Covid19 Reflections from Mother of Three Young Children

This is from a recent Facebook post by my daughter, Cynthia Schmidt, who is weathering the virus with her three daughters in Dallas, TX. She's pictured here with Monica, her youngest. 

It's Monday, and all day I’ve been trying to get my attitude right about another day, another week, another month of parenting during the pandemic. A little, indignant voice keeps muttering “I didn’t sign up for this.” It’s an alluring point because it’s true. Six months ago, I had a delicately curated balance of staying at home with my kids while maintaining a law practice, always with a full calendar of fulfilling community service, play dates for the kids, mass on Sundays, upcoming travel, museum and zoo visits, and constant access to rich, life-giving, faith-filled friendships.

But this? This doesn’t look like that life anymore. So many things are gone, and the sense of optimism and opportunity that characterized my life before has been replaced by a kind of anxiety-ridden malaise, made worse by the sense that I should somehow be managing this whole thing better, spiritually and practically. “I don’t like this,” I think; “I have to fix this.” And so I’ve tried to fix it.  With new childcare and work arrangements, changing my risk-analysis for public outings, buying things, buying more things, doing work on our back yard, some activism, and drowning myself in reading.

I’ve tried to fix it, because I have let the world convince me I should fix instead of surrender. The gospel of today preaches that my self-fulfillment, my personal happiness, and my free exercise of my autonomy is the highest good I can strive for, and that if I do this, it will somehow necessarily result in what’s best for everyone around me.

But that gospel is a lie.

The truth is that sometimes, probably more often than we think, we are asked to do hard things for the people who love us, and it costs us. I’ve spent a lot of my life avoiding suffering with life-hacks, distractions, and a whole lot of privilege in the form of resumes, family, and networks. But this pandemic has been a cross for me, and I can’t run from that truth any longer.

I’m sharing this because maybe you’ve been tricked by the false gospel too, and you don’t have any more ideas to fix it, and you’re exhausted running from your cross. Maybe, like me, you’re too embarrassed to admit this is a cross because your small trials seem to pale in comparison to the ones others face, or you still believe, deep down, that you’re the master of your own fate and should be doing better.

Friends, there is a tender voice whispering to us in this moment. Can you hear it? It’s saying “deny yourself, pick up your cross, and follow me.” It’s the voice of the true Gospel, and it is breaking boldly through the shrieking of the blind guides. It doesn’t promise ease or comfort or fixes. In fact, it pretty clearly leads to the top of that hill. But it’s only by going through the grave that we can be raised with Him, only by this dying that we can hope for true Life.

Bishop, Pastor, Story-Teller

I learned with sadness today that Archbishop Lipscomb died.

A bishop from another diocese once told me, learning that I was from Mobile:  "I know your bishop well. You can find him easily during breaks at our bishop's meetings. Just look for the laughter. He could really spin a tale. " 

Yes he could.  For 19 straight years I witnessed that first hand. 

Our graduations at Montgomery Catholic Preparatory School followed the same script during my tenure as principal. Graduates would receive their diplomas, followed by three talks:  The first was from the valedictorian, representing his or her classmates. The second was a joint talk by then president Dr. Doyle and me, in which we roasted the graduates, one student at a time. "Some of the stories are true," we'd say, "some are half-true, and some are outright lies." (We said it was our last chance to get even.)  And then Archbishop Lipscomb would take the podium, address the graduates,  and offer benediction to close out the ceremony. Every single year, seemingly effortlessly, he would weave elements of the valedictory address and our roast into his remarks, making what was always a compelling, interesting point. I marveled at his ability to do this, and at his ability to speak so eloquently, without ever using notes. 

Setting aside confirmations (for those in our archdiocese, this needs no further explanation), he was consistently one of the best homilists of our Church. 

But he was more than that. He was a gentle, caring pastor.  I once called him about a senior in our school who had become pregnant. "What do you want us to do?"  I asked him. He didn't hesitate: "You tell her and her parents that we're behind her and that I look forward to handing her a diploma in May, " he said. "We can't call ourself a pro-life Church and walk away from a young lady when she needs us the most." I remember the tears of gratitude in the eyes of the girl’s mother when I relayed his message.  And I remember being proud of our Church and proud of our bishop. 

He was a  true southern gentleman, marked by a genuine Christian humility. He trusted people. He endured unkind remarks, but forgave those who made them. Shepherding our Church through the horrific scandals that came to light in the early 2000's must have been a profoundly lonely, profoundly sorrowful time for him. But I never knew him to give in to despair, or walk away from his obligations as pastor. I always admired him for soldiering through that period with grace and gentility. 

He had a good sense of humor, too. I remember a story he told my family when visiting our home back when I was a boy:

"I often traveled with Monsignor Sullivan and Bishop Thomas J. Toolen," he said, "and once we had to take a helicopter from Chicago O'Hare to Midway to transfer planes.  Back in those days, helicopters had weight limits, so the pilot asked each of us how much we weighed before we got on.  I was first-- "180" I tell him.  Toolen was next--he was a large man, but he never liked admitting it, so he mumbles "240."  " Thomas!" cries Sullivan, alarmed, "These are our lives we're talking about!" "OK,"  Toolen says grumpily-- "260." "And you sir?" the pilot asks Sullivan. Glaring at Toolen, Sullivan says, "400 pounds." 

Thank you for your many years as our faithful pastor, Archbishop.  May your soul, and the souls of the faithfully departed, rest in peace.