I am unprepared for this birthday

Today is my forty-fourth birthday and, strange as it may seem to say so, I feel woefully unprepared for this day. In about an hour I will attain the same number of years as my father when he died, which is to say that if I live another two hundred and thirteen days - and I know of no reason why I should not - I will outlive my father.

I know birthdays are supposed to be happy occasions, but today I feel very much unsettled. That is the best word I can find to describe the sort of melancholy I am experiencing today. Whatever it is I am feeling, there must be a good German word for it, but I do not know that language of compounding words.

Two years ago, when I surpassed my mother's age at the time of her death, I did not feel this way. I do not know why, but I suspect it was because it was my father who died first. I would not say I feel guilty for not feeling unsettled that day, but something like it is also affecting me today.

The experience of grief is a curious thing. I do not really know what I feel today. I am in something of a fog. No one has prepared me for this day, nor could anyone have done so. I am surely not alone in what I am feeling today (lots of others have surpassed the age of their parents), but I feel a bit alone today.

Even so, these words of J.R.R. Tolkien bring me comfort today, as they so often do:

The link between father and son is not only of the perishable flesh: it must have something of aeternitas about it. There is a place called "heaven" where the good here unfinished is completed: and where stories unwritten, and the hopes unfulfilled, are continued. We may laugh together yet... (Letter to Michael Tolkien, 9 June 1941).

A sorrow born of love and comforted by Love

When I awoke twenty-nine years ago this morning I had no idea that my life would never be the same again. As I've previously written:

On 20 February 1986, my brother and I awoke as usual. We readied ourselves for school and only needed Dad to cook us breakfast before we got on the bus and were off to school. Oddly though, Dad was not up yet. Typically when we awoke, Dad was already in the kitchen listening to the radio and fixing breakfast. This morning, though, he was not. My brother and I thought nothing of this and when we were ready, I went to wake him up. Not finding him in his bedroom, I found him on the couch where he had fallen asleep the night before. I called his name and shook him, but Dad would not wake up. I woke Mom and she, too, tried to rouse him, but to no avail. Out of desperation, we called my Aunt Marie, who arrived shortly thereafter, but she could not wake Dad, either. At long last, we called the ambulance.

When the paramedics arrived, my brother and I were sent outside to wait with the neighbors who had come down. If I remember the morning correctly, it was snowing lightly but was not chilly outside. The wait outside seemed like an eternity.

Finally, one of the paramedics stepped outside. He said not a word, but I can still see the look on his face as he sadly shook his head as though to say, "No, he did not make it; he is dead." The look on his face said it all. As soon as he stepped through the door, I knew, and I cried my heart out. I could do nothing but cry for the next two or three days. I was not quite eight years old.

As I've repeatedly thought back on that fateful day today, two things keep going through my thoughts.

First, I realize now that though I can still see the paramedic's expression, his own face is fading from my memory; whether this is good or not, I do not know, though I suppose it is to be expected with the passage of time. I had, after all, only seen him once.

Second, it has been now almost thirty years since Dad died. Thirty years. It hardly seems possible. The years have marched on, for better or worse, and I have now lived more years without Dad than many men and woman twice my present age will live without one or both of their parents.

To our own estimation, this hardly seems fair, which brings me to one of my favorite scenes from Jim Henson's movie, Labyrinth. Sarah, the principle character, spends much of the movie exclaiming, "That's not fair!" When she complains about this to Jareth, the Goblin King, he says to her, "You say that so often. I wonder what your basis for comparison is."

Several scenes later we find Sarah talking with a wizened old man. After giving her his advice, Sarah is urged to give a donation to him. When she moves to give him something that belongs to the goblin Hoggle (something which she had taken from him), he exclaims, "Them's my rightful property. It's not fair!" To his complaint, Sarah answers, "No, it isn't. But that's the way it is."

Such a thought, especially when put forth as an answer to our frequent complaints of unfairness, may seem callous, dispassionate, and even heartless, but it gets, I think, to the reality of things. My living so many years without my parents is no less fair than parents living so many years without a son or daughter. Or a child developing cancer. Or a spouse living so long without his or her beloved. Or any other number of tragedies. We deem these sorrows unfair because we have somehow bought into the myth that life is meant to be, in the words of Monsignor Georg Ratzinger, "peace, joy, and pancakes." But life after the fall is not to be so; that's simply the way it is.

Reflecting on the vanity of all things, KIng Solomon wrote:

A good name is better than precious ointment;

and the day of death, than the day of birth.

It is better to go to the house of mourning

than to go to the house of feasting;

for this is the end of all men,

and the living will lay it to heart.

Sorrow is better than laughter,

for by sadness of countenance the heart is made glad.

The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning;

but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth (Ecclesiastes 7:1-4).

How can sorrow be better than laughter? The Lord Jesus himself gives us the answer when he says, "Blessed are they who mourn, for they will be comforted" (Matthew 5:5).

Yes, sorrow (whether it be sorrow over personal sin or sorrow over the death of a beloved) brings us before Jesus. When we mourn in faith, we go before the one who also wept over the death of his friend (cf. John 11:36). He knows our sorrow. He knows our grief. He knows our pain. He shows us the wound in his heart (cf. John 19:34) and invites us to enter into it.

Saint Anthony of Padua says that Jesus showed his wounds to the Apostles (cf. John 20:27) so that "the faithful soul might build her nest in his wounds, as in the clefts of the rock" (Sermon for the First Sunday after Easter, 8). This isn't, strictly speaking, fair either, but that's the way it is. He opens the way for us, weak and sinful as we are, to take refuge in him.

What is more, Jesus says us to us: “Come, feel my wounds, for my mercy is tangible. Come, see the wound in my side from where my love flowed out for you, for my mercy is visible. Come, take shelter within my wounds and let my love and mercy wash over you and surround you and give you peace."

Those who enter his heart mourning will be comforted. This is why sorrow is better than laughter, for laughter often seeks to escape pain and sorrow instead of entering into it.

Still, as I wrote last month, 

Time has not healed the wound of the death of my mother - nor of the death of my father, the twenty-ninth anniversary of which will be next month - but time has made the wound easier to bear. Grief, at least for those with a melancholic disposition, becomes something of a friend in which the walking wounded can find comfort; if there was no love, there would be no grief. As Saint Bonaventure wrote, "Nothing is lost with great sorrow that is not possessed with great love."

Yes, there is still grief in my heart - and will be until the Lord, the first Walking Wounded, at last calls me to himself - and often I find myself in the house of mourning. In this, I am not alone. It is a good place to be for, as Solomon says, "by sadness of countenance the heart is made glade." It is made glad both by the sorrow born of love and by the sorrow comforted by Love.

Please, in the charity of your prayers, remember my father this day, and remember me, as well.

Grief, and learning to be good Christians

As we begin to feel grief well up in our hearts we too often have a tendency to attempt to stifle it, to push it down, or even to ignore it. We do not have time to grieve, we think. We should not let others see our wounds, we think. They just don't understand, we think. All this may be true, but if we do not allow our grief to surface, if we do not allow ourselves again and again to feel the love we still bear for those who have gone before us, we can miss an opportunity to be of help to others.

Such was my experience yesterday after receiving so many good wishes, prayers, and virtual hugs through Facebook after I posted my reflections on a day for looking strange and seeming to see things far away. I've written about my grief before on this blog, both over the death of my mother and of my father, but for one reason or another the combination of the words I used yesterday seemed to particularly touch a good number of people. This, in turn, brought great comfort to me even in the midst of my grief on a day when it was felt especially keenly.

In our grief, as in any pain, we are sometimes tempted to turn inward, to focus too much on our own losses and sufferings - real and significant as they are - and to think that I am the only one who knows this particular grief, this unique pain, this specific suffering. Rarely, though, is this the case; I am not the only member of the walking wounded and neither are you.

If our grief teaches us anything aside from the beauty and strength of love it is that we need each other, that we are united in love, and even united in suffering. Saint Paul expressed it well when he said, "If [one] part suffers, all the parts suffer with it; if one part is honored, all the parts share its joy" (I Corinthians 12:26).

Speaking with young Filipinos, Pope Francis recently said, "If you don't learn how to cry, you cannot be a good Christian. This is a challenge." It is a challenge, I think, from two different angles.

It is first a challenge to those not grieving their own losses at this particular moment. Will they look out with eyes of compassion to see the walking wounded in their midst? Will they offer an encouraging word or, often better, a silent presence? Will they seek to share in the grief of those around them and so lighten the burden of grief?

The walking wounded are not difficult to see, especially if you are already one of them. Reaching out to them with a knowing look, a warm embrace, or an encouraging is something at which I can and need to improve greatly. As Rich Mullins sings in his song, "A Place to Stand," "There's a lot of love locked up inside me that I'm learning to give."

It is second a challenge to those who are grieving their losses at this particular moment. Will they muster up the courage to let their guard down and allow others to grieve with us, to show compassion toward us, to learn to cry with us and so to be good Christians? I also have a lot of room for improvement here.

To me, one person stands out above all others when it comes to crying with others and so being a good Christian. On my first Great River Teens Encounter Christ retreat weekend (#162 in 1995), one of the women on the adult team must have sensed the hurt and pain I had kept bottled up for so many years. On the last morning of the retreat, Kathy sat down next to me and said, "It's okay. Let it out."

At her invitation and even, maybe, against my will, my tears poured out and it seems to me that I cried on her shoulder for more than an hour. Perhaps two. It's all a bit of a blur now, really. I just know that I cried and cried and cried and cried a bit more. And as my tears flowed my heart lifted and I have not quite been the same since. Since that day I have had the opportunity to thank her a time or two, but I will nonetheless be eternally in her debt.

The example of her compassion places the double challenge of learning to cry so as to be good Christians squarely before us with two questions: Are we willing to say to others, "It's okay; let it out"? Are we willing to hear from others, "It's okay; let it out"?

If we dare to love, we risk the pain of loss and the grief that inevitably comes with it. The pain can be deep and the grief heavy, but the love endures. Let us strive to help each other remember this in times of grief. Let us strive to help other place our wounds within the sacred wounds of the Lord Jesus. Let us help each other take refuge within his pierced heart.

A day for looking strange and seeming to see things far away

It is often said that "time heals all wounds." Who first said it, I do not know, but I do know that it is simply not true; there are wounds that even time cannot heal. I've said this before, but it bears repeating. Again, and again, and again. We so often want our wounds to heal completely, to leave behind no scar or reminder, but we forget that the Lord Jesus continued to bear his wounds even after his Resurrection.

J.R.R. Tolkien understood this well. He suffered many losses throughout his life and knew what it means to bear wounds, to be a member of the walking wounded. This is, I think, why we find this exchange toward the end of The Return of the King in the chapter titled, "The Grey Havens":

One evening Sam came into the study and found his master looking very strange. He was very pale and his eyes seemed to see things far away.

'What's the matter, Mr. Frodo?' said Sam.

'I am wounded,' he answered, 'wounded; it will never really heal.'

But then he got up, and the turn seemed to pass, and he was quite himself the next day. It was not until afterwards that Sam recalled that the date was October the sixth. Two years before on that day it was dark in the dell under Weathertop.

The frustration, if I may use such a word, in being a member of the walking wounded is that you can never be certain when the wound will make itself felt, when someone will find you looking very strange and seeming to see things far away. Days and weeks and months can pass without feeling the wound too greatly (though rarely does a day pass without it being felt some), but then, suddenly and without warning, it is felt with great force against which there is no defense. Some days, however, you can count on the wound being felt.

Today is one such day, being the twenty-seventh anniversary of the death of my mother.

Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, whose studies on the psychology of dying and death have been of great help to many, wrote wisely:

The reality is that you will grieve forever. You will not ‘get over’ the loss of a loved one; you will learn to live with it. You will heal and you will rebuild yourself around the loss you have suffered. You will be whole again but you will never be the same. Nor should you be the same nor would you want to.

Time has not healed the wound of the death of my mother - nor of the death of my father, the twenty-ninth anniversary of which will be next month - but time has made the wound easier to bear. Grief, at least for those with a melancholic disposition, becomes something of a friend in which the walking wounded can find comfort; if there was no love, there would be no grief. As Saint Bonaventure wrote, "Nothing is lost with great sorrow that is not possessed with great love."

Speaking today to the young people in the Philippines, His Holiness Pope Francis said to them, "Certain realities of life we only see through eyes cleansed by our tears." The walking wounded know the truth of these words and find in their tears a great comfort, for, as Gene Thornton Wilder wrote, "In love's service, only wounded soldiers can serve."

Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon her!

A strange day

Times of grief are always very strange and disconcerting. Though much has changed, life must continue.

I slept very little last night – two hours at most, I think. I spent the night in prayer for Coach K and his family, but most of all for the soccer players. These twenty-four hours later, I am still stunned , really, at what has happened.

Fortunately, the little sleep I had last night came just before my alarm went off to prepare for the 6:30 a.m. Mass.

After Mass I prepared a bit for a radio interview at 7:40. It seemed very strange to be doing such a thing when a friend had just died only the night before, yet commitments were made and had to be kept. Grief usually seems to pull me in two separate directions: either toward duty or toward introspection. Today was spent mostly toward duty. I hope to be able to turn toward introspection tomorrow.

After the radio interview I had to at least pretend to take up the role as head soccer coach and see to some arrangements to prepare for the tournament this weekend and to do so I met with the athletic director. Together we were able to arrange a few things, but there is still much to be done tomorrow. I thought having to assume the role of pastor would be difficult; compared to having to take up that of head coach, being pastor seems simple.

Fr. Kyle Schnippel, the Director of Vocations for the Diocese of Cincinnati and author of the blog Called By Name, stopped in this morning for a visit on his way to his brother’s. He’s much taller than I would have imagined. Either that, or I’m just short.

We had originally planned to visit with each other for a few hours over lunch, but with the circumstances of the day we were only able to visit for about an hour. I wish that we could have spent more time together and trust that the Lord will arrange such in the future. (Thanks for the stopping in, Fr. Kyle!)

One of the secretaries at the high school called me and asked that I come immediately. I wasn’t sure what to expect it and apologized to Fr. Kyle and asked him to excuse me. We hadn’t even lunch and I’d only shown him the parish center and the church. He was very gracious and understanding.

It turns one of the local television stations had apparently sent a reporter to the high school who would be arriving shortly and wanted to interview me. I think this was my second television news interview, the first having taken place in Sydney during the World Youth Day 2008.

Afterwards I spoke with a reporter for the Effingham Daily News for an article that I believe will be published tomorrow.

I then visited with the secretary and the athletic director before grabbing a bite to eat.

At 2:45 a parishioner stopped in (we had already arranged the time yesterday afternoon) to have my give a rough translation of a Latin document in his possession that came with a relic. It turns out he has a first class relic of Saint Thomas Aquinas; it is a piece of one of his bones.

Afterwards I saw to a few more soccer details before spending some time in prayer before going to soccer practice at 5:00.

One of our parishioners spoke briefly with the boys about grief and mourning and I reiterated some of what she said from my own experience.

I spent much a practice talking with our principal while two of our alumni took care of the light practice. These young men will help coach the tournament this weekend and will also help when they can throughout the summer. I am very grateful for their help!

This has reminded me that I am happy to do what I do well and only all to happy to hand over to others things I don’t do well. I can see to the organization of practices and to communication, but when it comes to leading a practice I’m very happy to have others to help who know what they’re doing.

After soccer practice I met with a few students and their parents to talk about the next World Youth Day in Madrid in 2011. Afterwards I visited with a few of them who have become good friends over the past year or so and arranged a time to visit with them and have dinner at one of their homes next weekend.

Tomorrow I have the early Mass again and a burial later in the morning of an Effingham native who died in Florida. Fortunately, the afternoon is free until the soccer game at 4:00. At 7:30 I will celebrate Mass at our mission parish for the De Colores community.

I don’t expect I’ll sleep much again tonight, though I certainly hope to do so.€

A spiritual gem for Lent

One day last week I randomly picked a book from my shelves that I’ve always meant to read but haven’t yet (there are many such books): A Man Born Again by Saint Thomas More.

More wrote this book while locked in the Tower as an autobiography. I am half-way through the book and have greatly enjoyed it. It has proved useful while exercising on the elliptical machine and as meditative reading before bed.

Today I read this magnificent passage, written just after the death of his wife:

Memory fixed on the first day at the Charterhouse. I would be a saint? Men would revere my memory? How pleasant the prospect! How easy the path before me! I had not counted the cost. I did not consider that sanctification of man is not the work of man but the work of God. I had contemplated that God would work that sanctification only in those obedient to Him unto death – even to the death of the cross. No thought of Christ’s Passion had disturbed my dreams. I would be a saint! How mockingly the words must have ascended before the throne of my crucified God.

My cross pressed heavily as I sat there. I could thrust it aside. I could obscure it by any of a hundred pleasures. Or I could bend forward submissively, lift my arms, as Christ did, to steady that cross, and begin the weary march to Calvary.

I had not the strength. I could not bear the burden. I could not submit. I slumped on the bench and looked vacantly at the altar. I had not even sufficient courage to ask for strength.

“Then pray only for courage!”

I stiffened, so clearly had I heard the words. They had been as loud and clear as though someone had spoken them. I glanced at my father beside me but he had not noticed my movement. He knelt straight and motionless. Pray for courage? - I had no desire to pray even for that.

“Then pray for the desire!” The voice was louder and clearer, more insistent than before; yet there was no sound. The voice was within me, urgent and compelling.

I could not pray. Sorrow – self-pity – numbed my mind and heart. I pushed myself forward and knelt beside my father. I could not pray. Let my action answer the insistent voice! Let the voice pray for me!

In what manner does God not work within the soul, yet credit the work as merit to man? I offered no prayer – I had no prayer to offer. I could do no more than push my body mutely forward and kneel, more the token than the substance of prayer. Love impelled me and God accepted that love however poorly I expressed it.

Grieving at Christmastide

In his weekly column in the Catholic Times, Fr. Donald Meehling offers some thoughts about grieving during the Christmas season.