Death by Minivan. Heather Anderson Renshaw
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.
Fill ’Er Up
(( love ))
“There really are places in the heart you don’t even know exist until you love a child.”
— Anne Lamott
I used to think love was all about good feelings, but then my six-month-old threw up on me.
Now, this wasn’t just run-of-the-mill infant spit-up, mind you. This was completely out-of-the-blue, large-volume, straight-to-the-face, down-the-shirt, into-the-bra, real person puke.
I think we were both a little shocked. I looked at my daughter, and she looked at me. I’m not sure if it was the act of vomiting for the first time that upset her, or the horrified look on my face, but she began to cry. In that moment, I was simultaneously repulsed beyond belief yet filled with overwhelming compassion for this poor, helpless kid. I pulled her closer to me, saying, “It’s okay, sweetheart. Mama’s here. You’re okay,” while five-alarm sirens blared in my head, shrieking: “RUNN AWAAAAY! SAVE YOURSELLLLF! THE END IS NIIIIIIGHHH!”
After a bit, she calmed down, and then we did the next loving thing: we hopped in the shower for a good, long while.
And I could be wrong, but I like to think that my heart grew three sizes that day, sorta like the Grinch of Seussian lore. I was beginning to understand what real love looked like. It wasn’t always pretty, but it was persistent.
There was no question that I loved my husband—enough to enter into a covenant relationship in front of God and the priest and my parents and everybody. But when Ava Madeleine was born, it was like the faucet that regulated my capacity to love was cranked up to full blast, until it reached geyser level. I didn’t even know this kid well yet, but I had the distinct understanding that I would literally throw myself in front of a truck to keep her safe. This was new territory for me.
Comedian and writer Amy Poehler said of motherhood: “I love my boys so much I fear my heart will explode. I wonder if this love will crack open my chest and split me in half. It is scary, this love.”
And she’s right. It can be scary. But, at least in my case, so was driving for the first time. And the first day