple-checked train schedules so I would be on time to pick her up, made arrangements for us to visit with my new community members, and did any other little thing I could think of to make sure that when she arrived I would be ready and she would feel welcomed.

I did all of these things because I love Tara very much, and I felt so grateful she would travel for hours just to see me on this special holiday.  While I knew Tara would in no way be judgmental or picky, and that she would politely accept any accommodations I offered her, I wanted only the best.  In thinking on this today, I was left with the question - if I have done this much for a friend, how much more should I do for Christ?

I suppose I've never had a really strong experience of Advent.  I didn't grow up surrounded by a faith tradition, and what I have learned about Advent since coming into Catholicism has come from a weekly attendance at Mass or from formalized lessons in the classroom.  Today is perhaps the first time that the season has really touched my heart, and the first time I have felt genuinely moved to take action in preparing for Christ.  Just as I swept out cobwebs, filled my cabinets, and set a place for Tara in my home, what now must I clear out of my heart and bring in anew so that Christ may find a suitable dwelling place when he comes again?

These questions are still weighing on my heart, and I do not yet have the answers.  I felt compelled to write this out and share it with those who might stumble upon it, so that other hearts might be opened and we might share in this process of discernment together.