Are we called to compassion? Of course we are.

But let’s say someone does something horrific. A crime that is not even socially acceptable that lands them in jail forever. Let’s say this crime was committed against you. Or worse, someone innocent that you love.

Are we called to compassion for this sinner? We are all sinners, but this one seems bigger. Seems more serious.

It makes sense to want justice. Blessed are they who thirst for justice, they will be satisfied. And in the end, God’s perfect justice will be fair and we will all love His perfect justice.

But do we want this person to repent? Do we hope for a deathbed (or earlier!) conversion? For a receiving of the Sacraments before they can’t anymore? Do we hope that they see the error of their sin, tell God how sorry they are, and be forgiven?

The prodigal son has always been difficult for me. The son at home was faithful the whole time. He didn’t get to party and have a grand ol’ time! And in the end his reward was the same as the son who frittered away his life. And the father rejoiced at his return. I feel like the faithful son. Here I am doing what I’m supposed to be doing (I try to, anyway) and I wonder why our Father is thrilled to see that son come back. But I think I am supposed to be happy too. Maybe that wayward son hurt me. Maybe I don’t think he’s worthy. But neither am I. We are, none of us, worthy. But we are called to want that conversion. Want that mercy. Want that person to return. We should watch for our wayward brother to return, sinful and sorrowful. We should rejoice!

We should never cut them off from the opportunity to repent. God’s justice is perfect. That son will need to repay his debt. He will need to work hard. But God’s mercy of him doesn’t remove the mercy from us. Love is knowing, wanting, and doing the good of & to others. And we are all called to love.

I stood in the shower crying. No, sobbing. Ugly crying even. I cried out to God again. I had prayed and prayed for him to send me relief. I prayed novena after novena. Saint hopping even. And still the Lord was silent. I had not received any hope.

For months I had been looking for a job. We were living on savings and though we had some time before we ran out, we were eventually going to run out. I had zero prospects and everything seemed hopeless. We had been here before. Laid off and unemployed; pregnant and unemployable. (Illegal as that may be, it’s a reality.) I didn’t handle the first time very well and still God saw us through. This time I had much more peace but sometimes had these breakdowns; mostly in solitude.

So I asked God why. Why this cross? Feeding my children and keeping a roof over our heads are the most basic earthly needs! Why this cross? God – this one is too heavy. It’s too hard! This cross is unfair. I asked God why He chose this one for me and why it continued to be a problem. I kept asking, “Why?” I was maybe a tad demanding. “Tell me why?!?”

So God showed me.

I saw another person’s marriage – someone I don’t know. Two people living in fear of each other and in constant pain. I saw their belittling, their rage, their pettiness. I saw their union crumbling. So much fear and anguish. It was awful! Then I saw another family. A mother crying over her sick child, who would inevitably die. I saw her grief. Her husband’s grief. Her other children’s fear. They were all so sad. So upset. In so much pain.

I felt these two scenarios deeply. I’m not a very empathetic person so this was huge for me. But their pain was sharply felt deep in my heart and I didn’t like it.

“Thank you, God!” I said. I proverbially fell to my knees in thanksgiving. My cross I could handle. My cross was doable! My cross was carefully selected by God just for me!! I was so very grateful for my cross. My tears of fear turned to tears of joy. I kept saying thank you. Thank you! Thank you God, for this cross.

A few days later I saw the meme, “Noah had faith but he still had to build the ark.” So I started to fill my days with applications. Following leads, reaching out to anyone who would listen. Networking. I had 16 interviews in the weeks that followed and no offers, but that’s 16 more than I had when I was sobbing in the shower. God did give me hope. He held out his hand and said, “This cross is just for you. But I will be here every step of the way.”

A couple of months ago I gave birth to my 7th child. She is a gorgeous baby with dark hair and curls and I recognized her as soon as the doctor held her up for me to see. This was my child.

As the days of having a newborn arrived, so did the lack of sleep, frustration with feeding, and the other family members getting used to a new addition. Everyone was tired. In our house, the saying, “If Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy” takes on a different meaning. It doesn’t mean everyone around me has to keep me happy, though that’d be nice. It means I must always take on a demeanor of patience and kindness; otherwise everyone suffers. It falls to me to keep the heart of the family positive and cheerful. I appreciate this task as it keeps me in check when I’d rather be grumpy. (I fail at this task often, but I try to renew the effort daily as well.)

Postpartum depression started to settle in. With the lack of sleep and the ever exhausting needs of the other family members, I started to go into dark places. I am no expert, but I believe PPD manifests itself in different ways. This is how it manifested for me.

I knew I was starting to feel sad. I wanted the dark. I wanted to be alone. I didn’t crave the arms of my children around my neck. In fact, I wanted them to not touch me. (Moms often get touched out, but I was very aggravated by it.) My body recovering from pregnancy and childbirth was a sore subject for me and my husband was not the source of joy or comfort that he usually is. I began to think about how terrible of a mother I am and instead of moving on to what I could do to be better, my mind kept descending down the staircase of self deprecation. I yelled at a child for disobeying. How could I be so callous? I shouted at my pre-teen daughter for (AGAIN!) not doing her chores. How could I be so misunderstanding? I was short with my husband. (Ok, here I admit I thought HE might be the one misunderstanding, but I know I am wrong.) I even went so far as to think my children would be better off without me. We have a .22 in the garage. I could go out back. It would be quick. Maybe the razor in the shower would be better. Praise the Lord that I also kept thinking, “No one would understand.” My son, Grant, is four and he loves his Mommy. He is always trying to crawl into my pocket wanting to be close and snuggling. He would miss me. I kept saying, “Grant wouldn’t understand.” And so I stayed in bed, in my dark place, knowing that this was not normal and I needed help.

I had gone to confession during this time and cried during it. I knew my mind wasn’t in the right place, but I also knew I had enough self control to expect myself to respond to all of these circumstances as I know I was called to. The Reverend Father listened to my sobbing confession and asked me to stay after for some prayers. He took the time to give me a blessing. He even pulled over a kneeler for me to kneel on in front of the Tabernacle.

A month later, my suicidal thoughts had ceased (thanks to seeing my doctor and taking medication) but I still felt like I was short with the kids. I was short with my husband. My temper flared. My anxiety peaked. And my fear took hold of me. You see, I was also searching for a job, being under or unemployed for months. I had moments of fear and grief that were consuming me and I sought quiet places to cry. To pray. To shake in rage. But mostly fear. What if we lose our house? What if the children go hungry? I prayed and prayed for God to show me.

Again I found myself in confession sobbing. I hate crying in front of others. It’s the ultimate humility for me. I might have told the priest that. He was kind and understanding, as always. As I looked at the aging screen through my tears, I poured out all the ways sin had manifested in me during this trial. It’s not pretty. I don’t even think I got specific. But in my brokenness, I again knew I needed help. This time I need God’s help and I craved His grace.

“I’m sorry for these sins and all of the sins of my past life.” I choked it out relieved I could stop talking now. He gave me some advice of allowing medication to help for a time and seeing it as a gift from God. He gave other advice on how to continue on but when it came time for my penance he paused. He sighed deeply and said, “You know what? I’m going to do your penance for you.” I argued with him saying that wasn’t necessary. I know how busy he is and he has much on his mind. I can certainly do my own penance. He insisted and asked for my intentions. He gave me absolution and promised to pray for me.

I can’t express in words how much this act of kindness and mercy impacted me. Never before have I felt so understood by God. Never before have I ever seen God in this type of action. This priest had taken on my sorrow, my grief, my pain. He listened and understood. He took my cross from me, recognizing that I needed help. Because I had some extra time after confession, I asked him what I could pray for. I wasn’t doing my standard three Hail Mary’s, so what could I pray for on his behalf? His answer? A selfless request to pray for courageous priests. And so I did. And I continue to pray for courageous priests in all of my prayers and intentions. I do so because this man, who was in persona Christi did exactly what Christ did for us. He took that cross up that hill and died on it.

At the recommendation of a holy priest, I began saying seven Hail Mary’s daily while contemplating the Seven Sorrows of Mary. My birthday is on the Feast of Our Lady of Sorrows, a fact that bothered me in my youth and sometimes still does. I have, over the years, occasionally felt a great sense of beauty in that day being the day of my birth, but I also forget it’s magnitude as well. I was due on September 8th, the Nativity of Our Lady, and always wanted to share a birthday with her. For some profound reason yet to be determined by me, God asked my poor mother to wait one more week for my arrival. Since that decision was requested from Our Lord, I shall for my whole life, seek the meaning of His determination and have a devotion to Our Lady of Sorrows.

In an effort to follow the recommendation, I began my 7 Hail Mary’s in the evening. I set a timer to remind me at 8:30pm. The idea is that the children are in bed by then but that’s less a reality than I’d like. The first day I said my seven Hail Mary’s I forgot one of the sorrows. It was the Flight into Egypt. I hope I don’t forget it again as it would be quite difficult to up and away with your infant child in the middle of night before coffee and car seats were invented.

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