I'll do my final public posting here over the next few entries. It's been a really wonderful, beneficial experience to have this place to write and share, and many people have let me know they've enjoyed reading and some have even been helped by the words found in these posts. Also, I've been offered some wonderful support, guidance, insight and comfort along the way. People, by nature, are incredibly generous and giving of themselves. The outpouring we received when Phoebe died was enormous, and has continued in lots of ways. The prayers are constant ...and they work. We aren't out of the woods, so to speak, but we're moving along and doing pretty well, I'd say. I'll continue writing, just not making it so public. But I will continue writing, and am happy to share the next phase of my climb out of the rubble. Just send me your email and I'll send it along as I write. carolynwalshpiw@gmail.com
Grief has a life of its own, a long life I'm learning. And I'm an open person, seeing the value in sharing the human experience ...even one so tragic. This has been my 'safe' place to put my words down, read them myself and understand my own days, take in the scenery along the way. Moving through, getting time behind us, builds strength and discernment. I have a fair amount of time behind me for the early part of losing a child. They tell us that the 'early' phase includes the first two years. I had always thought it was just the first year, and it is for most, but not when you lose a child. I get that now. Year two is different for sure, less hard in lots of ways, but still harder in others. Year two brings a clearer vision, you start to make decisions, figure out a little bit about what direction you're headed. And you can look back and see things with far greater clarity than you could during your days of stupor and disbelief. I clung to life, literally, for the first year. I don't have to hang on so tightly now, but I see the precarious nature of each moment with greater detail than I would if I hadn't lost Phoebe.
Someday, and I pray not, you might be at the beginning of this journey, or you might know someone else who is, and that's been my purpose here ...not so much to have people follow me, but to see how I survived, am surviving, this nightmare which never goes away. I've been open and honest here. I've left out lots of parts of my life ...because its not mine to tell. How I've cared for my kids ...each one, isn't told here. With God's amazing grace they are all well ...happy even, though certainly pierced in moments when they realize Phoebe just isn't coming through that front door, or up the stairs. They need to live their own adventures, push their own limits and embrace life for themselves. My husband's walk is hinted at on occasion, but he has his own journey and missing. And that's been one of the harder parts for me, to watch my husband miss his Phoebe ....his great, adventurous daughter ...his girl.
This blog has been about my walk. Fifteen months of the hardest walk I've ever taken, and probably ever will. There were things I did that most certainly helped me, some things I wished I'd done early on, but didn't have the vision to see or understand how I could have avoided further pain, more sorrow. So, I"ll reflect on that here, a final guide, look on the steps I took. Lots and lots of people survive losing a child, and I don't claim my way is the way ....everyone has their own, but I certainly learned from others tips that helped me stay upright, and I found a few of my own too. But keep in mind that I needed, and still do, to survive and thrive even, in a busy house with a bunch of kids who still very much need a mom engaged in just about everything they do. I knew that, and knew it made my walk a bit different from others I'd met because their kids were mostly grown. In some ways that made my walk far, far easier because I had the distraction. In other ways it made it harder since often I've had to ignore the wave of emotions and get on with the business of the day ...which can delay some of what really needs to come out. And of course, there are things I wish I'd done. There's lots and lots of looking back and wishing, final moments I sometimes think would have changed the outcome, would have kept Phoebe alive. But the real answer is that no one will ever know, there are no answers ...only with God. As I get closer and closer to that place I find it a harbor, a haven which ultimately turns into hoping ....and then trusting.
So the entries to follow will share some of what kept me going ...kept me alive ...my survival guide, with tattered pages, crossouts, re-writes, stains ...and always, always, gratitude for the gift of life, the gift of my own, my husbands, my childrens ...but most especially, the gift of having been Phoebe's mom ...for her life. And the ever steady presence of God ...and the promise of being with Him one day ...and my girl, once again. I trust in Him.
So I offer you these humble words from a mom who is just ordinary, but like so many who've lost a child, striving to do her best and failing along the way, but beginning over and over again to serve God and show my great love for Him even with my broken heart. We can survive, smile again, laugh, make plans, find joy in the everyday and look forward to a day once again with our beloved child.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Monday, January 23, 2012
Pro-life Monday
Today is the day we recognize the great tragedy of abortion in this country. Thousands are marching in Washington today to draw attention to the devastation its legalization has brought to this country. It leaves women, and men, scarred for life. And through God's grace, they can always find healing in the sacrament of confession. Often, abortion is pursued and completed in fear, ignorance. But the industry itself is nothing short of demonic. It is a billion dollar industry that is sabotaging the lives of over 4,000 babies a day in this country. Babies are always good ...their is no reason, ever, to destroy them.
As Catholics, we cannot support or endorse anyone or anything that makes a case for abortion's place in our culture. Plenty of us have been misled to believe this is not a crucial issue when voting, but it is. I've often said that for me personally, if a candidate has everything right, on taxes, immigration, education, etc..., but supports abortion, than everything he/she says is questionable, untrustworthy ...If he or she cannot protect the most innocent and defenseless of all, why would I ever believe they would live up to their word on anything? But if a candidate is off on everything, except abortion and he/she believes in the protection of our weakest, most vulnerable ...than they are workable on other issues, and I know they value life. We simply cannot ignore the most critical issue of our day.
Please pray this litany, a beautiful petition and prayer from Priests for Life.
As Catholics, we cannot support or endorse anyone or anything that makes a case for abortion's place in our culture. Plenty of us have been misled to believe this is not a crucial issue when voting, but it is. I've often said that for me personally, if a candidate has everything right, on taxes, immigration, education, etc..., but supports abortion, than everything he/she says is questionable, untrustworthy ...If he or she cannot protect the most innocent and defenseless of all, why would I ever believe they would live up to their word on anything? But if a candidate is off on everything, except abortion and he/she believes in the protection of our weakest, most vulnerable ...than they are workable on other issues, and I know they value life. We simply cannot ignore the most critical issue of our day.
Please pray this litany, a beautiful petition and prayer from Priests for Life.
LITANY IN RESPONSE TO ABORTIONLord, have mercy. | ||
| Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen. | ||
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Mirrored Image
Life is busy. I write far more than I publish here ... good things, funny moments, gratitude. Also the harder moments. Year two is hard, more so than I expected. For now, I want to write about something that's tugged at me for a while now, but sharing it was prompted the other day. So often people don't know what to say to us, how to act or be. For sure, it's an unknown for most. What should I do? Say? people wonder when they think about their friends or family members who've lost a child. Most awkward behavior is just that, and its to be expected. But their is other behavior that is not expected ...and is plain wrong ...no matter how you slice it.
At the most unlikely moments we find ourselves looking into our own reflection. God brings people together, a beautifully woven tapestry, lacing threads intricately and smoothly, and sometimes even unlacing. I always marvel at His ways, the gentleness and perfection of His design. The unlacing can be painful though, as people you've loved and trusted step aside, but all too often not before leaving a wound.
So I look at this new face, unlined, pretty. Just acquainted, her lips start to tremble, and I ask her when. March she says ...ten months ...and I remember the pain, exquisite and deep. For some reason ten months was harsh, unrelenting. A time when so many think ...okay, on her way, she should be moving beyond this by now, should be 'over' it. I tuck us around the corner and the tears spill. She tells me she shouldn't be losing herself like she is, everyone tells her so, tell her she should be past this part. "Oh really," I say "yes I heard that too, from the most unlikely people." She tells me I must think she's crazy ..."I am too, I have my critics believe me, the one's who tell me how I should have, could have grieved, assess how I behave, take shots at my faith" I assure her. "What is that all about?' she asks me.
And so our conversation has begun. An important one, and really one that anyone who knows or meets a mother or father that's lost a child should pay attention to. The pain, agony really, of burying your child is beyond words. And as if that isn't enough, part of this walk includes some relationships that are at best ignorant, but at worst, downright cruel and selfish. I've been blessed with wonderful, generous friends that have been there for me every step of the way. I don't think there's anything I could say or do that would cause them to turn away. I cling to them ...poor things, I'm sure they could use a breather. But there are also others that have been over the top bizarre in their expectations of me ...and in their accusations. And I am not alone. Virtually everyone I've met who is a member of this club has had similar outrageous experiences with people they've loved and trusted. Blame it on us ...the grievers, if you care to.
Now I trust God with everything I have and am. I wonder everyday why He let Phoebe die, and I talk to Him about that regularly, and I always will. I get the BIG wound, in some ways ...it's part of life, part of eternal life. But other questions I want to ask Him include why He doesn't prevent those we've trusted from inflicting such blatant and cruel pain. Why doesn't he stop them from telling us who and how we should be? These are unanswerable questions, I know. God doesn't design, create or allow cruelty ...that comes from somewhere else. It's taken me months to fight through some of the mean demands and put it in its proper place. And I have come through stronger ...God is good.
But what I want people to know, on behalf of all of my friends who live each day without their child, is that no one has the right to tell us how we should grieve or mourn. You never know what day, what moment will be our very worst. Often it is on one of our darkest, most despairing episodes that the 'welcome wagon of 'hey, I think you're a jerk'' shows up with a delivery. If you knew what this was like ...you would keep your wagon in the shed, bite your tongue and think quietly to yourself how terrible we are ..commiserate with another person who also thinks we're horrible and have at it. I did not know at 10AM on Oct. 9th that at 12:20 or so ...my life would irrevocably change ...no one does. So for the bomb tossers, for the one's who feel it is their duty to 're-direct' us, 'save our souls' even, advising us in proper behavior for grieving, I pray especially for you ...that you are spared this, that you never stand on the ground under which your precious child lies. But ...if ever that does happen to you ...our arms will be open wide, along with our hearts ...because you would then know a shattering beyond your imagination ...far beyond ANY pain or struggle you've had. This isn't a selfish, competitive or dismissive statement ...it is simply putting things in proper perspective.
I like to tell the story of a woman who for years worked as a grief counselor with parents whose child had died. She was the 'expert' in the field. (I've met a few of these professional experts, along with the lay, self taught experts). With twenty years experience behind her, knowing all the stories, seeing the lives broken, rebuilt, broken ...her son died unexpectedly. She now speaks at conferences sharing this story. She claims she believed she 'got it', knew all about it, lived through it with many, many parents. And yet, she says, she HAD NO IDEA. Until you walk these shoes, keep advice to yourself. Make all the judgements you want, consider us creeps, phonies. Believe you would be different, better ...perfect. Just keep it to yourself. I know how it made me feel ...but to see it in someone else, so tender and fragile and hurting ...to see her in the midst of the attacks, is so incredibly sad. And its just not right.
So for all of you who've stood by any of us and just let us 'be' ...thank you. And for anyone who's felt they were being generous by telling us to be different than we are, pointing out our inconsiderate behavior and our lack of true faith in God ....start over ...be kind ...be the person you were meant to be, and if you can't, well then, just leave us alone.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
At the most unlikely moments we find ourselves looking into our own reflection. God brings people together, a beautifully woven tapestry, lacing threads intricately and smoothly, and sometimes even unlacing. I always marvel at His ways, the gentleness and perfection of His design. The unlacing can be painful though, as people you've loved and trusted step aside, but all too often not before leaving a wound.
So I look at this new face, unlined, pretty. Just acquainted, her lips start to tremble, and I ask her when. March she says ...ten months ...and I remember the pain, exquisite and deep. For some reason ten months was harsh, unrelenting. A time when so many think ...okay, on her way, she should be moving beyond this by now, should be 'over' it. I tuck us around the corner and the tears spill. She tells me she shouldn't be losing herself like she is, everyone tells her so, tell her she should be past this part. "Oh really," I say "yes I heard that too, from the most unlikely people." She tells me I must think she's crazy ..."I am too, I have my critics believe me, the one's who tell me how I should have, could have grieved, assess how I behave, take shots at my faith" I assure her. "What is that all about?' she asks me.
And so our conversation has begun. An important one, and really one that anyone who knows or meets a mother or father that's lost a child should pay attention to. The pain, agony really, of burying your child is beyond words. And as if that isn't enough, part of this walk includes some relationships that are at best ignorant, but at worst, downright cruel and selfish. I've been blessed with wonderful, generous friends that have been there for me every step of the way. I don't think there's anything I could say or do that would cause them to turn away. I cling to them ...poor things, I'm sure they could use a breather. But there are also others that have been over the top bizarre in their expectations of me ...and in their accusations. And I am not alone. Virtually everyone I've met who is a member of this club has had similar outrageous experiences with people they've loved and trusted. Blame it on us ...the grievers, if you care to.
Now I trust God with everything I have and am. I wonder everyday why He let Phoebe die, and I talk to Him about that regularly, and I always will. I get the BIG wound, in some ways ...it's part of life, part of eternal life. But other questions I want to ask Him include why He doesn't prevent those we've trusted from inflicting such blatant and cruel pain. Why doesn't he stop them from telling us who and how we should be? These are unanswerable questions, I know. God doesn't design, create or allow cruelty ...that comes from somewhere else. It's taken me months to fight through some of the mean demands and put it in its proper place. And I have come through stronger ...God is good.
But what I want people to know, on behalf of all of my friends who live each day without their child, is that no one has the right to tell us how we should grieve or mourn. You never know what day, what moment will be our very worst. Often it is on one of our darkest, most despairing episodes that the 'welcome wagon of 'hey, I think you're a jerk'' shows up with a delivery. If you knew what this was like ...you would keep your wagon in the shed, bite your tongue and think quietly to yourself how terrible we are ..commiserate with another person who also thinks we're horrible and have at it. I did not know at 10AM on Oct. 9th that at 12:20 or so ...my life would irrevocably change ...no one does. So for the bomb tossers, for the one's who feel it is their duty to 're-direct' us, 'save our souls' even, advising us in proper behavior for grieving, I pray especially for you ...that you are spared this, that you never stand on the ground under which your precious child lies. But ...if ever that does happen to you ...our arms will be open wide, along with our hearts ...because you would then know a shattering beyond your imagination ...far beyond ANY pain or struggle you've had. This isn't a selfish, competitive or dismissive statement ...it is simply putting things in proper perspective.
I like to tell the story of a woman who for years worked as a grief counselor with parents whose child had died. She was the 'expert' in the field. (I've met a few of these professional experts, along with the lay, self taught experts). With twenty years experience behind her, knowing all the stories, seeing the lives broken, rebuilt, broken ...her son died unexpectedly. She now speaks at conferences sharing this story. She claims she believed she 'got it', knew all about it, lived through it with many, many parents. And yet, she says, she HAD NO IDEA. Until you walk these shoes, keep advice to yourself. Make all the judgements you want, consider us creeps, phonies. Believe you would be different, better ...perfect. Just keep it to yourself. I know how it made me feel ...but to see it in someone else, so tender and fragile and hurting ...to see her in the midst of the attacks, is so incredibly sad. And its just not right.
So for all of you who've stood by any of us and just let us 'be' ...thank you. And for anyone who's felt they were being generous by telling us to be different than we are, pointing out our inconsiderate behavior and our lack of true faith in God ....start over ...be kind ...be the person you were meant to be, and if you can't, well then, just leave us alone.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
The dogwood revisited
Just before Phoebe died a new nurse was hired. I spent a day with her showing her the way it worked in this unique nursing position. It was funny to me to be 'training' her when I was a brand new nurse with just a few months on my license, while she had been practicing for years, a wealth of experience under her belt. I enjoyed my time with her. And then Phoebe died. Everyone was incredibly kind and sensitive ...and have remained so. One blessing was that my friendship with this 'new' nurse continued, mostly just in the context of our work space, but it is a pleasure to share time with her. She considers me a bit of a 'hippie', a 'flower child' which always makes me laugh because it is so far from who I am ...but that's how she sees me! I keep telling her to call my kids to set her straight.
I tend to see connections among people and its no different with her. She lives in my home town in a neighborhood I remember being built. Her house rests among the woods we walked through, the deep dark woods, with trails and paths leading to the Lutheran Church which would bring us closer to the bowling alley and convenience store. She lives in my old parish where I made my First Communion, Confirmation and where we were married, and the place of my parents' funerals. I tell her about town history, some of the 'political players' I used to ride the bus with. I know who they married and who they dated before that. We laugh at this senseless information and exchange ...but its a sharing of life in simple ways. Anyway, the purpose of writing about this here is a prompting from a gift she gave to me this Christmas. It's a daily devotional journal, along with a guide to read the bible in a year ...which I've wanted to do for quite some time. It started today, so when I found a quiet moment I tucked away with a pen, to make notes on my first day. When I opened the gift I quickly tucked it into a "safe place" so I would have it at the ready. But of course, I couldn't remember where that 'safe place' was and searched high and low, quietly accusing this one and that one of throwing it away in a heap of wrapping paper and bows. I did find it, in my backpack, truly a 'safe place.' The cover is a soft leather and as I looked at the cover I noticed a spray of flowers at the top ...they are dogwood blossoms. If you remember reading here the story of the dogwood, you'll know they hold great meaning for me ...and for me and Phoebe. Could be coincidence, or more likely one more weaving of lives. It felt like a hug from this woman ...and from Phoebe too. One way it seems Phoebe has made her way in my life from her new life is in navigating and discerning friendships, relationships ...guiding me to nurture and embrace ones that are healthy and balanced, rightly ordered.
The story of the dogwood is probably my favorite from this previous year's writing. It bridges generations in my family and touches upon one of the things I loved about my father growing up. He taught us so much about trees and flowers, gardens and worms. Our dogwood tree was central in our lives, rooting us in photographs as each of us prepared to receive the Eucharist for the first time in my old parish. It just always was. And the timeliness of its bloom in my own backyard one morning with Phoebe will always remain with me. Finally, at her school, on her birthday, two dogwoods were planted in her memory. Yes, the dogwood has a place in my life. Quiet and humble, but so steady and strong.
So here it is once again, remembering a wonderful blessing from 2011.
I love finding comments from readers. Most people I know, but sometimes I don't. A few were left by someone I didn't, but they were very thoughtful. I did some research and found one of her sites offering beautiful rosaries, handmade with great faith and love. The last one struck me, deep brown beads adorned with Christ on the Crucifix of a dogwood tree. She shared the story of the dogwood and the Crucifixion of our Savior, a story I had never heard. I was stunned, re-reading the source, one I favor very much because of its orthodoxy, holding fast to the traditions and truths. It tells of the legend that Christ was put to death on the Cross made from the dogwood tree. I had never heard this, but when I share this story others have ... I guess I wasn't meant to know until now.
"It is said at the time of the Crucifixion, the dogwood was comparable in size to the oak tree and other monarchs of the forest. Because of its firmness and strength it was selected as the timber for the Cross, but to be put to such a cruel use greatly distressed the tree. Sensing this, the crucified Jesus in His gentle pity for the sorrow and suffering of all said to it: "Because of your sorrow and pity for My sufferings, never again will the dogwood tree grow large enough to be used as a gibbet. Henceforth it will be slender, bent and twisted and its blossoms will be in the form of a cross -- two long and two short petals. In the center of the outer edge of each petal there will be nail prints -- brown with rust and stained with red -- and in the center of the flower will be a crown of thorns, and all who see this will remember." - Fisheaters.com
For me, God is letting me know He understands my cross, my loss, and it is united to His own. My cross will bloom again, redemption and salvation are found only in the Cross. Both joy and sorrow coexist in the Cross ...neither stands alone. Phoebe and I gazed at our dogwood together, my cross just months away from being given to me ...but we held our gaze ...together, and marveled at that flowering tree ...together. I never would have had that specific conversation with my girl had the tree bloomed as it should. There would be no excitement to share, no past to the present story, and so, no story to tell...but there was and is. For good reason that dogwood, ever faithful, waited to bloom just for me at that moment in time.
One more grace granted, one more abundant showing of His love for this sad mom, missing, so very, very much one extraordinary daughter. He lets me know too, that she knows ...she really does, and in some way, she is helping me carry the burden.
I held a branch in my hand today to see the rust stained tips, edged with crimson ...it blooms again. The Cross of death became the Cross of life ...for all time, for everyone. The humble dogwood ...
May you be blessed with the grace of Divine Mercy on this great feast day.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen
I tend to see connections among people and its no different with her. She lives in my home town in a neighborhood I remember being built. Her house rests among the woods we walked through, the deep dark woods, with trails and paths leading to the Lutheran Church which would bring us closer to the bowling alley and convenience store. She lives in my old parish where I made my First Communion, Confirmation and where we were married, and the place of my parents' funerals. I tell her about town history, some of the 'political players' I used to ride the bus with. I know who they married and who they dated before that. We laugh at this senseless information and exchange ...but its a sharing of life in simple ways. Anyway, the purpose of writing about this here is a prompting from a gift she gave to me this Christmas. It's a daily devotional journal, along with a guide to read the bible in a year ...which I've wanted to do for quite some time. It started today, so when I found a quiet moment I tucked away with a pen, to make notes on my first day. When I opened the gift I quickly tucked it into a "safe place" so I would have it at the ready. But of course, I couldn't remember where that 'safe place' was and searched high and low, quietly accusing this one and that one of throwing it away in a heap of wrapping paper and bows. I did find it, in my backpack, truly a 'safe place.' The cover is a soft leather and as I looked at the cover I noticed a spray of flowers at the top ...they are dogwood blossoms. If you remember reading here the story of the dogwood, you'll know they hold great meaning for me ...and for me and Phoebe. Could be coincidence, or more likely one more weaving of lives. It felt like a hug from this woman ...and from Phoebe too. One way it seems Phoebe has made her way in my life from her new life is in navigating and discerning friendships, relationships ...guiding me to nurture and embrace ones that are healthy and balanced, rightly ordered.
The story of the dogwood is probably my favorite from this previous year's writing. It bridges generations in my family and touches upon one of the things I loved about my father growing up. He taught us so much about trees and flowers, gardens and worms. Our dogwood tree was central in our lives, rooting us in photographs as each of us prepared to receive the Eucharist for the first time in my old parish. It just always was. And the timeliness of its bloom in my own backyard one morning with Phoebe will always remain with me. Finally, at her school, on her birthday, two dogwoods were planted in her memory. Yes, the dogwood has a place in my life. Quiet and humble, but so steady and strong.
So here it is once again, remembering a wonderful blessing from 2011.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
The Dogwood
When I was growing up one of the first flowers of spring were those on the sparse branches of the dogwood tree sitting in our front yard. It was just off the driveway and no matter what door we went out, it would catch our eye. I always noticed it, but really thought nothing of it. It wasn't a very big tree and it was far less lush than the crabapple or the incredible cluster of the cherry tree. This simple tree inspired no oohs and ahhs, but it never let us down. It was the first to bloom. My father was a bit of an amateur arborist, and he taught us quite a bit about the rhythms of nature, when things would bloom, heading off in search of pussy willows beyond our own yard, and cutting branch after branch of whatever was flowering at the time. But he never cut branches of the dogwood ...the bouquet was always ready for us just outside the door. Anyone making their First Communion would pose in front of that tree to have a picture taken, so it earned its place in our hearts and our storybooks. It was steady, sturdy, reliable ....but not nearly as grandstanding as most flowering trees. I hadn't thought too much of that tree until last year. In our backyard now is a tree that for the first three springs did nothing. It annoyed me a bit and I'd decided to cut it down. There was more I could do with that gardening space, perhaps a lilac, a cherry ....something that made a statement ...delighted me in the spring. Incredibly, just as I had firmed up my decision to chop down the tree ...it bloomed. One morning, I noticed buds, tiny ... Hmm, I thought. The following morning it had unfurled the tiny buds and there were the flowers of the dogwood. I was so, so excited and greatly relieved I had not taken the ax to its narrow trunk. What a gift! I loved the simplicity of this tree, some branches barely had leaves, never mind blossoms ...and that appealed to me even more, the starkness only augmenting the beautiful simplicity. Phoebe arrived in the kitchen and joined me at the window. "See that tree, I was going to cut it down." I said. "Why?" she asked, not a fan of disturbing nature. I told her it hadn't bloomed in all the time we had been in this house, and I was totally surprised to see those beautiful flowers now. She listened to my excitement, knowing how much I love gardens and flowers and flowering trees. I told her about my childhood dogwood. She had smiled and laughed, listening to my tales and love of the dogwood. And that was the end of that, so I thought. But God and the dogwood had more for me, and God in the richness of His wisdom and His exquisite intimacy waited for the time when I could see the weaving of His grace ...how that day of the dogwood conversation was orchestrated so that I might understand something greater.I love finding comments from readers. Most people I know, but sometimes I don't. A few were left by someone I didn't, but they were very thoughtful. I did some research and found one of her sites offering beautiful rosaries, handmade with great faith and love. The last one struck me, deep brown beads adorned with Christ on the Crucifix of a dogwood tree. She shared the story of the dogwood and the Crucifixion of our Savior, a story I had never heard. I was stunned, re-reading the source, one I favor very much because of its orthodoxy, holding fast to the traditions and truths. It tells of the legend that Christ was put to death on the Cross made from the dogwood tree. I had never heard this, but when I share this story others have ... I guess I wasn't meant to know until now.
"It is said at the time of the Crucifixion, the dogwood was comparable in size to the oak tree and other monarchs of the forest. Because of its firmness and strength it was selected as the timber for the Cross, but to be put to such a cruel use greatly distressed the tree. Sensing this, the crucified Jesus in His gentle pity for the sorrow and suffering of all said to it: "Because of your sorrow and pity for My sufferings, never again will the dogwood tree grow large enough to be used as a gibbet. Henceforth it will be slender, bent and twisted and its blossoms will be in the form of a cross -- two long and two short petals. In the center of the outer edge of each petal there will be nail prints -- brown with rust and stained with red -- and in the center of the flower will be a crown of thorns, and all who see this will remember." - Fisheaters.com
For me, God is letting me know He understands my cross, my loss, and it is united to His own. My cross will bloom again, redemption and salvation are found only in the Cross. Both joy and sorrow coexist in the Cross ...neither stands alone. Phoebe and I gazed at our dogwood together, my cross just months away from being given to me ...but we held our gaze ...together, and marveled at that flowering tree ...together. I never would have had that specific conversation with my girl had the tree bloomed as it should. There would be no excitement to share, no past to the present story, and so, no story to tell...but there was and is. For good reason that dogwood, ever faithful, waited to bloom just for me at that moment in time.
One more grace granted, one more abundant showing of His love for this sad mom, missing, so very, very much one extraordinary daughter. He lets me know too, that she knows ...she really does, and in some way, she is helping me carry the burden.
I held a branch in my hand today to see the rust stained tips, edged with crimson ...it blooms again. The Cross of death became the Cross of life ...for all time, for everyone. The humble dogwood ...
May you be blessed with the grace of Divine Mercy on this great feast day.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen
Solemnity of Mary
This was passed along by a friend, and then another. It's a beautiful story of one man's conversion, redemption and the fruit of that for other souls. On this great feast day, it gives us hope that we might one day find some redemption, some grace for conversion that would make us more pleasing to God. A new year inspires us with new resolve, increased desire ...this story points towards that even in the most dire of circumstances. Our own conversion can be a vessel of love and conversion for others. I know I pray for that for all those I love. A new year is begun in great hope and trust. Happy New Year!
To read the comments related to this article, and other stories like it click on the link below.
http://www.mysticsofthechurch.com/2011/12/miraculous-story-of-claude-newman-his.html
The miraculous story of Claude Newman & his conversion through the intercession of the Virgin Mary
The remarkable true story of the miraculous intercession of the Virgin Mary in 1944 to prisoner Claude Newman of Mississippi
-The Virgin Mary appears in a series of visions through the intercession of the Miraculous Medal and converts two men on death row.
By: Glenn Dallaire
Claude Newman was an African American man who was born on December 1, 1923 to Willie and Floretta (Young) Newman in Stuttgart, Arkansas. In 1928, Claude’s father Willie takes Claude and his older brother away from their mother for unknown reasons, and they are brought to their grandmother, Ellen Newman, of Bovina, Warren County, Mississippi.
In 1939, Claude's beloved grandmother, Ellen Newman, marries a man named Sid Cook. Soon Sid becomes sexually abusive toward Ellen, which deeply angers Claude. In 1940, Claude works as a farmhand on Ceres Plantation in Bovina, Mississippi. The plantation is owned by a wealthy landowner named U.G. Flowers, and Sid Cook was born and raised on this plantation. One biographer also has Claude getting married also in 1940 at age 17 to a young woman of the same age.
On Dec.19, 1942, Claude is apparently still very angered by Sid's abusive treatment towards his grandmother Ellen, and egged on by dominant friend named Elbert Harris, Claude lies in waiting at Sid Cook’s house (Sid Cook and Ellen Newman have since seperated). Claude shoots Sid as he enters, killing him, and takes his money, then flees to his mothers house in Little Rock, AR., arriving on Dec 20th.
Claude is arrested and sent to prison on death row
In January 1943, Claude is apprehended in Arizona and is returned to Vicksburg, Mississippi and makes a coerced confession on Jan. 13. Despite protests of Claude’s lawyer Harry K. Murray, his confession is admitted as evidence, and he is found guilty by jury, and is initially sentenced to die in the electric chair on May 14, 1943. Later an appeal to retry the case is rejected by State Attorney General and he is rescheduled to be executed on January 20, 1944.
Claude receives the Miraculous Medal of the Blessed Virgin Mary
While he was in jail awaiting execution, he shared a cell-block with four other prisoners. One night, the five men were sitting around talking and eventually the conversation ran out. During this time, Claude noticed a medal on a string around one of the other prisoner's neck. Curious, he asked the other prisoner what the medal was. The young prisoner was a Catholic, but he apparently did not know (or did not want to talk) about the medal, and seemingly embarrassed, he appeared angry and suddenly took the medal off from around his own neck and threw it on the floor at Claude's feet with a curse and a cuss, telling him to "take the thing". Claude picked up the medal, and after looking it over, he placed it around his own neck, although he had no idea who's image it was on the medal; to him it was simply a trinket, but for some reason he felt attracted to it, and wanted to wear it.
The Blessed Virgin Mary appears to Claude in a vision(The Icon to the left is of “Mary the Teacher” © Copyright 2004 by Brother Claude Lane, OSB, Mount Angel Abbey. This beautiful icon is a representation of the amazing facts below. Click here for more info about Brother Claude's iconography.)
During the night while sleeping on top of his cot, he was awakened with a touch upon his wrist. Awakening with a start, there stood, as Claude told Father O’Leary afterwards, ‘the most beautiful Woman that God ever Created’.
At first he was quite frightened, not knowing what to make of this extraordinary beautiful glowing Woman. The Lady soon calmed Claude down, and then said to
him, "If you would like Me to be your Mother, and you would like to be My child, send for a priest of the Catholic Church."
And after saying these words She suddenly disappeared.
Excited, Claude immediately started to yell "a ghost, a ghost", and started screaming that he wanted a Catholic priest.
Father Robert O'Leary SVD (1911-1984), the priest who tells the story, was called first thing the next morning. Upon arrival he went to see Claude who told him of what had happened the night before. Deeply impressed by the events, Claude, along with the other four men in his cell-block, asked for religious instruction in the Catholic faith.
Claude and some of the other prisoners receive instruction in the Catholic faithFather O'Leary returned to the prison the next day to begin instruction for the prisoners. It was then that the priest learned that Claude Newman could neither read nor write at all. The only way he could tell if a book was right-side-up was if the book contained a picture. Claude told him that he had never been to school, and Father O’Leary soon discovered that his ignorance of religion was even more profound. He knew practically nothing about religion or the Christian faith. He knew that there was a God, but he did not know that Jesus was God. And so Claude began receiving instructions, and the other prisoners helped him with his studies.
After a few days, two of the religious Sisters from Father O'Leary's parish-school obtained permission from the warden to come to the prison. They wanted to meet Claude and hear his remarkable story, and they also wanted to visit the women in the prison. Soon, on another floor of the prison, the Sisters began to teach some of the women-prisoners the catechism as well.
A heavenly lesson about Confession
Several weeks passed, and it came time when Father O'Leary was going to give instructions about the Sacrament of Confession. The Sisters too sat in on the class. The priest said to the prisoners, "Ok boys, today I'm going to teach you about the Sacrament of Confession."
Claude said, "Oh, I know about that! The Lady told me that when we go to confession we are kneeling down not before a priest, but we're kneeling down by the Cross of Her Son. And that when we are truly sorry for our sins, and we confess our sins, the Blood He shed flows down over us and washes us free from all sins."
Hearing Claude say this, Father O'Leary and the Sisters sat stunned with their mouths wide open. Claude thought they were angry and said, "Oh don't be angry, don't be angry, I didn't mean to blurt it out."
The priest said, "We're not angry Claude. We are just surprised. You have seen Her again?"
Claude replied, "Come around the cell-block away from the others."
Proof that the Blessed Virgin Mary was appearing to Claude
When they were alone, Claude said to the priest, "She told me that if you doubted me or
showed hesitancy, I was to remind you that lying in a ditch in Holland in 1940, you made a vow to Her which She's still waiting for you to keep."
And, Father O'Leary recalls, "Claude then told me precisely what the vow was."
Claude's revelation absolutely convinced Father O'Leary that Claude was telling the truth about his visions of Our Lady. The promise Fr. O’Leary made to Our Lady in 1940 from a ditch in Holland (the proof Claude gave the priest that Our Lady really was appearing to him) was this: that when he could, he would build a church in honor of Our Lady’s Immaculate Conception. He did just that in 1947. He had been transferred to Clarksdale, Mississippi in 1945 when a group African American Catholic laymen asked to have a church built there. The Bishop of Natchez, Mississippi had been sent $5000 by Archbishop Cushing of Boston for the “Negro missions.” The Bishop and Father O’Leary commissioned the church of the Immaculate Conception to be built, and it is still there today (photo left)Father O’Leary and Clark then returned to the catechism class on Confession. And Claude kept telling the other prisoners, "You should not be afraid to go to confession. You're really telling God your sins, not the priest”
Then Claude said,
"You know, the Lady said that Confession is something like a telephone. We talk through the priest to God, and God talks back to us through the priest."
A heavenly lesson about Holy CommunionAbout a week later, Father O'Leary was preparing to teach the class about the Blessed
Sacrament. The Sisters were again present for this lesson too. Claude indicated that the Lady had also taught him about the Eucharist, and he asked if he could tell the priest what She said.
Fr. O’Leary agreed immediately. Claude related, "The Lady told me that in Communion, I will only see what looks like a piece of bread. But She told me that It is really and truly Her Son, and that He will be with me just as He was with Her before He was born in Bethlehem. She told me that I should spend my time like She did during Her lifetime with Him-- in loving Him, adoring Him, thanking Him, praising Him and asking Him for blessings. I shouldn't be distracted or bothered by anybody else or anything else, but I should spend those few minutes in my thoughts alone with Him."
Claude is received into the Catholic church and scheduled to be executed
As the weeks progressed, eventually they finished the catechism instructions and Claude and the other prisoners were received into the Catholic Church. Soon afterwards the time came for Claude to be executed. He was to be executed at five minutes after twelve, midnight, on January 20, 1944.
The sheriff, named Williamson, asked him, "Claude, you have the privilege of a last request. What do you want?"
"Well," said Claude, "all of my friends are all shook up. The jailer is all shook up. But you don't
understand. I'm not going to die; only this body. I'm going to be with Her. So, then I would like to have a party"
"What do you mean?” asked the sheriff.
"A party!" said Claude. "Will you give Father O’Leary permission to bring in some cakes and ice cream and will you allow the prisoners on the second floor to be freed in the main room so that we can all be together and have a party?"
"Somebody might attack Father," cautioned the warden.
Claude turned to the men who were standing by and said, "Oh no they won't, right fellas?"
The warden consented and posted additional guards for the party. So, Father O’Leary visited a wealthy patron of the parish, and she generously supplied the ice cream and cake, and everyone enjoyed the party.
Afterwards, because Claude had requested it, they made a Holy Hour, praying especially for Claude and for all of their souls. Fr. O’Leary brought prayer books from the Church, and they all said together the Stations of the Cross, and made a Holy Hour, without the Blessed Sacrament.
As the time neared for Claude’s execution, the men were put back in their cells. The priest then went to the chapel to get the Blessed Sacrament so that he could give Claude Holy Communion in the moment before his execution.
Father O'Leary returned to Claude's cell. Claude knelt on one side of the bars, the priest
knelt on the other, and they prayed together as the clock ticked toward Claude's execution.
A two week stay of execution is grantedFifteen minutes before the execution, sheriff Williamson came running up the stairs shouting,
"Reprieve, Reprieve, the Governor has given a two-week reprieve!"
Claude had not been aware that the sheriff and the District Attorney were trying to get a stay of execution for Claude to save his life. But when Claude found out, he started to cry.
The priest and the sheriff assumed Claude’s reaction was that of joy because he was not going to be executed. However Claude said, "But you don't understand! If you ever saw Her face, and looked into Her eyes, you wouldn't want to live another day!"
Claude then continued, "What have I done wrong these past weeks that God would refuse me my going home?"
Father O’Leary then testified that Claude sobbed as one who was completely brokenhearted.
Bewildered, the sheriff then left the room. The priest remained and Claude eventually quieted down, then Father O’Leary gave Claude Holy Communion. Afterwards Claude said,
"Why Father? Why must I still remain here for two weeks?"
Claude generously sacrifices himself in an offering for a fellow prisoner
Father O’Leary then had a sudden inspiration. He reminded Claude about James Hughs, a white prisoner in the same jail who hated Claude intensely. This prisoner had led a horribly immoral life, and like Claude he too was sentenced to be executed for murder. James was raised a Catholic, but now he was a reprobate, and rejected God and all things Christian.
Father O’Leary then said "Maybe Our Blessed Mother wants you to offer this denial of being with Her for his conversion." And the priest continued, "Why don't you offer to God every
moment that you are separated from your heavenly Mother for this prisoner, so that he will not be separated from God for all eternity."
Claude thought for a moment, then agreed, and he asked Father O’Leary to teach him the words to make the offering. Father O’Leary complied, and he later testified that from that moment on the only two people on earth who knew about this personal offering were Claude and himself, because it was a private matter between God, the Blessed Mother, Claude and himself.
A few hours later (still on the morning after his reprieve of execution) Fr. O’Leary came once again to visit Claude, and Claude said to the priest, "James hated me before, but oh Father, how he hates me now!" (This was because James had heard about Claude’s reprieve and was jealous) To encourage him the good priest said, "Well, perhaps that's a good sign."
Claude’s execution
During his two weeks reprieve, Claude generously offered his sacrifice and prayers for his fellow prisoner, the reprobate James Hughs . Two weeks later, Claude was finally put to death by the electric chair on Feb.4, 1944.
Concerning Claude’s holy death Father O'Leary testified: "I've never seen anyone go to his death as joyfully and happily. Even the official witnesses and the newspaper reporters were amazed. They said they couldn't understand how anyone could go and sit in the electric chair while at the same time actually beaming with happiness."
Claude's death notice was printed in the Vicksburg Evening News on the day of his execution Feb. 4, 1944 (see photo left). His last words to Father O'Leary were, "Father, I will remember you. And whenever you have a request, ask me, and I will ask Her."
The miraculous conversion & execution of prisoner James Hughs
Three months later, on May 19, 1944, the white man named James Hughs--the who Claude had offered his sacrifice for, was to be executed. Father O'Leary said, "This man was the filthiest, most immoral person I had ever come across. His hatred for God and for everything spiritual defied description."
He would not allow a priest or any clergyman in his cell. Just before his execution, the county doctor pleaded with him to at least kneel down and say the "Our Father" before the sheriff would come for him. The prisoner spat in the doctor's face.
When he was strapped into the electric chair, the sheriff said to him, "If you have something to say, say it now."
The condemned man started to blaspheme.
All of a sudden he stopped speaking, and his eyes became fixed on the corner of
the room, and his face turned to one of absolute horror. Suddenly he screamed in terror--a horrible scream that shocked everyone present.
Turning to the sheriff, he then said, "Sheriff, get me a priest!"Now, Father O'Leary had been in the room because Mississippi law at that time required a clergyman to be present at executions. The priest, however, had hidden himself behind some reporters because the condemned man had threatened to curse God if he saw a clergyman.
Upon calling for a priest, Father O'Leary immediately went to the condemned man. The room was cleared of everyone else, and the priest heard the man's confession. The man said he had been a Catholic, but turned away from his religion when he was 18 because of his immoral life. He confessed all of his sins with deep repentance and intense fervor.
While everyone was returning to the room, the sheriff asked the priest, "Father, what made him change his mind?"
"I don't know " said Father O'Leary, "I didn't ask him."
The sheriff said, "Well, I will never sleep tonight if I don't ask him."
The Sheriff went to the condemned man and asked, "Son, what changed your mind?"The prisoner responded, "Remember that black man Claude – the one whom I hated so much? Well he's standing there [and he pointed], over in that corner. And behind him with one hand on each shoulder is the Blessed Virgin Mary. And Claude said to me, 'I offered my death in union with Christ on the Cross for your salvation. She has obtained for you this gift of seeing your place in Hell if you do not repent.'
I have been shown my place in Hell, and that's why I screamed."
James Hughs was executed as scheduled, but the heavenly appearence of our Blessed Mother with Claude Newman and the subsequent vision of hell had instantly converted his soul in the last moments of his life. With the help of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Father O'Leary had taught Claude to unite himself with the suffering of Jesus by offering his own sufferings to Him, just as we all can do for others, and Claude's suffering helped to pay the price for James' remarkable last minute conversion and repentance. Therefore we must never under-estimate the the value of our suffering joined with that of Jesus Christ’s, and also the power and loving intercession of Our Blessed Mother in heaven.
O’ Mary conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to Thee!
____________________________________________________________
I am very grateful to Brother Claude Lane OSB, of the Mount Angel Abbey, in St. Benedict, Oregon for the following information and chronology of the life of Claude Newman (Note: Br. Claude is the artist who created the beautiful icon of the Virgin Mary and Claude Newman in this article. Click here for more information about Brother Claude's iconography.)
Chronology of the Life of Claude Newman
1923- Dec.1, Claude Newman is born to Willie and Floretta Young Newman in Stuttgart, Arkansas.
1928- Claude and his older brother are removed from their mother by Willie, who takes them to be raised by their grandmother, Ellen Newman, in Bovina, Mississippi, east of Vicksburg.
1930- Six year old Claude appears in the Federal census, living with his Grandmother in Warren County. They reside on the Ike Henry place.
Late 1930s- Claude spends time in the CCC (Civilian Conservation Corp)
c.1939- Claude's grandmother, Ellen Newman, marries Sid Cook. Soon he becomes sexually abusive toward Ellen, which angers Claude.
c.1940-41- Claude works on Ceres Plantation in Bovina, owned by U. G. Flowers. Sid Cook was born and raised on this place. If Claude Newman has married, it was not registered in Warren Co. Perhaps he was married in another county, or parish of Louisiana. In any case, he is no longer with her by Dec. 19, 1942.
1942- Dec.19, Egged on by dominant friend Elbert Harris, Claude lies in waiting in Sid Cook’s house (Cook and Ellen Newman have since seperated). Claude shoots Sid as he enters, and takes his money, then flees to his mothers house in Little Rock, AR., arriving on the 20th. First time she has seen him since he was five. She is now re-married to a man named Rogers, who finds Claude a job. Claude now goes by the name ‘Ralph’.
Jan 1943- Claude is apprehended in Arizona and is returned to Vicksburg, Mississippi and makes a coerced confession on Jan. 13. Despite protests of Claude’s lawyer Harry K. Murray, confession is admitted as evidence. He is found guilty by an all white jury. He is sentenced to die in the electric chair on May 14, 1943. Appeal to re-try the case is rejected by State Attorney General. Sid Cook’s patron, U. G. Flowers, has too much influence.
Jan.20, 1944 is given as new date for execution.
1943-44 Sometime late in 1943, Claude puts on a miraculous medal, begins having visions of the Virgin Mary. She encourages him to find a priest and become a Catholic. Fr. Robert O’Leary, SVD of St. Mary’s for Colored, and Catholic County Doctor Augustine Podesta, minister to him.
1944- Jan.16, Fr. O’Leary baptizes Claude in jail with the name ‘Claude Jude’, with Sr. Benna Henken, SSpS standing as his sponsor. Just before Claude is to be executed on Jan. 20, a stay of execution of two weeks arrives. He is finally put to death on Feb.4, 1944. Claude has his favorite dessert, coconut pie, on the night before he dies. His body is buried in the historic African American “Beulah cemetary” in Vicksburg, MS. His death notice was printed in the Vicksburg Evening News on the day of his execution, Feb. 4, 1944.
A few months later on May 19, 1944, Claude appears in a vision along with the Blessed Mother, to his fellow inmate James Hughs – a white man who he had prayed and sacrificed for in the two weeks prior to his death, and who on this day is himself seated on the electric chair. Seeing the vision, the James immediately repents of his sins and is saved from eternal damnation, just moments before his execution.
1947- Fulfilling his previous promise to the Virgin Mary made in a ditch in Holland, Fr, O’Leary founds Immaculate Conception Parish (for African Americans) in Clarksville, Mississippi.
1960’s- Fr. O’Leary records a testimony of Claude Newman’s Story for a radio broadcast.
1984 –Death of Fr. Robert O’Leary, SVD (1911-1984)
2001- The March 2001 issue of The Catholic Family News publishes “The True Account of Prisoner Claude Newman (1944)” by John Vennari. This article is taken from the 1960’s radio broadcast testimony by Father Robert O’Leary.
2002- While looking for information on Cardinal Newman, Br. Claude Lane of Mount Angel Abbey, happens on the miraculous story of Claude Newman.
2003- In the early summer, Br. Claude is inspired to write the icon “Mary, the Teacher” and he begins the task of researching Claude Newman’s life with initial help from Catholic Family News, along with the research of John Sharpe Sr. of Phoenix, Arizona.
12/22/2011 -Additionally Brother Claude adds: “A historian by the name of Ralph Frasca has been working on a biography for Claude Newman. He did find the identity of the white reprobate for whom Claude offered his life. His name was James Hughs, and he was electrocuted in Vicksburg on May 19, 1944. That can be added to the chronology. Interestingly, a black woman was also executed (for murder) in Vicksburg on that same day, named Mildred Johnson. She, too, had become a Catholic through the ministrations of the nuns from the African American parish of St. Mary's. These last two findings were the work of Mr. Frasca, and can, as I said, be added to the chronology." –Brother Claude Lane, OSB
O’ Mary conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to Thee!
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Surrender
Christmas arrived. A different journey this year for sure. Last year, with Phoebe gone just a few months, it was all about surviving. It felt as if at any moment I could die. I mean that. Life was so precious and the emotional pain was devastating, despairing. But the physical pain was piercing and blinding. It didn't feel possible to sustain that level of suffering. That particular aspect resisted words and stayed hidden deep inside, but it was there. Only now, a year later, I can name it. Grief moves through your body, settling differently over time, but always settling, making a home. This year making it through, living Christmas without Phoebe was almost harder. Early on there is that great hope that the nightmare will fade and life will resume as it was. But now there is no denying the reality of loss ...the simple, harsh fact that she is not to come home. I wanted her home last year, but wanted her home even more this year. Some of the fog has lifted and the stark reality she is gone takes root in my bones. I'm extraordinarily sad and wondering about God's great plan, still trusting, but not understanding the wisdom or the thread woven into the tapestry of eternity.
I see her friends and am glad. I see their own sagging hearts, waiting and hoping their great friend might return in some way, bring that freshness, that vibrant audacity to fully live back around them.
I look at Christmas cards, families robust and full, everyone there smiling. I love those cards. We compare them over the years, how people have grown and changed. I can't click my camera yet and capture my own crew without her. How do I say ..."this is my family ...here they are," when such a one is missing.
Last year I huddled by the manger, trying to catch a glimpse ....and I did. Generosity, open hearts of others in that time, brought that to me. I will never forget that soothing, peaceful day. But this year, I am behind the crowd and I don't have the fight in me to jump up and see above those taller than I am. He knows I am there, I trust that.
Life goes on, we all know that. I've learned so much this past year, so much my own daughter tried to teach me herself. Did she have to die so that I might see the truth of so many things? I would like to hold her hand, smell her freshly washed hair, make her a cup of tea she requests. I want to make that tea like I would and give it to her so she can once again set it on the counter, blow on it, take one sip ...and then leave it there until it is cold and I dump it out. I want things to be whole again, like it was. I want her back.
And so much of my life now is about accepting the unquenched wanting, living with a desire never to be filled. Maybe the message is that the quenching, the satisfaction, the balm, is only in the surrender and acceptance of losing. Maybe this great loss is really my great gain. I can see through worldly eyes ...or I can pray for God's lens to focus for me what it is He wants from me.
I look around me at these beautiful children and know the greatness of them. They are mine for so short a time. I watch their eyes twinkle, the giggles, the sneers even ... and strive to embrace it all in that moment, being grateful for even the little annoyances.
They remind us that grieving the loss of your child is the hardest work you'll ever do ...and I must remind myself of that. It is hard, hard work for sure. And I am tired through and through. I don't have great words or deep wisdom to share here. By a thread, I trust ...by a simple thread.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
I see her friends and am glad. I see their own sagging hearts, waiting and hoping their great friend might return in some way, bring that freshness, that vibrant audacity to fully live back around them.
I look at Christmas cards, families robust and full, everyone there smiling. I love those cards. We compare them over the years, how people have grown and changed. I can't click my camera yet and capture my own crew without her. How do I say ..."this is my family ...here they are," when such a one is missing.
Last year I huddled by the manger, trying to catch a glimpse ....and I did. Generosity, open hearts of others in that time, brought that to me. I will never forget that soothing, peaceful day. But this year, I am behind the crowd and I don't have the fight in me to jump up and see above those taller than I am. He knows I am there, I trust that.
Life goes on, we all know that. I've learned so much this past year, so much my own daughter tried to teach me herself. Did she have to die so that I might see the truth of so many things? I would like to hold her hand, smell her freshly washed hair, make her a cup of tea she requests. I want to make that tea like I would and give it to her so she can once again set it on the counter, blow on it, take one sip ...and then leave it there until it is cold and I dump it out. I want things to be whole again, like it was. I want her back.
And so much of my life now is about accepting the unquenched wanting, living with a desire never to be filled. Maybe the message is that the quenching, the satisfaction, the balm, is only in the surrender and acceptance of losing. Maybe this great loss is really my great gain. I can see through worldly eyes ...or I can pray for God's lens to focus for me what it is He wants from me.
I look around me at these beautiful children and know the greatness of them. They are mine for so short a time. I watch their eyes twinkle, the giggles, the sneers even ... and strive to embrace it all in that moment, being grateful for even the little annoyances.
They remind us that grieving the loss of your child is the hardest work you'll ever do ...and I must remind myself of that. It is hard, hard work for sure. And I am tired through and through. I don't have great words or deep wisdom to share here. By a thread, I trust ...by a simple thread.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
New Friends
From the evening of Dec. 11th.
Tonight we went to the annual candle lighting service for Compassionate Friends, the place we go that has helped us survive. Everyone there has lost a child, everyone knows this walk ...and they know the challenge of living among so many others who, fortunately, haven't had to manage life without a child. So gathering together to specifically name and acknowledge our children is powerful, especially when two hundred or more names are read and candles are lit in one space. But more, that it is tied to a worldwide candle lighting for all the chapters throughout the world, and around the globe all these children are remembered. It is the largest candle lighting ceremony in existence ...and it is quite powerful. Lots and lots of tears fall, streaming the faces of big, strong, mighty men ...the dads. Its a safe place for them to miss their children. Us moms cry too, we all do.
One of the saddest aspects of living life without Phoebe is not being able to watch in wonder (and sometimes aggravation) the harmony of her and her dad. They were best friends, plain and simple. I knew that all along, but never put it to words until after she died. They shared lots of words, but few were actually needed. They just understood each other ...felt each others pulse ....loved each other deeply. I miss seeing them heading off to check the surf, discussing some idea, laughing about some quirky thing, scraping the last bit of mango off the rind, discussing the merits of apples over grapes ....all sorts of things. They debated hot topics too, but they both loved the intensity, the powerful search for the truth. Truly, in every moment they shared, they both gave their all, got as much out of it as they could.
I had my own closeness with Phoebe, our own way, but my role was to ground her, transition her through the process of life, take care of business. It wasn't always easy, but as she got older she began to recognize and appreciate all of that, knowing it was as important as the adventure and exploration. She was growing up and we were sharing more and more. I miss that too, that lost opportunity. But ...what catches me most often is the loss of father and daughter ...two peas in a pod, and how they found the essence of life in the simplest ways.
Like all the other parents there, we were sad. Songs were sung, lives were remembered, ornaments exchanged and candles lit. It was a somber time.
Last year, we blubbered through all of it, so new to the loss. How would we ever be able to live? We were shattered and splintered and searing with pain. Every day, every breath was agony. And yet somehow, a year later, with the same disbelief, still the pain, we have made it to another night of lighting a candle for our girl.
We muddle through to the social part of the night, with lots of hugs exchanged, anniversary's acknowledged.
"You made it, you did it, you survived?" I say to my new friend. Today marks the first anniversary of her son's death. "Yes, I did" and she smiles ..."I didn't think I would." Those are the simple exchanges that take place among us. Words don't manage to capture all that could be said.
The connection between our kids stops us in our tracks often. They've woven our lives together ...and perhaps theirs too. A few glitches with lighting, music, seating had one of the coordinators comment to me. "As that is happening all at the same time, I'm thinking of all of our kids and what they could be up to ...I figured for sure they were playing games with us, laughing it up." Perhaps.
New faces are in this room, people find me "Someone wants to meet you." Okay, I think, figuring they are someone's spouse, grown child ...and some are, but some have just asked around. I couldn't figure out why, until I make the rounds ...they don't want to meet me ...they want to meet Phoebe's mom. They hug me, these five or so different people, disconnected from each other ...but they all say the same thing ..."I don't know why, but I feel very connected to Phoebe, I think about her a lot ...tell me about her. There was something special about her." "Like all our kids," I say. "Of course" they tell me, but there was something about her. Yes, there is something very special about my Phoebe ...and if you knew her, really knew her, you'll nod your head. She was not a type, like no other ...she lived like no one else I know. And she died as few will. There is no romance or applause in her choice to die. But we can all learn a few lessons from her and how she lived.
New friends, we smile through the tears, laugh and share stories and usually finish with a long sigh and a hug ...for what might have been ...and for who we miss, glad to know our children can be together ...out of harms way now ...safe and free.
Light a candle one night for Phoebe if you care to.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Tonight we went to the annual candle lighting service for Compassionate Friends, the place we go that has helped us survive. Everyone there has lost a child, everyone knows this walk ...and they know the challenge of living among so many others who, fortunately, haven't had to manage life without a child. So gathering together to specifically name and acknowledge our children is powerful, especially when two hundred or more names are read and candles are lit in one space. But more, that it is tied to a worldwide candle lighting for all the chapters throughout the world, and around the globe all these children are remembered. It is the largest candle lighting ceremony in existence ...and it is quite powerful. Lots and lots of tears fall, streaming the faces of big, strong, mighty men ...the dads. Its a safe place for them to miss their children. Us moms cry too, we all do.
One of the saddest aspects of living life without Phoebe is not being able to watch in wonder (and sometimes aggravation) the harmony of her and her dad. They were best friends, plain and simple. I knew that all along, but never put it to words until after she died. They shared lots of words, but few were actually needed. They just understood each other ...felt each others pulse ....loved each other deeply. I miss seeing them heading off to check the surf, discussing some idea, laughing about some quirky thing, scraping the last bit of mango off the rind, discussing the merits of apples over grapes ....all sorts of things. They debated hot topics too, but they both loved the intensity, the powerful search for the truth. Truly, in every moment they shared, they both gave their all, got as much out of it as they could.
I had my own closeness with Phoebe, our own way, but my role was to ground her, transition her through the process of life, take care of business. It wasn't always easy, but as she got older she began to recognize and appreciate all of that, knowing it was as important as the adventure and exploration. She was growing up and we were sharing more and more. I miss that too, that lost opportunity. But ...what catches me most often is the loss of father and daughter ...two peas in a pod, and how they found the essence of life in the simplest ways.
Like all the other parents there, we were sad. Songs were sung, lives were remembered, ornaments exchanged and candles lit. It was a somber time.
Last year, we blubbered through all of it, so new to the loss. How would we ever be able to live? We were shattered and splintered and searing with pain. Every day, every breath was agony. And yet somehow, a year later, with the same disbelief, still the pain, we have made it to another night of lighting a candle for our girl.
We muddle through to the social part of the night, with lots of hugs exchanged, anniversary's acknowledged.
"You made it, you did it, you survived?" I say to my new friend. Today marks the first anniversary of her son's death. "Yes, I did" and she smiles ..."I didn't think I would." Those are the simple exchanges that take place among us. Words don't manage to capture all that could be said.
The connection between our kids stops us in our tracks often. They've woven our lives together ...and perhaps theirs too. A few glitches with lighting, music, seating had one of the coordinators comment to me. "As that is happening all at the same time, I'm thinking of all of our kids and what they could be up to ...I figured for sure they were playing games with us, laughing it up." Perhaps.
New faces are in this room, people find me "Someone wants to meet you." Okay, I think, figuring they are someone's spouse, grown child ...and some are, but some have just asked around. I couldn't figure out why, until I make the rounds ...they don't want to meet me ...they want to meet Phoebe's mom. They hug me, these five or so different people, disconnected from each other ...but they all say the same thing ..."I don't know why, but I feel very connected to Phoebe, I think about her a lot ...tell me about her. There was something special about her." "Like all our kids," I say. "Of course" they tell me, but there was something about her. Yes, there is something very special about my Phoebe ...and if you knew her, really knew her, you'll nod your head. She was not a type, like no other ...she lived like no one else I know. And she died as few will. There is no romance or applause in her choice to die. But we can all learn a few lessons from her and how she lived.
New friends, we smile through the tears, laugh and share stories and usually finish with a long sigh and a hug ...for what might have been ...and for who we miss, glad to know our children can be together ...out of harms way now ...safe and free.
Light a candle one night for Phoebe if you care to.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
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