It's been a while since my fingers graced this keyboard. A virus struck our main computer, and between juggling time to write on a different computer with Christmas preparations ...I surrendered putting my thoughts to form.
The tree still twinkles and the fire is lit ...and we're all exhausted ...a good exhausted though. Days for reflecting, remembering ...
I don't like the frantic pace of Christmas ...or, really of the commercialism that's taken deep root in this holy season. I love the season and all it celebrates. Finding the quiet to immerse in its true meaning is fleeting. But yesterday, I was able to capture a little bit that fed my soul.
I love being a Catholic. I love the ancient traditions of our faith; and I especially love when those traditions are celebrated in the Mass of the ages, the Traditional Latin Mass. My heart finds its most sacred, peaceful place there. Because its a distance from us and because I work many weekends, I don't get there as often as I'd like ...or even need to. But trusting that God provides us what we truly "need" I take heart and believe that the spiritual nourishment of the Traditional Mass will sustain me as long as I need. It's at this Mass I find Phoebe. It's at this Mass I have a sense of all those before me, all those long dead relatives who'd spent years praying for their family. It's there I have a sense of all those family members to come, and the importance and value our prayers have today.
I don't know how well I would have survived losing Phoebe if I didn't have the experience of this Mass. It's so different than the ordinary form offered in most parishes. Not everyone gets the grace or opportunity to attend the Traditional form, and many don't prefer it. It takes time to be joined to it, takes time to learn it ....and yet, it is so learnable, and so worth it.
Why do I love it so much? Because it offers to God the best of ourselves: our humility, our gratitude, our awe, our submission ...our weakness and total, absolute dependence on Him. It speaks to God in a way that means something ...so outside, above and beyond the culture. The prayers are powerful and so beautiful ...and complete.
Phoebe's death broke me into a trillion pieces, and only by His hand could I or can I be restored. That restoration is every day. At the ordinary Mass God seems like the nice guy next door, rather than the all powerful, all merciful Creator. I like the guy next door, but I have no real inspiration to spend eternity with him. I don't necessarily sense he is capable of ALl things. But at the Traditional Mass, I know God is not the nice guy next door ...He is God ...the only font of all things ...always. And one day, I want to go spend eternity with Him ...and come to know Him in His fullness.
It's important for me to know God is God ...different from me, from you ...and the nice guy next door.
It is here I can believe Phoebe is someplace ...Phoebe is safe and unafraid ...Phoebe is loved and returned to the complete source of love that created her. It is here I know and have a glimmer of understanding that God's love for her is far greater than my own. It is here I find the patience to wait ...the patience to trust one day I will see her again.
I guess it's times like these ...holidays, holy days, family days, that people stop to consider what life might be like for us without Phoebe. And so more people make comments or ask questions around this time ...both of which I like and welcome. The surreal fact of her absence is always present. Her physical being is gone from us. I miss that. I shop and prepare for Christmas without her. There are no gifts for her under the tree. She was my partner for many many years. I'm not sure anyone can ever move in to that spot of hers. I carry on conversations with Phoebe while I shop, tears fall while I wrap ...wanting her here with me, telling me what to do ...bossing me around. I want those conversations and those tears ....they are my hugs to her now, for the little while we are separated. I might catch a bird diving, a strong gust of wind, a picture of her making a funny face ...and I imagine her there, eyes twinkling, her giggle while she talks ...those are our gifts to each other now.
And people ask me how I've done it, how we've survived and thrived in many ways. My answer is always the same: "God's grace." So many people begged prayers for us, for her ...and many, many still do. And God's grace has stayed steady and strong. Truthfully though, had I not experienced the Traditional Latin Mass, I don't think I'd be in the same place. I don't think I would have the trust in God that I do, not sure my heart would be open to His whispers. I wish that for everyone.
Years ago, someone introduced us to this Mass. My first time there I'd felt as if I'd come home. And I wanted to stay. When I look back on that, I see God's hand preparing me for the great loss that was to come. He was showing me the safe haven ...a place to truly be with my lost child. The invitation to that place was generous, and the continued source of faith and comfort has been beyond profound. It has been an immeasurable gift over time, for which I remain eternally grateful. Our life once woven with the person who invited us, ultimately untangled, the loss of my daughter revealed me as someone she no longer liked or respected. And yet, no matter her thoughts or mine, the Mass remains steady, constant, unchanged for centuries. Humans can change, humans can disrupt and be cruel ...but the gift of the Ancient Mass never, ever changes. And it is that constancy which settles me ...because I know, despite human frailty, human error and desire, despite 'reconfigurations' and desires to modernize the church, the Traditional Latin Mass will not change, the true Church cannot be changed ...ever. And that is how God is ...despite our desire to make him just like the nice guy next door ...He never, ever will be or can be ...because He is God. And I'm really glad I know that ... because I'm very certain, when I ultimately find Him ( which I pray I do!), I will find my feisty, sassy, one of a kind daughter ...I'll find my Phoebe.
Monday, December 30, 2013
Sunday, December 8, 2013
Candles
Tonight was our yearly candle lighting for Compassionate Friends, a support group for parents who've lost a child ...or two ...or three.
I remember our first one. Making it there back then is a blur to me. How were we even able to rally enough to find our way; it was so soon after losing Phoebe. But we did, huddled in the back, sobbing, unable to even see ...the tears so thick. I look around, lots of new faces ...new losses. I am more settled now, in this grief, though I don't want to be. My heart sags knowing the weight of the earlier grieving, the certainty you won't make it ...you will die at any moment. You live a long time with that thought, those feelings ...its heavy, heavy stuff. Beyond imagination.
Words are offered, reflections capturing what we've all lost, what we've all gained ...the oddity of losing the expectation of our whole lives with each child. Our lives changed, forever. The natural order of things derailed.
Candles are lit around the world on this night. As I look at the clock, I realize they are just now lighting in California, so the flicker of light circles the world, recognizing so many lost children. I wonder what that looks like above the earth. It is the single largest candle lighting in the world. That says a lot about the magnitude of heartbreak, and the intensity of losing a child. In our own little gathering the candles fill the room. Names are read, more and more I recognize. I've come to know lots of these children in their death, their habits, their hobbies, style, humor, intellect ...all sorts of qualities that make them who they are. And within these walls, their names are spoken and remembered ...it is a safe place, a natural place for us to share our child with each other. I treasure that!
So we are a bit ahead of others now; it's our turn to assure them they will make it, that they will learn to bear the burden with grace ...and sprinkles of joy. Hearts will always be heavy, but knowing how much we love our children we wouldn't want it any other way. The weight reminds us of how well we love them ...still.
The best thing you can offer someone who's lost a child is a memory ...a whisper of their name. Too often people think mentioning the child will bring up misery. It might bring a tear, but that's okay, it's like our hug or kiss to our child we can no longer hug or kiss! We need to speak and hear our child's name, we need to hear about their time on this earth ...we need to remember them and to have them remembered. It is the greatest gift you can offer anyone whose lost a child.
Light a candle one day for a child gone before their own parents.
I remember our first one. Making it there back then is a blur to me. How were we even able to rally enough to find our way; it was so soon after losing Phoebe. But we did, huddled in the back, sobbing, unable to even see ...the tears so thick. I look around, lots of new faces ...new losses. I am more settled now, in this grief, though I don't want to be. My heart sags knowing the weight of the earlier grieving, the certainty you won't make it ...you will die at any moment. You live a long time with that thought, those feelings ...its heavy, heavy stuff. Beyond imagination.
Words are offered, reflections capturing what we've all lost, what we've all gained ...the oddity of losing the expectation of our whole lives with each child. Our lives changed, forever. The natural order of things derailed.
Candles are lit around the world on this night. As I look at the clock, I realize they are just now lighting in California, so the flicker of light circles the world, recognizing so many lost children. I wonder what that looks like above the earth. It is the single largest candle lighting in the world. That says a lot about the magnitude of heartbreak, and the intensity of losing a child. In our own little gathering the candles fill the room. Names are read, more and more I recognize. I've come to know lots of these children in their death, their habits, their hobbies, style, humor, intellect ...all sorts of qualities that make them who they are. And within these walls, their names are spoken and remembered ...it is a safe place, a natural place for us to share our child with each other. I treasure that!
So we are a bit ahead of others now; it's our turn to assure them they will make it, that they will learn to bear the burden with grace ...and sprinkles of joy. Hearts will always be heavy, but knowing how much we love our children we wouldn't want it any other way. The weight reminds us of how well we love them ...still.
The best thing you can offer someone who's lost a child is a memory ...a whisper of their name. Too often people think mentioning the child will bring up misery. It might bring a tear, but that's okay, it's like our hug or kiss to our child we can no longer hug or kiss! We need to speak and hear our child's name, we need to hear about their time on this earth ...we need to remember them and to have them remembered. It is the greatest gift you can offer anyone whose lost a child.
Light a candle one day for a child gone before their own parents.
Sunday, December 1, 2013
Place settings
We were a flurry of activity Thanksgiving day. A large crowd to be seated and fed, close by to Grammy for visits ...a sense she was with us.
I have my candle I light on special days ...or whenever, up in the cupboard. All day I reminded myself to take it down, light it, imagine Phoebe there with me ...with us. I'm certain I won't forget; how could I?
We're joining tables and finding chairs, counting, recounting. I wish I had space for one more, just one spot to signify Phoebe ...her space. But we just can't, we're too tight already. I'll have the candle at least.
Someone new joins us, and she is pleasure. I've been looking forward to meeting her. My husband tells me over and over she's from France. Okay ..I'll remember ...France.
In she comes, ahead of her beau. I want so badly for her to feel welcome, at home. And I'm so glad she's open and chatty, quickly settling into the rhythm of us. And I banter away, peppering questions about France. Quizzically, she looks at me as I ask her how far she lives from Paris. "Oh, very, very far!" I'm no geographer, but surely she can't be that far away ...but it's all relative, I think. I ask what town she's from in France. She's so, so polite, "Latvia, have you heard of it ever? I live near Riga, the capitol" No, I say ( quietly thinking to myself 'I always thought Paris was the capitol of France. Go figure!) Again with the Paris thing, "Now how far is that from Paris?" I'm fixated on Paris; and I have absolutely no desire to go there, but listening to me you'd think I was pining away for a one way ticket. And the conversation goes on and on. She's giving more and more clues ..."well, I live near the Baltic Sea ...have you heard of it?" Yes, of course. Again I'm secretly thinking 'gee my geography is really bad, I never knew France was near the Baltic Sea. Now while this conversation is going on I'm also plotting my timing of dinner and figuring when everything needs in or out of the oven along with all sorts of other details. But I keep at this conversation about France with gusto. Olivia is across the room, gently smiling at me. A buzzer goes off and I excuse myself. Olivia follows me into the kitchen, giggling "Mom, you've never heard of Latvia?" "Of course I have, why?" She tells me "THATS WHERE SHES FROM! It's far away from Paris you know." Wait a minute I think "Dad said she's from France!" "No, she's from Latvia." The laughter continues, pitied comments, "poor Mom, you really don't know where Latvia is, do you? You must be so embarrassed!" But the thing is, I don't really get embarrassed ...I just go with it. Out I march to my guest and ask her where she is from. "Latvia!" she tells me wide eyed. "I thought you were from France! ...that's why I was fixated on Paris ...and by the way girls, instead of sitting there letting your mom ramble on and on, why didn't you chime in and correct me?" Oh we had a great laugh over that. And it made me miss Phoebe a whole lot because she would have enjoyed that whole exchange, would have probably led me on even more, digging a deeper hole ...or, redirecting me with her eyes and subtle hand signals. I remember the candle.
Our guest is next to me in the kitchen so eager to help, so much a part of the day and us. I like her; I'm glad she's here. She's 20 she tells me. The age Phoebe would be. I notice the difference of a teenager and a twenty year old young woman, traveling and studying, so open to new experiences and life. And I wish that for Phoebe ...those thoughts fleeting. I remember the candle.
It comes time to sit and my husband is insistent on both of us in certain seats. We've counted and recounted, no room to spare. Our guest is two seats down from me. I take my place, the last arrive, and we are gathered ...truly. Between me and our guest is a place setting ...empty. I point and look at my husband. "It's Phoebe's seat, you knew that would happen, she'd never let you get away without that." But we counted, I say. "Doesn't matter, she always shows up!" And I remember the candle ...still up in the cupboard. No need for it.
Phoebe winks at me ..."really mom, you'd think some other girl is gonna have her seat next to you ...what are you thinking?" And I can hear her giggle. My Phoebe ...always finding me.
We worry about forgetting them, losing the sense of who they are, how they move, speak, laugh, cry. We never do! As deep as that fear, is as deep and certain they will find us, remind us ...be with us.
I am so glad to find her here.
The mystery of God's creation most often cannot be understood, but if we just remain open ...He allows the beauty to unfold and surround us ...even in the saddest of times.
I have my candle I light on special days ...or whenever, up in the cupboard. All day I reminded myself to take it down, light it, imagine Phoebe there with me ...with us. I'm certain I won't forget; how could I?
We're joining tables and finding chairs, counting, recounting. I wish I had space for one more, just one spot to signify Phoebe ...her space. But we just can't, we're too tight already. I'll have the candle at least.
Someone new joins us, and she is pleasure. I've been looking forward to meeting her. My husband tells me over and over she's from France. Okay ..I'll remember ...France.
In she comes, ahead of her beau. I want so badly for her to feel welcome, at home. And I'm so glad she's open and chatty, quickly settling into the rhythm of us. And I banter away, peppering questions about France. Quizzically, she looks at me as I ask her how far she lives from Paris. "Oh, very, very far!" I'm no geographer, but surely she can't be that far away ...but it's all relative, I think. I ask what town she's from in France. She's so, so polite, "Latvia, have you heard of it ever? I live near Riga, the capitol" No, I say ( quietly thinking to myself 'I always thought Paris was the capitol of France. Go figure!) Again with the Paris thing, "Now how far is that from Paris?" I'm fixated on Paris; and I have absolutely no desire to go there, but listening to me you'd think I was pining away for a one way ticket. And the conversation goes on and on. She's giving more and more clues ..."well, I live near the Baltic Sea ...have you heard of it?" Yes, of course. Again I'm secretly thinking 'gee my geography is really bad, I never knew France was near the Baltic Sea. Now while this conversation is going on I'm also plotting my timing of dinner and figuring when everything needs in or out of the oven along with all sorts of other details. But I keep at this conversation about France with gusto. Olivia is across the room, gently smiling at me. A buzzer goes off and I excuse myself. Olivia follows me into the kitchen, giggling "Mom, you've never heard of Latvia?" "Of course I have, why?" She tells me "THATS WHERE SHES FROM! It's far away from Paris you know." Wait a minute I think "Dad said she's from France!" "No, she's from Latvia." The laughter continues, pitied comments, "poor Mom, you really don't know where Latvia is, do you? You must be so embarrassed!" But the thing is, I don't really get embarrassed ...I just go with it. Out I march to my guest and ask her where she is from. "Latvia!" she tells me wide eyed. "I thought you were from France! ...that's why I was fixated on Paris ...and by the way girls, instead of sitting there letting your mom ramble on and on, why didn't you chime in and correct me?" Oh we had a great laugh over that. And it made me miss Phoebe a whole lot because she would have enjoyed that whole exchange, would have probably led me on even more, digging a deeper hole ...or, redirecting me with her eyes and subtle hand signals. I remember the candle.
Our guest is next to me in the kitchen so eager to help, so much a part of the day and us. I like her; I'm glad she's here. She's 20 she tells me. The age Phoebe would be. I notice the difference of a teenager and a twenty year old young woman, traveling and studying, so open to new experiences and life. And I wish that for Phoebe ...those thoughts fleeting. I remember the candle.
It comes time to sit and my husband is insistent on both of us in certain seats. We've counted and recounted, no room to spare. Our guest is two seats down from me. I take my place, the last arrive, and we are gathered ...truly. Between me and our guest is a place setting ...empty. I point and look at my husband. "It's Phoebe's seat, you knew that would happen, she'd never let you get away without that." But we counted, I say. "Doesn't matter, she always shows up!" And I remember the candle ...still up in the cupboard. No need for it.
Phoebe winks at me ..."really mom, you'd think some other girl is gonna have her seat next to you ...what are you thinking?" And I can hear her giggle. My Phoebe ...always finding me.
We worry about forgetting them, losing the sense of who they are, how they move, speak, laugh, cry. We never do! As deep as that fear, is as deep and certain they will find us, remind us ...be with us.
I am so glad to find her here.
The mystery of God's creation most often cannot be understood, but if we just remain open ...He allows the beauty to unfold and surround us ...even in the saddest of times.
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