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Contents © 2000
by Jim Holman.
All rights reserved.

JANUARY 2000 CONFESSIONS

WE EXPECT HAPPINESS

The reptilian Jesuit (hood-lidded eyes, a dry, almost lipless grin) who served as my spiritual advisor during two of my college years, once proclaimed, "A man should think about himself for three minutes a day, during his examination of conscience. After that, he shouldn't be able to stand thinking about himself any more." He was fond of such statements, fond of blowing contrary to the prevailing wind -- in this case, the tendency of the age towards intense self-contemplation.

However contrary, it isn't bad advice. I try not to self-obsess, but before I got married, I had several deep moments of doubt, almost too deep for a man my age (then 22). They were more than I knew what to do with, more than I knew how to glean anything from. Like a mountainous fogbank, they were too big to define, too amorphous to grapple with -- they just hung there, gray and miserable. What was I doing? Was this what I really wanted? Was this what God wanted? A Legionary of Christ once admonished me to give God the first chance, and told me of his own heartbreak upon entering the seminary. I didn't take his advice -- would I regret it one day?

I see now why it's called taking the plunge -- by marrying and starting a family, I was giving up ever more of my illusions of autonomy. I was carried along willy-nilly by a current of events, and now, as I ensconce myself in what may be the family home, I find myself in another cloudbank -- what am I doing?

My new, bigger house scares me. The payments are not unmanageable, but I will need to make a certain amount every year for many years to keep them up. And not just the house, but what it represents. We bought a four-bedroom house because we imagine that we will have at least a few more children. What will they cost, financially and otherwise? "The Lord will take care," my mother consoles, but why should He? The old Jesuit I mentioned earlier once gave a sermon telling the story of a woman who had nine children, four of whom left the Church. "And she was a great saint, so don't be surprised if it happens to you," he warned with wicked glee.

A sign that we are meant for heaven -- though we enter the world cold, naked, and howling, almost from the first, we expect happiness. We expect things to be perfect. I think this is why children invariably learn "no" before "yes." It is the same reason that we complain without effort, while we must be taught to count our blessings. What draws our attention, what the child needs to address with "no," is what is imperfect. This doesn't make much sense, since imperfection surrounds us always. Why should we expect anything else? But we do.

Further, I assume the level of comfort and well-being that has surrounded me in my own life to be normal, when it is in fact far above that of the majority of the world. Happily married parents who loved me, financial security, good job, decent health, decent education -- the list of my blessings is long, while my sufferings are few.

These blessings are, of course, from the Lord. It is hard to remember that the sufferings -- my little ones and the great ones of others -- are from the Lord as well. I am not so mired in earth as to suppose that those who suffer greatly are being punished for their sins, or that they are outside the circle of the Lord's chosen. (There is a wonderful line from an obscure little novel entitled Mr. Blue that comes to mind to prevent this: "The cross is the gift God gives to His friends.") Nor do I suppose that the wealthy are beloved by God. But I still associate earthly happiness with grace, still hope that if I remain as faithful as I can, my life will be free of calamity. I will not lose my job, will not lose my home, will not contract a terrible disease. In short, I will not suffer the fate of God's upright servant Job.

This is patently silly, as I was recently reminded. A young woman I know with two small children and a third on the way, a woman who radiated strength and vitality, was recently diagnosed with leukemia. She lost the baby, and she may lose her life. After the initial rush of pity and concern, self-love leads a soul to imagine being in such a position oneself, and then, in the position of her husband, facing the prospect of working and raising two kids without a mother. Good Lord.

First, there is the childlike faith that all will be well. Then, after a little suffering and a little insight, the certainty that all cannot possibly be well. Then, after a little reflection, the conscious reliance on grace to ensure that all will be well. And finally, Lord willing, the true knowledge that whatever comes, however awful, all things work together for good for those that love God. Anything less is naivete, rightly subject to the mockery of the unbeliever and the abuse brought on by earthly tragedy.

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