Rome Sweet Home

by Kimberly Hahn

  At the time, Kimberly and our two boys were not attending Mass with me. Monsignor Bruskewitz said it would be permissible, under our unique set of circumstances, for me to accompany them to Elmbrook Church, so long as it didn’t jeopardize my Catholic faith. I went simply to bring more peace to our Sundays.

  One Sunday morning at Elmbrook, we were standing up, singing the closing hymn, when suddenly Kimberly turned to me, white as a ghost, and muttered, “Scott, something may be very wrong.” She sat down beside me, dazed and half-conscious. As the congregation was leaving, Kimberly grabbed my hand, gripping it very tightly. “Scott, I’m bleeding—a lot.” At this point, she was halfway through her third pregnancy.

  I had her lie down on the pew, and, not knowing what else to do, I dashed to the pay phone and tried to reach our obstetrician. On a Sunday morning, what were my chances? Besides, he was brand new to the city. But that didn’t keep me from praying—hard—to Saint Gerard and Saint Joseph.

  The doctor’s answering service wasn’t sure where he was but would try to “beep” him. When I hung up, I felt close to despair. “Lord, why would you bring us to this point? Kimberly already feels abandoned by you as it is.”

  Less than two minutes later the pay phone rang. I picked it up, wondering who it could be. “Hello!?”

  “Dr. Marmion here. May I speak to Scott Hahn?”

  “Uh, yes, it’s me, Dr. Marmion.”

  “Scott, what’s wrong?”

  “Kimberly is hemorrhaging badly.”

  “Scott, where are you?”

  “We’re outside of Milwaukee, in a town called Brookfield.”

  “Where in Brookfield?”

  “At Elmbrook Church. It’s pretty far out.”

  “Where are you in the church?”

  “I’m right outside the sanctuary near the front doors.”

  “I’ll be right up. I just happened to be visiting Elmbrook this morning—I’m right below you in the basement.”

  A half minute later Dr. Marmion was at Kimberly’s side—just enough time for me to send off a couple of requests to Saint Gerard for his intercession. Dr. Marmion directed us to go immediately to Saint Joseph’s Hospital, saying he would meet us there. Some close friends took our sons, and we raced off to the hospital.

  Once there, we realized the Lord had spared our baby, and, with diligent care, the condition of “placenta previa” would not rob us of our child.

  For the first time in a long while, we praised God together from the depths of our hearts.

  Kimberly:

  I tried to fit in to Scott’s life as a Catholic. The week after Easter, Scott led a Bible study in our home and I sat in. When a young man was asked to open in prayer, he promptly led in a Hail Mary. I left the room in agony, fell on my knees in my bedroom and wept bitterly—how dare he say those words in my home, rubbing salt into my open wound from Scott’s conversion! Later, I tried to rejoin them, but their comments and expressions of Catholic piety were overwhelming. Soon Scott moved the Bible study out of our home, for which I was most grateful.

  Fortunately Scott never made the Catholic Faith a “submission issue” between us, forcing me to submit to his spiritual leadership when my heart could not yet yield to what my mind had not yet grasped. Though he yearned with his whole being to have me at his side at Mass, pleading with me to share his joy in the Church and assist him in ministry within the Church, he would not misuse his call to lead our family spiritually to require me to go against my conscience. In fact, he respected me for holding on to my convictions, though he challenged my continued unwillingness to look at the issues involved in our spiritual separation.

  However, we both knew, and it was my deep conviction, that our children belonged to the Lord primarily under Scott’s spiritual leadership. That meant that eventually, at some point in time, they would be raised Catholic, regardless of whether I was Protestant or Catholic. This was a tremendously painful realization—that I could be the lone Protestant in my family. I could hardly bear the thought of how isolated I would feel in that situation.

  In fact, it briefly interfered with my deep desire for another child. I told Scott that I was unwilling simply to procreate more children for the Pope! Thankfully, in just a few weeks time, the Lord used my own desire for more children and my love for Scott to open my heart in yielding to the Lord’s will regarding more children. I needed to be obedient to the Lord in being open to new life and to trust him with the consequences of the outcome of the children’s ecclesiastical affiliation.

  Usually Scott put his religious objects, such as Rosaries, scapulars and holy cards, in his drawer, but occasionally I would find them on the dresser. I noticed a certain jealousy developing in me toward Mary (similar to the jealousy I heard that men sometimes had toward Jesus when their wives became Christians). I was at a distinct disadvantage—she was supposedly pure, lovely, wonderful to be with, kind, compassionate; and, in contrast, I was not showing the same loving kindness toward Scott. He would go for a walk, and I knew it was to pray the Rosary with Mary. I was glad he was not going to do it in front of me; but I was jealous that he had time to walk and talk nicely to her but did not seem to have that kind of time for me.

  One day when Scott was preparing to go share his testimony of how he became Catholic, I blurted out, “I cannot understand why God would take a well-trained young couple, committed to a common vision for life and ministry together, and totally change their lives around so that now we are going in completely different directions. Why would he do that?”

  I wasn’t ready for Scott’s reply. Scott said to me, “Is it possible that God loves us so much? Since, on your own, you never would have been interested in studying the Catholic Faith, perhaps he’s converted me first, and had me go through terrible loneliness—isolated from many Protestants, Catholics on campus who really don’t care what I did, and definitely the loneliness between the two of us—all so he could gradually show you the beauty of the Catholic Church? So that he could gather you in? So that he could bless you with the sacraments? So that he could give you the fullness of the faith you already possess?”

  I said, “It’s awfully hard to see how that is love, but I guess that’s possible.” I had to admit I certainly would never have looked at the Catholic Church on my own.

  I added, “Just don’t expect me to go running around giving my testimony, if I do join.”

  To which Scott quickly responded, “I wouldn’t want you to convert until you couldn’t wait to share your testimony.” With that, he was out the door, and I was left alone with my thoughts again.

  The waves of grief engulfed us separately as we contemplated the death of many dreams. I know grief may sound like too strong an emotion to attach to this, but I really don’t know a better word. We were both undergoing a slow death but were very unsure if there ever would be a kind of resurrection. Scott at least had the consolation of believing that he was following the will of God. I did not have that kind of certainty.

  My grief differed from Scott’s. I had sorrow for the loss of ever again being a pastor’s wife, something which’ had been a lifelong dream. I did not see where I could fit in to a call for Scott to train priests, which he now stated he wanted to do; we had wanted to counsel young couples getting married, which did not happen in a Catholic seminary.

  The possibility of returning to either Grove City College or Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary to teach, a dream we both had had, was now gone. The future was uncertain as to whether or not Scott would ever get to teach at the level for which he had trained.

  I had always desired all my children to go into full-time Christian service, but now I realized that if they did that I would have to suffer the loss of grandchildren. (As Protestants, my father, uncle, brother and husband were married ministers, so celibacy had never before been an issue.)

  And, small as it may seem, I dreaded the possibility of our home becoming cluttered with religious paraphernalia. When one friend gave us a crucifix in front o
f a group of people, I could not even speak. In my heart all I could think was, You have my spouse; but don’t redecorate my house!

  Thankfully Scott reached over and, taking it, said, “I know right where I’ll put this in my study.” Our dear friends had no idea of what pain that caused. And there was no way to share it so it could be lessened.

  There were no more deep theological conversations without their becoming gut-wrenching exchanges. Scott had been my best friend, with whom I could have shared my burden of sorrow. But now how could I do this, when he was the very one causing much of it? And Scott’s loneliness could have been borne more easily had I been at his side, but I could not and would not help him shoulder it—after all, it had been his choice, and these were the consequences.

  Scott suffered tremendous loneliness. He was misunderstood and rejected by many Protestant friends who didn’t want to talk to him for the same reasons I didn’t want to talk to him. (Some friends hung in there with us until I converted; then they, too, rejected our overtures of friendship.) He felt that former professors didn’t think he was worth pursuing to convince him he was wrong. And he couldn’t understand the nonchalance of a number of Catholics at Marquette over his conversion, acting rather ho-hum over the whole thing, rather than welcoming him for all he had risked and left behind. And he had begun living as a Catholic in a Protestant family, going to Mass alone (which he did for two and a half years) and not sharing his Faith’s distinctiveness with the children because the agreed-to timing of that had not yet come.

  The loneliness between us was excruciating. We had had such a close friendship, sharing so much of life. While in seminary, plenty of wives couldn’t have cared less what their husbands were studying, any more than they would have wanted to understand balance sheets and tax laws if their husbands were tax accountants. But I had come alongside him, studied with him, wrestled with texts with him and learned from him. Now, instead of sharing his discoveries and rejoicing with him, I dreaded hearing details. And I chose not to read his papers carefully, though I typed them for him. (If you type fast enough, you don’t have to read the text.) How could Scott share his burden of sorrow with me, when I was the very one causing much of it?

  The Bible was my only consolation. But I began to be concerned about even picking up the Scriptures, because Scott kept telling me that the Bible said something different from what I thought. Scott claimed the Bible had led him to the Catholic Faith. But the Bible was the basis of my faith!

  Once, he threw out to me, “What’s the pillar and foundation of truth?”

  My quick reply was “The Word of God”.

  He then said, “Why does Saint Paul say, in 1 Timothy 3:15, it’s the Church? Why doesn’t that answer come to Protestant minds?”

  “That’s just in your Catholic Bible, Scott.”

  Then he opened my Bible and showed me that verse, which I did not remember ever reading before.

  We did not have simple conversations about theology. We had debates about theology. Sometimes we would discuss things until two or three A.M., and over breakfast next morning, Scott wondered if I had any new thoughts! We would discuss theology, trying to keep our discussion cordial, and then it would get very painful and difficult. So we would have to stop, back off and go into our own corners for a while. It was a separate grief.

  Some friends counseled me that a wife should submit to her husband no matter what her brain says—they did not understand why I would not go ahead and convert. Other Protestant friends continually reminded me they were praying that I could hang on until Scott came around. And there were Catholics who thought, What’s the big deal? So Mary bothers you; you’ll get over it.

  Scott was stuck with me because he did not believe in divorce. Actually, I didn’t either. When we married, we agreed that we would never even joke about the term—we felt so deeply about it. And yet there were two different times in that initial year, following Scott’s conversion, when I walked around our block and asked myself, Can I leave him? I thought of what hotel I would go to, and what I would do, because I couldn’t face the pain of this grief. I did not think I could cope with the pain—physically my heart hurt, and emotionally I was devastated. All I could think of was escape.

  But I knew I could not leave Scott without leaving God as well. And to leave God, I knew, would be to consign myself to hell. The existence of both God and bell was too great for me to follow through with walking away, thanks be to God. So, within ten minutes, God gave me enough grace to endure ten more. Then I was able to stay and endure longer.

  This passage from Lamentations 3 best captures the agony in my heart and my struggle to regain hope in the Lord:

  He drove into my heart the arrows of his quiver. He made my teeth grind on gravel and made me cower in ashes. My soul is bereft of peace. I have forgotten what happiness is. So I say, “Gone is my glory and my expectation from the Lord.” Remember my affliction and my bitterness, the wormwood and the gall. My soul continually thinks of it and is bowed down within me. But this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: the steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, his mercies never come to an end. They are new every morning. Great is thy faithfulness. The Lord is my portion, says my soul, therefore I will hope in him.

  Somehow there was hope—not because of Scott or me, but because of the faithfulness of God. Somehow the Lord would make his mercies new to me—and to Scott—every day for us to get the grace we would need during this very difficult time of need.

  Scott was relishing things Catholic (although he was not flaunting them). He was crossing himself in prayer. He had a crucifix in his office. I overheard him say a Hail Mary with a friend. Each one of those things was a stab in my heart. Each one was another reminder of the disunity we had.

  The lack of the joy of my salvation was very intense for me. And it was made especially painful at times because I could tell how much joy he was suppressing. Even in the midst of his pain, he really did have the joy of the Lord in new ways, especially in regard to the Eucharist. Repeatedly in my prayer journal I was asking the Lord, Where is the joy of my salvation? I know I’m saved. Scott doesn’t even question that, but where is the joy, and why is his so strong?

  I was very recalcitrant—that’s the best word to use. I wanted to want to study, but I was fearful of it at the same time. He would come down and say, “Kimberly, would you just read a paragraph of an article?”

  “Is it about Mary?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. Please go away. Can’t you find common ground for us to read and talk about?”

  A knowledgeable and conversant convert is not an easy person to live with. (I may not have read much, but I heard enough theology to earn another Master’s.) For him, having a close-minded person, unwilling to converse, was very difficult.

  The hardest thing of all at this time was not understanding where God was, because I could not tell if God was rooting for Scott or for me. After an evening of pouring my heart out to God with many tears, I wrote this “conversation” with God in my prayer journal:

  “Are you in heaven, irritated at this prolonged emotional tantrum, or are you weeping with me, Lord? Are you holding me at this time, or are you tugging at me to pull me onward? I don’t want to pit you, Lord, against Scott or against me, but where are you in all of this?”

  “I’m on the Cross suffering for the very sins you both are now committing. I am the ascended and seated Lord of all who is calling you to a marriage that exemplifies me and my Church.”

  “Can we do that, Lord, in a mixed marriage?”

  “No, chat cannot be my will.”

  “What is your will, O Lord, and how can we follow your: will in the midst of discovering your will? How can we grow the most in this suffering, Lord? Can I be loyal to Scott, to friends and to family? To whom can I speak my sorrow? Please restore to me the joy of my salvation. May I praise you as long as I live. Be pleased, O God, to heal my wounds and restore me. Please strengthen Scott during this time of suffer
ing and lead him in the ways of truth.”

  Despair was constantly at the doorstep. Scott has always said my biggest fault is being pathologically positive. But during this time, despair was something that I struggled with tremendously. Some of the crosses we bore at that time we had hewn for ourselves; some we had hewn for each other.

  When a Catholic friend prayed over me, she said the word she received from the Lord was that we were being given an “apostolate of the broken Body of Christ”. The anguish we were experiencing in our marriage was similar to the sadness and the rending that happened through the Reformation and other schisms—God was giving us a precious gift that might last only a brief time. We needed to try to grasp that as something good. I had no idea if that was God’s plan, but we certainly felt, on a daily basis, the brokenness brought to families ever since the Reformation. And we shared the pain of that separation.

  Activism became a bond that greatly helped us to work together. Fighting abortion and pornography side by side gave us common goals and strengthened our marriage both through ministering together and growing in friendships together. It helped us to have some outward focus when the inward focus was too painful.

  Christmas 1986 we found out that we had another child on the way. The word the Lord gave me was “child of reconciliation”. I kept saying, “O God, does this mean that she’s going to be Catholic? Does that mean I’m going to have to be Catholic?” I immediately began to pray.

  My next thought was, How was this child to be baptized? This was a crisis—I believed in infant baptism, but I was attending a nondenominational church that did not. I had always dreamed of my dad baptizing our babies, but I did not see how that was possible. And yet to have the child baptized Catholic seemed an admission that she belonged to the Catholic Church.

  It was very difficult. I kept much of this struggle within me—Scott and I never really discussed it. God was very gracious to guide my heart apart from arguments with Scott. In recognition of Scott as the spiritual leader of our home, it seemed fitting to yield my heart to having the baby baptized Catholic, Finally, I had a real peace about it and about knocked Scott’s socks off when I calmly asked him to make arrangements with Monsignor Bruskewitz for baptism once the child was born.