For the first 12 years of our marriage, I was either pregnant or nursing a baby. I sometimes look at my Thomas, 7, and sadly think about how long it has been since I’ve slept with the weight and warmth of a baby on my chest.
Of course, it wasn’t always so romantic. Sleep deprivation was very hard on me, and I can remember waking at 3 a.m. to a crying six-month-old and truly wondering if God really existed.
Scott made up for many of my weaknesses and spent many nights bouncing a little one to sleep or going for long walks, stroller in hand, so I could nap. He encouraged me and rubbed my feet when nursing a baby was a more painful and gory experience than I had read about. He never encouraged me to quit, even though he knew I was suffering in that. Instead he told me I was doing well and he was grateful.
But in all of the hard parts, those years are the sign of the beauty of our marriage, and they allowed for the beauty and miracle of our children. When I would go out into the public eye and strangers would pop open their eyes and tell me that I was crazy, or ask in astonishment, “You’re not having any more, are you?!” I would wince internally and wonder at how they did not see the treasure I held in my arms or acknowledge the beauty that made the madness worthwhile.
Sometimes a person would give a polite nicety, “Wow, that’s a lot of kids! Good for you,” and end it with, “I could never do that.”
Hints that I should use birth control were made as though they were giving guidance to a well-meaning but ignorant and perhaps lorded-over young girl. What they failed to assume is that these children, this marriage, were something I had given of myself to receive. I gave to God my will, my body, my personal freedom and comfort. I gave that to him as a sign of my belief in the sacrament of marriage and my hope in his salvation and grace. We desired to give something beautiful to the world, and to God.
Scott and I look at this temporary world a little differently than some, I suppose, so it is only to be expected that many do not, or cannot, understand our choice to give up “freedom.” Even so, when people would say or insinuate that my gift to God must be burdensome, pitiable, or a waste, it took a small part of my joy-in-giving away.
On those days when I truly felt the need for help, or comfort, I could not ask for it because I knew it would confirm people’s idea that what we were doing was too much, crazy, and not realistic for modern people. If I was with a like-minded friend, I could open up and stop pretending that it was easy, because I knew that they knew – its not being easy did not change that it was the most important gift I had ever given or received.
With all of that said, I would like to share my thoughts on priestly celibacy. For some reason, I have heard an increasing amount of commentary on how the idea is simply too much, too hard for these “poor men.” People who will never be asked to make that gift to God – that gift of self – give their advice and seek to act as advocates.
Their very suggestion that the idea of celibacy is too much, even when done freely and in charitable and sincere good will, takes something away from the gift that these men are making. It seems these people have somehow missed the news that the majority of marriages are ending in adultery and divorce. It is not easier or more realistic to be married simply because it involves sex.
I am not going to get into priestly celibacy. There is a lot to be said, I’m sure, on both sides of the issue. I am talking about someone else’s personal, chosen gift of self to God, and our choice of being thankful and celebrating it, or criticizing and patronizing it. Marriage and priesthood are gifts that are only made by someone with a desire to do something heroic. Does our world really need less of this?!
The gift of self, when done truly as a gift and not an obligation, should be looked upon with wonder, and a little bit of awe. Some of us might not be called to offer those same gifts, and perhaps we feel they would be beyond our personal strength.
But don’t you think the person who is called, who is able, would prefer to hear “Thank you, Father, for giving yourself so completely to God and his Church. I think you are pretty amazing to do this in this kind of world. You are a visible sign of Christ. Would you like to come over for dinner and a beer?” instead of, “Man, I think it really stinks that you can’t be married. I can’t imagine having to go to bed alone every night. I sure hope this pope changes things for you!”? As though these men entered the priesthood on the grounds and hope that things would “change,” instead of with full knowledge and willingness to do this difficult thing that so many oversexed people can’t possibly fathom.
Is it impossible that a man can be celibate, chaste? Or is it only the sisters, who for some reason no one ever takes up the cause of marriage for, who can give themselves entirely to God without regret?
I believe that with God’s grace, these men are strong enough to be Christ to the world, even when it’s hard. And that they should know that the pains of their offering are giving something good, true, and beautiful to us.
The men who have given themselves to God, just like men and women who have given themselves to each other and to crying babies in the middle of the night who grow into not-always-virtuous young people and sometimes drive their parents to tears, should be encouraged, lifted up, edified, and believed in.
And maybe once in a while invited for dinner and a beer.
