Parenting involves less sleep. I think most people would agree with that. Especially mothers who tend to sleep with one eye open, one ear towards the children. It becomes a way of life ...to sleep at the surface, ready to spring into action when one little one, or even big, stirs at night for any number of reasons. So I've never been much of a sleeper, and fortunately I am not a person who need a ton. But this past year has found very little sleep ...it's been redefined, more of an in and out of consciousness, horizontal for a period of time ...but real sleep is rare. There's one place though, I've noticed is far better for me, where I actually sleep and wake only a few times ...our living room couch. I've become a bit of a nomad at night, lying down with one for a bit, then another, perhaps another, checking on someone else. Everyone needs their comfort time in little and big ways. And when I can finally steel away and find my own spot, I'll settle on the couch. Long since the symbol of marital conflict, that's not why I gravitate there ...to that place beneath the window. I realized just the other day why this particular place gives me the best rest. My body knows this spot well, it spent many nights there ...waiting, just waiting for Phoebe to return home. We always "waited up," sometimes horizontally, and she would come up the stairs into the living room, or we would hear her feet on the front steps and go to the door to greet her. I've never wanted my kids to come home into a house where no one is waiting for them. Either one of us would wait there ...just wait, with no anxiety of her coming home ...she always came home, often before the determined time. We didn't wring our hands, watch for headlights ...she was reliable that way. So being there in that spot is familiar and soothing to my whole body. I'm lying there waiting for Phoebe. And really, among all the other things I'm doing, like living with and for my other kids, I'm waiting still for my daughter to come home. Its a natural and simple enough routine that settles me a small measure so I can sleep. Funny how it took me so long to figure that out. I'm waiting by the threshold of our home for her return ...and for a little bit my body is tricked into believing that any moment now she'll walk through the door.
A small comfort, a tiny respite, a small treasure of a gift from God. And I imagine Phoebe seeing me there, knowing her mom is waiting on her, just like I always have ...and always will. I miss you Phoebe.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Monday, October 24, 2011
St. Raphael
St. Raphael made himself known to me, quietly, but immediately ...and then to my husband in an extraordinary way. We are making sugar cookies in honor of him tonight and praying this litany. Of course I pray for my children, my husband ...that we all be well and find peace and consolation one day, that we are infused with hope.
I am also praying tonight for anyone struggling with the extraordinary pain that leads to suicide. It can be a pain that goes on and on, becoming chronic and eventually unbearable ...but also for a teenager it can be immediate, intense, sudden ...and terminal. I pray that on their journey to that devastating choice, that St. Raphael turns them around and offers them even the slightest glimmer of promise that things will change and will get better.
And I pray for his intercession for all those parents living the loss of their precious, irreplaceable child, most especially my husband.
Litany of Saint Raphael
- Lord, have mercy on us.
- Christ have mercy on us.
- Lord, have mercy on us. Christ hear us.
- Christ, graciously hear us.
- God the Father of Heaven,
- Have mercy on us.
- God the Son, Redeemer of the world,
- Have mercy on us.
- God the Holy Spirit,
- Have mercy on us.
- Holy Trinity, One God,
- Have mercy on us.
Holy Mary, Queen of Angels, pray for us.
Saint Raphael, pray for us.
Saint Raphael, filled with the mercy of God, etc.
Saint Raphael, perfect adorer of the Divine Word,
Saint Raphael, terror of demons,
Saint Raphael, exterminator of vices,
Saint Raphael, health of the sick,
Saint Raphael, our refuge in all our trials,
Saint Raphael, guide of travelers,
Saint Raphael, consoler of prisoners,
Saint Raphael, joy of the sorrowful,
Saint Raphael, filled with zeal for the salvation of souls,
Saint Raphael, whose name means God heals,
Saint Raphael, lover of chastity,
Saint Raphael, scourge of demons,
Saint Raphael, in pestilence, famine and war,
Saint Raphael, angel of peace and prosperity,
Saint Raphael, endowed with the grace of healing,
Saint Raphael, sure guide in the paths of virtue and sanctification,
Saint Raphael, help of all those who implore your assistance,
Saint Raphael, who was the guide and consolation of Tobias on his journey,
Saint Raphael, whom the Scriptures praise: Raphael, the holy angel of the Lord, was sent to cure,
Saint Raphael, our advocate,
- Lamb of God, Who takes away the sins of the world,
- Spare us, O Lord.
- Lamb of God, Who takes away the sins of the world,
- Graciously hear us, O Lord.
- Lamb of God, Who takes away the sins of the world,
- Have mercy on us.
- Christ, hear us.
- Christ, graciously hear us.
- Pray for us, Saint Raphael, to the Lord Our God,
- That we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ Lord, Jesus Christ, by the prayer of the Archangel Raphael, grant us the grace to avoid all sin and to persevere in every good work until we reach our heavenly destination, You Who lives and reigns world without end. Amen.
- Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
SJS Home
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Holding On
Tomorrow is the feast of St. Raphael. I've told my kids to beg his intercession tomorrow for the prayers and petitions that reside deep inside. I have a few of my own.
I wish I could write here how things are so much better, that emotionally I feel more whole, less wounded, more invested in the richness of day to day living. I wish I could write about God's great, strong arms wrapping me safely, protecting me from the winds and the rain. I wish I could write today about my assurance that I will see Phoebe soon, when God determines my time. But I can't. The business, the necessity of grieving a child are like no other grief, no other pain. It is a fight every day to keep the tears at bay, to smile and laugh. There is little spontaneity in that part of life. I do force it, beg for it ...ask God to keep me in the forefront of life for my kids. They want normal lives. They want life to be good. My children don't want a mom who's sad, or a dad out of steam without the glimmer in his eyes. And so the effort to give them that is enormous and constant ...and I think maybe one day in the years to come I can immerse myself for a bit in the deepest sadness I have ever known ...beyond all imagination. Maybe then I can just call to her as long as I need and let the great want of my soul unleash. A part of every parent dies when their child dies ...we chase them, desperate for a glimpse, parched for their smile ...their way.
I have had moments when it feels easier, I breath better, but the overwhelming loss is ever present and there are no words to capture. We can barely talk, my husband and I, about her ...about our Phoebe, and all she meant to us. I start and he raises a hand, the pain sketched deeply in his face. "I can't," he'll say. "Its surprising we still believe in God," I said. "I wonder if God believes in us," he answers. And he captures so much of what I think and feel. This story is too long and tragic, too broken and unfinished to reflect two people loved by God. I'm grasping at a life lived for Him. If it weren't for the people who stay, who spill tears with us and for us, for the ones that reach out and take us broken and empty ....still, even with the yuckiness of what's happened, the imperfection, the cruel humanness of our lives, if it weren't for them ...those dear, dear souls willing to be dirty and sidelined with us, I don't think I could have held on to my faith.
We see people ahead of us on this unwanted journey, they catch our eyes and say more than any words ever could. They steady me while they see inside of me screaming "NO, God NO!" How could you make this harder now? worse? Give me the pain of before ...this is too, too deep. And their eyes fill with tears ...because they know this road ...and there is no way to prepare for it. I am at His mercy, more than ever.
May St. Raphael guide us and protect us on this journey.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen
I wish I could write here how things are so much better, that emotionally I feel more whole, less wounded, more invested in the richness of day to day living. I wish I could write about God's great, strong arms wrapping me safely, protecting me from the winds and the rain. I wish I could write today about my assurance that I will see Phoebe soon, when God determines my time. But I can't. The business, the necessity of grieving a child are like no other grief, no other pain. It is a fight every day to keep the tears at bay, to smile and laugh. There is little spontaneity in that part of life. I do force it, beg for it ...ask God to keep me in the forefront of life for my kids. They want normal lives. They want life to be good. My children don't want a mom who's sad, or a dad out of steam without the glimmer in his eyes. And so the effort to give them that is enormous and constant ...and I think maybe one day in the years to come I can immerse myself for a bit in the deepest sadness I have ever known ...beyond all imagination. Maybe then I can just call to her as long as I need and let the great want of my soul unleash. A part of every parent dies when their child dies ...we chase them, desperate for a glimpse, parched for their smile ...their way.
I have had moments when it feels easier, I breath better, but the overwhelming loss is ever present and there are no words to capture. We can barely talk, my husband and I, about her ...about our Phoebe, and all she meant to us. I start and he raises a hand, the pain sketched deeply in his face. "I can't," he'll say. "Its surprising we still believe in God," I said. "I wonder if God believes in us," he answers. And he captures so much of what I think and feel. This story is too long and tragic, too broken and unfinished to reflect two people loved by God. I'm grasping at a life lived for Him. If it weren't for the people who stay, who spill tears with us and for us, for the ones that reach out and take us broken and empty ....still, even with the yuckiness of what's happened, the imperfection, the cruel humanness of our lives, if it weren't for them ...those dear, dear souls willing to be dirty and sidelined with us, I don't think I could have held on to my faith.
We see people ahead of us on this unwanted journey, they catch our eyes and say more than any words ever could. They steady me while they see inside of me screaming "NO, God NO!" How could you make this harder now? worse? Give me the pain of before ...this is too, too deep. And their eyes fill with tears ...because they know this road ...and there is no way to prepare for it. I am at His mercy, more than ever.
May St. Raphael guide us and protect us on this journey.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Leading Forward
We get lots of different blessings. I'm trying to train myself to be habitual in seeing all things as a blessing, a teachable, moldable moment that will bring me closer to God, where He wants me to be. But that's hard, because I'm human, stubborn, tired, hurting, sad ...and often, even with so many people around me, very lonely. There is a certain, and in that I mean absolute, alone-ness, that comes with losing a child. Sharing that kind of loss allows us to understand each other in ways no one else can. But what no one can do is understand the loss of a particular child for a mother ...or father. A year has passed, and in so many ways, it is easier. I've said before ...its not that the current weakens, we just become stronger swimmers, better at navigating the pull. Stronger now, so that the harsher reality can present itself, so we can take on a little more pain. God is gentle with us ...he only allows so much at a time, but there is no escaping. The journey to survive continues and we must carry on. Those around us play an important role in our survival and how we do that. Some listen and cry with us, some touch base and encourage, some include us, invite us in, some just plain out leave ...which is sad and confusing, but forces us to trust God even more. And some lead. I have two friends, old friends who do not talk about it, do not encourage me ...they just lead, and expect me to follow.
We were fifteen when we met. Our friendship has spanned decades. One is a talker, the other is quiet. It is rare we are altogether, but this past week we were and they led. I can talk about anything with these women. With them, I am seventeen ...free, open and hopeful. They were there when Phoebe was born, and they were there when she died. Way back when, as boys didn't return crushes and college rejections rolled in, when one of us couldn't go to a party the other two could ...they simply led, with no words. Most likely, the party would be forfeited and we'd be together. All of us are orphans, all our parents have died ...we're at the forefront now of our families. It doesn't sound like anything, but it is, to be alone and without parents who paved the way in good and bad ways. There is no one ahead of us whose wisdom we can call upon. Decades of experiences bind us, and in this rare moment we have time to spend in each others' company
We head to Taos, NM and they talk about this place filled with people who changed their lives ...made a new start, a fresh start. It happens they say aloud, to no one in particular, just a fact ...opportunities present themselves for lives to be changed when people are hurting or stuck. Come at it from a different angle, look at it from the south, not the west. I pay attention. "How did they cross the Rio Grande?" we ask as we look down the depth of the gorge. How? Where? We drive an hour north, my friend flags someone down, asks some questions. I'm along for the ride, and it gets bumpy as the road turns to dirt with huge holes and sheer cliffs flank the passenger side. I'm laughing, scared out of my mind, no idea where we're headed. This great adventurer of mine keeps driving, snickering as we wind our way up and then down to the river. We come to a little bridge about six feet wide with a plaque that tells us this is where they crossed. Today the river is low and calm, but when the mountains thaw this river will be raging and full, making that bridge impassable. People would have to wait to cross, patience would be needed. I think about this. I want a wider, sturdier, safer bridge for my own crossing. My friends are wordless, not even aware perhaps of the lesson they are teaching me. I can cross, and I will, but it will not be simple or easy.
Our drive is long with the mountains ahead of us, seemingly unreachable. They get closer, beautiful. Even in the dark you can catch a silhouette and be stunned by its magnificence.
The next day we head to the mountains, the Rockies ..big and looming in the distance. We find the trail head and there is snow ...a lot. The other seasoned hikers here are surprised, and so am I. We're climbing the back side of Pike's Peak, the view is worth it we're told. I hadn't expected so much emotion to bubble up towards the surface, but it does and I can barely hold myself together. This landscape reminds me too much of Phoebe. She would have loved all of it, the density of Pine, only to open to a wide landscape of rising red stone, the quiet and then the gurgle of mountain streams. We just follow and I straggle a bit behind, the altitude leaves me breathing heavy at 9,000 feet. I look down and see a print in the snow, and then another, I follow it for about fifteen minutes. "These are mountain lion prints in the snow, do you see them?" My friend doesn't look back at me, or answer. I see more all along our trail and decide it's a good time to say my rosary. We stop for water, "hey, look at these tracks, they're mountain lion tracks, I know, Owen and I studied these." My friend dismisses me, its a dog, she tells me. My other friend argues over distance, we've gone much further she thought. I still fixate on the tracks all around me, but I am calm, and I follow.
We meet two other seasoned hikers, they can't find the trail they've done several times, tell us the routes they've tried. They tell us they're turning back. My friend is undeterred. I have no choice but to follow her, after all, I'm in the Rockies and I have no idea how to get out of here, the only footprints to follow now are hers ...and the mountain lions. We make our way, bit by bit, zigging and zagging through the heavy snow. We're not dressed right, but we move on and the sky begins to open wider.
We find the crest, and I am full of emotion, ready to burst the sadness is so heavy in me. I want to tell Phoebe where I am, she would be so excited, ask me all the details, but I don't say her name. I stay silent.
I look out over the expanse and wonder how people ever crossed from coast to coast. My friend tells me to stay here on this rock in the sun, while they walk a bit higher. She sits next to me "Phoebe did this you know, in Outward Bound, she had to be alone in the wilderness for twenty four hours, remember. You can handle fifteen minutes." I lay back in the sun, and cry, releasing all that bottled up pain and missing as they head off. I am alone. I think of Phoebe and the mountain lion, hear a rock tumble, certain the mountain lion has found me, giving itself away as it steps on loose rock. Silence returns. My friends are back, see my stick. Giggling "is that for the mountain lion, cause it wouldn't save you," I'm asked. We make our way down, meet other hikers, and my friend tells them the conditions, they decide to turn around. She never let on to us that it was tough going, never let me stop, or turn around. She just led.
Back at her house, I see her husband and describe the print I saw in the snow ..."mountain lion" he says. His disposition is serious as is his experience in mountains. "She told me it was a dog, I didn't believe her." He assures me it was a mountain lion. My friend from across the room turns and looks at me, "but you did it, you made it" and she smiles.
This wasn't a trip to talk about Phoebe, to bear my soul, to weep in the safety of friends. This was a trip to be led, shown that passage is uncertain, rickety, maybe even unsafe at times with danger lurking all around. But its a trip I can do, and will. And every once in a while, the ones who lead will step in front, and without words or tears or sorrow, they will just expect me to follow ...and I do. God's hand is everywhere, using what he knows I need to make my way.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
We were fifteen when we met. Our friendship has spanned decades. One is a talker, the other is quiet. It is rare we are altogether, but this past week we were and they led. I can talk about anything with these women. With them, I am seventeen ...free, open and hopeful. They were there when Phoebe was born, and they were there when she died. Way back when, as boys didn't return crushes and college rejections rolled in, when one of us couldn't go to a party the other two could ...they simply led, with no words. Most likely, the party would be forfeited and we'd be together. All of us are orphans, all our parents have died ...we're at the forefront now of our families. It doesn't sound like anything, but it is, to be alone and without parents who paved the way in good and bad ways. There is no one ahead of us whose wisdom we can call upon. Decades of experiences bind us, and in this rare moment we have time to spend in each others' company
We head to Taos, NM and they talk about this place filled with people who changed their lives ...made a new start, a fresh start. It happens they say aloud, to no one in particular, just a fact ...opportunities present themselves for lives to be changed when people are hurting or stuck. Come at it from a different angle, look at it from the south, not the west. I pay attention. "How did they cross the Rio Grande?" we ask as we look down the depth of the gorge. How? Where? We drive an hour north, my friend flags someone down, asks some questions. I'm along for the ride, and it gets bumpy as the road turns to dirt with huge holes and sheer cliffs flank the passenger side. I'm laughing, scared out of my mind, no idea where we're headed. This great adventurer of mine keeps driving, snickering as we wind our way up and then down to the river. We come to a little bridge about six feet wide with a plaque that tells us this is where they crossed. Today the river is low and calm, but when the mountains thaw this river will be raging and full, making that bridge impassable. People would have to wait to cross, patience would be needed. I think about this. I want a wider, sturdier, safer bridge for my own crossing. My friends are wordless, not even aware perhaps of the lesson they are teaching me. I can cross, and I will, but it will not be simple or easy.
Our drive is long with the mountains ahead of us, seemingly unreachable. They get closer, beautiful. Even in the dark you can catch a silhouette and be stunned by its magnificence.
The next day we head to the mountains, the Rockies ..big and looming in the distance. We find the trail head and there is snow ...a lot. The other seasoned hikers here are surprised, and so am I. We're climbing the back side of Pike's Peak, the view is worth it we're told. I hadn't expected so much emotion to bubble up towards the surface, but it does and I can barely hold myself together. This landscape reminds me too much of Phoebe. She would have loved all of it, the density of Pine, only to open to a wide landscape of rising red stone, the quiet and then the gurgle of mountain streams. We just follow and I straggle a bit behind, the altitude leaves me breathing heavy at 9,000 feet. I look down and see a print in the snow, and then another, I follow it for about fifteen minutes. "These are mountain lion prints in the snow, do you see them?" My friend doesn't look back at me, or answer. I see more all along our trail and decide it's a good time to say my rosary. We stop for water, "hey, look at these tracks, they're mountain lion tracks, I know, Owen and I studied these." My friend dismisses me, its a dog, she tells me. My other friend argues over distance, we've gone much further she thought. I still fixate on the tracks all around me, but I am calm, and I follow.
We meet two other seasoned hikers, they can't find the trail they've done several times, tell us the routes they've tried. They tell us they're turning back. My friend is undeterred. I have no choice but to follow her, after all, I'm in the Rockies and I have no idea how to get out of here, the only footprints to follow now are hers ...and the mountain lions. We make our way, bit by bit, zigging and zagging through the heavy snow. We're not dressed right, but we move on and the sky begins to open wider.
We find the crest, and I am full of emotion, ready to burst the sadness is so heavy in me. I want to tell Phoebe where I am, she would be so excited, ask me all the details, but I don't say her name. I stay silent.
I look out over the expanse and wonder how people ever crossed from coast to coast. My friend tells me to stay here on this rock in the sun, while they walk a bit higher. She sits next to me "Phoebe did this you know, in Outward Bound, she had to be alone in the wilderness for twenty four hours, remember. You can handle fifteen minutes." I lay back in the sun, and cry, releasing all that bottled up pain and missing as they head off. I am alone. I think of Phoebe and the mountain lion, hear a rock tumble, certain the mountain lion has found me, giving itself away as it steps on loose rock. Silence returns. My friends are back, see my stick. Giggling "is that for the mountain lion, cause it wouldn't save you," I'm asked. We make our way down, meet other hikers, and my friend tells them the conditions, they decide to turn around. She never let on to us that it was tough going, never let me stop, or turn around. She just led.
Back at her house, I see her husband and describe the print I saw in the snow ..."mountain lion" he says. His disposition is serious as is his experience in mountains. "She told me it was a dog, I didn't believe her." He assures me it was a mountain lion. My friend from across the room turns and looks at me, "but you did it, you made it" and she smiles.
This wasn't a trip to talk about Phoebe, to bear my soul, to weep in the safety of friends. This was a trip to be led, shown that passage is uncertain, rickety, maybe even unsafe at times with danger lurking all around. But its a trip I can do, and will. And every once in a while, the ones who lead will step in front, and without words or tears or sorrow, they will just expect me to follow ...and I do. God's hand is everywhere, using what he knows I need to make my way.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Space
A year ago, one of the hardest things was the emptiness ...the big hole that was so obvious and cold. Phoebe took up space because she had a large personality and a zest for life. I both wondered and feared it would always feel that way ...vast and void. The other day as I pull onto our road I did a quick head count figuring out where everyone was. When I walked through the door with two kids with me we'd all be home, except Phoebe of course. Knowing we'd be home for a while, no more drop offs, pick ups for the rest of the day I found peace. It didn't stab me so much anymore. She's found her space in our home in other ways ...good ways. It isn't as vast and void anymore. There are moments when it pierces me, stuns me and takes away my breath. But life has continued in a forward motion and lots and lots of good things have come our way. I know much of that is due to the tireless prayer of so many people for us. People we don't even know have remembered us each day. Phoebe didn't see last Oct. 10 or 11, so we tread different territory now. A year ago the pain was excruciating, deadly, Like a shattered skyscraper driven into my heart and lungs. There's no words really to capture the feeling. I've lost both my parents, had some significant struggles in life, painful experiences ...nothing came close to this. Like a wound that attempts to heal, there is the obvious scar, the granulation of new tissue posing as original, always the potential to have areas of pain ...that's what we adjust to ...what we become. Space is different now, we've grown accustomed to the absence no matter how obvious and unwanted.
I asked a patient today who lost her daughter over a decade ago what year two was like. Those who've walked this path before us tell of a year a bit harder than the first. When I first heard those words I wanted to be dead. How could anything be worse than what we were experiencing? I know now that searing pain, that first cut becomes part of who you are, and so you take the pain a little easier than you did when it was all so new. This woman told me it was harder because it was all about the facts. Phoebe is dead ...fact. Phoebe will not come back ...fact. I don't need to buy Christmas presents for Phoebe ...fact. Part of me hoped and prayed I would wake from the nightmare of losing her, and God, in his infinite generosity, would rewind for me. After all, He could.
Someone comments on our dishes this past Sunday ...and I don't tell the story of them and how they came to take up her space. People ask me how many children and I answer seven, no explanation. It's different now.
Her passing is now a normal part of our lives ...part of our fabric, part of who we are. People ask me how I do it ...live this life without her. They ask because they care and can't imagine living after a child dies. I answer "grace, God's tremendous, limitless grace." "I still couldn't" they often say. Truth be told, I didn't think I could either, but I have. I knew how I felt and I looked at my husband and these other kids of ours and knew they suffered ...they needed assurance and promise and hope. It came, little by little. Our life has rebuilt to a "new normal," as they say.
A year ago, I just wanted to be where I am right now. And here I am. I'm certain I'll be with Phoebe again. I ask her to join me all the time even though I have no sense of her. I'm a year out ...we all are. We still have some tending to do, some learning, letting go, changes. But it will all come in the time it should. We've weathered the loss of Phoebe ..and lots of other little losses along the way. People we didn't expect to stay have, while others we were certain would be in it for the long haul haven't ...for whatever reason.
I open my front door and see her converse sneakers ...they will always stay there. I walk down the hall and there are her shoes, worn by someone else, but casually in the way ...as they usually were. I do the laundry and cycle through her shirts, shorts, pants ...and I see her twinkle and giggle "you didn't think you were gonna really get rid of me mom, did you?"
I see how far we've come. Even the moments and days when the burden is especially hard, I see we've come along.
Two of her friends come down to her room, our room now. "It smells like her still." And it does. They laugh and remember the funny times, look around for her things, many still as they were. They miss her too. We remember a night these two were sent home ...pushing the limits. Phoebe and her friends had acted outraged at how unnecessarily strict we were being, but we held firm. They see the wisdom now. Its good to see them. "I wish she knew it would pass. I never thought she wouldn't know that." She was smarter, deeper, more invested in life than them they tell me. And she was.
Phoebe has new space to take up. We haven't heard the last of her, I know that now. Phoebe has a story to tell, one that impacts all of us. When the time is right, when the Holy Spirit wants it written ...it will be. In the meantime, I'm finding my footsteps a bit surer than before ...grace comes our way.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
I asked a patient today who lost her daughter over a decade ago what year two was like. Those who've walked this path before us tell of a year a bit harder than the first. When I first heard those words I wanted to be dead. How could anything be worse than what we were experiencing? I know now that searing pain, that first cut becomes part of who you are, and so you take the pain a little easier than you did when it was all so new. This woman told me it was harder because it was all about the facts. Phoebe is dead ...fact. Phoebe will not come back ...fact. I don't need to buy Christmas presents for Phoebe ...fact. Part of me hoped and prayed I would wake from the nightmare of losing her, and God, in his infinite generosity, would rewind for me. After all, He could.
Someone comments on our dishes this past Sunday ...and I don't tell the story of them and how they came to take up her space. People ask me how many children and I answer seven, no explanation. It's different now.
Her passing is now a normal part of our lives ...part of our fabric, part of who we are. People ask me how I do it ...live this life without her. They ask because they care and can't imagine living after a child dies. I answer "grace, God's tremendous, limitless grace." "I still couldn't" they often say. Truth be told, I didn't think I could either, but I have. I knew how I felt and I looked at my husband and these other kids of ours and knew they suffered ...they needed assurance and promise and hope. It came, little by little. Our life has rebuilt to a "new normal," as they say.
A year ago, I just wanted to be where I am right now. And here I am. I'm certain I'll be with Phoebe again. I ask her to join me all the time even though I have no sense of her. I'm a year out ...we all are. We still have some tending to do, some learning, letting go, changes. But it will all come in the time it should. We've weathered the loss of Phoebe ..and lots of other little losses along the way. People we didn't expect to stay have, while others we were certain would be in it for the long haul haven't ...for whatever reason.
I open my front door and see her converse sneakers ...they will always stay there. I walk down the hall and there are her shoes, worn by someone else, but casually in the way ...as they usually were. I do the laundry and cycle through her shirts, shorts, pants ...and I see her twinkle and giggle "you didn't think you were gonna really get rid of me mom, did you?"
I see how far we've come. Even the moments and days when the burden is especially hard, I see we've come along.
Two of her friends come down to her room, our room now. "It smells like her still." And it does. They laugh and remember the funny times, look around for her things, many still as they were. They miss her too. We remember a night these two were sent home ...pushing the limits. Phoebe and her friends had acted outraged at how unnecessarily strict we were being, but we held firm. They see the wisdom now. Its good to see them. "I wish she knew it would pass. I never thought she wouldn't know that." She was smarter, deeper, more invested in life than them they tell me. And she was.
Phoebe has new space to take up. We haven't heard the last of her, I know that now. Phoebe has a story to tell, one that impacts all of us. When the time is right, when the Holy Spirit wants it written ...it will be. In the meantime, I'm finding my footsteps a bit surer than before ...grace comes our way.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
We made it ...a full year. We remembered her today, got to spend time with some of her friends. Plenty of hugs, cards ,phone calls, two masses offered for her another offered Saturday. Plenty of grace came my way, our way. I'm worn out, and wrung out ...but glad to be so well blessed and loved. Phoebe left a big imprint ...she taught us way more about how to live in her day to day then she did in her last act ...and plenty learned from her. And best of all, I got to be her mom....and still am.
Please pray for all the parents who've lost a child in the past month and those who will lose one in the coming month ...it just isn't a good thing.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Please pray for all the parents who've lost a child in the past month and those who will lose one in the coming month ...it just isn't a good thing.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
One year
A letter from a friend of Phoebe's ...and ours, captures a bit of Phoebe. Alyssa was the first person to succinctly capture what Phoebe had done. She knows us, knows Phoebe and how we live, who we are. "Ridiculously drastic" is what she said. Alyssa was the last person Phoebe called. She'd left a message, "Hey its Pheebs, call me back today or tomorrow." No indication of what was to come ...because likely, it wasn't even there for Phoebe. From there it would take on a course nobody saw. There's a hole in our hearts today and sometimes the best way to deal with it is to envision what life would have been like had Phoebe lived. Alyssa's daydream shares a piece of Phoebe in a very real way. Alyssa is far away and can't be with us today ...so she sent this along, and I asked her permission to post.
Hi Mrs. Walsh,
I know you wanted memories and such for tom. and since I'm not home to give it to you this is what I have. It's not exactly a memory but rather a wishful memory. I didn't exactly write it out of sadness, but remembrance. It made me feel good to write out. I wish the best for you and Mr. Walsh. Also for all of the kids. Tell Mary Claire I said Hi!
I think it supposed to rain tom. here in florida. I really hope it holds off. I wanted to go kayaking because I know Phoebe and I both loved kayaking. My room mate said she would help be make a wreath out of mangrove leaves that we could decorate, and then send out in the water. I feel like Pheebs would have approved of the outdoorsy-ness of it.
I really appreciate having your support and your love. It really helps.
You have a great family and being around them makes me very happy.
I will see you in about two weeks
love
Alyssa
Phoebe Day Dream
Sometimes I create these day dreams in my head. I imagine what may have happened if things progressed as normal. If last October passed like any other month. Maybe Phoebe would have gone to College of the Atlantic. Somewhere that I wanted to go but didn’t have the courage to try it. Phoebe would have. The unorthodox style of the campus would have intrigued her. Pines encasing the campus, it was more like a sleep-away camp in the woods. Deirdre and I most definitely would have made a trip up to visit her. She would greet us, standing in a layer of snow. I can picture her wearing her gray and black wool hat and maybe her purple striped sweater underneath a jacket. She would tell us all about the crazy nature freaks she has met there. A girl who has dreadlocks and weaves wood into her hair, or a guy that pretends he is a tree. They are strange but mean well. We would follow her into her dorm, a building that looks more like a light house than a dorm. Her room would be filled with the warm afternoon light, highlighting the walls and wooden floors. Deirdre and I would smile as we recognized items from her bedroom at home arranged in the room. She tells us she wishes she could paint the walls. Her room mate isn’t in the room. She tells us she doesn’t know yet how she feels about the girl. Maybe she would take us down to the dining area for dinner where we would eat a strictly organic meal. Maybe she would tell us she helped out in the schools garden that fall. I just picture us talking non-stop. Maybe we would go to the town’s small theatre to see a movie or visit the tiny shops only to find many are closed for the winter. We would possibly go snow shoeing with some kids she knows. Hot chocolate and tea would be drunken as she makes us laugh over things we did together that summer. I would smile, content as I watch my friend make ridiculous faces as she tells us story after story. Undoubtedly we would end up in her room together, and Phoebe would have a guitar or at least a banjo. I would sit on her bed next to Deirdre as she sang and strummed along. My eyes would close as the sound of her voice filled my ears. I would feel so safe and warm in that moment. All three of us would be at home, because once again we would be together.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Good nights
Phoebe died on a Saturday. Her anniversary is Sunday. But I think about the days of the week when I remember her final ones. Today, Friday, was to be her last day to be lived fully, where she would watch the sun set. I headed to work today ...a good distraction. I didn't want the whole day to be a reminder of what had been. Still, piercing moments stopped me, taking my breath, reminding me of who I lost. Letters were waiting when I came home. Friends of hers, of ours, thinking of us, remembering her and what they lost in losing her. One writes she will honor Phoebe by doing well, working hard ...just as Phoebe had assured her she could. "She was always laughing and talking with me during our free periods and told me I could do well in my classes." This girl had moved from a foreign country, struggled with the language ...and Phoebe assured her it would be okay. And it is.
I spend tonight with my friend I was with a year ago. We gather in her new home and she serves up a comfort meal. She remembers with me, without any words to capture the whole story. Our girls were at their club meeting, giving us a chance to spend some time together, catch up after so long, too long we both thought. Families and nursing school had taken all our time. While other friends grew miffed by our seeming disappearance, we knew the reality ...time was not plentiful. We savored this time. Phoebe had spent this night at home. Brigid and Deirdre had come over, just returning for the long weekend from college. They made plans for Saturday after the SAT. We would be leaving early Sunday, so she had to squeeze in a visit with them before they headed back to school. It wouldn't be until Thanksgiving that she'd see them again. Alyssa would be home soon, an odd break in her college calendar. These friends were important to her. She missed them.
I drove the long dark road home, had come into the house to find Phoebe asleep, snuggled in her down comforter. I would wake her in the morning. I whispered goodnight, rubbed her foot and told her I loved her. I set the coffee for the morning, put together a snack for her to take to the SAT ...and went to bed.
Tonight, I drove that same long dark road home again. Only this time, there was no Phoebe to say goodnight to. I always look up at the night sky, something my father taught me ...there's a story up there in the constellations. "Mom, look how bright that star is," my daughter says. One solitary star shines brighter than the rest ...that's what some stars do.
I believe God writes the perfect story. I've said that before, and I mean it. I want the next chapter to be different than it is. But each day unfolds something new, something I never would have thought of or considered. He is generous beyond all words. If I am deprived, for now, of Phoebe, I trust the reunion with her is well beyond my wildest dreams. Friends remind me of this ...keep me sane.
My house is quiet, my husband and youngest son sound asleep, for now. Sleep is not a guarantee for me or my husband. Many nights find us restless, sleepless, chasing what might have been.
I can't rewrite what was done, but if I could, perhaps I would ignore the alarm and let Phoebe sleep in, take her to the soccer games with us. It could all be different. It could be alright.
I miss my girl, my Phoebe. It helps me when people tell me how they miss her too, show me their own sadness. I've been reminded this week of some funny car rides where people watched the two of us interact, playing off each others comments and jokes. From the backseat, they sat back and listened ...saw a mom and her girl having a blast. If you ever knew Phoebe, really knew her, chances are you know what a blast she was ...she kept life going ...and made all of us a little greater than we thought we could be.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
I spend tonight with my friend I was with a year ago. We gather in her new home and she serves up a comfort meal. She remembers with me, without any words to capture the whole story. Our girls were at their club meeting, giving us a chance to spend some time together, catch up after so long, too long we both thought. Families and nursing school had taken all our time. While other friends grew miffed by our seeming disappearance, we knew the reality ...time was not plentiful. We savored this time. Phoebe had spent this night at home. Brigid and Deirdre had come over, just returning for the long weekend from college. They made plans for Saturday after the SAT. We would be leaving early Sunday, so she had to squeeze in a visit with them before they headed back to school. It wouldn't be until Thanksgiving that she'd see them again. Alyssa would be home soon, an odd break in her college calendar. These friends were important to her. She missed them.
I drove the long dark road home, had come into the house to find Phoebe asleep, snuggled in her down comforter. I would wake her in the morning. I whispered goodnight, rubbed her foot and told her I loved her. I set the coffee for the morning, put together a snack for her to take to the SAT ...and went to bed.
Tonight, I drove that same long dark road home again. Only this time, there was no Phoebe to say goodnight to. I always look up at the night sky, something my father taught me ...there's a story up there in the constellations. "Mom, look how bright that star is," my daughter says. One solitary star shines brighter than the rest ...that's what some stars do.
I believe God writes the perfect story. I've said that before, and I mean it. I want the next chapter to be different than it is. But each day unfolds something new, something I never would have thought of or considered. He is generous beyond all words. If I am deprived, for now, of Phoebe, I trust the reunion with her is well beyond my wildest dreams. Friends remind me of this ...keep me sane.
My house is quiet, my husband and youngest son sound asleep, for now. Sleep is not a guarantee for me or my husband. Many nights find us restless, sleepless, chasing what might have been.
I can't rewrite what was done, but if I could, perhaps I would ignore the alarm and let Phoebe sleep in, take her to the soccer games with us. It could all be different. It could be alright.
I miss my girl, my Phoebe. It helps me when people tell me how they miss her too, show me their own sadness. I've been reminded this week of some funny car rides where people watched the two of us interact, playing off each others comments and jokes. From the backseat, they sat back and listened ...saw a mom and her girl having a blast. If you ever knew Phoebe, really knew her, chances are you know what a blast she was ...she kept life going ...and made all of us a little greater than we thought we could be.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Reliving
Wednesday
A year ago I was welcoming two of my girls home from school. They were just transitioning into school from homeschooling. It was a new adventure, one of my many things to watch and listen to, making sure we navigated in a healthy, wholesome way. I would have looked at the clock and thought of Phoebe getting on the bus with her team, her team, she was one of the captains. They were heading north of Boston for a game, if I recall correctly, a game I wouldn't get to ...just too far away. She might have called me, she often did "what's for dinner?, will you make sure I have clean socks for tomorrow? do we have any poster board?" just regular checking in questions she'd have ....and excuse to call.
I remember making dinner, standing at the counter, later than we normally eat for some reason. It was nearly seven. The toys dropped, I heard a book slam down "Phoebe's home" someone yelled and three bodies raced down the stairs out to the driveway to greet their big sister. The chatter was constant, Mary Claire reporting her life that day and details of everyone else's she'd observed or heard about. "Mike, the mailman has a cold, he didn't give us any gum today," she might have said to Phoebe. "Gums only for Saturdays," I can hear Phoebe telling her, like she had reminded her so many times. Our mailman is wonderful. He has a bucket of gum in his truck. Early on we established between us and him that Saturday would be gum day. Only Saturday. Our kids would yell everyday "Is it Saturday?" as he drove by. Phoebe had loved that, thought it was so cute ...and remembered as a young child the great anticipation of a simple piece of gum. They all crowded through the door, Phoebe dropping her soccer bag and cleats on the front steps. She had walked into the kitchen, and I looked up to a big smile, a happy, happy girl. She went on to tell me about her game ...the best game ever ...even though they lost.
Thursday
She brought popcorn to school. She'd asked me to make a lot of it "everybody loves it" she'd said. She was driving herself that day in her dad's cadillac, "the cadoo" we called it. There was a funny story behind getting that car. One of our kids biggest challenges are our family's cars. We have a fifteen passenger van, my minivan and this third car, the cadillac, which Phoebe hated at first ...but grew to love. She'd left that morning like every other. I had headed into work that day, talked to a friend about the challenges of life. A shelf outside an apartment always had one picture of Padre Pio, this day, there were four of him. I called my friend back wondering what he had in store for us .."whatever it is, its a doozy!" We had laughed. I would see one of my patients, prepare her for a weekend get-a-way. I'd asked her where she was going. It was the tenth anniversary of her daughter's death. I told her I was so sorry, must be the hardest thing a mother could ever experience. She'd nodded "yes, it is." "How do you survive it?" I'd asked her. "You just do, and yet you never really do," she'd answered. I gave her a hug. I closed her door, not knowing what I was walking towards, how God was taking these tiny moments to prepare me for the biggest moment of my life.
I move to another patient, an old friend of my mothers. Last time I saw her she'd told me it would be her anniversary, the first one she was living alone. Her husband had died that spring. Something prompted me to take a silver thimble of my mothers, wrap it and bring it to her. This woman loved needlework. I handed to her and said I thought my mother just wanted her to know she was thinking of her. Tears had rolled down her cheek. Was my mother making herself known for her friend, or for me, and what was to come ...the greeting of her granddaughter in just two short days?
That night would be hectic, a pasta dinner at the middle school, a meeting, pick-ups/drop offs. There was the usual tension and chaos of meeting all the demands. Phoebe had to do a pick up she didn't want to. I remember a heated discussion reminding her that she was, in fact, driving one of our cars ...we were allowing her to use it ...it wasn't hers. Part of using it was participating in the family needs, in this case picking someone up. She was mad. Once we were all home people were still edgy ...it had been a busy week ...we needed Friday to come. I had said goodnight, went to bed discouraged over my kids ingratitude ...and then stared long and hard at my own. How could I expect my kids to live a life of gratitude when I so clearly and loudly didn't live it myself? I remember that ...drifting off out of sorts We'd had days like this before, it didn't stand out, no red flags waved ...nothing seemed different.
I remember this ...and I wish I could turn back the clock and walk differently, use different words, lie down next to my teenage daughter rather than retreat to my own bed disheartened. Who knows what could have made the difference?
Tonight I will go again to the pasta dinner at the middle school ...and I will smile for my kids. Likely though I will be in my own little world remembering the phone calls, seeing Phoebe that night, and going to bed so discouraged, not knowing I would awaken to a beautiful day full of hope and promise ...our last day.
God writes a story far different than our own. We could spend hours on drafts and rewrites ...but really, He tells it best. Phoebe's story here is finished, but mine is not ....and moment by moment, filled with questions and doubt, I choose to believe He wrote Phoebe's story best ...and He's doing the same with mine.
Friends walk these days with me, I am blessed for the one's who've reached out ...noticed. Yes, these are hard days, but rather than see them approaching the final day of gloom and despair ...I see them approaching a day when Phoebe burst into a life far beyond what we know. For very good reason, I have absolute assurance my girl is with her Creator ...where she always belonged.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
A year ago I was welcoming two of my girls home from school. They were just transitioning into school from homeschooling. It was a new adventure, one of my many things to watch and listen to, making sure we navigated in a healthy, wholesome way. I would have looked at the clock and thought of Phoebe getting on the bus with her team, her team, she was one of the captains. They were heading north of Boston for a game, if I recall correctly, a game I wouldn't get to ...just too far away. She might have called me, she often did "what's for dinner?, will you make sure I have clean socks for tomorrow? do we have any poster board?" just regular checking in questions she'd have ....and excuse to call.
I remember making dinner, standing at the counter, later than we normally eat for some reason. It was nearly seven. The toys dropped, I heard a book slam down "Phoebe's home" someone yelled and three bodies raced down the stairs out to the driveway to greet their big sister. The chatter was constant, Mary Claire reporting her life that day and details of everyone else's she'd observed or heard about. "Mike, the mailman has a cold, he didn't give us any gum today," she might have said to Phoebe. "Gums only for Saturdays," I can hear Phoebe telling her, like she had reminded her so many times. Our mailman is wonderful. He has a bucket of gum in his truck. Early on we established between us and him that Saturday would be gum day. Only Saturday. Our kids would yell everyday "Is it Saturday?" as he drove by. Phoebe had loved that, thought it was so cute ...and remembered as a young child the great anticipation of a simple piece of gum. They all crowded through the door, Phoebe dropping her soccer bag and cleats on the front steps. She had walked into the kitchen, and I looked up to a big smile, a happy, happy girl. She went on to tell me about her game ...the best game ever ...even though they lost.
Thursday
She brought popcorn to school. She'd asked me to make a lot of it "everybody loves it" she'd said. She was driving herself that day in her dad's cadillac, "the cadoo" we called it. There was a funny story behind getting that car. One of our kids biggest challenges are our family's cars. We have a fifteen passenger van, my minivan and this third car, the cadillac, which Phoebe hated at first ...but grew to love. She'd left that morning like every other. I had headed into work that day, talked to a friend about the challenges of life. A shelf outside an apartment always had one picture of Padre Pio, this day, there were four of him. I called my friend back wondering what he had in store for us .."whatever it is, its a doozy!" We had laughed. I would see one of my patients, prepare her for a weekend get-a-way. I'd asked her where she was going. It was the tenth anniversary of her daughter's death. I told her I was so sorry, must be the hardest thing a mother could ever experience. She'd nodded "yes, it is." "How do you survive it?" I'd asked her. "You just do, and yet you never really do," she'd answered. I gave her a hug. I closed her door, not knowing what I was walking towards, how God was taking these tiny moments to prepare me for the biggest moment of my life.
I move to another patient, an old friend of my mothers. Last time I saw her she'd told me it would be her anniversary, the first one she was living alone. Her husband had died that spring. Something prompted me to take a silver thimble of my mothers, wrap it and bring it to her. This woman loved needlework. I handed to her and said I thought my mother just wanted her to know she was thinking of her. Tears had rolled down her cheek. Was my mother making herself known for her friend, or for me, and what was to come ...the greeting of her granddaughter in just two short days?
That night would be hectic, a pasta dinner at the middle school, a meeting, pick-ups/drop offs. There was the usual tension and chaos of meeting all the demands. Phoebe had to do a pick up she didn't want to. I remember a heated discussion reminding her that she was, in fact, driving one of our cars ...we were allowing her to use it ...it wasn't hers. Part of using it was participating in the family needs, in this case picking someone up. She was mad. Once we were all home people were still edgy ...it had been a busy week ...we needed Friday to come. I had said goodnight, went to bed discouraged over my kids ingratitude ...and then stared long and hard at my own. How could I expect my kids to live a life of gratitude when I so clearly and loudly didn't live it myself? I remember that ...drifting off out of sorts We'd had days like this before, it didn't stand out, no red flags waved ...nothing seemed different.
I remember this ...and I wish I could turn back the clock and walk differently, use different words, lie down next to my teenage daughter rather than retreat to my own bed disheartened. Who knows what could have made the difference?
Tonight I will go again to the pasta dinner at the middle school ...and I will smile for my kids. Likely though I will be in my own little world remembering the phone calls, seeing Phoebe that night, and going to bed so discouraged, not knowing I would awaken to a beautiful day full of hope and promise ...our last day.
God writes a story far different than our own. We could spend hours on drafts and rewrites ...but really, He tells it best. Phoebe's story here is finished, but mine is not ....and moment by moment, filled with questions and doubt, I choose to believe He wrote Phoebe's story best ...and He's doing the same with mine.
Friends walk these days with me, I am blessed for the one's who've reached out ...noticed. Yes, these are hard days, but rather than see them approaching the final day of gloom and despair ...I see them approaching a day when Phoebe burst into a life far beyond what we know. For very good reason, I have absolute assurance my girl is with her Creator ...where she always belonged.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Feast of the Guardian Angels
I wish I thought of them more, begged their guidance and protection much more than I do. Today is their feast day .. the Guardian Angels. Often times, when I'm having a conversation with my kids and we don't seem to see eye to eye, but I consider it an important point, I will talk to their Guardian Angel and mine too ...while I'm in the conversation. There's plenty of times when we have to deal with difficult situations or people and if we implore the Guardian Angels, the impact can be far more positive. I've passed this tip on to several people, not that it's a magic trick, or a wand, but that it far more closely aligns our hearts, minds and wills to Heaven, and what God may desire more than what we may desire. Try it.
I woke this morning thinking of them. I was determined to recognize the Guardian Angels throughout today. I had anticipated the approach of the feast of the Archangels, planning to spend time in prayer with them and celebrate that feast day with my children. But I missed it ...completely, it went out of my head and heart. It wasn't until the next day that I realized it had passed. At first I was sad, but then quickly came to realize that those feast days are wonderful, but really the Archangels are always at the ready for us. St. Raphael revealed himself to both my husband and me quickly after Phoebe's death, so I know they are there, ever present. Even knowing this, I wanted to make sure this feast day was recognized.
I woke early today and while I was getting ready to head out the door I prayed to God and told Him how grateful I was that He had given Phoebe to me for so many years. I knew she was a generous gift, a gift that made Him more present in my life. Phoebe never dismissed God, she wrestled with Him a lot, but she never ignored Him or grew casual. Her questions chiseled out my faith, set me on a path that has allowed me to grab hold by the tiniest shred at times. And so, I thanked Him for all that. Then, I began talking to my Guardian Angel, thanking my angel for all the protection and caretaking given me over this past year. I wondered what happens with Guardian Angels when someone dies. Could I still speak to Phoebe's? Ask for a hug delivery? I've certainly begged that of the Blessed Mother and Christ himself, but could the angel who spent so much time with us still do that too? Or was her angel off somewhere, beyond me, beyond hearing me? As this thought came to me, a gentle breeze blew through my room. I love the wind. Phoebe would chuckle when I would see the trees bending and I would open the door to go stand in it for a few moments. "I love the wind," I would always say. She'd stand in the doorway, watching "I know," she'd say.
As this gentle breeze came through, so did a sense, a fullness that spoke so clearly to me. Phoebe made it known to me that it was her. It was only a fraction of a second ...and it was gone. It left me so aware and certain ....like nothing ever before. There are no words to describe this incredibly powerful, but brief moment ...experience. It was not emotion ...it was a sense, a keen awareness of something so far beyond me, so not yet mine. Such a thing can't be described, but it was beautiful to the extent that had it lasted any longer I don't think I would want to live anymore. It was like being dipped in something so precious, so beyond me that I knew it wasn't mine, but I knew she was there.
I drove to work weeping, not from sadness or missing, but from fullness and a joy I've never known. I didn't feel that joy anymore, just in that instant. I couldn't recall what it was like, just that it was beyond this time and place ...and it was glorious and magnificent ...and it is where she is.
It may sound peculiar, made up, but its not. It was so brief, but so intense, and so certain ...so forever ...and so, so beyond my reach. But it was real.
I've cried long and hard at not feeling her around me. Others share their own experiences with her, and while I'm happy about that for them, I've wondered why I, her mother, have been left out. I've been so alone in losing her ...as any mother in my shoes is. This morning it came, that brief, fleeting moment of awareness ...not an emotion, a sense ...and I am ever grateful. It may never come again, but it left a promise. I think my bridge was her Guardian Angel ...still waiting for my pleas. Our Guardian Angels are part of this world and the next ...they are our bridge. I'm so grateful for them. Happy, happy feast day!
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
I woke this morning thinking of them. I was determined to recognize the Guardian Angels throughout today. I had anticipated the approach of the feast of the Archangels, planning to spend time in prayer with them and celebrate that feast day with my children. But I missed it ...completely, it went out of my head and heart. It wasn't until the next day that I realized it had passed. At first I was sad, but then quickly came to realize that those feast days are wonderful, but really the Archangels are always at the ready for us. St. Raphael revealed himself to both my husband and me quickly after Phoebe's death, so I know they are there, ever present. Even knowing this, I wanted to make sure this feast day was recognized.
I woke early today and while I was getting ready to head out the door I prayed to God and told Him how grateful I was that He had given Phoebe to me for so many years. I knew she was a generous gift, a gift that made Him more present in my life. Phoebe never dismissed God, she wrestled with Him a lot, but she never ignored Him or grew casual. Her questions chiseled out my faith, set me on a path that has allowed me to grab hold by the tiniest shred at times. And so, I thanked Him for all that. Then, I began talking to my Guardian Angel, thanking my angel for all the protection and caretaking given me over this past year. I wondered what happens with Guardian Angels when someone dies. Could I still speak to Phoebe's? Ask for a hug delivery? I've certainly begged that of the Blessed Mother and Christ himself, but could the angel who spent so much time with us still do that too? Or was her angel off somewhere, beyond me, beyond hearing me? As this thought came to me, a gentle breeze blew through my room. I love the wind. Phoebe would chuckle when I would see the trees bending and I would open the door to go stand in it for a few moments. "I love the wind," I would always say. She'd stand in the doorway, watching "I know," she'd say.
As this gentle breeze came through, so did a sense, a fullness that spoke so clearly to me. Phoebe made it known to me that it was her. It was only a fraction of a second ...and it was gone. It left me so aware and certain ....like nothing ever before. There are no words to describe this incredibly powerful, but brief moment ...experience. It was not emotion ...it was a sense, a keen awareness of something so far beyond me, so not yet mine. Such a thing can't be described, but it was beautiful to the extent that had it lasted any longer I don't think I would want to live anymore. It was like being dipped in something so precious, so beyond me that I knew it wasn't mine, but I knew she was there.
I drove to work weeping, not from sadness or missing, but from fullness and a joy I've never known. I didn't feel that joy anymore, just in that instant. I couldn't recall what it was like, just that it was beyond this time and place ...and it was glorious and magnificent ...and it is where she is.
It may sound peculiar, made up, but its not. It was so brief, but so intense, and so certain ...so forever ...and so, so beyond my reach. But it was real.
I've cried long and hard at not feeling her around me. Others share their own experiences with her, and while I'm happy about that for them, I've wondered why I, her mother, have been left out. I've been so alone in losing her ...as any mother in my shoes is. This morning it came, that brief, fleeting moment of awareness ...not an emotion, a sense ...and I am ever grateful. It may never come again, but it left a promise. I think my bridge was her Guardian Angel ...still waiting for my pleas. Our Guardian Angels are part of this world and the next ...they are our bridge. I'm so grateful for them. Happy, happy feast day!
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)