Today is the Feast of St. Joseph. He is very dear to me. I had wanted to write something about Him, but I think this humble saint has silenced me for now. He gently and quietly blessed me today. He never demanded the spotlight ...but I love him very much. I feel very close to St. Joseph and have prayed to him countless times for guidance and intercession. I recommend you befriend this quiet, foster father of our Savior. He was a fair and just worker ...he did not skimp on his responsibilities and so today he's made it clear to me that I still have some work to do.
There are baskets and bins filled with cards, letters, spiritual bouquets ...all read, but not really remembered. Those early days were marked by numbness, an other worldly survival mode that kept feet moving. Each day for several weeks, piles of envelopes came with the mail ...showing concern, care, sorrow. I remember reading them ...but not the words. I've gone through some already, sent out notes, but the bulk have yet to be done ...the bulk of thanking them for all the prayers, the masses, meals ...so many things. I like to take care of things early ...this just eludes me. People have said not to worry, to let it be ...everyone understands. I believe that, people do understand. But its not complete if I don't write notes and acknowledge what they are for ...who they are for ...why they came. Each day we climb a little further out of the daze. And part of that climb is to finish the letters ...the thanks. Saying thank you, showing gratitude for the lifelines that held us and carried us ashore.
I would give most anything to not have those piles of letters ...to have my girl here with me. Phoebe would want me to finish the letters ...it's only right.
Part of me wants to go back to those first days ...so much closer to her living ...when only days before she bounded up my stairs and changed my music. I remember the heaviness ...the hovering of pain with sharp teeth leaving jagged open wounds all over. The teeth have lost their edge ...at least most times. The pain is still there, still hovering, but it doesn't consume all of me, choke my laughter, straighten my smile. I know I'm that many days closer to seeing her again.
To write those letters means life is moving onward, wounds aren't as open and gaping. That's good. God heals us over time, makes it manageable so we can go on living. I didn't think I would live, but I have ...through and by His grace. It hasn't been easy ...taken just about every ounce of energy and effort to find it worth living. I certainly have some good reasons for grabbing hold of this life. My kids deserve that ...and it is clearly what God wants. I trust Him ...His wisdom, his mercy ...even His gentle kindness. I don't necessarily understand it ...or agree, but I have chosen to trust Him. Many times, I don't feel like trusting Him ...my emotional life doesn't lead me there. Choosing to trust God does not demand, require emotion. It's an act of the will ...free will. Every day I try to exercise my free will for God. Doing that is giving the gift of free will back to Him. I could dabble in some complicated philosophical points here ...but I am not scholarly enough to present it clearly. Basically, God gave us free will ... a genuine and freely given gift. He want us to choose Him by our own will ...to ascend towards Him with each action of our lives. I can tell you ...I've had plenty of actions that haven't headed me in that direction. but it is where my heart and mind desire to go. Even in the loss of Phoebe I choose God. Sure I have questions, my faith has been rattled ...but it is in the shaking that I notice the weak spots, where reinforcement is needed. No suffering lacks growth ...if we allow it. Suffering transforms ...just look at Christ on the Cross ...and then the Resurrection. They do not exist separately ...they need each other. And we need suffering in our lives, and believe me I would like it to be tamer ...less vicious.
So I know this, and yet Lent eludes me this season. I find myself unable to utter words for Him ...I babble, strive to be clear, make sense out of my heart and mind ....and it is only jibberish I offer Him. I generally like Lent ...the doing with less, eating less, praying more, giving more ...this year I am flat. I see my friend and tell her this ...this struggle to sacrifice. I can't do it. Even though I want to I can't. I cry. "I can't now, there is nothing I can do." Her eyes are wet and she holds me close ...this woman who knew my daughter so well, often had her in her own home, on family vacations ...she knows the absurdity of what has happened. This child, my child ...how could this be Phoebe? How? "You've given enough for now, you've given your daughter" she says. And I am glad she says that ...but truly, can it ever be enough? Can we ever give enough of ourselves back to God ...even when the cost is so high? I don't know. I don't think we can ...but maybe if we just try to choose Him in all things, at all times, we can conform our free will to His will for us. And then maybe we can, I can begin to truly live for God.
I go back to these letters, these piles and piles of letters and prayers ...all so beautiful and soothing. The promises of Christ, redemption ....salvation ...Heaven. And isn't that what Lent is ...Christ redeemed us on the Cross ....bringing us salvation and the promise of Heaven. I'll walk my way to Calvary by writing letters that remind me of all He's done for us ...for me ...for Phoebe. And maybe, if I can join my will to His will for me I may be worthy of kneeling at the foot of the Cross. I pray for that.
St. Joseph, terror of demons, pray for us!
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
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