For years I assumed that to value woman’s rights and equality meant that men and women should be treated equal. Equality meant that differences among the sexes were to be ignored. As a feminist, I fought for the right to be able to do all that a man can do, both in the workplace, the home, and within the religious realm. I fought hard battles . . . and mostly came out wounded and feeling misunderstood.
My first “real” job was as a youth minister in a large evangelical church. I had entered a boys club – from church leadership to fellow colleagues, I was surrounded by men with few exceptions. I believed that my role was to be just one of the guys. This was not too difficult for me as I played guitar, loved sports, and had a general disdain towards nail polish and dresses. By silencing the woman within me, I short-changed the ministry.
It was not until my late twenties that I began to respect my feminine side. It was not until I entered motherhood that I began to see it as a blessing and not “the curse of Eve.” In watching my husband interact with our children, it became apparent that I would never be a father. Likewise, my husband could never be a mother. Roles were quickly prescribed. I was the bearer of our children – I carried them in my womb and fed them in the middle of the night. These were two things only a mother could do (with exception to bottle feeding.) As the bearer of the miracle of life, I had the gift of holding something sacred in my womb. I was an intimate part of creation. My husband made it clear that he was not fond of the common cliché “we are pregnant” for clearly it was only me, the mother, who had the distinction of being pregnant and ultimately birthing our children. A part of me became sad for all men, and especially my husband for I had the rich blessing of knowing, holding, nurturing, and loving our children within my own body for nine precious months. I was the first to hold them and look intently into their eyes. Even now, it is mommy they ask for when they are scared or injured and I have the unique ability to make it all better with a simple rub on the back and a kiss on the boo boo. For I am woman, hear me love.
As a Catholic convert, the adoration of Mary, mother of God, became a difficult doctrine/religious practice to embrace. My feminist blood equally had difficulty with the concept that only men could become priests and ultimately the “head of the Church.” As I began to further settle into loving my own identity as mother, the idea of honoring THE God-bearing mother became natural. Even more, she became an example of how to nurture, love, and fulfill the roles in ways only a mother can. And the priest – well, watching my husband embrace his role as father and realizing I could never be father to my children convinced me to try and be “father” to the Church would only rob the Church of a much needed mother.
My first “real” job was as a youth minister in a large evangelical church. I had entered a boys club – from church leadership to fellow colleagues, I was surrounded by men with few exceptions. I believed that my role was to be just one of the guys. This was not too difficult for me as I played guitar, loved sports, and had a general disdain towards nail polish and dresses. By silencing the woman within me, I short-changed the ministry.
It was not until my late twenties that I began to respect my feminine side. It was not until I entered motherhood that I began to see it as a blessing and not “the curse of Eve.” In watching my husband interact with our children, it became apparent that I would never be a father. Likewise, my husband could never be a mother. Roles were quickly prescribed. I was the bearer of our children – I carried them in my womb and fed them in the middle of the night. These were two things only a mother could do (with exception to bottle feeding.) As the bearer of the miracle of life, I had the gift of holding something sacred in my womb. I was an intimate part of creation. My husband made it clear that he was not fond of the common cliché “we are pregnant” for clearly it was only me, the mother, who had the distinction of being pregnant and ultimately birthing our children. A part of me became sad for all men, and especially my husband for I had the rich blessing of knowing, holding, nurturing, and loving our children within my own body for nine precious months. I was the first to hold them and look intently into their eyes. Even now, it is mommy they ask for when they are scared or injured and I have the unique ability to make it all better with a simple rub on the back and a kiss on the boo boo. For I am woman, hear me love.
As a Catholic convert, the adoration of Mary, mother of God, became a difficult doctrine/religious practice to embrace. My feminist blood equally had difficulty with the concept that only men could become priests and ultimately the “head of the Church.” As I began to further settle into loving my own identity as mother, the idea of honoring THE God-bearing mother became natural. Even more, she became an example of how to nurture, love, and fulfill the roles in ways only a mother can. And the priest – well, watching my husband embrace his role as father and realizing I could never be father to my children convinced me to try and be “father” to the Church would only rob the Church of a much needed mother.
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