From Family Strife to Gospel Unity
Throughout my youth, my mother would bring my younger sister and me everywhere. I would spend the hours in between her work shifts sitting at my grandma’s dining table, solving the latest algebraic equations Professor Carlos had set as homework for the next day. That was, of course, until my peace was interrupted by loud screams. I swiftly turned the corner to the kitchen, where I encountered my baby cousin and sister pulling each other’s hair off—nothing unusual. The reason behind today’s bickering, however? Well, that would be the theft of the other’s resources in their shared Minecraft server.
Although to me, it was no big deal, to them, it was their entire world. And as such, the incident had to be treated as a serious threat to private property.
My role in the situation became clear: I had to diffuse the tensions recently risen between the youngest members of the clan.
As the eldest in the household at the time of the conflict (a proud sixth-grade graduate), I launched myself head-first into the shoes of a diplomat. I took my sister, Ashley, to the side and listened attentively to her version of the event. In her eyes, Isabella had provoked her previously by farming her crops (without her permission!), leading her to steal some ores from her as payback. After speaking to Isabella, we realized that this whole ordeal boiled down to a misunderstanding. Isabella was under the impression that they shared the farms as she had helped build them, and thus, they were her crops to harvest too! I then brought the girls together and had them resolve their problems maturely, encouraging a nonviolent approach—this time without any hair-pulling.
Although these minor disputes would still occur, I soon became my family’s informally designated mediator. As I safeguarded that role, I slowly let go of my fear of losing parental unity. After all, I possessed the keys to unlocking the fire extinguisher… didn’t I?
A Roman Catholic father and a Pentecostal pastor as a mother. Discussions on the validity of each other’s religious practices were rampant, tedious, and way too hostile. Despite the sheer number of fights, I recall every instance in excruciating detail—from their origin to their eventual (yet temporal) cease.
I hear the door unlock. In a short yet gnarly noise, my mother exclaims to the heavens. She just arrived from preaching at the usual Sunday service. Husbands sat next to their wives, daughters next to their mothers, and sons next to their fathers. Regardless of how full of joy the physical temple was, we were nowhere to be found. And that broke my mother’s heart.
Although I’d attend now and then, for years, she had begged my father to make an appearance at church alongside her—to no avail.
With sheer defeat in her eyes—a kind I’d never quite witnessed before—my mother makes one last attempt to defend her viewpoint in her native tongue. She has always firmly held to the idea that we should “take an active role in worship.” My father, as my mother insists, is “careless” with religion, avoids intimacy with the Lord, and thus has no credibility as a devout follower of Christ.
My father, paying no heed to her tone, is quick to contest her in his American accent: “Can’t I quietly listen to Fr. Ignacio in Mass?” To him, the traditional one-hour visit to the Priest’s domain, resolving in communion and an occasional confession, was sufficient
I tense up, prepared for the berating of a century as my father doesn’t seem to grasp my mother’s disconnect with his “lack of care,” as she puts it.
Silence pervades, and I feel two pairs of eyes pierce my soul—am I being invoked? How daunting.
Rather than translate their conversation word for word, my calling has always been to find a middle ground. I hesitantly point out, “We all believe in the lamb’s sacrifice.” And fundamentally, does anything else matter? If at our core, as Christ’s bride, we relish in our Savior’s promise and place our faith in His ultimate gift, there should be no need to stress over the small differences—especially in worship style.
My intervention seemed to shift the energy in the room. Even though they both still latched onto their particular stubborn stances, the next time my mother entered into a state of distress, my father was quick to respond.
Delicate footsteps follow the rustling of dirty boots across the floor. That can only mean one thing: my parents are back from this week’s service. I peek out the kitchen door. She looks devastated. Hope, which characterized my mother’s tender features for so long, is nowhere in sight.
I make out a faint “I give up” from my mother’s lips, followed by a sigh. While my father does attend this week’s service, the rest of the room holds an air of stillness—its vacant chairs echoing a sense of solitude.
No wives stood beside their husbands, mothers beside their daughters, and fathers beside their sons.
To my mother, that empty room mirrored the uneasiness of unmet expectations. If she couldn’t preach the Good News to the lost, or share a word of comfort to the anxious, she truly saw no point in living. Her sole purpose on this Earth was to serve the Lord, and the role she ought to fulfill was that of a pastor—or so, at least she thought. Time after time, her pastoral duties seemed to fade away. Her sheep would no longer ask for prayers and counseling during their spiritual battles, and fewer and fewer people would show up on Sundays.
Just as my mother’s fire for the Lord is about to inhale its final breath, my father approaches her with a warmth that belies his usually cold demeanor, assuring her that her passion and dedication had not gone unnoticed. With gentle words, he reminds her of the lives she had touched, the souls she had inspired, and the unwavering faith she had instilled in others. As he holds her hand, he shares stories of her sermons that had brought tears of joy and introspection to congregants in times of financial and political uncertainty. His unwavering support, coupled with his genuine belief in her ability and calling to evangelize, rekindles her sense of purpose.
“This is the Lord’s will,” she exclaims with a glimpse of hope.
This was the first time I had no hand in their resolution, and although matrimonial harmony never quite prevailed for more than a couple days, I trusted that we would be okay. There wasn’t anything we couldn’t overcome. Amid the myriad of seemingly irreconcilable pieces of doctrine, we found the glue. I was the adhesive that brought us together, and they were the disjointed shards that pushed through to make it fit. In that mess, I gained my own sense of purpose, learning that sometimes, it takes just one voice to remind us of what truly matters—empathy for one another.
Daniela Doyle is a freshman in Columbia College, hoping to study Economics and History. Her favorite spot to catch up with friends after a long day is Law Bridge.