Here (Not Back): The Return of the Kleehammers

Over the past year and a half, there have been moments where I’ve been reconnecting with a friend or relative, and they’ve asked: “Are you still writing?”

Each time, my insides have jolted as if being reminded of something that completely slipped my mind, like a casserole in the oven, or a writing career, or something.

“No, actually,” I’ve answered. “I haven’t really written much since Caleb was born.”

Every childbirth changes a family, of course. But Caleb’s was like an explosion for us. The series of events that followed were like the aftermath of everything flying up into the air only to disappear completely, or land in unexpected places at random times.

In the past, I would have documented the whole experience for the world to behold. Writing was cathartic back then, like therapy. But that changed when I started getting paid to do it. Suddenly, I’d write my heart out in the very same style that sent editors my way in the first place, and these editors (like some do) would tear my offerings apart, reshaping my words and ideas until I hardly recognized them anymore. My name was on things that almost resembled something I would say, but not exactly, and with titles that made my eyelids twitch. It was a painful process. So I stopped writing my heart, and instead, wrote what they wanted for the sake of being called a writer.

Not only that, but sometimes when you write stuff, people actually read it. And then, they say stuff back. I’m not sure if you know this yet or not, but people are not always their most gracious selves on the Internet, especially when you write on professional platforms. Readers often feel it is their obligation to society to read and respond in the most cynical, combative way possible. I started to feel more and more exposed and vulnerable, which can actually be alright for some seasons and purposes. But not this one. In this season, more than anything, I’ve just needed to feel safe. Supported. Uncomplicated. Off limits to any outside opinions.

And now, it’s been over a year and a half. And another friend has asked: “Are you still writing?”

Oh yeah… That’s a thing I do, isn’t it?

That just landed.

I’ve stopped several times in the attempt to write these things down, wondering if I should even try to articulate any of it at all. It’s no simple feat, and I feel I could go on and on as I have been, just keeping it low key and never explaining myself to anyone. But the words keep coming to me, asking to be put down on a page (or screen), because deep down, I feel I should probably say something. There may still be someone out there who would appreciate an explanation. Like one of my favorite priests who must have heard that I stopped going to Mass, because he suddenly messaged me out of nowhere:

“What the hell happened with you ????”

It may sound like a shocking thing for a spiritual leader to do, but I’ve always appreciated his gift for blurting out what everyone else is really thinking yet not willing to say. Clearly, and understandably, he was upset. Deeply disappointed. But he wasn’t just cursing for no reason. He was genuinely concerned. He literally meant: what kind of hellish thing happened to you that you—YOU, Christina—have walked away from the Roman Catholic Church?

I totally get it. After all, I had this big, beautiful conversion experience that led to me becoming a very vocal Catholic apologist for several years with articles out there on high traffic websites that people still read (even ones written in my own voice). One day, I was in Sunday Mass wearing a long dress and a veil, doing my best to kneel while bursting with pregnancy. Then, the baby was born, and suddenly, I went dead silent on all things substantial only to resurface sometime later in some nondenominational Sunday service wearing an oversized sweatshirt and jeggings, sipping hot tea during a 45 minute sermon once again. Forty-five minute sermon!

Seriously… what the hell happened with me????

I suppose I’ve told you so much before that I can’t not tell you this. I think there’s something powerful about the truth of our shared stories that help us understand where we are in the universe, and how we might best navigate our way through it.

So here is my best attempt at explaining. I hope it helps in some way.

Enter: Caleb

The second time around, I started seeing a therapist months before my due date. My first experience with childbirth was so traumatic, I honestly wasn’t sure if I’d ever chose to go through it again. But when our first son, Thaddeus, grew old enough for me to see that the pregnancy, birth, and postpartum phases are, in fact, temporary, we had the crazy notion to try again. We succeeded right away! But still, I was nervous. I had so many health complications the first time—physical, emotional and mental—I thought that maybe if I were more prepared this time, the blow would land much softer.

Like the first time, I couldn’t have prayed harder, hoped brighter, done more things the right way. And just as the first time, there were still complications. Only it wasn’t just my body that struggled this time.

Just like before, my water broke around 2 a.m. the day before my due date. But this time, I knew better than to assume that my body would naturally go into labor like it’s supposed to. Mine doesn’t do that sort of thing. I had actually been in pre-labor for days, contracting regularly with absolutely zero progress, and I had gone in to triage once or twice only to be sent home. Finally, my water broke, so they had to keep me this time! Instead of trying to force something with hours of Pitocin like before, my doctor got up in the middle of the night, met us at the hospital, and surgically removed our baby from my body at 3:57 a.m. on May 20, 2018.

Now, the moment our first son left the womb, and came into the world of oxygen, I knew we were in for it. That child was loud. Intense. Ready.

But not this baby.

I waited for this one to bellow like his brother did. He did not. He gurgled and gasped. He made a few feeble sounds, but struggled. I don’t know if he peed on everyone like his brother did, because if he did, no one would have laughed this time. They were working too hard to help his lungs get going. They said I could hold him for a few seconds, which I did, and then he was whisked away from me, and placed on oxygen.

Our second baby was unable to breathe on his own. Not because his lungs were under-developed, but because they were full of fluid. He had aspirated on his way out, and could not maintain his own oxygen levels.

I was sewn back together, and sent to my room to recover. Caleb was admitted to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) one floor below me. My husband showed me pictures of him, and I almost couldn’t even see him. My worried eyes mostly just saw tubes and wires.

One of the pictures Josh sent me of Caleb

The very moment I got the green light to leave my bed, I was in a wheelchair, slowly making my way down to visit our new son in his little transparent spaceship. Slowly, ever-so-slowly, still nauseous from the surgery medicine. I stuck my hand through one of the little holes to touch him. As close to him as I could get was not close enough.

My first visit to Caleb in the NICU.

And then the nausea caught up with me.

So there I sat in my wheelchair, vomiting profusely into a bag next to my baby who was instinctively tugging at his various wires and tubes connecting him to the machines that were keeping him alive. I was exhausted. Bewildered. Letting go of the hope in me that things would be simpler this time, trying to wrap my head around how much worse they were. My heart was hurting, sure, but so was my body. My entire being was undone. I wept between heaves. And my husband stood by, silent. Trying to stay strong while he watched his family just trying to take the next breath. And the next one. And the one after that.

But I knew better by now than to think that God had abandoned us, which might have been my thought had we been here in an earlier season of life. No. I’ve seen Him show up too many times in the darkness. “You seem so far away right now,” I prayed. “You must be around here somewhere. Where are You?”

And like He does, He showed Himself faithful.

This time, His providence showed up in the form of the nurse that cared for our son for the first few days of his life. Her name was Ashley, and she grew up on the same street as my husband, though years after he did. She knew our family personally. Not only that, but she could not breathe when she was born, either. At birth, she had the exact same issue that our Caleb was now fighting through. And there she was, just hope walking around the room. Smiling at us. Breathing normally. Confidently caring for our son. Putting ground in front of our feet to keep moving forward. And reassuring my unsteady, frightened spirit that Caleb could get better and live a perfectly normal life.

Nurse Ashley, taking care of little Caleb.

The next four days were spent as a blur of hospital meals, elevator rides, and scrubbing down for the NICU. When I tried to rest and heal my own body, I’d feel guilty for not being downstairs with my struggling baby. And when I did go downstairs, I’d feel miserable and helpless as I tried to jump start my mothering of this child.

I was not able to be present the first time Thaddeus met his new baby brother, so I asked my MIL to record the moment for me.

By day four, I was deemed ready to go home (though once I actually got home, it turned out there were a few issues overlooked, and I really should have stayed longer). While Caleb had been improving, he was not ready to leave yet. He had to stay longer.

I’m stuck here trying to find words to describe for you what it was like to drive away from the hospital without my baby. I can’t find them. There are none. The image of the hospital getting smaller and smaller until I couldn’t see it anymore is forever branded onto the memory muscles that shape my person. I can tell you that I wept. Maybe screamed a little. Or a lot. Not sure. Maybe imagine standing on a station platform with a limb getting stuck in the door of a train that’s taking off without the rest of you. Something like that, perhaps.

I can tell you that our first son has always had a little shadow box on his wall displaying the outfit he wore when we took him home from the hospital, along with a picture of him in his car seat, wearing the outfit, ready for his first car ride. But our second son does not have that. Because by the next day, he was steadily breathing on his own. We could take him with us. We were finally going home as a family of four. And outfits and shadow boxes were the furthest things from our minds. We didn’t even think to care. He was alive, and with us, and that was enough. It was everything.

At this point, I will spare you all of the uncomfortable details of my own physical complications, except to tell you that I did have a varied assortment of them again, and was intensely, intensely miserable for several weeks after giving birth again. Such things always compound the difficulty of healing, and of adjusting, and of establishing a new motherhood.

I was right, however, that the second time around would be different on the mental health front. I didn’t try to power through for months on my own gumption and spiritual prowess this time. When the postpartum depression hit, we recognized it immediately and were able to move through all the stages much quicker. This time, I didn’t suffer with it for six months until I found myself driving home from the grocery store one day wishing some other car would just slam into me and put me out of my misery. Or until I couldn’t function at all anymore. Since I had already been seeing a therapist throughout the pregnancy, I didn’t have to brief her in the midst of the crisis or try to explain myself in any way. She knew my history. She knew what I was like on a normal day versus where I was then, and she knew what to advise. We remembered from the first time that a low dose of antidepressants took the edge off just enough for me to get my mental bearings. So I started on that right away, and slowly but surely limped my way out of the wreckage into healthy (or at least healing) motherhood once again.

I remember this one time when I was still pregnant with Caleb, I was in Bible study next to a mother who was talking about how easy her four birthing experiences had been, and how her babies practically just fell out of her. I remember sitting there trying to absorb her ease in some way, like maybe it could catch it like a virus or something. Unfortunately, that’s not how it works. Childbirth for me is not like it is for some women. For me, it means major surgery followed by months of physical and mental torture that make for a potentially life-threatening situation. We all survived once again, thank God! But one thing was very clear to both my husband, and myself: I was done having babies. Caleb would be the last one. We were grateful for what we had, and we would not be putting my body, mind, and/or soul through this anymore.

And now, if you’re thinking to yourself something like, “Yeah, that seems wise. It is probably for the best,” then you, my friend, are not likely very Catholic.

The Head and the Heart (and other anatomical references)

As humans, we possess several ways of knowing. We have heads for reasoning. Hearts for sensing. And for some inexplicable reason, these ways of knowing do not always agree with each other.

What do you do when your beloved ideals do not correspond to what your gut is telling you?

The Catholic Theology of the Body has been one of my beloved ideals for years. I even led a study on it in my living room once with a bunch of college students. It teaches that the sexual nature of humanity, expressed the way God intended it, actually has something to teach us about who God is, and what He is like. Because of this, the unitive and procreative natures of sexual expression should not be separated, because this changes the message that our sexuality speaks about God. This means that sexual intercourse should not only be expressed within the context of Holy Matrimony, but should also always have an openness to creating new life, and if you’re not open to creating new life, then you need to express your love another way.

I know it sounds crazy and shocking to most progressive thinkers, but to this day, I still think it’s a very beautiful, profound concept—one everyone should know and consider as we seek to understand the nature of being human.

But in the chaotic aftermath of Caleb’s birth, the gut honest truth is that nothing gave me more hope, peace and relief in my spirit than the thought of my husband getting the SNIP.

Yes, THE snip.

The snippety-snip-snippety-snippety-SNIIIIIIIIPPPP!!! (See even now, I can make a little tune out of it, and it makes me wanna do a little dance, just as it did then.)

VASECTOMY, BABY!!

But wait… what?!

That’s not a thing a faithful, devoted Catholic family is supposed to do. That, my friends, is a mortal sin that cuts us off from God’s good graces, and we would have to bring that to Confession.

In reality, I’ve learned it is a thing that many Catholic families still do anyway. They know it is against their religion, but they still do it knowing that if they just confess it later, they’ll have checked all the boxes. I can’t live like that, though. It seems there would have to be some level of unintentional cognitive dissonance, or completely intentional hypocrisy—neither of which my insides could ever be at peace with. I’m not looking for loopholes to holiness, I’m looking for whole, authentic Truth that I can throw my entire being into. And that ain’t it, son.

So here we find our main conflict.

But there were also other faith-induced hang-ups that were compounding the anxiety of my fragile, postpartum state.

Every Judeo-Christian belief system hinges on the very first of ten commandments: “I AM the Lord your God… You shall have no other Gods before me.” (Exodus 20:2-3)

It’s a pretty big deal.

So one of the ways a faithful Catholic Christian shows God that He is the most important thing in the Universe is by showing up to Mass on Sundays. It’s indicative of our level of devotion. First thing on the first day of the week: meet with God at His table together with the rest of the Catholic Church.

If you’re able to do this, and you chose not to, then this indicates that something else has displaced God as numero uno on your list of priorities, my friend. And that is idolatry. The worst of all mortal sins. Salvation cancelled. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200.

Of course, if you’re sick or have a legitimate reason for not being able to attend, you’re not sinning at all. You just can’t go, and that’s okay. If you ask, someone will actually bring you communion where you are.

Many times, I’ve seen mothers with their babies in Mass just days after giving birth. It’s so precious, and I so wanted to be one of those mothers! But I wasn’t. My body was rebelling. My spirit reeling. My mind exhausted. And I knew that if I really, REALLY wanted to, I could force myself to go to Mass and suffer through the misery of being such a holy martyr. But the truth was, I didn’t want to. I just wanted to lay in my bed and try to heal.

A month went by, and I cried about how much I wanted to go to Mass, but hated the idea of going to Mass at the same time. It seemed to me there must have been some very clear line between having a legitimate reason to stay home, and just being lazy. Choosing not to go.

That line seemed to mean the difference between grace and condemnation. And I couldn’t find it, let alone, tell which side of it I was on.

And then, there was the Sacrament of Baptism. Catholics believe that Baptism is the moment when God’s grace enters a person’s soul. And we don’t have to chose this grace, because God is choosing us. So Catholics baptize babies, and later, there are other Sacraments they can chose to accept or not accept when they reach the age of reason. Baby baptism is super important to Catholic life, and sweet, and even now, the smell of a newly baptized infant with anointing oils on that soft, tiny little head is one of my favorite smells in the world.

But at our parish during this time, in order to baptize our new baby, we were required to attend a class that met on Monday evenings at 7 p.m. for three weeks in a row, and there was no childcare provided. This, even though we already had another child who was baptized, so we already knew what we were supposed to know.

It seemed to me that if Baptism were so important for the spiritual security of the child, maybe every Catholic birth should have a priest waiting right next to the doctor or midwife—just standing by with holy water and anointing oil. Nurses and proxies for the godparents if necessary. But instead, this vital Sacrament was denied you unless you find yourself a babysitter and take this class for three weeks, because… we said so?

For the first time, in my distress, I personally felt that indignation so many have toward an organization comprised of families being lead by a group of men who do not know what it’s actually like to have one of those.

And then, of course, out of my Catholic guilt I felt indignation towards my indignation. It was all not so much inspiring as it was stress-inducing.

Catholic Christianity had never been about legalism for me before. All of the Sacraments and requirements had been gifts—paths to deep encounter and connection with God, which I did experience. Until this point. Here those gifts became barriers—hurtles I had to find the strength to leap over when all I wanted to do was lay down.

That strength did not surface. I was weak, and anxious. Frustrated and afraid.

Moreover, we were struggling to establish the deep sense of community that we experienced at our parish back in Columbus, GA. There we had been blessed with many life-giving relationships, even with priest friends. Here, we had several kind acquaintances who were faithful to smile and say hello, but after a year and a half, we had broken through very few surfaces to the point of substance and familiarity. So in our time of crisis, we felt very much alone.

Even still, I knew too much by then to feel abandoned by God. Whatever challenges came along in seeking Him, at least I knew now that trials aren’t the result of His absence. He came to bear our crosses with us. (John 19:17)

I murmured fragile prayers for guidance, and then felt the Holy Spirit encourage me to do one simple thing: Follow Josh’s lead.

So that is what I did.

And So Josh…

You know Josh, right?

For those who may just be tuning in, Joshua is my husband of now 16+ years who grew up as the oldest son in an intensely Charismatic Evangelical family, graduated from Oral Roberts University with a degree in Pastoral Christian Ministries, spent five years working as a full time youth minister in a nondenominational church, and was an ordained pastor about halfway through earning his Masters of Divinity when he surprised everyone by enlisting in the Army, and serving in the 75th Ranger Regiment for six year. And no, it was not to become a chaplain. (I’ve been asked that a lot. No. He wanted to fight.)

He was medically retired from the Army in 2016, and after that, we moved back to his hometown of Edmond, Oklahoma to put down roots, and raise our little family. Here, he’s been working his way up the ranks of a career in IT ever since. All while living with chronic back and leg pain among other military-induced issues.

Yep. That Josh.

His early life had revolved so heavily around theological wrestlings and grapplings that somewhere in the years of working in full-time ministry he became burnt out on thinking so hard about such things. The intensity of his Special Ops training proved to be a welcome, gritty distraction from all things cerebral. All of his waking energy was spent on being Ranger.

So when I developed an interest in studying Catholicism, he did not oppose. When I found in it a way to make sense of our lives and continue forward in faith and inspiration, he was supportive. He went to classes and Mass with me. He was open. On board, even!

Mostly.

While there was a lot he did love and appreciate in the experience, there were always things he didn’t understand or agree with about Catholic teaching—the beliefs about contraception being one of them. However, he was told that he didn’t have to be there to be part of the Church as long as it was his intention to continue to learn and get there.

So when I was confirmed into the Catholic Church, he was present. Inspired by my confidence, he followed me in a few months later. He will tell you that one of his motivations was for the sake of family unity. But one thing I know is that the Catholic Church had more answers than we did at that point—than anyone ever did, for that matter—and it was refreshing to not have to come up with all of the answers ourselves for a change. We could rest on the shoulders of giants, and strive less to figure everything out.

Unfortunately, this offers a major temptation to disengage internally. It is famously easy to go through the liturgical moves with a mind that’s 1,000 miles away. So he will also tell you that he became very detached, and passive in the spiritual life of our family. The epitome of “Going through the motions.”

And it’s true. He did.

We carried on like this for six years. I was Catholic; he was Ranger. During that time we had our first son, and I was still Catholic, and he was still Ranger. Then, we got out of the military, and Caleb was born, and suddenly we were… undone… mostly reeling.

Our anniversary came during this reeling stage, just a few weeks after Caleb was born. We wanted to get out of the house to celebrate, but we also weren’t ready to be in public yet, so our mothers watched the tiny ones as a team while we drove around a beautiful nearby neighborhood drinking smoothies we got from a drive thru. We checked in with each other. Unloaded to see where we were, and somewhere in that makeshift State of the Union Address, I told him: “I need you to take the lead.”

He had joined the Army during a time in our lives when we had been reckless, and everything seemed completely out of control. His enlisting only made things feel even more out of control to me, like the whole world was in chaos.

Catholicism and all of its regimental practices gave me a sense of order and structure that I desperately needed at the time. I took refuge in it. Found strength in it. But with the pursuit of order comes the temptation to go from entrusting ourselves to God’s ultimate authority and control, to trying to be in control by rigidly adhering to that order. “Do everything right, and you will finally have control over the chaos that is life in this world,” is the subtle twist with just enough truth we hunger for combined with just enough fuel to feed our unstable egos that any anxious, frightened soul would be eager to believe it.

That’s what the best lies are—mostly true.

I didn’t know it. I wasn’t conscious of it. But looking back, I believed that. I was SO GOOD for SO LONG, trying to win favor. Then, there was something about the struggles of my childbirth experiences that tore down the curtain of my control to reveal just how NOT in control I was/am/always have been/always will be. I can’t make God owe me anything based on my performance. His grace is freely given, cannot be earned. All I could be in my postpartum seasons was exposed and fragile and exhausted.

And there, sitting next to me through my striving, my knowing so hard, my white knuckling of our family’s spiritual fate, was my husband finding it easiest to just go along with it as best he could.

Until that moment when I said, “I need you to take the lead.”

Those words were my surrender. The loosening of my grip. My heart saying, “Let’s correct this imbalance. I don’t want to be controlling anymore. I admit that I don’t know what to do. Please, help me. I need to hear your heart. I need you to care, to seek God again, to pray for us, to lead our family through this storm.”

My husband hesitated to say what he really wanted to say. He knew its implications were huge. But then, he could also sense how much I really wanted to hear what was swirling around inside of him, and he finally said it:

“I don’t know if I can do that in the Catholic Church.”

There may have been more silence than words spoken at that point of the ride. What was I supposed to do with that? I sat there sipping on my smoothie, believing God had led us to becoming Catholic, and that I needed to follow Josh’s lead, and hearing him say such things. None of it made sense, but somehow in that nonsense, there was a hint of something like crust cracking over sleeping eyes. Something like waking up.

We didn’t make any major decisions in that moment other than to take it one week at a time. For the first week, Josh recommended we break back into the habit of going to services by visiting his parents at Bridgeway Church—a nondenominational congregation they’ve been part of for close to two decades now. That would be easier, he pointed out. Like a warm-up. We would have support. The grandparents could help hold the baby so we could just relax and be there. No separate trip to the Confessional necessary for full participation.

So that’s what we did. The following Sunday, we finally got out of the house, and went down the road to Bridgeway.

Hello Again.

What Josh predicted was exactly what happened. Gigi and Pawpaw graciously and proudly held their newborn grandson, freeing me to just be there and breathe. Our little Caleb got passed around from person to doting person, down the aisle and back again among longtime family friends whom we’ve known for years. And there we were, surrounded by the ready-made community we’d been missing out on, and couldn’t quite force or forge where we had been. We felt supported. Relieved. Like going to church probably should feel.

So we came back the following Sunday.

And the next one.

And the one after that.

It started to become a thing.

I loved that our children were going to church with their grandparents. That felt consistent with the entire point of moving back to Oklahoma.

We realized that some old college friends were there, and eventually joined their small group. It was great to already have that connect as opposed to starting completely from scratch.

But wait! Okay, maybe we were going there, but we couldn’t just keep going there. It wasn’t that simple! We couldn’t say we were home, because wasn’t the Catholic Church really our home now? There was this (not so) small hurdle of theology needing our immediate attention, because even though there are far more similarities than differences between Catholic Christians and Non-Denominational Christians, we as a whole really like to focus on our differences, and make the biggest deals out of those more than anything else.

We had some sorting and contending to do.

Josh and I looked into what we would be required to believe in order to become members of Bridgeway Church, and found a list of eight points that made up their Statement of Faith for Covenant Membership. We read them, and they were mostly fine. They’re based on the Bible after all, and Catholics also love the Bible. But there was one stumbling block in there for us—the one that would be a stumbling block for any knowing Catholic. It was in the very first line statement which reads:

1. We believe that the Scriptures, both Old and New Testaments, are the inspired Word of God, without error in the original writings, the complete revelation of his will for the salvation of mankind, and the final authority for all Christian faith and life (Matthew 5:18; John 10:35; 17:17; 2 Timothy 3:16-17; 2 Peter 1:20-21).

Do you see it there? The bits about “complete revelation” and “final authority”? Complete! Final!

Oh dear…

Within those few words lie the fundamental difference between Protestantism and Catholicism. In Catholicism, final authority lies in the Bible AND the Apostolic Tradition of the Church. Those two things together make up the complete revelation of the Faith.

In all of Christendom stretching back over 2,000 years (but particularly in the last 500), those seemingly small words are a pretty freaking huge deal, in case you didn’t know. And both sides have their litany of scriptural references to support their position.

Even though we had been nondenominational Christians before, I was intimidated by anything that felt overly intellectual and argumentative back then, so I avoided such complex issues. I’ve since come to realize that even knowledge belongs to God, and there’s nothing that intimidates Him, ever. His Truth can stand up to the greatest tests, and if it cannot, then it probably isn’t His Truth. Thus, I’ve been consumed with a love for critical thinking, and and a hunger to learn more of all the things.

I had come to know the Catholic side of this conflict by heart. It made reasonable sense to me.

The big question was: Could the other side make sense as well?

Team Sola Scriptura

I may be an only child on paper, but I have cousins who are like siblings to me. We grew up together, even living under the same roof at times, and we still keep in touch regularly on a little mobile device app called Marco Polo. Apparently, young people use this video chatting application to communicate short bursts of information to one another, but that’s not how we do! We go on and on about things big and small—as my cousin Arlene always says, “Just ramblin’ and bamblin’!” So naturally, I was communicating all of this to my sister-cousins in real time as it was happening.

One of my cousins, Tami (the one everyone thought was my twin when we were children) is married to a guy named David Hicks. And David Hicks really, really loves discussing all things faith-related. He’s one of those owns his own a personal study complete with wall-to-wall library full of books he actually reads, is a Deacon at First Baptist Church, Cleveland (TN), and takes masters level classes in theology for fun kind of blokes.

So, like any good Evangelical couple would do, Tami says, “If you have any questions, I know David would love to talk through it with you. He loves working through and discussing these kinds of things.”

I knew this to be true. Throughout my years studying and practicing Catholicism, David and I had already enjoyed many a deep theological discussions, found things we agreed upon, things we very much did not, and bonded over our mutual delight in referring to C.S. Lewis as “Uncle Jack”.

Plus, Josh and I desperately needed back-up on this venture. When I was learning about Catholicism, it was during a time when we did not have children, and my husband was serving in active duty, so I was alone a lot. I had eons of time and energy to spare then, which was not the case anymore at this point. Now, our time and energy resources were severely lacking.

Without hesitation, I took Tami up on the offer, recruiting David’s expertise to help us understand the Protestant perspective from an intellectual point of view. Do explain, Dear Cousin, the logic of believing that the Bible is the complete revelation and final authority when, in fact, The Bible does not actually say those words.

He responsed:

“What’s the decision you guys are trying to make here? Are you trying to decide whether to join Bridgeway?  Attend Bridgeway on a trial basis?  Leave the RCC?  Whatever the question, is it necessary for you to definitively settle a 500-year-old theological issue (THE theological issue?) in order to take a next step at Bridgeway? ”

— Email from David Hicks (exerpt), July 20, 2018

I think maybe he was hoping to start somewhere simpler or more fringy, like transubstantiation, or maybe the infant baptisms mentioned above. But unfortunately, yes, it had to be THE theological issue—the one Christians used to slaughter each other over by the thousands back in the day—because that was THE issue keeping us from moving forward. Everything else hinged on it.

I said:

“I know there are a multitude of books I could read on Sola Scriptura, but if I’m gonna be completely honest... I have a 7 week old baby. And a 3.5 year old son who is acclimating to said baby. Know what I’m saying? Haha. I’m not really in the deep diving, cud chewing space. What I’d really love is for someone else who has read and understood those books AND my questions... to just offer me simple, easily palatable explanations. You know, just simply solve THE 500 year old theological question, and do it in a way a 3rd grader could understand. That’s all I’m asking. :)”

— Email from me to David (exerpt), July 12, 2018

Poor David…

Anyway, thus the great dialogue ensued. David sent us articles, and teachings to review. We created shared documents where we could all make notes, then read and respond to each others’ notes. Notes upon notes upon notes. And there were group email discussions, some even including Bridgeway’s Pastor Sam Storms, and Josh’s dad, Rick Kleehammer, whom we also often questioned about such things.

Then David, totally heeding my request for light reading during my postpartum recovery, ordered a fresh copy of Systematic Theology by Wayne Grudem, and had it shipped to our house. (If you haven’t seen this book before, then you don’t know that it is one of those theology books so massive, an old school phone book might feel intimidated, and therefore, you missed that I was being facetious just then, and that’s okay. But if you’re a Protestant theology junkie, then you know.) But look! I read every single part of that book relating to Sola Scriptura! Some parts I even read a couple of times. The argument it makes is for the concept called Sufficiency of Scripture, which says that everything we need to know for salvation is in Scriptures. And that concept actually is in the Bible. For example:

But as for you, continue in what you have learned and have become convinced of, because you know those from whom you learned it, and how from infancy you have known the Holy Scriptures, which are able to make you wise for salvation through faith in Christ Jesus. All Scripture is God-breathed and is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness, so that the servant of God may be thoroughly equipped for every good work.

-2 Timothy 3:14-17 (emphasis added)

Now, friends… While I feel it is within my heart and present capacity to tell you this story from our recent past, I do not necessarily possess great motivation to write a theological dissertation at this time. Sorry to disappoint! But the good news is that those dissertations have already been written a thousand times over, and they are already perfectly accessible to anyone who would like to read them. I feel very strongly that in this life, we find what we are looking for. And if you are looking for in depth arguments in favor of Sola Scriptura, and the Sufficiency of Scripture, you will find links to resources at the bottom of this page that would be a good place to start.

If you are looking for the rest of this story, keep reading. But a warning to my devoted Catholic friends: this next part could get a bit uncomfortable. Maybe pray first before you proceed—for both our sakes. Or maybe just skip it all together for now. My feelings will not be hurt.

Divine Mercy Forever

The Catholic Church has this beautiful, meditative prayer tradition called The Divine Mercy Chaplet. Similar to the Rosary, this prayer has lines to recite over and over, the most frequent one being:

“For the sake of His sorrowful Passion, have mercy on us and on the whole world.”

— From The Divine Mercy Chaplet

But my absolute favorite part is the prayer at the very end:

“Eternal God, in whom mercy is endless and the treasury of compassion — inexhaustible, look kindly upon us and increase Your mercy in us, that in difficult moments we might not despair nor become despondent, but with great confidence submit ourselves to Your holy will, which is Love and Mercy itself.”

— From The Divine Mercy Chaplet

Amen.

When I was still working in the newsroom, I prayed this prayer every single day. I had a little notebook that I kept at my desk, and I would write in it every horrible headline we had to report on for the day. I would offer my Divine Mercy prayer for those particular situations.

The Divine Mercy came to us through an early 20th century Polish nun named Sister Faustina Kowalska who used to have a lot of mystical visions. She once commissioned an artist to paint one of these profound visions of Christ. She gave the artist a description of what she saw, and very specific instructions on what to paint. But when he was done, she saw the painting, and was deeply disappointed. She was basically like, “No. That’s not it at all.” Nonetheless, it is still a very famous painting that we all associate with the prayer today. Other artists have since attempted to repaint the vision, but there’s no telling if they got any closer to what she saw, because she only lived to see the original Polish Jesus painting.

Original painting of the Divine Mercy, by Eugeniusz Kazimirowski in 1934.

Pope John Paul II famously had a major devotion to Sister Faustina and the Divine Mercy. He presented her case for sainthood, canonized her as a Saint in 2000, established her Feast Day on October 5th, and proclaimed the Sunday after Easter to be Divine Mercy Sunday, a feast day for the entire Roman Catholic Church.

Today, even Evangelical megachurch pastor and bestselling author Rick Warren has claimed to regularly pray the Divine Mercy Chaplet. Catholics everywhere are super excited about this.

And this is all good.

However, while I was pregnant with Caleb, Josh and I participated in a Sunday school study that I’m sure was meant to strengthen my Catholic resolve, but instead, caused a sound like screeching tires in my brain as I thought: wait… what?!

As it would turn out, there was a time between Saints Faustina and John Paul II when the leaders of the Catholic Church discouraged… no. Forbade spreading the Divine Mercy message. These men were skeptical of Faustina, thought maybe she was a crazy lady or something, so they banned her stuff. For about two decades.

But then, Pope John Paul II came along and reversed that. Now, it’s all very important to the life of the Catholic Church.

Wait… what?!

How… why would this beautiful prayer ever, ever, EVER be a wrong thing to say to God?

Is the actual idea that God Himself would reject this prayer during much of the 60’s and 70’s because those who prayed it would be disobeying their Church leaders, and therefore… sinning?

Either God inspired St. Faustina with this prayer to teach others, or He didn’t.

Which brings me to a question that no one could ever give me a clear answer to in all six years I earnestly devoted myself to Catholic life:

What is the Apostolic Tradition of the Catholic Church, exactly?

No, I know. It’s the authority of the original twelve Apostles passed down through the generations. I get that.

It’s when the Pope speaks Ex Cathedra. I know.

But from what I can tell, it’s more than that, too. What though? How much of Catholic teaching is a good Catholic actually required to believe?

I’ve asked some version of this to several spiritual guides along the way, and actual answers I’ve gotten include:

”Well, that’s actually a little harder to define.”

and

”Now, there’s a loaded question!” (<— My personal favorite.)

I even had a phone conversation with a Religious Education Director that went something like this:

Me: What are Catholics actually required to believe?
Religious Education Guy: Well, we mostly find those teachings in the Catechism.
Me: So is the Cathechism considered as infallible as the Bible, then?
RE: Uuummm… Well, no, not exactly. Mer-mer-mer-mer-mer…

The thing is, we know by now that Catholic Bishops and Popes are not perfect. Some have been downright evil. But something somewhere in their authority is supposed to be perfect. It seems there has to be a line there between their fallible qualities and infallible ones. The only problem is: no one seems to know exactly where that line is. The boundaries are convoluted. And that, to me, is very disturbing.

For example, when the Pope and other Bishops are fighting about things like divorced people receiving the Eucharist and whatnot. Which side are the good Catholics to be on? The Pope’s or the other Bishops’?

During the time when The Divine Mercy was banned for several years… Are we really to believe that God would condemn that prayer even though He was the One who inspired Faustina to teach it?

And now, when it comes to The Theology of the Body going so far as to forbid contraception, where does all of that fall on the spectrum in the Catholic Hierarchy of Truth? What level of permanence does it hold? Is that up there with “Jesus was God and man”? Or is it somewhere closer to “Don’t pray the Divine Mercy Chaplet. That woman is crazy.”?

Somewhere in between? Or in a totally different category?

After six years of earnest inquiry, the only answer I have at this point is: I do not know. It’s all very confusing.

This factor alone makes it intuitive for me to rely on my previous training of looking to the Bible, because I know what that is.

If I asked someone, “What is the Bible?” They could hold one up and say, “Here it is. It is this.”

The Bible is not nebulous like Apostolic Tradition is. I know where it begins, and where it ends. And while everything in between may require a lifetime of intentional study to understand correctly based on contextual nuance, at least it is clear what it says, and what it does not say. As long as we’re talking about complete revelations, the Bible is at least, in fact, complete by now, not shifting with the times, which inherently makes it a more steady foundation.

(Side note: I know the Catholic Bible has more books in it than the Protestant version. That’s not the point. I also know why that is, and that those additional Old Testament books don't actually change the Gospel at all. Moving on.)

It’s not that Protestants don’t value leadership or tradition at all, or that they give these things absolutely no authority. It’s just that these values are not equal in status with The Scriptures, because they are not perfect.

David wrote later in that same email:

“As there is no perfect local church, any thoughtful believer can identify at least a handful of things wrong with any given church.  To give oneself to membership in any church, then, is to accept its imperfections - or at least to bear with the imperfections for the sake of the more important good things the church body offers.  I point this out not to suggest that a difference on sola scriptura is easily surmountable (It isn’t) but to remind you of something you already know: Mere Christianity is unifying.  Theology tends (unfortunately) to be divisive. ”

— Email from David Hicks (exerpt), July 20, 2018

That is where we aim to live now—in the Mere Christianity. And in that, we’re finding it much easier to establish good ethos with leaders who do not deny their imperfections, but instead, set the example of admitting their faults, and repenting of them often.

Adjusting Our Eyes

These days, I’m often reminded of a cinematic technique we see all the time in movies and TV shows. It’s called racking focus, when the camera lens starts out focused on one object in the shot causing everything else to be blurry. Then, the lens shifts its focus to another object that was previously blurry, causing that to come into clear focus while what was once clear is now a blur. It’s the exact same angle, same subject matter, same shot. Different focus. Different perspective.

Through these experiences, I’ve developed the ability to rack focus between the Catholic paradigm, and the Protestant one. I see both, and understand now that it’s the same picture differing in focus. Both are a picture of Jesus Christ and his Gospel. Both sharply focused, and a bit blurry at the same time. But Christ’s is the capacity to abide in the whole picture with full clarity, holding immense grace for our still weakened vision, knowing the difference between a soul earnestly trying to see what we are looking at, and one refusing to see at all.

The oddest thing I’ve observed is that while my beliefs have changed over time, the core of my actual faith hasn’t changed very much at all. I can only conclude that faith itself must be something more than merely what we think. Sometimes, faith is what’s left when we don’t know what to think anymore. I may never again behave as if I’ve got my head completely wrapped around all of this, but I will always rest in the comfort of knowing Jesus by heart.

Whether worshiping Him in Catholic Mass or within a nondenominational congregation, I’ve felt for years that my perfect Church would be something of a combination of these two worlds, their strengths and particular giftings combined, minus the short-comings and faults they each possess. I get glimpses of it when I hear evangelical preachers quote Catholic spiritual powerhouses, and when I see Catholic Youth Hymnals feature songs written by evangelical worship artists. And yes, when Rick Warren prays the Divine Mercy Chaplet. I’ve come to terms with the fact that we may only get these glimpses of it this side of eternity, but I very much look forward to the Church realized someday when we are all together in the eternal embrace of heaven—dare I say—laughing about how much we just did not understand. at. all. Not for lack of trying! Just for lack of capacity. But none of that will matter then when we see the reality of His Kingdom Come—that it is not like we thought it would be, because we couldn’t have fathomed it, and yet, it is everything He said it would be all at the same time.

Meanwhile, we’ve made ourselves at home within Bridgeway. And what we’re finding in this season is something we’ve desperately needed for a while now: healing. Not just from this story, but from about a decade’s worth of stories as our focus verse for the past year has been: “…I have heard your prayer; I have seen your tears. Behold, I will heal you…” (2 Kings 20:5)

So here we are, close to where we started, at a nondenominational church in Oklahoma. It’s hard to say that we are back, though. We’ve seen and experienced too much to ever be right back where we started. Much like our experience of returning to Edmond itself, this place is familiar, but entirely different. We can turn the corner and see scenes from Josh’s earliest memories, but at the same time, we live in a brand new home that was never here before. It’s analogous of what God is doing in us, growing us with both deep roots and tall branches. He will take the best of everything we’ve ever been, and do something completely new with all of it. We look forward in hopeful expectation.

Caleb has fully recovered from his initial breathing problems, and is as energetic, loud and ornery as a thriving toddler ought be, often innovative in his mischievous pursuits. You would never know there was ever anything wrong with him. Nor that he wouldn’t be here without modern medicine. That Thaddeus and I very well may not have been here either. That miracles come in practical ways, too.

Thaddeus has taken to the role of big brother with as much love and leadership as an intelligent, strong-willed five-year-old possibly could. The two are growing in their brotherly bond, alternating belly laughs with bickering at seemingly random intervals. And though we are chronically exhausted, we are absolutely loving the gift that is parenting these precious boys.

Josh is generally thawing as a person, seeking God with intention, and gaining a sense of agency in our spiritual lives once again. He did end up getting that vasectomy—voluntarily, not coerced! It was an act of love and self-sacrifice for a wife whose body has already been through so much. Now, my whole being sighs deeply at the relief of being finished bearing children into the world. And the thought seems so far off and distant to us now, that something like that could ever cut us off from God’s grace rather than bear witness to the fact that we are right in the middle of it.

As for me, I have been off of the antidepressants for several months now, and functioning well, hoping never to return. I feel quite nestled into our new mid-America, nondenominational Christian habitat like a tiny pepper flake warmly folded into a heaping spoonful of Grandma’s famous mashed potatoes. I am so at home, but at the same time, it is easy to feel out of place. In a recent moment of struggle, I found myself retreating once again to somewhere I know I can always focus in prayer, and feel close to God— the 24/7 Adoration chapel at one of our local Catholic parishes. I had missed being there, feeling at home there as well, and I prayed, “Lord, where do I belong?”

I sensed that still small voice speak into my soul, “Wherever I AM, that is where you belong.”

Among the veiled women in long dresses giving present voice to prayers passed down throughout the centuries. With the unruly, denim-clad non-denoms hooting and hollering with their hands raised up in the air. Where Southern Gospel is sung, Gregorian chant raised, or clear skies over open fields proclaim His glory in yet another display of unmatched light. Where the raw human soul lifts an earnest prayer into the void asking, “Why am I here?” and the God of the Universe responds in kind, “Dear One, let me tell you a story…”

In this life we find what we are looking for (Matthew 7:7, Luke 11:9), and I am looking to find my story completely engulfed in His. So wherever we find Jesus, that is where I will be.

Those resources I mentioned:
That massive book by Wayne Grudem
This teaching by John Piper
This White Horse Inn blog post
This collection of talks from pastors encouraging each other