holy week for the wild child's mother

the word of encouragement i'm needing this week

Photo by Grant Whitty on Unsplash

I always want Holy Week to be a deep and profound experience, on both a spiritual and an emotional level. Of course, such an experience is never of our own making and is always a gratuitous gift from God, but I’m finding that in the “wild child” years, it feels even further out of my grasp than normal—and that I’m more desperate for it than I have been in years past.

This past weekend, we arrived at church early to beat the heavier-than-normal crowds and ensure we had a place to sit. The girls and I meandered outside shortly before the Palm Sunday procession began, in need of a few laps to run before what promised to be a long Mass. The two-year-old had already shed her shoes, and the three-year-old just wanted to be held, her gangly legs hanging awkwardly around my growing belly. I smiled at the church ladies who clearly thought my barefoot, feral daughter was running around unsupervised, and I gently whispered to the preschooler about the palms and the procession. She asked if we could get closer so we could hear the first Gospel being read. I wrangled the unwilling young one into the carrier since we’d have to cross the street to hear better… and by the time we made it over, the reading was finished and the walking had begun.

The rest of Mass passed in a never-ending flurry of ups and downs and bumped heads and “STAND UP!”s and requests for snacks and aggressively direct reminders that the girls were ready to go home. Sweet moments—blown kisses at the elevation of the Host and singing along with the Mass parts—were interspersed with winces of pain as my lips and nose were poked and prodded and scratched. The final moments of the Mass were marked by genuine concern on the little one’s face as I broke down in silent tears, overwhelmed and discouraged and confused.

Don’t they understand what a beautiful and powerful week this is? I almost caught myself thinking as I mediated another spat over the gosh-danged purple beanie baby that has wreaked unprecedented havoc in our family dynamic for the last two weeks. Don’t they know that we’re supposed to be MORE reverent this week, not less?

I felt the stares of the other Mass attendees more heavily than normal on Palm Sunday, whether said stares were real or imagined.

Mass—indeed, church in general—has been a time of desolation more than consolation for me over the last few months, as our younger daughter has been in a challenging season that I don’t remember from our eldest.¹ Their temperaments are very different, and this one is giving us a run for our money. She won’t stay happily in a carrier. If we let her be free range, within two minutes, she’d be in the Narthex bathroom with her pants at her ankles and her hands in the toilet.² Ripping pages out of books is a favorite pastime, and our family rule is no snacks in Mass (we could never bring enough snacks to avoid a riot when they ran out). She loves to chat—to us, to her stuffies, to the people around us—at normal to full volume: “What would you like to order?” as if the back of the pew is a fast-food counter. “Happy birthday” is her favorite song, and she won’t let you forget it.³

Missy Rose Ewing

had a reflection a couple of weeks ago on the relentless self-criticism of motherhood, and this line really stood out to me:

Often, the stone that’s hardest to put down is the one we’re ready to throw at ourselves. On my worst days, my instinct to self-condemn can override [my husband]’s best verbal affirmations. I can’t survive myself.

If, like me, you’re a mother who feels wearied-to-the-point-of-tears as we approach a week that “ought” to be so full of power and beauty and sheer significance as to stop us in our tracks, but in reality will be so full of lost routines and long liturgies and skipped naps and sheer restlessness as to leave you wanting to pull your hair out…

The Lord is with you this week in a unique way. Or rather, He is inviting you to walk alongside Him this week in a unique way.

If you’re feeling unwanted by the Lord’s people— If you’re feeling out of place in His Mystical Body— If a niggling thought at the back of your mind whispers, “Surely they would all be better off if we stayed home instead of bothering them”—

The Lord Himself was unwanted by His people this week. When given the chance, they demanded his death and freed a murderous insurrectionist in His place. If you feel the (real or imagined) weight of stares or glares or nasty comments, trust that He is standing beside you in that moment.

If your body is heavy with the weight of sleep deprivation, pregnancy, undereating or dehydration, nursing, menopause, or anything else— If you feel like one more out-of-the-normal liturgy might just be the thing that breaks you— If the obligation to attend Sunday Mass feels particularly weighty this week—

The Lord Himself begged the Father, “if it be possible, let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as you will.”⁴ He sweat blood. He stumbled and fell under the weight of His cross.

If getting ready for Mass feels less like putting on your wedding dress and more like girding your loins for battle—

They came to arrest Him “as against a robber, with swords and clubs to capture [Him]”⁵

Diana Cantu

laid some real wisdom on me a few weeks ago. Just reading it again now—a month later—has me tearing up.

I struggled so much with this. Like I would get in the car after Mass on some Sundays and just burst into tears. I was so upset. My best friend finally told me something that really helped. She said, “You HAVE to stop caring what other people think.”

That was the issue for me. I was so worried that the kids were annoying others, or being so loud, or angering father, or proving old lady bitter right when really... who cares? Even if all those things are absolutely true. Who cares? You're doing right by God, and that's literally all that matters.

You are taking your children to Jesus. They won't know how to behave in mass if you don't take them. The hardest ages IMO are 18 months to 4 years. Those are also the absolute cutest years too—and I think God does this on purpose.

Don't give up. You are doing the hard thing. And I promise you there are people at mass who are so encouraged by you. And Jesus loves to see your little girls before His throne.

It might be true that our kids are acting in a way that’s not appropriate for Mass, and of course we can and should deal with that. But also, our children are allowed to act their age. We are allowed to experience the limitations of our physical bodies. We don’t have to show up to Mass already perfect. We present ourselves as we are so that we can be transformed—divinized!—by our very participation, imperfect and messy as it may be.

I’ll close with one more quote from Missy’s reflection at the beginning of the month:

I thought I was throwing the stone which Jesus wants to throw at me. But that’s a lie. He would never throw a stone at a heart imprisoned in sorrow (because that’s what self-reproach is, inescapable sorrow). He’s here to do something new.

Knowing that Jesus won’t hurt me, that’s the way out of this trap. Knowing that if I turn my sorrow over to Jesus, He will make me into a new creation in Him.

Friends, “your children are acting like children” isn’t the stone Jesus wants to throw. He wants to “make all things new” in our hearts and our homes and our families, and showing up—messy buns and tear-stained faces and all—is the first step to Heaven.

1. Related:

"for this, there is always time"

2. Sometimes we have to laugh so we don’t cry, folks.

3. Do you hear it? The way I’m trying to justify her behavior even to you, the vast majority of whom have never met her in real life?

4. Matthew 26:39 ESV

5. Mark 14:48 ESV