We Are All Called to Death

Recently I learned that the father of a dear friend had finally passed from this world into eternity after a long battle with cancer.

It wasn't unexpected and when I was asked if I could take time off work to attend the Wake, I asked for the date and time of the funeral, immediately pledging I'd attend both. I did this without reserve, even though mentally I was already rearranging my work schedule. What would I have to give up? What would I have to change?  I had a catalog in my head with regard to my personal life: what would I have to give up? What arrangements had to be made before I could go?

Let me be honest:

I didn't want to go at all. I didn't want to make those arrangements, I didn't want to take vacation days from work especially for something I didn't want to do, and really...I just didn't want to go.

My friends, I don't enjoy funerals. They are awful, they are terrible, they are sad, and I say this because every funeral I attend reminds me of the night I saw my Dad for the last time...in the casket. I remember the weirdness of the Protestant-with-secret-Masonic-ritual-afterburner rites, the cheapness of it as he had no money nor did we, so couldn't even afford a funeral in a Lutheran chapel. With every funeral I attend, I remember the grief, of the discomfort of the folding chairs, my mother staring at me constantly with her cat's eyes ready-to-pounce expression as I cried very natural grief. Then we were called forward from some odd reason to come to the casket for one last time to stand there and publicly grieve and then turn and FACE the audience while the Pastor or random person presiding over this show (whoever he was...I still have no idea) said some words and then we were finally allowed to go back to our seats so that we could stop being a public freak show of sad people.

But that was my weird experience. Had my Dad been Catholic, it probably wouldn't have been so bad. Part of what I experienced in his death was the absolute trauma of the alien-ness of the service, devoid of anything I'd ever understood a funeral to be, and the fact that after the funeral he was cremated but not buried until spring. I believe his remains were brought to a mausoleum but I have no idea if he was just tossed unceremoniously into the ground come spring or if someone was there to prayerfully lay him to rest. I have no idea.

Every funeral since then has reminded me of that; we tend to be marked by the funerals of those we love the most. 

So you see, even though I have a Theology degree and understand the theology of redemptive suffering, and I believe in the Resurrection and look forward to it myself, that doesn't make funerals any easier.

It took me aback, therefore, when my brother and I were asked by the grieving family to bring up the Gifts of bread and wine. I wanted to refuse, but remembered as a child when our family was asked to do this at a Sunday Mass. Mom was very excited and said to us with shining eyes, "This is a great honor!"

I didn't understand that, but we did what we were told (or invited, rather), and returned to our pew.  I've never forgotten those words, though, or the action, even though the import was totally beyond me at the time:: to bring up the gifts at Mass is a GREAT HONOR.

So it was that when my brother had asked me if we could/should do so at today's funeral Mass, I said "Yes."

No hesitation.  Not outwardly.

Interiorly, I didn't want to go to the funeral. 

My dear friend had confessed that she wasn't at all sure what condition she or her  brothers would be in during the funeral, and the moment I heard that, I knew she was asking for very real help. I couldn't forget standing before people at my Dad's funeral....I knew that I could do this for her, and in her and her brother's names. And, in the theology of the Liturgy, I knew I could bring the gifts forward in the name of all, the symbol of the offering of all.  I could to at least that out of love for my friend and her family, and her dear, dear father.

Still, something struck me during the Mass, and I pray I never forget it. 

In the last few days, New Advent has run many articles about funerals and death and dying. I've clicked on every one. Even though I did not know the deceased very well (for my friend is the fiance' of my brother, so my brother is their considered family member, not me), the words in every article seemed to speak to our situation.

I was convicted when I read one article citing funerals as an "inconvenience" and in the end, the author was blown away by all the people "inconvenienced" to come...and how much that meant to her when she saw those mourners paying respects to her own loved one.

Today, during the funeral Mass, I pondered both my experience as well as those I've attended as a mourner, as a friend, and I realized that indeed, one of the reasons I dislike funerals is because of their utter inconvenience.

They always happen mid-week, at odd hours, and one must take either a half or full day from work, if not more. One must often travel out of town, and make arrangements that go beyond those required for daily tasks.

I didn't want to go to the funeral today, or the wake last night, but I went, and it hadn't been in my mind to refuse; I went because I love my friend and her family, even though I hadn't seen her father for years. That didn't matter: I went because she is my friend and I know what it's like to lose my father. She's a new member of a horrible club and needed the support of fellow club members.

During the Mass, I pondered this reality. I was ashamed, to the depths of my soul, for not wanting to be there. I was ashamed, for I knew how important it was, for it means a great deal to a grieving family that others love their loved ones...and them. One of the best ways to show love it just to BE there. Presence says far more than words will ever express. Presence is eternal. Ink on paper, words on the wind...those are easily lost.

It was Divine Providence that my brother and I had been asked to bring the gifts, for I could not help but ponder the significance of this liturgical action. Usually during the Offertory, I bow my head and pray, trying to offer myself, my intentions, prayers for those I love...everything...in union with the Sacrifice of Christ. Today I was called upon to do something more physical and as my brother is not a practicing Catholic I had to help him also, to know where to go, when, and what to bring up. As it was I still flubbed it a little (I started to offer what I had before what my brother had as I'd forgotten to think about the order of reception! But the priest was gracious and is used to distracted mourners.) I felt bad...I could have better directed my brother, I could have been more aware...I could have reminded him to walk with me and not behind, etc.

Today, I was reminded that I don't have all the answers, and even when I am in "my element", I am still lost, I am still confused, and I am still but a sheep in need of a shepherd. I am a soul in need of a savior. I'm glad my brother got to offer his first, for it was so proper on so many levels.

Often God's lessons in humility are gentle, and hidden, but always so loving that we cannot miss the point.

Our Lord reminded me today that we are all called to death. 

While indeed, yes, we do all face death, it is our little deaths in life that matter the most. We are all called to walk where we do not want to walk, to bow our heads in deference when we want to lead, to be silent when we want to speak, to suffer confusion when we most do not want to be confused.  We are all called to mourn not when we would prefer, but when God calls our loved ones home. We are called then also to the service of those who mourn the greatest, and offer ourselves to them in their simplest needs. In practical ways, in friendship, in service, in representation, and in presence.

We are all called to that. We are all called to lay down our lives upon the altar and live there in the shadow of the Cross, knowing that it is only there that we can understand the resurrection and eternal glory of Christ.

Simply to attend to a death, we must die to ourselves. We must put our own lives aside to give comfort to the lives of others, and pray for the eternal life for the one who has been called into eternity.

Yes...this is our call. In life we are indeed in death, for we cannot live eternal life unless we are willing to die, over and over again, every day and every minute, all for the sake of Christ our Lord.

Please pray with me for the father of my friend:

Eternal rest grant unto him O Lord, may your countenance shine upon him, and may he and all the Holy Souls in Purgatory rest in peace. Amen. 

Comedy Among Tragedy

It's been a weird day for me, filled with grace, humor, sadness, grief, and hope.

Comedy of Errors

It all started with a thunderstorm that kept me home after my planned departure time, allowing me to take a phone call from a co-worker who needed a ride to work today.

I'd already opened my garage door for air, so when I finally left I found two birds taking shelter from the weather. They flew off as I encroached upon their friendly solitude and tossed my purse into the car.

En to co-worker's house, I was confused, wondering if perhaps I was on the wrong road; for some reason, everything looked weird today. Although the road signs and sights were familiar I was discombobulated, then taken aback even more when I had to slow for what I thought was a family of ducks. As I reached them, though, I didn't recognize them as any waterfowl I'd ever seen and was unable to get a good look thanks to a redneck pickup hard on my rear end. Had I not slowed to a stop for the birds, however, I would have run over the last cartoonish straggler, which I hope the pickup driver saw in his probable confusion as to my randomly-stopped behavior on a country road.

When I finally reached my co-worker's neighborhood, I missed the turn and had to go back, even though I've driven this route several times.

On the way to work, we saw yet another creature crossing the road ahead of us, but this time neither of us could identify us; could have been a cat, a badger, a skunk, or a raccoon...or some other critter not yet considered. For once, no deer appeared; they were probably still huddled in their storm-shelter thickets.

Then I took another wrong turn and headed up a highway that took me back towards home...not work. Laughing at my very stupid mistake, I turned around at the next exit and managed to navigate our way to the office.

My co-worker took me out for lunch to thank me for the drive to work and home for the last couple days, and on the way back from the office, I AGAIN turned down a wrong road, causing a detour from a known detour. There seemed to be a theme developing.

Finally, on the way back home, I AGAIN got off on the wrong exit to my co-worker's home, causing us to have to sit in traffic we could have avoided and even though it all worked out, she offered me the use of her GPS in case I got lost finding my way home again!

Yeah...I nearly took her up on that offer!

But that's not the whole story. There were bigger events today and I wonder if God just used my lapse in obvious navigation as comic relief to keep me from focusing on  weight heavy upon my heart.

Tragedy

Today we visited a dear friend who is dying of cancer, now completely bedridden at home, suffering from the encroachment of several brain tumors.

I admit I was afraid to see him, but at the same time, looking forward to it, for I love this dear, dear man.

When we arrived, I had to hide my shock (even though I expected this) at his condition; he looked like a concentration camp survivor. This once-robust man was lying in bed, eyes still bright and welcoming, overwhelmed so much by a body wasted away that he could not even reach up to hug us, settling for a good strong handshake instead.

We remained for an hour or so, listening to a story about a part of his life, laughing with him and his wife as they still bantered, laughing with his lively spirit even as he struggled to draw his breath, waiting patiently through his pauses as he had to often swallow, breathe, and gather himself for the next thing he was going to say. It was a great gift to be with him.

This man and I have a few wonderful things in common:  we graduated from the same university, although he has a greater claim to it: he was a Brother there for a time, trying his Vocation, attended the seminary there, and of course, ultimately earned his Bachelor's there, as did I...many many years later. So it was that I was grateful to sit at his feet, literally, as he spoke of his early Vocation, how it came to be, his Irish mother and her persistence, his Priest brother, and his children and grandchildren in their relationship to God and the Faith.  He showed us his rosary, spoke of his brother's death (only a couple years ago), of his mother.

Yup. He's always been a storyteller, but what I reflected on as we left was this: in his stories, he is remembering and communicating not just his actions, but trying to impress upon us those he loved who had gone before him. He is getting ready to meet them again.

He gave me a few directions and hopes for his funeral, things that perhaps I can assist with, and I recognized it as a "dying wish". He knows full well that I don't have the power to do all of it, but I do perhaps have the ability to influence at least SOME of it...and a few other things perhaps he doesn't expect. Those things are in the works and I must pray about the rest, for it involves personally delivering very difficult news to young people in hopes they will respond in love through their grief and meet Christ more deeply.

I don't know if I'll ever see him again, but as we told his dear wife, we hope to come back for "Chapter 2" of his story. I don't think MY life will be complete without it.

The Unexpected Tragedy

When we returned to the office today after the hilarity of lunch and getting "lost" on the way back thanks to my ditziness in known lands, I had an email from my brother.

Mom recently came to the Cities, to Abbot Northwestern Hospital, for some tests on her heart. Well, they found a blockage. My brother said only that Mom needed surgery, family needed to be present, and he couldn't be there so call Mom.

So I did.

Mom has a blockage in one of her Coronary arteries, which are the arteries that supply blood to the heart itself. One of the tests she had was an angiogram, and the surgery required now is Angioplasty. For those unfamiliar, it means they send a little balloon into the artery to clear the blockage, and this includes many risks, although it is probably easily the least invasive heart surgery available.

I told Mom to schedule it according to what works. She was concerned about a meeting with her Insurance Agent that week. I told her to cancel it, he'll understand. (She worries about these kinds of things).

We also discussed the Sacraments: I told her she should be Anointed (Sacrament of the Sick), but she said she wasn't sure how to go about it. Part of the problem is that her own Pastor is out with his own health problems, so substitute priests are covering their parish. They never know who's coming, and often, they don't even arrive for scheduled Confessions on Saturday. She had thought, since there are rarely any lines anyway even if a priest DOES show up, that perhaps she could ask for the Sacrament then.

Well...given the improbability of this actually happening, she is going to contact another nearby parish, one with which she is familiar, and ask for Confession and Anointing. (I also told her Confession is part of the Last Sacrament, for those who are able, so even if she hadn't been to Confession they should be offering it).  I looked up the phone number for her and it sounds like she is familiar with and comfortable with the priests, one of whom was ordained only a year or two ago.

As soon as I learned of her surgery, I sent out prayer requests, and immediately the Grace was flowing, as prayers are being answered.

First, Mom is going into surgery on August 15, the Feast of the Assumption. She has a HUGE devotion to the Blessed Mother, and I can't help but recall that my one and only surgery was on the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. My Mother's prayers gave me my devotion to Mary and brought me back to my Faith, even though she didn't know I was lost. Now I am grateful to see Our Lady's intercession with the date of Mom's heart surgery.

We grew up with the images of the Sacred Heart of Jesus and Immaculate Heart of Mary...clearly, they will be with Mom, and hopefully with her surgeon, anesthesiologist, surgical nurses, technicians, lab techs, etc etc ets.

Secondly, she is going to receive the Sacraments of Confession and Anointing at...Divine Mercy parish.

At least, if complications arise, we will have the comfort of knowing she will go to Our Lord having received His Most Divine Mercy, after a life of suffering, after a life of quiet devotion and unnoticed holiness.

But please, God, not yet. I'm clearly still lost, can't find my way, and still need my mother!

Prayer Requests:

Please pray for my friend as he prepares to leave this world, and when you pray the rosary, add an extra decade for the Christian Brothers and for students everywhere.  

Pray also for my Mom, who hopes to continue with we who still need her, yet she still has the humility to know she may be going into this and meeting eternal beatitude. Although my brother and I and our extended family want her forever in Jesus's arms,  we aren't quite finished with her and are praying this surgery is typical and uneventful and gives her back a bit more health so that she can enjoy the fresh air a bit longer. 

Thank you all who have already received this news and are praying, and thank you to all who pray upon learning this information now.

Never Forgotten - The Feast of All Souls

November 2nd is the Feast of All Souls, and all of November we are called to especially remember the dead, those who have left for eternity and may be suffering the agony and ecstasy of Purgatory.

Yes, the Doctrine of Purgatory is alive and well, although many funeral-goers in our day and age may be missing this teaching. It has become common for many who come to Catholic funerals to be subjected to the Eulogy line-dance of nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles, children and friends of the deceased offering their varied tributes to the guest of honor, none of which actually ask for prayers for their soul.

There are those who don't understand why such a display is inappropriate to a Catholic Mass, and this lack of understanding is scandalous because it does not only betray an ignorance of the doctrine of Purgatory, but also of the reality and holiness of the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass which is nothing other than the entire life of Christ and most especially, the Sacrifice of Calvary made present right through the Resurrection.  *deep breath* 

The Catholic funeral is to call to mind, most especially, the death and resurrection of Christ, the hope of salvation, the reality of purgatory and the necessity of prayers for the deceased.

The liturgical and devotional practices of November are to call us to remember the dead, pray for the Holy Souls and reflect upon, in this season of death, our own future particular judgment. One day we will all stand alone, naked, before God, our entire lives, actions and omissions up for review. Heaven is not a guarantee. We do not get there by being merely "nice people".  We are called to be HOLY which is NOT the same thing as, "a nice guy".  I know a lot of "nice guys" and "nice gals" living a life of utter rejection of God. And I used to be one of them.

If I'm not careful, I could return to such a state, for I, too am weak. I, too, will face my Judgment and it will NOT be pretty, for I have much to atone for already, and my life is not  yet over.

Ghosts

There is always debate about what Catholics believe with regard to ghosts.

Yes, I believe in ghosts, but my belief as a Catholic does not usually match the popular portrayal of them.

We, as human beings, are body and soul, and we believe in a future resurrection. When we physically die, our souls go on, either to Purgatory to be purged of any impurity, or we go straight to heaven, if, in fact, we have attained a state of holiness that allows us to bypass the necessary purgation.  This is what the process of canonization reveals; whether a person has truly lived such a holy life.

What are ghosts?

Recently I read a tale of a little girl who inhabited a cemetery and a trail nearby, as well as other adjacent domains. Many people describe the apparition, what she is wearing, how she sounds when she speaks, and some paranormal investigators tried to locate her own cemeterial domicile.  In their findings, they thought this spectre might belong to a Protestant corner of an ecumenical cemetery, given the documented sightings.

As I read the story, I was struck not only by her plaintive attempts at communication, but also by her suspected origin; the Protestant corner (vs. Catholic, Jewish, or non-religious).  I realized that this little girl might be in purgatory for, as a protestant child, no one is praying for her soul. I began to do so, in hopes that perhaps all she was seeking in her appearances was someone to notice and pray for her.

Yes, I notice.  All we Catholics notice.

Well....maybe. After all, if Purgatory is not preached in our own parishes, how many are actually praying for souls?

How many pray for even their own dead?

I confess that I rarely pray for even my own family's souls. I am ashamed, but this day every year gives me a fresh reminder and holds me to account for my own sin of omission, for yes, it is a sin to not pray for the dead!

It is for this reason that, this year, I want to especially focus on prayer for the deceased. We cannot know their judgment, so we look to the resurrection, to the mercy of God, and we know that each and every cemetery reveals an opportunity for grace and is, in and of itself, a sign of hope.

I've been looking, therefore, for nearby cemeteries, to include inactive ones still containing their dead, for I hope to go there to pray most especially for those souls that have been forgotten. I encourage you all to do the same in your own locale.  For those in Minnesota, you may begin your light "research" here.

How many have been forgotten?

How many souls roam about the earth not to haunt, but only to be noticed in hopes some generous and compassionate soul will pray for them?

Last weekend I visited a cemetery and saw many broken, abandoned tombstones. Perhaps their family has died and gone away. I am reminded of my own father's tombstone, which I have never seen and now, no one lives close enough to visit. I have never seen where my grandmother was buried, and know that her Protestant daughter and son-in-law do not pray for her for they do not believe as we Catholics do. I don't think I've ever been taken to my Grandfather's grave, likely in the same cemetery.

I feel guilty because I have never been there and know that my own family's graves are abandoned, but I find one consolation; better the grave site be abandoned than their souls.

Still, I cannot help but be struck by obviously abandoned graves, knowing from observation and experience how few people really visit graveyards outside of the burial, and if they do, it is for sentiment and not for pious prayers for their beloved deceased.  It is a joy to behold flowers decorating a grave, for it tells me that person was and remains loved.  However, does that love always translate to ongoing prayers for their eternal souls? We cannot know; we can only examine ourselves, not the motivations of others.

Let no soul be forgotten; let us always pray for them, remember them, and  ensure that no soul ever spend their purgatory begging to be noticed.

Do not let the spiritual bouquet of prayers be only plastic replicas, but give those Holy Suffering Souls the living flowers of prayer and penance; one day you will be where they are, and you do not want to be one of the Abandoned.

REQUIEM aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis. Requiescant in pace. Amen.

ETERNAL rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May they rest in peace. Amen.

Red Zinfandel

Do you know it's possible to actually see agony in another person?

This evening on my way home from work, I stopped off at a local liquor store / wine shop for something I needed. I could quite literally have gone to any number of stores between my work and home, but I stopped at this one. Part of it was practical (they seem to have the best prices), but other than that, I really didn't have a preference of this store over another.

I quickly found what I needed (on sale! yay!) and went to the counter to pay. After the clerk had me sign the slip, the manager, who had been looking at me strangely a moment before, suddenly asked, "Do you like reds?"  [referring to wine].

He went on to recommend a Red Zinfandel of the brand I had purchased, and when I admitted I hadn't tried it  (and in fact didn't know this brand had a Red Zin), he invited me to follow him so he could show me something. When I started to pick up my bag, which had already been in my hand, he ordered me to leave it at the counter and just follow him. I shrugged and did as he asked.

The man led me to the extensive Zinfandel section and pointed out a couple, most top-shelf wines, some less expensive, and when I told him which I'd tried and loved, he pointed out the vineyard they were from. Great! But, he told me, as a fellow Zin-lover, he highly recommended this one particular Zin to me, and kept saying that he'd recommended it to his brother-in-law who swore that no way, it wouldn't be good. Apparently this was a huge point of contention between the two, for they were, as he'd said, "Gallo-men".  (This is a common brand of wine on the inexpensive side.)  But no, this man kept insisting that his brother-in-law try it, he would really love it.

I regarded the wine, saw the price (on sale, about $5.00), know that I will have use for it and so told him I'd go ahead and try it, so, yeah, I'll grab one of those tonight, too.

Smiling slightly, the man said, "I'll do you one better!"

He reached up and took a bottle off the shelf then quickly began making his way to the counter.

I was thinking, "What, a discount?"

He took it to the counter, placed it in my bag with my other purchase, and said, "There's a catch."  he glanced at me, to the wine, and back at me. "Try it, come back, and tell me what you think."

I agreed to those terms, the fact dawning on me that for some reason, this guy had given me a free bottle of wine. It's not unheard of in wine shops when they're trying to promote something, or recognize good customers, talk with fellow wine aficionados, etc., yet I wasn't making the connection, exactly, of what he was trying to promote, other than maybe customer loyalty.

But still, there was something odd about the whole thing and I remained "unsettled", noting how the guy behind the counter maintained a strange expression as he watched this exchange. He wasn't directing his own discomfort towards me, but towards the manager with whom I was speaking.  This clerk, this witness, was oddly silent, not getting in on the conversation, adding his own commentary as is typical in a wine shop.

The manager led me out the door, a cigarette in his hand, shaking a little, still talking about the wine and how good it was, how much he loved Red Zinfandels but this one is by far his favorite.  We stood outside the door talking for a little bit, and as he tried to light his cigarette, he dropped it on the ground. He quickly bent down to pick it up, and this time I could see that more than his hand was shaking. His breath caught in a little ragged rasp. He was clearly not well. I began to wonder if he was a little drunk, except that I couldn't smell anything on his breath.

"I'm sorry," he said, as he began to light his cigarette. "You're the third person I've done this to today."

I was a bit confused as to why he was apologizing and what he was talking about. He inhaled and said in a slightly husky tone, "Today I learned that my Brother-In-Law died."

I gasped a little, immediately started to offer him condolences, but he put up his hand to stop me as he inhaled from his cigarette.

"Hey!"  He expelled, his voice getting a little gruff, "He earned the right. He earned the right!"   He looked away for a moment of silence as I tried to figure how to respond, then looked back at me, straight in the eye. "Try the wine. Just try it!"

Yes, I told him, I'd definitely try it, and definitely come back and tell him what I thought. He told me who to ask for when I came back, and if he wasn't there, tell whoever was whether "it sucks or it's great".  Fair enough.

We chatted a bit longer about wine as he calmed himself down. It hadn't seem right to walk away just yet, and oddly, it almost seemed an intrusion to stay. But...something wasn't finished, so I stood, recognizing grief and waiting it out.

Normally I tell people that I will pray for their loved one, for their whole family. Especially when I'm wearing a shirt with Catholicism splashed all over it; this man knew he was talking to a religious person, at least on the outside (although at the time I wasn't thinking about what I was wearing.)  It was obvious that he was barely holding himself together. I wanted to ask him how he was, how he could possibly be functioning, but then again, it was pretty easy to tell, wasn't it?

He was making his work day a tribute to his brother-in-law. He was using wine to tell people about someone he loved.

I thanked him as I left, and promised, again to come back. I would try the wine.

Walking away with that Red Zinfandel, I was tearing up before I even reached my car. As I left the parking lot I knew I had to go to the chapel to pray, and offer all my prayers for this sorrowing soul. I couldn't get the image of the agony so apparent in his eyes, in his entire being. He was barely holding it together.

That explained the concerned looks from the clerk who worked with him. That explained his shaking hands, his rapid speech, his insistence that I follow him back to look at the Zinfandels, and most importantly, to try this particular Zinfandel.

But it wasn't about the Zinfandel. What he was doing had nothing to do with the wine.

I went to the chapel, offered a Divine Mercy chaplet, and wept for this man's loss, unable to stop the tears, the same tears that continue to flow even as I write this. I can't get his desperate agony out of my mind's eye. I prayed for strength for him, I prayed for his brother-and-law, for his sister who clearly is without a husband tonight.

You never know what others are suffering, or where you'll encounter them. A random errand can turn into an act of mercy and compassion you could never have envisioned. 

When I left the chapel, I sensed that I should go out through the door that took me around the building. As I walked through the "prayer garden" I passed through the Stations of the Cross, the Sacred Heart, and then past a marble replica of the Pieta.

At the Pieta' I stopped to contemplate it for a moment, marveling at how it captured grief so clearly, knowing how close Our Lady must be to the man I had just met. I didn't even know if he was Catholic, or Orthodox, or Coptic, or whether he'd ever said a prayer in his life. But..I knew Our Lady and Our Lord were very close to him in his own deep sorrow.

Then suddenly, I saw something on the Pieta' that I'd never noticed before.

In order to see it more clearly, I had to step on the cedar chips at the base, but it verified what I thought it was: it looked like blood pooled between the side of Christ where He rested in death, against His Mother. I touched my fingers to my lips to kiss them, then touched my finger to that pool of blood, pondering the blood from the side of Christ; that blood that had put an end to death, paid our ransom, and opened Heaven to us.

As I touched it, my fingers brushing lightly against the paint, I noticed something else about it:

It was the color of Red Zinfandel.

*       *       *

Grief

I left work a little early today to take care of a few errands before we go into our last long class weekend of our 3 years together.

As we quite literally sit in a classroom for 18 hours between Friday evening and Sunday afternoon, I won't have time to run necessary errands so took that time today.  One of those errands took me to the vet clinic to pick up my dog's annual pack of heartworm preventative. When the tech pulled up the screen to verify my info, I saw displayed there both dogs.

My eyes were immediately drawn to Fire's name, and the big, capitalized, starred letters spelling out "***EUTHANIZED****"

I had to swallow hard for a moment, remembering that day all too clearly. This afternoon, as I arrived during the office lunch hour, I was taken back to that terrible Tuesday afternoon, the raw grief coming back to the surface as I recalled  my sorrowful exit from the empty office during that same quiet hour.

It was a beautiful July day, much like today, it was sunny, and when I returned home, my car was empty. The agonized presence of my greyhound was no longer there; instead I was left in a different kind of agony, one that slowly ebbed away over the following days, weeks, and months.

Fire was the first pet I ever had to have "put to sleep" as the euphemism goes. It was probably the most difficult thing I have ever had to do, and to this day I have no idea how I was able to drive to the vet clinic and then back home.

I didn't expect to run into that particular ghost today, but there it is. It will make my weekend even more bittersweet, for a few days after Fire died, I began my graduate school career. It is a reminder that even in our most joyful occasions, we carry our suffering and together, they form and perfect us in ways only God can see.

Dang, sometimes I miss that big goofy greyhound so much!

Silent Night, Lonely Night - Abandoned

My Dad died on January 3rd, 1995, 15 years ago, and until this year, I couldn't find a Saint assigned to the day of his death.  I learned last spring during Lent that St. Paul of the Cross was born on January 3rd;  a patron who founded the Passionist Order came into the world on the same date my Dad left it and brought me directly into Our Lord's Passion, even though I didn't understand it at the time. He is a fitting Saint for such a terrible loss.

It's usually a hard day for me and I never know how it will hit me. Sometimes I just experience a general sense of unrest, while at other times that bitter sword of grief reminds me that time means nothing and it was only yesterday that I stood at Dad's casket, looking upon him for the very last time this side of the veil.

A few years ago I wrote of my first Christmas, nearly a year later, without him, and republish it here for you all:

**************************

My Dad passed in early January 1995, and it took me MONTHS to really grieve. I didn't know what to do, what to say, how to act, so instead, I was just angry. And sad. And desolate. All those things, and more, yet I lived my day to day life, losing my faith along with the rest of the world.

Even though my parents had been divorced for many many years, for some reason I dreaded Christmas that year with a strange sense of horror. We wouldn't talk to Dad on the phone. We couldn't buy Dad gifts. Nothing was coming from Dad - no cards with his familiar handwriting.

It was Christmas...without Dad.

I couldn't bear to be around my family, for his absence was even more absent, and because I hadn't seen him at all since my high school graduation, about 3 1/2 years prior, my guilt just ate away at me, burrowing into my soul and penetrating even more deeply than the strongest concentration of acid found on earth.

I had graduated early and was working for the college that winter, so I made sure I was on the Christmas schedule. Prior to Christmas I had gone home, celebrated "Christmas", stayed overnight and then headed back to the school. It wasn't that I really wanted to be alone...I just didn't want to be around family.

Then again, I DID want to be alone because when I was with them, I felt even more alone; Dad's loss was that much more painful, and I couldn't handle it.

It was so painful it was like a burn; it left my nerves deadened; I was numb. It was a grief so deep I could not express it to anyone, not even to myself. So I fled civilization for the haven of the school from which I had graduated and I enclosed myself into the darkness of my grief, trying to understand.

I've never felt so incredibly alone in my entire life.

On that Christmas Eve, I couldn't even stand the very room I was in. No one was at the college; no one was anywhere. The dorms were abandoned, the bluffs were silent.

And it was into the bluffs I fled, under the Christmas Eve stars, into the shadows of the trees and the confinement of the snowy creek banks.

I just walked, alone in that darkness, tramping through the snow, wishing I could cry, wanting to scream, wanting only relief from this terrible, terrible pain. I wondered if I was depressed? I considered that seriously, but no...I knew what depression was, I had all the symptoms indexed in my mind for professionally I had worked with truly depressed people. No; I was far too functional to be depressed. Dysthymia? Nope...not that either.

Intellectually, I knew that this was grief, I knew I was not handling it well, and whenever I confronted myself with that reality I shoved it aside in favor of wallowing within the pain, wanting to understand it, needing to purge myself of it, but not wanting to go to anyone else for help to do it. I was far too independent for my own good.

But I didn't care; I just wanted to be alone. Alone with God, seeking my faith again, seeking the God I had grown up knowing. And yet I didn't know Him.

So that night as I walked, I spoke to God. I berated him for this pain, I berated him for taking my Dad away from me, and I cried out to him about my own guilt.

I remember sitting in the snow at the side of the creek, suddenly realizing that I felt completely alone; completely abandoned.

Abandonment.

In the middle of the cold winter wildnerness, surrounded by the frozen forest, unable to even hear the waters gurgling under the ice and snow.

I was numb; I was abandoned. I cried out to God, but He did not answer me, nothing was revealed. Nothing was changed, nothing purged, nothing healed.

I realized that I had gone out to seek God because the futility of my own actions had so far gotten me nowhwere. And yet I was still rejecting the Church which had always been my solace before. Even as I sought God, I was running away from Him.

I remember that terrible, terrible numbness; not just from physical cold, but this strange spiritual numbness; Abandonment.

I remember a couple of tears fell...and froze on my cheeks.

Frozen just as I was inside.

Slowly, I stepped out on the ice, knowing where the little waterfall was. I knew I was being stupid for there was no one to hear my screams. I was not suicidal; far from it! Yet I almost hoped I would fall through a weak spot in the ice, to be partially submerged; water ran under that ice all winter. Even the harsh Minnesota winters would not completely freeze that rushing stream.

I didn't want to die; I only wanted to shock myself into feeling something again. Anything other than this terrible interior pain. Anything other than this hopeless feeling of complete and utter desolation;

Abandonment.

But the ice didn't crack. Even it was silent, refusing to give me the relief I so desperately craved.

I walked back to my room, to the warmth, still numb, still alone within my pain, still bereft of God.

Desperate for God, I tried to go to Christmas Mass the next day, the first time in a long time. Oddly, I couldn't find one! Even though it was a Catholic college, the chapel was closed and I had to find my way to a Catholic Church in town. I sincerely tried, but I must have gone at the wrong time.  I couldn't even find anyone to call to answer my questions as to WHEN I could go!

I knew of one church and thought maybe if I just showed up, even if it was in the middle of Mass, I would wait there for the next one, or find out when to go. That frigid, subzero day when my car would barely run, I found nothing but a Catholic Church with large, locked doors.

No one was around. It was only 10 in the morning but I couldn't get in and everyone was gone. The Church was empty, and it was locked and I had nowhere else to go.

Even when I finally went to find God, the door was closed and locked, sealing my complete and utter abandonment. Even when I sought Him out, He wasn't there. I'd lost my earthly Father, and that Christmas, I lost my Eternal Father as well.

I was in a ghost town, literally knocking on the door; and no one answered.

I can't remember how I got through that terrible phase in my life. Probably just fell into the routine of work, but I do know that the terrible sensation did finally ease. I do know that over time, the grief ebbed, leaving mostly only the anger...and finally, acceptance.

Grief is still painful and sometimes catches me by surprise with its razor-sharp edges, yet never since that Christmas Eve have I ever felt that terrible, terrible abandonment.

In looking back, now I see a blessing; a spiritual purging I did not understand. I chose the separation, and  now I look back and realize that it could be a shadow of what is to come. God was right there with me the entire time, likely crying the tears I could not, likely closer to me than He ever has been before or since.

It is in our abandonment, the Saints have learned and taught in their wisdom, that God is closer than ever, and we can't find Him or see Him because He is holding us so closely we are blinded by His love and compassion.

 Even in the snowy, frozen bluffs of a cold Minnesota Christmas, God is there, and sometimes, when it seems like He isn't answering, it is because He is speaking so softly that it takes years to understand His words.

*

Author's Note:   A year ago I published, in three parts, the story I wrote about my Dad and his death. The first chapter can be found here, and the other chapters are linked in sequence.  Otherwise click on the tag "Dad" below and you will be taken to all posts pertaining to this topic.

Mass for the Feast of All Souls

I just arrived home from Mass, and I'm grieving with the same kind of sadness as that which strikes me to the core on Good Friday. Such is proper, it would seem. Today, and throughout the month of November especially, we remember the souls of those who have died, and we pray for them, offer sacrifices for them, and implore the Saints to intercede as well.

Last night I woke up around 3 am (which is common for me) and realized that I'd almost forgotten a loss very dear to me; my cousin George, who died in April. He's been at the forefront of my mind all day, and in truth, I believe he is asking for prayers. Yet I also have been praying much for my Dad, in hopes that somehow, my measly prayers can perhaps be of some help to him. I guess it's proper that these two souls have been closest to my heart today, for although no one could replace my Dad, George was definitely a "father figure" to me in some ways and I would not be the person I am without either of them.

So my heart is heavy today, as it should be.

This evening at Mass Father's homily nearly brought me to tears. In truth, it did, a little, and I fought mightily to will those tears back into their ducts. I knew if I got started, I would be overwhelmed by the grief he so perfectly named as he spoke about the purpose of today's remembrance, and in considering that everyone there had lost someone close to them. We were there, tonight, in Catholic Churches all over the world, united in our grief and in our prayers for all the Holy Souls.

It was as beautiful as it was sad, but there wasn't any other place I wanted to be in that moment.

After I had received Holy Communion and returned to my pew, I recalled that NOW is the time to unite my grief, there at the foot of the Cross with our Sorrowful Mother. There, at the Cross, where that same sorrow sent Our Lord to suffer death in order to overcome it. It occurred to me that when we grieve, it is a very direct participation in the sufferings of Christ, for before we ever experienced love, He had experienced losses we cannot fathom, and grieved so profoundly He was made incarnate in order to free us from death!

While pondering this, suddenly the words, "May the Passion of Our Lord be always in your heart. May the Passion of the Lord be always in your soul!" so strongly it was as if I was taken directly to Calvary, where I knelt on the stones. I could hear the creak of the heavy Cross that swayed in the wind and in response to Our Lord's gasping breaths. I felt drops of His blood, noted the terrible lashes that wound down His legs even to his feet. It was so real, so vivid, that I knew in that very moment it WAS true, it WAS happening, and it does at EVERY Holy Mass!

The Sacrifice of the Mass is just that; it is the one and only Sacrifice of Calvary, made present for us in all times.

And there is where we most efficaciously offer our prayers and petitions, where we unite our own sufferings, offer ourselves upon the same altar, taking refuge under the shadow of His wings, seeking to hide within Jesus' Most Sacred Heart.

I was torn away from the blessed images that had come to me in prayer, called to stand for the final blessing. As I opened my eyes I felt as though, for a moment, I'd been transported through time...and I never wanted it to end.

Truly, the Mass is more real than anything else we can experience in this life.

The rest of life is only preparation, time spent preparing to go to Mass, and each Mass is an experience of the Eternal Mass to which we are called for eternity. The blessed are those who have gone before us and wait for us to join them when the Master calls.

We mourn those we love, and we are left with grief-spotted lives, torn tapestries revealing those we think should be present in our lives. And yet, if what the Mass reveals is true, even if they are in the fires of Purgatory, they are blessed, for even there they are a PART of the Mass in a way none of us can be. They are in constant prayer...for us. They are free from this earthly mortal coil that holds us back, perhaps in a true "dark night of the soul" for they are SO CLOSE to God, and need only our prayers and sacrifices to help them enter into eternal beatitude, finally reaching that eternal Wedding Feast of the Lamb.

We mourn here on earth, and it's proper to our state. We sow in tears, praying to one day reap in joy when finally, we, too are called by the Master to enter into His house. Perhaps we, too, will need to be purified, and we will need the prayers of the Faithful especially when Heaven touches Earth in the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass.

Today, let us mourn those we love, and those who have no one else to pray for them. Let us recall the Passion and Death of Our Lord and rejoice in His Sacrifice, for it is that very Sacrifice that gives us all hope for a blessed eternity. If we truly love those we have lost, that is what we will for them. Remember that death is not the end but really only the beginning of eternity.

Thank you, Jesus.

**

Lord, have mercy on us.

Christ, have mercy on us.

Lord, have mercy on us

Christ, hear us

Christ, most graciously hear us

Eternal rest grant unto them O Lord.

And may perpetual light shine upon them.
May the souls of the faithfully departed through the mercy of God rest in peace.

Amen.

Dandelions for Dad - Part III

Part II can be found here. Names have been changed. This is the last chapter, all written in January, 1995 with the exception of the end. The "ending" was written a few years after his death, after I'd graduated college and had gotten my first career. I also added a small adjustment today. Because I didn't have a relationship with God at the time, I did not speak of Him, although my writings about my Father since then have been filled with the grace of Faith God has given me.
**

I kept glancing at the coffin containing my father. He looked so peaceful, but so bloated. He had gained a lot of weight, but the jaundice didn't show. I was glad the funeral home had done such a good job. We had chosen to keep the coffin open for that very reason and also to avoid questions a closed casked would prompt.

**

One of the mourners told me about Michelle. She was a little 5-year-old girl who lived next door to Dad. He learned one day that her own father had abandoned her and her mother, so every Monday, he went over to give Michelle some sort of gift, be it gum, a Disney movie, or simply a piece of candy. This went on for three years. Dad died on a Tuesday. On Monday, Michelle had noticed his absence. The week prior, Jacob had brought the last gift.



Michelle, in return for Dad's kindness, gave "Mr. Josh" a single pink rose to place beside the casket.



At first, when I gleaned this information, I felt guilty. I thought that he had felt abandoned by me, his own daughter, and had "adopted" Michelle to take my place. I later came to my senses, realizing my selfishness. I understood that the situation was simply an example of the kind of person my father had been - right up until the day he died. Dad always considered others, was sentimental, and always tried in little ways to make things better for people around him.

**

After the service, the family again had privacy. I stood in front of the coffin, staring once again at Dad, knowing that this was it, the final goodbye. I would never see him again. On Monday as I sat in class, Dad would either be stored or buried, never to see the sky again. I cried as if I would never stop, and honestly, I felt that I never could. Jacob stood beside me, his arm around my shoulders, trying to comfort me. But all the self-control in the world would not put a stop to this. Finally he ordered me to look at him.



Tearing my eyes away from Dad, I looked at Jacob as he told me, "Say goodbye, turn around, walk away, and don't look back."



I knew he was right and this was it. I looked at Dad once more, reached out to take hold of his arm and give it a squeeze, let go, turned around, and walked away. I never looked back.

Jacob and I hugged each other and cried together. I hitched in a breath and whispered what had been plaguing my very soul ever since I heard the news.



"He never knew how much I loved and appreciated him..."



"Yes, he did.." Jacob's words were proper, but his voice betrayed a different truth.



"No, he didn't. I never told him..."



Then Jacob said the one thing that succeeded in giving me some perspective. "Life is always unfinished."

**

I often think of my Dad, and usually not a day goes by that I don't remember him. I try not to feel the guilt that sneaks up on me when I least expect it. I try not to remember all the weekends I could have spent time with him - but didn't. The truth was that I couldn't face the problem because it made me feel helpless and I didn't know how to deal with that. So I ran away.



Dad wouldn't help himself, so we couldn't help him, either. So we forgot him.



Dad was the only person who had ever supported my dreams wholeheartedly, unquestioningly, and unconditionally. He supported my career choices from the beginning. He believed Jacob and I could do anything, and actually told us so. He gave me incentive in the first place and related over and over how much he bragged to his friends about our accomplishments.



And I never appreciated it.



Dad was not there when I graduated from Law Enforcement skills in the summer of 1995, nor was he there when I graduated with my 1st college degree or my subsequent Master's (2010 update).  He wasn't there to congratulate me and help me celebrate when I got my first professional job. If I ever get married, he won't be there to escort me to the altar. If I ever have children, he will not be there to hold them. If I enter religious life, he won't be there to witness my vows and meet his new "family". I can never call him on the phone or go visit him at home. He will never again laugh with me at the stupid little tricks life plays on us. Dad is gone and he has left a huge, never-ending void in my life that can never be repaired.



If there is one thing I hope to pass on that I learned from my father, it is this: How to see and appreciate the good in life, no matter how little sun we see or how dark it becomes. He always put the happiness of others before his own, and I can only hope that one day I'll have the fortitude to do the same.



In memory of my Father
For all the things left unsaid.



Rest in Peace. I love you, Dad.
*

Dandelions for Dad - Part II

Part I can be found here. Keep in mind that the names have been changed and the passages in blue italics are "flashbacks" to childhood.

------------------------------------------------------------

I still remember that fateful fall day. It was dark, wet, and stormy, a day when even the clouds hung low in their gloomy desperation. Mom went out to the maple tree in the front yard and smashed a bottle to pieces, in a symbolic act of rejection. Shortly afterwards, Daddy walked out carrying a suitcase. From then on we only saw Daddy on weekends. Some time later, after much ado, sound, and fury, not to mention court battled and children as pawns, Mommy and Daddy were "Divorced."

**

"I'll tellya, Josh was a great guy. He could really put 'em away. When I remember the times we used to drink together..."



Sometimes I would appraise the speaker, note the beer gut, and think, "Guess what, buddy, you're next on the list..."

**

When I was 10, Mom, Jacob, and I moved to Minnesota. Dad came to visit one Easter and when he left, I had to go to school, where I sat in my seat and fought to hold back the tears. I was completely unable to control myself. I told the teacher I didn't feel well and she let me go to the bathroom. Some time later, the kindly, grandmotherly school secretary came to check on me. "Are you going to upchuck?" she queried.



I laughed at the term, having never heard it before. I told her no, but that I still felt sick. She told me that when I felt a little better I could come see her in the office. So I did, and I "helped" her out for awhile with some probably meaningless things. After some time she asked if I felt better and invited me to go back to class. But Mrs. Brugger let me know that I could come visit her any time I wanted.

She never asked me what was going on, but in looking back, I know she knew that I needed some time, and that sometimes "sick" was a word that described a lot of things without going into detail.

About a year later, Daddy moved to a nearby suburb and then to Minneapolis. We were able to see him a lot more, usually on weekends, since that was the court order. he denied drinking whenever confronted but just the same, we knew what was going on. The proof was all there, but we didn't know what to do to stop it.

**

"Which one of you is the one who loves horses? Oh, I have a picture from when you were about [that] big, when your dad brought you over to go horseback riding!"


I had always loved horses, and when I was 12, Dad paid for me to have riding lessons for about a year, even though eh couldn't afford it. On my 16th birthday, we went to Canterbury Downs to watch the horse races. We joked around about the "Filly for a Fan" drawing that I entered. he said we would name the filly "Julie's Dream" after me.



Before the race he asked me if I wanted to drive home and offered me the keys. Not being naive, I took them. Whenever he went to place our bets, he didn't return until the beginning of the next race. By the end of the last race, Daddy was not exactly sober. I drove home.

**

"My, I remember when you were just a little girl!!" You must be about done with college now, Eh? You haven't' been up here for how long now? It's too bad that such sad circumstances brought you to Michigan..."

**

Little by little I began to get involved in more and more activities in school and church, making it "impossible" for me to visit Dad. When I was pressured by Mom and Jacob to go visit him, I would make excuses, talking about how busy I was. The truth was this: I just didn't want to deal with it. Daddy was still drinking, wouldn't admit it, and I didn't want to spend the time dealing with the problem if he wouldn't.



My Grandpa died when I was 14. Dad moved to Michigan to take care of Grandma and make sure she was getting along. It was hard to see him at all after that since we had limited time off from school and only one family car, which of course was needed by my mother to get to work.



I thought I didn't care. I pretty much wrote Daddy off as dead, killed by alcohol which had left only a shell of his former self. Whenever I spoke to him on the phone, his speech was slurred and he often drifted off in mid-sentence, seeming to forget what he was talking about. Every once in awhile Jacob and I would talk, and we began to predict how much time Dad had left. And we felt helpless because there was absolutely nothing we could do.

**

Dad came down for my High School graduation. I didn't get much time to spend with him - I had parties, a boyfriend, and endless other "important duties" imposing on my "valuable time," not to mention a severely bipolar mother who terrified me and insisted I meet a certain curfew, far different than the legal standards. Dad left town the day after graduation. He had to get back to Michigan. I was happy he had come, but apparently not happy enough.

**

Jacob went to Michigan about once or twice a year to visit Dad. I had different circumstances than he and was never able to go. We did keep in contact by phone, but little by little, our conversations grew shorter and further apart. Dad was always checking and re-checking my address, as if he feared I would just up and move on him, disappearing off the face of the earth. That's probably exactly what he did think. And that's almost exactly what I did - not physically, but emotionally, I abandoned my Daddy.



I spoke to Dad before I'd left for my semester in Mexico, gave him my address there and promised to write. I did write to him, but there were so many things I wanted to tell him in person so I couldn't put everything down. I collected postcards for him, knowing he would enjoy those. About a month before I returned to the U.S., Jacob told me that Dad wasn't doing well, and that I should be prepared to come back and travel to Michigan immediately. I was angry with him, believing him to be overreacting.



I returned on schedule and that night I called Dad to let him know. We didn't say much; Dad sounded tired and his speech was slurred. I didn't know if he was drunk, or if it was just the effects of long-term alcohol use on his brain. I suspected the latter. Jacob went to Michigan without me; after having a semester with no work, I had a lot of shifts to pick up in order to be able to pay for second semester. So Jacob called about every other day to give us the latest reports. he said that Dad was incontinent, and he had to make "vodka runs" to the store for him, and Grandmas was almost blind and seemed to have no idea what was going on with her son.



On Christmas Eve I called to talk to Dad. Jacob said that Dad's back hurt and he was unable to get out of bed. The next day, Christmas, was the same story. Jacob said that he was turning yellow and he could hardly move. He refused to go to a doctor, so Jacob went on acting as private nurse. He returned home on New Year's Day, 1995.



On January 3rd, he woke me up to inform me that Dad had actually risen to go downstairs, repeating, "St. Francis, St. Francis", the name of the local hospital. he collapsed, was taken to the hospital and never regained consciousness. He had a Do Not Resuscitate order and had indicated he also did not want kidney dialysis.



The hospital kept him comfortable and the doctor kept in close contact with Jacob, who had been granted the burden of Power of Attorney.



I went to work with tears in my eyes, resigned to what my intuition told me - that Dad would die that day and I'd never get a chance to say goodbye. I worked to keep my mind off the situation, but all evening I watched the clock, waiting for the message to come. All through my shift I dealt with other people's crises, keeping watch over suicidal kids, talking them down from the hallucinations, letting them vent about their abuse issues. But I couldn't stay at work forever, and at some point I knew I'd have to face my own ghosts. When I got home at midnight, Mom came out of her room.



"Your Aunt Brenda called at 10:30. Honey, your Dad died at 9:00. I'm very sorry."



I called Jacob at his college. We talked for awhile and then I spent the night crying and praying, going out of my mind, not knowing what to do or how to feel, regretting every word I had never said, regretting what few words I did sometimes say. The next day, just to keep busy, I drove down to school to move some thing into my dorm room. I informed the people at work that I would be unable to work the remainder of the week. I packed and prepared for the information regarding the funeral. We left for Michigan on the 5th, for the wake and funeral on the 6th.


*
Go to Part III, Final Chapter

Dandelions for Dad - Part I

I've decided to post, in a series, what I wrote back in 1995 while trying to come to terms with my father's death. I couldn't speak to anyone, but I could write..and so I did. The format of this was what I had just experienced as a 20-year-old, alternating with flashbacks to childhood. All of the names have been changed.

** ** ** 

Walking into that room was the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. Knowing that I was going to have to accept what I saw, not knowing how I would react...my legs were jelly and every force within me told me to turn and run away; to reject what had happened, to return home and go on with my life. But there was one stronger force which morbidly and determinedly pushed/pulled me towards the front of the room. The funeral director had set this up specially so that the family could "view the remains" before they closed the casket for the wake. Gritting my teeth, holding my breath, and fighting to control my emotions, I walked up to the coffin and stared down at my father.

** ** **

I remembered being very young, and how much I loved my Daddy. I spent so much time with him that everyone called me "Daddy's Girl." I used to follow him around, singing him songs, keeping him company, asking questions, and joking around. I used to bring him my favorite flower, dandelions, and he would hold them under my chin to see if I liked butter. I often brought him bouquets of violets and dandelions, in all their vivid color. And he would always smile and thank me and give me a hug. Then he would put them in a vase as if they were the most precious gift he'd ever been given. He was a very good Daddy.



But sometimes, I remember, Daddy used to act kinda funny. I thought it had something to do with the strange-smelling stuff in the brown bottle. Or the stuff in the tan plastic glass with the brown rim. I wondered why he would never let me near it, or why Mommy glared at him so much when he had it. Then he and my mom started yelling at night after my brother, Jacob, and I were in bed. I was upset by it, but only because they were loud and mommys and daddys weren't supposed to fight. I would go to sleep, covers pulled over my head to protect me from the ghosts and monsters because Mommy and Daddy were too busy yelling at each other to chase the boogie man away.

** ** **

People were coming in to pay their last respects. I was composed, but unsure of how to act. Jacob and I stood together, needing each other for support. My uncle directed the guests to sign the book. We accepted condolences and thanked people for coming. With a strange sort of detachment, I thought for awhile that I was the one who had died and the sentence imposed for my sins was to sit in eternal damnation at my father's funeral. The wake dragged on and on, always the same. Different faces, everyone saying the same inane things over and over again and again...

"He was so young! I never even knew he was sick! I just realized the other day that I hadn't seen Josh in awhile and I was going to go visit him...what happened?!"

We went on, telling the truth, so help us God. We went on as always, just as we had been for years, avoiding what should have been faced so long ago. Not that it mattered anymore.

** ** **

Before we left to go to Daddy's friend's house (a shrine circus clown!), Mommy admonished Jacob and I not to ride with Daddy if he'd been drinking. I was confused. Wasn't it good to drink? Wasn't she always telling us to drink more water? Why shouldn't Daddy???



But I did understand, no matter how much my child's soul tried to hide it from me. and the clown's children, who were older than us, told us not to go with him. They thought they should call our mother. But being children, they did nothing, fearing even to do what was right. There was a line there between adult and childhood, and it should never be crossed - so we thought then. As the time drew near for our departure, even though I heard whispers of daddy's friend's children, talking about our dad and looking at us worriedly and sorrowfully, we still got into his car. What choice did we have? He was Daddy! And Daddy always knew what was right. It was easy to relinquish control when you don't possess it in the first place.



Daddy was driving funny on the way home, swerving all over the road, back and forth. Jacob and I were laughing because Daddy was fooling around, just being funny. then we looked behind us at the flashing lights. Wow!! A police car! Just like in "CHiPs"! Daddy was getting "pulled over!" Neato-Cool!!!



It never really occurred to us that Daddy was doing something wrong.

Jacob and I got a ride home in the squad car. Mommy wouldn't tell me what was going on but years later I learned that she went to bail Daddy out of jail that night.

***

"I'm very sorry this happened. If there's anything I can do..." Voices droned on and on.

I wanted to scream at them, "Look! There's nothing you or anyone else can do! He's dead! Look at him! you should have done something while he was alive so that you wouldn't have to smother me with meaningless words!!!! Someone should have stopped this from happening! GO AWAY!"

But I only nodded and thanked them for coming.



Go to Part II

Rest in Peace

This day always seems to sneak up on me. Even though it looms, and I know it's there, and even though I get a little anxious and sad around this time of year because of it, often those feelings are set aside in the joy of Christmas.

But then January 3rd arrives, and it hits me. And no matter what I'm doing when I realize it, I stop, almost shocked.

Thirteen years ago today, my brother woke me up - he burst into my room, shook my mattress to wake me, and said, "Dad's in the hospital! Wake up!"

He had just gotten back from Michigan on New Year's Day, having spent a month with him, caring for him. I had just arrived back from Mexico exactly a month before, and had been working to pay for school and other needs for the next semester.

We couldn't do anything, so that afternoon I went to work, but hovered when I could around the phone. I knew it was the end. But that call didn't come. My co-workers knew it was a deathwatch, and waited with me, in a sense. I left that evening, heading home through the midnight of winter, not knowing.

Mom met me at the door and told me Dad had passed away at 9:30. I can still hear her words: "Your Daddy died tonight honey. I'm very sorry."

I can still feel the cold, razor-sharp bite of grief as it pierced me, almost cauterizing the wound it caused. I went into the livingroom, and, sitting in the darkness, called my brother who had left to return to school that day.

The funeral took place a few days later, and we made the stricken pilgrimage to Michigan for it. I missed the first day of classes at my university, and it began a terrible semester as I dove back into my life, not knowing how to deal with what had happened.

I did write a long work, which I've considered publishing, and may re-write in a series of posts; because I couldn't speak, but I could write. And it helped. Some have said that I should post this story, because it might help others, too.

And my Dad would want that.

I still miss my Dad, I still love him, and I still pray for him. And one day, I hope to see him again.

Please pray for him, too.

New Blog: Making Things Visible

Please go over and take a look at a new local blog, Making Things Visible. The authors are friends of mine, and many of us have been encouraging them to move from Caringbridge to a more common blog venue. And all I can say is....FINALLY and WELCOME!

From the "About" page:

“Our task is to make the truth visible and lovable in ourselves, offering ourselves as an attractive and, if possible, heroic example. The person who needs to touch and to feel in order to believe will not be easily won with words. Talk alone does not attract, but ‘making things visible’ does.” St. Gianna Molla

This blog is an offshoot of a site which was started during my daughter’s illness and subsequent death in the summer of 2008. It began as just a way to keep family and friends up to date on her progress, but after her death became the forum for many different reflections on the meaning of death, love and suffering- in light of the Cross of Christ. After being told from many that these entries were “inspirational”, I decided to branch out to a blog to give God an opportunity to reach a wider audience if He so chooses.

I am a wife, mom, grad student in theology, parish youth minister and most importantly, baptized Catholic. I am striving for holiness and some semblance of order in life.

I hope that you will all go over and give them a big welcome. All of us who know the authors and their story have been very touched by their suffering and their words of wisdom. Please also visit their Caringbridge site and read through Gianna's story.

Sorrow

Grief is a strange animal.

I attended a funeral today, and I think the anticipation was almost worse than the funeral itself. Ever since my Dad died, I've dreaded funerals, for a myriad of reasons. And this one, today, for a father who left behind children was even harder. It was too easy to identify with them. That old edge of grief returned to me, cutting me, reminding me that it's never really gone, and Dad's loss today is still as hard, sometimes, as it was in the beginning.

I know something of what that family is going through; and yet, I can't fathom the depth of their pain. And I know that there are no words that comfort or reach through the cloud they walk within.

There is no balm to soften the sharpness of that razor's edge.

There is nothing to stop the deep, resonating sting.

There is nowhere for the sadness to go.

In the book of Job, as he sits, grieving for the loss of his material wealth and, more importantly, his family, his friends approached him. They joined him in his grief, sat with him, and wept with him.

That was the ONLY right thing they did. And it's what they should have continued to do.

Today I almost felt guilty, thinking of my own father's funeral, and yet, it's my grief for him that has allowed me to feel so much for this family. Our own losses give us the ability to emphathize with another, and therefore, in some sense, sit with another in the ashes of their lives and grieve with them, weep with them, and join our sorrows, even in silence.

And on the day of the funeral, it's easy to tell someone we are there, but in speaking for experience, we need to know that people remain there even in the weeks and months to come.

I think that's why I had such a hard time with my Dad's death; just after he died, I returned to school, "life as normal" but it was anything BUT normal. Certinaly, it's important to have a routine, but I literally had no support network. I had no one to go to. I didn't trust anyone, not even God.

In essence, there was no one sitting in the ashes with me, and although there were a few who were maybe willing, I didn't know how to let them in. I think that's still something I struggle with.

So my prayer for this family is that they remain close to each other, that their friends remain close to them, and that, in the weeks and months to come, their needs are met by all those who love them. Because without others around to show the grieving the very love of Christ, the lonliness of that time can be too much to bear.

If you know someone who has suffered the loss of a loved one, don't be afraid to check up on them every so often, and renew your offers to be of assistance in some way, and even share your memories of the deceased. The little things mean the most, and you may find that the little things build trust, which leads to hope, which may lead that person to finally come to you when they hit the inevitable wall.

Most importantly; just be present.

I observed tonight, in speaking with some coworkers that grief doesn't really go away or get better; we only learn how to deal with it. They have also lost parents and know what it's like. And that experience unites us, wherever we are. Inevitably we all have to face our own grief while grieving for and with another, and it helps us to remember what we lacked so that we can fill that need in another. We can look into their eyes and maybe know that no words are necessary because a hug says enough. And we maybe can see that they need a comforting word, or a memory to share or even a friend to stand near for a moment or two. These are important lessons, which can only be learned through our own suffering.