“What if the Catholic school in your area was just phenomenal?” a friend recently asked me. “If they did a fantastic job, wouldn’t you prefer someone else do all that work?” 

At a recent panel on the Dobbs decision, Professor Roberto Dell’Oro, director of Loyola Marymount University’s Bioethics Institute, defended legalized abortion through the first trimester.

It’s Pride Month, and controversies over gender ideology are raging. The release of the documentary “What Is a Woman?” by Catholic political commentator Matt Walsh is causing a stir, revealing deeply disturbing facts about the dangers of pediatric gender transitions. These dangers are the reasons states such as Arkansas, Ohio and Florida are moving toward bans of pediatric “gender affirming” care, with Texas even attempting to prosecute some cases as child abuse.

Netflix’s recently released documentary “Our Father” follows the rabbit hole down just one of the new quandaries the fertility industry has introduced to parenthood. The documentary details the journey of Jacoba Ballard in her journey of uncovering the truth: that she and at least 93 others had been conceived using not donor sperm, but that of their mother’s fertility doctor.

On June 1, the Ohio House of Representatives followed Arkansas’s lead in passing a bill that blocks medical gender transition for minors, protects parental rights, and prevents biological males from competing in women’s sports. While critics of House Bill 454 claim its passage will “threaten” the mental health of Ohio’s youth, there is reason to doubt these “experts” are considering all the facts.

Far from being a basic “right,” abortion is deeply damaging to women; it is not the means to a level playing field that its avid supporters believe it to be. This faulty perception relies on decades of accepting a poor societal “solution” to the “problem” of women’s fertility.

In January 2020, two couples in Los Angeles found themselves exchanging 3-month-olds after discovering that their embryos had been switched during in vitro fertilization (IVF).

Pro-life and pro-choice circles alike are abuzz over the newest attempt to limit abortion in the United States. Texas Senate Bill 8 (“The Texas Heartbeat Bill”) prohibits abortion of a fetus with a detectable heartbeat. Pro-life advocates see the bill as a win, while pro-choice activists mourn what they see as an attack on women’s freedom.

What exactly does our Church have to say about how to live out the vocation of motherhood?

In a tragic turn of events, the state of New York has recently legalized commercial surrogacy. While its citizens find themselves preoccupied with a state-wide shutdown, shouldering the lion’s share of the U.S. coronavirus burden, New York’s legislators have taken it upon themselves to pass the widely-battled legislation that feminists argue is harmful to women, children, and families.

According to the March of Dimes, the premature birth rate in the United States has been increasing over the past several years. In response, researchers focus on the prevention of this issue, as well as on treatments and solutions. Among these solutions is the potentially life-saving artificial womb. Although it is still only a theoretical possibility for human gestation, artificial wombs have been successfully tested in animal reproduction…

In 1933, Aldous Huxley imagined a Brave New World in which human reproduction was entirely artificial. No longer science fiction, the use of “artificial wombs” is news of the past. Researchers demonstrated the capacity to gestate animals in 2017, when a team at Children’s Hospital in Philadelphia published the results of their study growing fetal lambs in what they termed a “biobag.”

One of the hazards of bearing a baby bump is the avalanche of advice on how best to raise your children. Friends and strangers suddenly feel the impulse to touch you without warning and share harrowing stories of traumatic birth experiences. And they always want to know, “Are you going back to work?”

For some mothers, this choice is easy, and their circumstances and desires align. For others, “choice” is dictated by circumstance. For many, this question is not simple, the answer is not apparent, their desires conflict, and the matter is never fully settled.

The word discernment is like the word vocation. We hear it and immediately think of the priesthood or religious life - something specific and set apart. We do this even though we know that God is calling us, too. Yes, we are all called to a life of holiness, and some of us live that out by taking specific vows. But discernment is not only about hearing God’s call in the “big picture” decisions of lives. It is a much broader practice of becoming attuned to God’s call as it manifests in our everyday lives.

Yesterday was the feast day of St. Catherine of Siena. She was a medieval mystic, and one of the first female Doctors of the Church. Her influential writing on prayer and politics transformed the Church of her time and continues to inspire us today. She even wrote letters chastising the pope and changed his mind. Basically, St. Catherine was a badass.

She also had issues.

I stumbled over the toys strewn across the living room floor before sneaking into my daughter’s dark room to kiss her goodnight. I had looked forward to this night “off” all week, but now that it was over, I found myself coveting missed bedtime cuddles.

I found myself crying in the dressing room. All I wanted was to find one thing I felt beautiful in, one thing that I could slip into and become that confident woman who used to lure her husband with a pair of stilettos and a bat of her lashes. Now, the mascara from those lashes was running down my face.

Mere moments on Twitter are enough to alert us that our culture is plagued with demons. We live in a culture that responds to polarized politics and social values with contempt and hateful accusations that serve only to drive us further from one another, rather than seeking common ground. Even voices claiming to speak for our good God are raised in accusation and derision. Among so many voices and so much anger, through all the noise, how do we hear a God who whispers? Why doesn’t God speak more loudly, to be heard above the hate, or better still – to silence it forever?

I am not a person who waits. I take my time to think, to research, to plan and to pray. But once I reach a decision, I do not like to delay execution. When I made the decision to enter the Catholic Church, I did not want to wait. The image I have of my excitement is Harry’s line at the end of When Harry Met Sally: “Once you realize that you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.” I wanted to receive Jesus in the Eucharist as soon as possible.

My daughter is in a “why” phase. Lately, our conversations go like this:

“Why is my sandbox so wet?”
“Because you left it out in the rain.”
“Why did it rain?”
“Because that is how God feeds the thirsty plants.”
“He’s a bad Jesus to make it rain in my sandbox!”

The ruffles of my toddler’s skirt undulate around her in a wide fan as she twirls until she collapses, too dizzy to continue spinning.

What is God’s will for you right now?

After guiding my hand to tie tiny apron strings around her, my daughter busies herself with miniature pots and pans. She is a flurry of culinary activity, feeding me magic soup and dandelion tea.

New life is waking up all around me. The first spring flowers yawn open. The bees pay a visit. A pink-headed hummingbird swoops down only to pause, suspended and in motion, so close I can see its feathers glisten.

Tiny hands flutter in a flurry of genuflection as we wade our way into the front pew. We’re early by at least 30 minutes, but all the rest have filled up with Mass regulars, eager to beat our the C&E Catholics for good seats.

My toddler is screaming, so it must be Tuesday. His face is scrunched, anger etching hard lines onto his normally round face. His complexion flushes red as he hisses out a frustrated, “No,” through clenched teeth. 

It isn’t a refusal to acquiesce to my request. Quite the opposite: his is a refusal to accept my refusal. 

Except, I haven’t said, “No.” What I said was, “Not right now.”

If you clicked on this expecting a feel-good piece about God’s graces overflowing, I apologize for the story you’re about to hear. This story is about as unspiritual as it gets. This is a story about a toilet. 

It’s quiet in the dark, except for the screaming. I hold my one-year-old, skin hot from fever, as he writhes against me. “No, no” he cries, little hands trying to force me away. He wants neither down nor up. I’m used to being the touch that soothes - a useless gift when everything hurts.

I laugh as the line turns pink. Earlier this week, I told my husband that although we had been trying to conceive our second child for a few months, just one week of juggling night school, full-time teaching, and taking care of our 2-year-old daughter had made me reconsider.

When I open the door and see my mother-in-law standing there, something inside cracks and tears escape down my face. I’m not dressed. Toys and bits of food litter the floor.

The heat is creeping towards 100 degrees today, so ice cream sounds like a good idea.

It could have been a good idea if my toddler had gotten her nap.

“Watch me, Mommy!”

This is the single line of the chorus I hear all day long. Whatever task I am occupied by matters little to my daughter who burns to show me her latest accomplishment.

“I hate you. I hate you!” my daughter screams from behind her door. Her words cut me, but this is hardly the first tantrum that we’ve weathered. I stand outside, deaf to the sound of kicks and screams. They used to break me inside; familiarity has numbed their sting.

"Book!" says my toddler as he hobbles along, dragging a board book behind him. I take it from him and gather him onto what's left of my lap, shrinking away as the new baby grows within it.

It’s December 27th and the house is as quiet as the snow that silently blankets everything outside of our windows in the predawn blackness. The only light in the room glows from our Christmas village where it sits merrily on the mantle, high above greedy fingers whose enthusiasm threatens to crack its delightfully delicate rendition of an idyllic Christmas. The sight the villagers look down upon, however, is another story.

I can’t visit her. I’m taking care of two kids and I’m pregnant. It’s too far, I brush the thought away, and she probably wouldn’t want the company anyway.

But you did.

My voice comes out in a low hiss, dripping with venom. My daughter’s defiant stare is a dagger that pierces my heart. The somber tones of the “Sanctus” beckon us to prayer, but I am paralyzed. I’m done.

Do I love you enough to let you suffer? This road you walk is a painful one. Each of your wounds I feel in my own body. How, why, Lord, does it have to be this way?

What did you feel when you saw him standing there, finally found? The rise of anger? The wash of relief? Was it then, in that moment, when you knew he was not yours to keep?