OF ALL THINGS VISIBLE AND INVISIBLE: Professing the Creed for the Year of Faith
by Melanie Bettinelli on November 08, 2012
CREDO: Professing the Creed for the Year of Faith
OF ALL THINGS VISIBLE AND INVISIBLE
When Melanie first emailed me and asked if I’d be willing to write a post for her series on the Nicene Creed, I immediately knew which phrase I would pick, if it were available. “Of all things visible and invisible” has captured my imagination since the first time I heard the Nicene Creed, in a Bible class on comparative religions in my Presbyterian high school. I imagined that my post would mirror what my imagination has always conjured up around this phrase. It would be airy, ethereal, and would encompass that mystical spiritual world of angels, demons, and saints. It would unveil for my readers the unseen battle that rages all around us, and explore how our visible, human actions correspond to the unseen realm.
I was a little worried about the timing, since I knew my newest son would only be six weeks old when my post was up, but I was so smitten with the nebulous shape my unwritten post had taken in my imagination that I threw caution to the wind and committed myself to writing the post, post-partum woes be damned.
Last week Melanie emailed me to remind me about the post and ask if I wanted to pass on it. I was sorely tempted. My can-do attitude from the end of my pregnancy vanished in the face of a cascade of post-partum difficulties, all eclipsed by that most dreaded affliction, post-partum depression. I’m no stranger to post-partum depression. I’ve wrestled with it after every child save one. But I’m never prepared for how utterly soul-crushing it can be. Sometimes it just makes life seem a little dreary, bland and colorless. Sometimes it makes getting out of bed hard, harder, and nigh impossible. Sometimes it makes even the smallest task, like unloading the dishwasher, seem insurmountable. Sometimes it reduces me to tears, day after endless day. But this time it’s taken a bit of a different form. This time, all that I once held dear, that knew for sure, that I took on faith, that I believed in, all of that seems…invisible. Vanished.
God seems lost to me. I feel like I’m praying to a void, and I’m having trouble convincing myself that I ever felt otherwise. Hope, faith, belief, they all seem to have slipped out of my grasp, in such a way that I can’t remember what life was like when things were different. I look at my children, all conceived through the mysterious non-workings of NFP, and I love them, but I wonder, “why am I doing this? Why am I following these teachings, why do I believe these things?” I can’t remember the faith and conviction I once had, and worst of all, I don’t really care much anymore. I’ve skipped Mass on several Sundays, telling the Ogre that I don’t feel well enough to go, that the baby is too cranky, that I’m still post-partum so I get a dispensation, when really I just don’t care. It seems unimportant and irrelevant, God and Christ and praying and all that. None of it seems to have any connection to my life, nor does any of it seem real to me anymore. It’s all just invisible.
But following the strictures of the Church, the wishes of my husband, and plain old habit, we had Lincoln baptized two weekends ago. Baptisms take place in a church, and usually after a Mass, so I bit the bullet and went.
For the first time ever, all three of our mobile children were still, quiet and well-behaved in Mass. Lincoln slept soundly in the sling. My brother-in-law and sister-in-law and their children came to visit for the baptism, to be Lincoln’s godparents, and they sat at one end of our collective gaggle of children while the Ogre and I sat at the other. My husband held my hand while I looked up at the huge crucifix in the Oratory and listened to the Gospel reading about Bartimaeus:
So they called the blind man, saying to him,
“Take courage; get up, Jesus is calling you.”
He threw aside his cloak, sprang up, and came to Jesus.
Jesus said to him in reply, “What do you want me to do for you?”
The blind man replied to him, “Master, I want to see.”
Jesus told him, “Go your way; your faith has saved you.”
Immediately he received his sight
and followed him on the way.
I wish I could say that I had some thunder-clap moment of inspiration, that Christ handed me my faith back as surely as he returned Bartimaeus’s sight, but I didn’t. I just looked at the crucifix, at God dying on a tree, eternally suffering for us and with us, and thought, well, what does it matter, what I feel? What does it matter, how things seem to me right now? I might not be able to see beauty or the truth of our faith right now. It might indeed be hidden from me. But just because it is invisible does not make it any less real, nor does it lessen my duty to it. Like Christ on the cross, I might feel abandoned right now, like God has turned his face from me. But that doesn’t mean I can hop down off the cross and say, “forget this.”
Instead, I’ve spent the last week doing some spiritual reading, even though I didn’t want to. Because I didn’t want to. I’ve prayed more, even though it feels like no one’s listening. I’ve made a point of saying a prayer with the kids before bed, even though I’d rather skip it and just send them on their way so I can get down to some serious TV-watching. I’ve dusted off my Creighton manual, heaved an enormously martyred sigh, and prepared myself to do battle with NFP again. And when I’ve been tempted to say, “forget this,” I’ve made myself go and stand in front of the crucifix that hangs over our front door. When I’m face-to-face with Christ on the cross, I just can’t bring myself to say those words.
It’s times like these when I am so grateful for how very visible the Catholic faith is. Ours is not the faith of a bare, clean, proper cross, hanging on a wall. Ours is a faith of a dying God-man, bloody and torn, hanging dreadfully from all the crosses in our churches and our homes, eternally suffering with us. Ours is the faith of the Eucharist, the body and blood of Christ. Not symbolic crackers and grape juice but Christ’s actual body and blood, broken for us a thousand times over so that we can see, touch, and taste his love and grace. Ours is the faith of the saints, pictured everywhere in statue and image, to remind us of what we ought to be. Ours is the faith of the Virgin Queen, whose arms are always open, always ready to give succor and relief, even when we may not feel it. Our faith is visible, so visible. It’s visible because we need it to be so. We can’t see the spiritual realm with our physical eyes. We can’t see God, Christ, Mary, the saints and angels and demons. Sometimes we can feel them, but sometimes we can’t, and that’s why Christ gave us a Church so tied to the visible, the tangible, the physical and the human. Because we are human and we need to see. We need to see so that even when having faith seems impossible and we feel utterly abandoned, we are reminded of Christ on the cross, and how he stayed and suffered the same, and so much more, for our sake. So that even in what seems like the darkest night, we are never alone, and never without sight.
What are your thoughts? What else can we learn from “of all things visible and invisible”?
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Calah Alexander is very effusive and fairly emotionally unstable. “Cheerful with a side of crazy.” She loves Salman Rushdie, science fiction, Richard Wilbur, T.S. Eliot, cooking, wine, Doctor Who, and the Ogre. In reverse order. She has a bachelor’s and half a master’s degree in English Literature from the University of Dallas. She dabbles in poetry, makes the occasional piece of jewelry, and tries to remember to turn the oven off. “Being a wife and mother was not my plan for my life, so it’s a really good thing I’m not the one in charge.” She likes sappy romantic comedies, the glorious wonder of television, tea with sugar and cream, unadulterated chocolate, all cheese except Brie, martinis, rollerblading and dancing in the living room with her four kids. She blogs at Barefoot and Pregnant.
Read all the entries in the Blog Series: Credo: Professing the Creed for the Year of Faith.
Comments
Lovely play on visible/invisible, and very true. A sweet post! And I recommend some progesterone cream, vit D
Posted by Leila on 11/8/12 at 08:57 AM
Calah,
Before you depend on the Creighton method again during this tricky post-partum infertility / nursing phase, check out the Marquette Method. Their website is http://nfp.marquette.edu. I don’t know about you, but trying to “read” signs when my signs are all over the place dealing with little ones all day, is just down right ridiculous when you add to that the burden of post-partum depression. Marquette made it very cut and dry (no pun intended) for us and we were successfully able to space our children almost three years apart this time! God Bless your honesty.
Posted by Sarah on 11/8/12 at 09:26 AM
Oh, I love this post! It’s so beautiful, truthful and very Little Flowerish!
I can so relate. I’m just now coming out of a “foggy” period after my youngest baby had bad colic. It’s beautiful how the hard times in our faith actually make the virtue of Faith more luminous!
Posted by Abigail Benjamin on 11/8/12 at 09:37 AM
Calah, I haven’t been pregnant for over 25 years, but I have been off Wellbutrin XL for some time. It carried me through a lot of years, but one day I woke up realizing that it wasn’t working anymore. I tried going off and then on again—no luck and I do not want to experiment with any of the myriad antidepressants on the market. So I decided that since the depression is mild, maybe I should trust in the Lord to lead me on. Remember the phrase “offer it up”? I often feel conflicted, unconnected and adrift, but God loves me—he’ll take me at my worst. So I try to be open to whatever subtle suggestions He plants and hope I’m on the right path. I really felt alone for a while but He led me to The Anchoress and other Catholic bloggers. They, and you, have made the invisible more real to me than it has been for a long time. Thanks.
Posted by Mamie on 11/8/12 at 11:09 AM
This is really beautiful Calah!
I’ve definitely felt all those feelings before and I totally understand the complete awfulness that is postpartum so I hope and pray that it passes soon for you!
During these periods of pain I honestly think that there are no words of comfort, especially when God doesn’t seem to be saying anything, its all so dark. It is truly beautiful to find such amazing insight into the crucifix though, and it helps us join our crosses to His.
Posted by Christy on 11/8/12 at 11:11 AM
Thank you for this honest and beautiful post. I spent yesterday morning sobbing in our Parish’s Adoration chapel after I learned of the election results. It was just “the straw that broke the camels back"in a series of bad news and struggles that has tested my faith. Reading this post helps. Thanks.
Posted by Melissa G. on 11/8/12 at 01:27 PM
Just as much to the point, somebody should be staying with you and helping you out, Calah. Also, walk outside in the sunshine a little bit whenever you can, and take Vitamin D and such. Watch things that are cheerful and funny, and won’t tire you out.
Being tired, being depleted of nutrients after nine months, and feeling depressed on top of that is no joke. Be brave and offer it up, but also take care of Brother Donkey, your body.
(I guess, in our case, it would be Sister Jenny! Because a jenny is a female donkey.)
Posted by Suburbanbanshee on 11/8/12 at 01:55 PM
Beautiful, authentic, and just what I needed today. I’ve been there, Calah, both with suffering from PPD and right now I’m afraid some intense spiritual aridity. Thankfully, I’m awfully stubborn and keep showing up at Mass even when though the invisible seems almost impossible right about now.
Posted by Kate Wicker on 11/8/12 at 02:20 PM
profoundly authentic—-
Posted by maria on 11/8/12 at 03:36 PM
Thank-you, Calah.
Posted by Jocelyn on 11/8/12 at 06:44 PM
I’m sure you know this already, but St. Therese and Mother Teresa also struggled with the same experiences. At least knowing you share their company may help? God bless!
Posted by Kat L on 11/8/12 at 08:15 PM
Somebody should be coming in to relieve you at certain times. I recommend Eucharist (daily if possible) taken with lots of tears. Tears contain stuff that we need to get out of our system. I find that if I let myself cry for 30 minutes or so, praying all the while, I feel so much better. Also, fish oil, vitamins, wholesome foods, not many sweets. I think you’re depleted after such a long and difficult pregnancy. God bless you and your beautiful family.
Posted by Jane Hartman on 11/8/12 at 09:37 PM
Such a powerful posting born out of all that is real. Thank you for hanging in there and saying it as it is.
Posted by Patricia on 11/9/12 at 05:11 AM
Calah, that was so beautiful and real. I’ve been there, too.
I also wanted to say a word of caution to the good-intentioned people who have suggested that she needs a break. I realize that these sentiments come from a caring place, but I remember that hearing people say that to me when I was struggling through postpartum made me nuts, especially and particularly if it didn’t come with a “...and I’ll be over to your house tomorrow morning,” which it unfortunately rarely did. I guarantee that Calah already knows that she needs a break, so telling her she does isn’t providing any information she doesn’t already know. In addition, hearing something like that when you are already severely depressed adds in the potential anxiety and feelings of total overwhelmingness that come with knowing you must take a break and then trying to make that happen yourself. Quite honestly, the thought of calling a babysitter, asking a friend to come over or even asking for help from your family or husband seems overwhelming. So, then you feel guilty for not being able to pull even that together, and the cycle gets worse and deeper.
Like I said, I know it comes from a caring place. But if you find that those words are about to pass your lips and travel into the post-partum ear of a mother, make sure you follow them up with a specific plan for how you yourself will help. Don’t suggest, don’t offer. Just say you’re coming over and tell her when and with what.
Hang in there, Calah.
Posted by Kate on 11/9/12 at 08:19 PM
Hi Calah,
I have five children (the youngest is 5) and I suffered with PPD with each and every one. There were times when I could see only darkness. My days would drag on and on and I remember wanting to reject God for the suffering I was going through. The idea of a loving Father and my pain were irreconciable. And to be completely honest, I got so much advice - much of it like I see posted here - that really ticked me off. I mean, if I could have gotten help, I would have. And I did exercise and I did take supplements and I breasfed and I co-slept and, and, and… and none of it really helped alleviate the pain. The LAST thing I could think of was monitoring my fertility so we simply abstained for at least 6 months until I could get my head around everything.
I know people are well-intentioned with their advice, but I find recovering from PPD to be extremely personal and individual. I so appreciate your honesty. I felt abandonned by God and I was so resentful. Here I was trying to obey Holy Mother Church and live an authentic Christian life and I felt awful! I just couldn’t accept that my calling was to suffer all the time. I felt so alone, it was some of the worst days of my life!
What kept me going, and frankly still keeps me going when I am worn out and feeling like a fraud for not being the poster child for “happy, Catholic, NFP-loving wife and mother” is a sense of duty and the knowledge that Jesus Christ is the way, the Truth and the Life. Sometimes it is this fact ONLY that gets me to church or to say the rosary or to look at my kids and realize, yes, sometimes we ARE called to suffer.
I will be praying for you and all who are carrying the cross of suffering right now. Thank you for reminding me of both the “visible and invisible.”
Posted by Nerina on 11/9/12 at 08:29 PM
Even pain bears fruit. I have just shared the substance of your posting with a friend who has struggles…different to yours but struggles. Your posting was the chink of light that she needed. Thank you. Nothing is wasted.
Posted by Patricia on 11/10/12 at 12:05 PM