Faith. Family. Fun.

BY KATE FRANCES
SPECIAL TO THE CATHOLIC HERALD

One time, a priest was telling me about how busy his spring was shaping up to be. He had exams for a course he was taking in addition to the countless other duties calling on his time. I was sympathetic — after all, I only have three kids and I’m allowed to yell at them. Priests have hundreds of spiritual kids (most of them grown adults who just act like kids), and I’m not sure if there are specific canons against priests yelling at them, but I think it’s generally frowned upon.

“And then,” he sighed. “At the end of April, I have to go on this silent retreat.”

Reader, I wanted to punch him in the face.

I’m kidding! (Mostly.) My own feelings of overwhelm do not invalidate or negate others’ feelings of overwhelm (this is what my therapist tells me, and I think it’s a nice way of saying, “There’s nothing very special about your stress, Kate. We are all stressed.”)

It’s just … a silent retreat. Are you kidding me? This isn’t fair. The thought of it makes me salivate. I don’t even care what else they do on this retreat, or where it’s held. I don’t care if it’s sleeping in military-style barracks in the deep woods, four people to a mosquito-infested bathroom. It’s the silence that I want. It’s the retreat.

What’s the opposite of a silent retreat? A loud … advance? Battle? Whatever it is, that’s what my life feels like. A loud battle.

I thought about this as I drove to confession the other morning, peeling into the church parking lot like a bat out of hell — or, I suppose, a bat trying to avoid hell. I did an unladylike walk/run into the building, hoping to nab a place in the line before it got too long. Let’s make this quick, Lord, I prayed. My breath was short, my heartbeat loud as I bowed my head, batting away thoughts of ingredients that still needed to be bought for dinner tonight and laundry that needed pretreating. I quickly silenced the phone as it buzzed with texts from my husband about potential dates to visit his cousin next month.

Right — examination of conscience time. I ticked through my sin list: gossip (in the moment, I justify it as “venting”), nastiness to my family (in the moment, I justify it as “communicating my needs”), and taking God’s name in vain (in the moment, I tell my kids I mean it as a prayer. “That car came out of nowhere!”) Today I added “wanting to punch a priest because he gets to go to a silent retreat.”

Reader, I did not really want to receive the great and glorious Sacrament of Reconciliation on this day. I had a very long list of things that needed doing instead, and a short window of opportunity in which I could do them. But it had been about eight weeks since I last shuffled shamefacedly into the confessional to inform Father that I have not, in fact, become a better person, and I’m still doing all the same stupid stuff. And I have a rule that eight weeks is as long as I let myself go without apologizing to God for all the stupid stuff.

It’s because I don’t have silence, I thought bitterly as I knelt behind the screen and began my confession. If I had a stupid silent retreat like the stupid priests get, I wouldn’t do so many stupid things.

Afterward, saying my penance before the Blessed Sacrament took me only a few minutes. When I was done, I blinked at the gleaming tabernacle, finding myself wishing that the priest hadn’t been such a softie, had given me a couple extra Aves so I could stay longer. Because that’s when I realized it: the sound I’d been hearing since I walked in the church. Or rather, the sound I had not been hearing.

Silence.

It had been waiting for me here, in the place I was too busy to come, the place I did not want to go.

No one has time for silence. Not priests, not mothers, not busy single people. And we tend to avoid it, like psychopaths, because silence isn’t on our to-do list. It’s not convenient. It’s not cheap. It’s not easy. In this loud, obnoxious world, silence is something costly and rare, like true love or a good book. Silence has to be sought out.

My phone buzzed again. I ignored it, my eyes fixed on Jesus. I would stay in the silence for just a few minutes more.

Kate Frances is an Archdiocese of Milwaukee writer who finds joy in raising three young children in the Catholic faith.