Category: The Beginning

Standing at the kitchen sink, my eyes sting with tears. I am listening to the Classical Music station, which is in the midst of its Fall pledge drive. I want to contribute. I have been listening every day, even as they fund-raise. Again and again, in every possible way, the hosts cajole, encourage, beg, and plead for contributions. But I have nothing to give. Further, the hosts remind their listeners that every contribution to the station will also generate a matching contribution to the Oregon Food Bank, feeding the bodies of the hungry and the poor. I feel the stinging at the corners of my eyes, and for a moment, I look through the window with blurry sight.

I cannot contribute any money. Indeed, I have been wondering lately if we are “poor enough” to visit a food bank ourselves, and each day the radio station has brought this question to mind. I have been calculating our expenses. I have been trying to budget. I have been holding back on any personal or extraneous spending. But sometimes I buy a chocolate bar. We get mid-range coffee and have not yet made a switch to Folgers. We even paid a babysitter and went out for a little date for our wedding anniversary. Perhaps if we cut all of those things….Perhaps if I had not bought extra food and gifts for my son’s birthday, if I had not thrown him a little party, perhaps then we could make it, then we could break even. If I never bought any presents at all. Is it okay to go to the food bank, so that I can afford to throw a very small birthday party for my son? If I was able to get some free groceries, that could balance out the costs….My head spins. I am not too good to accept charity. I am not too proud to take a hand-out. But I don’t want to take something from someone else who is in greater need. And I feel unsure….How much personal sacrifice should we make, before we accept for ourselves the sacrifices of others (who donate food) on our behalf? I don’t know. I never thought I would be here, trying to figure this out.

The music returns, and for a few moments, I think about calling in. The station, the music, it’s beauty have been sustaining me these days. Every day, as I do dishes–there are always dishes–I can turn on the radio, for free, and listen to beautiful music. I can experience some of the greatest heights of human culture, the greatest moments of musical composition, that which speaks wordlessly, speaks to, empathizes with, and uplifts one’s soul. As I debate about food, my soul is still nourished. I cannot make a contribution, not right now, not today or any day soon, but I want to call in and thank them for this, for this gift of Beauty to one who can little afford it. I want to ask if someone would donate on my behalf. Because being able to listen to this is keeping me afloat right now. For whatever we lack in money, we have a library and a music station and thus access to the most beautiful things in the world. We are poor in funds, but the riches available to our souls–for free–are nearly boundless, as much as we can consume! I think about calling in, but I don’t. I still haven’t made up my mind about whether or not we can go to the Food Bank. And I don’t think I could make it through the phone call, not without bursting into tears. As much as we have in Beauty, I still feel our lack, and the pain of it, still stings.

Thus it is with heavy secret burdens that we arrive at my husband’s cousin’s wedding. I am miserably pregnant, and now, terrifyingly poor. My husband is worried. I have been deeply depressed. But my husband’s family doesn’t know about any of that. To them, we’ll appear to be living the good life: new job, new rental, no more deployments, and exciting new adventures. I’m a stay-at-home mom, which is quite a luxury to much of the world, and for most of my husband’s family too. Everything appears like it’s wonderful. I prepare to paste on a smile, and hope it doesn’t look as weary as I feel, lest I should have to explain the sigh beneath the surface.

Even still, I am glad we came. My husband’s family is a big, boisterous, bubbly group of working-class Catholics…construction workers, home-builders, blinds installer, lunch lady, school secretary, teacher, highway patrolman, and mommas and papas to gaggles of children. The mother of today’s groom has ten kids, my husband has five siblings, his other aunt has seven children, a friend has four….just a few families happily fill the church with a joyful bustle.

The church is glowing, cheerfully lit up and adorned with simple, hope-filled flowers. Little girls twirl in their dresses. Boys run in and out, back and forth, wrinkling their shirts, both laughing and grumbling. The sanctuary is full of life, in all its stages.

I try to embrace the happiness, joy, and hope of it all. For brief moments I do, but then I remember…. Without succeeding, I try to embrace the new life growing within my womb. I try to celebrate the mystery of motherhood, the privilege of carrying another soul inside my own body, next to my heart. I try to face the reality of our new financial hardship with courage, with humility, with all of those virtues that I thought I possessed but now find badly wanting! I try to find a way to lift my head above the waters, to catch my breath, to find my place, something to stand on, something to grab onto, some lighthouse to show me a path through this terrible fog inside my mind.

We settle our family into a pew, and again I remember to be thankful. Happy, healthy children. A faithful, loving, and patient husband. My babe-in-arms is a squirmy, crawling 10-month old. I walk with him to the back of the church, follow him as he crawls, lift him to my hip and sway, trying to catch glimpses of the Nuptial Mass. I can’t help remembering my own wedding, which feels so long ago now, just six years later. I was so perfectly happy back then. So full of hope. I wasn’t worried about anything. I never imagined being poor, or depressed, or miserable. I didn’t know where life would take us, but it all seemed such a grand adventure awaiting, a life-long honeymoon to come! So long as I could have my husband…

My husband. He suffered greatly in the Navy, getting the paychecks, housing, and perks that allowed us–me and the children that soon came along–to live comfortably and securely as we started our family life. I never had to worry about the bills getting paid, or having another mouth to feed. But for Jacob, it was awful. He was miserable in every way, except in knowing that I was alright, and that his family was well. But he toiled under a great burden of depression, misery… He had the opportunity to get a $70,000 BONUS if he signed on for three more years of service. That was certainly more money than we had ever had, or expected to have, at any one time. But it was out of the question. He was miserable. I wasn’t sure he’d make it another three years, and if he did, I wasn’t sure I would know the man he’d become, wasn’t sure that he would be able to recover himself from three more years of such affecting service.

So we left, without looking back. Prospects looked so good. We were so happy. My husband looked years younger and like he’d dropped a heavy pack from his shoulders, as his military contract finally came to an end. He was free. He had survived. We were moving on! That chapter was over for him. And this, this right here, this was supposed to be the happy time. The new chapter. The new adventure. Our Happily Ever After.

Instead, I am depressed, pregnant, poor, scared, ashamed.

I collect my crawling boy from the vestibule floor and bounce him vigorously, trying to keep him quiet. I desperately want to watch and hear the bride and groom say their vows, my favorite part. I manage to watch from the back, focusing on them as they transform from separate persons to become husband and wife, with glowing eyes and enraptured smiles. As the words of promise leave their mouths, I vividly recall and mouth my own sacred vows:

I, Shannon, take you, Jacob, for my lawful husband, to have and to hold, from this day
forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.

Why, I suddenly think, why did I never think the negative side of those vows would have to be fulfilled? I realize, with some shock, my maiden naivete. That as I stood at the altar, I, perhaps like nearly every blushing bride and groom, only imagined the good parts: for better, for richer, in health, forever! Why would we ever be unhappy? Certainly we would never be poor. We were humble starting out of course, but everything was just going to get better and go up from there! Health, happiness, and comfort were all coming our way!

Alas. Although I said the words, I very much did not expect, “for worse” or “for poorer.” I never expected to need those vows. I meant them. But I didn’t expect to have to live them. Yet here I was.

And rocking my squirmy boy, I remember too some words I had heard from Pope Francis, when he addressed a group of newly-weds, he said: “When I meet someone who is getting married … I say to them, ‘You are the ones who have courage!’ Because it is not easy to form a family, not easy to commit your life for ever; it takes courage.”

It takes courage.

This is a part of marriage that I never expected to experience. For worse. For poorer. Indeed, it is the first time any doubt about my marriage has fluttered across the surface of my mind–not doubt about my marriage, itself, but rather, the realization that my marriage is fallible, that it could be difficult, it is difficult, and that, that if I don’t rise to the challenges now, it could even–no, I can’t quite suggest it, because I won’t let it happen–but now, for the first time, I can see how a marriage, even my own marriage, could fall apart. I see how the strain of my depression, the stress of our too-small duplex, the pain of the financial limitations and worries…I admit that I see how it could be too much, that beneath such weights a marriage bond could snap, especially if little or no dedicated efforts were made to care for it…

My husband.

I, Shannon, take you, Jacob, for my lawful husband, to have and to hold, from this day
forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.

In the back of the church, witnessing the wedding of a young couple full of hope and joy for their newly married future, I am profoundly moved. My own circumstances, as painful as they are for me, are still a living out of these very vows, a part of this journey of marriage. I didn’t picture this on my wedding day. But this too, as much as the white dress and maiden blush, this too, is marriage. The facing of real trials, genuine hardship and uncertainty, with faith, together.

Yes, it does take courage.

That is part of the great mystery of marriage, “not for the faint of heart,” as a dear old friend would say. When one stands at the altar, it is a true act of faith and love, to say, without caveat or reservation: I vow to love you forever, to be forever yours, whatever happens, under whatever circumstances, no matter what.

Till death do us part.

That is the vow. And I absolutely meant it then, and I still mean it now. I just understand it, in a way, for the first time. This, this right here, right now, what I thought was going to be my fairy-tale ever-after, this is my marriage. These are my vows. And now, now is the time I must muster myself to live up to them.

For Better or Worse.

For Richer or Poorer.

Till death do us part.

The Setting

We were in the car, driving down to a cousin’s wedding, when my husband broke the news. We had recently left the military and moved across the country. My husband had accepted his first post-Navy job offer, and I was, unhappily, newly pregnant. We were living in a crowded two-bedroom rental with our three current children, the youngest less than a year old, and another baby on the way. I had been feeling sick, stressed, miserable, and depressed, spending much of my spare time crying on the couch. After six years of military life, including long deployments and duty days (nights and weekends my husband had to stay at work all day and overnight), we had been looking forward to this period of our marriage with great joy and expectation. My husband could work a normal job, normal hours, no deployments, and we could enjoy a long-awaited regular family life. We weren’t expecting to be rich, just normal and incredibly happy. What could be happier than my beloved husband coming home every night?

But I wasn’t happy. Instead, I had been a total disaster. The new pregnancy I thought I wanted, when just weeks ago I had been glowing with hope for our future, had quickly became a heavy burden, as the reality of it, along with the symptoms of nausea and exhaustion, set in. We wouldn’t really fit into our current rental with four children, at least not comfortably, which would mean moving again. We had moved far away from family to pursue other dreams and friendships, and I was feeling stressed, guilty and confused about that decision. Really, after six years of military life, of being provided for and having the military decide where we would live and work, the reality of making a decision, any major decision, was causing me terrible stress. I was worried about making the best decision for my spouse and for our children. I was stressed about the “new responsibility” of paying the housing and utility bills, and healthcare costs. I was worried about having enough time and energy to care for a new baby and our other children. In addition to these concerns , I had been swimming in what was most-likely a hormone induced depression, leaving me feeling hopeless and barely able to function, as if a dark cloud followed me everywhere, generally pushing me to the couch for another cry and lonely stare out the window.

Thus, it was not surprising that I didn’t want to make the six or seven hour drive, with three offspring in the van, to a cousin’s wedding, where I would need to smile and act happy, and avoid the wine while also trying to hide my early pregnancy. The last thing I wanted was to be congratulated! I wasn’t in the mood to have Aunts and Uncles and Cousins discussing this pregnancy that I could barely tolerate, nor was I in the mood for celebrating anything, perhaps marriage in particular. I might have been in the mood to drink copious amounts of wine, had that been a viable option. But my husband wanted to go. And I wasn’t expecting to find myself any happier by spending the weekend on the couch, blankly staring out the window. Perhaps a change of scenery would help somehow. The little too-small house was still strewn with boxes that didn’t fit anywhere. At least I could spend a day or two without tripping over them. Without enthusiasm, I agreed to the trip. We would divide up the driving into two days, so we would spend Friday night at a hotel en-route. That was part of my reason for going. To spend a night in a clean, uncluttered, nearly-a-vacation hotel. It sounded almost refreshing. So we threw the few pieces of luggage in the van and started on our way on Friday night, the kids watching a movie, then drifting off to sleep, leaving my husband and I with some precious time to talk on the road.

I always cherish that idle time with my spouse beside me, the open road ahead of us, the slowly changing scenery around us, the hours to spend in each others’ company, talking about anything and everything. And now, despite my depression, my struggle, even my nausea, it was good to be in the van, good to be beside my still-beloved spouse, and after so much change, stress, and business, it was good to be able to talk. It was at this point, as the children drifted off to sleep, as we curved through the growing darkness, that my beloved broke the news…

The Shock

“I don’t want to add to your stress, but I have to tell you this.” My body stiffened. My husband never had ominous announcements to make. What could be worse than how I had already been feeling about everything? Or than the actual challenges of our circumstances, and this new pregnancy. What could he possibly need to add, right now?

“I got our first paycheck.” Yes, right. His new job. His first paycheck. Out of the military. That should be good. He’s working. We’re getting paid–

“It was low. $790.”

My breath caught, my body tensed. I gripped the arm rests on the car, as a sense of panic was tightening my chest, tensing my jaw, widening my eyes. I did the math in my head. It’s not too difficult… not quite $800 for one week of work, times 2 is $1600, not quite, for two weeks of work, which means less than $3, 200 of monthly take-home income. Only $3,000 a month!

Are taxes really that high? How could I be so stupid? How are we going to live? Our rent is nearly half that, not counting utilities. We normally spent around $500/week on…stuff. Life. I had been expecting around $4,000/month take-home pay, maybe $4,500. Not $3,000! By my rough calculations of our expenses, we would be around $1,000 short of funds, per month! We could make cuts, but how could we cut $1,000 in monthly expenses? And how had I been so foolish to move across the country for a new job and not realize how much our paychecks would actually be!!!

In that moment, I felt panic. I felt shock. I felt stupid. But I also felt the need to pull myself together. To muster myself to meet this challenge. To save my marriage. To keep a roof over our heads and, literally, food on the table, the heat on for the winter.

Up until this moment, I had been wallowing in depression over an unwanted pregnancy, laid low by exhaustion, stress, anxiety. But this was a new level of challenge, and I would need to pull myself together. Because this is real life. This is confronting a real hardship. This is being an adult. A parent. A wife.

For the first time in my life, I wonder if we will be able to pay our bills. I never imagined I would be in a situation where that would be a question. Having grown up wealthy, privileged, and with the unconscious expectation of being wealthy myself (without even thinking about what is required to be wealthy), it is a scenario with which I have no familiarity. I feel fear, even terror, and certainly shame at this possibility, but most strikingly, I feel the biting pangs of pride. My parents are still wealthy, but I desperately don’t want to have to crawl home to my parents to ask for money or help. But how will we make it?

I turn to look at my husband. He is burdened, disappointed. He feels responsible, as if guilty of this. He knows I have been depressed and struggling, and now it appears we won’t be making enough money to cover our needs, much less our wants. “If only I had stayed in the military, we’d have more than enough….”

No. I stop him. No. He was miserable in the military. He was deeply depressed. I was losing him. He was losing his soul. Nothing is worth that. Nothing. No amount of money or financial security. I need him to be okay. And I know he needs me to be okay too. We are in this together.

We’ll figure it out, I tell him. I take his hand and squeeze. He squeezes back. And we begin. We begin talking, strategizing. What can we cut? Where can we save? How can we add additional income?

As our car weaves through the hills, my emotions are a tangled jumble: panic, fear, guilt, embarrassment, frustration, shock…but also a bit of courage, gratitude, and real love. I can turn and look back at my three children sleeping peacefully in their car seats, healthy, content, beautiful. I can hold my husband’s hand and be assured of his unwavering love and commitment to our marriage, our children. Putting my depression to the side, we are all healthy and well. We are not facing death, disability, divorce, or some sort of irreparable crisis. There is much to be grateful for. Most of all, we love each other. My husband is still my best friend. He loves me. And even though I don’t feel very loveable or very lovely, I love him.

Quite late we arrive at the hotel, and carry sleeping children into bed. I try not to think about how much the hotel costs, because I now know we can’t afford it, whatever it is. In the morning, I try to enjoy the sweetness of being a family sharing a hotel room, my children’s delight at waking up in a new place, the sense of adventure in just walking down to breakfast. This is exciting. I remember going on trips as a kid, and marvel at the fact that I am the parent now, in the role of the grown up, with grown up concerns. But even with the weight of them, I can still enjoy these moments, the enthusiasm of my children, their many joys, the joy of being together.

Still, I am looking at the world differently. I will be poor now. I have been voluntarily poor before. But I always had a generous bank account waiting for me. And I wasn’t paying rent then, or caring for a family. When I volunteered to be poor, for a time, a time that was clearly chosen and temporary, I had made sacrifices. I had not eaten at restaurants. I had not bought items. I lived with extreme simplicity. But now I feel the very real difference of having that imposed upon me. I wonder about things that I know are trivial, and yet I feel the burden of the enforced sacrifices that I see before me. Will I be able to afford my fancy face wash? My body wash? My preferred brand of deodorant? What about the coffee I like? The fancy dark chocolate? I recognize that, facing our current situation, every luxury should be cut. I had always assumed myself virtuous enough to cut these little luxuries “if necessary,” and I know that I can, but I feel the very real difference between the hypothetical and the actual.

And those are just the little things. But there will be big things too. We won’t be able to afford vacations. Activities for the children. Groceries? I really don’t know if we’ll be able to afford groceries! And, of course, the biggest one: A house! We had hoped to buy a house. Now, my hope shall be, oh this hurts, to not be evicted!

Suddenly I understand the fear, the stress, the pain of poor families. The sacrifices they must make. The things they can’t have or can’t do. The things they cannot buy for their children. It’s one thing to not be able to afford something for myself. It’s quite another to not be able to afford something I want to give to my children, or worse, something that they actually need. It’s scary. It’s heavy. And it hurts.

Quietly, I carefully collect every consumable item I can take with us from the hotel….the soaps, the half-used mini shampoos. I slip some oranges and raisins from the breakfast bar into my purse to serve as a snack on the road. I have never done that before. Not like this. Now, we can’t afford a snack from the gas station, and I don’t know if we’ll be able to afford shampoo. If we’re going to cut $1,000/month from our expenses, even drops of shampoo will need to be measured and counted.

I am scared, but I also feel resolved. I have been self-absorbed in my depression. Now I have a concrete challenge to face, one that is outside myself, one that requires my attention, energy, and sacrifice. My husband needs me. My children need me. And I need to face this challenge for them.