Large, devout Catholic families stir up strong and conflicting feelings in me. On the one hand, there is an appreciation that verges on awe for the sacrificial witness embodied in these families. The Catechism says that large families are a sign of the generosity of the parents. Anywhere they go, these families are a sign of countercultural, sacrificial love, a love that does not come from this world. I admire the way these families embody their beliefs, suggesting a family life that is integrated, ordered to one thing: following Jesus Christ. On the other hand, there is the mixed experience I’ve had with these families in real life.
I am a revert to Catholicism. I grew up in a Catholic family, but drifted away in college. When I reverted, I had visions of myself with my own large family, including a submissive wife who would join me at church every week. A few years into following Christ, and it is clear that His plan for me was very different than that vision I once had for myself.
I have two children, gifts from God who I love dearly. Due to health concerns, more children are not likely for us. A large family, or at least having more than two children, was something I have wanted for a long time, even since before my conversion. Giving up this dream of a large family was painful, and it was a difficult time for our marriage. During this time, I stood for God’s truth as best I could, but also regret some of the things I said and did. For some reason, God did not want me to have the large family I wanted for myself.
I cry a lot more than I used to. Before, I thought I was mostly calm and rational. But at my core, I am sensitive and emotionally volatile. These are weaknesses, but with God’s grace, I’ve discovered they can also be strengths. Being volatile means being quick to snap in frustration, but also quick to sense awe and beauty. Being sensitive means I can be easily hurt, but I can also feel another’s pain and sense where they might need a kind word or a gentle touch. God has shown me that I am more of a volatile, artistic type at heart, though I can still do a good job putting on the calm husband, father and engineer persona when I need to.
My wife has not become more submissive to my desires, and if anything, the opposite has happened. I have come to enjoy serving her and helping her be the best woman and mother she can be. Around the time of my conversion, she was launching into a career as an oncologist. She has blossomed into an extremely dedicated and conscientious physician who puts enormous efforts into giving her patients the very best care she possibly can. My faith has helped me see how important her work is. It also helps me to see that one of the most important parts of my vocation is to serve and care for her so that she can care for her patients.
Despite my best efforts, and probably because of some of them, my wife is still not an overt believer, and puts no value on observance. Out of love for me, she joins me at church every few weeks or so, but my efforts at “evangelizing” her have all failed. I’ve also made attempts to evangelize other family members, some with little successes, and some without. These efforts risked creating rifts with family members, although thankfully this has not come about.
All this is to say, following Christ has cost me something: my ego; my dreams for myself; accepting the size of my family with patience, humility and gratitude; my self-understanding; painful marital conflicts; and risking family relationships.
About a year ago, I made forays into meeting other Catholics with the view of making friends with similar faith values. I have always been a bit of a loner, but since my reversion I see this as mostly a flaw that should be corrected. I made a few acquaintances in these circles, but the social life often felt insular. There were awkward moments — offhand comments about my wife, assumptions about my family, even jokes that left me feeling more like an outsider than a brother. While there are luminous exceptions, the overall impression was that I didn’t quite belong socially, even if we are spiritually family.
And this is why the emotions stirred up by these portraits of idealized, glossy magazine large Catholic families are so complex. It represents a lifestyle I admire, and once wished I could have. It is not what God wanted for me, and I am still hurt over that fact. But in my contact with these groups, I can see how imperfect they are, and how large and profound their blind spots are. It is a community I no longer want to be a part of, at least not in the way I once envisioned.
Mainstream Catholic publications in the US portray the large, devout family as normative and aspirational. There have been a couple of recent columns in a major Catholic newspaper describing how deeply integrated Catholic communities have spontaneously formed in neighborhoods around a major US city. The columns show how these families share their lives and faith in a comfortable suburban setting. When portraits like these are published, I can see how they could be very encouraging, uplifting and inspiring. At the same time, Christ did not call us merely to comfort, but to follow him into deep water.
At the risk of piling on, these families represent only one way of being Catholic, and one that while culturally central is statistically not the norm. It is perhaps much more common than we Catholics admit in public for spouses to have uneven levels of devotion. These are painful, humbling and difficult relationships. They require patience from both spouses, and for the believing spouse it can be very trying to wonder: why has God given me the gift of faith but not my spouse? Why has He put me in this impossible position? How do I best love my nonbelieving spouse? Will I be with her in heaven? And in these relationships, following Christ means insisting on Mass attendance and fidelity to the Church’s teaching in marital life, a sword that cares not for tender feelings but cuts through the heart of the household.
As with suffering of many kinds, when offered up as a participation in Christ’s own suffering, it can bear enormous spiritual fruit. Through my difficulties, I believe I have grown in humility and patience. I have also come to form spiritual friendships with Saints and holy people who had similar life situations. It is encouraging to consider that some of the holiest saints were in exactly the same situation: Saint Monica patiently waiting for her son, and Saint Rita living with an abusive husband.
My deepest spiritual connection has been with Blessed Elisabeth Leseur, who lived for around 12 years as a devout Catholic woman married to an atheist. Her writings are luminous with grace. Year after year, she commits herself to greater gentleness, service and love to everyone especially her dear husband, despite enormous physical, spiritual and emotional trials. After her death from illness, her husband Felix, the onetime atheist, was so moved by her late wife’s lifelong gentleness, and the spiritual depth of her writings, that he converted and became a priest. Her example shows that bearing suffering honorably, with the gentleness, patience and love that comes from Christ, moves souls in a way that merely human efforts never can. Her example reminds me that while my vocation may not look like the glossy portraits of Catholic family life, it can still be a path to holiness.