Excerpts from a Diary of a Catholic Woman
Elizabeth A. McGilvray
Whenever I know someone is in trouble, I learned to never pry but let them know I am here if they need me. What do I see when I look at you? I see beauty. Yes. I am a sinner, and I do wrong, but I always try to do better.
I call everyone sweetheart. Why do I do this? Because my Creator made us all. He knew us before we were a gleam in our father's and mother's eyes. I was the last of nine children, the first preemie to survive on record at six months in a Detroit hospital.
I was born during World War II, the youngest of nine. Two of my brothers at the time were stationed overseas. My father served in World War I in France; he received a bullet close to his heart. They could never take it out. He died at sixty-seven with the bullet still there. My father only had to look at you to know you will not do that again. As I grew, I saw the beautiful man he was, a softy. I would see him on his knees, praying at 4:00 a.m. and 8:00 p.m. every day. If my dad was making chop suey on Sunday, no matter if my mom changed the mealtime, all my siblings seemed to appear, but they always had somewhere to be, so as the youngest child still at home, I had to do the dishes myself.
My beautiful mother believed in helping anyone in trouble, whether it was food, money, or her last pair of nylons. My mother was always there, holding our heads over the toilet with a wet washcloth when we were sick. I told my mother I wanted to marry a poor man, just like Dad. She laughed and said we were just average. I never felt poor, just average. One of the things I admired about my mom was when anyone came home, complaining about their mates, she would say, "It's all your fault, I raised you, and I know you." She always called their spouses, sons or daughters.
I did not appreciate my older brothers and sisters until I was older. They came to visit a lot with their spouses and kids. I learned to love each one as I grew. There was only a five-year age difference between the oldest grandchild and me. I was able to see each one of them when they came home from the hospital. Fifty-eight grandchildren, including my own.
I love every niece and nephew as if they were my own children. My siblings were always there for me. In each of them, I see my dad and mom. All of them giving and not a selfish one in the bunch. Whenever I needed help or advice in anything, I was never afraid to ask any of them. Coming from a family of nine, we are all different. We came from the same parents, so we can relate to one another's views. We may not always agree but always with respect of our own beliefs and individuality.
My sisters were unexpected gifts for me, delivered by my parents, once I was old enough to realize it. I could be so mad at different situations, visit my sisters, vent there, and end up laughing before leaving. The conversation never left our free therapy sessions. I was surrounded by unconditional love and support.
At fifteen, I started to pray to the Blessed Mother for a good husband. I met my honey just before my eighteenth birthday on a blind date. I married him at twenty years old. There was not a subject that we did not talk about, even adoption, not knowing this would come to be. I was from a large Catholic family of nine. He was from a small Protestant family of three. He did learn to make the sign of the cross by creating a little jingle: "Forehead, navel, left shoulder, right." I saw him perform this under a friend's Christmas tree, intoxicated, singing the words merrily.
From youth, I wanted a home and family of my own. In my era, when a girl came home pregnant, this was a shameful experience. The shame was always upon the woman as she carried the baby. Frustrated by the injustice, I would get so upset and vowed to wait, knowi
