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Let me ask you something: Do you have a traditional marriage? What does yours look like? If your marriage differs from mine, is it any less of a traditional marriage?
Do you call your husband "Master?" Do you call him "Sir?" Do you and your spouse practice domestic discipline? Do you, as a woman, work outside of the home? Do you do all of the household chores? Do you wear skirts and dresses? Is your husband older than you? Is he younger? Does any of this really matter? Some would say a hearty, "Yes." However, I would venture to say, "No." Let me put it to you another way. In the following scenario, which woman is the traditional wife? Is she the wife whose marriage does not include domestic discipline? What if she has three children from previous, non-marital relationships? What if she works outside of the home to help support her family? What if she is ten years older than her husband? Yet, this wife willingly and lovingly submits to her spouse. Or, is the traditional wife the one who does not work outside of the home, serves her husband, attempts to conform her will to his in all things, and submits to discipline regularly? The answer is, both. The first wife is my beloved sister-in-law, my brother's bride. The other is myself. We may have different expressions of traditional marriage, but we sisters are both traditional wives. One of the most beautiful aspects of traditional marriage I have found is that it is not one-size-fits-all. Many cultures and religions might have their own take on what this relationship dynamic means, or what it looks like. Yet, I think at the very foundation, a traditional marriage can be defined in the following way: It is the union between one man and one woman, with the male being the leader of the relationship. That is it. Simple, no? Does it surprise you? Yes, I am a traditional wife. I am just one of many. And, my marriage may not look like yours. What does my marriage look like? Well, my Husband and I practice domestic discipline within a Catholic framework. To us, this means that he is the unquestioned leader in our home and I am required to obey him in the same capacity as I would obey God. Any disobedience is direct disobedience to God. All paternity and all authority comes from Him. My Husband is my Superior in the same way that a monk or a nun would be subject to their Superior: he is the Voice of God in my life. We are not equals in our marriage, but we are complimentary. Marriage is a holy vocation. With it comes roles and responsibilities. Each is unique and beautiful. According to my Husband's preferences, I am not allowed to work outside of the home. I do, however, have outside hobbies and interests which I love to take part in. I am required to wear skirts and modest tops during the day. The only exception is that, when I work out, I wear long workout pants. (I would not even do this, but finding a long "workout skirt" has been challenging!) My hair is to be kept at waist-length. I even wear a headband as a sort of nondescript head-covering. Nearly every day, my Husband sets out a list of tasks for me to complete. I try to the best of my ability to complete the majority of things before his return home. When my Husband does arrive home from work each day, I greet him with a huge smile and a ready hug. Truly, I could not be more thrilled to see him! At dinner, I always serve my Husband first, giving him the larger and best portions of our meal. When we go out or walk together, I try to match my strides with those of my Husband, or fall slightly behind him. At restaurants, he orders for me. I try not to speak over him, and I try to keep silence when he interjects. In all of these things, they are done quietly. My Husband often has me kneel before him. Yes, I do call him "Sir." At the very least, I am required to use this title after a direct question or command. Sometimes, within the context of a question. Once in a while, even the dreaded "M" word is required. Although the latter is difficult for me to say, I do believe it to be the reality between us. I am subject to my Husband in all things apart from sin, and, when I err (shamefully, I err often!), I am subjected to his complete correction. He may choose to slap me, lash my palms, spank me, whip me, flog me, wash my mouth out with soap, or subject my tongue to hot sauce. I may have to pray before him cruciform. To show my Husband my submission afterward, I may be required to kiss the hand that had slapped me, kiss his wedding ring, or kiss his feet. I may have to go about for a time with my wrists bound by a cord, with just enough slack to complete tasks. Sometimes, within the privacy of our own home, my Husband has me wear my collar-- a pretty red leather collar with a Celtic heart on it-- to teach me humility or obedience. There are many, many more things I could enumerate, but will not. Nevertheless, does any of this make me any more of a traditional wife the first woman in the "Tale of Two Traditional Wives" scenario? No. My traditional marriage is simply different. And, you know what? That is alright! My marriage is exactly what I need for my soul's spiritual growth. It fits perfectly with who I am. My marriage might not look like yours. It may not resemble anyone else's. Regardless, it is mine, and, to me, it is the most beautiful reality in the world! Whatever your traditional marriage may look like, enjoy it! Celebrate it! If you are fulfilled, then it is just right for you. Your marriage is yours; it is yours alone. And, it is beautiful. Friday morning was quite a mile stone in our lives! My Husband presented his official (Ph.D.) doctoral dissertation defense before a public audience, the members of his committee, and the outside "readers" who had been assigned to oversee this occasion. In a mere half hour, my Husband attempted to adequately summarise what had taken him several years-- and nearly two hundred pages of written work-- to complete. I sat near the back of the room, amongst several of our friends (his colleagues), and had tried to offer him both encouragement and strength with my beaming smiles. After my Husband's presentation, there were questions from the general audience. Then, the public was dismissed and he was left to face the lions alone. The hour that followed was rather harrowing. I sat in my Husband's office, listening to the clock in the outside courtyard chime away the quarter hours. I had done a lot of fretting and praying. I had also done much reminiscing. This single event represented several years worth of work and preparation. It had been our goal for more than the entirety of our marriage. You see, my Husband had already completed a year when we became engaged, but he had become overwhelmed and had taken a leave of absence. We had returned to the program a month after our wedding. Thus began the long road ahead...one which would draw to a close this day. At last, just when I thought I could stand it no more, I heard my Husband's loud, booming voice in the hallway. A moment later, he stuck his head in the door. With a look of complete exhaustion mixed with jubilation, he opened his arms to me. I ran into them. He held me fiercely and whispered, "We passed." It seemed strange to me that my Husband would included me in his triumph. However, he was not alone in this. At the subsequent champagne toast, the myriad of faculty, staff, and friends congratulated us both. My favourite part of the celebration, however, were the curious glances. I think many of the faculty, those whom I had not met previously, were rather curious to meet the woman who had consented to become the wife of such a legend. In addition to his more amiable qualities-- those which had won him the respect and friendship of nearly all who had known him-- my Husband had also established quite a reputation during his time in the doctorate program for his manner of dress, conservative values, and for his less-than-quiet opinions on such matters. :-) My heart is full of joy! The past days have seemed a dream. I am still getting used to being "Mrs. Dr. __," but it does not feel quite as ominous as I had feared. My Husband is still the same person as he was a few days prior to this event. He is still the sweet, tender, firm, loving leader that he always was-- he somehow manages to be the life of the party, and yet, also very spiritual deep. It does not matter to me if he had been a corporate executive or a janitor. I love the man I married. I love him entirely for who he is. I am thrilled, however, to witness his great accomplishments, for I always knew he was capable of them. I am glad, too, for my role in my Husband's success. I do not wish to be in the spotlight, myself. That is not my purpose. My greatest joy in life is not found in the completion of my own goals, but in helping other people to fulfill theirs. In the case of my Husband and me, I live to serve him, obey him, love him, and to offer him joy wherever it may be found. This is what makes me happy. This is what fulfills my soul. This is my vocation: to be a traditional wife. There was a great moment of grace today, one which I believe has changed my life forever: I had the opportunity to go to Sacramental Confession this afternoon and, as I knelt behind the screen, Jesus spoke to me through His minister. When, at last, I had finished enumerating my sins-- both my faults and my failings, the priest began to speak. We talked for a moment, clarifying a few points. He said to me ( I am paraphrasing the best I can), "What shines forth from your confession is that you are trying very hard." I replied earnestly, from my heart, "Yes, Father. I am." We continued to dialog a bit more. And then, Father spoke the words that have changed my life forever: "You are well on your way to becoming a Saint. What do you think of that?" To be honest, I was stunned. It was as if he could see into my very soul. This holy man of God knew the very cry of my being. Sometimes, for reasons only known to Him, God calls forth certain souls to be His light and love to the world. The truth is, I am nobody and no one. And yet, God is calling me. I have felt this since childhood. He has a purpose and a plan for my life beyond anything I could ever imagine. Many years ago, I became part of a "Household"-- a Christian version of a sorority-- called "Sacrifice of Love." This aptly denotes my particular sort of spirituality. My goal is to love with Christ's love, to sacrifice for souls, and to love until it hurts... and even then, to love. I wish to become a saint with a capital "S." That is the secret goal and desire of my heart. And this, not for my sake-- no, never for that!--but so that other souls might come to God through me. For, what does it matter that I exist, except that others may be brought to eternal happiness in the joy of everlasting life? My life is His; it is not my own. The very fact that I exist-- beyond all odds of my conception and against the many times my mother believed that she had lost me in the womb-- is a testament to His grace. Even during the times in which I have strayed, His hand has brought me back and my resolve toward holiness has been made stronger than ever before. I praise God that His life in me has touched countless hearts for His Name's sake. This is not to my credit, but to His. I am only a woman. I am only a small soul. Yet, it pleases Him to work through this willing vessel. I pray that He will continue to work through it as He will. I wish for nothing more than to become a conduit of His grace. Wholly. Completely. Without reserve. Whatever I must bear, I do so willingly. Only, Lord-- let me be hidden. May it be Your face that other see, and not my own. May it be Your hands that touch souls, and not my feeble ones. May it be Your words that I speak; not my broken ones. I wish to be nothing and no one, that You might be everything in me. God, use me as you will. My soul is willing. My life is Yours. Amen. What is in a name? Shakespeare once said, "that which we call a rose / by any other name would smell as sweet." To be honest, I am unsure of this. As one of my favourite literary characters of all time, Anne Shirley, so aptly responded, "I've never been able to believe it. I don't believe a rose WOULD be as nice if it was called a thistle or a skunk cabbage." This line has always caused me to smile. Perhaps it is true. Although I go by the pseudonym "Traditional Wife" on my blog, I doubt you would be shocked to learn that this is not my real name. ;-) On a popular social networking site, I go by my combined given name, maiden name, and subsequent married name. There is not a little irony in this. The truth is, I do not typically go by my given name, save for formal occasions. Perhaps this is because I have issues with my formal name. My parents, in naming me, botched both its spelling and its pronunciation. Their colloquial way of pronouncing it adds a "Z" where another letter exists. This aside, I do tend of think of myself as my nickname, and I much prefer it for everyday life. However, the problem remains: what to do with the fact that my maiden name exists next to my married family name? It hardly seems traditional. Why, you might ask, is this such a big deal? You might even admonish me to grow up and write a real post. One that properly deals with an aspect of traditional marriage. The truth is, though, identity is a real issue-- it is an essential component of such a relationship. What one is called helps to shape one's perspective. It becomes their reality. In some cultures, a woman does not take the family name of her husband. In other cultures, people are given two family names. In my Husband's middle eastern heritage, a wife not only takes her husband's family name (if they do not already share it, but that is another matter entirely), she also adds his given name as her middle name on formal documents. In my society, a traditional wife takes the surname of her spouse. This is what I have done. Except, not in the case of this social networking site. Truth be told, it bothers me. It has for a long time. For years, I have given myself an excuse. How could all of my friends find me if I were to go exclusively by my married name? Might I lose out on becoming re-acquainted with my past chums? Since I live quite a ways from my hometown, it is not likely that we would meet up naturally, say, at a grocery store. This is also true of all the friends I have made in the various subsequent places in which I have lived. However, if this were my only objection, it might be easily quelled. After all, there are other options. One can "hide" their maiden name, or they can choose to have it be in parenthesis. This latter option drives me up a wall. But, the former gives me no comfort, either. Even after several years of marriage, I am finding it difficult to adjust to my new identity. I look at government documents, my bank card, or even my signature, and still feel as if it were not real. I am a fiercely independent person, and marriage has not been an easy adjustment for me. I am afraid. I am scared to lose myself-- who I am, what makes me unique. When my Husband and I move in several weeks to our new home, it will be even further away from where I grew up. It will be another culture entirely. The geography is different, the people are different, and their way of life is foreign to me. This is where he grew up, and so it is familiar to him. I, however, am at a considerable disadvantage. How am I going to survive? You can take the girl out of her hometown, but you can never take the hometown out of the girl. I suppose all of this together is overwhelming me. The point, though, is thus: am I a traditional wife or not? Does my conformity to my Husband's will mean that even my identity is subjugated to his? I would tend to say, "yes." In theory, I agree. Just as in the Christian life, one's life must be hidden in Christ, so too must my married life be brought into complete union with my Husband. Reality, however, is another matter entirely. Perhaps the real reason I include my maiden name is because it is one more way in which I can cling on to the past. It is my lifeline-- by it, I am neither swept away amid the torrent of the present, nor am I lost in the depths of the sea that is (I fear) my future. It is comforting to see a piece of who I once was. And, yet, does it hold me back? *Heart sigh* I know what I must do. Nevertheless, it is difficult. You men have no idea how difficult it is to be a traditional woman. Please forgive the recent absence of substantiative posts. It is my policy to write only when I feel inspired to do so. Otherwise, I fear that this blog may turn into a "rant" instead of conveying some measure of God's grace to you as my reader. I must admit, I have not felt particularly inspired as of late. I suppose that the stress of the previous week--and, really, that of the past few months-- did finally catch up with me. All of the things I had put off during my trip home came back with a vengeance. Whatever remaining bit of strength I had left was completely sapped by the obligations of Holy Week. On top of that, I felt unwell. In truth, I would be hard-pressed to recall a previous time in which I felt as stressed, run down, or bone-weary. My typical cheerful spirit was replaced by a shadow of its former self. Unfortunately, this desolation of my physical body also began to wear away at my soul. I attended the Cathedral's Chrism Mass on Holy Tuesday with my Husband, the friend I am sponsoring (who is one of his colleagues), and the rest of the university's RCIA group. It turned out to be a mixed blessing. At long last, I was able to receive Our Lord in Holy Communion. That, in and of itself, was an unspeakable joy! The ushers had truly gone out of their way to be kind when my Husband had inquired about special provisions. In the end, they whisked the three of us away from our group to sit in the very front row of the church, in the "special needs" section. My friend felt so honoured by this, for it meant that she could see the Mass in an up-close-and-personal sort of way. I was glad for her sake. However, this aside, the liturgy was utter agony. I had prepared myself for liturgical abuse, but this went beyond even my expectations. I was also the only woman wearing a veil. My Husband and I were the only ones around us who knelt for the consecration. This had to be done on the cold, hard marble floor, as we had no kneelers. Certainly each deacon or priest there-- as well as His Excellency, the Bishop, himself could not help but notice. Due to the 'interesting' layout of the newly renovated Cathedral, they were looking straight at us. I felt every inch the freak that I am. What is worse: the next morning, I learned that I had been mentioned in a local Catholic blog. It was difficult not to be upset. It seems that every single time I ask my Husband to make special provisions for me, they end in disaster. I have decided that I must ask him to stop altogether. I would much rather go without. The last time this sort of thing had happened, it was at a Tridentine Mass just before my goddaughter's baptism. The priest had called my Husband and me up to kneel at the foot of the altar, just behind the acolytes, from the time of the second confiteor until the distribution of Holy Communion. Then, he had handed me the Chalice. If I had known all of this prior to the beginning of Mass, I would have run out of the church screaming. It went well beyond my comfort zone of the altar rail. I had been so traumatised by this event that, hours and hours later, upon finally returning home, I curled up in a ball and had sobbed my heart out like I was dying. Some time after this event had taken place, our priest at our home parish had pulled my Husband and me aside. He prefaced his lecture by saying, "I will try to say this as nicely as I can..." Such words always indicate to me that something bad is about to be said. And it was every bit as horrible as I had anticipated. Father had reprimanded me for "crunching" the low-gluten Host after I had received it upon my tongue. He had feared that anyone hearing it might wonder and inquire about it to him. Again, I knew what it was to be a freak, and, to be honest, I have not quite gotten over it. I have not received Holy Communion at that parish since. I am beginning to become rather apprehensive about tonight's Easter Vigil. I am sometimes extremely tired of being "special." I am tired of being the freak in a skirt, a freak in a veil, the freak who only ever receives Holy Communion on the tongue, and a stay-at-home freak of a wife and woman. I hate that special provisions must be made for me at Mass. What I hate most of all is this: I cannot just be normal. During these bouts of frustration, it is difficult not to be angry at God. All of these things together-- my frustration, stress and burnout, and feeling quite under the weather-- culminated with a rather horrific fiasco on Holy Thursday. Be assured: I have paid for my folly as for a crime. While it is in my nature to seek out penitential approaches to repentance immediately upon returning to my senses, my Husband is even more determined to teach me the peril my soul faces by committing such actions in the first place. I could not hear the Good Friday Gospel reading without feeling a measure of personal sympathy. Truly, though, I am blessed beyond measure. He may be a wonderful man, even my best friend, but my Husband and I are not equals. It is my obligation to obey him as the Voice of God in my life, in all things short of sin. No matter how I may feel in any given moment, I need to remember my place as a woman. I must know my place as his wife. Even more: I must live it. On Good Friday, the Church commemorates the death and burial of Our Lord. Those of us who have been buried with Him in baptism (1 Pet 3:21; Rom 6:4; Colossians 2:11-12) must live in such a way that we may also share in the joy of His resurrection. And so, during this Easter Tridiuum, I choose to recommit myself to living out my vocation, wholly and completely, no matter how I may feel at any given moment. Freak or not, may God's will be done in my life: I choose the yolk of Holy Obedience. It is my prayer that you choose it, too, according to your station in life. May God bless you all during this Easter Triduum. Do you ever ache to cry, but find that you cannot? The stress of the past week has finally caught up with me, and my soul aches for a cathartic release. Yet, the tears that would be remain hidden. They are like a great sneeze that never quite makes it to the surface. Instead, I am sapped of strength and energy. The usual light in my eyes is gone out. Please do not misunderstand me. My trip to my hometown was a very good one, full of blessings and healing. My father's heart attack succeeded in mending many rifts and bringing everyone closer together. Even my harrowing drive back was a pleasant event. God and I had a wonderful eight hour conversation. When I arrived at my home, the loving arms of my Husband were there to greet me. I am glad to be home, back to the familiar way of life. However, now that I am home, I feel the weight of a thousand different things crushing in on me all at once. I find myself completely overwhelmed. Please, if you would, keep me in your prayers. May you all have a truly blessed Holy Week. God bless you, Traditional Wife My father had a heart attack today. Although I am finding this situation somewhat difficult to bear, I am still amazed to see the hand of God at work. I learned recently that my mother had spent the whole of last weekend in bed, grieved to the very core over how she had handled the past several months. She began to reach out to my brother and me soon thereafter. It is no coincidence that our beautiful, three hour conversation took place last evening. And, I am sure, my father's heart attack was no coincidence either. You see, God is succeeding in doing what none of us could: He is mending the broken lives of my loved ones and is building us back up as a family. Tonight, my brother was able to see my family for the first time a very long time. My parents finally met my sister-in-law. Other relationships have been mended. I saw a sign earlier this afternoon as I was driving the long stretch of road toward my hometown. It simply read: "Jesus, healer of broken hearts." How true that is, indeed. Have you ever had one of those weeks where, although not entirely horrid, you feel as if you are wading through quick sand? With no end in sight? If so, then you will understand my plight. Five out of every six weeks, I am an absolute angel. At least, this is what my Husband says. I am sweet, kind, gentle, and deeply submissive with only a few minor 'hiccups' here and there. The sixth week, however, hits with a vengeance! The week began well enough. It was my week off between university courses. I wondered what I ought to do with my time. Perhaps, I thought, I could go on a retreat. I had heard about an interesting order of nuns not too far away. The prospect of being in the deep woods, alone in my own little hermitage, had sounded rather appealing. However, I knew that I would be dreadfully homesick. I also knew that I could not live without technology for a whole week, so I reluctantly decided against being a hermit. My sister-in-law (my brother's wife) pleaded for me to come visit her. We have become incredibly close since their wedding some months back. Distance was an issue. I considered starting in earnest for this year's spring cleaning, in anticipation of "The Great Move" Another option included curling up in a quilt and reading all of the books on my "someday" list and then re-reading all of my favourites. There seemed to be so many possibilities! I spent my time in true-to-form ADD fashion: cleaning our already well-kept home, meeting with the moving company representative who came to appraise our flat, grabbing coffee at my favourite chain, and looking through a myriad of possible future residences before cooking dinner, taking a long walk in our neighbourhood, and catching up with my brother and his family. I got through three loads of laundry. I did our grocery shopping in the evening. Last, I managed to finish a novel just before falling asleep sometime in the wee hours of morning. All in one day. It was a good day! The next morning, however, was not. I woke up to find that our scale had suddenly decided to play a practical joke upon me. Surely, that must have been it. I mentally went over the past few days. No, I had not changed any of my habits. I had not accidentally eaten something which I ought not have eaten. What, then, could be wrong? Why had the numbers gone up so drastically, overnight and without just cause? I felt awful. I had no energy. I hated the person in the mirror. In the end, I discovered the truth: Biology is a cruel master. Although I tried to the utmost of my ability to stay on the straight-and-narrow, I have to admit that there were a few bunny trails of snippiness along the way. I realised, too, with a sinking sensation that I ought to have gone to sacramental confession over the weekend, but had failed to do so. It was the start of a terrible week. Mid-week or so, my Husband and I decided to take a very short trip eastward. He had paperwork to turn in for his new job and we also had to make a final decision as to where we would live. I was happy at the prospect. It was nice to spend time with our niece. My mother-in-law had just finished sewing a lovely floor-length denim skirt for me. We had chatted about future sewing projects together. It was perfect! Then Friday hit. I do not know why Fridays in Lent seem to be the worst days of the entire year, but they are. It is not so much the abstinence from meat. This is a normal Friday occurrence. On this particular Friday, however, I found myself at the end of my rope. There were many reasons for this. I still did not feel well. Certainly, the constant nightmares I had been having in response to the events of a few weeks ago did not help. My two sister-in-laws began to get on my nerves. Going from one possible residence to another day after day with my Husband was both daunting and exhausting. At long last, my Husband and I did find the home of our dreams. However, in so doing, we also missed the opportunity for sacramental confession. Again. Nor could I receive Holy Communion that weekend, due to the low-gluten host issue. Inwardly, I sighed. It marked one more week of going without Our Lord truly present in the Blessed Sacrament since my trip to South America. The final straw that broke the camel's back came in the form of a critique by one of my professors. I must step back a bit to explain the context. Since I had already taken the interesting courses for my major, I subsequently found myself stuck with only the most mundane general education courses from which to choose. I had signed up for a lower-level English class rather reluctantly, and with the dark thought that a monkey could have taken my place and manage to do just as well. You have to understand, I like a challenge. I am the sort of person who can write a fabulous 15 or even 20 page critique of a book that I have never actually read. I have actually done this several times and still somehow manage to receive an "A." Pride goeth before the fall, does it not? To my absolute horror, this particular class turned out to be far worse than I had originally feared: it was a grammar course. Grammar and I are sworn enemies. After mathematics, grammar is next on the totem pole of most hated subjects. I had endured a bad university experience previously, at Bible College, which had sufficiently killed my dream of becoming an English teacher. To be fair, you dream would have been murdered, too, if you had had the same 7:30am MWF class with Professor Chestnut. We had spent the first two weeks writing in cursive script. This was followed by an avalanche of grammar that grew excruciatingly worse by the week. Apparently, I was not the only person who despised the endless diagramming of sentences at such an ungodly hour, for toward the end of that first semester our Freshman class began to think of the classic Christmas carol "Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire" with a rather fond affection. ;-) But I digress. This current English course had not ended the week before, as had the other classes. More's the pity, too, for this particular professor had apparently taken it upon himself to hate me for time and all eternity. For weeks, I had endured his harsh criticism. This past week's response had been especially cruel. (See the last post's comment section.) I might as well admit that I completely lost it after that. Despite the fact that my blog is entitled "Confessions of a Traditional Wife," I do not feel the need to go into the gritty details. That is between God, my Husband, my priest (in the not-to-distant future), and me. Two beautiful points must be made from this, however. The first being God's providence. The second, His mercy. Why does it seem that God reaches down at just the precise moment in which we need His grace the most? All of the events of the past week had congregated together and had made me feel just as horrible and as wretched as one could possibly feel. I was within an inch of giving up. Completely. I had even given serious consideration to closing this blog. Just before doing so, however, I asked God for a sign. I try not to do this too often, but I truly needed a tangible manifestation of His love just then. In truth, I did not expect my prayer to be answered. I know that my life is blessed and that I have already experienced more than my share of miracles, but even I did not expect my request to be fulfilled. It was too obscure. Too specific. Not only was my request answered, however, it was done so immediately and to the very letter! This completely astounded me! Only God could have orchestrated such a thing. And I am beginning to think that a certain friend of mine is really my guardian angel in disguise. If ever I have doubted God, if ever I have doubted my purpose in life, this singular moment of grace has succeeded in demonstrating to me that I am loved. I have also been reassured that where I am at in life is exactly where God wishes for me to be. The second point of this post is God's mercy. When I finally came to my senses, I realised that my words and actions had incurred a massive debt which would take much reparation to remit. More than I could begin to enumerate. I was cut to the quick by the thought of having offending both God and my Husband. I was also terrified to my very core at the thought of impending discipline. This is all very well and good, of course, for both my sorrow and my fear allowed me to resolve most firmly to go forth and sin no more. My Husband, however, did something very rare and beautiful: he granted me mercy. I am not typically one to ask for clemency in any form. When I err, it is beneficial to my soul to feel the wrath that God's justice demands. I do not wish for mercy, nor do I hope for leniency. I do not want to feel as if I have gotten away with anything. I want nothing more than to be held undeniably accountable for my offenses. In this situation, however, mercy was absolutely what my soul needed. I literally collapsed in my Husband's arms when his decision was pronounced. I felt free of all burden! It was, to me, a further demonstration of God's love. I purposed anew to be the best wife possible-- concretely, through my actions. There is a third blessing in all of this, as well. One I had not been planning on. As I was finishing the last paragraph, my mother called. I had not spoken to her in over a month and had only recently heard from her via e-mail. I had been very touched by her midweek note. It had read: "If I had a magic wand, I would wave it and find myself with you. You would take me to the places you have been and then we would explore and make memories of our very own. That is my wish today. I wish I were with you." After first wondering why she did not quit her day job on the spot and seek out her true calling--working for the greeting cards industry as a writer-- I sent back my own sweet reply. I had also mailed off a book along with a box of chocolate covered strawberry flavoured tea. My mother had called only to say "thank you," but our conversation ended up lasting for over three hours. They were a wonderful three hours. My mother and I were able to speak of the situation concerning my brother and try to understand where the other had been coming from. We had also spoken of other topics, difficult things, ones that ought to have been dealt with years ago. The most amazing part is that we managed to do so without killing one another. We laughed, we cried, and hit every other emotion in between. I have never in my entire life heard my mother be so genuine or try so hard to simply listen to my heart. It was a first step to healing a broken relationship. Or, perhaps, it was a first step in having an actual relationship. I wish that I could conclude this post with some grand finale, but I find myself rather at a loss for words. Instead, I will simply close with a soft smile and bid you farewell for now. And as I rest my head upon the broad shoulder of my beloved Husband, I will rest my heart in the hands of its loving Creator. God bless you and good night. :-) "I know the plans I have for you..." This line from Sacred Scripture means a great deal to me. It was first chosen by my graduating class as our sending forth verse, an affirmation of God's hand in our lives as we passed from adolecence to adulthood. Two evenings ago, I saw it again. It was inscribed upon the cover of a beautiful inspirational journal that stood out even from amongst the shelves of a secular bookstore. Throughout the years, I have sometimes questioned the veracity of this verse. At other times, I have caught mere glimpses of its promise. Always, there seemed to be a void. From where I stand today, however, I finally see the tapestry that God has woven in my life. I no longer see the underside-- the unattractive portion, comprised of jagged threads and rude colours. For the first time, I see the masterpiece as it exists thus far. And although it is not yet complete, it fills me with a sense of profound joy, awe, and hope! I might as well tell you, my Husband received the job offer from the university where he interviewed. He has accepted it, and so that is that! We will be moving in less than three months. He will not be a professor after all, but that is alright. In many ways it is much better. The salary is higher, the position is permanent, and his function sounds ever so interesting! He will have the opportunity to adjunct if he desires, but aside from that possibility, when he leaves his job the work stays there. I cannot even fathom such a thing! I am glad that this is where we will end up. It is closer to his family, and being near one of our respective families was very important to us both. That part of the country, too, is rather fascinating due of its culture and history. We have many friends there. There is also a wonderful parish community that we have fallen in love with. Happiest of all, I will be able to care for my precious niece during the day. This will save my sister-in-law the hassle of daycare costs, but it also ensures that her daughter will be cared for with the utmost love. I am greatly looking forward to being a daily part of her little life! Life is not what I had expected it would be. It is not what I would have had planned for myself. Yet, it is interesting to step back and see the hand of God at work. If I had had my way, I would have chosen to be a pastor's wife, working as a missionary or as a teacher in a foreign country. Instead, I find myself a Traditional Catholic woman who prefers to attend the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass in an ancient language and according to an ancient liturgical style. I have come to discover about a gazillion different muscles in my legs that I never previously knew existed before becoming a Catholic, ones which made themselves quite well known after kneeling week after week for nearly the entirety of the Mass. And yet, to be part of such ancient beauty is simply amazing! To be present, too, at an event which exists in and outside of time, and one which is literally a participation in the life of Heaven on earth, is something for which I could never begin to describe my profound gratitude! While I was told throughout my formative years that one must have a personal relationship with Christ, it was not until I became Catholic that I experienced this beautiful, tangible reality. Being a Catholic is a privilege beyond words. It is worth every hardship, every misunderstanding, and every sacrifice that I have had, and sometimes still continue, to endure for its sake. If I could do my life over again, I would not choose my sorted past, with all of its hurts and dysfunctions. I would never again wish to be the stupid girl with a curiosity to explore her weaknesses. Nor would I do so with such reckless abandon. I fell often into Satan's snares and wondered a bit at the resulting scratches. Nevertheless, God never allowed me to stay too far. My past has made me even more grateful for where I am today. I am able to empathise with others and to love them in a unique capacity, as one who truly understands their struggles. My advice and admonition, when asked, come from personal experience. God can change any heart and He can work through any life that is offered to Him. This is something I know to be true. I also would not have chosen to be insulin-resistant, gluten-intolerant, or to struggle with issues of fertility, but God in His infinite wisdom knows best. I have come to look at these situations as an opportunity to sacrifice for souls. The changes in my diet have also had a tremendous impact. My body has healed itself to such a degree that even the latter issue may no longer be an obstacle. Even if biological motherhood is not meant to be, I am blessed to be the Godmother of two precious souls as well as an aunt to four others. That alone is a tremendous blessing! Indeed, all of the challenges of my life make me even more grateful for God's grace and other blessings. There is also another option God has brought into our lives. One which I have not shared until now. My Husband and I were approached some time back, by a close friend, about a private adoption. He alone knows that will happen to that end. I will simply trust Him to guide us. However, simply the prospect of being a mother does thrill my soul! I must admit that, in all of the things that I would *not* have chosen for myself-- and believe me, there are many, many more-- I cannot in good conscience add being a traditional wife to the list. ;-) This has always been the deepest desire of my heart. I am blessed beyond words to have a Husband who is firmly committed to loving me, guiding me, and chastening me as necessary so that my soul might be properly formed and lifted up to God. I have actually manged to be rather good lately, some habits and forgetfulness not withstanding. This is a small miracle. One of my current struggles lies with not biting my nails. I admit that I am finding this new requirement rather difficult, because I began chewing my nails at the age of four, when I announced to my father that if he did not stop his habit, then I would start. I was a stubborn little thing, even back then. Many times throughout the day, I find myself absently gnawing the white tip on my thumb. I did so twice while writing this post. Even that is off limits. Most people might find it rather strict that my Husband chooses to lash my palms mercilessly for such a frivolous offense, with increasing severity for each repeat occurrence. However, I am truly grateful for his correction. In the grand scheme of things, does biting one's nails truly matter? Is it an issue of life or death? No. However, it is a greater reality that is at stake. How can one obey the greater things of God if the most simple and most mundane are overlooked? I think all too often we tend to miss the trees for the forest. It is the little things that, if left unchecked, can add up and wear away at the soul, leaving us vulnerable to larger sins. One of the things I did get to chose was my Husband. I was first attracted to his intelligence and charismatic manner, his strong faith and traditional values. However, I do not love him because he beats me senseless. (And, in case you were wondering, he does not.) I think, perhaps, my blog gives the impression that my Husband is some sort of a domineering ogre. You would be quite surprised to know him in everyday life. I love him because of who he is, but I fell in love with him because of his humanity. My Husband is the only person I know who could receive a job offer from the university he did, and yet, have me cracking up over wondering over the difference between frogs and toads (long story). We have so much fun together, he and I. We also understand each other. Very often, we find our thoughts crossing the same path. It is uncanny. My Husband is, to me, the most precious man on the face of this earth. He would do anything for anyone, were it in his power to help. His embrace is warm and loving, and it feeds my soul. Even his subconscious loves me, for sometimes throughout our marriage, he has woken up in the middle of the night, given me a tremendous hug and a forehead kiss, and then gone straight back to sleep with the words, "I love you" upon his lips. He does not remember this in the morning. God knew how much I needed him. And God knows, I love him with all of my heart. "For I know the thoughts that I think towards you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of affliction, to give you and end and patience. And you shall call upon me...and I will hear you. You shall seek me, and shall find me: when you shall seek me with all of your heart." (Jeremias 29:11-13, Douay Rheims Version). Finding that inspirational journal was truly one of those amazing "God moments" in my life. I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it was His way of reaching down and reminding me of His great love. All I could do was smile and whisper, "Yes, Lord. I understand. Thank you. I love you, too." No, indeed, life is not what I would have planned for myself. It is infinitely better... for He is in the details. And while it might be my life, it is His story. :-) |
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