The January 3 Anniversary

January 3, 2012 By 1 Comment

Dear Allen,

Today is your day. And we remember.

As we look at the beauty of the day, as we struggle through commonplace challenges, as we get on with our lives forever changed, we remember.

As we pray for your soul and those who grieve most deeply, we remember.

As we heal and yet remain broken, we remember.

It’s hard to believe it’s been two years since we got the phone call on the country road, changing all of our lives forever.

Time dulls pain, or so the saying goes. But on January 3, after only two years, I can’t help but think that the pain is not so dulled.

I feel, sometimes, like I end up writing about things that aren’t mine. It wasn’t my husband who died, after all. It’s not my children who have to comfort themselves with thoughts of a father in heaven, as opposed to the feel of his arms hugging them.

Maybe that’s my role. Maybe my job is to share, to commemorate, to expose whatever small part of the grief that I can access. Maybe I am chronicling it and sharing the gift with more people.

Because it is a gift, even though it hurts. It hurts people whose pain I would carry, whose burdens I would bear.

I see it in her eyes, sometimes, when she doesn’t remember to guard them. I see it, other times, in the tilt of a head, in the extra-long moment spent in the bathroom, in the surreptitious wipe of hands across a face.

It’s funny, how we remember. There are times when we’ll be talking about something, and you will come up, be a part of the conversation.

It’s odd, in fact, how we feel that we know you better now that we’re around your girls–all three of them–so much more. I feel, at times, like you left us something like a living memory, one that we may not have appreciated if not for the lens through which we see it now.

You must be so proud of your girls. It’s hard on them, though they are brave and courageous and do their best to be self-sufficient.

Send them some comfort today, a hug from heaven. Have Mama Mary hold them tightly.

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A Great Guide to Help Kids Grieve

June 1, 2011 By 2 Comments

I had never really considered grieving for children before I became the bystander. In the wake of a sudden and unexpected family death, two of my nieces became case studies in children grieving.

I have felt, in the last year-and-a-half, overwhelmingly helpless. I don’t know what to say; I don’t know what to do; I don’t know!

As with so many things with children and other people, sometimes just being there is as important as anything else. Thanks to a new release by Pauline Books & Media, I Will Remember You: My Catholic Guide Through Grief, I have a resource to share with the younger of my nieces, who’s ten.

This book has equal parts reading and writing/activity. It doesn’t just challenge the reader to think about the huggy-kissy parts of grief, but rather faces the steps of grief and explains them with short chapters and with fill-in-the-blank activities, craft ideas, and an ongoing Memory Box idea.

Reading this as the adult who’s going to be gifting it, I appreciated that it was age appropriate without pandering to kids. It’s intended for ages 7-12, but reading this made me want to look up the author for adult resources.

Kimberly Schuler has made a guide that is Catholic in spirit and essential in substance for grieving children. I can’t wait to share it with my niece, and I’m grateful to have a resource like this available to help her.

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In Honor of March 16

March 16, 2011 By 6 Comments

March 16 has long been a day I remember with a mixture of fondness and grief. I’m grateful for this day, though it marks sorrow.

It was on this day that I witnessed the importance of life and the courage of people I would one day call family.

There, at the front of the chapel, in a casket no bigger than the laptop bag I carried with me nearly everywhere, was the baby. The baby she had been told to abort. The baby who lived his life through his mother. The baby who was held first by Mama Mary.

Logan is not a young man, scampering around and scraping his knees. He is not climbing trees or writing adventures. He is not here.

There’s sorrow in that. Even though it’s been nine years and it’s no longer new, there’s still the chance for tears on this day of remembrance and at other times.

But he was given a chance to live, however briefly, because of the faith and humility of a couple who wouldn’t play God.

Allen, who went to his eternal rest early last year, once told me that it was one of the best decisions he ever made with his wife, that decision not to abort.

They went on to bury their boy, as they knew they would. But it remains, for Susie, one of the cornerstones of her faith journey, one of the foundations of who she is.

In the midst of asking why, of wondering what’s next, of just trying to get through day-by-day, we have this day. It’s a pause to consider the eternal in the midst of the temporal.

And though we have tears leaking out of our eyes, it is possible, with God’s grace, to see the rainbow the sun makes as it shines through them. We fill the hole in our hearts with prayers for those who remain, and we thank God for the gifts He gives us, however short a time they may be in our arms.

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Reflecting on Life

January 24, 2011 By 1 Comment

a Mary Moment Monday post

January 22 marked the anniversary of Roe v. Wade. It’s a day dear to me for another reason, and it’s made even more significant by the fact that we continue to grieve for Allen.

The story of my conversion is strongly impacted by this day in January (which was January 22, as it turns out):

It was a day in January that the doctor told them they had to have an abortion because their unborn baby would be dying. The doctor’s office thoughtfully made the appointment.

They told me it was the most freeing moment of their lives, the moment they made the decision not to have the abortion. They told me that they were able to let go, to leave their baby in God’s hands and to grieve without guilt.

You can read the rest of that story here.

I’ve chosen the pro-life label for a lot of reasons, but Susan and Al probably made the biggest impact with the decision they made after praying and discernment. The priest they spoke to told them they couldn’t play God, that they would be robbing their baby of the only life he would know: life in utero.

It wasn’t an easy path for them. But would an abortion really have been easier? Would the wondering have been worth it? Could they have forgotten–and forgiven–the responsibility they chose to bear?

I can’t help but reflect on the life around me, from the sleeping infant in my arms to the girls wrestling on the couch, the slumbering world outside under the snow and the critters in various cracks and crevices of my property. Life is all around me, even in the heart of winter.

Without a doubt, the value of human life trumps the others, but it also gives me a lens to appreciate the others better. Without the little lives–the kids–in mine, I probably would ignore the beauty of life most of the time. I sure wouldn’t think of sunsets as love notes, appreciate the beauty of autumn, or be able to find humor (and a good day!) in the midst of sickness.

At least half of my Twitter feed is dedicated to capturing what the kids in my life say and observe and do. Most of my favorite blog posts (and columns, for that matter) have to do with things other people have inspired me to think more about.

Mary stands before me and reminds me that life matters–that it matters more than anything else. It’s her job as Mom, I think. Even as I’m the one who captures these moments in my family and my world, she’s the one who stands in heaven, praying for each of us, bringing us to her Son, asking for mercy and peace and understanding for all of us. She must look at the things that are wrong and, with tears in her eyes, pray for us and long to have us understand.

In Provence, France, Mary is honored as Our Lady of Life on January 27. An image there (which I could not find in my searches online) has “often restored children to life who died without baptism” (source). I want to know more about this title and its history, but it’s going to require more digging and probably some offline searching.

But doesn’t it make you smile, knowing that there’s a long-standing title of Mary that relates to life in its very name? It gives me hope for all of us. Mary has that effect on me. She helps me see that hope is a gift from God and a necessary condition for the world to improve at its most basic level, at the level I can control: inside myself. Even in the face of atrocities against life that seem impossible to countenance, there is hope. (That link opens a pdf file of the grand jury statement against Dr. Ken Gosnell. It’s lengthy, but it’s also long, considering how truncated–or even ignored–the story is in the mainstream press. I found it via the Anchoress.)

Our Lady of Life, pray for us.

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The Big Wait, by Ginny Moyer

December 23, 2010 By 3 Comments

I’ve been a fan of Ginny Moyer‘s for as long as I’ve known her (I interviewed a while back, if you’re interested). Her wonderful book, Mary and Me, is one that I recommend wholeheartedly, and her blog is no less delightful (full of little boy stories, musings on Mary, and Catholic goodies to boot!). I’m deeply appreciative of the wisdom she shares today, so close to the end of our Advent journey. Thanks, Ginny, for stopping over!

–

“Don’t worry, Ginny.  The right guy is out there.  You’ll meet him when you least expect it.” I heard this thousands of times between the ages of 18 and 28, from supportive friends and family.  (“Oh, and you should try meeting men at church events,” my mother would always add.)  In spite of such encouragement, it was hard to keep the faith during an entire decade of trouble-plagued relationships and bland blind dates.

If I knew I would find a soul-mate eventually, I thought, I could stand this. If only I knew that there would be a Mr. Darcy at the end of this long journey, then I could stomach the wait. Not knowing was the most brutal part.

And then I met my husband Scott. (We met at a church picnic, no less, proving that Mom Is Always Right.) Forget Mr. Darcy: I had found Mr. Moyer.

Fast-forward a few years. Scott and I were eager to have a family, but my first pregnancy was an ectopic, when the baby implants itself in the fallopian tube instead of the uterus.  The emotional pain was hard to describe, even for a writer like me. But we tried again, hoping that I wouldn’t be one of the 30% of women who have a second ectopic.

Pregnancy #2 looked great: at six weeks we saw a beautiful little embryo in my uterus. Four weeks later, though, an ultrasound showed that the baby had no heartbeat.

I felt like I’d been drop-kicked by God.  The pain of the loss was awful in and of itself, and it was intensified by my deep, tenacious doubts about our future fertility.  What were the chances we’d be able to have a child at all?  If I knew that I would be a mom eventually, I scribbled in my journal, then all of this would be a little easier to bear.  It’s the not knowing that is so hard.

Four years later, in the Advent season of 2010, my two sweet little boys nap in their rooms as I write this.

Sometimes, it’s downright brutal to wait. It takes a lot of fortitude to be patient when the outcome is far from certain. But that’s one of the great things about Advent: it comes with a guarantee that we rarely get in other areas of life. I don’t have to sit here as the days roll on, wondering if and when Jesus will show up, become man, and enter into the messy brokenness of our lives. I don’t have to wonder whether that wonderful goodness will ever cross my life’s path.

Because it will. Actually, it already has. And in a life that is full of anxious waiting, waiting that is marked by fear and fragile attempts at faith, it is a blessing to wait with such confidence. I can breathe easily. I can enjoy the process. I can be eager, not anxious.

And maybe I can pick up some skills that will help with my next big wait, whatever it is.

image by holly henry

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Knowing What’s Best

November 15, 2010 By 1 Comment

Part of the Mary Moment Monday series

The feast of Mary as Mother of Divine Providence is celebrated this Friday, November 19, which coincides with the opening of a movie we’ve been waiting for. Forgive me for having a little chuckle…Mary and Harry Potter seem an unlikely pairing for a post, don’t you think?

When I started thinking about this post, I had the feast of Mother of Divine Providence in my mind as November 14, which is important to our family for a whole different set of reasons. Thinking of Lucas led to thoughts of Allen, and then to thoughts of Logan. I thought it was a great God-incidence that this particular feast of Mary would be on Lucas’s feast day. Turns out I was wrong. It’s Harry Potter who’s paired with Mary. (Seriously. I gotta laugh…at myself, at the irony, at the whole “make something important out of it and end up with something a bit ridiculous” way it turned out.)

Thoughts of Divine Providence, in general, lead me to a certain knee-jerk cynicism, though I do love the image of Mary as Mother of Divine Providence. (Aren’t these images great?)

I might write beautifully in this space and have you fooled about how devout I am (that’s not my intention, by the way, but it seems to be a consequence that some read into my writing, no matter how real I try to keep things). I assure you, though, that I shake my fist at God quite regularly and that I question His will all.the.time.

But…and I know this sounds contradictory…I also find peace. I don’t have to understand what’s going on to find peace in God’s will, in the fact that He cares enough about me – little, inconsequential, whiny me — to have a plan in place.

I don’t know what’s best for me. I don’t. Time and again, I’ve proven that.

I thought a career was best. In fact, I thought it would be in teaching. Then I thought it would be marketing-related. Then I thought it would have to do with the Church. (Little did I know…)

I thought marriage was outdated and that having children was unthinkable. (Who knew they would prove to be fun?!?)

Time and again, the things I think and plan turn out to be…well, they don’t. They are often seeds watered by a Divine Hand, sprouting into something He can use, if I’ll let Him.

Me, write books? Nah. Can’t be done. (A year or two ago, my mom sent me the notebooks I filled as a kid with my starter books. Guess she wasn’t so surprised with the news of my book forays, huh?)

However much I may grump at God about His will and His way of doing things, I have discovered a great deal of peace in the experience of knowing He’s there, in charge somehow. I don’t think He minds hearing my thoughts on how things are going; in fact, I think this is the sort of honest conversation He might actually want. Didn’t David rant and rail in the Psalms? Weren’t there plenty of saints who gave God the what-for and talked frankly with Him?

I am no saint. I am no Psalmist. I am just a regular person, mucking my way through life and trying to remember to be charitable and love others and all the rest.

Lately, I’ve been struggling with knowing what’s best in some areas of my life. Choice A or Choice B? Option 1 or Option 2? This or that?

But, maybe, just maybe, knowing is overrated.

Maybe what I need to do is clasp His hand and look up into His mother’s face, knowing that what’s underneath me is the safe haven of her lap.

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    Mary and Rachel (with a giveaway on top)

    November 8, 2010 By 23 Comments

    A Mary Moment Monday post

    I have small white caskets on my mind. We remember Lucas (Logan‘s older brother) on November 14, and that’s one reason why. I’m also due to have my baby in the next four weeks, and that’s another reason why.

    For me, pregnancy and caskets are linked. It’s not a morbid linking, though as I look back at that sentence, I realize it sounds a bit alarming. Maybe I should compare it to how the crucifix means more to me in the context of Christmas than at almost any other time of year. When I see Mary at the manger in our Nativity scene in the front of our church, I sometimes sneak a glance upward, to the crucifix, and think of Mary’s baby boy hanging there. She’s at the foot of the Cross from the very beginning.

    I’ve only witnessed two women bury their children. One of them buried her second son, while holding hands with her two daughters and husband. Years later, she would bury her husband, and as I watch her up close, I marvel. And I pray…very, very often, with more emotion than words.

    When I read Rachel’s Contrition (reviewed here), I was struck by many things. One was the raw emotion of Rachel Winters, a mother who buried her daughter. I recognized that emotion; I had seen it up close.

    Mary’s a part of Rachel’s Contrition, in a way that might seem surprising. Here’s her first appearance:

    I turn to the front of the small chapel area and see above me in an arched alcove trimmed with sculpted doves, a statue of the Virgin Mary, her eyes turned skyward while angels, bent in prayer, kneel at her feet. As I look up at her, I find my eyes drawn upward as hers are, and gradually I quit thinking of mysef and think only of my nightmares, of Seth and Caroline, of life. I slide into a seat and stare at her. As I study her, recognition dawns on me. She is the lady in my dream, and the very same woman I saw running into the church. She is the one who was holding my baby.

    My baby. How could you take my baby? The pitch in my veins rises to my head and pours out in tears. I may be a horrible person, but I was her mother. She’s my baby. How could you take her away from me?

    We find Mary and Rachel again, together, later on:

    I look up at the crucifix and try to picture Jesus holding her. I can’t.

    Instead I say something I don’t mean to admit. “I had a dream once. Not about Jesus or God or whatever.” I pause not wanting to go back to the memory. He waits silently. He’s good at that. “I saw Mary holding her. It was Caroline’s baptism and Mary was holding her instead of me. I thought it was a lady with long white hair, but then I saw that statue over there and I realized it was her.”

    He nods. “Baptism washes us clean and makes us open to salvation. I think it’s very fitting you saw her that way. That’s a good image to start with. Now think of Mary rocking your baby in heaven and Jesus looking over her shoulder, touching her cheek, delighting in her beautiful smile.”

    I try, but I’m not ready for that yet. I picture Mary holding her and I still want to pry her out of Mary’s hands. I want to hit Mary with a stick and tell her Caroline is my baby. I don’t tell Father Jacobsen that.

    In some deep part of me I understand where Father Jacobsen is going. If I can get to the point of picturing her with Mary and Jesus, I will be able to release her to death, to accept that she’s in heaven and not coming back. I can say it to myself a million times, but I have to make myself believe it. And he’s right, I have to become comfortable with it or I won’t ever really lay her to rest.

    I picture Mary holding our nephews, playing with them in heaven, introducing them to her Son, and I smile. But I know about being mad at Mary: it’s something I’ve observed, and something I think I could experience myself, firsthand, given the right circumstance.

    HOW DARE YOU TAKE MY BABY? How dare YOU hold him first? What more DO YOU WANT?

    Isn’t she supposed to be helping us? How is taking a baby — or a young father — help? Oh, she’s not God; I know that. But she has influence; she has say; she has weight with the Big Guy. Why not help a sistah?

    Good can come from what appears to be tragedy; is it still, then, tragedy? Who’s running this show, anyway?

    Rachel’s Contrition tells a good story, but it also challenges me to examine my attitude a little more closely. Author Michelle Buckman told me it was a story she had to tell. She also told me that she couldn’t, in any way, remove her Catholicism from this story; it was as much a part of what had to be told as the death of the little girl.

    Leave me a comment on this post and tell me why you’d like to win a copy of Rachel’s Contrition, and I’ll select four winners next Monday. Comment by midnight EST on Sunday, November 14. One entry per person, please.

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