Читать книгу Death by Minivan - Heather Anderson Renshaw - Страница 10

Buckle Up, Buttercup

(( prologue ))

“Ummm …” I stammered, “am I supposed to feel like I’m driving my living room around on the road?”

My sweaty hands gripped the steering wheel as I attempted to navigate a lane change. I’d never been so grateful for seatbelts and airbags in my life. The car salesman chuckled from the passenger seat next to me. “It takes a little bit of getting used to, but consider all the space you’ll have!”

“Isn’t this great, Babe? All this space!” my husband enthused from the backseat.

“Yeah!” I responded through lips forced into a faker-than-fake smile. “Great!”

Space. I couldn’t deny that it was at a premium these days. After spending several enjoyable months as the proud owners of an attractive, mid-sized SUV, we realized that, once the new baby arrived (our fourth), we’d need more room for yet another car seat, as well as the additional 3,267 things tiny humans need to stay alive.

I let out a weighty sigh, trying to focus my attention on the road, but I couldn’t help wondering how we’d gotten here. To clarify: I knew exactly how we became parents of three small children with another on the way; after all, our sweet babies didn’t just magically appear in my uterus. What I was having a hard time wrapping my brain around was how we had, seemingly overnight, become—bum bum buuummmmm—People Who Needed A Minivan.

How could we let this happen?

Okay, so I know how we “let” “this” “happen.” Because of love and marriage and God and openness to life (because them’s the rules) and a miracle and two pink lines. That’s how. Necessity is a mother, and once I found out I was pregnant, I was necessarily a mom. End of story. And I honestly thought that I had come to terms with that. Well, mostly. Yet, here I was, lamenting the purchase of an announcement on wheels: “HERE COMES A MOM WITH A BUNCH OF KIDS!”

In my mind, fun people did not drive minivans. Cool people did not drive minivans. Surely accomplished, motivated women who did amazing things beyond shuttling children to and fro did not drive minivans. At least, I didn’t think they did. And yet, here I was. Driving a minivan.

Now, some of you may be thinking, “What’s the big flipping deal? It’s a minivan, for crying out loud, not the end of the world. You’re lucky you could afford to buy what your family needed!”

And you’re absolutely right. We were very blessed to qualify for a loan on a used vehicle in good condition. And you’re also correct to point out that buying a minivan is not the end of the actual world. I would counter, however, that purchasing a colossal-sized family room on wheels symbolized the end of a world—one in which I imagined cruising the streets at dusk, warm wind kissing my cheeks and bass bumping from my custom stereo as my manageable number of children quietly played travel games together with the windows of our not-too-big family vehicle rolled down. Succumbing to Minivan World somehow meant enveloping myself in an inescapable chamber of screaming and bickering, with a soundtrack of saccharine-sweet kiddie tunes reverberating off the walls, because certain short people couldn’t keep their body parts inside when the windows were cracked.

I just wanted a decent, culturally acceptable rig that wouldn’t make me self-conscious. One that I could park in one of those spots with a “C” (for “compact”) on it. One that didn’t smell of petrified French fries, sweaty feet, and despairing cleaning products. One that didn’t smell like broken dreams.

In my mind, buying this minivan meant my husband and I (but especially me, since I would be driving the darn thing) had finally given up trying to have an identity outside of family life. We’d hoisted the white flag, thrown in the towel, and thrown up a little in our mouths. Because, really? What was left after this but even more children, even more sleepless nights, even more worry about how to pay the bills, and eventually … gasp … a full-sized van. Buying this vehicle truly symbolized the absolute end of the world according to Heather. Again.

See, I hadn’t always been a somewhat neurotic practicing Catholic mother of a few, going on more, striving for holiness despite my many faults and failings. I once was a neurotic non-practicing Catholic who wanted to live my life by my rules, according to my passions and desires. I was living in the world according to Heather.

In the 1990s, Tom Cochrane sang about how “Life is a Highway.” He wasn’t wrong. What he couldn’t have known, though, is that not too many years after that song was a big hit, I’d decided to travel down a highway of my own design. I’d chucked the map my parents gave me. I ignored the signposts provided by the Faith into which I was baptized as an infant. I started making bad turn after bad turn and eventually became hopelessly lost. I missed the mile markers and the dashboard lights God kept sending to get my attention. Eventually, he resorted to billboards.

Finally, with my tank completely depleted and more dings and crunches on my soul than I cared to admit, I coasted to the shoulder, feeling like a defeated pile of junk. It was then that I realized I had to call in some spiritual “Triple-A”—Almighty Amen + Alleluia—Roadside Assistance to get me off this crazy, hell-bound path and back on to the highway toward heaven. It was time to make a U-turn.

And so I did. Through God’s grace and infinite mercy, I was the prodigal returning home to the Father. I began going to Mass again. I began receiving the sacraments again. I really dove into my faith, trying to understand what I’d missed in my CCD classes growing up (which, unfortunately, was a lot). I married a Catholic, just like my mom always told me to do. I’d set aside much of my previous sinful behavior and was following the narrow way. I’d given up the world according to Heather to try to live in the World According to the Savior. Yet it seemed like my heavenly Father wasn’t content just to refurbish the parts of me that showed on the outside; there was an immense amount of detail work that needed to be done on the inside as well. God wanted a complete overhaul of my soul.

We’ve all heard the phrase, “Bloom where you’re planted,” right? Yeah, that wasn’t really my thing back in my early parenting days. Listening, waiting, patience? Not really my bag, either. Self-control, peace, gentleness … let’s just say it turns out I was not naturally inclined toward much that leads to holiness. Even after my reversion to the Faith, even after being married in the Church and being open to life, even after The Great Minivan Purchase of aught-eight, I was prone to act before thinking, speak before listening, and complain before thanking. I overlooked grace-filled moments and, frankly, didn’t enjoy my life as a mom all that much. I thought that to be holy I had to be a quiet, serious, minivan-driving mama who just accepted that life was a lot of meaningless pain, suffering, and non-fun. Sadly, I was an exponentially messier mess than I am today, and likely a stumbling block for myself and others, including my children.

I still had a very long way to go.

I’ll never forget when I first heard that we are all called to sainthood—every last one of us—and that we cannot be in heaven unless we are saints. I figured that was my cue to pack up my stuff and peel out of the parking lot. Because, seriously? The impulsive, impatient, perfectionistic, self-defeating person in the mirror? Saint Heather? Don’t make me spit out my coconut milk latte all over the steering wheel!

But none other than one of my spiritual heroes, the plucky and devout Mother Angelica, foundress of the Eternal Word Television Network (EWTN), dropped this truth bomb, and it struck me square between the eyes: “Holiness is not for wimps, and the Cross is not negotiable, sweetheart. It’s a requirement.” Woah.

I figured that what I lacked in holiness, I more than made up for in stubbornness and grit, thanks be to God, genetics, and environmental conditioning. I kept at it—looking for the loophole that would save a wretch like me, something that would push me over the finish line and through the pearly gates. I did a lot of praying and thinking, sometimes as I nursed babies, sometimes in my minivan, and sometimes as I wept from sheer exhaustion. What was the meaning of all this relentless offering up of my body, mind, and soul, I wondered?

Over time, I finally began to realize that, yes, even I could be a saint, and that I didn’t have to completely reject my personality, talents, desires, and dreams to do it. I just had to take up my cross and follow Jesus.

God wanted to do something good with this “dying to self” business that was happening whenever I was broken and offered it up for my family (which, frankly, was quite often). The day we bought the minivan was just another tip on yet another iceberg, another beginning of the beginning. He didn’t just want to work the obvious good of making it possible to fit all our kids and their stuff and the groceries into one rig. No, his dream for me was much deeper, wider, and grander than I could initially see or imagine.

God wanted me to be a new creation in Christ, emptied of self and sinfulness so he could fill me to the brim with his abiding love. In turn, I would be able to pour God’s love out to my husband, our children, our community, and beyond. He was showing me that he was going to use this minivan, and everything it represented—and, probably more accurately, its inhabitants—to cultivate the fruits of the Holy Spirit in my life. Indeed, the single grain of wheat that was my life, fallen to the ground and dying through the sacrifices of everyday life in the mother’hood, could actually yield a fruitful and bountiful harvest.

He was telling me that I already had the map to becoming the sort of mom I wanted to be: loving, peaceful, joyful, kind, gentle, faithful, good, self-controlled, patient, forgiving, humble, grateful, and, yes, a little bit funny. And here was the secret: that same map could also, God willing, lead me and all my backseat riders straight to our ultimate destination: Heaven.