He's not heavy; he's my brother

 I'm in a book club at my parish.  We're reading Eucharist by Bishop Robert Barron.  Pretty high level stuff. I began reading chapter 1 and spent much of the time looking up unknown words and re-reading the chapter.  Despite the language barrier, I enjoyed the next level insight.  I checked out the audio book from my library thinking it might be easier to understand and digest in spoken word.  I still spent a good deal of time looking up words.  I think either medium would be sufficient (or insufficient) to the understanding of the topic.   Bishop Barron is a knowledgeable dude.  He writes in a way that he comprehends and in a way that by his intellect and expertise best expresses his thoughts.  However, if one doesn't focus on the $10 vocab, a personal story is on those pages.  A love story.  God's love for us.  But as much as God loves us, sometimes that road feels impossible to travel.  Trying to follow him despite the push back from society...and even sometimes from our friends and family. 

Becoming Catholic was who I was meant to be, but it felt like I was climbing up a mountain

I grew up protestant/baptist for most of my childhood.   We were off and on church goers not really staying in one place for very long. Some drama would erupt with the youth group or the ladies club and we'd move on...or stop going altogether for long stretches of time.  We'd usually go on Easter Sunday or near Christmas (because "who has time to go to church on Christmas Day?")  Church wasn't a huge part of our family life.  My Dad never went with us.  Sometimes I'd stay home when Mom & Chris went so that I could watch Wrestling at the Chase.  Sundays were for weekly trips to the Chinese buffet and trying to stay up late to watch Dr. Who.  

My Mom didn't grow up going to church.  She had an insecure childhood being tossed from one parent to the other and finally ending up with my Grandma who tried to attend a church in her town and was allegedly shunned because she & my Grandpa (Eddie) owned a tavern.  Scandalous.  The most access and exposure my Mom had to organized religion was through her Grandma Corinna with whom she lived until she was around 8.  My Grandpa (Al) and Grandpa Angelo also lived with them in a small house on Rebecca Street in Collinsville.  They were Catholic.  My great-grandma was very devout.  Mom said that if she wasn't holding a spoon to stir, she was holding a rosary to pray.  It blew my mind to think that my Mom had attended Catholic church and made me wonder why she wasn't Catholic now.  She was baptized as a baby and then re-baptized as an adult because the church she was attending didn't acknowledge infant baptism.  She didn't have a particularly positive view of Catholicism.  The only thing that she said was that her Grandma was one of the best Christians that she had ever met and that she happened to be Catholic.  Later in life I realized that her less than favorable take on the religion was probably due to my grandpa's many wives and relationships and that he (allegedly) asked her to sign a form for his most recent annulment.  In her eyes, this made her &  my aunt illegitimate children.  Of course, this isn't true.   I'm honestly not even sure what paper my grandpa asked her to sign.  I just know that she blames the Church for "making" him get those signed.  She saw a lot of examples of Catholics that didn't really practice the faith as they should have.  

When I decided to convert in my early twenties, I was excited to finally find the true place where God had been leading me throughout my life (more on that another time) and equally apprehensive about how I was going inform my family.  I was sure that it wouldn't go over well while also being hopeful that they would support my decision.  To say that they weren't supportive is a bit of an understatement.  My Mom would not acknowledge my decision being mine; instead she chalked it up to dating a Catholic and trying to please him.  My brother Chris's reaction bordered on offensive.  Understandable if one factors in the fact that he was being given gross misinformation by trusted "Christian" friends and church leaders. The standard Mary-worshiping-statue-loving-beer-drinking Catholic shtick.  At the time, I was very hurt and couldn't understand why he couldn't support me. We had always been side by side in matters of faith. Why did this have to be different?  He didn't come to the Easter vigil on the night that I came into the church. My Mom and Chris' wife, Vickie, were there...even my often absentee Grandpa and his wife attended.  At the time, it broke my heart. I was confused and hurt and angry for a long time. Looking back, I can understand a bit better that he reacted that way because he thought he was losing me as a partner in faith.  He thought that we couldn't be excited by Jesus things together like we.always had been. Over the years, I think that he has seen that my faith and his aren't entirely different. He did apologize to me many years after the fact for not coming to the vigil and for acting the way that he did. He saw the life that we lived and how my kids were being raised and I think it made him realize, if only in a limited capacity, that some Catholics could also be like Christians.  Shocking. 

I'd like to think that God used me and my family to show a positive picture of Catholicism. I hope that God continues to soften their hearts to the true faith. 

Father's Day and everyday

I miss my Dad pretty much every single day of my life, and Father's day isn't any different...it hurts no matter the date.  Sometimes, the ache hits me so hard that it takes my breath.  Snapshots both joyful and heartbreaking take over my thoughts at any given moment of the day.  I try to focus on the good, but some of the more terrible moments tend to drag me back to the same feeling I had the first time I lived them.  It's interesting how you don't quite understand something until you live through a similar experience...and then once you do you can empathize...and even feel guilty for not being more understanding to those who've gone through it before you. 

I used to just look at accidents reported on the news and just turn the channel.  Now, I understand that behind that report is a real person...someone's wife, or dad...or niece. 

I never really questioned death scenes in movies or how those dying of illness me their final demise.  But after watching, standing next to, holding hands with people I love while they drew their last breaths, I get mad at the inaccuracy of the portrayal of these final moments.  

On the mornings that I wouldn't have my little ones in the car, after dropping Mom off at the hospital, I would drive home while saying a rosary, and just weep.   I longed for my Dad to put his arms around  me and assure me that it was going to be OK.  Some days I would ask God to heal my Dad.  Other days I would ask Him to give me strength to get through what was most certainly inevitable. All I could do was mourn what I knew was going to happen.   I truly felt out of control of the situation.  Thankfully, I knew that I didn't have to be.  

In my mind, I knew that my Dad was going to die.  I knew that he had been sent to that final place because his body was breaking down.  I baptized him a few days before he left.  I wanted to make sure we'd be together again.  My heart could feel that my lifelong, first and best friend was leaving me.  What I didn't know was that 3 years later, the pain of losing him would still be just as strong as the day he left me.  I didn't know that my heart would still be broken.  That nothing would fill the void that he left.  

I didn't realize what all of those people who had lost their parents felt...and now I do.  It's not something that can be fully explained.  It's a club that no one wants to be in.  It's a terribly lonely place. I wish my Dad was still here. I would trade a lot of things/people for more time with my him.  I know that's wrong...I'm not proud of it...but I'd do it in a heartbeat.

I try very hard to fully accept God's Will and I believe He can make something good from any situation...but I still wish I could sit next to my Dad's bed and have conversations about aliens & life on other planets and cooking shows and other stupid things that he & I both enjoyed.  I wish that I could feel that unconditional love again.  I wish that I didn't resent people for not having to feel the way that I do.  He made me feel special and safe and lovable.  I was his and he was mine.  I feel like an outcast without him.  A stranger in what should be a familiar land. 

I always thought I was close to my Mom, but since Dad left, I have felt nothing but distance.  I have had to convince myself that she didn't just give up on him...that there was nothing that anyone could do.  She's very generous and a good person.  I truly try to see her good and feel for her like I used to, but for some inexplicable reason, I just can't.  I know that I love her, I just can't be what I once was to her and I think she still expects that.  It really is unfair to her but I don't know how to change how I feel. 

Sometimes, I see my reflection and have to look away.  The older I get, the more I look like Dad.   Some days I want to punch the mirror.  Other days, I'm thankful to see his eyes in mine.  I look at my boy and see Dad...in his tenderness and thoughtfulness...and in his little face that I can hold in my hand.  I hope that he gets tall like Dad.  I miss feeling small.  It's nice to think about a piece of him walking the planet long after even I'm gone. 

I hope to get to a place in my life that I'll be able to remember nothing but the good things, but this storm seems to continue...for how long?  I don't know. There's a Casting Crowns song called "Praise You in this Storm" that I listened to nearly every day before the rosary.  It was my release and my armor.  I didn't want to turn away from God or get mad like I did when we lost our daughter and our Becca.  I knew that I had to lean on Him.  So, I prepared myself asking for my Blessed Mother's protection and prayers and thanking my Father for all of the moments that I was able to spend with my Dad.  I thanked God for the little miracles that He had given us...for giving Dad his voice back...for allowing him to get off of the ventilator so that he could stay locally at a hospice in his final days...for the energetic Wednesday of conversations and laughing before he never spoke again. 

So, even with the pain and the tears, there are so many treasures to ponder and hold in my heart.  For all of those, I'm truly and eternally thankful.  

The Vocation

I have always known that my vocation was to be a wife and mother...even before I knew what the word vocation meant.  I dreamed of a houseful of sweet babies.  

Joy came into our lives.  We were pregnant after many, many months of praying, "Please God, please let me get pregnant!"   My Honey, though squeamish, injected me with hormones because my levels were low.  I gave up coffee...sat gently...avoided lifting anything heavy.  I was so happy and content and dreaming of the sweet smell that would come from my cooing little one. Weeks of happiness came to an end with a quiet ultrasound. Martha Delaney had died.  I was given a choice of a D & C or to let things "happen" naturally.  I chose the latter so that we could have a chance to bury our child properly.  The hormones that I had been given to help keep me pregnant had to wear off so that my body would quit being fooled into thinking that a miracle was actually going to happen.  I kept hoping that the doctor had been wrong & that we would go back in and he would say, "Nevermind! There she is!"  That didn't happen.  After several weeks of walking around with my little, lifeless baby inside of my womb, I labored for a day and delivered at home.  We were able to hold her.  Ten perfectly tiny fingers.  Big, sweet eyes.  I had prepared a white cotton cloth to put her in.  My husband said seeing me with her reminded him of The Pieta.  I did feel Mary's sorrow.  I was holding in my hands my lifeless child.  I turned to the Blessed Mother for strength and understanding.  How?  Why?  I blamed myself incessantly.  I blamed others for their hurtful reactions to our pregnancy announcement.  I was mad and hurt and I even yelled at God.  Not to...at.   Going to Mass was hard.  I didn't want to participate.  I didn't want to pray.  I didn't want to pretend I was ok with what had happened.  I finally decided that I was either going to lean on God or be against Him.  I knew that turning my back on Him wouldn't bring Martha back.  It wouldn't heal my family.  It wouldn't be a solution to any problem.  I went to adoration and cried and yelled and hugged the kneeler as if I was hugging my heavenly Father.  I think He was embracing me at that moment.  I think He was healing me in the presence of the Holy Eucharist...in the presence of my husband and kids.   Romans 8:28 reads, "We know that in everything God works for good with those who love him, who are called according to his purpose."  

I have been on a road of healing.  It's bumpy & windy & like a roller coaster...but, I keep moving forward.

Birds and the Brown Book

 Growing up Baptist, I became familiar with many "Brown Book" songs.  The Brown Book was the hymnal used by our elder church members when those folks were kids and probably since their parents were kids.  This thing was Bible thumping serious.  There were no warm, fuzzy, feel-good worship songs with guitar riffs or syncopated drum beats contained on those worn, yellowed pages.  The Brown Book songs preached a message of hell-fire and brimstone mixed with an occasional tease of the beauty of heaven.  One of my favorites is "His Eye is on the Sparrow."  It was always a staple at any funeral service and our Pastor sang it with tenderness and conviction...and sick vibrato.  It was just another song we sang to appease the old folks, but I liked it.  Traditional, simple, singable.   

Today, as I was meditating on my Lenten study, I looked out the window and saw a single bird in the neighbor's tree.  Immediately, that song came into my head.  It wasn't until this morning that I really contemplated the message of that song.  From part of the refrain, "For His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me,"  God revealed the simple, yet profound message that He is in control.  If He can provide food, shelter, and care for a bird...not to mention every other creature on the planet...then He will take care of my needs.  What do I have to worry about?  I get caught up in the concerns of this world.  I get discouraged because I'm not losing weight fast enough, or upset because I can't deal with kids' attitudes, or embarrassed that we have a tiny house.  This was a perfect reminder that there is a loving and faithful and grace-giving God who will bear any of my worries or struggles and that I can go to Him with anything.  And, He will take care of me.  It's not always the way that I expect or even want, but it's the best way and the most perfect way.  If we give Him everything, and depend on Him for everything, He will show us His will and free us from the stress of trying to do this life on our own. We're not the authors.  We don't know how the story ends.  We want to be in control, but to be at peace we need to give up our will and take on His.  A powerful prayer for finding God's will, "Suspice", comes from St. Ignatius of Loyola:

Take, Lord, and receive all my liberty, my memory, my understanding, and my entire will, all I have and call my own.  You have given all to me.  

To you, Lord, I return it.  Everything is yours;  do with it what you will.   

Give me only your love and your grace:  that is enough for me.

When the world is too much, remember that He is in control.  Give Him your troubles.  Give Him your joys.  Give up your will.  And remember the sparrow. 🐦

Why should I feel discouraged,
Why should the shadows come,
Why should my heart be lonely,
And long for Heav’n and home,
When Jesus is my portion?
My constant friend is He:
His eye is on the sparrow,
And I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow,
And I know He watches me.

Refrain

I sing because I’m happy,
I sing because I’m free,
For His eye is on the sparrow,
And I know He watches me.

Let not your heart be troubled,
His tender word I hear,
And resting on His goodness,
I lose my doubts and fears;
Though by the path He leadeth,
But one step I may see;
His eye is on the sparrow,
And I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow,
And I know He watches me.

Refrain

Whenever I am tempted,
Whenever clouds arise,
When songs give place to sighing,
When hope within me dies,
I draw the closer to Him,
From care He sets me free;
His eye is on the sparrow,
And I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow,
And I know He watches me.

Refrain

Stuck

It's been awhile.  A lot has happened.  Really, I guess just one thing has happened.  

3 months and 17 minutes ago my Dad died.
My best friend.  My refuge.  My heart.  He's gone.

And everyday it is painfully clear that he is not coming back. Every special event. Every silly thing only he would appreciate. Every benchmark that my kids achieve.  Everyday.

My mind keeps playing this wicked trick on me.  It keeps taking me back to the worst moments that I spent with my Dad.  I'm not talking about fighting or grounding...I would welcome those memories.  Where I'm being taken is to the darkest, most painful moments that will forever be burned into my head.  My thoughts don't just wander back gently; they charge in full-force like a tank, destroying any thing I might be experiencing at the moment.  I don't know when it's going to happen, or what triggers it, but I am dragged back as if I am re-living those moments again and again.

A friend diagnosed me as suffering from PTSD and preceded to tell me that there is no cure.  I'll just have to live with it.  Forever.

There are days that I am taken away so many times that my body is exhausted.  Like an expectant mother in labor, the contractions of these flashbacks use every ounce of energy and leave me drained; waves of tears and anxiety.  My only reprieve is sleep. 

I ache over things that can never be changed.  I grieve for something I can never again have.

I trust in God.  I trust that He will never give me more than I can handle, but sometimes I wish that I couldn't handle so much.  

I know that I will see Dad again in Heaven.  That he is not in pain. And any other helpful cliche that you've ever said or heard.  But, in my grief and selfishness, all I want is to have him with me now. 

Rebirth of a birthday

This day used to bring happiness:  my sweet niece's birthday!   There were gifts, special lunches, and time with family to celebrate a special, bright, happy girl.  

Now, on this and every day, I mourn her. At the young age of 19, she was killed in a car accident.  Everything went grey.  Sunshine dimmed and the brightness she spread faded.  She is no longer here to blow out the candles, or enjoy her cake, or to ride up and down the block on her brand new bike or give her Gigi a hug.  To actively think about her not being here is a huge punch in the gut.  My mind almost wants to shut down with the thought of a future without her in it...of every day from here to forever existing in her absence. 

In my attempt to be "normal" again, I tried to pretend like it hadn't happened.  I would function during the day and breakdown at night after everyone was in bed.  I couldn't fall asleep.  Horrific scenes would conjure in my head.  Feelings would well up and burst out into fits of tears and anxiety attacks and then, insomnia won.  I turned to food, TV, crocheting, reading.  I was upset...no, downright angry that God hadn't kept her with us.  I wanted to blame Him.  I would go to Mass and not participate because I didn't want to be happy with Him.  I wouldn't pray at meal times.  I was being a pouty, spoiled kid.  But, my perfect heavenly Father was faithful.  He was loving and the Holy Spirit eventually softened my heart and cleared my mind enough to realize that if I trusted Him in every other part of my life, I had to trust Him in this, too.  I had to accept His will. I had to believe that His plan is perfect and that He was the only one who could heal our family. 

So, I immersed myself in God's word and looked to the Biblical and Saintly men & women He has given us as examples.  One of those men was Jeremiah the prophet.  He was called by God as a teenager and in his long life of service witnessed destruction and slaughter...imprisonment and exile.  In short, he earned the right to pen the book of Lamentations.  Jeremiah knew suffering.  There was little in which he could place his hope.  And yet, by his faith-filled deeds, Jeremiah was able to relay the Lord's words, "For I know the plans I have for you, says the LORD, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope."
But, even after all of the pain, death, and damage he witnessed, Jeremiah held onto the virtue of hope.


Jeremiah 14:17 reads:

"Let my eyes stream with tears
day and night, without rest,
Over the great destruction which overwhelmst
the virgin daughter of my people,
over her incurable wound."


Jeremiah totally gets it.  He understands mourning and despair.  The crying.  The insomnia.  The overwhelming, inconsolable sadness.  But, he also understands hope.  In his writings, Jeremiah told of God's judgment.  He also promised a future of restoration.  The prophet foretold of a New Covenant, and that became fulfilled through Jesus.  Our Savior brought about new hope for eternal life by dying for our sins and opening Heaven's gates. Jeremiah never gave up on what God could and would do for His people.

So, by Jeremiah's example, it's natural and acceptable to suffer and mourn. Conversely, we must also accept that it is OK to hope and heal.  Jesus is our great physician...our healer.  In Him, we have the ability to continue living and thriving and when, not if, we have those days that feel too heavy to face, Jesus is there giving us hope through His unconditional love.  He is what we need.  Nothing else will fill the void of loss.  His love doesn't falter.  His grace and power are made perfect in our weakness.  

Jeremiah, with faith and hope, wrote: 

"The Lord is my portion," says my soul, "therefore I will hope in Him."  (Lam. 3:24).


The pain of my sweet baby's absence will never go away.  Our family feels incomplete without her here.  But, with time and healing, we are becoming evermore able to lovingly reminisce with smiles on our lips and tears in our eyes. On her birthday, we will celebrate how she would celebrate: with fish tacos & margaritas, smiles & laughter, and maybe even some cake (not chocolate!)  While we lament, we heal. We will continue to trust God through the mourning and hope for happiness in our future.  

Eternal rest grant to her, Oh Lord,
And let perpetual light shine upon her.
May she rest in peace.
Amen
May her soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed, 
through the mercy of God, rest in peace.

I am weak but He is strong! 💪

I'm amazed at how daily readings somehow apply to me at the very time I need guidance.  This time,  it's the one about the Apostle Paul.  Love that guy!  Started as a real jerk...Saul of Tarsus. He came on the scene and took part in that whole stoning thing with St. Stephen (pray for us.)  He continued persecuting the early Christians.  Then, heading to Damascus...💥Struck Blind by the light of God.  Total 180.  Heeerrreee's Paul!  Completely on fire for Jesus.   Except, he had this thorn...this unknown affliction that he thought he had to be cured of in order to be the best guy to spread the Gospel.  Then God reminds him, "My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness."  And Paul, the imperfect yet faithful servant responds, "I will rather boast most gladly of my weaknesses, in order that the power of Christ may dwell with me."  You may know the story.  If you don't know Paul's, you may have a story of your own.  I have several thorns depending, on the situation.  There is always some little whisper of doubt the devil tries to put in my ear.  "Don't take the kids swimming. They'll be embarrassed of you at the pool." 🏊"Homeschooling?  You don't even have a college degree!" 🎓 "Who are you to lead a group?  No one will follow what you teach." 😞 "You're writing a blog??? Who would want to read to what you have to say?"🙉  These are just a few of those sometimes debilitating "thorns" that float into my thoughts.  And like the apostle Paul, I've asked God to somehow take them away.  I've tried to find ways, good and bad, to change my own situations and to make me better.  I tried to depend on my own abilities to be "good enough."  God reminds Paul (and all of us) that his grace is what makes us "good enough."  The thorns that afflict us may just become our crosses to carry and our pain to offer up.   Our imperfections and weaknesses are covered by God's abundant grace.  So world, here I am...an imperfect follower of Jesus who is riddled with weaknesses.  May God have the greater glory through them. 

AMDG