How I Met My Husband (Part 2)

Did you miss Part 1? You can see it here!

I made it most of the way through Mass without being too distracted. We finished the Our Father, and it was time for the sign of peace. M and I hugged, as was custom among my group of friends, and I turned to greet those in my general area... only to discover that the gentleman I’d met earlier had chosen the pew behind me. I started to offer him my hand, only to have him offer his arms in a hug. I went with it—not something I would typically do! He was a charmer.

Mass ended, and M and I took our time leaving the cathedral. When we got outside, there once more was the same friendly stranger.

“Hey,” he said. “I’m visiting the city. What are the best places to see?”

“We’re actually visiting, too,” I said.

“Cool. We should explore it together.” And before I knew what had happened, I’d given him my cell phone number, and he’d texted me so I’d have his.

We parted ways, with me trying not to giggle like a schoolgirl. After all, I’d just graduated (granted, I intended to go back in the fall to do my philosophy BA equivalency, but that’s not the point)! Of course, despite how blatantly obvious he was (and he was!), I still had to check with M that he was interested in me and not her. He was.

In surreal triumph, we travelled back to the apartment in my friend’s rented Mustang, with my hair kept mostly in check by my mantilla in an oh-so-Audrey Hepburn style. We waltzed inside, and I’m pretty sure I did start giggling like a schoolgirl.

“So I think I just got picked up by a guy at Mass,” I announced. And the friendly interrogation began.

The next day, I spent far too long playing the part of the demure lady and awaiting a text from my mysterious prince charming. Eventually I got rather sick of that bosh, and sent him a message. After some back and forth, we agreed to meet for dinner at a local restaurant. It was time to start primping for what would be a rather... unorthodox date.

Let me pause my tale for a moment to tell you a few things about me that are relevant here. First of all, I did not know the city very well. Like, if you had dropped me in front of the cathedral such that it was staring me in the face, I probably could have pointed to it and said, “hey, there’s the cathedral”, and that’s about it. Second, I have a very poor sense of direction. Like, if you had dropped me in front of the cathedral such that I was pointing away from it, and told me that it was right behind me, I probably would have given you a blank look and asked, “hey, where’s the cathedral?” Third, I had been on very few dates in my life up to that point—in fact, I think I could count them on one hand. And fourth, I am by nature a very timid person and assume all other people are potential stalkers or serial killers until it has been thoroughly demonstrated that this is not so.

And that’s how I ended up dragging two of my friends along on my first date with my eventual husband. (Oh yes, I did.)

To be continued...

(If you are reading this, please spare me a Hail Mary or another prayer of your choosing. Thanks.)

{WIWS} Pentecost, and How I Met My Husband (Part 1)

Happy belated Pentecost 2015! Linking up with Fine Linen and Purple for What I Wore Sunday! Unfortunately I don't own anything red, so I couldn't carry out the wearing red tradition this year. Here is the rather unfashionable outfit I did settle on (babies make everything better!):

Skirt: Thrifted
Leggings & shoes (not shown): Ardene
Shirt: Reitmans
Baby wrap: Didymos On Roses

I desperately need to do some shopping since I'm currently operating on about a two-skirt rotation. I may just give in and do it online and hope things fit!

In honour of Pentecost, I thought I'd share part one of how my husband and I met (on Pentecost 2013). So without further ado...

How I Met My Husband (Part 1)

“Clearly God wants me to become a nun!”

It was a Saturday evening and I was visiting friends in the city. One friend was graduating, and there were several others I was getting back in touch with after way too much school-induced neglect. I’d just explained how hopelessly impossible it would be for me to ever find a suitable spouse. I was set to head back to my small university town, where all the good Catholic men (all two or so of them) were significantly younger than me and busy discerning the priesthood, or about 40 years older than me and already married. And I’d just rhymed off a pretty long list of qualifications that any prospective husband would have to possess—he’d need a sense of humour, a stable income (or at least a reasonable path towards getting one), a keen intellect, an affection for children, and the list went on. Of course, he would also have to be an orthodox Catholic and—just for kicks, since one of my friends was renting a sweet, sweet car for the weekend—he would definitely need to own a convertible. (Spoiler alert: God never met a challenge He couldn’t take on, and it seems He was highly motivated not to have me for a wife for Himself.) 

We stayed up late drinking that night, as the young and newly graduated are wont to do. Although my hostess (K) and another guest friend (M) managed to wake up in time to attend the morning Mass, I slept right through it, secure in the knowledge I could attend the 5:00 version that evening. Besides, after gazing longingly at the Cathedral on my last few visits to the city, I’d extracted a promise from K to finally get me to Mass at the prettiest building on the block—not her usual parish. I’d been once before, but only once, and the experience had been quite a treat. 

I was regretting my decision when K and M regaled me with tales of an awesome homily upon their return—but at least I’d had enough sleep to take it in! And by the time I was getting ready for Mass, I was pretty excited to finally revisit the inside of the Cathedral. I pulled on a comparatively fancy dress, and even did my makeup. I was riding high from my own recent graduation, combined with a wonderful weekend of friends and fun. 

What I Wore Sunday*, throwback edition: Pentecost 2013 (*mantilla may not have been exactly as shown, and photo was not actually taken on Pentecost--but you get the idea)

M offered to accompany me and I happily took her up on her offer. We made it to the cathedral and I grabbed for the handle of one of the main doors only to meet resistance. I pulled harder—nothing. I was sure Mass was at 5:00, and that was just about exactly what time it was! Next to us, a young man grabbed the handle of the other main door and encountered the same problem.

 He turned to me and said, “Hello, gorgeous lady. Please allow me to sweep you off your feet! You are the most beautiful specimen of humanity I have ever seen!”

And I replied, “Come here, you hunk of man, and I will smother you in chaste kisses!” 

Okay, not really. 

He turned to us and said, “Hey, how do you get into the church?” 

And M sensibly replied, “Let’s try the side door.”

Sure enough, the side door opened. I pulled on my mantilla, M and I found an empty pew, and we settled in for Mass (with my eyes as big as dinner plates as I tried simultaneously to pay attention to the Mass and to my beautiful surroundings). And I figured that the encounter with the nice young gentleman whose smile set my heart beating just a little faster would pass into history with no lasting significance. 

And then it was time for the sign of peace... 

To be continued.

On Gethsemane, Suffering, and Christian Witness

Then Jesus went with them to a place called Gethsemane, and he said to his disciples, "Sit here, while I go yonder and pray." And taking with him Peter and the two sons of Zebedee, he began to be sorrowful and troubled.

Kristus i Getsemane by Carl Heinrich Bloch via Wikimedia Commons

When I pray the Rosary, or when I otherwise reflect on the Lord's Passion, Gethsemane is usually what hits me the hardest. It isn't the Crucifixion, that moment of redemption; rather, it's Christ's utter loneliness in the garden. 

We talk about Christian witness a lot. You witness by talking about your faith. You witness by serving up soup. You witness by accepting children as they come. You witness by living out your faith even when it earns you persecution. But I think we often fail to talk about another sort of witness—the witness that Christ lacked in the garden, and the resulting loneliness that he felt deeply.

I've suffered from depression for a long time. I was diagnosed some 13 years ago. It seemed almost inevitable that I would be hit with postpartum depression. For the first month, I was on top of the world—I was madly in love with my newborn son; I was filled with energy and wonder and joy. And then reality hit.

Then he said to them, "My soul is very sorrowful, even to death; remain here, and watch with me."

At just about the one-month mark, I began to have bouts of crying. I suddenly needed to clean obsessively, even cleaning for hours at night sometimes because I couldn't sleep anyway (twice I didn't fall asleep until 8 or 9 a.m. the next morning, all while my infant gave me stretches long enough to induce profuse gratitude in most parents). And the crying only got worse.

At my darkest, I would literally curl up on the floor and wail for hours at a time. Lifting a tissue to my nose often took more energy than I had. My husband would do exactly as I asked of him, and I would still be filled with bitter resentment that he wasn't doing something else instead. I was plagued with an obsessive desire to skip meals, and dinner became an all-out war.  I wanted to die, and I thought my child and my husband would be better off without me.

And where were my child and husband, while I wailed on the floor? 

At my side.

And going a little farther he fell on his face and prayed, "My Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as thou wilt."

I was convinced of two things: I could not go on, and there was nothing anyone could do to help me.

I knew on some level that both of these things were untrue, but just as I felt utterly compelled to claim that I was fine (even when it was painfully obvious to everyone, even me, that I was not), I likewise felt compelled to believe what the depression was telling me.

Eventually, after I bit my husband's head off for the hundredth time, I agreed to talk to my doctor. I agreed I wasn't okay. But I still had to wait for the appointments to roll in, and there was nothing anyone could do for me in the meantime.  Or so I thought.

And he came to the disciples and found them sleeping; and he said to Peter, "So, could you not watch with me one hour? Watch and pray that you may not enter into temptation; the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak."

One night, I learned what my husband had been doing to help me all along. As I lay sobbing, wailing, he laid with me—but this time, out of the sheer exhaustion of working a full-time job , caring for a needy infant, and watching over a desperate wife, he fell asleep. When I realised I was alone, I felt a new level of despair creep in.

I don't begrudge him that sleep—he desperately needed it. But what it revealed to me—or started to reveal to me; I was too ill at the time to fully appreciate it—was the value of his witness. All the times that I'd told him there was nothing he could do for me, he'd already been doing more than I realised: he'd been witnessing my suffering.

I think this is the sort of witness that we forget all too easily. It takes courage to watch someone suffer. I know it hurt him to see me hurting, but he watched with me without complaint. He kept me company. 

Christ still had to go to the cross, but how much easier (it's never easy!) was it when God sent the angel to strengthen him? I still had to wait for my appointments to come, but how much easier was it with my husband (and child) by my side?

I hope I don't forget to be grateful for what my husband did for me. And I hope I retain what I learned from it. I want to be a better witness for Christ—not just by sharing my faith, or by living out my vocation, but also by seeing what's around me. I pray I have the courage not to turn away in the face of suffering. I pray I have the courage to be another sort of witness. 

It's hard to know what to do when it seems like there's nothing that can be done. So I urge you, if there is nothing else to do, witness. It means more than you realise and helps more than you know.

How have you witnessed? When has someone witnessed for you?