The other night I lay in bed, in the dark, thinking about Phoebe, talking to her. There are times when I sense her talking right back ...when it is still, at night, at Mass, most times. My good night chats can be short or long, depending on where my head and heart rest. When I look back to those earlier days, I cried myself to sleep, the full sense of her absence washing over me like crashing waves. I know more waves will come crashing in. For now, the tide is out, I'm just taking her all in ...being with her in my own way, my own time.
I asked her the other night about my mother ...a simple nod, but nothing more than that. I can't dissect what that means, I'm not supposed to ...this is about me and my girl. I just asked her to hug my mom, another simple nod, Seems that Phoebe mostly will be present for her siblings, dad and mom ...and her friends ...their moms, too. I ask her lots of questions about her life, choices she made. Her answers are always simple, short. It's fleeting, those moments. Are they real, I wonder? I ask God to let me know, see clearly, don't dally in the unknown, the unreal, anything that is not from Him. Phoebe always tells me to pray, assures me it is all real, He is all real. Every answer falls to prayer ...without ceasing. And isn't that what St. Paul tells us ...to 'pray without ceasing.' Our lives should be a prayer, should be centered on Christ ...always our foundation, our ladder, our summit ...always. We can hang on to each other, hang on to our loved ones gone, but unless we hang on, cling to God ...it makes no sense ...leads us nowhere.
If Phoebe really is with me at moments, I know it is only to point to God ...to assure me the path I'm on ...heading towards Christ, following His ways ...is the right one. 'Stay there, keep going, He is here.' This is a crazy place and time, Godless in so many ways ...hard to hang on, hard to survive the trial ...making the effort, the pain even more exquisite, worthwhile. As quickly as I sense her, she is gone ...to adore and praise her creator, I think. I sleep ...and she never comes in my sleep. I wish she would.
I pray hard, weary from the sadness, the missing, the adjusting to new ways, new life. Everything is changed. The order of our life has a new pattern, still groping to find a rhythm ...a different life. I cannot do this, but God can. I am more dependent now, more needy. I have been broken, not jaded, but broken.
And I think that is how He has meant me to be ...broken. Through the breaking, I lean on Him, I need His hands, His arms to lift me, raise me, hold me. Broken so that I might be whole, live a fuller life in Christ.
I guess I needed to be strong enough to break in the first place. Isn't that a twist on the worldly view? We need to ask that question ...for whom, for what do I bend? For whom am I willing to break? I always want my answer to be Christ. That's what Phoebe was taught, lived for most of her life ...and the world, in her short experience out there in the world, told her that was folly ...and it confused her, disoriented her ...she lost her bearings, her way ...and still ...the world would say that was folly. Am I still willing, even in the depths of loss, pain, suffering, to still ask those hard questions about who I serve, who comes first in my life ...no matter what? Am I still willing to answer it is Christ I seek? Yes, I am. I am willing to still trust ....always trust.
If ever I break or bend for the world, the culture ...may He pull me, yank me back. Phoebe whispers this to me ...to stay with Christ. I'll listen to this girl of mine and trust she is here.
Those treasures I mentioned earlier, the planting of seeds meant for later ...and Phoebe only nodding about my mother ...nothing more, come back. I open my Daily Meditation for Working Through Grief and read a passage, as if hand delivered by this woman who raised me. "Part of the process (of rebirth) is the growth of a new relationship with the dead ...that veritable ami mort Saint Exupery speaks of. Like all gestation it is a slow, dark, wordless process. While it is taking place it is painfully vulnerable. One must guard and protect the new life growing within - like a child." Anne Morrow Lindbergh. My mother was forever urging me to read the words of this woman ...a woman whose own child went missing.
She had given me a copy of Lindbergh's book, A Gift From the Sea. I had finally read it, because my mother was so insistent. The book was a fairly light read, written while taking a break from family life, centering herself, regaining her equilibrium. Lindbergh had lost a child. Her 20 month old kidnapped, killed. Silence ...words are not easy ....even when you share the same hardship. I know her heart, the unanswerable questions, the guilt, the questioning, the pain. Had my mother been so insistent with others about this book? What had she sensed ....known for me so many years? I understand, Phoebe had softly nodded revealing nothing so that my mother could, herself, reveal to me her nearness ...open this book that would show me her heart, her hand in my life ...still. My mother had a certain agitation, frustration about my life that often baffled and disturbed me. I never understood her worry. I was perfectly happy in my busy household. Now I know, she knew ...not the details, not the horror ...but she knew something. She brings this book back to me. "Read it, Carolyn ...see her survival ...the gift ...even after the loss." I hear her. Yes mom, I will. I will find that book again and read it and see what you wanted me to see ...what you led me to see. I will see it now, because you will show me.
I will read A Gift From the Sea, because it is a gift God has allowed my mother to bring to me, once again.The veil is thin, whisper thin, between us. My mother and daughter are near ...guiding me, urging me onward. Thank you.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Beautiful.....
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