Part 1 of this post ended with me asking out loud “What am I supposed to learn here?” The answer came right back like a boomerang. It was as if all the big life questions that had been swirling in my mind as my life went into a tailspin suddenly clarified.
My short tenure at the NCC was like a train wreck in slow motion and the inevitability of my dismissal was constantly on my mind. I started seeing myself as the person I was to my manager: annoying, incompetent, untrustworthy. I had to work every day to remember that I carried within me the beauty and the mess. In many ways, the relationship I had with my management reminded me of my relationship with my ex-husband: it brought out the worst in me. When you go to work (or to bed) with the worst version of yourself, day after day, it’s hard to remember that you are also beautiful, capable, and worthy of love, all at the same time.
In the weeks leading up to my dismissal from the NCC, I had been reflecting on loss and identity. Life unfolds, with its offering of events and circumstances, and we respond by growing, changing, adapting. Some changes, like having another child or going back to school, are like a sweater vest: they add texture and a pop of colour but we still look the same, with more substance. Some changes strip us naked, chop off our hair, yank our jewelry, and leave us scrambling for cover. We pull at anything we can find.
The end of my marriage, the pandemic lockdowns, my children’s mental health struggles, family crisis, and two consecutive job losses have burned me down to a nondescript pile of ashes. If the tale of the phoenix is anything to rely on, I should be rising again as a new creation. When I look at myself, I see the pile of ashes. I see the person my manager says I am, I see the person my ex-husband says I am. In my scramble for cover, I take what anyone hands me. On a good day, I am the person my parents say I am, or the person Glen says I am. But in the words of Taylor Swift, “I haven’t met the new Me yet.”
I have been reflecting a lot on the loss of identity resulting from a life-altering change in circumstances and how easy it is to put on the clothes that anyone hands us in these moments of extreme exposure and vulnerability. On Easter weekend, I thought about the Catholic Church and reflected on the loss of a spiritual home and community.
After my separation, I needed time to figure out where my place was in the Church. Marriage is permanent in the Catholic Church and while separation is tolerated, it is expected to be with a view to reconciliation. In practical terms, the permanence of marriage means that a relationship with anyone but your lawfully-wedded spouse is adultery. Even after separation.
In the meantime, one of my kids came out as not-exactly-straight (although what they are is still very much in process). During my years in the Church, I could always squint when I looked at Church teachings on sexual orientation and gender identity and blur them enough to be acceptable. Suddenly, I found myself divorced, living with someone I wasn’t married to, and with a queer child to boot. Squinting would no longer do. The teachings of the Church were very clear on both matters: I was in an adulterous relationship and my child was at best confused and at worst inherently disordered. Not having any answers, I decided to take a Catholic sabbatical and wait for enlightenment.
I watched the Easter celebrations pass me by on social media, grieving the loss of community, of shared rituals, of the meaning and purpose that faith gave to my life. I missed prayer and my ability to leave it all to God. Do you know the value of leaving all your cares at the foot of the cross when you go to bed at night? When you can’t catch a break? When everything is falling apart around you? Do you know the value of believing in providence, that everything works together for good for those who love God and are called according to his purpose? Maybe you think it’s all make-believe, but let me tell you: when you believe it, it works.
As the mother of a large family, I also had an identity in the Church. The breakdown of my marriage took that away from me. Divorce fundamentally changed how I lived my life as a woman and mother. I can no longer parent the way I have for 25 years. Along with the loss of identity came a need to learn new skills as a single parent, set new boundaries, and lay new expectations.
Having to find a job and start working full time at 47, with my youngest children still in elementary school, removed all my mile markers, all my reference points. When it turned out out that the workplace was not excited about keeping the mom of a large family on staff, I needed to redefine myself in terms that were not exclusively found in being a stay-at-home mom nor in terms of career achievement. I needed to be an ok mom doing an ok job. If you know me at all, you know that being middle-of-the-road is a pretty tough task.
One of Christianity’s best offerings is the belief that we are made in the image and likeness of God. Perfect as our Heavenly Father is perfect. Then we use our God-given free will to mess it up. If you have a healthy relationship with your faith, one that is informed by being perfect and loveable just the way you are, instead of by the guilt of messing it up, you can find freedom in the imperfections of your life. The belief that your identity rests solely in your existence as a child of God takes away the tendency to define yourself by your work, your successes, or your relationships. In other words, if I could find my way back to the parts of religion that relieved me from the agony of being a failed mom, a failed wife and a failed employee, maybe the challenges of my life would loosen their grip on my heart and mind. I just don’t know how to get back there with my lover on my arm and my queer child standing tall. And I am not leaving them behind or hiding them from view.
Those were my thoughts on Easter weekend and the following week, on the morning of the day I got fired, as I was listening to a podcast interview with author John Green while getting ready for my last half day of work. I was stepping out of the shower, in my towel, while John Green answered the question “What role has your faith played in sustaining your optimism?” Part of his answer suddenly clarified everything:
“The underlying concept for me is that I believe that I am called by faith to act in this world. And there doesn’t seem to be a lot of ambiguity as to what I am called to do. The businesses that the central figures in my religious tradition were about were pretty straightforward and those were: feeding the poor, healing the sick, and telling the marginalized that the last shall be first and the first shall be last. (...) ” Link to Spotify:
I heard this and thought: “The corporal works of mercy!” In the Catholic Church, the corporal works of mercy are a model for how we should treat others as we journey through this life. Could I find my way back to a spiritual home by focusing, like John Green, on how I am called to act in this world rather than who I am married (and not married) to? If I can no longer find meaning and belonging in the communities and rituals of the Church, can I find them in my actions? In my relationships with others?
A month ago, I found myself without a job, riding a bus back to Stittsville at 11:30 am wondering what an encounter with a strange man was trying to show me. I looked out the window to the sky and said: “What am I supposed to learn here? What am I going to do now?” and the answer came right back like a boomerang: “The corporal works of mercy.” My creative project, inasmuch as I am recreating myself post divorce and post pandemic, was going to be inspired by the corporal works of mercy: feeding the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, shelter the homeless, visit the sick, visit the prisoners, bury the dead, and give alms to the poor. I don’t know yet what each one will look like, at my age and stage. But you can be sure that I will write about it.
I don’t know what my future holds and when I will be employed again. I don’t know if there is still a place for me in the Church. But I know that I am called to act in the world in a way that makes love visible.
Postscript: This newsletter has about 230 subscribers and 21 are paying subscribers, sending on average $5 a month to support my writing. The posts I publish on Hey Vero are deeply personal and demand a high level of introspection and reflection. It also requires careful editing to make sure that what I share is respectful of my children and their journey. The $5 that you send me every month supports hours of thinking, writing and editing. Most of this work is done in private, out of sight, and I want to express my deepest gratitude to those who continue to support my work, even when they cannot see it.