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.