After many requests, I have decided to publish my speech from the faith journey talk I gave at Our Lady of Prompt Succor in Coteau. This is about a 30-35 minute read, but you can also watch the talk by clicking the box below.
To those that want me to write a book, this is as close as it's going to get until I can sit down and WRITE. Lol! I feel incredibly grateful for the continued support. Writing has healed me past the imaginable. Love all my Open Book readers.
My Faith Journey Speech
Good morning yall I just wanted to start by saying how blessed I am to be given the opportunity to share my faith journey with you all. When Father Matthew asked me to talk, I didn’t hesitate to say yes. But, shortly after I doubted my eagerness. Why me? I questioned myself. How will I walk into a congregation of catholics and inspire or connect with them?
Doubt always seems to settle in when you are on the verge of something outside your comfort zone. Doubt settles in when you are making changes, even when those changes are for the better.
So, I hustled that doubt into honest feelings for all of you today. My name is Brianna Bertrand. I am a daughter, a sister, a mother, and a sinner. But, most of all, a daughter of Christ.
And today I’d like to include you in my story, inspire you in your life, and inform you on my bits of knowledge.
Highschool/College
My faith started as a young child. Growing up, I was fortunate to be raised in a home led by my loving parents, and filled with my brother and sister. The relationship we shared as a family was ,and still is, something I treasure. But many times I took it for granted.
I feel like we can all agree that we’ve taken that unconditional love for granted. It’s easy to take advantage of their forgiveness for your disrespect or to look past the sacrifices they make for you. But, it’s even easier when you’re a senior in highschool sitting out of your favorite sport, just waiting on the day you get to leave home and be independent. The need for privacy and wanting the authority to make decisions on your own. Trust me, I know.
I had my senior year mapped out. My senior year was going to be fun, successful, and a time well spent with friends... And enough time to prepare myself for college cheer. Prior to breaking my foot, my year was going just the way I had wished. I had a boyfriend. I had fun with my friends. And I was reaching my goals in cheer. I went to church. I learned about my faith daily at a catholic school. Yet, every weekend I seeked approval from friends at the latest party. I didn’t spend any extra time praying or concerned about my faith. Any amount of time left over was spent on cheer or extracurricular activities. To most, it may just sound like a teenager being a teen. But, looking back I wish I spent more time acknowledging how fortunate I was that my parents “made” me go to church. I should have wanted to go, but I was too concerned with whatever mistake I made on Saturday night to worry about what church was truly doing for me. Church and my parents push for faith, held me together and prepared me for the years of trials ahead.
My beloved senior year quickly changed in the month of September. A heart broken from my highschool boyfriend and crushed dreams with a broken foot. I was bound to crutches and a cast having to sit out Saturday parties with friends. I learned that some friends didn’t take time to check on you or come sit a Saturday at home like you hoped they would. I felt isolated, and mainly betrayed by God. The heartbreak? The foot? My friends? What was I doing to deserve this isolation and frustration?
I didn’t realize that I wasn’t isolated. I was called to lean on my family. I was called to be dependent upon their help. That senior year I’d wanted, quickly turned into staying home everyday after school with my foot propped up, wishing I could be anywhere but home. I was convinced that home was slowly breaking me apart. Yet, looking back home is everything that held me together.
It didn’t take long for my teenage mind to decide that my body wasn’t beautiful anymore. Months on crutches suddenly caught up with me. I started loosing muscle and gaining pounds. Hardly noticeable to someone else, but for me it’s all I saw. Many times I’d cry, looking in the mirror I didn’t feel like myself anymore. My body had changed. Teenage acne. Injury pounds. And eyes that only saw flaws… I searched the mirror for an ounce of confidence to give myself, yet when I couldn’t find any, I sought validation from others.
I want to stop here and speak to those that don’t feel beautiful. To those that feel they don’t meet the standards. Turn to the cross. Ask God, who am I to you? You say I am beautiful. You say I am wonderfully made. Ask Him to reveal his child in the mirror. This is the prayer I prayed for many years, and continue to pray to this day.
That senior year amongst my personal prison of boundaries I found passion. I found writing. I was taking college courses online and my english professor was amazing. He wasn’t an easy teacher, but the challenge of classes I could tackle with a broken foot. Five page essays? I was excited.
I hadn’t realized it then, but God was slowly redirecting my heart from cheer, to a new talent. He was revealing a talent I had never considered. You know? One of those things you did as a kid, and just tucked it away as you got older. But here I was with my book reopened. God never took anything away from me, He redirected my heart. Looking back, I’m grateful for the trial I faced my senior year. I learned patience, trust, kindness, compassion, dependance. I learned how life can change and still be okay.
These lessons would later prepare me for the following year of being a college freshman.
So, after a senior year of healing and gaining my life back, college began. I walked into UL with new confidence. I was the girl I never knew I'd meet, and neither had they. The girl who learned how to roll with the punches. The girl who could walk without help again. I was the person who overcame the challenges I never wanted to face. And, I was walking in with a mask.
I know any senior of 2020, including myself, was pretty nervous that their year of freedom would be taken away with the restrictions of covid. But, the sports bars found ways around the laws, and we found our way into those bars. I joined the sorority. I found my friends. I spent many days and nights living the life I wanted my senior year. I had fun, I was successful in school, and I was spending time with true friends.
I met lots of people, and eventually I met my college boyfriend, we can just call him Z to respect his privacy. Z was good looking, athletic, and most of all he wanted to take me on a date, not just take me home. I was thrown off-guard that some guys in college actually wanted to get to know me. I felt beautiful again. I felt seen because he wanted to know my heart. Z was playing ball in my hometown on a scholarship, but he was originally from Canada.
Obviously I was intrigued. We went on a date, and not long after that date, we entered into a serious relationship. My Saturday nights changed from the bar scene with friends, to trips home to watch Z play. I convinced myself that it was a good thing. You know, going home, seeing family, staying away from the bars, and mainly seeing him. I saw him, and only him , on any day I could get free. He’d come see me, I’d go see him. We were infatuated, and we called it love.
Just as quickly as our relationship began, his control came even faster. I began to alter myself for him, “in the name of love.” Back then, going to my friends’ birthday wasn’t acceptable because she was “too wild.” Or missing a dinner with friends was good for me because they "weren’t real friends anyway.” And, being too talkative with my guy friends became a “threat to our relationship.” All because Z said so. But, how could I have known how he was turning me away from my family and friends when I was so blinded by “love”?
So, I slowly became solely his. And, I felt comfortable doing that because he convinced me he was different than other guys, better. His possession was disguised as protection. My order of values became Z, family, faith and friends. I wan’t even on my own list of priorities. It was easier for me to focus on fixing his broken soul than to continue the journey of fixing my own.
Pregnancy
Two pink lines is all it took to alter my priorities completely.
Tears filled my eyes that night as I looked in the mirror. I can clearly remember quickly searching for the slight changes in my appearance that maybe I had missed. Were there signs all along? Did everyone else see my bloating? Had my youth been taken away already?
This couldn’t be a baby, a teen pregnancy. That only happens to everyone else. It wasn’t my destiny. But, when my eyes met Z’s, we both knew that this pregnancy was our next step.
It didn’t take the town long to figure out either. Eventually the town was finding out,and I hadn’t even told my own family yet. I hadn’t even had my first appointment. Didn’t even hear a heartbeat yet.
The time was here. We needed to tell our parents the news...before the town did.
So, at all of about seven weeks pregnant, we sat my parents down. Coincidentally, the night we decided to tell my parents about the pregnancy was the night they had came home from a pro-life gala they mced. Talk about God preparing them for their new role as grandparents.
Our families accepted this unplanned blessing with open arms. We decided we’d try to keep the pregnancy hidden until my first appointment. I wanted to make sure I had no complications. But, the town kept talking. And, before long, people I didn’t even know, knew me.
No one asked me about it, they simply talked about the latest gossip.
I don't think anyone ever considers how scary it is to be a first-time mom. I was terrified that everyone in town knew my business, but what if I couldn’t even hear a heartbeat?
Well… at that first appointment we heard two. Oh yeah, two.
With eager nerves of relief, I automatically questioned my body’s ability to carry twins. How was I supposed to prepare myself for the months ahead? I didn’t even know what a normal pregnancy should look like. But, I knew I was called to be their mother for a reason. So, I carried them. I protected them. And I celebrated them. Thanks dad. I shouted it to the world when I got the chance. I was carrying beautiful twins, my sweet Paxton James and Maria Rose. They were beautifully and wonderfully made.
So many women thanked me for choosing life. They expressed the heartache they felt that so many women chose to kill the lives they so desperately wanted to thrive in wombs of their own. Here I was with two perfect little unplanned miracles growing within my own body. At eighteen, I decided to change the guilt I felt into a sign of hope for those women. A model of what it means to live out a pro-life decision when faced with a pregnancy outside of wedlock.
The redirection of my mind did not take away the challenges I faced with Z. We fought. I cried. I forgave. It was hard...being 18 and deciding to stay in a bad relationship, with hopes that your babies could see their parents live out the love they were once convinced they had. But, I loved him to a fault, and only wanted him to love himself the way I did. We let social media see us as the perfect couple. But, I protected people from the truth. He was struggling and I was holding him together, while trying not to tear myself apart.
I recall my first Mother’s Day pregnant was the hardest day for me. The night before was the night he confessed the desire to end his life. The night he told me I was never truly a mother. That stuck with me walking into mass as a couple the next morning. Was he right? Was I not a mother? Was I not deserving of these babies? I hesitated to stand in that morning mass when all mother’s were called to rise. I thank my own mom for reassuring me that I had every right to stand proud.
The degrading words continued and my hormones only made the heartache harder. But, life went on as the twin’s grew in my womb.
Until they didn’t.
After moving Z into my parent’s home, to avoid him going back to Canada, we headed out to Florida. Three days into the trip, my world stopped.
While we were enjoying a normal day on the beach, my stomach pains began. I was convinced I was hungry, overheated, or having round ligament pains from the recent growth in my stomach. Yet, in denial I began to acknowledge that I couldn’t even stand straight. With a tight and heavy stomach, Z and I headed to the condo room to get rest. I was still convinced that rest would resolve the issues I was facing. Yet, even after laying down in the room, I was getting weaker. I feel into a deep sleep, but woke up later with cold sweats. When my pain turned to cries and yelling with panic, I knew my day of labor was coming early.
We drove to the nearest urgent care, but they turned me around and we had to go to the nearest facility that took pregnant patients past eighteen weeks.
My pains began to disappear as we sat through traffic for what felt like an hour. I began to deny that anything was actually wrong. Maybe, I was just being dramatic.
However, we finally got to the right place. Time passed in the waiting room, and the newest symptom came...blood, signaling a true need to seek medical care and to get help quick. The tech didn’t let me watch as they scanned for answers, but it wasn’t long after the ultrasound that I met the kind blonde doctor with compassion and concern in her eyes. She explains that one of the twin’s amniotic sacs is leaking fluid. This can cause me and the twins damage. I should expect to deliver within the next 48 hours.
I went numb.
I couldn’t feel anything but pain.
The room started to blur and my ears started to ring. I started shaking and crying. I had a gut feeling that Maria, my baby girl, wasn’t okay. All my nightmares were coming to life with that word... one.
Since the day I found out about the twins, I had always feared that one wouldn’t be okay. Each appointment I had I was concerned that one wouldn’t be growing as fast or one heart rate was off. Now, one of my babies was coming too soon. Everything was mute. I couldn’t feel anything but pain in my heart. Everything was going too fast for me to keep up with, but slow enough to see it all. I don’t remember much. I remember my tears, shaking, IVs, nurses, doctors, hands being held, elevators, catheters. It all happened within minutes. I was rushed to Labor and Delivery. It was time to deliver my babies, but their birthday wouldn’t be until June 28th, defeating many odds.
My case was complicated, and I’d meet new nurses and new doctors daily. As shifts changed, so did the medical opinions. I was transferred to a long-term stay in the PICU floor at a catholic hospital, where expecting mothers could stay, in hopes that their babies could make it to the NICU. Except my hope had to be different. The doctors had lost hope of Maria’s survival when the time would come to deliver. Instead, I should expect Maria to be a stillborn and Paxton could survive if the plans of a delayed interval delivery worked.
I want to mention how I recognize the blessing of being in a hospital that valued my religious morals equally. The catholic treatment I received eases my mind to this day.
There are tons of medical terms and explanations for how my forty-eight hours turned into nearly three weeks. But, I don’t have the time to explain that all today. Instead, I’m here to be vulnerable. To tell you that many times I blamed myself for the pain I was enduring. I sinned. This was my proper punishment. Losing my world. I felt I was deserving of this, and for a good while that never went away.
Things got complicated in the hospital with my parents and Z. There were disagreements. Arguments. Fights. Division settled amongst the depression. I sided with Z, but my parents never stood against me. They’d remind me of the love they had for me in the midst of my mixed emotions. They knew I felt helpless.
I was taken back to my senior year, bed ridden, but this time completely trapped within four walls and not a single window to show me the world outside. I went from basking in the sun full of life, to fighting for the lives of my two babies, and my own health.
The infection of the complications quickly began to affect me, not just mentally but physically. I was getting sick. The physical pain was hardly noticeable for me compared to the hurt in my heart. The anger built, because it was easier than praying on a helpless case. I wasn’t going to make it to 24 weeks. But, I was encouraged to try, perhaps it could help someone else who needed those weeks of bedrest to make it.
Frustrated with the same bad news after every test, I was at the point of giving up. Selfishly, I didn’t want to be someone else hope. I didn’t even possess hope myself. How was I going to give it to someone else?
My mother cried with me, she whispered in the room of us two along, “It’s okay to pray this pain away. It’s okay to give it all back to God. Bitsy, It’s okay to ask Him to hold your babies, if it is His will.”
That night, I looked at the cross in the silence of those four walls and told God that I no longer wanted the control over my battle. This was for my God to carry me through, whichever way that may be. That night, blood revealed the signal of an upcoming delivery.
I learned that my silence spoke loudest in those four walls.
I didn't want to talk to doctors, nurses, friends, and even family. But, mainly I didn’t want to talk to God. I wanted him to do the talking. At that point in the hospital, my mind had strayed so far away from the hope in His plan, because the twin’s health kept declining. What hope was left for me?
Surrendering my control was a life-changing moment for me. I had gripped onto my plans since senior year, always finding a way back to my original plans and wants, never considering that perhaps my plans were never meant to be. Do you ever feel like that? Like you are constantly trying to have things go your way, but instead they just keep going wrong? Let your grip go. Because before long, that grip will turn to grudge and you’ll be convinced your entire life is wrong. Yet, perhaps your life is simply being redirected, the same way my talent of cheer changed to a passion of writing. And the same way my path of motherhood was redirected.
Connecting with Myself Again
The pride, the pain, and the perfection of it all. They were beautifully mine. Hands the size of my fingertips. Heads smaller than my palms. And, feet formed to fit their tiny bodies, bodies that only stretched a little over the length of my hands.
The short amount of time will never make up for the lifetime I have to spend without them. But it was a moment for a mother, and those moments last forever.
After holding the twins for hours, I realized how small some of the challenges in my ordinary days were. I realized that God found me worthy of bringing life into this world. And, God found me strong enough to remove their souls from the damage.
I thank God for protecting my children from the brokenness. He made me a mother of two saints. What more could a mother want?
Although losing the twins took a piece of me that I will never get back, I gained pieces I had lost before. Holding the world in my arms, at eighteen, showed me at a young age that we are all called to respect life. And that goes beyond the unborn. Respect the lives of babies. Respect the lives of elders. Respect the unfortunate. But, the biggest lesson, was learning to respect my life. I cut out actions and people that didn’t respect me the way God calls us to respect one another. One of those people would be Z. After the loss of the twins, we had a short two weeks at home. Then, he had to move back to Canada.
Back then, I thought losing him to another country would destroy me. But being away from him, I found healing. Z dealt with the pain of loss differently. He’d keep it in my ear that I shouldn’t have happy days after this kind of loss. He was confused at how I could find God’s grace in such a tragedy. Eventually his whispers of dishonest jugement, became loud hatred. I had to remove myself from the father of the twins, and at first it felt like losing a part of them. Now, I understand that we just had to heal differently, and our times of healing weren’t the same.
So, without him, I refocused my life. This time I focused on my faith. I finally organized my priorities: Faith. Family. Friends. I began sharing my writing through Open Book. And what started as healing for me, suddenly became a space for others to relate and heal as well.
A Continued Journey
But, my struggles didn’t end when I found my faith. There were still core wombs that needed to be healed. And, I knew that time would be the healer, but in some moments, time disguised itself as a thief. I feared often times that as I healed, I would begin to forget the tiny details of the twins. I feared I wouldn’t think about them. I never wanted to hide them from anyone. In fact, I was terrified to date again. I’d tell myself things like, “look at all the baggage you have.”
And, that’s about when I began a new relationship. I didn’t realize how terrible the timing was I hadn’t healed and I jumped into a new, and very serious relationship. And, he wasn’t the prince charming my parents thought he’d be. Q, let’s just call him that, well, Q had baggage too. But that baggage was a bad reputation in terms of women, disrespect, and lies. Aware of all these faults, I was convinced I could help him.
In my eyes, a guy with baggage was what I was destined to have. Now, I’m not saying that people with a past can’t change. I believe we are all given a thousand second chances by our God.
What I'm saying is that I let his baggage become my burdens. People warned me, reached out to me, and begged me to leave him. But for two year, I never did. Despite his words against my body, my family, and my friends, I moved in with Q. You see, I believed that we’d be better off if my parents didn’t have a say so, and that meant moving away. So, we did. We had good times, but looking back those good times were always to distract me from something he did to hurt me.
I remember writing in my journal how confused I was. How I couldn’t even recognize myself. How I was fully convinced I was the issue. But, instead of praying for God to show me that I was worthy, I prayed for Q. I prayed for ways to fix us, to fix him.
So, there I was with God constantly trying to redirect my life. From the little side remarks about how I wasn’t good enough, to the fights where any object flew in my direction. Lies about money, lies about women. Not showing up to important events in my life. I kept ignoring all the signs that we weren't meant to be a couple, much less living together.
Despite my parents disapproval, things started to lookup for us in terms of the relationship we had with my family. So much so that Q proposed,and I said yes. And, once I said yes to the dress, it was over just as soon as it began. Not even two months into our engagement, I had an honest woman text me out of concern. She had seen me celebrating an engagement with the guy she had just engaged in relationships with the past weekend.
As soon as I found out, I called everything off. But, instead of feeling like I wasn’t enough. Instead of believing all the words he told me were true. I finally saw Q for what he was. A liar. All the words that belittled me into the weak person he fooled me into thinking I was. Well, that was a lie too. Instead of my mind going blank with confusion, I swear it was like a glass broke. I was getting set free. I kicked him out my life with the sting of instant forgiveness, but the power of instant independence. I no longer needed to work for his approval, his love. I was blessed that same week with the ACTS Retreat where I found my SIC, and was graced with the strength to never look back.
It’s like I had this veil of relief, and that was no delusion. It was grace. I was prepared for this heartache. I handled my senior year. I grieved the loss of my own children. I could get over a boy.
And, I did. So that's where I am today.
Each day, I wake up and decide that today will be another day of fulfilling my God-given purpose.
Today is another day of loving the unique gifts God has given me.
Today is another day of learning how to love and respect life.
Today is another day of gaining strength in the struggles.
So, I ask you...
What is today to you?
Each day, you make the choice of how you look at your day, and how you will handle what comes your way. Writing this speech has helped me realize that each challenge faced is a lesson learned. A lesson that prepares you to face the small,and even the big, daily trials which determine the path you follow.
I’ll end with tis prayer.
Lord,
Help me trust in Your plans for me. Let me recognize that beauty comes from the struggles I face, no matter how challenging they may be.
Help me acknowledge that plans will not always go my way. But, by following Your heart, I am finding my path.
When I lay my confidence within You, You grace me with the strength I need in return.
May Your love be shown through my actions, in my words, and in my prayers.
I need You.
Daily, I need You.
You are my strength. You are my path. You are my confidence. You are my grace. You are love.
I need You.
Include me, for I want to follow Your plans.
Inspire me, for You are the flame that ignites my soul.
Inform me, for I desire to learn.
Amen.
Comments