The Coin of the Realm

One of the things that makes being in the Midwest with my husband's family a pleasure is the ability to attend family events, such as the wedding we went to yesterday of cousin Jenny, the daughter of the last man in the family to own the family farm ("Did they get all the manure out from behind my ears?" she was heard to ask. She looked lovely.)

We went to church again today...and as I was looking up at the incredibly uglified high altar and trying to have these "deep thoughts" (which I kinda think might be as close as I can get to actually speaking with the Lord), I got this insight:

Some days I think I have it bad, sweating and swearing through the bad moments and then offering a quick Hail Mary and hoping I can get to confession soon. But I've never had to watch my child die. I've never been incapacitated by some illness or injury or been unable to feed or take care of my kids. Looking on the suffering of others, comforting pablum runs through my head--offer it up, offer it up--but never out of my mouth. I feel I cannot speak unless I have suffered much. We all suffer in various ways, large and small. The point I want to make is, suffering is not just some pitiful useless experience we have to endure.

In Catholic mysticism, suffering is the "coin of the realm" in heaven. So many people simply cry and curse their way through it. But we have the capacity to offer it to God and ask Him to use it for His will. The keys are, we have to accept it, we need to thank God for it, and eventually we will learn to praise Him and feel joy about it. I knew all this, but I didn't know what it looked like.

Now I know. We have these friends who live an hour or so away. They don't make much money, and they are used to living on a shoestring. Well, the four children in this family are--thin. Pitifully so. The mom is well-meaning, but she is trying to raise these kids on a diet with very little fat and meat. We went over there for the 4th of July and there was nothing prepared for lunch. Some confusion followed. We didn't want to impose. Should we run to the store? The answer: no. Our hostess began to rummage around in the fridge (no woman wants to receive company and not have something to put on the table). One of the girls asked, "Mom, what about the chicken?" "Daddy was hoping to get several more meals out of that," was the reply. Shocked, I stood stockstill and looked at DH, who only shrugged.

She brought out a scant pint of leftover baked beans, a bag of salad, and two fistfuls of grapes. There were six hungry kids sitting around the table, not including the adults. I put some beans in two bowls for my kids, and I realized I was taking food out of the mouths of her kids, so I tried to make the portions small. I even put a spoonful back (surreptitiously). At that point the baby was fussing so I took him upstairs. Getting down on my knees I held my well-fed baby and cried. "Lord, just get them some food. I will suffer for them. I offer my suffering. Just please get them some food." The day went on like everything was OK, but I felt like I was in an alternate universe.

We can't avoid suffering. It's all around us. Dean's grandparents birthed eight children on that farm and were dedicated Catholics to the end. But somewhere along the way (I realized) Anne must have lost a child. Whether through miscarriage or illness, that particular suffering has always been "baked into the cake" of womanhood. Hasn't it? I mean, every generation of women (with the exception, perhaps, of the last few generations in industrialized societies), in the absense of birth control, would have experenced a succession of births--most of which resulted in live offspring, most of which survived to maturity. However, the lost children would have haunted the souls of these mothers in every generation (today, abortion produces a parallel form of pain, but it is of a different stripe). My God, how did they endure the pain? I wondered.

I'm sure you know people like our friends, or they have other problems, and you can't say anything, and they live too far away for you to help. Now with these pictures in my head, the whole offering-your-suffering thing is very real to me. Of course, our souls are more important than our bodies, but bodies are very hard to ignore. It's clear now to me that the path ahead of us may be rocky...but God wills for us to be instruments for His will--if we are willing to accept the treasure of our suffering, not only with endurance but with joy.