My adolescent life was a playground swing.

Back and forth:

Between Mom

And

Between Dad.

I never knew where to go, nor where I belonged.

I didn’t know where home was, for I couldn’t be close to them both.

I am writing from a deep place in my heart that is crying out, pleading to be heard, like the persistent widow who cries out until justice is hers. (Cf. Luke 18:1-8). If I could make my voice as loud as thunder, I would cry out to every bishop, priest, deacon, and lay pastoral leader to consider if they are doing what is necessary to accompany the newly married, the divorced, and the children from broken families.

In life, more often than not, we do not get the apology that is due to us. And when we do, it frequently falls short of the words we need to hear. I have come to realize, for my personal situation, there are no words big enough, or deep enough, or sincere enough to compensate for what has been stolen from me.  With this realization, I finally stopped asking and waiting for the apology that does not exist. My pastor says, “It takes one to forgive.  And it takes two for reconciliation.  One can forgive without reconciliation, but one cannot have reconciliation without forgiveness.” I chose forgiveness.

Though I hid, self-protected and continued to wear the masks that I thought gave me some value, Jesus never stopped seeking the real me underneath.  He never abandoned me.  All the while, He was patiently working on me, preparing my very calloused and guarded heart to be broken again through the second loss of my dad.  But this break would be healing and redemptive, because it would finally let Love Himself enter in.  And He came in through another father, His father and now mine – Good St. Joseph.  I truly believe everything started with my simple prayer after that providential homily.  St. Joseph became the guardian of my healing journey and continues to be my strong and faithful pillar along the way, in both explicit and sometimes hidden ways.

I have heard divorce described as an “ontological wound,” a wound at the very core of our identity. Our parents who created us divide, and so we in turn feel divided. This is certainly strong language, but I think it puts a finger on the intimate and vulnerable wound experienced by adult children of divorce. The pain of the wound can lead us to cry out to God for healing.

Last Friday, June 16th, I was blessed to attend the wedding of a dear friend of my husband's. Like me, my husband's friend is an ACoD. When I realized earlier this week that his wedding date coincided with the Solemnity of the Sacred Heart, I decided that I wanted to make a special wedding card for the couple.

I was at a crossroads. My heart ached for this love to be true, I wanted so badly to believe it was for me, but I was so scared what that might mean. How silly! My life had changed 180 degrees over those 7 years, so what the heck was I waiting for? What was I scared of? I was scared that God would change his mind, like I thought love did when my parents divorced when I just a baby...

Spiritual direction is the art of guiding someone or being guided to greater growth in the spiritual life and ultimately to the goal of becoming the saint that God has created each one of us to be. Put simply: our goal in this life is to get to Heaven, become holy, and enjoy eternal happiness, and a spiritual director helps us to get there. The true spiritual director is the Holy Spirit, and so both the spiritual director and the directee must be in relationship with the Holy Spirit through prayer and the sacraments to be able to listen to His voice and follow where He is leading.

As many of you can surely relate, my relationship with my mom was never easy. I struggled with how to relate to her, agonized over her health, and beat myself up for never “feeling” love towards her. But one thing I have learned throughout this whole ordeal, that I will likely need to be reminded of many times, is that love is an act of the will. Feelings are a side-benefit. I rarely felt excited or looked forward to calling my mom on Sundays. But I did it, and this act showed my love towards her, even though I did not feel it. 

I discovered at age eleven that my parents’ marriage was breaking up. The words “broken family” became my reality. Fear of abandonment and loneliness took over and silence filled my days as I continued my everyday childhood activities.  My father was busy living his life while my mother was totally overcome by sorrow and betrayal.  Being an only child, I became silent and quite withdrawn.  What a deep hole was being forged in my heart!