“For I know the plans I have for you”, ‘says the Lord’. “They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.” (Jeremiah 29:11)
I’ve just started writing about my journey from ‘church lost’, to ‘church found’ and I’m already in the weeds. I have lost count of the number of drafts I’ve written.
It shouldn’t be this hard to write, but it is, because my journey begins with my earliest church experience — my Catholic years. My childhood years were, without a doubt, the most difficult years of my life, not because I was Catholic, but because I was growing up while being Catholic.
While growing up Catholic, I had some very difficult challenges to face. I was a super-sensitive child trying to cope with a very stressful family environment. It was not the ideal ground on which to grow my faith.
But I’m writing about how I felt then, not now. God has done a tremendous amount of healing in me since then and I no longer have a reserve of anger and bitterness on which to draw. Today, I feel a great deal of empathy towards my parents, who likely tried the best they could in a very difficult set of circumstances.
Also, I’m a mother, and I am only too aware of all the mistakes I made in raising my own. Who am I to cast stones? So, I’m giving you my parents’ back story in hopes that you, like me, will find empathy for them.
Pardonne-moi, maman et papa. Je vous aime et je comprends.
The Back Story
I’m French-Canadian — a proud descendant of Etiennette Lore, a “Fille du Roi” who sailed from Paris to Quebec City in 1672. Her mission was to find a good Catholic husband and raise good Catholic kids. By the time my mother came along, not much had changed.
My mother was a strict Roman Catholic who at one time dreamed of becoming a nun but was turned down due to ill health. Like many women of her day, marriage was the only other option.
The Second World War was nearing an end when my mother cast an anxious eye around the small town where she was living and found my dad.
He was a handsome, charming soldier, hiding a childhood of physical abuse. At the time, he was on leave to help his father run their very prosperous farm. She thought he was the answer to her search for security.
On the rebound, he was looking for a quick replacement. He married a woman who would have preferred to be a nun.
What could possibly go wrong?
A lot, as it turned out. Theirs was not a match made in heaven, but they had to stick it out as best they could because divorce was not an option for good Catholics.
Birth control was also not an option and so they went on to have six children, two of whom died in infancy; a boy, Yvon and a girl, Huguette. Another, my sister, Francine, was born with Downs Syndrome. Against my mother’s wishes, Francine was institutionalized at age five and never came back home. My father said it was for the best. My mother was devastated.
I don’t think my mother ever recovered from all these losses. As I reflect on my childhood, I recall an emotionally distant woman, unable to show affection, concern, or even interest in her family.
She found comfort in her faith. My dad would find comfort in alcohol, women, and maxed out credit cards.
This was the home I grew up in.
In my next blog, I’ll fill you in on some of what did go wrong, and how that impacted my earliest views of the church.
Looking forward to more❤️