Of Men and Mary Page 17

  My wife was mortified by the new me. I didn’t want to go to the same social gatherings and parties. I cleaned up my speech. I refused to see my wife as an object of my pleasure, but as my complimentary partner by using natural family planning instead of artificial birth control. Catholicism, for me, was now God’s plan for humanity’s happiness and fulfillment, possessing a truth and wisdom different from the world’s. No longer a bunch of burdensome rules with occasional benefits, it was life itself.

  “You’ve lost it!” she’d holler at me.

  “But I’m a better person,” I tried to reassure her. Since Our Lady of Medjugorje was asking that we make holy objects and the Scriptures visible in the home, I displayed a Bible. Then when I went to hang a crucifix in a prominent place in our home, my wife stopped me: “People are going to think we’re strange. You are not putting that in our living room!” Jennifer became so angry that just seeing a Miraculous Medal around my neck would cause her to snap, “Get that off! That’s so embarrassing. What are people going to say?” The more happy and faithful I became, the more she hated me. Her ire progressed to the point that if I came close to her, she’d move away. If I touched her hand, she’d yank it back from me, even directly in front of others. It felt so painful. In time, she wouldn’t even sit in the same room with me.

  “Dear Lord,” I’d pray. “Soften her heart. Help her to come to know the truth.” But time only made her worse. “What is happening? Why can’t she see that the new me is improved?” All who knew my wife would have said she had a naturally sweet disposition, but one day, in particular, it left her. I was standing in our bedroom walk-in closet when she stormed in, swearing and roaring with such fury that I felt myself tremble. It seemed as if someone had taken over my wife’s body: “Get rid of this religious stuff! Why are you going to Mass every day? You’re pushing this on our children! All our friends are talking about you. I can’t take it anymore!” Jennifer was petite at five feet-two and one hundred pounds; I was six feet tall and two hundred fifty pounds. Yet I was afraid of her.

  Standing sheepishly in our closet entryway with my head down, I wondered, “Lord, have I done the wrong thing?” I had tried to be gentle and slow in my expression of the faith, but even so, the people closest to me knew I was different. “God,” I asked, “do I save my marriage by burying my faith, though you will always know that in my heart I love you? Or do I continue doing what I feel is right?” I couldn’t imagine not openly practicing Catholicism and hiding my most cherished beliefs, and yet I was making my wife miserable. The thought came to me, “Perhaps God wants me to live alone for the rest of my life. Maybe I need to accept this as my suffering, as a penance for the sins of my past.” So I began to say a new prayer, “Dear Lord, not my will but yours. If you want me to be alone, I will be. I will never remarry and will support my wife for the rest of my life. Whatever you want, I accept. I trust in you.” For the first time in my life, I truly let go in complete surrender.

  Not long after that, my marriage, which had been in decay for seven years, deteriorated to the point that I resolved to give Jennifer her freedom. The day I arranged for divorce papers, my heart felt so heavy that I could hardly get to work. As I sat at my desk, I couldn’t function, for all morning I knew that I was going to leave work at noon to pick up a document that would end sixteen years of marriage. At the close of the day, I would come home to my wife and say, “I do not believe in divorce, but here are your papers if you wish to sign them. You can have everything: custody of the kids, the house, my share in the restaurant, all the money, and your freedom. I don’t want to make your life miserable. I’m so sorry. I just want you to be happy.” I buried my head in my hands and broke out in a cold sweat. It was 9 a.m., and I couldn’t imagine making it through the day. Before me on my desk was a small statue of the Pietà, the image of Our Lord’s crucified body lying across Mary’s lap. Looking at her, I said, “Blessed Mother, if this is not God’s will for my life, you have to intervene because I’m going to serve these papers to Jennifer.” At that moment, the phone rang.

  “Dave, this is Curtis from the prayer group.”

  I had seen Curtis at a prayer gathering I attended occasionally, and I didn’t know him at all well.

  “Curtis? What’s this about?”

  “Hey, uh, can I meet with you this morning?”

  “No, sorry. Today is a bad day.”

  “Um . . . I’d really like to meet with you this morning. Do you have a few minutes?”

  I didn’t know the guy well enough to fathom why he was calling me. “Today really isn’t a good day,” I reiterated. “What do you have in mind here?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  Irritated, I stated, “You’re going to have to tell me what this is about.”

  “Well,” he said, “I have a message to give you.”

  “A message?”

  “Well, there’s a young girl in the prayer group we’ve attended, and she told me I had to give it to you this morning.”

  Curiosity got the best of me, and I agreed to meet with him—not anywhere I would be noticed. “I’ll meet you at the park,” I offered. Once there, I was greeted by a big teddy bear of a man, “Tell me, again, what happened,” I urged.

  “Well, I have a cousin in the prayer group, a twenty-one-year-old girl who has a special gift. Our Lady speaks to her heart, and last night she was awakened in the middle of the night and asked to take down this message for you. She was also told it had to get to you this morning.” Then he handed me a plain, white, sealed envelope.

  “A message for me? I don’t even know her.” Sitting down next to him on a park bench, I opened the envelope and pulled out the message. It read:

  My dear son, this is your Heavenly Mother. I am speaking to you through my servant. God has heard your “yes.” He has suffered with you in your considerable pain, which will bear tremendous fruit. God has great designs for your life and your family, a plan to redeem and heal your marriage, and a plan to bring many souls to Christ through all of you. Heaven does not want your family separated. Do not give the papers to your wife. Have faith, and trust that everything is in my hands. You have given your life to me. You have consecrated your family to me, and they are mine. I will take care of them, and I will take care of you. Do not lose hope. Love. Believe. Put God in the first place, and I will be with you always until the end of time. I have placed something on my son’s heart for you.

  Tears begin to gush from my eyes. It was the most loving, wonderful, preciously beautiful letter from my heavenly Mother. In it were things that only God could have known about me. Suddenly, I had such hope. I believed with all my heart that things were going to be okay.

  Clutching the letter, moistened by my teardrops, I reread it, savoring each word, and this time, the last line jumped out at me: “I have placed something on my son’s heart for you.” At first, I thought I needed to go to a Catholic church as soon as possible and kneel before the Blessed Sacrament to ask the Lord what was on his heart; so I folded up the letter, put it back in the envelope, and stood up to go. Then another thought came. Maybe the “son” Our Lady was referring to wasn’t Jesus. “Curtis,” I asked, “Is there anything more?”

  Curtis stuttered and hesitated . . . “Well, uh, this might sound weird, but before I came here, I went to a chapel where I knelt down before a statue of Our Lady and said a prayer to her. At that moment, it felt to me like she placed something on my heart for you.”

  “What is that?”

  “You’re supposed to go tell your wife how much you love her.”

  “That’s it?” I thought. “I’ve done that a million times.” But because of the circumstances, I complied, believing I had to trust Our Lady was at work. Thanking Curtis profoundly, I left the park and drove immediately to Leatherby’s Family Creamery in Sacramento, the one remaining store in the family business. Before I got out of the car, I called my attorney to tell him to tear up the divorce papers. Then, silently, I said, “Mother, even th
ough I believe my wife’s heart is dead toward me, I’m going to honor you, and out of obedience, do what you’re asking of me.” With trepidation, I walked into the restaurant. Jennifer was behind the cash register, managing the store.

  “I have something to tell you.”

  “What?” she barked, refusing to look at me. “What is it?”

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Does it have to be right now? I’m busy, and I don’t want to see you.”

  “Please, humor me. Treat me like a human being.” Begrudgingly, Jennifer stepped to the side of the store, faced me, and crossed her arms. Careful not to touch her, I turned to her and said,” I just want you to know that you’re the most important person in the whole world to me; I never want anyone else, and I will never be married to anyone else. Everything I have is yours, always, and I love you.”

  My wife’s response was the silent stare of an ice queen—mean and hateful. She said nothing, and we parted ways as if I had given her a warrant for her arrest. As I walked back to my car, I noticed the sun fading behind the horizon, casting a bright orange, and yellow glow across the sky. Staring at the gentle beauty of the skyline, I cried out, “Mother Mary, how many times have I said similar words to her? Why did you ask me to do this again? You know it doesn’t work!” Yet that wasn’t entirely true, for unbeknownst to me, I had poured hot coals on Jennifer’s head, and they started to burn.

  Soon after that, a chain of terrible hardships struck my wife. One night, when she was shutting down the restaurant at closing time, two masked men with firearms stormed in and forced the eight people working as the closing crew to lie down on the floor. Jennifer was in the back room, counting the day’s receipts. When she heard the commotion, she put the money on her chair and sat on it. The assailants found her and threatened to kill her if she didn’t open the safe. Trying to be brave, she said, “No. I don’t believe your guns have any bullets, and we worked hard for our money.” Enraged, they grabbed her by the hair, threw her down, and shoved a gun in her face. At this, Jennifer lost control of her bowels and wet her pants, going into shock. Seeing the revealed money, the robbers then grabbed it and fled. After this traumatic experience, Jennifer was often overcome with fear for her safety. Her dreams were terrifying, and only with great difficulty could she return to work.

  Only days later, my wife’s brand-new, one-week-old status symbol was stolen right out of our driveway. She was going to be one of the “in moms,” driving up to her kids’ school in a big Suburban. And we hadn’t bought car insurance yet. About a week after that, while Jennifer was sitting on the floor, letting our oldest daughter, Kimberly, curl her hair, she looked up behind her at the very moment that my daughter dropped the curling iron, which landed on Jennifer’s eye. This left her in excruciating pain and concerned that her eye would go blind. One calamity after another occurred until she came to me one day and said, “I want to kill myself. When I drive around, I constantly think of driving into a telephone pole as fast as I can. I’m miserable. I hate my life. And you . . . you always seem to be so happy.”

  The only answer that came out of my mouth was, “You know, I receive great strength from going to Mass every day.”

  Despite my best efforts, things continued to deteriorate. On New Year’s Day, the Solemnity of Mary, Mother of God, I stayed in the church after Mass to pray. Ever since my trip to Medjugorje, my eyes leaked, so I looked around to make sure no one was in the building. “Good,” I thought, “I’m all by myself.” And then the tears came in droves.

  “Dear Lord, what’s going on?” I prayed. “Why are all these problems happening? My wife is tormented. My family is miserable. Every single day, I’ve prayed for her. I’ve offered thousands of sacrifices for her, and now she wants to die. . . She says she wants to run her car into a . . .” All of a sudden, I felt a tap on my shoulder. A lady whom I’d never seen was standing right next to me, even though I had just looked around the church, and no one had been there. She smiled at me with great kindness and said, “All those problems that you’re worried about, those are God’s answers to your prayers.” Then she turned around and walked out. “That’s weird,” I thought. “Who was she? And how could these bad things be God’s answers?”

  I didn’t understand. The only way I could see my prayers being answered was in my beautiful children, not in Jennifer’s trials and husband-directed religious persecution. My consolation came in noticing that, while she may not have been interested in the faith, my kids were taking to it. I often gave them things to read. I went into their rooms at night to pray with them. When their early teen years hit and they didn’t always want to pray, I prayed out loud to God in front of them on their behalf: “Help my daughter (or son) become a great saint; help her (or him) to be strong and holy,” and then I would trace the sign of the cross on their foreheads. At dinnertime, I’d always insert the subject of faith. When Lent came around in February, I asked my children as we sat around the table one evening, “What kind of sacrifices are you going to make for Lent?” I knew that question would set my wife off, but I took the chance.

  Each of my kids announced what they planned to do: “I’m going to give up chocolate” . . . “I’m going to give up TV” . . . “I’m going to give up soda” . . . “I’m going to pray the Rosary every day.”

  “Well,” my wife interjected, “aren’t you going to ask me what I’m going to do?” I looked at her, agog, afraid to say anything. “I’m going to go to daily Mass,” she stated.

  Gripping my chair to keep from falling out of it, I responded calmly, “That’s nice.” Then I hesitantly ventured to ask, “Why daily Mass?”

  “Because you’re always happy no matter how badly I treat you.”

  Turning her toughness into determination, my wife went to Mass every single day in Lent, and as a result, joy entered her heart. She actually began to speak to me, and our relationship improved. The dark clouds that had followed her lifted, changing her entire countenance and causing the lines in her forehead disappear.

  Come the end of Lent, I told my children, “There’s a penance service tonight at the church, where priests will be available to hear Confessions and prepare us for Easter. Would you like to go with me?”

  “We already went to Confession at school this week, Dad,” answered my kids.

  Then Jennifer, to my utter amazement, said, “I think I’d like to go.” I don’t think she had been to the Sacrament of Reconciliation since her very first and only Confession at age seven. I tried to act like this was normal. During the drive to church, I pleaded with God, “Please give my wife the strength to do this!” As she approached the confessional, her face turned pale, and she took a few deep, heaving breaths, as I held mine. When she sat down, face-to-face with a priest and her sins, she encountered a wonderful man, gentle and kind. When she was done confessing, he said to her, “God knows how hard it was for you to come in here. So for your penance, just say a single Hail Mary.” She came out sobbing.

  On the drive home, I mentioned, “You know, you’ve been given a great gift. Make sure you protect it because the devil will try to take away this peace that you have now.”

  She shot me a glare. “Why do you have to ruin everything?”

  That night at 1 o’clock in the morning, Jennifer woke me up, yelling, “Someone is in the house! Someone is here! David, wake up. I heard the door slam. Someone is in the house!”

  “I didn’t hear anything, dear,” I mumbled. Hysterical, she jumped up, turned on the lights, and without waiting for me, ran frantically through the house, opening doors and turning on all the lights. When she finally returned to our room, she sat on the edge of the bed, covered her face with her hands, and erupted in sobs.

  I wanted to hold her but hesitated for fear of making things worse. “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” I asked.

  When she caught her breath enough to speak, she shared, “I had a dream. . . not one like I’ve ever had before. It seemed so real. I’m not
sure it even was a dream. I was back in my father’s house with my family. I walked outside into the backyard, which was beautiful. The sun was bright, the sky was blue and filled with white and fluffy clouds. Flowers were in bloom everywhere. I ran into my dad’s bedroom, feeling so happy. Suddenly, I heard loud banging from outside his door. A hideous creature, ugly and gray with drawn skin, wanted in. It was—I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. I refused to open the door, but it kept on pounding with its fist, and I got so scared. . . I didn’t know what to do. Then I heard a woman’s voice: ‘You have nothing to fear. Just pray.’ There was a little, ceramic, white lamb on my father’s nightstand, so I picked it up and held it to my heart. Then I started repeating, over and over, the words, ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb.’ Clutching the lamb in my hands, I had the courage to open the door and scream, ‘Go away!’ The creature reached out and tried to take the lamb away from me, but I wouldn’t let go of it. At this, he grabbed the edge of the door, slammed it shut with a loud bang, and left. And that was the noise that woke me up.”

  The meaning of the dream, or vision, hadn’t dawned on my wife until I explained its symbolism, which in fact, was reality. She had just gone to Confession, so she was “back in her Father’s home,” the Church, where the spirit is refreshed with life and joy and comfort. The devil was angry that he had been cast out and was trying to get back into her soul, his old home. But Our Lady spoke to protect her, calm her fears, and reveal the importance of prayer. When Jennifer prayed to Mary and embraced the lamb, who is Jesus, she had the courage and strength to send away the demon for good.