A tale of humility and mercy

     Tim and I had a fight a few weeks ago.  He is usually the last one up at our house since he works so late at night and by the time he woke up that morning things were crazy and chaotic.  It was a Friday and I was trying to get the kids all ready to go to Mass but they were taking their time over breakfast and getting distracted by all their toys.  They did not want to clean up their cereal boxes or wash their dishes.  They had to be reminded three or four times, each, to get dressed.  After they got dressed they had to be sent back to their rooms to get dressed again because no one came out in clothes appropriate for Church.  It was basically a normal morning at our house, but that, of course, means patience and a sense of humor are required to survive.  Tim woke up with neither and I had pretty much reached the end of mine.  He  snapped at the kids a few times.  He snapped at me, I might have snapped back, and then Tim left for work in a huff.  I was fuming the rest of the morning and found myself formulating an argument in my mind.  I kept dwelling on all the things he had done wrong and how rude he had been.  In my mind, I kept justifying my words and actions and the longer I thought about it all, the angrier I became. 
    Then, I went to Mass with the kids.  We stayed for Stations of the Cross and  by the time we came home I was feeling much, much better.  I had forgotten about the argument and was no longer angry at Tim.  There was a message on the answering machine from him though and he said to call him when I got a chance.  I was curious what he might want in the middle of the day and called him immediately.  He said he felt bad about our fight and wanted to apologize.  Without even thinking about it, I started sharing with him all the reasons that he should be sorry.   All my earlier thoughts about his rudeness and selfishness came rushing back to me and it all just spewed out of my mouth even though I really wasn’t even angry any more.  He got angry, really angry, I suppose justifiably, and we fought over the phone until it was clear we weren‘t getting anywhere.  I’m pretty sure the conversation ended in someone slamming the phone down forcefully. 
    When Tim got home that evening the fighting continued.  I yelled at him, he yelled at me.  We ate dinner in tense silence.  Even the  kids were more quiet than usual, knowing mommy and daddy were angry, though I am sure they had no idea why.  We spent the evening avoiding each other as best we could.  Later,  after the kids had been put to bed and we were still at each other’s throats, Tim shouted at me that I never think about his feelings. 
    Now as this was all going on, just a few days into Lent, I was engaged in another battle at the same time.  An interior battle, with myself.  I had, as part of my Lenten promises begun praying the “Litany of Humility” each morning when I got up.  Even that morning I had started the day on my knees praying…. “from the desire of being esteemed, Jesus deliver me, from the desire of being praised, Jesus deliver me, from the fear of suffering rebukes, Jesus deliver me…”  All day I had recognized that this was my opportunity to practice a little of the humility I had genuinely been praying for.  As if the "Litany of Humility" running through my brain wasn’t enough to make me feel bad about the all day fighting, I had that afternoon been preparing for an upcoming meeting for the Little Flowers girls club I lead.  The virtue we were learning that month was,  what else?  Humility.  So, one part of my mind kept demanding that I humble myself and apologize but the angry part, the louder more demanding part, had just kept on arguing, insulting and yelling.    
    It wasn’t until the very end of the day, after Tim and I climbed into bed still angry and bitter, and the lights were out and it was quiet, that I prayed.  I told God how angry and frustrated I was, I told Him I did not want to apologize and I hated being humble.  I told Him that I knew I had been asking for greater humility but I did not want it anymore, not today, and not in this situation.  My prayer was not helping me feel any better and it was not quieting my conscience either.  So, at long last, after venting to God and trying to convince Him, and myself, that I should not have to apologize, I did finally ask Him to help me say those two little words that were so desperately needed.  I must have repeated my prayer, “help me God to say I’m sorry,“ ten times.  Then,  in the quiet darkness, finally I mumbled, “I’m sorry,” sort of hoping Tim had already fallen asleep.   He was awake, of course, and in his humility he didn't say ,"you should be sorry!"  or even, "well, its about time!"
     It was amazing how just asking for God’s help in being more merciful towards Tim made all the difference.  It didn’t make it easy to apologize but I did apologize and that in and of itself is pretty amazing, (just ask Tim).  So, though it was not easy to ask God for help in doing what was right, when I did it, He was merciful.  The fight ended, the anger disappeared and I found out humility is really not so bad.

I have linked this story up with Pay it forward over at A Life-Sized Catholic Blog.

 

A Tale of Messiness and Mercy

As we all climbed out of the car in the parking lot we looked a little disheveled to say the least. We had been visiting family and friends all week, staying up late, running all day to try to fit in everything we most wanted to do on our short trip, and already that day, driving for more than an hour much of which was spent in stop and go traffic, to get where we were, to squeeze in one more essential thing before heading back home to Florida.
The building loomed impressively before us. It was made all of stone with beautiful domes, archways, and tall stained glass windows. We walked around to the front and stepped through the heavy wooden doors. The inside was even more overwhelming than the outside had been. The interior was covered in artwork. Beautiful paintings and statues met our gaze no matter where we looked. The high ceilings glittered with golden mosaics and we stared awestruck around the majestic Cathedral before quietly filing forward to find a seat right in the middle, enveloped in a sacred silence.
It was the Vigil Mass for the second Sunday of Easter and we were blessed to be celebrating it at the Basilica Cathedral of St. Louis as a sort of finale to our spring break vacation of visiting family and friends. The car was packed for our long car ride home which we would begin immediately following the Mass. We were all tired from our week of fun and near-constant activity and the truth was, we looked it. As I marveled at the splendor of the architecture around us I couldn’t help but notice how dramatically we contrasted with the church’s exquisiteness. I looked at my family and noticed my oldest daughter’s red, puffy eyes from the tears that had been coming on and off ever since we said good bye to her aunts and cousins earlier that morning. I noted my oldest son’s sloppy hair and equally sloppy rumpled t-shirt. I was not surprised to see my middle daughter’s skirt was practically sideways from her twisting and squirming in the car on the way to Mass. And the remnants of lunch crusted to my youngest son’s sleeve, where he had obviously used his shirt as a napkin, didn‘t surprise me much either. Adding to my humility was the little stab of guilt I felt when I realized that the pants I had laid out for Tim to wear on our journey home were the ones with the bleach stains all over the front. Then, as if we did not already present quite a motley crew, I noticed during the gathering hymn that the baby had a look of concentration on her face, which was rapidly turning a deep shade of red. I sighed as I grabbed the diaper bag and tried to discreetly slip out to change her now full diaper.
I spent the rest of the hour in the back of the huge Cathedral trying to keep the baby quiet as I attempted to participate in the celebration of the Mass before me. I found myself wondering if it was even worth being there, not looking or feeling like I belonged in such a place of holiness. I was consumed with my wandering thoughts and I was continually distracted by the baby and the sights all around me. Before I knew it, it was time for the homily and I heard the priest speak lovingly of God’s great mercy reminding us that it was Divine Mercy weekend. As I listened, it hit me that perhaps this experience was the perfect metaphor for God’s love and mercy. Here we were, looking a bit scruffy and worn out, looking a little out of place, in this sacred and beautiful space. Our imperfections were so obvious and yet we were not turned away at the door, instead we were welcome to enter into the beauty and splendor of the majestic Cathedral. Interiorly, I realized we are often as sloppy and unkempt as we appeared externally that Saturday evening but still we are welcomed, invited even, to take part in the beauty and splendor of God’s Church, and God’s perfect love and mercy. Though we will never be worthy, we are invited to know God and we are loved by Him, forgiven by Him, unconditionally and without fail. So, despite our haggard appearance I knew there was no better way to acknowledge and participate in the gift and blessing of Divine Mercy.