On the Catholic Hippie Commune and the Diaspora

Your smile lights up a room like a candle in the dark, and warms me through and through. And I guess that I had dreamed we would never be apart, but that dream did not come true.

“Missing You,” by Amy Grant

All of my children left home. They supported themselves, excelled at whatever jobs they took, and proved themselves competent in every aspect of adulthood. When we all converged on Saint Louis, though, we decided that it would work best for us to share a house. I’ve achieved the Catholic Hippie Commune, as it is just a group of adults who love each other sharing space. It’s not our “family home” in the way our houses in Memphis and South Bend were. Tom and I were parents of children and adolescents in those homes, so we made the rules.

We discuss household projects as a set of adults who love and respect each other. We work on dividing up the space based on everybody’s needs and interests. I love old houses, so we’ve created a slush fund that everyone contributes to, so that when (not if) something goes wrong with the house, we can get it repaired.  

Over the last seven years we have married off two members of the team. We’ve taken in three loved ones fleeing abuse. We’ve buried pets and taken in animals others couldn’t care for. I can still sit in the garden with the hydrangea we planted for my oldest grandchild, Marion Francis, who died in a miscarriage.

When Floyd came home from overnight trucking last week, Tom and I were in the living room. As he ate breakfast before he went to bed, he said, “Russian literature is Jane Austen for men.” He went on to describe how all of them were focused on the vagaries of the human condition and how virtue is always a better choice than vice. It was more nuanced and interesting than that, but it would be an entire separate essay to describe his thoughts and the full discussion.

That’s the kind of conversation we have regularly as we all pass one another throughout the days and weeks of sharing space. We go to Mass together. We talk about the readings. We watch movies, parts of TV shows, and have an ongoing conversation about theology we pick up whenever the mood strikes.

It’s been ideal.  

Last month Blake and George, my oldest daughter and her husband, bought a homestead about two hours south of Saint Louis. It’s a beautiful moment for them. They’ve had this dream together for years. They will now build a home of their own, filled with faith, children, and everything God has planned for them. Sure, I miss seeing them every day. But as they are truckers, I often didn’t see them every day, and we are blessed to live in a time of technology so that it is quite easy to keep in touch. 

Next month Veronica will marry Tim and move to Pittsburgh. I’ll miss being her roadie, as she’s supported herself as a musician for 4 years now. Floyd and Clare will marry in August, and then it will just be the senior team members: Tom, Kenny (my best friend from college), and me.

People wonder if I’ll be glad of more space. They wonder if I will wish to go back to an earlier state of life. They wonder why we all want to live together and if my children aren’t violating Genesis 2:24 by continuing to be this close to their parents. It’s a blessing that we all get along so well and enjoy one another’s company. I’ve seen far too many families, even families striving for holiness, who do not get along as well. Space is nice, but not as nice as impromptu jam sessions. Even so, I’m thrilled that they are getting their happily ever afters, and I am fine with the relative ease and quiet which will descend upon our evenings.

Maybe I’ll even sleep more adequately.

The thing about people misunderstanding the commune is that people have never really understood us. Many people suggested as our children were growing up that we needed to “harden them up.” We’ve been told that gentle, virtuous children will be eaten alive. We were told that we shouldn’t over expect for children with disabilities. We were told that children adopted by their father were still stepchildren. When people found out Tom had adopted the older three, there were always hurtful comments and questions. It was odd, as all these questioners were pro-life Catholics. Yet they didn’t seem to understand that adopted fatherhood is actual fatherhood. None of my children are confused about this.

But we can have really anyone come and be part of the family, because that is the family our patriarch, Tom, has fostered. People come and sometimes go, but those of us who have both been forgiven much and forgiven others much know Christ’s peace and want that for everybody. I really want my children in their own homes with their own families developing their own version of the domestic church that then their children will grow into adulthood and develop their own. Thus, will it continue to the end of the world.

None of us are confused about suffering. We all share that Catholic perspective. A life lived in friendship with Christ will not make your life easier; it will make it worth it. We’re all working toward the Kingdom. The pain that goes along with that quite often becomes sweet memories. In Saints Orson Scott Card writes, “And they began to reminisce about times that had been painful to live but were good to remember.” (676) Perhaps the biggest reason our Catholic hippie commune has been such a pleasure and that the diaspora of it is not painful to me is that Christ is at the center of it all. He gave me these children, their spouses, and their friends who became family. He gave us the Church where we receive Him and worship Him together. He gave us bodies to work and rest together and will continue to shed His grace upon us.