Twelve years ago last month I miscarried our first baby, in the twelfth week of my pregnancy. The months that followed taught me many things, but the hardest lessons came on a September weekend. I was angry -- angry that my baby had died, angry that I was still walking around in a fog. My houseplants were all dying and I kept getting lost in my own town. I could not think of my baby, of her tiny perfect ears and the improbably beautiful curve of her ribcage, without suffocating grief, but I couldn't not think about her. On that Saturday I said to God, "No. This is too much and I WILL NOT do it."
The next day's gospel reading: "Before you build a tower, count the cost." I thought about all the times I had offered myself to God, had said, "whatever you ask me, I will do; wherever you lead me, I will go." The gospel was a pointed reminder to me of promises made, and with what felt like a tremendous effort of will I said, "Okay. I was wrong. I will do it. I wish I didn't have to and it hurts me terribly, but I will do it."
This morning in church I was frustrated. My oldest has decided he does not believe in God (he asked if he could re-baptize himself in sand to undo his baptism in water), and for all that I know it is normal to question and God has no grandchildren and he has to own these truths for himself -- for all that I am weary. (There are only so many times a person, or at least this person, can explain that foreknowledge does not imply causation and is compatible with free will before she starts to get exasperated. Arwen? Want a traveling apologetics gig?) My 5yo has been struggling lately with impulsive behavior and blithe refusal to listen, and I am more than ready for him to get past it. I was standing in the pew today, listening to the gospel and feeling like a failure, when Joe said loudly, "But I don't WANT to be next to Petey!"
The priest's voice interrupted my brief daydream, in which I was frog-marching Joe out of church: "Before you build a tower, count the cost."
My first thought was self-pitying: I did not know how much patience and creativity and diligence and plain hard work it would take to raise four sons. I did not know how deep it would go, how adroitly they would push my buttons. We have an unanticipated cost overrun in the construction of this tower, folks.
But quickly I remembered the Sunday twelve years ago when I heard the same gospel and wept over an empty womb and broken hopes. I looked at my boys around me and thought, "This is an embarrassment of riches." I imagined myself complaining to the me of twelve years ago, and it seemed to me that it would be like saying, to someone who had no money for food, something like, "My hedge fund manager isn't answering his cell and I am SO tired of waiting for him."
This obliterated the self-pity but not the discouragement. I still don't know what to do about my 10yo self-proclaimed atheist who yawns exaggeratedly all through Mass. But I looked up at the crucifix and knew what to do next, at least. Eyes front. Chin up. One step at a time.
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