We were students — she a senior, I a junior — at a Catholic women's college, next to a Catholic men's college that was on the verge of going co-ed. She seemed very confident about what she was doing. Even so, I was less certain for her.
I loved my cousin more than any sister, but she was walking away from the new horizons that were just then opening to women. Weren't we the new generation of Catholic women? Weren't we supposed to be real Americans and not the granddaughters of immigrants?
Maybe Ginny was going to make a traditional home, but there was so much more! The bumper sticker slogans of the time proclaimed: “A woman's place is in the home — and in the Senate.” It was the senate, but business law that beckoned to me.
I had once wanted to be a nun, but convent and religious life everywhere seemed to be taking on a tawdry aspect that sapped its appeal to young women. One year later, I was trumpeted through graduation by a feminist speaker's rousing commencement address. Then, following close on its heels was Law School — a very coveted position, considering that one woman was chosen for every ten men.
I fell into other coveted positions, too; there were some very handsome men in graduate school. By the time the football season had ended, I was worrying… I sought the help of a priest. It had been a long time since I'd been to confession. He was a very kind priest, very compassionate. I was blessed by his compassion, but not by an authentic absolution. In the confessional, the priest asked me if we'd used contraceptives. I said no. He suggested that it might be a lesser sin than having an abortion — which was by then legal and “chic” — or bringing an unwanted baby into the world. No words of encouragement for reclaiming chastity. I left more confused than ever, but determined that I could not have it all, and that law degree was the most important goal of my life.
After this, my resolve held firm and I cut out all personal relationships, living quite alone. Ginny and her husband had a little girl and a new baby boy and she was pregnant with their third when I took a position as a junior partner in a prominent law firm four years later. We saw each other less and less.
At holidays, the families would get together, but it was awkward. We had little in common, except our past. She was involved with her family and volunteered at a crisis pregnancy center. The world of men that I had entered had its own set of rules. One of those rules was: no babies allowed. Why this was not seen as degrading to women, I cannot say. Although I would never have an abortion, I did not defend the Catholic teaching about the sanctity of life.
I had come to think that in a perfect world, abortion would not be necessary. But the world was not perfect, and I was not “comfortable” with the pro-life position. That meant that Ginny and I were no longer “comfortable” together. Since I was no longer “comfortable” with the Church's position on life issues, I became slack in my use of the sacraments, especially confession and Mass. I had proved to myself — and the world — that I could be a successful lawyer, and I'd arrived very near the top. I had been empowered by my own hard work. There was a staff to serve my needs, and I had the authority to make or break people's lives.
Yet, neither money nor prestige was enough to chase away the emptiness that was beginning to spread where, maybe, a heart once beat. It wasn't that I was discontent so much as I was isolated. The “top” was very like an ivory tower that kept me ever more disconnected from the reality of people's lives in the world below.
I'd worked very hard for this ample supply of money, prestige and influence. At 36 I had lots of money and no one to spend it on but me. I had a beautiful place to live but spent only a few hours a day there. There was no time for family or friends, and they'd all become a little intimidated by me, anyway. I didn't have much social contact with the professional women who moved in similar circles; most were shrill and unpleasantly feminist.
After awhile, my constant hard work began to catch up with me. I felt that this unending stream of unhappy people who had been caught up in litigation, on one side or the other, were without end, and it was suffocating! I didn't eat well. My hasty dinners were always microwaved very late at night or taken as a “party of one” at a local eatery.
I did not sleep but a few hours any night. The sound of a nearby church bell always stabbed me with melancholy while I sat alone with my coffee and the Sunday New York Times. More than once, I was smitten by the sight of happy women; maybe, an exultant stranger skipping past with her two little children and husband, baby in his arms, bringing up the rear.
All these little things taken together made a train wreck of my health and emotions. I wound up in the hospital at age 45 with serious irregular heart arrhythmia. While there, looking up at the heart monitor on the ceiling, I reflected on eternity and my past life; I had carefully remembered everything else, but had forgotten to love others. I'd forgotten to have children. And I'd forgotten to find a husband.
Oh, yes: I'd forgotten God, too. There was a higher Judge of life before Whom I would have to stand. My reasons for going into law had not been very noble. Some people have a passion for justice and the rule of law. Others are passionate social liberals and want to legislate with the courts. My reasons were not ideological — they were based on a passion for self-indulgence and on a desire to prove that a “woman can do it.”
I'd spent a legal lifetime enjoying the fruits of success, pampering myself and seeking the admiration of others — all the while determining the outcome of other people's lives and ignoring my own. Who would plead my case? Was there any excuse for such vaulting selfishness and vanity? How bitterly rang the scripture verse: “What profit… to gain the whole world but lose her soul?”
In the days that followed, while I was recovering, Ginny came to visit me. We talked as we had not since we were girls. I told her about my impoverished and selfish interior life, and expressed my admiration for the generosity in hers. She was very compassionate and gentle, but firmly insisted that there was no time for me to pity myself. (More self-indulgence!) She told me that there was much good that I could do, but that first I needed to heal, body and soul.
She put me in contact with an excellent priest. He guided me back to God. Through sound spiritual direction and readings and, above all, through returning to the sacraments, especially confession and the Eucharist, I have found abiding peace and a certain godly purpose.
I am basically too set in my “comfortable” ways to make any radical life changes. I still work for my firm, but less than before. I still live alone. However, I make a point of having lunch and dinner with others! My time now includes volunteering as a legal consultant for a pro-life group and for a battered women's organization. I spend more time with my elderly parents. When my brothers and their children visit, there's time to be with them. I am trying to be more of a good “aunt” to Ginny's teenagers.
Though I may once have forgotten how to love, Christ has restored love in His love. Though I once betrayed my family and my God, they have forgiven me. While the chance for motherhood may have been lost, the meaning has not been lost. I find that I can love others, and that I want to love them. Maybe they can love me. The Judge has been Merciful.
(This article is reprinted courtesy of Canticle, the Voice of Today's Catholic Woman.)
