My Life with St. Joan and St. Thérèse - Chapter 6 (Third Edition)
Darkness enveloped me, but faith endured.
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There are two ways to question suffering. The first asks, “If God is good, why would He allow me to suffer?” The second ponders, “A good God allows me to suffer; I wonder why?” These two questions may seem similar, but they have different intentions. The first expresses doubt, while the second is based on faith. I have had faith.
One of the many blessings of having St. Thérèse as my “little mother” was her Carmelite spirituality. Through the mystics of the Order, she taught me how to journey spiritually. From St. Teresa of Avila, I learned the way of perfection, and from St. John of the Cross, the ascent of Mount Carmel. I embarked on a lifelong journey to a distant kingdom with St. Thérèse, discovering that St. Joan had always been by my side, even if I did not always recognize her. This mysticism taught me the value of suffering, which is the grace to suffer with Christ. Embracing suffering unlocked the verdant fields of my journey with St. Joan and St. Thérèse. This is the path to the kingdom, the way of the apostolic fathers who came before us.
The nineteen years between presenting a rose to Our Lady at St. Peter’s church and my second encounter with St. Joan of Arc, which I will describe soon, were almost opaque. On one hand, I could recount terrifying stories that would send chills down your spine. On the other hand, it might appear as a banal drama of ubiquitous suffering, hardly worth mentioning. If not for a few highlights, I could paint the entire two decades over with a black brush.
The family business struggled after the agricultural crisis in the 1980s. With little future in Guymon, Josey and I moved on. I enrolled in a master’s degree program in management at Yale University and began the two-year program in 1990. I succeeded academically, but this success amidst the opacity of my interior life created a divergence that ultimately tore me apart spiritually, mentally, emotionally, and physically. My external success masked an internal failure. After earning my second Ivy League degree from Yale, I began a prestigious career reboot. Yet, behind my smile, my soul was dying of angst and terror.
By the grace of God and through the Immaculate Heart of Mary, I always kept the faith. During those awful years, I never questioned what had happened to me on the Feast Day of St. Thérèse in 1984. I never wondered why a good God would allow me to suffer. St. Thérèse’s Carmelite spirituality taught me that God “is” good, and He had a reason for my suffering. Though I did not feel joy, I knew through faith that suffering “is” joy. Despite feeling destroyed as a human being, I clung to faith.
We moved from New Haven, CT, to East 96th Street and 3rd Avenue in New York City. I started a career with the executive consulting firm, Booz Allen Hamilton. Finally, I entered the big leagues, prepared to showcase my greatness. I impressed people at cocktail parties, had the right business card, and rode in private limousines after long days consulting top executives. I lived the jet-set lifestyle, and ticket agents at Laguardia knew me better than my family did. Most importantly, I was important.
After two years in Manhattan, we moved to Stamford, CT. We bought a lovely home in a well-established neighborhood. Not long after, the brightest light appeared on our horizon. Our son, Emery, was born. He was the shiniest light in two pitiable decades, breaking through the opaque darkness.
Externally, I had everything: a beautiful wife, a prestigious career, a well-known employer, a home in the suburbs, and a new child. Yet, darkness descended over my interior. I fell into bouts of anxiety and depression. Sometimes, I lost control; other times, I had no strength. My behavior became erratic, worrying Josey. I smiled and waved to neighbors while mowing our well-manicured lawn, but depression and anxiety consumed my soul.
I changed jobs several times within eighteen months, eventually working for the management consulting arm of PricewaterhouseCoopers (PwC), another prestigious firm. I maintained a high income, but my inner darkness hindered career advancement. Though I kept the faith, I did not feel it. Darkness enveloped me, but faith endured. I held fast to it, dry in spirit, without tasting its waters. I was in spiritual, mental, and emotional chains, and my health declined.
A former Yale classmate called with an offer. His company had acquired a significant foodservice brand from Colgate-Palmolive and needed an operations executive in Texarkana, TX. We agreed on terms, and I accepted the position. Josey, Emery, and I moved to Texas.
I excelled as Vice-President of Operations, earning more money and living in a lower-cost area. Our worldly prestige and bank account grew. We had a lovely brick home on several acres, complete with a large pond and dock for fishing. To neighbors, we appeared young and successful. However, my interior misery increased: uncontrollable behavior, anxiety, and depression. By the grace of God, I held to faith.
The corporate CEO and the Board of Directors in Greenwich, CT, offered me the position of Division President. My exterior performance remained strong despite my interior struggles. Corporate liked me, unaware of my soul’s turmoil. The division’s head office was in Des Plaines, IL, a Chicago suburb. Off we went. Josey and I celebrated with a dinner at a famous steakhouse on the Chicago River. On a bridge over the Chicago River, we popped a champagne bottle gifted to me by Booz Allen Hamilton in 1992, saved for eight years.
We moved to a new home in Gurnee, IL. I was now president of a worldwide brand, earning more money and feeling more important. We bought our first luxury car, a Jaguar. Yet, my interior darkness deepened. By God’s grace, I held to faith. No darkness could eclipse the bright night of the Feast Day of St. Thérèse in 1984.
At the height of my career in 2003, I collapsed mentally, emotionally, and nearly physically. They hospitalized me in a mental institution for a month and diagnosed me with manic-depressive bipolar disorder. The thin veneer of my exterior life crumbled. In total collapse, I felt like I was lying on a concrete floor at the bottom of a dark chamber. I was in hell. The beast of darkness that had haunted me for two decades triumphed. Yet, by God’s grace, I kept the faith. The bright night of the Feast Day of St. Thérèse shone even in the pit of Hades. Our Lady and St. Thérèse, through the power of the Eucharistic Lord Jesus, were present.
The Lord and Our Lady were not done. They had prepared another moment for me, an exceptional event akin to my conversion on the Feast Day of St. Thérèse. It was time for Joan of Arc to save my life.
