At the end of every March for Life I see them: Dozens of women in front of the U.S. Supreme Court in Washington holding up signs that read, “I Regret My Abortion.” They share their stories each year with tens of thousands of pro-life marchers – and writers like me. They talk about the pain abortion inflicts on women. They give faces and names to an issue.
Someone asked me recently if there was a defining characteristic I would highlight about the experience of being Hispanic Catholic in the United States. So many came to mind: resilience, communality, generosity, openness, religiousness, among others. I chose joy.
When my husband and I had been married all of three months, we signed up to become a team couple with our local Engaged Encounter program. We had enjoyed the retreat that we took as a requirement of our pre-Cana preparation, surprised to find it fun and helpful, not the drudgery we’d expected.
I wonder if you can tell the age of a person by the number of dead people’s phone numbers he still has saved on his phone? It could be like judging the age of a tree by the rings on its core.
Dorothy Day thought that the parable of the workers from Matthew’s Gospel (Mt 20:1-16a) justified a Catholic’s support for the idea of a living wage. She wrote, “He spoke of the living wage, not equal pay for equal work, in the parable of those who came at the first and the eleventh hour.”
Small sparks of feeling that become all-consuming conflagrations can happen at any time, even, sadly, as one is preparing for Mass.
I write, of course, from experience.
The details aren’t important. Life is hard sometimes. Living with others, even when we love and value them, can still be a challenge. Stupid arguments encourage thoughtless pronouncements that turn seeming scud missiles – destructive enough – into H-bombs, where exteriors look unharmed while inside there is startling, shriveling death.
Our family has a beautiful vegetable garden, one that I spend a great deal of time in during the summer months. Our raised beds are bursting with life and flavor. My mother has a green thumb, and I learned early on in life that gardens are the work of years, not months, and that gardening is work to be done in all seasons.
Hassled for a sign, I imagine worn out, Jesus turns to his disciples. As if giving something of a pop quiz, frustrated He asks them, “But who do you say that I am?”
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