The Price of Loving

I've never handled mourning very well. You'd think I'd have learned given the opportunities I've had, beginning when I was 7 with the death of my father from a fire in his apartment. I remember my friend down the street, a couple of years older than me, reading to me on the phone the description of his charred and blackened body from the front page of the paper. "What does 'suffocate' mean?" I asked my mom. That day a friend of my mother drove me to the eye doctor where I was fitted for my first pair of glasses. I remember my mom discussing with her friend whether to cancel the appointment, but they decided that I should still go, to keep the day "as normal as possible." That evening, when it began to sink in that I would never see my father again, I became hysterical in my protestations. It was March 1 in Wisconsin where winter still had a firm grasp of the situation, snow and ice claiming victory over sorrow and loss. In desperation my mom phoned a doctor for medicine to quiet me and my uncle was sent to get it. Later as I still cried for my daddy, Uncle Eldon admonished me that I shouldn't cry as he'd nearly caught his "death of cold" for having gone out in the sub-freezing weather to fetch the tranquilizer. Now I had guilt inexplicably mixed with grief, and never mind that I didn't feel I could survive the pain. Somehow I did. The stoic German in me rose to the occasion, or maybe it was the actress, preserving the "normal" facade so prized in my family. For several years following, I would save my tears and cries until I was alone, until one day I could no longer remember my daddy's voice and I gave up the fantasy that he hadn't really died and would come back to me.

Fifteen years later, the day after Thanksgiving, cancer would steal my mother from this life. At least this time I knew death was coming. For that, I was advised to be grateful, and indeed, I tried to be. This time there were no policemen knocking at the door at 4 in the morning to announce death's invasion. I was "grown up" supposedly; certainly I had the responsibilities of an adult thrust upon me. I remember being incredulous when my aunt, my mother's sister, said I must plan to have everyone back to the house after the memorial service, to prepare food and drink for them, that they might reminisce and console one another. I did as I was told. I must be strong, I was told, and that meant not to cry, not to mourn. So instead of later in the day, it would be many months before the totality of my loss assaulted me, the agony of it overwhelming me long after my aunt and my brother had returned to their homes, to their normal routines. And this time worry intermingled with my tears, as I was pregnant and feared what such profound sorrow might do to my unborn child. Thanksgiving the following year I spent with my best friend from high school, at her parents' house, she with a new baby, and mine a month from arriving. Bittersweet. Such has Thanksgiving been ever since.

Today is the first day of Autumn, and the early morning announced itself with torrents of rain pounding my bedroom windowpanes and the light covers proving not quite warm enough for the chill. Two years ago today, dear Vivian Marie, my granddaughter, was born. And today I think I feel the pain even more acutely than I did then, for you see, she was born with anencephaly, with the top of her skull and brain missing. We knew that she was thus afflicted and we hurried to Texas to be with her and my son and daughter-in-law when she arrived. Our gratitude was abundant that she survived her birth, and that we were able to share her precious few hours of life, keeping vigil at the hospital. True to my bringing up, I kept strong as I held Vivian, and as I listened to her breathing slowly change to death's erratic rhythm, and witnessed the sword of sorrow pierce my son's and his wife's hearts when Vivian was gone. She was so beautiful, so perfect in spite of her "boo-boo" as my 3 year old grandson called his sister's wound. Back then I couldn't yield fully to the anguish as I had (for an evening) when I was 7; I'm not sure why. But today I am stalked by sorrow and sadness. I want Vivian back! I want to hold her and listen to her coos. I tell my kids that I need a nap and I cry and sob into my pillow in the privacy of my bedroom, and wonder once again if I can survive the loss, knowing that I will, and that this is the price of loving.

The Prison Angel

Currently I'm reading the book of Mother Teresa's private writings, Come Be My Light. There is so much to reflect on in the holy nun's experience! It brought to mind another book by Mary Jordan and Kevin Sullivan that I read a couple of summers ago: The Prison Angel: Mother Antonia's Journey from Beverly Hills to a Life of Service in a Mexican Jail.

Admire her though we might, Mother Teresa's quest to serve the "poorest of the poor" is far beyond what most of us can envision. And her work having begun half a world away (from us in the USA) adds to the sense of uniqueness of Mother Teresa's call. But what about a mother of seven who grew up with every advantage, who, after two divorces, gives up everything she has to move into a Tijuana prison to serve? We can't distance ourselves from Mother Antonia as we do Mother Teresa because Mother Antonia, albeit most of us don't have Hollywood roots, is one of us: an American, a mom, a woman with a very imperfect life.

This is a book you should read for many reasons. Sometimes called the "Mother Teresa of Tijuana," the former Mary Clarke had a heart for service nurtured in her from when she was a little girl and would accompany her father on his charitable work. Now Mother Antonia, she is an inspiration not only for her ministry to brutal criminals and drug dealers inside the prison and out, but also because she embarked on this work full-time at the age of 50! She started a religious order specifically geared toward helping women in their later years realize a second vocation. There's a lot to contemplate here about what we do with our lives once our child-rearing and homemaking duties are no longer front and center.

Not only that, but Jordan and Sullivan's book presents a vivid picture of the plague affecting our southern neighbor--and us. The drug dealing just south of the border reaches into our country, as does the violence which comes with it. In our fair, free country, where the accused and prisoners have rights, it is eye-opening to discover that the poor in Tijuana's prisons are left to fend for themselves, even for basic necessities such as food and medical care. Mother Antonia works tirelessly to provide for them, and like Mother Teresa, embraces their poverty, living in a cell within the prison.

Married to one another, Jordan and Sullivan are Pulitzer Prize-winning reporters with the Washington Post. Their book has garnered 5 stars on Amazon in 21 reviews! Read it. Tell others about it.

Iraqi Archbishop Found Dead

Chaldean Catholic Archbishop Faraj Rahho of Iraq has been found dead. You can read about it here and here

May his soul, and the souls of his companions, through the mercy of God rest in peace, and may Perpetual Light shine upon them, amen.

May we all also offer prayers for our Iraqi brothers and sisters in Christ at this assault on their shepherd.