Hope For Troubled Parents: Become A Child Yourself

Twice recently I've heard parents say: “I did everything right, and my child is still doing (name your favorite sin).” “Good luck with that!” I responded to one of them in a voice that was louder and more vigorous than I intended. Because the lie that if you do it all right, then you’ll be guaranteed a good result is a form of an ancient heresy known as Pelagianism. The old heresy now has a new moniker: the Prosperity Gospel, which purports that if I do X and Y then I will earn Z from God. Oh, how it misses the point of God’s grace!

What a relief to heartily admit what two of the greatest saints of our era, namely St. Faustina and St. Therese of Lisieux, freely admitted: they couldn’t get it right. While simultaneously reading St. Faustina’s Diary and Fr. Michael Gaitley’s 33 Days to Merciful Love, I was almost giddy when I happened upon Faustina and Therese’s own words:

O my God, I understand well that you demand this spiritual childhood of me…I am an abyss of misery, and hence I understand that whatever good there is in my soul consists solely of His holy grace. The knowledge of my misery allows me, at the same time, to know the immensity of Your mercy. (St. Faustina, Diary, par. 56.)

And if the good God wants you weak and helpless like a child…do you believe you will have less merit?...Agree to stumble at every step, therefore, even to fall, to carry your cross weakly, to love your helplessness. (Gaitley, quoting Therese, 56)

Before I read those words, I’d been feeling particularly low about the mistakes, failures and foibles I’ve made as a parent. But surprisingly, every time I turned to the Lord for guidance he said the same thing to me: Become a child yourself.

Why?

Children are spontaneously, intuitively in touch with their own neediness, and they are quick to ask for help. Children have open hands and open hearts, and they stand ready to receive love with gratitude and joy. Children live in expectant faith that if they fall, fail or flail their Papa is going to take care of it—and he’s going to take care of them, too. Children trust completely.

This is the way of spiritual childhood that Faustina and Therese found so liberating; it is the way of the child through which we, too, must pass in order to enter the kingdom of heaven. The way of spiritual childhood is the path of humility and trust: I freely and humbly admit that I’m a hot mess, while furiously trusting that I am loved and redeemed by a merciful God who is bigger than all of my sins and weaknesses.

Of course, I try my best to live and love according to the ways of Christ. And when I fail to do so I turn to God, trusting that he will fill in the gap of all I am lacking in love and holiness with his love and holiness, and that his offering is superabundantly sufficient. Joseph Ratzinger (Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI) said it this way:

What faith basically means is just that this shortfall that we have in our love is made up by the surplus of Jesus Christ’s love, acting on our behalf. He simply tells us that God himself has poured out among us a superabundance of love and has thus made good in advance all our deficiency. Ultimately, faith means nothing other than admitting that we have this kind of shortfall; it means opening our hand and accepting a gift. (Ratzinger, What It Means to Be A Christian, 74).

Are you fretting about all you lack as a parent? Then become a little child. Abandon yourself and your children completely to God, trusting that his love will make up for whatever is lacking in yours. This is grace. For as the Little Flower herself insisted, all is grace.

This article was previously published at Aleteia.

Abortion and the Logic of Love

On this day of prayer, fasting and penance, we sadly remember the 56,000,000 babies who have died through abortion since the legalization of abortion in America in 1973.  May God have mercy on us and upon our nation.

In short, the mercy of God is not an abstract ideal, but a concrete reality with which he reveals his love as that of a father or a mother, moved to the very depths out of the love for their child.                Pope Francis, Miseracordiae Vultus, par. 6.

The only desire I had when I boarded the plane was to power down, enjoy some silence, and read Bishop Robert Barron’s Catholicism: A Journey to the Heart of the Faith, newly downloaded to my i-Phone. It had been a very busy weekend of non-stop talking, which included giving two one-hour presentations at a Marian conference.

But when a 20ish-looking blonde woman sat next to me, something told me to put down the phone and tune into her. “Where are you coming from?” she asked.

“I spoke at a Catholic conference in St. Louis,” I replied. “I’m headed home to New Orleans.”

Introducing herself as Paige, she shared that she was getting married in May, and that she and her Jewish fiancé had recently traveled to Israel for a month-long visit to attend a friend’s bar mitzvah. She disclosed her horror over the routine violence that is part and parcel of life there, especially as Muslim extremists increasingly engage in random stabbings of Jewish people.

“A man was stabbed right by our hotel,” she lamented. “And it didn’t even make the news. It’s incredible!”

We both agreed that the world needs much less hatred and violence, and much more love.

Paige shared that her parents had raised her without faith, even though they’d sent her to Catholic schools her whole life.

The conversation somehow turned to abortion. “I know you’re Catholic,” she said unapologetically, “but I’m totally pro-choice. One of my best friends is an ob-gyn who wants to learn how to do late-term abortions. She feels so badly for people who really want to be parents, really want a baby, then find out that their child has some unsurvivable abnormality. They’re totally stuck, you know, because Louisiana law prevents them from having a late-term abortion.”

“Well,” I offered gingerly, making every effort to use my kindest voice. “It would indeed be a horrible suffering to learn that your baby was going to die within hours of its birth. But what would be even worse is being stuck for the rest of your life with the knowledge that you had caused their death.”

Paige’s eyes grew bigger.

“I know of people who have lived through this,” I continued, sharing the story of presidential candidate Rick Santorum and his wife, Karen.   “They were able to welcome their son, Gabriel, into the world, baptize him, hold him in their arms, and shower him with love for at least a few hours. That was a very merciful way of dealing with both themselves and the child.”

By this time, Paige’s big, beautiful blue eyes were locked into mine.

“Here’s the thing,” I went on while I had her attention. “We both agree that we need more love in the world. And that’s precisely why I’m against capital punishment, war, and violence against Jews, women, and babies in the womb. Abortion is a very violent act against both the woman and the baby. We could use so much more love across the board in the world.”

Paige continued to fix her eyes on mine, and I finally laughed a bit nervously and said, “You must think I’m crazy telling you all of this on a plane.”

“No,” she said slowly. “I’m listening…I’m listening to what you’re saying.”

The plane touched down. “It was really nice talking to you,” Paige offered with a smile. “I like Judys. I’m going to buy your book.”

“It was really nice talking to you, too, Paige,” I smiled back. “God bless you.”

With that, an hour plane ride from Dallas to New Orleans had offered the unexpected gift of a mile-high defense of human life. Because while Paige was raised without faith, she was raised with love. And anyone can understand the logic of love, including someone who is “totally pro-choice.”

This article was first published at Aleteia.

Losing Our Life To Find It

Joseph Landrieu, Six Months Old

“Bless you in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit,” I prayed as I made the Sign of the Cross three times on Daddy’s forehead the night before last. He looked up at me wide-eyed from his bed, reminding me of my own children when they settled down for prayer and a good night kiss before they fell asleep.

“He’s like a little child,” my mother said moments later about my fragile, eighty-six-year-old Parkinson’s ridden father. “He’s reverted completely to a child,” she repeated with a mix of surprise and sadness.

We all knew this day was coming. Even so, it’s disarming to watch a man who was previously so strong, robust, and physically adept slip into helplessness.

My mind flashes to one of the sweetest times I ever spent with my Dad—the semester he took my “Healthcare Ethics” course at Our Lady of Holy Cross College almost a decade ago. Proud as a peacock that I was teaching college, he was delighted to audit my course and the students loved him. He read and highlighted the course textbook diligently, then kept it on the table right next to his easy chair in the living room so he could show it to everyone who came to the house. The Parkinson’s had just started to set in at the time, and, thankfully, the heavy shaking it caused was largely controlled by medication.

Early one Tuesday morning I picked Daddy up for class, as I’d been doing all semester. We drove across the Greater New Orleans Bridge to the Westbank, where the small, Catholic college sits near the Mississippi River. We pulled some ripe oranges from the full fruit tree next to the parking lot, then made our way through the back door of the school building. After riding the elevator up one floor, we began the long trek down the white tiled hallway toward the classroom where thirty students waited.

About halfway there Daddy’s legs simply froze, and he stood with a frightened look on his face internally commanding them to move forward. No dice. Within seconds he was doubled over weeping heavily, obviously grieving the loss of control over his body. “Come on, Dad,” I encouraged as I wrapped my elbow tightly through his to help propel him forward. “You can do it.”  We arrived late for class, and while he put on a brave face, I could tell he was shaken by the realization of his escalating condition. Those were the birth pangs of a disease that would eventually make it nearly impossible for him to walk or talk.

Staring down at Daddy’s limp, frail body, I pondered the mystery of losing our strength, our abilities, our life, as we knew it, to prepare for eternal life. There is apparently tremendous grace in ceasing to depend upon ourselves, and in learning to depend completely on God and others. The last season of a long life is generally one of deep vulnerability and stripping, a taking off of defenses, coping mechanisms, and masks. It is a sacred season wherein we return to being bathed, fed, diapered, and carried; offering us  the opportunity to recover—in spite of withered skin—babe flesh hearts.

It takes most of us a whole lifetime to arrive at the place which nature finally offers as a gift—to powerlessness—the thing we’ve often feared the most, fought hardest against, and tried to fend off unceasingly with an arsenal of our own personal strength.  In the end, powerlessness is a grace that invites us to surrender, training us to open our hands to simply receive from God and others. Powerlessness is heaven’s kiss, a kiss that beckons us to trust, a kiss that invites us home to the place where we will finally understand that we are infinitely loved by a God who sees us as we are truly meant to be—little children.

“Good night, Daddy. I love you.” I said softly as I bent down to kiss his child-like face. “All is well. Be at peace.”