To Light Another Candle

I had a hard time on the Solemnity of the Immaculate Conception.

We all know how I feel about holy days of obligation. They are a matter of extreme anxiety and scruples for me. For years, I would drag myself to Mass on Sundays and holy days, despite religious trauma, despite chronic illness flares, sometimes despite not having a car and sometimes having to walk both ways for miles. Sometimes I would go to Mass twice because I didn’t feel like the first one counted. I did that because I loved Jesus, but also because I was terrified. These days, I’m mostly just terrified.

Due to the severe religious trauma,  I get panic attacks at the thought of confession, so severely that I haven’t been able to go in the longest time. I have been trying to return to Sunday Mass and at least stand in the foyer distracting myself on my phone, but that doesn’t always work out either. Lord knows I am doing my best. The memories associated with the Virgin Mary are particularly severe. The last time I tried to go to Mass on a Marian Holy Day of Obligation, I got so sick I was stuck in bed the rest of the night. I just can’t stand them.

This is my roundabout way of saying that I couldn’t go to Mass, and I could not in conscience shove my overstimulated twelve-year-old  on a bus to the evening Mass with her father, at the church with the deacon who triggered that panic attack. I have already had to apologize to her more than once about the things she’s heard at Masses in Steubenville, and explain that that’s not Catholic teaching but propaganda. There’s no neutral territory Catholic church in Steubenville; you need a car to get to one of those. The ones in town are churches where at least one cleric is determined to act like they’re performing their audition for an EWTN show, and you never know if they’re the one giving the sermon until you get there. So we stayed home.

I was going to force her to listen to and talk about the readings with me, but I didn’t. I gave up.

I remembered that my Advent resolution is to be merciful with myself, and I didn’t do anything.

Nothing was what I wanted to do, so I did nothing– at least not anything religious. Except that I lit one Advent candle, and asked the Virgin Mary not to hurt me. And as I prayed, I felt that she didn’t want to, which is new. Usually I assume she’d like to slap me in the face. I talked to her a little more: a few sentences, nothing very poetic. When the shudders started and I couldn’t stand to talk to her anymore, I asked Saint Michael to mediate. I told Archangel Michael what I’d say to the Virgin Mary if I dared.

This was either a mortal sin that will damn my daughter and me to hell, or the first step in seeing if the Virgin Mary could ever be an understanding mother to me instead of a terror.

Our glass manger scene from the dollar store was arranged in the middle of the Advent wreath like a mystery play in the round– Mary and the shepherds all of one size and a certain cheap sheen, Saint Joseph freakishly large and painted with a different glaze because we got him at a different dollar store after the first Saint Joseph broke. Jesus was nowhere to be seen, because we don’t put him in the display until Christmas eve. I thought about that for awhile.

On Saturday, Jimmy finished banging the car together. Serendipity is all fixed except for a coat of Rustoleum and the door, which we’ll replace with a junkyard piece as soon as we have the money. But when I turned her on, she went into “limp mode” and wouldn’t come out again. This has happened every once in awhile with increasing frequency since Jimmy replaced the wiring harness, and now it’s constant.  It will take awhile to figure out why because someone borrowed his code reader and didn’t give it back, and I can’t drive all the way downtown to use the parts shop’s code reader in limp mode. He’ll be back to work on her again as soon as he gets a few free hours. But we’re stuck unable to drive to Mass this weekend, and since it’s Sunday there’s not even a bus.

I lit two Advent candles, and asked Jesus not to hurt me. So far He hasn’t. So far I feel sad and traumatized and hungry, but I don’t feel like Jesus is going to hurt me. I thanked Him for that.

Maybe this is me growing adamant in my sin. Or maybe this is me accepting that Jesus will have to come along and dwell within me in His own time, because I can’t possibly force Him to come by following rules. There is no one I’m capable of being except myself, and my self is so injured right now that I can’t follow the rules. I am the only person I can be before God.

One day all the candles will be lit, and Christ will be here. All I can do in the meanwhile is be me.

As I think about that, I realize again that I really do believe in Christ. Earlier this year I wasn’t so sure; I was just willing to live in the unknowing and have mercy on myself. Now I know. I don’t have all the answers, I’m not even very hopeful, but I am certain that Christ exists. That’s the first step.

Next week we’ll light another candle, and I’ll see where I am then.