February 11: Our Lady of Lourdes

My daughter has been at Walt Disney World all week with her aunts.  She calls me every morning before she heads out for whatever adventure the day holds in store.  This morning when she called, she was crying.  Between her sobs, I got a story about one of my sisters teasing her in front of a group of people.  I also got the impression that I was talking to a very tired little girl.  Last night, she stayed at the Magic Kingdom for the fireworks and the electrical parade.  My guess is she didn't get back to the hotel room until well past midnight.  And I know when my daughter gets tired, she cries at the smallest of slights.  A mosquito bite can send her into hysterics.  So I spent most of my conversation with her this morning listening to her cry.

My daughter has always been mature, having spent the first eight years of her life as an only child.  When my daughter was newly born, my wife went through a six-month cycle of depressions and manias.  My daughter spent a good portion of those six months in a dark bedroom, contentedly nursing and sleeping with my weeping wife.  I've always thought those formative early days with my wife gave my daughter an emotional intelligence well beyond her age.  It has also made her incredibly sensitive.

Later, when my wife moved out of our house because of her sexual addiction, my daughter rarely exhibited any signs of distress or trauma.  She was five-years-old at the time, and I was in worse shape than she was.  During that year, she helped me clean the house; she climbed into bed with me and asked me to read her Shel Silverstein and Roald Dahl books.  When I got quiet and moody, she asked to sit in my lap, put her head against my chest, and listened to my breaths and heartbeats.  When she did cry for my wife, she was usually overwhelmed and very tired.  The way she was this morning on the phone.

Saint Bernadette, age 14

In the Catholic Church, when a young person gets confirmed, she or he can pick a confirmation name.  It's supposed to be the name of a saint for which the confirmand feels some kind of attachment or affinity.  In reality, it's usually a name that belongs to a popular movie or rock star (for a girl) or an NBA/NFL player (for a boy).  My daughter, when she was confirmed, chose the name Bernadette.  She chose this name because it's also the confirmation name of one of her favorite aunts and also because of Saint Bernadette.  Bernadette was a 14-year-old girl from Lourdes, France, who saw visions of the Virgin Mary.  At the grotto where the Virgin supposedly appeared to Bernadette, a spring of water flows.  This water has been used in the miraculous healing of many people.  A friend of mine visited Lourdes seven or eight years ago and brought me a vial of the water.  When I first learned of my wife's addiction, I would take the vial of water and, when my wife was asleep at night, put drops of it on her forehead, praying for her to be cured.  Those of my readers who don't believe in such miracles probably view me as some fanatic, snake-kissing faith healer.  I'm not.  I was just desperate for hope and comfort.

My daughter loved the story of a little girl being able to talk to the Virgin Mary.  The first of Bernadette's visions of Mary occurred on February 11, 1858.  Therefore, today is the feast of Our Lady of Lourdes, in commemoration of the Virgin's first visit.  Bernadette, at a very young age, had to shoulder a lot of adult responsibility.  She dealt with skeptical townspeople, hostile Church officials, and fame that began to rival Hannah Montana's.  Bernadette remained grounded and compassionate.  My daughter has also faced a lot of adult circumstances.  Mental illness.  Sexual addiction.  Hostile relatives.  A broken mother.  A broken father.  Yet my daughter is still grounded and loving.  She chose her confirmation name well.

The other day, in my Good Books class where we're reading The Color Purple, I had my students write a letter to a person whom they lost or to whom they couldn't talk any more.  I chose to write a letter to my daughter when she's 43-years-old.  Here's that letter:

Dear C. at 43,

By the time you read this letter, I may no longer be alive.  You are as old as I am right now.  I hope you are happy and have people in your life whom you love and who love you.  If you have followed the path you've had your heart set on since kindergarten, you illustrate children's books, have a husband and three kids, and still dance ballet.

What I want to tell you is how much joy you brought into my world.  Even in the most difficult times in my life, you have been a light for me.  You know, or will know, the struggles we've had in our family because of mental illness.  You know, or will know, your mother struggled/struggles with bipolar and sexual addiction  I hope when you are my age that you realize I did my best to give you the most normal childhood I could. 

My biggest fear is that you will be touched by mental illness, as well.  It's something I think and pray about every day.  If you have been diagnosed with a mental illness, never hang your head.  Don't let people treat you like a freak or an outcast.  You are my daughter.  Don't ever be ashamed.  You have a mental illness.  It's just a part of you like your freckles or red hair or smile.  Don't let it define you.

You are beautiful.  You are strong.  You are the best thing that ever happened to me.

Love,

Daddy