"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.