When Bairns Come Last

Woman On Bus (sulkily): Why don't you like staying at my flat? No internet? No telly? No three tellies?

Little Girl (quietly): I got used to sleeping at the old place.

Stranger Lady in Front of Them (thinking furiously): Here's a modest proposal. Why don't divorced/split-up parents let the children live in their old home, and they shuttle back and forth to the children's home, instead of forcing their children to shuttle back and forth between Mum's Place and Dad's Place? If the parents can't afford a bachelor pad each plus their old home, why don't they time-share a flat? Mummy gets the bachelor pad on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays (date night!), and Dad gets it Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays (date night!). They can alternate on the Sundays.  That way the completely powerless children, who did not choose for their parents to split-up, don't have to suffer all the instability of shuttling back and forth. The parents do. And then there will be no more snarky "What? My flat's not good enough for you?" remarks from sadly immature adults to their sadly mature children on the bus.

Neighbours. Not actually deaf.

Now Let Us Praise Good Men Again

Recently the shipment of my library arrived at the Historical House, and after B.A. put together four bookcases, I began to take the books out of their boxes. Oh, my little beauties!

One of the books is super-trashy, the sort of book you would hide from your mother if you had it, even if it did not constitute an occasion for sin for you, and I found it on a sale table for something like $2. But the thing is, this book contains splendid advice on getting along with men. (What a hoot!) And so it has strongly influenced how I get along with men, even though there are parts of this book I cannot read in good conscience and I am now hiding it from B.A.  As we graduates of Jesuit schools like to say about the weirdest stuff, "God in all things!"

The first message of this amusing-and-useful-but-shameful book is that in order to get along with men, you must repeat a mantra in your head, the first part being "Men are wonderful" and the second being "I am wonderful." The book's premise is that if you convince yourself of these beliefs, men will flock to you. If you truly believe not only that men are fabulous, but that you are fabulous and fun, attractive and clever, says this book, then men will also think that you are fabulous and fun, attractive and clever.  And speaking as a woman who is fabulous and fun, attractive and clever, I think Amusing-If-Shameful Book Lady has a point.

Complaining about men is an enjoyable female hobby, mostly because coming to a consensus makes groups of women feel cozy and knitted together, supported, loved and understood. Also, not only can you get high on remembered disappointment and rage, everyone listening to your story can get high on it too. Anyone who was ever actually jilted at the altar could dine out on it. Then her hostesses to say to other women, "You know, I once met a woman who actually WAS jilted at the altar." ("No! Really?" "Yes, she was actually, right there, in the church, in her wedding dress, and the organist played Pachebel's "Canon in D", like, six times before he called it quits.")

However, complaining about men (says Useful-if-Trashy-Book-Lady) is bad for your inner man magnet. She doesn't provide advice about how to not get sucked into complaining about men at a women's complaint-about-men fest, but I recommend saying, "I'm not going to say anything bad about men because I don't want to mess up my inner man magnet." This will turn the conversation to what an inner man magnet may be.

The easiest way to stop complaining about men is to find some very nice men to hang out with. For example, when I went to theology school, I met some really great men. They were mostly male religious, aged 28 to 90, but that didn't matter. What mattered was that they were really great. They were clever, devout, interesting, friendly and on a mission from God.

And, although, yes, life still threw a rat or two in my path, after my stint in theology school, I met other great men, men who reminded me at least slightly, or on a subconscious level, of the great guys in theology school. My ex-boyfriend Volker, for example, whom I dated when I was in Boston, was definitely of the Great Guys at Theology School calibre. And I ended dating on a high note because of course some time after we broke up, I met B.A.

I am now tempted to ponder whether I should have been taken out of my elementary school, to get me away from all the baby rats before they gave me a negative attitude towards men, but that would be complaining about men, and potentially mess up my inner man magnet, which I need to keep B.A. happy, so I will focus on good men.

As far as I know, all the men I have met in Scotland are great. Scotland itself has quite the violent crime rate, so this is not because Scotland is an earthly paradise (except in terms of scenery and historical houses). I think it is because my inner compass has been set to "Good Guys like Jesuit Pals and B.A.," so firmly that I can't even see the bad guys. And, actually, if B.A. or any of our friends says something egregiously naughty, I almost never hear it. I know someone has said something, but that's it. Along with selective good-guy vision, I have selective good-guy hearing.

Cynical eavesdroppers will suggest that this is because I work from home and the only men I meet are at church. But this is not true, for I have also met some of my husband's non-church friends, and they are also great guys. And I have also met friends of church friends at parties and events, and they also seem to be great guys. The very workmen who come into the Historical House to look for bats or examine the pipes or test the appliances seem to be great guys or, since I never really have proper conversations with them, nice men. The only bona fide, proven lousy guys I have had to deal with in Scotland were (A) a big group of probably drunk foreigners who snatched at my friend and grabbed my head (Mendy!) and B) two probably drunk locals who objected to my coat (fur) and my hat (posh and Tory-looking).

But I refuse to end this post with lousy guys, so I will recall the carpark after Mass this week, positively thronging with good men, aged 24 to 65, festooned with tweed and pin-striped suits, colourful ties, audacious pocket squares and interesting socks. Positively scrumptious, my dears. Now go and write about how marvellous men are in the combox.

Innocent Because Beautiful

 The idea that the surviving Boston Bombing suspect must be innocent because he is "too beautiful" suggests that some girls take "not rooted in reality" to an extreme.

I have been pondering my high school days recently, and I am so glad that when I was a teenager, there were fewer ways to preserve evidence of the weird blips of one's juvenile brain. There was no texting, no tweeting, no blogging, no Facebook, no camera phones and very few tattoos for women. The worst you could do was write embarrassing letters, which could possibly be photocopied, but not sent to all the world with the touch of a button. To unburden one's teenage heart of its agonies and obsessions, one kept a diary. I still have all of mine, but if, in a storm of adolescent brain misfirings, I developed a crush on a suspected terrorist, no-one but me shall ever know.

M-Day Notes

Spiritual mothers are mothers, too.

Ooh la la. I was scrolling through the internet wondering what I was going to write about today, and my eye fell upon a "Great Gifts for Mother's Day" headline. We've already had Mother's Day in the UK, but I know what lies before my single-never-had-kids readers in Canada and the USA (and Australia and New Zealand, as I just found out) tomorrow, so obviously I must write on the great M Day.

One of the problems with priests playing around with the Mass as if it were their very own Sunday school art project is that sometimes they add stuff that is liturgically and pastorally divisive and dumb. Dividing the women-with-kids from the women-without-kids by getting the women-with-kids to stand up and be applauded surprises and hurts many women-without-kids like a slap in the face. I mean, really, the next time that happens, have a look around at the faces of the women who are still seated. I don't mean the teenage girls, clapping for their mom with either sincere or pasted on smiles. I mean the women who go to Mass alone or with another Single woman or who just suddenly sag against their husbands in their pews.

This is not to say that mothers do not deserve our respect and honour. They very usually do, particularly from their own children, and the children's fathers, and from such teachers and coaches who find their children a delight to work with. Just by being mothers, they have done something important for the community, and I have no problem with the commercial, public recognition of Mother's Day. Let the flower shops and the restaurants and the card shops and the media and the state go nuts. Mothers do so much for their families, let their families give something back, I say.

But I think separating women-with-children from women-without-children at Mass in that very public yet intimate way is a bit too much like separating the sheep from the goats. Despite modern liturgists' impassioned attempts to rob any worshipper from quiet time to pray privately in silence or with any other emotion but social cheer, many of the Single women present will have dared to pray, on Mother's Day, about their own hope for children, or despair that they might not have any. It's not so great, after wiping away tears of longing after communion, to suddenly have to paste on a smile and clap for the women God has blessed with kids.

On Mother's Day, the childless need special sensitivity. I go to the Extraordinary Form of the Mass, so the newfangled "Hey, let's clap for the MOMS" ritual never occurs on our British Mothering Sunday. That did not prevent me from being a bit crabby and melancholy on Mothering Sunday anyway, especially when we launched into a hymn about Mary, Our Mother at the end, to which I did not know the words. However, just as I was feeling super-crabby, another childless woman (a Single one)  got out of her pew and came to my pew to share her hymn sheet with me. That was a very kind and motherly thing to do, which brings me to my next point.

Blessed John Paul II, strongly influenced by the writings of Saint Edith Stein (aka Saint Teresa Benedicta of the Cross), stated that all woman are called to be mothers. Some of us are called to be physical mothers, and others are called to be spiritual mothers. Some people read in this a married/religious dichotomy, but I think the truth is that all women are called to be motherly. Some of us are naturals at this, and some of us aren't, but we can learn.

And because all women are called to be mothers, Mother's Day should apply to all women. In fact, a super-lefty priest I once knew, whose theology was wonky but whose pastoral sensibilities were fantastic, used to call Mother's Day "Women's Day", and would direct the ushers to hand out flowers to every woman who walked into the church. Any American or Canadian priest who wants to do fun, creative, empowering, inclusive stuff at Mass tomorrow, take note.

It goes without saying that I think families should celebrate their mothers to the hilt on Mother's Day, either in the privacy of their own homes or in the limelight of a snazzy restaurant. Every childless Canadian or American woman whose mother is still alive and in the picture can alleviate feelings of exclusion by concentrating on her mother. If you love the woman and she's within a drive, go and see her. If you don't, or she isn't, send her flowers. What the hey. She gave birth to you, and last time I checked, the Fourth Commandment was still "Honour your father and your mother."

But you can do something else, too. You can honour the spiritual mothers in your life. You can send a present or former female mentor an email. You can do a little reading about your favourite female saints. You can pick a few flowers and make a special bouquet to place in front of your icon or statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary. You can read Saint Edith Stein's Essays on Women. You can send faraway  nephews and nieces (if you have some) postcards, so that they (A) have the fun of getting something in the post and (B) remember your existence with fondness.

I have a fantasy that one day all women will stand when Father Creative-and-Inclusive asks the mothers to stand. All across the USA and Canada, from the Arctic Circle to Tijuana, from Newfoundland to Hawaii, every Catholic woman of child-bearing age, teenagers, Singles, wives, widows, nuns, virgins, ex-virgins, consecrated virgins, standing together in solidarity as mothers, physical and/or spiritual.

On the other hand, I can't stand it when people hijack the liturgy to make points. Better to write the priest a little note afterwards, saying that he made you cry (if he did) and to ask that next year he honour the gifts of the spiritual mothers, too (if he didn't this year). That'll larn 'im.  

My prayer for Mother's Day is that all the priests who decide to talk about mothers, talk about spiritual motherhood, too. Oh, and maybe to acknowledge the hurt of those terribly hurt by their own mothers, or by their own children. Honestly, a little bit of reference to the dark side of life won't shock anybody. There's a crucifix on the front wall.

Update: Thanks to B.S. for the Mother's Day present/donation. Much appreciated!

Gut versus Self-Doubt

I've been thinking a lot about my controversial advice to the nineteen year old reader whose first impulse, when approached for friendship by a stranger a few older than she when she was on a family outing, was to ask her father. She was embarrassed that she had done this--and perhaps that her father  had given his opinion not only to her but to the stranger--and wondered what else she might have done.

I said she had done the right thing, and she could do it again in future. But this is not because I am a huge fan of the patriarchy. I do not think adult women should have to consult their fathers every time an adult man asks them on a date. It is because I think women should trust our gut instincts and not second-guess our snap decisions about men.

My usual example is the elevator. You are about to get on an almost-empty elevator. You see a man who instantly makes you feel uncomfortable. He looks at you. You look at him. And then either you get on or you let the elevator doors slide shut. I recommend you let the elevator doors slide shut. Who cares what he thinks? You should care what you think, and so should he, if he wants women not to avoid getting on an elevator with him. ("Wow! Maybe my four-hours-a-night internet porn habit is starting to show on my face!")

I've also been thinking a lot about the Cleveland kidnap victims. A lot. Maybe too much. It creeps me out that Gina DeJesus was the best friend of Ariel Castro's daughter Arlene. Did it ever occur to Gina that Arlene's dad was kind of creepy? And, when he offered her a ride, did she dismiss her feelings that he was kind of creepy by thinking, "Well, you know, he's Arlene's dad, and I don't want to be disrespectful"?

And I think this because once upon a time when I was a kid in Toronto, a bearded stranger in car stopped beside me and offered me a lift. Now, I had been brought up always to be polite to grown-ups, but also never EVER to get into a car with a stranger. So naturally I said, "No, thank you."

The next day at school, one of the boys in my class told me with disgust that his dad had mocked me at their dinner table. He had offered me a lift, and I had looked at him as if he were "some kind of pervert." In short, this boy tried to make me feel deeply ashamed, and no doubt he succeeded for, behold, I still remember this incident thirty years later. (Oh nooos! I had hurt the feelings of a Grown-Up I ought to have RESPECTED!)

But for all I know his dad was a pervert.  Even if I had recognized him, even if I had remembered he was my classmate's father, that would have been absolutely no reason to trust him.

Sadly, we don't need external voices like my classmate's to make us feel dumb about snap decisions we make about our safety. Many of us have an internal voice that says, over and against our gut, "Oh, such-and-such, don't be so silly" or "Oh, such-and-such, how can you be so uncharitable?" I don't know where this voice comes from. It could be the result of an unfortunate psychic accident that occurred when we were four or five and our mothers lost their tempers. "Oh, such-and-such, don't be so SILLY," they said, having no idea this would stick in our heads on a repeating loop for years.

At any rate, this voice needs to be replaced and overcome by a trust in your gut, especially before you become the victim of your own wishful thinking.

As an adult woman, I went on a date with a guy who confused me. I had met him years before when I was a lot more confident about my importance in the world, and barely gave guys like him the time of day. However, I was going through a bad patch of "Why am I Single?" and "Wow, my male religious friends are so much more supported and confident in their futures than I am!" So I went on this date, and the guy behaved in a really weird way. He kept losing his train of thought, and telling me it was because of me. He said I was queenly and that I frightened him. It was kind of flattering but also kind of weird.

It was also kind of Game. The point of Game is to unsettle a woman so that she feels like she will go crazy if she doesn't figure out what is going on and therefore looks to the Gamer for the answer. And that sure worked on me. I sat by the phone for days (at least, I hope it was days), wondering how I had simultaneously attracted and frightened this guy. And why, since he said I had really knocked him for a loop, had he not called me? So, I am sorry to say, I called him.

And so began a particularly nasty relationship featuring a lot of screaming from him and a lot of frightened apology from me. My goodness, I would sit under the phone in the kitchen with tears streaming down my face while an impassioned voice shrieked dramatic and alliterative insults in my ear. What a contrast his screams were to his little gifts, his avowals of love, the candle-lit dinners, etc., etc.

At the time, I had not heard of Game, and indeed I did not find out about it until some time later, when I recognized some of the lines and techniques and the name of one of its local experts, once referenced by Mr Screamer in one of his abusive post-relationship pseudonymous communiques. But Game works on me, which is sad, but I am indeed one of those women who scrambles to make sense of the absurd. As I told my spiritual director, I am attracted to men who behave in crazy ways, and we came up with a deal that from then on that I was going to avoid men who act in crazy ways.

I'm not sure I lived up to that since, you know, I ended up with B.A. But, actually, I never got a "Well, THAT was weird" feeling from B.A.  When B.A. proposed after ten days, it felt happy and hilarious (I giggled all the way through), but never crazy or weird. And since them B.A.'s impulsiveness has mostly manifests itself in unexpected funny remarks and puns. An inherently relaxed individual, having made a huge effort to get what he wants, he lapses back into cheerful plodding along. My gut always knew that B.A. was good.

Cementing at Leisure

Mostly gone, but not forgotten.

Today is B.A.'s and my wedding anniversary, so marriage stuff is going to follow. You have been warned. If you're feeling cranky, remember that I was 38 when I married B.A., and that we are the only married people in our Sunday Lunch set, and that therefore we are occasionally the butt of the jokes of guffawing Singles. And we did not get invited to that totally cool New Year's Eve party because we were married.

Okay, I do understand that it was a party for everyone who was separated from their Significant Other on New Year's Eve, but it was a totally cool party, and a lot of our friends were there, and I am still mad, five months, nine days later. Next year WE shall have a New Year's Eve party, just to make sure we are AT one.

But to return to May 9, it is amusing to think now how obsessive I was about getting the wedding "right." I was like Cher in Moonstruck, trying to avoid a second run of bad luck. The wedding HAD to be in the same church my parents got married in. My mother HAD to make my wedding dress. My groom HAD to wear a kilt. The wedding HAD to be incredibly tasteful, modest and quiet because I had been married before and therefore HAD to be humble to the point of invisible. The priest HAD to be one of my own friends. The liturgy HAD to be the best possible version of the Novus Ordo. The food HAD to be the height of Anglo-Saxon 1950s chic, which meant elegant little sandwiches and cake. The reception HAD to take into consideration the feelings of Single guests with no boyfriends. (In hindsight, not allowing any boyfriends was a tad draconian.)

It was a beautiful wedding, and I will exult over my dress and the beautiful cake my mum made until the day I die, but it lacked the exuberance I assume our fifth anniversary party will have (next year), for I will no longer HAVE to prove  that marrying a guy who proposed ten days after meeting me was not a crazy, outrageous, unstable thing to do.

One of my biggest fears as a blogger is that you're all going to marry some guy who proposed after ten  days because I did. Twice now I have fielded emails from girls writing, "I think you'll understand because," and both times I thought "AUGHHHHHHH!"

 I cannot stress enough the following details:

1. I met B.A. in person when I was 37. He was 36.

2. I had spent years finding and writing about the goodness of Single Life.

3. B.A. had spent years thinking and praying over a decision to become a Catholic, and this was never more intense than in the nine months before I met him in person.

4. B.A. was not a complete stranger. He was the friend of friends, and for months before we met, he read my blog and chatted in the combox. He also read manuscript chapters of Ceremony of Innocence, to de-Canadianize the language of the Scottish heroine. (My ex-boyfriend Volker corrected the German.)

5. I was fed up with my hometown, to which I had crept after spectacularly falling ill in Boston, and wanted a radical change.

6. B.A.'s hometown of Edinburgh appeared to my dazed, jet-lagged eyes as an earthly paradise. The city was beautiful. The Historic House (his home and workplace) was beautiful. B.A.'s job was super-cool. His friends were friendly. His liturgy was beautiful. And B.A. was super-nice and also funny. I don't remember if he made puns every five minutes, but if he did I must have found them hilarious.

7. Everybody loves B.A., and the whole first week I was around, all his friends and acquaintances  seemed to hint we were perfect for each other and should get married. It was intense.

8. Meanwhile, we fell for each other with such intensity that we thought it was DIVINELY INSPIRED! Actually, I still think it was divinely inspired. I just don't think it in capital letters.

9. I knew my family and friends back home would love him. And of course they did. B.A. is a kindly, funny, intensely good-natured man. If he weren't so relaxed, he would have made a great diplomat.

10. My mother-in-law is also incredibly relaxed, and instead of engaging in any kind of emotional/social/familial tug-of-war, occasionally sends a text or a cheque from the town she refuses to leave, even for a visit. (I have never met my father-in-law, as he has not been on the scene for yonks.)

11. B.A. is never boring, and yet he is never bad. When you girls complain about NCBs being rather dull, and bad boys being exciting, I know exactly what you mean. However, some men can be endlessly interesting without being bad, and those are the kind of men I hope you will meet.

12. We lived on two different continents, and the only legal way I could stay on this one was to marry B.A. So I did, ASAP.

It could have been a disaster, I suppose, but we have the very great fortune to be very well-suited to each other and had the luck, maturity and wit to recognize that within two weeks, surrounded by other people who recognized this, too.  And so, instead of "married in haste, repenting at leisure"--a very good proverb to remember--we have a case of "married with speed, cementing [our sense of having got a Good Thing] at leisure." We didn't go nuts, but we didn't settle, either.

Auntie Seraphic & the Concerned Married Sister

As far as I can recall, this is the first letter in six years about someone else being Single!

Dear Seraphic:  

I have a good topic for you to cover if you are so inclined.  How does one strike the balance between letting God be in control of one's life, but not being passive?  I ask this specifically in relation to discerning a call to marriage.

The background on this is that I am the oldest of sisters.  I am in my mid-40s now and married, but I married in my late 30s.  My youngest sister is now in her early 40s and not married yet.  She is the source of my concern.  I know it is awful of me to be a meddlesome older sister!  I am  not a  nag, though.  I am quiet in my observations and concerns.  I try to spend as much time with my sister as I can, and to shower her with love and support.  Meanwhile  I do worry a little.  And I know my mom worries a lot.

My sister has never really dated, but she expresses a very strong desire to be married and an equally strong conviction that she will be married one day.  Meanwhile -- good for her -- she is not dying of loneliness.  She has a lot of friends, and is very involved in her church and the community.  She does not always open up to me, but my mother says that a priest told her that she would be married one day and that that is what forms her very strong conviction that God has spoken to her and that she is not to worry about it at all.  I get the sense that this priest's words were a sign to my sister, perhaps even a mystical sign.

I am -- I confess -- skeptical of mystical signs!  On the other hand, I believe that God does wonderful things for his children, and sometimes goes above and beyond in meeting our needs.  Maybe my sister needed that mystical sign, and the good Lord gave it to her.  I am open to that possibility, though not completely convinced.  To me it seems like she used that sign to shut herself off from the normal process of being young and open.  It almost seems like she is scared of dating and of men, that she is very unsure of herself.  But she is very convinced that she is right!  I find myself scratching my head.  I just don't know.  Maybe she is right!

Anyway, I am just curious as to whether you have any thoughts on this.  Whatever you say, it will not change my approach to my sister.  Nor will I present it to her with an I-am-right-you-are-wrong approach.  Since she has never asked for advice, and isn't particularly open to advice either, I have never given it.  I wish she did ask for advice!  I just love her and try to be there for her.  I would love for her to meet a nice man.  It's hard to imagine who that would be.  He would have to be pretty incredible.

Whereas my sister is very passive (I use the word "passive" for lack of a better word, and I know that it expresses my admitted bias), I was very active in my pursuit of marriage.  When I hit 30 I had the realization that marriage was not going to fall into my lap.  I did as much as I could to meet people.  I dated quite a bit.  I made some mistakes along the way.  But I also learned a lot about myself in the process and I grew spiritually.  

When internet dating became available, I used it with great success.  I met a wonderful Catholic man, a good man, and we married and are quite happy,  blessed with children.  I know the internet dating thing is a whole other topic! But it is just funny to me that my sister and I are on opposite ends of the spectrum, or at least that is the way that I see it.  My other sisters were somewhere in the middle.  Marriage did just sort of fall in their laps.

This is a topic that is on my mind.  It is not a personal problem per se, and whatever you say it will not change the way that I approach my sister.  It is just something that I sometimes puzzle over, and am curious your thoughts.  If in the process of a reply you are able to help a young single woman form her thoughts on how to approach men and the possibility or romance, all the better!

Thanks, Seraphic.

With Gratitude,

Concerned Married Sister

Dear Concerned Married Sister,

I am an oldest sister too, so I know about worrying about younger brothers and sisters. I used to worry a lot about my oldest brother, for he seemed genuinely lonely, but then God sent him  a wonderful wife and later two lovely children. 

The rest of the gang is still unmarried, but I don't worry about them. I married late, so they might marry late. And, meanwhile, the girls seem well-contented to me. They generally having busy, productive, forward-looking lives.  I haven't the foggiest clue if my sisters are out there trying to meet men, but I could not care less, for they already have a family: our family.  

Your sister, like me, is in her early 40s, so chances are that it's already game over for her ever giving birth. However, if she does marry, she might marry a widower or annullé with kids, which would be very nice, or she might adopt or foster, if she likes. But that doesn't interest me. What interests me is you.

Why are you so invested in your sister meeting a nice man? She's already happy, and she has an enviable tranquility about the future, possibly because she believes in this priest's prediction. Her passivity, as you call it, will not prevent God's will, but may even be helping bring it about. As you say, marriage just fell into the laps of your other sisters. Maybe God wants her to marry the UPS man who brings her a package when she is 53. Or maybe He wants her to be a model of tranquility for other Single women for decades and then enter joyfully into a mystical marriage with Him. Why do you doubt in His plan for your sister?

Happy married people often have a hard time getting our minds around the idea that Single people--like priests--can be happy just trusting in God. And super-active, go-go-go people can also have a hard time realizing that it is God, not their efforts, who calls the shots. 

When it come to earning money or improving oneself, of course "God helps those who helps themselves"--keeping in mind that God makes the first move: we are not Pelagians. But when it comes to husband-and-children, that's God's territory. There are men and women who spend hundreds or thousands of dollars and years on dating websites without getting married, and then are men and women who barely lift a finger, and there the perfect person for them is. 

My advice is to be grateful for what (and who!) God had given you, to accept that His plans for your sister are obviously quite different from His plans for you, and to be grateful for, and even awed by, your sister's trust in Him.

Grace and peace,

Seraphic

People. There is no excuse for married Catholics tying themselves into knots because other Catholics are living chaste lives of celibacy. From Pentecost until the Reformation, a chaste life of celibacy was considered the superior form of Christian life, and this insight pre-dated men's and women's religious orders.

As much as an individual married person hated the Single Life, this does not mean the Single Life is worthy of such fear and contempt. No word of a lie, many Single people are content to wait or follow St. Paul's advice to remain as they are.  And many priests get annoyed by heartfelt married-people sighs of "Oh, Father, what a shame you can't get married! Do you think this new pope will allow it?" 

Meanwhile, there is no formula for getting married. Yes, a Single woman can enrich her life by figuring out how to win friends and influence people, by becoming the sort of woman that marriage-minded men love to be around, by overcoming any anti-social personality traits, by participating in enjoyable activities with like-minded people, by making lots of new friends. But none of these things will guarantee that she will fall in love with a man who falls in love with her and proposes marriage. There are no guarantees about the life-altering decisions of other people.