I do believe the divine will speak to us if we’re ready to listen.
I believe, throughout the course of humanity, divinity has taken many forms. Perhaps she/he/it simply assumes the form(s) our puny brains are most able to comprehend at that moment. As long as we check in with them and seek to help and love those in our community, the names we use seem somewhat irrelevant.
On Sunday, Aug. 15 in Stratford, Ontario I was attending my first Catholic Mass with Asshole. It was the holy day to celebrate the assumption of the virgin Mary into heaven and we were going to a service at St. Joseph’s. Having come from a very liberal Protestant upbringing and later Pagan influences, I did love the inclusion of a powerful female into the Christian hierarchy, though it was rather foreign to me. Mary was, to my knowledge, a b-actor in the nativity scene at best. Asshole had told me a bit about the scripture for the day while we were getting ready for church though and I was intrigued.
With masks on our face and freshly sanitized hands, we entered the beautiful sanctuary. Vaulted ceilings painted light blue contrast against the white buttresses and pillars. Bright and airy frescos adorn the walls. The church looks like heaven formed from brick and mortar instead of the typical old, dark, solemn churches one typically sees in older Ontario communities.
The usher led Asshole and I to a socially-distanced pew and the holy ceremony began. It was mostly a blur of stand and kneel and do some signs of the cross in-between reciting some passages Asshole pointed to in a book he lent me.
Clearly, I have not attended catechism.
At one point though, I remember vividly, we had some time for quiet personal reflection and prayer. I knelt on the wooden bar provided, rested my folded hands on the pew in front of me and bowed my head.
I could feel my mittelschmerze getting ready to release the monthly opportunity for baby blessings. It was a throbbing ache in my left hip, occasionally pinching sharply. We’d discussed having a baby again that morning. I kept saying not yet but, according to you, the cancer was bad and you wanted to start trying. You’d told me you were also worried for your other children who were living in an, allegedly, abusive situation.
So there on my knees I prayed to Mary to give me the strength a woman needs to care for her family. I asked her if I could be strong enough to take care of you through the terrible days ahead (having seen the ravages of cancer before). I asked for the strength to love you and any baby we may have and my son and your children. I asked for the strength when the time came, to make it through your death, knowing I would be left with your child(ren) and mine. I asked for the strength and love to protect and care for all these people.
Ultimately, I asked for the strength to help all of those around me who I could.
I felt the cosmic Her listening.
“You have strength,” my internal ears heard.
“But I need the strength to love this man and do right by him.”
Silence.
“It’s going to take a lot, Mary. I don’t know if I can do this.”
Silence.
“Please, Mary. Please give me the strength to get through the hard times ahead. Please give me strength.”
“You have the strength and you will do good.” But the answer felt somewhat hesitant. I was seeking more reassurance.
Asshole pulled on my shoulder trying to get my bum back in the pew, but others will still praying around me and I’d found a moment. I was going to take it. He asked what I was doing and I just shushed him and told him I was having an important conversation and to leave me be. His face was a mix of irritation at being chastised and, well, the closest thing to love I ever saw in his eyes.
“Mary, I need to love him well. He’s going to need this. And we have people depending on us. Can I do this?”
More silence.
“Give me the strength to love him well and do right by the people counting on me,” I pleaded in the space no human can actually hear.
I felt her pause, part irritation or pity, like a mother who thinks a toddler is adorable while they throw a fit over having received the wrong colour cup. I could almost hear the Jewish mother click her tongue at me and roll her eyes.
“You’re asking the wrong question.”
“Please just help me help the people counting on me. Please give me the strength to do the hard things that need to be done.”
“That you do and I’ll be with you,” she smiled proudly.
“I can help those who need me?”
“Yes – you have the strength.”
Finally content, and with the organ music winding down to signal an end to prayer time, I scooted my bum back in the pew. Asshole eyed me up questioning but smiling warmly. A smile lit my face even behind the mask. I thought I’d gotten the message I wanted. He asked if I was ok and I answered enthusiastically yes. I loved him. I thought I could help him.
Three weeks later, I broke free of the fog of deception he’d pulled around me and realized I had to help somebody else. I didn’t even know who the She I was supposed to help was, but I had to protect the next woman.
Asshole isn’t mine to save; There’s somebody else out there waiting for him when he is ready to meet them.
So now, with over half a dozen criminal charges against him and a stack of court dates in multiple jurisdictions to his agenda in just the next few weeks, I am part of an uncomfortable court battle the requires ongoing strength.
I’m already tired and I am calling the cosmic Her.
For the last five weeks I’ve gone to church every Sunday. I hadn’t attended Church in over a decade prior to that. I love the way the dove shines brightly behind the Rector as he gives his sermon. It’s beautiful and peaceful.
It’s my weekly reminder to hold fast to my conviction to help others where I can and do good where I can. I am starting to try to trust that there is a bigger plan and I am just part of it. I don’t have to carry the burden alone and I am stronger with some faith.
I am grateful to him for this at least – even if he is an Asshole. Silver linings and all that…
Please note: Any incorrect terminology or phrasing used in relation to Catholicism or Christianity in general in this post is accidental and not written with any malice. Please forgive my errors in advance.
Truth and Recovery 
One thought on “The Coded Revelation in St. Joe’s”