“I have much more to tell you, but you cannot bear it now. But when he comes, the Spirit of truth, he will guide you to all truth” (Jn 16:12-14).

Truth. It’s quite a tricky concept in this day and age when social media is constantly screaming at you about this, that, and the other thing— what happened, where, why, and who. And the outrage! When we engage, it can spiral into chaos and quite possibly even name-calling, and it disturbs our peace. 

For me, the worst part about it is not knowing the real truth of the matter at hand. I want to know all of it. I have always been this way—if someone lies to me, that is the worst thing they could do. Maybe it’s a pride thing, (mea culpa) but I feel insulted and betrayed because I truly feel that I can, as the famous movie quote says, “handle the truth.”

Yet maybe not, for Christ himself tells us, “You cannot bear it now.”

For context, the apostles had just witnessed Jesus’s horrific suffering and execution. They had been scared and confused. And then Christ rose and showed himself to them—journeying and eating with them, breathing on them and bestowing his peace on them. What else could they possibly be made to endure that would be deemed too much for them now? What was the truth they could not bear?

It makes me think about my path to motherhood. I wonder if, knowing what I know now, I would have continued down that path chosen for me, or would I have sprinted in the opposite direction? We all have our crosses, for sure, but there have been moments when my husband and I have looked at each other in deep pain and bewilderment at the path we were being asked to walk as devout Catholic parents. 

Have you ever driven in a blizzard? (Ok, I live in Texas now, so how about a heavy rainstorm?) The headlights on your car can only illuminate a measly three or four feet in front of your car if you’re lucky. If you’re really lucky, there’s another car ahead of you and you can follow their tail lights through the whipping snow (er, rain). The most terrifying aspect of these experiences is that you cannot leave the road. There may be ten-foot ditches on either side; You may get rear-ended by another unsuspecting vehicle, or you may get stuck in a drift and not be able to get out. You simply cannot see what lies in store for you on either side of the path, so the only thing you can do is keep going.  

And honestly, my mothering journey has sometimes felt just like driving in a treacherous snowstorm. Don’t get me wrong. There are plenty of sunny days and roadside picnics—even parties and dancing! But those blizzards of confusion and pain—they hit hard and fast, and it’s all we can do to keep our eyes (and car!) on the road, not to waver or flinch, but to keep going and follow our feebly lit path.

Christ leaves his followers and ascends to heaven. This event, and all that follow as they wend their own way to their heavenly home, is most likely what they would not be able to bear. And these poor disciples, feeling like they need to return to following this path they can barely see, are confused and saddened once again, but little do they know, all is not lost. The Holy Spirit remains. Like the tail lights of the car in front of us, he shows us the way. We grip the steering wheel of our lives and follow, never stopping, always trusting as he guides us out of the storm on the sure path of truth, bearing it all, to our heavenly home.