The Grace of Limits and Losses

Heidi Hess Saxton recalls how she came to realize that she had found the source of the strength that sustained her, week after week.

More than that, I even consider everything as a loss because of the supreme good of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have accepted the loss of all things and I consider them so much rubbish, that I may gain Christ, and be found in him, not having any righteousness of my own based on the law but that which comes through faith in Christ, the righteousness from God, depending on faith. To know him and the power of his resurrection. (Philippians 3:8-10)

This week my husband and I began our two-day trek from southern Florida, where we were tending to his family after the unexpected death of Craig’s older brother Alan, to spend time with our grown children in northern Michigan. Craig was facing his own medical issues, and I was reminded again of how life is a constant cycle of hello and goodbye, of holding on and letting go. By faith, we experience the grace of our limits and losses … and yet the road is never easy.

Driving down the road, I thought again of the losses and limits I experienced in the first part of our journey. For me, it all came to a head one summer morning in 2002, shortly after we received our first sibling group of three foster children. I had not yet figured out how to manage this new life, and chaos reigned supreme. Disheveled and bleary-eyed, I went to the door. An elderly Black gentleman stood there, an oversized edition of “New World Translation” tucked under one arm. “Can I come in and tell you about the Truth?” he asked me gently.

Crash. Scurry. Screams. “Excuse me,” I backed away from the door and waved him to the sofa. He paused, pushing a few toys off the least-grimy cushion and settling down to wait. I separated the older two, who had been playing tug-of-war with a doll, and flipped on Power Puff Girls. Their eyes glazed over as they watched, entranced. I picked up the baby and started feeding her as I returned to the living room.

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The truth was, I was a little envious of that man in my living room. He had hours to pour into Bible study, while I had yet to shower that week. His faith was alive and vital, while mine consisted of ejaculatory outbursts each time I felt like I was about to blow my lid. Which was several times a day. Sleep deprivation will do that. I found myself admitting these things to my visitor, acknowledging how much nicer life was when I had hours to read and study.

“But you know what gets me through now?” I asked. He shook his head. “I ask Mary to help me. My mother’s not here, and I have no one else to help me … but each week I receive Jesus in the Eucharist, and find the strength I need to sustain me just for that week. And then, when I just can’t handle any more, I get in the shower and call out to Mary. ‘You were the perfect mother, and had one perfect son. I don’t have either of those things going for me … HELP!’ And somehow … she always does.”

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By faith, we experience the grace of our limits and losses … and yet the road is never easy. #CatholicMom

My visitor shook his head, got to his feet, and quietly let himself out. He had been ready for a riotous discussion. But he had no response to this. I knew already that I had no power, no resources, no answers for questions of faith. As a single adult I had been a missionary teacher, church musician, Bible school student. Now, as a fairly new Catholic, I had started over, and knew just enough to know what I did not know. But I knew Jesus was with me, meeting me where I needed Him most. And I knew His Mother was praying for me. And that was more than enough.

Mother of the Word Incarnate, pray for us in our lostness. You must have felt the helplessness of motherhood, too. Pray with me, that I would willingly let go of anything from my past that was once a source of prideful autonomy. Stretch my heart so it has a greater capacity to love—and stretch my mind to understand how great the consolation that is available to me in the folds of your motherly mantle.

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