Pain With Purpose

Growing up amongst evangelicals, lapsed Anglicans, agnostics and pentecostals, I received various impressions about the nature of personal suffering. A few called for quiet endurance of a largely pointless torment; others sought to avoid and strive against it at all costs; and - perhaps most dangerous of all - some saw it as an irredeemable evil from which God would spare us entirely if only were righteous and prayed hard enough.

Unfortunately, it was the latter opinion that tended to abound in the charismatic evangelical churches I frequented in the troubled years of my adolescence and early twenties. At the time, I had not been diagnosed as autistic; I had simply been a "very odd, anxious, and isolated child" who - like many females with undiagnosed autistic spectrum disorders - had developed severe clinical depression as I struggled in a world which overwhelmed me and to which I could not relate.

Thus, my early tentative attempts to form a deeper relationship with God and give my life to His service were thwarted by feeling that I was not accepted by Him and not praying hard enough to be healed of what was then labelled 'mental illness' by my psychiatrist and 'demonic attacks' by my church. I sat, numb with anguish, through various healing services in which lots of outlandishly happy people sang and danced to folk-pop worship music then tried to cast demons out of me. "Thy will be done" was passed over, and "God wants you to be well" became the mantra we heard over and over again.
Even at the time, this seemed an unsound doctrine. I would not have been able to express confidently how or why it was so, but echoes of Job, Colossians, the charge to take up one's cross, and the frequent calls to rejoice in suffering seemed to contradict much of what I heard preached. In later years, these same passages ensured that I recognised the truth of the traditional Catholic perspective when it was finally explained to me.

A correct diagnosis and the subsequent understanding of the workings of my brain have helped to alleviate much of the angst of previous years. However, when short episodes of depression recur or incidents of physical pain crop up I no longer languish in despair. Suffering is never pleasant, but now that I can offer it up to be united with Christ's Passion, it is sanctified; it has purpose, value and potential. Whether I suffer or whether I am healed, I will rejoice. There is only one thing I ask: Father, Thy will be done.

Though Your Sins Are Like Scarlet...

Living in an area in which our priest has sole charge of two large rural parishes (in addition to teaching at a seminary, writing a doctoral thesis, and carrying out administrative obligations for the diocese) I am understandably grateful that Mass is celebrated at our church three or four times each week. Confession, however, is no longer provided in our town at all. Doubtless this is due in part to our priest having so many other demands upon his time, but I also have a sneaking suspicion that it is because frequent confession is not viewed as particularly important by many parishioners.

As a convert, I am continually baffled and dismayed when I encounter the mixture of reluctance and indifference with which so many Catholics view this unspeakably beautiful sacrament. Perhaps I am all the more confused because I clearly recall being desperate to make my first confession; yes, sick with nerves and literally trembling with anxiety, but desperate nonetheless! The fount of mercy was being opened to me at last, and no matter how embarrassing or formidable it seemed, I knew I must go forth and ask before I might find absolution.

Return Of The Prodigal Son - Pompeo Batoni

Even after frequent repeat performances with various priests, confession has never become entirely easy. There is always some trepidation and timidity involved, but I have never emerged without having been showered with blessings and filled with a joy, thankfulness and peace to which my words can only fail to do justice. The fact that nearly everyone who is absolved describes similar feelings only makes me more incredulous that people aren't more eager to confess on a regular basis.

Of course, it could be that I am simply a far more frequent sinner than anyone else in our congregation! Lamentably, I'm only half joking about this. I wouldn't be remotely surprised if I was. Still, mercifully, His grace is sufficient.

Opening Gambit

Introductions are difficult things at the best of times. With my hard-wired fear of change, my difficulty in switching to a new task, and my problems with communication, I generally regard them with slightly less affection than I do root canal surgery.

This particular specimen is proving a halting, mildly discouraging affair. Between each line I must pause, recollect and attempt to regain focus; distracted as I am by the hum of the fan in my PC tower and the flickering light on the router. I try to suppress - without success - the knowledge that it's gone midnight and I've yet to recite Saturday's Rosary.

Anyway... I'm Jenny. I'm autistic. I'm a Roman Catholic convert. I'm married to an atheistic lapsed-Anglican who has the patience of a saint where I am concerned. I'm hoping to study for a degree in divinity, and in the meantime I shall be studying to become a parish catechist.

Admittedly this does not constitute the most thorough of introductions, but I hope to elaborate on most of these things - probably at tedious length - in subsequent posts. I'm sure you can scarcely contain your excitement at the prospect.