Phrases That I Hope Go Unmentioned at My Funeral

(Published at my Catholicmom.com column 1/15)

No, no, I’m not planning on dying anytime soon.  However, another birthday is just around the corner for me.  So…tick, tick, tick.  We don’t know the day or the hour, just that we’re getting closer with every passing year,

Here’s a list of cheesy funeral phrases I know I’m guilty of using but which I hope won’t feature at all when my time comes.

“I wish I had known her.” I hate this one.  It’s the quintessential, empty regret statement of the universe.  Better not to utter it, ever.

Why?  Because if anyone really wanted to get to know someone, they would have made the effort.  Are we not all online?  Plus if you’re at my funeral and didn’t really know me it suggests that you’re only there for the food.

I also wish people wouldn’t bother fretting about not “knowing” someone.  In my case, chances are, if someone never knew me personally, then I probably never got the chance to know them that well either. This life thing tends to keep people occupied.   So don’t worry about it.  You didn’t know me and I didn’t know you. You’re off the hook, enjoy the reception.

“She was full of life.” Okay.  And now I’m full of death.  Great, thanks for that.

Seriously, though, I find this an incredibly droll statement.  That, and, as long as I’ve lived, the one thing I’ve learned is that life is full of deaths. That might sound terrible at first, but actually, upon second glance, it can be rather fun.  Let me explain. 

Death has saturated my life most especially lately.  Death to self, I mean. Finishing my master’s degree, maintaining a career with a nice retirement plan, a waistline, and even homeownership; at some point I’ve had to bury those ideas I coveted for so long with a heavy heap of fertilizer called ‘reality.’  Interestingly, life still goes on.

In fact it goes on in a major way: through my children. They alone are the greatest testaments I have to a life fully lived.  Therefore, if anyone says that I was 'full of life,' let it be because my life was full of children, and little else more.  Otherwise, please know that my life is not full of life so much as it is one that is ripe with several very timely and highly entertaining deaths.

“She was a friend to many.” Let’s be honest.    She (I) was mostly too buried under the demands of daily life to befriend and stay in close touch with people. 

However, when I am remembered, I hope it is said of me that I did pray, think well of, and wish good things upon others.  I hope this counts for something to someone, but even if it doesn’t, I’ve made my peace with that too. 

“She was a friend of God.” Rubbish. If I was truly His friend, then I was a terribly poor friend much of the time.  It is still far more accurate to say that God was a good a friend to me somehow never gave up asking me to be a better friend to Him.

More than a friend, however, God has been a Father to me.

I’ve spent most of my life with Him on an intimate basis, and aside from my husband, I have lived with no other friend.   And so I’d rather people said “’She was a daughter of God,” or, “She was his faithful ones,” or even, “She was an idiot who He loved,” before they assumed I was anything close to a true friend to the Almighty.

Then, if there is anything salvageable from my life in the way of true goodness, please give Him the credit and simply say, “God did that.”  Trust me, it’s all to His credit, anyway.

“We know she’s in heaven.” Shoot. Me. Now. Look, man, I appreciate the sentiment.  Truly I do, but admit it.  You have absolutely no idea where my soul is going.  Whenever I’ve heard people say this at funerals, I’ve always felt like it’s more just wishful thinking for where their own soul may one day go.

Chances are, if I’ve been charitable, faithful and pure I will get there...eventually. Hell can’t touch people like that.  It might take a century or two in purgatory, before finally making my way to the Pearly gates, but  c’est la vie! Or C’est la mort, whatever.  But getting to heaven straight away?  Let’s hope and not say we know.

So there you go. Instead of any of the above morose epitaphs at my wake, I’d love if more folks said something to the effect of,   “From her life I’ve learned to be more [insert heroic virtue here],” At least, perhaps they’ll get the full statement out before they chortle and cough up their wine. That is a far more productive statement, and more aligned with my immediate hopes for mine and their eternal salvation anyway.

I don’t mean to be so hard to please when it comes to what is said about me when I’m dead, but I’ve been to enough funerals of lapsed Catholics to not want to get lumped into the flowery-language-to-compensate-for-their-lifetime-of-dissent category.

Seriously, say a rosary for me, think of me, and find out what it is God is calling you to do.  That’s what we’ll all be remembered for anyway.  Not so much what we wanted to do, but what He wanted us to do so that finally, it won’t matter what others say about you, whether you are here or whether you are gone.

Why is the Generation of “Tolerance” so Complacent to Religious Persecution?

If you are following current events, especially those involving Hobby Lobby and the lack of public outcry over the injustice of their predicament, it would be a fair assessment to suppose that, never in the course of all our schooling, was my generation ever exposed to 'tolerance' and 'anti-bullying' education.   In fact, the opposite is true.

To all the Gen X’ers and Y’ers out there: didn’t we all read the Diary of Anne Frank, or Night by Elie Wiesel, which detail what happens when a religion is demonized by the government and almost totally annihilated from existence?

If so, then why, when religious persecution begins to crop up in our own backyard, do we not even protest?

And why do I get the un-funny feeling that, not unlike the townspeople of Aushwitz who cheerfully sat sipping lemonade on their porches while the smoke stacks of the death camp daily bellowed black ash above their rooftops, our generation will be characterized as distractedly updating their Facebook statuses while the fate of the First Amendment is similarly and tragically ignored.

Sadly, a day at the office for many.

It should be a worrying thing to any rational person when those presently in their 20s and 30s, who were the population most indoctrinated with phrases like,  “Bad things happen when good men do nothing,” and  “Become the change you wish to happen,” are also the most ostentatiously mute when their own government tries to force its people violate their religious beliefs.

Hm. Methinks the ‘lessons’ we were taught in school never took – or they just took on the same tone of superficiality and commercialization that characterizes our age.

How else could it happen that an imposed healthcare system arises where every employer of faith must choose between not offering healthcare to their employees or funding abortion inducing drugs – a decision, which historically, has never befallen any freely worshiping individual in our nation?

Martyrdom: always been a spectator sport, apparently.

The most popular argument one hears in favor of the HHS mandate is this: Religious employers can't "force" their beliefs upon their employees. What those who hold to this argument don't see, is that now the government is imposing its beliefs upon privately enterprising employers who wish to operate their businesses (and their whole lives) in accordance with the tenets of their faith.

The government’s message is simple: the religion of the state trumps yours.  Since what the Obama administration dogmatically believes regarding healthcare is widely held amongst individuals than your religion's tenets (because popularity has always been religion's aim) then you must violate your beliefs to publicly uphold the state's beliefs. 

If that isn't blatant infringement of the practice of religious freedom, I don't know what is.

It begs the question of why now?  Did the administration know that there are few of us remaining, would become indignant at their actions?

It used to be that anyone with a backbone could be trusted to call out bullying when they saw it.  Now, it seems, that so long as our medical bills are covered, all is well and good.  

To a point, I sympathize with the silence of so many.  There is a feeling of, "What can I do?" in the face of such unprecedented evil.  That and my generation is poor, very poor.  Because most of our parents aren’t going to retire, ever, we don't want to jeopardize our chance to take the handouts the government is willing to give us, since we don't have a way of becoming sufficient for ourselves.

Also, why “become the change we want see to happen,” when we can now all run out now and get our tubes tied or our urethra severed for free?  Apparently, that's the pinnacle of everyone's middle age, as my husband and I are now learning from most of our peers. 

We no longer need to become those proverbial “good people” who speak up when bad things happen because the media is not going to report all that dreary bad stuff anyway, and, heck, most of us probably even voted in the guy doing all the persecuting.

So, sorry, persecuted religious people, you’re on your own in this fight.

Along the way, my generation had to pick its battles, and it seems we’ve chosen to save our own necks and stay silent while those who are being unjustly treated are silently lead to martyrdom by the state who is trying to forcibly excise their right to practice their beliefs in the secular sphere.

Instead of reacting, here we sit comfortably, while it all occurs, sipping our Moscato in our apartments, while the ashes of the first amendment rise above our heads.  Just like every other do-nothing-about-it generation of people who allowed evil to rule and themselves to be ruled by evil.

To My Daughter, I Hope I Can Still Hold Your Hand at 18 (And You Will Still Hold Mine at 80)

Author’s note: I wrote this post before the Sandy Hook Elementary School tragedy.  It has taken on a new sentimental significance since then.

As she grows up, my firstborn is hitting her milestones at lightning speed.

And I don’t like it.

On the one hand, her unfolding maturity and blooming language acquisition is a wonder to witness.  On the other, it’s utterly terrifying and makes me slightly sad.

My baby is growing up, and I can’t stop it. I don’t want to stop it, but I can’t believe it’s here.

She’s almost five and about to enter kindergarten.  In a few months, we will welcome our third child to the family.  Maybe it’s this impending reality that has me reminiscing back to my first pregnancy and thinking of my first most especially.

I can’t help but think of my eldest baby in a special way as the one I’ve lived the longest with.  She’s my proverbial “first pancake” child, the one I’ve made most of most of my mothering mistakes on.  The one whose forgiveness I will probably need more than any of the others.

She’s the one most like me in sheer stubborn will, but most unlike me in her general interests.  She’s a dress and skirt preferring, princess-loving, daddy adoring, lego-building and cake baking little math whiz.  I was none of those.  Not even close.

Yet I know her so intimately, and, if I’m being very honest, she knows me just as thoroughly.  It’s an amazing mystery, the bonding that takes place between mother and daughter.  We know how the other ticks.  And when she does little impressions of me (especially when she’s ‘disciplining’ her little brother, it’s scary just how accurate her imitation actually is).

Where will she and I be in 13 years, when she is 18 years old?  Or what about the next 50 years, when I am 80.  Well, I know where I hope to be, and what I still hope we do.  And if I had to make a list now for her, based on all of our experiences together so far, it would read something like this:

To my four-year-old daughter; when you are eighteen, I still hope you let me hold your hand – yes, in public (and I pray you will continue to hold mine when I am eighty and crippled).

Hopefully we will still bake together for family birthdays and holidays and look at pictures of baked goods in books and on the internet.  Maybe Cake Boss’s grandkids will be running the family business by then.

I hope I can still cook you steak (and that you never stop asking me to make it for you).

I hope you will always adore your father (I know it sure helps me to do so, wink) and are patient with your mother – and visa versa.

I hope you always want to share the big decisions in your life with me.  This week it was deciding to share your dessert with your brother.  Who you will marry, where you wish to travel to, and the projects you love the most – I hope I can be there to witness them all (and there’s an extra ticket for mom if you’re going someplace tropical or ancient).

I hope that one day you too will know what it is like to have a daughter.  To brush her hair while she squirms, to find her raiding your makeup, to walk in just as she’s flushed your pearl necklace down the toilet.  And I hope you know what it is to watch a pint-sized version of yourself scarily remind you of all the ways you struggled as a child.

I hope that, despite all of my mistakes, you still are proud to call me your mother. That you see how hard I tried in between those unfortunate blunders and that you come to love the person who, at the end of the day, was learning just like you were. 

I hope you still retain a little of an English accent – for daddy’s sake.

I pray that we will always forgive each other.

Lastly, I hope your gift of Faith grows and cements you more firmly to God’s will for you.  I don’t know what Our Heavenly Father wishes for you yet, but I’d love to be there in some way as often as I can.

And if you are a mommy one day, I hope you remember to call me and invite me to mass with you and the grandkids– that way I can encourage when you have to take your daughter outside a million times, knowing that she does outgrow it.

And really, they all outgrow it far too soon.

Dear baby girl, you are my first and will always know me at my best and worst.  Hopefully, the bests are what you remember most.  That I was there for every ballet class and every math problem, as well as every sign of the cross you made before meals and bed.

I hope I am made worthier of your love with every passing year, and that you can always find a way to love this mama of yours, who will never outgrow her role, ever.

All my love, signed the one making you steak again tonight.

Tragedy In Connecticut

For my next writing deadline, I'm writing a post formatted as a letter to my daughter Abigail.

She's almost five.

Most of the children who died in yesterday's massacre in Connecticut were just a year older.

I can't imagine the grief of those parents.

Further, I'm struggling to comprehend how such a great evil could take place.

Every life is precious, from the moment of conception and beyond.  Until we recognize this as a culture, there will be more massacres.

We're already in the midst of the largest running assault on the most innocent among us.

So pray for those families, for the souls of the deceased and for the soul of our nation.

Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, let the perpetual light shine upon them, may they rest in peace.  Amen.

Regretting your Marriage Doesn’t Mean it was a Mistake

Right now, like millions of other married couples, you may be suffering in what you consider to be a tough marriage.

First, take heart! There is good news about perseverance through these difficult times.  Featured recently on the National Organization for Marriage’s Facebook page is the following, hopeful quote:

"In studies of 700 miserable, ready-to-split spouses, researchers found that 2/3 of those who stayed married were happy five years later. They toughed out some of the most difficult problems a couple could face... What was their strategy? A mix of stubborn commitment, a willingness to work together on issues, and a healthy lowering of expectations." -featured in Prevention Magazine (from Marriage Missions International)

I can personally relate to this quote.  In the past, I have regretted my marriage many times (especially during those moments where the bitter cup tasted down right poisonous).  But, even in those dark moments, I’ve come to realize, it didn’t necessarily mean that my marriage was a mistake.  What am I getting at?

First, let me be clear, that God never intends a bad marriage.  We do that ourselves.  Living a good, fruitful marriage is entirely possible and the Church gives the surest way of achieving this such as abstaining from premarital sex and being open to children (neither of which is easy to do, mind you). 

Sometimes (most of the time) though, life still happens.  Things still happen. Our fallen nature still happens. But human beings are also capable of redemption and that’s what I’m getting at.

During our first years together, I struggled daily against believing that my marriage was some sort of critical error and that God had duped me into undertaking a path too difficult for any human being.

But this was only a temptation and one that is very prevalent today.  Why so?

Just look around.  Missing from the current media frenzied over-glorification marriage is the unending mileage of forgiveness required for its harmony.   Instead it is depicted as a romantic, cozy adventure for the benefit of the spouses alone.  

But, boy, when do people do marry, then what happens? 

They quickly encounter the universal difficulties that have always plagued marriages such as breakdowns in communication, conflict, and difficulty raising children.  No wonder so many people call it quits, thinking it was a mistake!  It looks and feels and tastes like nothing they expected!

But again, take heart if you’ve found yourself in the boat of those who have contemplated ‘ending things.’ Yes you may feel regret over you marriage, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it was mistake.  In fact you may discover, as I and so many have, that my perseverance through my marital difficulties has added to me.

For instance, I am far less judgmental of people in general.  I get it now.  I’m not perfect – neither is my spouse.  What was I thinking all those years that I felt “we” could do no wrong together? Our particular rough “patch,” lasted almost two years – and to be honest, we’re still trying to get things right. 

Believe it or not, some of the most saintly couples currently walk this earth have been there.  They have endured addiction, adultery, abuse, depression…sometimes all at once.  And many have walked the healing path and come out victorious.

Why mention all of this?  Because I’ve learned that marriage, more than anything else, is a path to sanctification. As a vocation, married life will cleanse your heart and exercise your faith muscles in an almost inhumane regimen of sacrifice and death to self ad-nauseum – and that’s if you’re doing it right!

I used to think of being married as some sort of security blanket.  Now I see it as a journey I travel everyday, arming myself through prayer and the sacraments to face it’s sometimes blistering conditions.  Christ’s own example shows us that the way to Heaven is the cross and marriage is not impervious to this reality. 

 But what about happiness?

Here God surprised me.  When I finally abandoned the notion that I had made a mistake in marrying my husband, and started to focus on doing God’s will alone, things got better. I was suddenly happy. And I finally came to see that the marriage I so often regretted was not necessarily a mistake. In fact, it really is the best thing that has ever happened to me.

Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t immediate marital bliss or anything, I have grown up from that young college girl clutching on to her, high, unrealistic ideals which in the end, only hurt me and my opinion of my husband.

Certainly the world says suffering within marriage is pointless, and that it’s best to discard it if things aren’t working.  Barring abusive circumstances, we Catholics know better. The saints, who suffered far more than any of us, show us the ultimate reward for undertaking our crosses: peace of heart, and heaven.

God has proven time and again, in even the most broken of circumstances, when His mercy is applied, they become light for the world.    He does have a plan for married people who are hurting and we are capable of being the saints we are all called to be. We need only seek it in all confidence and love.

I’m writing to reassure you that searching for God’s will in the midst of your painful marriage is possible; that perseverance is worth it and that you will be the more peaceful person for doing so.  In the end, you cannot fix another person, you can only change yourself.

(And please, get real marriage help!  Retrouvaille ministries is one such resource. We recommend them.  Also Marriage Ministries.  See link above.)

Confessions of a Mom Standing In Line for Confession

Phew, I made it, Lord!

Well, …we made it didn’t we?  Me, my four year old, my two year old, and every other person in this valley who heard that this parish offers confession during all masses.

Although they all probably made it here more quickly than I did, what with my two year old’s bowls becoming vigorously active right before walking out the door, and my four year old’s recalcitrance not to leave the house without her Cat Woman mask.

And let’s not forget the person who thought it would be a good idea to do a three-point turn right at the mouth of the Church’s driveway as slowly as they possibly could (but, hey, if I was at a loss for things to confess, I acquired at least 3 new sins just in trying to park the car).

But here we are, baby, in our favorite confession line!

I know my children always look forward to trying to play ‘piano’ on all of the “button candles” in front of the image of Our Lady of Perpetual help.

Speaking of perpetual help.  Thank goodness for that one sympathetic older lady who only took about 3 minutes for her confession. 

It’s only been a seven to ten minute average for everyone else so far.  Don’t we have spiritual direction appointments for that?  (I’m not sure that I packed enough snacks to stand here for an hour).

A line like this one makes that confession app look like a better idea all the time.

But, no, shoo!  Away, negative thoughts! I am happy for those souls coming to confession today!  Really!  No, really.  Even if it means I might not make it into the confession today, or for another month. Perhaps it means that someone needed it more than I did! 

And hey, I have three words for you:  confession-of-desire. 

Should I tragically kick-the-bucket before the next time I head to confession

I can point to St. Peter’s clipboard and say, “See!  Right there. On Tuesday. Tried!” 

This might help explain why I hardly see other moms in the confession line. Ever. 

They’ve all either just given up, figured out a way to stop sinning or maybe they have just gotten wise and found someone to watch the kids.

Not I, though Lord.  Horribly sinning, incapable of thinking ahead Catholic mom, I. Am. Still. Standing. Here.

Barely.  Now, I’m more leaning my aching vertebrae against the wall.

If the other people in line only knew, Lord. 

But then again, maybe today we aren’t really lined up for a confessional. Maybe on Tuesdays it morphs into a gateway to Narnia and those that enter find themselves in a snowy, dreamlike wood and proceed to have centuries of adventures before emerging after only a few minutes in our world’s time.

By that measure, all those minutes don’t seem very long at all. 

Anyway, it’s a more pleasant thought than thinking about all the times my daughter has already asked to go play outside on the kid structure.

Oh that reminds me, add “I’ve tried researching boarding schools for the four year old already,” right after, “I’ve been impatient” to the list.

I get it, Lord. In your Mercy, you have called me here and this is part of the penance.  It must be – this line is punishing.  If nothing else, please help me remember the line because standing here for so long makes acquiring a plenary indulgence look like a cake walk.

Which reminds me, did I shut off the oven before we left?

Lord, in your mercy, hear my prayer.

How to Respond to Mean Moms

Once a week I am catechist assistant, and the other day, after class, I met her. 

She is a Catholic mom, who obviously cares enough to enroll her kids in religious education classes, with a baby on the hip and six more beautiful look-a-likes in tow.  Based on appearances only, she struck me as quite a good profile of where I’ll probably find myself in a few years.

One thing I didn’t anticipate though: she was mean.

I’ll spare you all of the gory the details, except to say that she was very put out by having to fill out the paperwork required for the program for all of the children (which is tough when you have more than two, granted, but you know, that part is not really our fault or anything) and she practically slammed the binder out of a good nun’s hands as she wrote in it.  But you get the picture: she was mean. 

She was angry, no, livid, and she was going to let the other adults, know it.  And she was going to do it in front of her kids right after catechism class where they just learned about becoming saints.

I have to confess, the tragic irony of the scene made me chortle as she stomped away closed fisted, with a set of small heads trailing behind her (but the best response award goes to the nun at my side who called after her cheerfully, “God bless you!”).

As is the case with most disturbing scenes that strike someone as just plain wrong, the incident stayed with me and forced me to pray.  How could someone who professes to be so Catholic act so poorly?

Something a priest said from the pulpit has always remained with me: that the moment you dislike something about someone else, it’s because they are showing you something you don’t like about yourself.

I realized the incident affected me so much because, I too have been bitter and resentful and have complained about my crosses.  Yes, I have critiqued parish catechism programs and bemoaned certain  hoops I’ve had to jump through to complete them.  In general, I too have been overly angry and behaved in a way that has embarrassed my children as well as my spouse.  Yes, I have vented anger and harmed myself and my relationships with others.

In short, I have been that mean mom, maybe not in public, but at different times; in private, in prayer, to my children and those who I should love the most.

The whole week I struggled with the incident, “Lord, what was her problem?  It’s not like anyone is forcing her to be in the program.  It’s not like we’re the ones that made her have that many kids.  Her crosses certainly aren’t heavier than all the other big families I know where the mom is actually kind hearted and nice to people.  What a grouch, what a -, and those poor kids!”

As you can tell, I too was venting.

God’s classic response to me: “What’s your point, Marissa?”

You have to imagine it a bit like an Austin Powers moment, where you’ve just elaborated some important point in detail and were only met with a shallow, “And?”

It was perfect. 

It forced me to consider: what was my point anyway?  A mom was mean, so what? The lesson was simple enough: learn from her example, don’t imitate it, and move on.  

And lastly, love her.  This is God's response to mean moms and un-peaceful souls everywhere: love them.

This was also so eloquently worded by Mother Theresa when she wrote."People are unreasonable, illogical, and self-centered. Love them anyway.”   I realized that dealing with one frustrated parent certainly wasn’t the last time I was going to encounter illogical behavior in my life…or even within that week.  So I moved on.  In all my venting, I really didn't have a point – but God did: love those who have no peace, and you will have found your own.

So I prayed for her and for myself and I was able to wish love and peace on that mom, in the end. And yes, in doing so, I was able to have peace myself. (And the good news is she did come and apologize later!)