“In that little Host is the solution to all the problems of the world.” –St John Paul II

This weekend in the Catholic Church we will celebrate the Feast of Corpus Christi, the liturgical celebration of Jesus’s Real Presence under the appearance of bread and wine in the Holy Eucharist.

The mystery of the Real Presence in the Eucharist has been heavy on my mind lately. In all my pondering and praying about it, I keeping being led back to thinking about sexual abuse. I know, I know. Yuck. But bear with me. I promise there is a connection. (This is probably going to get a little dark and a lot personal, so if you need to click away please do so)

I stand firmly with St. John Paul II in his assertion that the Eucharist is the solution to all the problems plaguing our society and our Church. But I also must admit that there was a time in the not-too-distant past when, although I truly believed in the Real Presence, it was a source of enormous pain and anxiety for me. I would have panic attacks in the pew before communion. I would be anxious to the point of almost vomiting. More than once I had to get up and leave.

And let’s not even talk about Confession. That’s a whole other post for another day.

It was all so confusing to me. Why, if I really believed this was Jesus Himself (and I did!), did I feel such fear at approaching Him and even sometimes revulsion at receiving Him? Why didn’t I love Him like others do? What was wrong with me? Why was I such a bad Catholic?

It was almost my undoing. The emotional mess of it all was enough to make me consider leaving the Church just to spare myself the pain.

After many months of near crippling anxiety over this, I asked my priest for a recommendation for a spiritual director and he referred me to a wonderful priest in our diocese. (Can we just take a moment and say thanks be to God for good, holy priests?? Thank you, Jesus. Amen.)

Before too long I started to explore this with the help of my spiritual director. Slowly I started to see how, for those like myself who had difficult relationships with or been abused by their fathers – whether those were physical or spiritual fathers – the familial relationships within the Church and even the sacraments themselves could be twisted into something scary, oppressive, and violent. I had little bits and pieces of insight and understanding but they refused to form into any sort of coherent picture I could understand. I truly believe that slow dawning was the Holy Spirit protecting me and only giving me the little tiny fragments I could handle, not revealing the next piece until the previous one had been properly digested.

The final piece snapped into place while praying the Divine Office. That particular day one of the psalms from Morning Prayer was Psalm 81. I got to Psalm 81:10 and read the words “Open wide your mouth and I will fill it” and something inside me broke. I ran to the bathroom and vomited, then started crying and didn’t stop again for two days.

In that moment, I saw with crashing clarity everything that I had been afraid of. I saw how all of my past experiences of abuse and betrayal and pain had led me to viewing something that should be beautiful and healing and unitive into something dark and twisted. I saw every trick and deceit of the devil, meant to keep me away from Jesus’s Heart, laid bare. In one devastating flash I saw all those parallels and connections and wondered how I ever missed them to begin with.

I have a father who is big and powerful. I am little and helpless in comparison. The purpose of my entire life is to subjugate myself to Him and His purposes. There is a woman, my mother, who is supposed to love and protect me, but who simply points to this man and says “Do whatever he tells you”. I kneel down and open my mouth and a man puts his very body into me, and then I am supposed to say Thank You. And even though everything in me is screaming that THIS IS WRONG and I am overwhelmed by shame and panic, I push through because I have to be a good, obedient daughter or I will be punished. This is all for my own good, because suffering is redemptive.

I saw my abuse replayed, over and over, every day of the week at Mass. In the place where there is nothing but love and peace on offer, I was finding violence. And once again, like countless times before, I was too overwhelmed by shame and fear to speak out or ask for help.

“Oh, self. Of course this freaks you out. No wonder. Bless your heart. ”

When I was finally brave enough to share this with my two best friends, I was terrified of their reaction. I was terrified of what they would think of me, that they would be horrified by the fact that I could turn something holy into something so dark and depraved, that they would turn away in disgust. Instead, they simply told me they loved me, told me they were proud of me, and then ordered more margaritas. I LOVE THEM.

A few days later when I shared this insight with my spiritual director — a priest of Jesus Christ, a man who just moments before had given me the Eucharist — I had all those same fears. Yet he also simply loved me. As I wept, he looked at me with so much compassion and with such love and pain etched on his face that I knew in that moment I was seeing the face of Jesus.

He prescribed Adoration before the Blessed Sacrament as often as possible. His specific advice? “Don’t take any books or rosaries or anything else to fidget with or distract yourself with. Just sit there in the blazing light of His presence and let Him see you. It will hurt. A lot. But I promise you there is nothing to be afraid of. There is nothing waiting for you there except love and healing.”

I have followed that instruction to the best of my ability, which is not saying much. My most common and frequent prayer has been “Jesus, I trust in You. Please help me let you love me and heal me however you desire. Please make me yours.” I cannot begin to explain to you the ways that my heart has been healed and changed. It defies description.

Though my healing is in no way complete, I am a changed woman.

The whole process was emotionally and physically exhausting. Just as the dust was settling from that upheaval, the news about now-former Cardinal Theodore McCarrick broke, followed by a flood of heartbreaking revelations about decades of sexual abuse and sin and corruption and cover up even in the highest echelons of the episcopacy, and I again found myself contemplating leaving the Church. I asked myself over and over how I could stay in this church that seemed so broken, so corrupt, and had failed so many so badly.

It was my sweet husband (who happens to be an atheist!) who spoke the truth so simply to me. “You can’t leave. You love Jesus in the Eucharist too much.” *mic drop*

Well, there you have it. The Eucharist is why I almost left, but the Eucharist is why I will stay, God willing, until the day I die. It was my unraveling and my stitching back together.

I am not sharing this to make myself “more” or to seem “holier” in any way, because I am not. I am a mess of a sinner who happens to have been granted a great grace of personal insight and healing on one particular issue.

I’m not sharing this because I have any great understanding. I don’t know why stuff like this happens to people. I don’t know why God allows us to hurt like this. I don’t know if your wounds are the same as my wounds. I just don’t know.

I don’t know what He’s doing but I know who He is, and I know He can use even horrible situations to work incredible good.

I am sharing this because it is the story I desperately needed to hear at the time.

I am sharing this because I know, despite what the enemy whispers in my ear, that I am not the only person bearing this burden and walking through this darkness, wondering how to make sense of it all and how to move through the pain.

I am sharing this because there is someone out there who needs to hear that they are not alone in their shame and confusion.

I am sharing because there is someone who has either already left or who is considering walking away, and I desperately want them to come home.

If you are that person, please hear me: You are loved and cherished beyond measure by a God who died to know you. We are only as sick as the secrets we keep. Please go to Jesus and let Him love you. Go to confession, go to Adoration, go back to mass, do whatever you have to do, but go to Him. Let Him shine the light on all of those dark hidden places you guard so fiercely. I promise you there is nothing to fear.

He loves you, and so do I.

Immaculate Heart of Mary, pray for us.

PS: I can’t lie. I am terrified to hit Publish on this, but here goes nothing.