I want to approach my Lord with a pure, clean heart. These days, these moments challenge and push me, stretch me beyond what I thought I could bare. And yet, here I am ...still living, breathing, smiling, laughing. A new wonder has overcome me, certainly tinged with sadness, but a way of looking and seeing that I didn't possess before. The way my littlest holds her head, my youngest understanding irony, the kindness and affection between two siblings ... the sky just before sunset, seem to catch my breath. I noticed those things before, but now I think I see them more, appreciate the treasure of them, as perhaps Phoebe can now. I've begged God to let Phoebe guide me. Not that I haven't wanted or trusted that God does himself, but I want to know she is okay. And when I consider that I am seeing things as she does, it comforts me. Little things matter, the noticing matters. The business of life distracts me so often, that I have missed some little things ...that were really important. I don't want to do that again. But how do I avoid that trap? How do stop the slow slip backwards? Pursue and claim a clean heart ...a heart turned over to Christ, again and again. One of the treasures of our faith is the Sacrament of Penance. It purifies, cleanses, releases, resolves ...pours on the grace and strength necessary to persevere. We bare our sole to Christ ...give Him everything ...all of ourselves ...all our imperfections, our sin. I lived a long time without knowing how to properly prepare myself for Penance ...until someone shared the treasure of examining my conscience. Its a guide that helps me look closely, invites a real honest examination of my soul ...as it may look to God. Certainly it inspires and encourages me to reconcile my heart and soul to God. I want to please Him. I often fail in that ...Penance restores and fortifies. Here is a link that will tell you more about it, scroll down near the end for the specific examination of conscience: http://www.fisheaters.com/penance.html
Think of it! If we all approach Christmas morning with a clean heart, imagine the gift we could give to Him ...and to each other.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Monday, December 6, 2010
Yes to Joy!
If I really believe joy and sorrow are often found together, and if my heart is heavy with sorry, then why can't I lean toward the joy ...rather than the sorrow? Why can't I be lifted one way, rather than weighted the other.
I have the benefit of knowing what happens at Christmas ...really knowing. In my head and my heart, a keen sense, an awareness of the savior's birth resonates as the days approach that first night ...the night the angels sang on high to the shepherds. I have the benefit of preparing myself fully for that night. Though I am waiting, it is a season of waiting ...I am also walking the steady steps to Bethlehem ...becoming stronger with each step. Should I approach with tears of sorrow? My heart wants to approach and offer Phoebe ...with a full heart ...with joy and peace. That path isn't easy ...often it is fleeting. I think I've found it, then it is gone.
This morning when I woke, I didn't want to rise out of bed and begin my day. Always, the first thought comes crashing on me ...a whispered prayer. Generally, I hop out of bed ...have always done that. But today I lay there. What was I expecting? What am I expecting? For the joy to just "show up." Appear. No, I must search for it ...I must look at it. I must choose the joy over the sorrow. Seven joys still sleep and breath (often snore!) under my very own roof. The joy is here, right in my midst. My dear daughter is with God ...just where I always hoped she would be. And the sorrow is too ...but why not turn to the joy? And so I got up ...with a nod to Blessed Mother, a nod to St. Padre Pio ...two who love their Savior, and suffered for love of Him
I think about advent, repentance, reflecting, preparing, cleansing ...getting ready for the Savior. Shouldn't God be giving to me this season? Doesn't God owe me something for taking my daughter? These are questions I've wrestled. And the answers are coming. No, God already gave, is giving and will continue to give. Is my heart open wide? No, God does not owe me anything. He gave me His son, who suffered and died for me. And, He gave me the treasure of Phoebe for seventeen years. More than that, He's given me these others, my lovelies, who live and love with me. I am stunned by His generosity, really. I am searching for joy ...I am desperate for Phoebe ...but that will never satisfy. The only one who will satisfy ...the one I truly seek ...is the babe in the manger ...God made man.
I can hold that tight right now ...know it is true. I don't like it when it leaves me ...empty, wanting. But it turns.
The path started dark, gloomy and stark, but gives way now as others join their footsteps. All of us broken in some way, living in this fallen world. But all of us intent on the journey, willing to accept the will of God in our lives ...though we wrestle that too! We are hope-filled, trusting ...that we will find the treasure. That even amidst all the chaos, the challenge, the sorrow ...even amidst the loss of a child ...we will find the treasure in Him on Christmas.
Her silhouette looks back towards me ...the hint of a smile. I walk taller today, others are coming too. Her patience leads us onwards ...our first tabernacle of Christ ...leads us to the promise.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace, Amen.
I have the benefit of knowing what happens at Christmas ...really knowing. In my head and my heart, a keen sense, an awareness of the savior's birth resonates as the days approach that first night ...the night the angels sang on high to the shepherds. I have the benefit of preparing myself fully for that night. Though I am waiting, it is a season of waiting ...I am also walking the steady steps to Bethlehem ...becoming stronger with each step. Should I approach with tears of sorrow? My heart wants to approach and offer Phoebe ...with a full heart ...with joy and peace. That path isn't easy ...often it is fleeting. I think I've found it, then it is gone.
This morning when I woke, I didn't want to rise out of bed and begin my day. Always, the first thought comes crashing on me ...a whispered prayer. Generally, I hop out of bed ...have always done that. But today I lay there. What was I expecting? What am I expecting? For the joy to just "show up." Appear. No, I must search for it ...I must look at it. I must choose the joy over the sorrow. Seven joys still sleep and breath (often snore!) under my very own roof. The joy is here, right in my midst. My dear daughter is with God ...just where I always hoped she would be. And the sorrow is too ...but why not turn to the joy? And so I got up ...with a nod to Blessed Mother, a nod to St. Padre Pio ...two who love their Savior, and suffered for love of Him
I think about advent, repentance, reflecting, preparing, cleansing ...getting ready for the Savior. Shouldn't God be giving to me this season? Doesn't God owe me something for taking my daughter? These are questions I've wrestled. And the answers are coming. No, God already gave, is giving and will continue to give. Is my heart open wide? No, God does not owe me anything. He gave me His son, who suffered and died for me. And, He gave me the treasure of Phoebe for seventeen years. More than that, He's given me these others, my lovelies, who live and love with me. I am stunned by His generosity, really. I am searching for joy ...I am desperate for Phoebe ...but that will never satisfy. The only one who will satisfy ...the one I truly seek ...is the babe in the manger ...God made man.
I can hold that tight right now ...know it is true. I don't like it when it leaves me ...empty, wanting. But it turns.
The path started dark, gloomy and stark, but gives way now as others join their footsteps. All of us broken in some way, living in this fallen world. But all of us intent on the journey, willing to accept the will of God in our lives ...though we wrestle that too! We are hope-filled, trusting ...that we will find the treasure. That even amidst all the chaos, the challenge, the sorrow ...even amidst the loss of a child ...we will find the treasure in Him on Christmas.
Her silhouette looks back towards me ...the hint of a smile. I walk taller today, others are coming too. Her patience leads us onwards ...our first tabernacle of Christ ...leads us to the promise.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace, Amen.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
The Baptist
John appears as the dividing line between the two Testaments, the Old and the New. Our Lord himself teaches something about John when He talks about 'the law and the prophets down to John the Baptist'. He is the personification of antiquity and the announcement of new times. As representing antiquity, he is born to elderly parents. As one who is a harbinger of new times, he shows that he has been a prophet from his mother's womb. He has not yet been born when, at Our Lady's arrival, he leaps for joy inside his mother. (Lk 1:76-77) John is called 'the prophet of the Most High', because his mission is 'to go before the Lord to prepare his ways, teaching the knowledge of salvation to his people'. (St. Augustine, Sermon 293, 2)
John the Baptist was considered, by many, crazy. He wore animal skins and ate locusts. He wasn't cool, hip. He simply was obedient to God's will for him. If we are following Christ, truly, we must be out of our comfort zone ...often. Speaking the truth means not being cool or hip. I wish it were different. I've spoken to so many parents recently who speak of the loneliness in doing what is right ...what is best for ourselves, our children. The most innocuous thing becomes a great affront to others. Being particular about how our children dress, especially our daughters, what they watch, material possessions that everybody has ...moves us to a space that is outside the norm. How many of us are walking this path alone, losing strength with the weight of the culture against us? But we are not alone, we walk with Christ ...and each other. Its time we spoke.
Our silence, our caving in, validates a culture that literally destroys souls. Who wants to wear the figurative animal skins ...eat locusts? Who? I don't! But, we have to, if we are to truly follow Christ. He asks for everything, not because He is selfish, unkind, unloving. He asks us for our purity of love. He asks us to not "shop" among His teachings, but to accept, as a gift, the treasure of all of it. I can't "take what I like and leave the rest." Wouldn't that be easy, nice, simple. What I fear in doing that, and have watched happen many, many times, is a slow tumble away from all of the truth. Once I turn away from just something little, I open the door. I open the door to leave. Oh, I can fool myself ...no, I won't leave. Everything else is fine ...just this one little thing ...I don't really have to accept, pay attention to. And then, something else, that is just a tad beyond my comfort zone, something that separates me or my kids from the norm. Just this one more minor adjustment. Why, its not really an adjustment at all. I simply don't believe it ...it really is actually silly. Now that I think of it, this too is simply outrageous ...it makes no sense. And now here I am. You know, God gave me my own intellect to exercise, and though these dowdy old men have held fast to this tradition, it really is dated, wouldn't you agree? I know that's what God used to teach, but we've updated things today. Surely Christ wouldn't expect me to hold to something that was true of the time He lived. I can, respectfully, disagree with God. Can't I? Because doesn't God just want me to be HAPPY!!!! Oh yes, that's right, God is a HAPPY God. He's like a butterfly, happily dancing through my life.
But here's the turn. God is not a happy God. He is a joyful God. And joy does not exist without sorrow, without suffering. Sorrow and suffering will not come until we are outside our comfort zone. There are times we are shoved out of our comfort zone ...like now. I had no choice in this! But there are more times where I must choose to step out, take the punch, the jeering, the isolation and marginalization if I am to claim myself a true follower of Christ.
The joy of the nativity does not exist ...is not real ...without the sorrow, the suffering, the blood, the pain, the nails, the wood, the spit, the gall ...the outrageous audacity...of the Cross. Without the crucifixion ...there is no joy.
How I wish I could tell you this is not true. Because then I could tell myself its not true, and I wouldn't have to endure this suffering. Phoebe could live. The paradox. Phoebe. Joy/Cross. Suffering. My daughters death has invited me into the paradox. The joy and the suffering at once.
I'm beginning to see, just a glimmer. Am I living my life to bring other's to Christ. Will my knee bend at the manger? Will my knee bend at the cross?
Am I willing to be like John the Baptist ...I am the voice of the one crying in the wilderness; prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight. "He is the only voice that announces Jesus. That is his mission, his life, his personality. His whole being is defined by Jesus, as should be the case in our own lives, in the life of any Christian. What is important in our lives is Jesus." Fernandez, In Conversation with God, vol. 1, p. 59
Let my own voice ring out true. Christ is my Lord and Savior. I await His birth ...His coming. With my daughter held close to my heart, I follow the steps of His first Tabernacle ...Blessed Mother. I am on my way.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
John the Baptist was considered, by many, crazy. He wore animal skins and ate locusts. He wasn't cool, hip. He simply was obedient to God's will for him. If we are following Christ, truly, we must be out of our comfort zone ...often. Speaking the truth means not being cool or hip. I wish it were different. I've spoken to so many parents recently who speak of the loneliness in doing what is right ...what is best for ourselves, our children. The most innocuous thing becomes a great affront to others. Being particular about how our children dress, especially our daughters, what they watch, material possessions that everybody has ...moves us to a space that is outside the norm. How many of us are walking this path alone, losing strength with the weight of the culture against us? But we are not alone, we walk with Christ ...and each other. Its time we spoke.
Our silence, our caving in, validates a culture that literally destroys souls. Who wants to wear the figurative animal skins ...eat locusts? Who? I don't! But, we have to, if we are to truly follow Christ. He asks for everything, not because He is selfish, unkind, unloving. He asks us for our purity of love. He asks us to not "shop" among His teachings, but to accept, as a gift, the treasure of all of it. I can't "take what I like and leave the rest." Wouldn't that be easy, nice, simple. What I fear in doing that, and have watched happen many, many times, is a slow tumble away from all of the truth. Once I turn away from just something little, I open the door. I open the door to leave. Oh, I can fool myself ...no, I won't leave. Everything else is fine ...just this one little thing ...I don't really have to accept, pay attention to. And then, something else, that is just a tad beyond my comfort zone, something that separates me or my kids from the norm. Just this one more minor adjustment. Why, its not really an adjustment at all. I simply don't believe it ...it really is actually silly. Now that I think of it, this too is simply outrageous ...it makes no sense. And now here I am. You know, God gave me my own intellect to exercise, and though these dowdy old men have held fast to this tradition, it really is dated, wouldn't you agree? I know that's what God used to teach, but we've updated things today. Surely Christ wouldn't expect me to hold to something that was true of the time He lived. I can, respectfully, disagree with God. Can't I? Because doesn't God just want me to be HAPPY!!!! Oh yes, that's right, God is a HAPPY God. He's like a butterfly, happily dancing through my life.
But here's the turn. God is not a happy God. He is a joyful God. And joy does not exist without sorrow, without suffering. Sorrow and suffering will not come until we are outside our comfort zone. There are times we are shoved out of our comfort zone ...like now. I had no choice in this! But there are more times where I must choose to step out, take the punch, the jeering, the isolation and marginalization if I am to claim myself a true follower of Christ.
The joy of the nativity does not exist ...is not real ...without the sorrow, the suffering, the blood, the pain, the nails, the wood, the spit, the gall ...the outrageous audacity...of the Cross. Without the crucifixion ...there is no joy.
How I wish I could tell you this is not true. Because then I could tell myself its not true, and I wouldn't have to endure this suffering. Phoebe could live. The paradox. Phoebe. Joy/Cross. Suffering. My daughters death has invited me into the paradox. The joy and the suffering at once.
I'm beginning to see, just a glimmer. Am I living my life to bring other's to Christ. Will my knee bend at the manger? Will my knee bend at the cross?
Am I willing to be like John the Baptist ...I am the voice of the one crying in the wilderness; prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight. "He is the only voice that announces Jesus. That is his mission, his life, his personality. His whole being is defined by Jesus, as should be the case in our own lives, in the life of any Christian. What is important in our lives is Jesus." Fernandez, In Conversation with God, vol. 1, p. 59
Let my own voice ring out true. Christ is my Lord and Savior. I await His birth ...His coming. With my daughter held close to my heart, I follow the steps of His first Tabernacle ...Blessed Mother. I am on my way.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Barren
I walk. I walk this trail I walked with her. It is cold, raw.
As I head out, I round the bend and see the inner harbor ...the tide is out.
I beg God to let me talk to Phoebe ...let her hear me. "Remember" I say. "Remember,
when we came here, and walked this way for your pictures." We walked and talked.
Two sweaters, which to wear. I liked the blue ...it brought out her eyes. Hair up or down.
Floppy bun, or straight. We'll try both, I think. We were happy, chatty ...we were having
fun. "Remember Phoebe?!" It was so good then ...so good. We'd weathered so much of
the turbulent years. We'd arrived smiling. What happened?
I follow the curves of the trail, moving alone, tears falling ...it is quiet, no one is here today.
I am free to talk, loud, move my hands ...just the squirrels and birds watch me. I tell her about taking over her bureau ...making it mine. Her handprints still on the wood, proof she was here. I won't wipe them down. I tell her I'm heading to Bethlehem ...we'll spend Christmas together. I Remember the priest, the young Franciscan who came years ago. He held her attention. "Be at the Nativity, Phoebe" He had said that to her. "Close your eyes and picture Him there for you. Smell the hay. Feel the warmth of the animals. Let your senses experience the Nativity." Those were his words for her. And she had closed her eyes.
I tell her I am heading to Bethlehem because its the only thing I can think to do. I am at loose ends. I am functioning ...but I am unwoven, unhemmed. I am scattered.
This place she loved ...all of it ...this place of raw beauty, design of nature. Little trails call me in, scurry me down to the water. I see you were here Phoebe. I've asked you to lead me ...you show me. Is this the dirt you stepped on too.
I look up, the trees are bare, dark against the gray sky. Why is the ugliness beautiful too? What are you showing me? If I can accept the starkness of early winter as beautiful ...then why not the starkness of death?
The trees without there leaves ...are they still beautiful? I see the texture of their bark, the curve of the trunk, the intricate design twisting in the air. I see something new in the nakedness ...something beautiful? Is this what I'm being shown? That nothing is ugly ...not even Phoebe's death? I don't agree ...I can't. That seems a betrayal to her life ...her breath ...my love ...my mothering. Her death is ugly ...it is wrong, unnatural. Trees are meant to shed their leaves ...and live lifeless, seemingly, for a time. I get that. But there is hope in the spring that I will SEE. Phoebe is reborn in Christ through her death ...but I don't get to SEE ...and so for me, that makes it ugly.
But what if all I am using to see are my eyes? What if there is more, so much more for me to see ...and I am blind simply because I am only using my eyes. There is something here, a tiny glimmer of something for me to know ...something for me to see. I'm not ready, I have more to go until I'm ready ...I look away.
I keep my head low, forehead almost touching the ground with the weight of sorrow, sadness, missing.
Move on, forward. Empty and barren I move on ...to the manger. It pulls me. She pulls me, just ahead. Mary knew the innkeepers would deny a place for her. She let Joseph knock and seek, search and ask, yet she knew. God permitted him this struggle, this empty search. God permitted it, and Mary was silent. She knew the poverty of homelessness was meant for her divine son ...but Joseph did not. Mary knew that God loved Joseph, meant for the search, his struggle to mold him for eternity, ready him for the task ahead. Mary knows my struggle, my search ...she watches on. God permits this ....permits my sorrow. I look up, Mary nods, silent. "Its too hard" I say. "You must", she answers back. "I can't", I say. "You will", she urges. " Do the Will of the One who loves you Carolyn." "He loves me? ...he stole my daughter?" "He loves you", she whispers ...I follow. Her steps to Bethlehem lead me on.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace, Amen.
As I head out, I round the bend and see the inner harbor ...the tide is out.
I beg God to let me talk to Phoebe ...let her hear me. "Remember" I say. "Remember,
when we came here, and walked this way for your pictures." We walked and talked.
Two sweaters, which to wear. I liked the blue ...it brought out her eyes. Hair up or down.
Floppy bun, or straight. We'll try both, I think. We were happy, chatty ...we were having
fun. "Remember Phoebe?!" It was so good then ...so good. We'd weathered so much of
the turbulent years. We'd arrived smiling. What happened?
I follow the curves of the trail, moving alone, tears falling ...it is quiet, no one is here today.
I am free to talk, loud, move my hands ...just the squirrels and birds watch me. I tell her about taking over her bureau ...making it mine. Her handprints still on the wood, proof she was here. I won't wipe them down. I tell her I'm heading to Bethlehem ...we'll spend Christmas together. I Remember the priest, the young Franciscan who came years ago. He held her attention. "Be at the Nativity, Phoebe" He had said that to her. "Close your eyes and picture Him there for you. Smell the hay. Feel the warmth of the animals. Let your senses experience the Nativity." Those were his words for her. And she had closed her eyes.
I tell her I am heading to Bethlehem because its the only thing I can think to do. I am at loose ends. I am functioning ...but I am unwoven, unhemmed. I am scattered.
This place she loved ...all of it ...this place of raw beauty, design of nature. Little trails call me in, scurry me down to the water. I see you were here Phoebe. I've asked you to lead me ...you show me. Is this the dirt you stepped on too.
I look up, the trees are bare, dark against the gray sky. Why is the ugliness beautiful too? What are you showing me? If I can accept the starkness of early winter as beautiful ...then why not the starkness of death?
The trees without there leaves ...are they still beautiful? I see the texture of their bark, the curve of the trunk, the intricate design twisting in the air. I see something new in the nakedness ...something beautiful? Is this what I'm being shown? That nothing is ugly ...not even Phoebe's death? I don't agree ...I can't. That seems a betrayal to her life ...her breath ...my love ...my mothering. Her death is ugly ...it is wrong, unnatural. Trees are meant to shed their leaves ...and live lifeless, seemingly, for a time. I get that. But there is hope in the spring that I will SEE. Phoebe is reborn in Christ through her death ...but I don't get to SEE ...and so for me, that makes it ugly.
But what if all I am using to see are my eyes? What if there is more, so much more for me to see ...and I am blind simply because I am only using my eyes. There is something here, a tiny glimmer of something for me to know ...something for me to see. I'm not ready, I have more to go until I'm ready ...I look away.
I keep my head low, forehead almost touching the ground with the weight of sorrow, sadness, missing.
Move on, forward. Empty and barren I move on ...to the manger. It pulls me. She pulls me, just ahead. Mary knew the innkeepers would deny a place for her. She let Joseph knock and seek, search and ask, yet she knew. God permitted him this struggle, this empty search. God permitted it, and Mary was silent. She knew the poverty of homelessness was meant for her divine son ...but Joseph did not. Mary knew that God loved Joseph, meant for the search, his struggle to mold him for eternity, ready him for the task ahead. Mary knows my struggle, my search ...she watches on. God permits this ....permits my sorrow. I look up, Mary nods, silent. "Its too hard" I say. "You must", she answers back. "I can't", I say. "You will", she urges. " Do the Will of the One who loves you Carolyn." "He loves me? ...he stole my daughter?" "He loves you", she whispers ...I follow. Her steps to Bethlehem lead me on.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace, Amen.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Forward
Part of me wants to jettison my life ...fast forward twenty, thirty years. I need to get to Phoebe, I need her. I'm empty without her. The other part of me wants to stand still, don't let another instant pass, stay in the rawness of her death. But there is not only her in my life. My other kids are my life; my husband, the life we've built ...I belong her, with them. Phoebe should be here too. There is no hope in her return. That makes no sense to me, there is always hope. How could this be ...no hope? I can't make her come back. There is no bargain to be made. I will never watch her head crest as I look for her coming up the stairs into the kitchen. There are too many nevers here now ...never again ...here.
I am on my way to Bethlehem, it is Advent ...my journey to bring her to the babe in the manger. I've met more people along the way. They have been placed there ...put in my path.
Just ahead is her silhouette, her mantle dark and full ...her heaviness leading me onward. She does not look back at me, this Mary. Onward, precise, efficient. Do not dally she seems to say, while at the same time, beware ...you will learn along the way, there are people for you to meet. Who, I wonder? Joy, yes, I've met her ...am still absorbing her, making room for her in my life.
St. Raphael made himself present immediately when Phoebe died ...even before, but it was a while before I could see. He was subtle, quiet while he held my sorrow, while he healed what he could of my soul. Raphael is the patron saint of the young ...I never knew. He was with Phoebe, I know he was, now.
A few weeks before Phoebe died, a dear friend gave me a blessed medallion of St. Raphael. I didn't know he was the patron saint of nurses. Having recently finished nursing school, this thoughtful friend gifted me with St. Raphael's intercession. I simply put it around my neck. Two years ago, when Phoebe turned 15 we gave her a pretty bracelet with a medallion engraved with her initials and a love from mom and dad on the other side. She had lost it about a year ago. It made me sad; I thought she was careless and thoughtless. I had looked, and she said she had too, but I wondered.
When we returned from the hospital that day, I went to her room, sat on her bed ...the bed she had risen from just hours ago. I looked at everything, all of her, who she was ...is. I looked down on her desk and there sat the medallion. I immediately took off my necklace and added her medallion for safe keeping. Where had it come from, so plainly laid there in clear view? It had gone missing for a long time, and yet there it was. It was a few weeks later that someone told me, quite casually that he was the patron of travelers and the youth, as well as those in the health care professions. I found some peace in that ...and there is more of him to share, but it is not my story to tell.
But all this is before my decision to journey to Bethlehem. I've only thought of St. Raphael as being there for Phoebe, but as I write now, I realize he is here for me too ...this messenger from God ...doing His bidding. Of course it all comes from God, all a gift. I am a traveler with a hurting soul. So just now as I write, yet another on this journey to Bethlehem. Now I've two from Heaven making themselves known ...Joy and St. Raphael. Could there be more? Hasn't he already been generous enough? Ah, but this is God, my creator.
I turn in the store to check on my little one. The creches are eye level with her ...she is there breathing on the baby, pointing out Mary and Joseph, the shepherds ...her young eyes living the story, being part of the story as I so yearn to be. Someone enters the store, I look up and her eyes meet mine, shakes her head. My eyes fill ...and wordlessly we embrace. Her eyes search my face "how are you.?" as she squeezes my arm. I nod "alive" I say. "You know." "Yes. its all we can do." I nod. We cry, among these holy things. Two women, hearts ripped open, robbed of their oldest daughters, both the same age. Robbed, empty. "Three years this month." "Already?" I say.
She nods. There are words that pass between, but so much more does. I've wept, sobbed with my closest friends. Their hearts broken to bits missing my girl ...watching me, and not wanting me to suffer ...not understanding ...these women of tremendous faith ...why Carolyn? And I know they are as close as they can come ...they give all of themselves. I had not seen this woman in a couple of years. Once I think, bumping into her, asked how she was, the girls, her husband. "Okay." she had answered. Now, I know what that meant. "Alive." She wants to know how Stephen, our oldest is doing. I don't think its hit him yet, I say. I don't think he sees the depth of his loss.
Long ago, when we were four ...two littles and a mom and dad ...we were part of a start up school. It was roll up your sleeves, dive in, get dirty, make mistakes ....side by side. She was there. Stephen started school there, and I spent a good bit of time helping out, with Phoebe, only two ..She had her school picture taken there. A known entity she wandered and played. That's how we were known. Stephen and Phoebe ...always together. It was that way for a long time. Playmates. She chased him like there was no tomorrow ...like he was the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Her brother.
"I never saw one without the other", this woman said to me. Always together. That's how she remembers them.
I tell her I'm on my way to Bethlehem, searching for joy ...and that I found her, found Joy. Tears stream down her face as she listens. Tells me that God winks at her ...and so does her beautiful girl. She can tell who is winking. We giggle ...the sorrow, just below the surface.
I tell her I've met her on my way to Bethlehem. Surrounding us are so many images of Christ. So many nativity scenes. Words of scripture, wrap themselves around us. We are among holy things ...Heavenly things.
The silhouette ahead nods ...it is time to go. "You will see her again ...soon," she seems to say. I don't want to let go. My heart feels more whole when next to her ...perhaps the brokenness of both, makes one that is full. We part, us mothers, aching with the loss of our girls. No words ...nothing that can capture this moment, this place we are.
What does God want from me? What is He asking? I have to listen, I know, but that is not my strong point. It is hard to be still and listen and know what He wants. I am so pushy and insistent ...now add to that I am frightened, uncertain, I am alone ...totally alone. "Jesus, I trust in you." I think of our friend and him pointing to Christ as he approached his own death. "Jesus, I trust in you." That assertion never crosses my mind without this friends voice saying it.
God has been so generous to me, undeserved generosity ...and yet, I feel it is not enough. Nothing will be enough until I am with Phoebe. That is why I must move forward towards Bethlehem. My youngest is there already ...living the birth of the newborn savior. I must go there and see what she sees. The Nativity, I must see the Nativity. I need the salvation, the promise, the mercy, the love. I need my savior ... I need my heart to know my savior ...and that went missing the moment I laid eyes on my lifeless girl. Strip me bare, bleed me dry, dear Lord, so that I may be filled with You.
Jesus, make me humble.
Litany of Humility
Jesus, make me humble.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
I am on my way to Bethlehem, it is Advent ...my journey to bring her to the babe in the manger. I've met more people along the way. They have been placed there ...put in my path.
Just ahead is her silhouette, her mantle dark and full ...her heaviness leading me onward. She does not look back at me, this Mary. Onward, precise, efficient. Do not dally she seems to say, while at the same time, beware ...you will learn along the way, there are people for you to meet. Who, I wonder? Joy, yes, I've met her ...am still absorbing her, making room for her in my life.
St. Raphael made himself present immediately when Phoebe died ...even before, but it was a while before I could see. He was subtle, quiet while he held my sorrow, while he healed what he could of my soul. Raphael is the patron saint of the young ...I never knew. He was with Phoebe, I know he was, now.
A few weeks before Phoebe died, a dear friend gave me a blessed medallion of St. Raphael. I didn't know he was the patron saint of nurses. Having recently finished nursing school, this thoughtful friend gifted me with St. Raphael's intercession. I simply put it around my neck. Two years ago, when Phoebe turned 15 we gave her a pretty bracelet with a medallion engraved with her initials and a love from mom and dad on the other side. She had lost it about a year ago. It made me sad; I thought she was careless and thoughtless. I had looked, and she said she had too, but I wondered.
When we returned from the hospital that day, I went to her room, sat on her bed ...the bed she had risen from just hours ago. I looked at everything, all of her, who she was ...is. I looked down on her desk and there sat the medallion. I immediately took off my necklace and added her medallion for safe keeping. Where had it come from, so plainly laid there in clear view? It had gone missing for a long time, and yet there it was. It was a few weeks later that someone told me, quite casually that he was the patron of travelers and the youth, as well as those in the health care professions. I found some peace in that ...and there is more of him to share, but it is not my story to tell.
But all this is before my decision to journey to Bethlehem. I've only thought of St. Raphael as being there for Phoebe, but as I write now, I realize he is here for me too ...this messenger from God ...doing His bidding. Of course it all comes from God, all a gift. I am a traveler with a hurting soul. So just now as I write, yet another on this journey to Bethlehem. Now I've two from Heaven making themselves known ...Joy and St. Raphael. Could there be more? Hasn't he already been generous enough? Ah, but this is God, my creator.
I turn in the store to check on my little one. The creches are eye level with her ...she is there breathing on the baby, pointing out Mary and Joseph, the shepherds ...her young eyes living the story, being part of the story as I so yearn to be. Someone enters the store, I look up and her eyes meet mine, shakes her head. My eyes fill ...and wordlessly we embrace. Her eyes search my face "how are you.?" as she squeezes my arm. I nod "alive" I say. "You know." "Yes. its all we can do." I nod. We cry, among these holy things. Two women, hearts ripped open, robbed of their oldest daughters, both the same age. Robbed, empty. "Three years this month." "Already?" I say.
She nods. There are words that pass between, but so much more does. I've wept, sobbed with my closest friends. Their hearts broken to bits missing my girl ...watching me, and not wanting me to suffer ...not understanding ...these women of tremendous faith ...why Carolyn? And I know they are as close as they can come ...they give all of themselves. I had not seen this woman in a couple of years. Once I think, bumping into her, asked how she was, the girls, her husband. "Okay." she had answered. Now, I know what that meant. "Alive." She wants to know how Stephen, our oldest is doing. I don't think its hit him yet, I say. I don't think he sees the depth of his loss.
Long ago, when we were four ...two littles and a mom and dad ...we were part of a start up school. It was roll up your sleeves, dive in, get dirty, make mistakes ....side by side. She was there. Stephen started school there, and I spent a good bit of time helping out, with Phoebe, only two ..She had her school picture taken there. A known entity she wandered and played. That's how we were known. Stephen and Phoebe ...always together. It was that way for a long time. Playmates. She chased him like there was no tomorrow ...like he was the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Her brother.
"I never saw one without the other", this woman said to me. Always together. That's how she remembers them.
I tell her I'm on my way to Bethlehem, searching for joy ...and that I found her, found Joy. Tears stream down her face as she listens. Tells me that God winks at her ...and so does her beautiful girl. She can tell who is winking. We giggle ...the sorrow, just below the surface.
I tell her I've met her on my way to Bethlehem. Surrounding us are so many images of Christ. So many nativity scenes. Words of scripture, wrap themselves around us. We are among holy things ...Heavenly things.
The silhouette ahead nods ...it is time to go. "You will see her again ...soon," she seems to say. I don't want to let go. My heart feels more whole when next to her ...perhaps the brokenness of both, makes one that is full. We part, us mothers, aching with the loss of our girls. No words ...nothing that can capture this moment, this place we are.
What does God want from me? What is He asking? I have to listen, I know, but that is not my strong point. It is hard to be still and listen and know what He wants. I am so pushy and insistent ...now add to that I am frightened, uncertain, I am alone ...totally alone. "Jesus, I trust in you." I think of our friend and him pointing to Christ as he approached his own death. "Jesus, I trust in you." That assertion never crosses my mind without this friends voice saying it.
God has been so generous to me, undeserved generosity ...and yet, I feel it is not enough. Nothing will be enough until I am with Phoebe. That is why I must move forward towards Bethlehem. My youngest is there already ...living the birth of the newborn savior. I must go there and see what she sees. The Nativity, I must see the Nativity. I need the salvation, the promise, the mercy, the love. I need my savior ... I need my heart to know my savior ...and that went missing the moment I laid eyes on my lifeless girl. Strip me bare, bleed me dry, dear Lord, so that I may be filled with You.
Jesus, make me humble.
Litany of Humility
 | O Jesus! Meek and humble of heart, hear me. From the desire of being esteemed, deliver me Jesus From the desire of being loved, deliver me Jesus From the desire of being extolled, deliver me Jesus From the desire of being honored, deliver me Jesus From the desire of being praised, deliver me Jesus From the desire of being preferred, deliver me Jesus From the desire of being consulted, deliver me Jesus From the desire of being approved, deliver me Jesus. From the fear of being humiliated, deliver me Jesus From the fear of being despised, deliver me Jesus From the fear of suffering rebukes, deliver me Jesus From the fear of being calumniated, deliver me Jesus From the fear of being forgotten, deliver me Jesus From the fear of being ridiculed, deliver me Jesus From the fear of being wronged, deliver me Jesus From the fear of being suspected, deliver me Jesus That others may be loved more than I, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it. That others may be esteemed more than I, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it That in the opinion of the world, others may increase and I may decrease, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it. That others may be chosen and I set aside, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it. That others may be praised and I unnoticed, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it. That others may be preferred to me in everything, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it. That others become holier than I, provided that I may become as holy as I should, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it. |
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Washing of the Eyes
It's late, midnight actually, and I should be in bed. But I wanted to write something ...helps me sleep.
Us moms spend a lot of time doing for everyone ...cooking, cleaning, teaching, healing, holding ....For me, my friendships are essential and I do my best to nurture them. That's hard though, as any mom knows, because our time with friends is often fleeting ...just snatches here and there.
Tonight I started some shopping for Christmas ...a bit of time alone, choosing a few things, looking at socks Phoebe would have loved to mix and match. But the best part of the night was seeing my friend. A late night meeting for some hot chocolate ...and a good cry. We miss her ...Phoebe. Both of us. Phoebe's best friends were her girls, are her girls. We kept an eye on the three of them ...and one more added to the mix. We would giggle over their way with each other. Phoebe ... she liked to mix it up. Phoebe and Brigid ...oh what a pair!
Phoebe: "Brigid, why do you always step on the stairs that way."
Brigid: "What are you talking about, I step on the stairs exactly as one should."
Phoebe: "No you don't, you're trying to break the stairs. Look, you've already cracked that one."
Brigid: "Phoebe, you have no idea what your talking about, that's not a crack, that's the grain in the wood, why would you accuse me of ruining your stairs."
Phoebe: "Um, Brigid, why don't you look a bit closer. When my dad sees he's gonna be really mad."
Brigid: "Why would you blame it on me? Do you have any wood glue, or a nail? I'll fix it right now."
Phoebe: "You wouldn't have to if you climbed the stairs properly"
Brigid: "Can you help me?"
Phoebe: "I think my dad needs to take a look. The whole staircase might need to be rebuilt."
Brigid: "Are you kidding me? You obviously don't know anything about construction, Phoebe. It's a simple crack in the wood. Get me the tools and I'll fix it."
Phoebe: "Don't bother, that crack has been there since we moved in."
And so it would go. Like an old married couple. How we will miss that, us two moms. Watching these two headstrong girls give each other a good run while we watched from the side.
The tears flowed, no interruptions, just us two moms missing a girl, my girl. Wondering what God was thinking when he plucked her from our midst. Knowing that He loves us, loves here, and holds her close in His mercy.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace, Amen.
Us moms spend a lot of time doing for everyone ...cooking, cleaning, teaching, healing, holding ....For me, my friendships are essential and I do my best to nurture them. That's hard though, as any mom knows, because our time with friends is often fleeting ...just snatches here and there.
Tonight I started some shopping for Christmas ...a bit of time alone, choosing a few things, looking at socks Phoebe would have loved to mix and match. But the best part of the night was seeing my friend. A late night meeting for some hot chocolate ...and a good cry. We miss her ...Phoebe. Both of us. Phoebe's best friends were her girls, are her girls. We kept an eye on the three of them ...and one more added to the mix. We would giggle over their way with each other. Phoebe ... she liked to mix it up. Phoebe and Brigid ...oh what a pair!
Phoebe: "Brigid, why do you always step on the stairs that way."
Brigid: "What are you talking about, I step on the stairs exactly as one should."
Phoebe: "No you don't, you're trying to break the stairs. Look, you've already cracked that one."
Brigid: "Phoebe, you have no idea what your talking about, that's not a crack, that's the grain in the wood, why would you accuse me of ruining your stairs."
Phoebe: "Um, Brigid, why don't you look a bit closer. When my dad sees he's gonna be really mad."
Brigid: "Why would you blame it on me? Do you have any wood glue, or a nail? I'll fix it right now."
Phoebe: "You wouldn't have to if you climbed the stairs properly"
Brigid: "Can you help me?"
Phoebe: "I think my dad needs to take a look. The whole staircase might need to be rebuilt."
Brigid: "Are you kidding me? You obviously don't know anything about construction, Phoebe. It's a simple crack in the wood. Get me the tools and I'll fix it."
Phoebe: "Don't bother, that crack has been there since we moved in."
And so it would go. Like an old married couple. How we will miss that, us two moms. Watching these two headstrong girls give each other a good run while we watched from the side.
The tears flowed, no interruptions, just us two moms missing a girl, my girl. Wondering what God was thinking when he plucked her from our midst. Knowing that He loves us, loves here, and holds her close in His mercy.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace, Amen.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Lifting the Fog
Phoebe broke a social contract; she broke our family covenant. My girl, by her own hand, died. I cannot begin to tell you what that does to me inside. Someday, I might write here the details of that day. I certainly visit them enough, go over and over ...natural, I know, as I strive to live those last breathing moments with her. Suicide is a horrible choice ...perhaps the worst choice a human being could ever make. When I first started writing here, I said I might get into all the things that have given rise to teenage suicide. I've done a good bit of reading and I have some solid ideas on the topic. One fact I recently learned, that both comforts me ... and burns me is that twenty five percent of teenagers who attempted suicide, and thankfully, failed, have shared that the total time from the moment suicide entered their mind to the actual attempt was five minutes ...yeah, that's right...FIVE MINUTES. Five! Some of the reasons seem outrageous ...getting braces that afternoon, a fight with a girlfriend, not being able to use the car. The general belief is that those who attempt suicide have some mental illness ...not true. Sixty percent have no history of mental illness. Another myth is that warning signs are there ...mostly, not true.
For our own personal story ...there were no warning signs ...nothing that would indicate concern. There was no mental illness. There were no messages to me, my husband, her friends except for one which said to give her a call back that day or the next. Phoebe had plans. Phoebe had a family that breathed right along with her, played with her, loved her. Phoebe had a wonderful life. We still struggle for the answer. Why? How did she arrive in that horrible place so quickly? She spiraled ...fast.
Phoebe had to own up to two things that morning. First, after telling her dad he was ridiculous for asking her if she had her ID for the SAT, she couldn't find it once she was there. Second, as we searched her bags at home for her ID to shoot up to the school with it ...we found pot in one of them. I'm not going to write at length about that right now ...but be sure I will. There is a lot to say about pot. Bottom line ...it killed Phoebe. Oh, go ahead, say "No, that couldn't be it." Pot causes depression, decreased impulse control (in an already compromised, undeveloped frontal lobe), and it causes paranoia. Pot stays in your brain for thirty days. It is ten times stronger today then when I was growing up. It is often laced with heroin and/or other drugs. It is targeted to the young, often sold with "teaser" packs of heroin "for free." Some of the smartest kids I know smoke it. These kids are indestructible ...can't happen to them. Really? Unfortunately, one of the biggest reasons it is so prevalent among our teenagers is because there's more than enough adults out there telling them its not a big deal. Oh, and there's plenty of web sites telling our kids how to smoke it at home without getting caught. I have kids telling me about friends who smoke it with there parents. Cool!?????????????????? I know parents worried about their kids smoking it, who've spoken to their friends' parents, who giggle because its not a big deal. How about this? Try finding your daughter dead ...then tell me pot isn't a big deal. Every professional we've spoken to from MD's, PhD's to social workers, and there have been plenty, have confirmed for us that Phoebe died because of pot. Did she have stress, sure she did, like most kids on the brink of adulthood. Would that have killed her? No. Would adding pot to the mix kill her? It already did! We had no idea she was using pot. She hid it well ...she learned from the best. Are we checked out parents ...not by a long shot ...we're just not all that hip, I guess. We believe in old fashioned, honest, open conversations, staying up for your kids, greeting them at the door, calling their friends parents to make sure the stories are true ...you know, all that old fashioned involved parent kind of thing. Sorry to be sarcastic ...but while we've been busy instilling strong character in our children, someone was lying to our daughter ...telling her we were odd ...throwbacks, quaint, not quite hip enough ...not quite part of the "hey, anything goes crowd."
Pot is not a simple, little weed growing in nature that can offer relaxation and a sense of "wow." Find me a heroin addict that didn't start with pot. Don't believe me? This new life I lead has introduced me to a whole slew of parents who've lost children to drugs in their twenties, thirties, forties, fifties. Guess what they all started using as a teenager ....pot. No kidding. "So," some may say, "I'm pushing sixty and I light up every now and then, never did me any harm." One response ...stay away from my kids, and while you're at it ...keep your own kids away from mine. I've been down that road already ...didn't work out so well.
Can you sense that I'm a bit ANGRY? Our culture is in shambles ... and the only thing that will rebuild it is family ...honest to goodness family. Families have been under attack now for far too long. Families who live close to God ...well, isn't that silly. One of my friends told a priest we both know about Phoebe's death. "She was a victim of the culture" he said. Pretty much in a nutshell! We had lots and lots of conversations with Phoebe about life. She challenged us a lot ...pushed us hard, backed us into corners ...she examined with the most precise lens. We held our ground ...God is always first ...always!
She had found a lovely stride ...more comfortable in herself, sharing that our observations, our beliefs were real, authentic. "You actually live what you believe, not like so many others who claim believing something they don't even live themselves," was one of the last conversations I had with her. She asked questions. She lived and she loved ...and she hurt, very, very deeply, for a few minutes of her life. How I wish I was there for her. I always will. And while I struggled early on with where her soul might be, because of what she had done ...taken her own life, I've come to know that she is with the One she searched for her whole life. The One she knew so well when she was younger. Phoebe has found Him, her Christ, for sure, once again.
A dear friend gave me a CD last week that she thought I would like. I've listened non-stop to it in my car; it lets the tears run free, cleansing, making room for the strength. One of the songs captures what I think it could have been like for Phoebe. As orthodox Catholics, we believe in judgment ... there is a hell ...a real place, probably for people who lead our children and others astray (gulp!) and there's quite a bit of that going on right about now! There is a Heaven for sure, and living in Christ gives us the hope and promise of that perfect place. And there is this place called Purgatory that Christ spoke of ...a place of purification, a cleansing of the soul. That's where most of us end up initially, but the promise of Heaven, once in Purgatory is certain ...and of course, that whole God out of time thing, is really tough to wrap our heads around. I'm rambling. My point is that I am not sure if Phoebe is in Heaven yet. I have some very faithful friends who are certain of this. I pray for this. But if she isn't, it's because of the hurt she has inflicted on her family ...the devastation she left us, and her friends with, and because she forgot to trust God. We will pick up the pieces for the rest of our lives. But this song ...well, it sings to my soul. I know Phoebe must have felt extraordinary shame when she realized we had found the pot, after she forgot her ID. There was no need ...we've weathered many storms, this just would have been another that we would see our way through. But, I think she felt a deep shame that led her to darkness, a paranoid darkness like no other ...thanks to the pot living in her brain. I know in my heart, my heavenly mother, Mary, took hold of her immediately. Soon after, this is what I see ...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hH7m-q2G8jA&feature=related
May you all have the peace of Christ in your hearts.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
For our own personal story ...there were no warning signs ...nothing that would indicate concern. There was no mental illness. There were no messages to me, my husband, her friends except for one which said to give her a call back that day or the next. Phoebe had plans. Phoebe had a family that breathed right along with her, played with her, loved her. Phoebe had a wonderful life. We still struggle for the answer. Why? How did she arrive in that horrible place so quickly? She spiraled ...fast.
Phoebe had to own up to two things that morning. First, after telling her dad he was ridiculous for asking her if she had her ID for the SAT, she couldn't find it once she was there. Second, as we searched her bags at home for her ID to shoot up to the school with it ...we found pot in one of them. I'm not going to write at length about that right now ...but be sure I will. There is a lot to say about pot. Bottom line ...it killed Phoebe. Oh, go ahead, say "No, that couldn't be it." Pot causes depression, decreased impulse control (in an already compromised, undeveloped frontal lobe), and it causes paranoia. Pot stays in your brain for thirty days. It is ten times stronger today then when I was growing up. It is often laced with heroin and/or other drugs. It is targeted to the young, often sold with "teaser" packs of heroin "for free." Some of the smartest kids I know smoke it. These kids are indestructible ...can't happen to them. Really? Unfortunately, one of the biggest reasons it is so prevalent among our teenagers is because there's more than enough adults out there telling them its not a big deal. Oh, and there's plenty of web sites telling our kids how to smoke it at home without getting caught. I have kids telling me about friends who smoke it with there parents. Cool!?????????????????? I know parents worried about their kids smoking it, who've spoken to their friends' parents, who giggle because its not a big deal. How about this? Try finding your daughter dead ...then tell me pot isn't a big deal. Every professional we've spoken to from MD's, PhD's to social workers, and there have been plenty, have confirmed for us that Phoebe died because of pot. Did she have stress, sure she did, like most kids on the brink of adulthood. Would that have killed her? No. Would adding pot to the mix kill her? It already did! We had no idea she was using pot. She hid it well ...she learned from the best. Are we checked out parents ...not by a long shot ...we're just not all that hip, I guess. We believe in old fashioned, honest, open conversations, staying up for your kids, greeting them at the door, calling their friends parents to make sure the stories are true ...you know, all that old fashioned involved parent kind of thing. Sorry to be sarcastic ...but while we've been busy instilling strong character in our children, someone was lying to our daughter ...telling her we were odd ...throwbacks, quaint, not quite hip enough ...not quite part of the "hey, anything goes crowd."
Pot is not a simple, little weed growing in nature that can offer relaxation and a sense of "wow." Find me a heroin addict that didn't start with pot. Don't believe me? This new life I lead has introduced me to a whole slew of parents who've lost children to drugs in their twenties, thirties, forties, fifties. Guess what they all started using as a teenager ....pot. No kidding. "So," some may say, "I'm pushing sixty and I light up every now and then, never did me any harm." One response ...stay away from my kids, and while you're at it ...keep your own kids away from mine. I've been down that road already ...didn't work out so well.
Can you sense that I'm a bit ANGRY? Our culture is in shambles ... and the only thing that will rebuild it is family ...honest to goodness family. Families have been under attack now for far too long. Families who live close to God ...well, isn't that silly. One of my friends told a priest we both know about Phoebe's death. "She was a victim of the culture" he said. Pretty much in a nutshell! We had lots and lots of conversations with Phoebe about life. She challenged us a lot ...pushed us hard, backed us into corners ...she examined with the most precise lens. We held our ground ...God is always first ...always!
She had found a lovely stride ...more comfortable in herself, sharing that our observations, our beliefs were real, authentic. "You actually live what you believe, not like so many others who claim believing something they don't even live themselves," was one of the last conversations I had with her. She asked questions. She lived and she loved ...and she hurt, very, very deeply, for a few minutes of her life. How I wish I was there for her. I always will. And while I struggled early on with where her soul might be, because of what she had done ...taken her own life, I've come to know that she is with the One she searched for her whole life. The One she knew so well when she was younger. Phoebe has found Him, her Christ, for sure, once again.
A dear friend gave me a CD last week that she thought I would like. I've listened non-stop to it in my car; it lets the tears run free, cleansing, making room for the strength. One of the songs captures what I think it could have been like for Phoebe. As orthodox Catholics, we believe in judgment ... there is a hell ...a real place, probably for people who lead our children and others astray (gulp!) and there's quite a bit of that going on right about now! There is a Heaven for sure, and living in Christ gives us the hope and promise of that perfect place. And there is this place called Purgatory that Christ spoke of ...a place of purification, a cleansing of the soul. That's where most of us end up initially, but the promise of Heaven, once in Purgatory is certain ...and of course, that whole God out of time thing, is really tough to wrap our heads around. I'm rambling. My point is that I am not sure if Phoebe is in Heaven yet. I have some very faithful friends who are certain of this. I pray for this. But if she isn't, it's because of the hurt she has inflicted on her family ...the devastation she left us, and her friends with, and because she forgot to trust God. We will pick up the pieces for the rest of our lives. But this song ...well, it sings to my soul. I know Phoebe must have felt extraordinary shame when she realized we had found the pot, after she forgot her ID. There was no need ...we've weathered many storms, this just would have been another that we would see our way through. But, I think she felt a deep shame that led her to darkness, a paranoid darkness like no other ...thanks to the pot living in her brain. I know in my heart, my heavenly mother, Mary, took hold of her immediately. Soon after, this is what I see ...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hH7m-q2G8jA&feature=related
May you all have the peace of Christ in your hearts.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
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