When I am looking
for inspiration on becoming a better parent, my parish priest is not the first
resource I usually think of. While we have two excellent priests at Saints
Peter and Paul, the fact remains they are celibate males, and therefore rarely
have to say things like “Don’t lick the window,” or “Remember, you need to lift
up the toilet seat before you start going.”
Some
may argue that a priest who has never had to utter either of these statements
can indeed preach effectively to those of us who must say them on a regular
basis, but I’ve never been so sure. Following Jesus when you’re only
responsible for yourself is difficult enough. Following Jesus when your nerves
are frayed because your baby will only sleep if you are standing up and swaying
at 3:00 a.m. is another thing entirely.
So
when I went to Mass two Sundays ago, I did not expect the homily would be the
most clear explanation tying together parenthood and being a follower of Christ
that I had ever heard.
I
don’t remember how Fr. Joe Juknialis began his homily. By the time the Gospel
ended, I was in the back of the church pacing back and forth with our new
foster daughter, Luchita, age 15 months. We had gone through all toys and books
of interest during the opening prayer, a Ziplock bag of Cheerios during the
first two readings, and a half bottle of milk during the Gospel. As Fr. Joe
started the homily, Luchita was frantically kicking her arms and legs in need
of some motion.
So
I took my place in the very back of the church, pacing, as Fr. Joe spoke.
Luchita, comforted by the step-step-bounce pattern of my walk, relaxed in my
arms and I could listen.
In
the Gospel, Jesus had cured a leper, and in doing so, became so sought after
that he could barely walk through the town. In taking away some of the leper’s
pain, Jesus, in essence, brought discomfort and pain upon himself. This is what
being a Christian means, Fr. Joe said. In an effort to lessen another’s pain,
we take some of their pain on ourselves. He said that parents do this
constantly — a parent will stay up with a sick child — and in the process often
become sick, too — so that the child is not alone in his or her sickness. A
parent will listen to a child’s sorrow,
and take some of that sorrow as his or her own so as to lighten the child’s
burden. In doing this, he said, parents are acting as true followers of Christ.
As
I walked with Luchita, Fr. Joe gave other examples, but I hung onto the
parenting ones. Luchita had come into our lives about ten days earlier, part of
the Milwaukee County child welfare system. Her arrival, while very welcome, had
rocked our world. Full nights of sleep were now a memory, and our small Toyota
Corolla seemed to have shrunk two sizes with the addition of another carseat.
The constant motion of a toddler added intensity to our already-busy family
life. Implicit in Father Joe’s words, though, was that our family took a hit of
instability so that Luchita’s life could be more stable.
I
thought of my friend Patty, mother of five, who had told me about an argument
she helped her ten-year-old twins work through. She had known the twins were
angry with one another, and she acted as a facilitator to their argument,
allowing each twin to say what she needed to say, but preventing the fight from
getting ugly or out of hand. Patty absorbed and diffused some of their anger.
In choosing to become involved in their conflict, Fr. Joe would say she acted
as Jesus, releasing some of her daughters’ tension by taking it on herself.
The
reason parenting is so exhausting is that we are living our own lives plus
those parts of our children’s lives that they are not up to yet. Every fanny
wiped, every hotdog cut into small bits, every comforting hug after a nightmare
is a way of taking a child’s difficulty and making it our difficulty.
Parenting is the constant shelving of our own wants in favor of a child’s
needs. And the twist that makes it even more difficult is that what we know is
best for our children is not always what they themselves want. Parenting would
be almost easy if children’s wishes reigned — four or five hours of TV a day,
lots of junk food, no bedtime, no vegetables, no need to get dressed or be
anywhere on time. The “no’s” we say, the limits we set, and the anger or tears
or pouts we encounter because of those no’s and limits are also part of being
Christ to our children. We absorb the momentary fury of a child rather than
compromise that child’s future growth, health or development.
When
Mass ended, I tried to thank Fr. Joe for his homily, but could just manage a
few words before I had to run after Luchita, who, exhilarated with the freedom
of finally being put down, was careening toward the steps. I caught her before
she fell, helped Liam blow his nose, and held Jacob’s books while he zipped his
jacket. I glanced at a nearby mother who was bundling her baby before going out
into the cold. She nodded at me and smiled. Our work was holy.
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