Mother Teresa's Example to Me as a Bride, Looking Ahead & An Announcement

During Lent, I decided, along with Emily of Raising Barnes and Stephanie of Bluebird Songs, to make my way through Mother Teresa's Come Be My Light for a little spiritual reading book club.  I have to admit, even after Pentecost I'm still making my way through, but the experience of reading about this beautiful woman's call to found her order as a "call within a call," among immense obstacles in the form of her spiritual director and bishop wanting to be sure the pull on Teresa's heart was from God and, most significantly, in the face of intense spiritual dryness and a complete absence of feeling the Lord's presence, left such an impression on me.

I first heard of the book from my best friend's younger sister, who at the time was discerning entering the Poor Clares.  At the time, I saw Mother Teresa as immensely beautiful and holy, so much so that she wasn't the most relatable, though certainly very admirable.  The book sounded interesting, yet I'm aware now that during my conversion in college I was protected by grace and didn't really experience much darkness or spiritual attack, so that being the focus of the book didn't really draw me at the time.

I found a copy in a used bookstore after I graduated and decided to read it because of Tersa's missionary nature, as I was spending that year on mission.  It was also the year I was engaged, and what stood out to me most, and still did on this second reading, is how literally Jesus and Teresa were like spouses. As I read during Lent, I noticed how Jesus constantly called her things like his little bride and little spouse, and noticed the sacrifice to which she went to do his will, even when in doubt and even when it caused her pain.  Before the publication of Come Be My Light, most of the world didn't know that the beautiful sister in blue and white, perpetually smiling and visibly joyful, was thirsting for God, crying out to him for years as she felt, quite literally, locked out of heaven.
What's more, Mother Teresa's spousal love for Christ stood out to me as a pure, beautiful form of obedience.  As a sister, Teresa took the Franciscan vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, and later felt drawn to make a fourth private vow: she promised Jesus that she would refuse him nothing.  How simple, I thought, yet so immense to consider as it's actually lived out, especially when you consider her dark night of the soul.  

I asked myself what Andrew's and my relationship would look like if, after discerning that a request of his was a worthy one, I were to simply do it, out of love for him and a desire for both of our sanctification.  Obviously, things like chores don't require much discernment, but our major life decisions do, and the level of trust required of me would be huge.  I told my husband this, and after he thanked me for being so willing to love him in this way, he said, "You have to remember that I'm not God. I don't have every answer figured out, and don't have the perfect knowledge that he does of every right path for us."  Smart, smart, good-lookin' man. He'd started the book, too, and told me he'd also been inspired by Teresa's obedience to Christ, her beloved spouse.  But what he pointed out to me is that of course we can't make each other into idols and blindly assume that everything we ask of each other is something we should actually do.  Still, we agreed, what an amazing model for a marriage to imitate Mother Teresa's faithfulness and desire to seek the Father's will in all things, in the form of constant daily obedience.

Reading the book six years ago as Andrew's fiance, Mother Teresa's divine intimacy with Jesus felt like a huge, but worthy, ideal to strive for, though I knew I'd fall short and would have to go easy on myself. And now, nearly five years into my marriage, I actually feel pretty sobered by the realization of just how damn much I fall short. Andrew's weeks of intense studying for his comps exams a few months ago were one of the most stressful times our relationship has ever encountered, and Come Be My Light was a powerful motivation for me to realize this time is God's will for us.  I saw, and continue to see, so clearly how a willingness to put yourself aside so entirely for your spouse is worth the constant effort.  It's worth our eternity.

Depending on my mood or how I've acted on a given day, that realization is either discouraging or inspiring, but I keep reminding myself that being down on myself is not of God, and neither is feeling frustrated with my abilities in my marriage.  Instead, it's an opportunity to beg for grace and try to receive it well.

So that's our life as we prepare to celebrate our fifth anniversary two months from now.  I look back at photos of us as newlyweds and see two twenty-three year old kids with stars in their eyes, aglow with the joy of a lifetime to come.  And truly, the joy we've experienced is impossible to put into words.  The stumbling blocks, the sorrows, though; they're just as incommunicable.  We still have stars in our eyes, but we're tempered now by the times we've failed each other in sacrifice or patience or quick apologies or even simple kind words.  

I told Andrew recently how sorry I still feel for all these long since forgiven moments, and though we both understand we should still hold each other to a standard of truest love, he said knowing that we've fallen short has still brought us closer to each other and to holiness.  When we got married, he said, we loved each other completely (with all the effort and intention that entails), because we knew a completeness of each other at the time.  The longer we've been married, though, the more complete that vision of each other has become. He told me that in some ways, the trust we founded our vows on is even more trustworthy and entire now, after being tested by our seeing the deepest flaws and weaknesses in each other.  Our love, and commitment to keep loving completely, remains, and is richer than it was on that July day five summers ago.

Approaching a milestone anniversary, three moves and two babies from when I started Captive the Heart in 2012, feels like a good time for a transition.  I mentioned to you a few weeks ago how thrilled I am to be collaborating with three dear friends on Spoken Bride, a wedding and lifestyle blog for Catholic brides and newlyweds launching on the 31st of this month, the Feast of the Visitation.  At least for now, I'll be focusing my writing efforts there.  Spoken will feature real, beautiful Catholic wedding photos and love stories alongside the kind of wedding-related content that's here on Captive the Heart, so my words might take a turn a little away from the personal toward the editorial. I'll still be telling stories and showing you pictures of my babies here.  I'll be writing my last few posts here over the next few weeks, and will continue sharing articles, graphics, and photos you won't find on the blog on Facebook through the 31st.  I am so unbelievably excited for this new ministry and the truth and beauty it has to offer. I hope you'll join me!

What I Would Say To Him: Guest Post from Carolyn

A few weeks ago, I posted a piece from a friend who's borne deep sadness and regret in the wake of getting a divorce and seeking an annulment.  Truly, there is suffering and, God willing, redemption in the brokenness of a marriage that has ended.  

For today, maybe you're reading this from another side of heartbreak; the side of having not yet found the man you'll marry, and the cross of loneliness and dashed hopes.  My friend Carolyn, a gorgeously poetic writer if there ever was one, shared this with me and blew me away.  Maybe you, like me, will recognize pieces of yourself in her wake of a breakup and, like her, will find your peace in the divine lover of your soul--read it all the way to the end--the one who is always, always beside you.

Hey.

I know it's been a while and you think that I may have healed, and you could be right I guess, but that doesn't necessarily mean that I have the strength to become friends again.  Not yet anyway, and I can tell you why.  But first, you need to know how much I miss you and still love you, but it can't be simple anymore.

Why?

You left me when I needed you most.  I must have checked my phone every five minutes up until the plane took off.  Sweet man, that silence was crushing.  I never felt so much like nothing to someone, and i'm sure that was largely because I thought you were everything.  I thought the world of you, sir.  Yeah, that was dumb.  I know that now.  I made so many mistakes, in when I told you, how I told you, but not how I felt for you.  That love will never be a mistake, and that love is still so alive.

I admired those hurricanes you contained, the worlds behind your eyes, and those secrets in the creases of your face.  And yeah, it's effed up that we were our only friend in that small town tucked in the valley of the mountain.  That little place that was founded by my ancestor three hundred years ago, and where I spent Saturday morning brewing your black coffee at the cafe where I worked.  Where we would go out late at night to diners or drive to the nearest city for concerts.  We were safe there.

And now look at us.  After we fell apart, we are not both suddenly living in the same city far away from that small town, and so different from where we became friends.

I'm not going to try to understand our Holy on this one, but because of this, you suddenly want to be friends again.

But what if you leave again.  I don't have the time or the money to fly off to Uganda to allow myself to break.  To hide.  To sit with our Holy and stargaze at foreign constellations south of the equator for hours on end, crying softly with a baby in my arms.  I'm in this foreign city now, where you grew up in the shadows of these skyscrapers.  I'm no longer in my childhood neighborhood where you stole my damn heart.  This city is nearly as foreign to this small town heart as the wilds of Uganda.

Sweet man, how can I believed that if I let you back in my life, you will stay?  And how can you expect me to be close to you again and not be scorched?  How do I know that you won't hurt me again?

I'm okay.  I'm lonely here, yes, and I can't sleep most nights, but this feels right.  Living here.  Don't worry about me because I'm going to be fine.  I'm surrounded by good, wholesome people.  But can you please just answer my texts when I ask if you're happy?  They aren't a trick question.  For once in my life I'm being simple.

But you need to put your fight into something you're passionate about now.  Remember how Eve was all dumb and took on too much, thought she could handle the world on her own?  How I did?  And how Adam was literally right at her side, watching her fall, unmoved, hesitant to act, unwilling to fight?  He saw that she was hurting herself, that she was falling, and he did nothing.  God works through the man and rests in the woman, but we got it backwards, you and me.  Just like they did.

You made it clear when you left that you couldn't find any fight in you.  To keep me, I guess.  It will always hurt knowing this, sure, that I may just never be worth it for you or to you.  Not worth your time or the effort.  And I get that you are worn, but I'm not just here at your convenience.  Hey, I know you need to put your heart first until one day you make that vow on the altar, but sweet man, I have to do that too, and I'm not strong enough to see you just yet.

I learned something in Uganda, though: now I know that I love you enough to let you go.  Not enough to stop praying rosaries each night for your heart, not enough to stop writing your name in my journal, not enough to check chapel tears or this sap or this gnawing in my stomach, not enough to stop gazing at some of those nearby skyscrapers and try and guess which one you may be working gin now.  But enough to let you go.  I can do that.  I promise.  But just let me.

Let me, or fight for me.  It's that simple.  And you don't have to decide right now, but don't drag me into your uncertainty anymore.

I love you sweet man.  And because you don't feel the same, I'm not sure you would have anything to say in response.  If you could say anything.  I'm tired of guessing at your silence, so instead I'll let your silence speak for you.  So go do great things, one of which will not be pursuit of me.  But please just allow me to let you go.

But in this paralyzation, He moves.  It's a rumble at first, but it quickly escalates.  He roars to life, unafraid to show the distance He would go to keep me, to fight for me, to tell me I'm wrong…to save me.  He breaks, through all of this brokenness in a great clamor, a whirlwind, a dashing avalanche.  He tears down the temple wall, cracks through the earth, damns the serpent.  He shivers and shatters and splinters from the depths of His grave, rallies a legion of seraphim, performs out mighty wonders, damns the chains, and in my sweet man's silence, He thunders: YOU ARE WORTH DYING FOR.

Carolyn blogs for and edits The YoungCatholicWoman, "a place of feminine insight into the joy, companionship, frustration, heartache, and autonomy on this beautiful road to Calvary."  They have a sweet magazine and are planning a mission to Costa Rica, and you're invited!  Visit her here.