A Sunday Thought to Start the Week Off Right
This Sunday I'm going to get personal. If you've come here before, you know that our eldest son suffered a massive stroke and died at the age of 38 on January 2nd of this year. He left a wife and a 20-month old daughter. Given her age, his daughter doesn't really know what's happened. His wife is devastated and struggling to understand how this relatively young man was taken from us, as are we, his parents. While we're doing all we can to help her and our granddaughter, what unites us most closely with them is our pain and suffering.
In The Inner Life of the Soul, the title of the chapter for this Fifth Sunday after Epiphany is: "Peace in Pain." If you're experiencing the pain and suffering that comes with the loss of a loved one, as we are, you may find the author's words consoling. I did. Even if you're not, you'll likely learn a lot about how pain - and it comes to us all in many forms in this valley of tears - can bring us peace.
We begin with how the first Christians experienced the pain to which they were subjected by those who persecuted them.
"...their eyes beheld heaven forever open. Crosses, insults, torture, death, had no power to depress them...they were overjoyed to be thought worthy of the deepest humiliations..."
Fast forward to today, and how so many of us think of pain and suffering.
"...And we, cowardly souls, do not know how to suffer, or we do not know how to hope; the lightest crosses overwhelm us, even those made by our own pride or imprudence or false sensibility."
How true this has been in my own life! Despite being born into a family of modest means, despite not having made the pursuit of luxury, position, power or even comfort my main purpose in life, how often I shrink from even small inconveniences or annoyances. Having now the great cross of the death of a child to bear, I wonder if I might have been better prepared - if that's even possible - were I to have embraced all those little crosses we're all given daily and offered them up, even down to the smallest discomfort.
Would not the acceptance - even embrace - of those little crosses have strengthened my soul? Wouldn't it have at least placed the Cross - the instrument of our salvation - front and center in my life, where we Catholics know it belongs? Sure, I've often gazed upon the Crucifix, kissed it as I begin my rosary. Yes, most mornings I've genuflected before the large and beautiful crucifix that hangs on a wall in my home as I begin the work day. Yet somehow, despite a sincere and heartfelt acknowledgement of Our Lord's suffering and dying for my sake, I still avoid those inconveniences and annoyances! You would think my intellectual understanding and assent to the importance of those crosses would have yielded better fruit all these years.
"The cross must come; we know this well. Marked with its sign at our Baptism, we walk under its shadow our whole life long; and in our gayest hours and our brightest sunshine, none can tell when its dead weight will not fall upon our shoulders, and crush us to the earth."
In the weeks before my son's massive stroke and eventual death, for whatever the reason, I had been thinking about how our family had not suffered as some other families we know. As it turns out, one of our sons shared with me that he had the same thoughts before his brother's stoke and eventual death. And so that "dead weight" was made all the more heavy in contrast to those placid, positive feelings.
"Yet an infallible voice says to us, in the epistle for the fifth Sunday after Epiphany, - to the glad and the sad, to the whole household of the faith: 'Let the peace of Christ rejoice in our hearts...and be ye thankful.'"
Rejoice? Be thankful? In those days between his stroke on December 15th and his death on January 2nd, we had a couple of glimmers of hope, despite the devastating nature of the massive hemorrhaging of an aneurysm that exploded in our son's brain. All the while, our son lay in a medically induced coma. As time passed, though, it became more and more clear that his survival was doubtful. During that time, we had visits from several priests, many relatives and friends, so many prayers, the Sacrament of the Anointing of the Sick. One of the priests who came to pray over our son imparted the Apostolic Blessing, also known as the Apostolic Pardon. It not only absolves the soul of any sin, but also takes away all punishment due to sin. Even though he was in a coma, I learned that, because he had demonstrated by his actions that he was a faithful Catholic - the blessing would have its full effect. Given that realization, my gratitude to God poured out day to day. If our son were to die, he would immediately be in Heaven!
And yet, in the days since his death, and despite my knowledge and understanding, that heavy weight continues to press down. Gratitude for the Apostolic Blessing and all that it meant. But gratitude over his death? Rejoice?
"Ah, my God! were they any more Thy children and Thy ransomed ones, those early Christians and martyrs who ran eagerly to meet torture and death in steadfast hope of Thee, were they any more Thine, my God! than we who shrink from day-to-day suffering, and grieve as though our hearts were broken, and as though heaven were but a dream, when Thou callest one of our dear ones away to Thee, Most Dear? Where learned the martyrs peace and joy? Teach us this lesson, so that Thy peace may rejoice our broken hearts, and that we in our pain and trial may nevertheless be glad."
Perhaps the virtue of hope will free me from this shrinking in my daily life. Father, with the help of Your grace, one day I can take this seemingly unending grief from my broken heart and place it in Your loving hands. In that moment, Father, perhaps heaven will become real again, heaven, where, by the conviction of my faith, I know our son lives now in eternal happiness.
But not yet. For now, the grinding process of accepting what has happened to our dearest son persists day to day.
"We seek for sympathy in our distress; we dwell, after a death, on the soul beloved and gone; without it, the earth is a desolate spot; we hug the grief to our hearts, and think to keep them empty forever, sacred to a memory."
How will this dwelling on his soul, this hugging of grief ever end? By Your grace alone, Father, as your own saints have tried to explain.
St. John of the Cross:
"God makes the soul empty - that He may fill it."
Grant me the grace to desire to fill this empty place in my heart with You, dear Lord.
St. Augustine:
"One never loses those whom one loves in Him Whom we cannot lose."
Strengthen my faith - which has, thanks to You, never wavered - with the sure understanding of these comforting words from your great saint. In Your mercy, fill me with more than mere understanding. In Your own time, in the manner You chose, with Your Fatherly love, grant me, in the words of a famous director of souls:
"...a more personal love of God. Nothing but love will fill up the void which the taking away of love has caused. God must grow into that empty place. There is no cure but Divine love - not simply Divine worship - but Divine love. God must become more and more dear, more and more desirable. Then He will become more and more sufficient. He wants you to find your delight, your repose, your compensation, in Him and in His things; but more in Himself than in His things. Delight thou in the Lord."
Back now to those earlier questions: Rejoice? Be thankful?
The final words of this rich, consoling chapter in The Inner Life of the Soul gives the answer thusly:
"Have we tried this remedy for sorrow? Will we try it now? If we will, the peace of Christ shall rejoice in our hearts, and we shall indeed be thankful."
In The Inner Life of the Soul, the title of the chapter for this Fifth Sunday after Epiphany is: "Peace in Pain." If you're experiencing the pain and suffering that comes with the loss of a loved one, as we are, you may find the author's words consoling. I did. Even if you're not, you'll likely learn a lot about how pain - and it comes to us all in many forms in this valley of tears - can bring us peace.
We begin with how the first Christians experienced the pain to which they were subjected by those who persecuted them.
"...their eyes beheld heaven forever open. Crosses, insults, torture, death, had no power to depress them...they were overjoyed to be thought worthy of the deepest humiliations..."
Fast forward to today, and how so many of us think of pain and suffering.
"...And we, cowardly souls, do not know how to suffer, or we do not know how to hope; the lightest crosses overwhelm us, even those made by our own pride or imprudence or false sensibility."
How true this has been in my own life! Despite being born into a family of modest means, despite not having made the pursuit of luxury, position, power or even comfort my main purpose in life, how often I shrink from even small inconveniences or annoyances. Having now the great cross of the death of a child to bear, I wonder if I might have been better prepared - if that's even possible - were I to have embraced all those little crosses we're all given daily and offered them up, even down to the smallest discomfort.
Would not the acceptance - even embrace - of those little crosses have strengthened my soul? Wouldn't it have at least placed the Cross - the instrument of our salvation - front and center in my life, where we Catholics know it belongs? Sure, I've often gazed upon the Crucifix, kissed it as I begin my rosary. Yes, most mornings I've genuflected before the large and beautiful crucifix that hangs on a wall in my home as I begin the work day. Yet somehow, despite a sincere and heartfelt acknowledgement of Our Lord's suffering and dying for my sake, I still avoid those inconveniences and annoyances! You would think my intellectual understanding and assent to the importance of those crosses would have yielded better fruit all these years.
"The cross must come; we know this well. Marked with its sign at our Baptism, we walk under its shadow our whole life long; and in our gayest hours and our brightest sunshine, none can tell when its dead weight will not fall upon our shoulders, and crush us to the earth."
In the weeks before my son's massive stroke and eventual death, for whatever the reason, I had been thinking about how our family had not suffered as some other families we know. As it turns out, one of our sons shared with me that he had the same thoughts before his brother's stoke and eventual death. And so that "dead weight" was made all the more heavy in contrast to those placid, positive feelings.
"Yet an infallible voice says to us, in the epistle for the fifth Sunday after Epiphany, - to the glad and the sad, to the whole household of the faith: 'Let the peace of Christ rejoice in our hearts...and be ye thankful.'"
Rejoice? Be thankful? In those days between his stroke on December 15th and his death on January 2nd, we had a couple of glimmers of hope, despite the devastating nature of the massive hemorrhaging of an aneurysm that exploded in our son's brain. All the while, our son lay in a medically induced coma. As time passed, though, it became more and more clear that his survival was doubtful. During that time, we had visits from several priests, many relatives and friends, so many prayers, the Sacrament of the Anointing of the Sick. One of the priests who came to pray over our son imparted the Apostolic Blessing, also known as the Apostolic Pardon. It not only absolves the soul of any sin, but also takes away all punishment due to sin. Even though he was in a coma, I learned that, because he had demonstrated by his actions that he was a faithful Catholic - the blessing would have its full effect. Given that realization, my gratitude to God poured out day to day. If our son were to die, he would immediately be in Heaven!
And yet, in the days since his death, and despite my knowledge and understanding, that heavy weight continues to press down. Gratitude for the Apostolic Blessing and all that it meant. But gratitude over his death? Rejoice?
"Ah, my God! were they any more Thy children and Thy ransomed ones, those early Christians and martyrs who ran eagerly to meet torture and death in steadfast hope of Thee, were they any more Thine, my God! than we who shrink from day-to-day suffering, and grieve as though our hearts were broken, and as though heaven were but a dream, when Thou callest one of our dear ones away to Thee, Most Dear? Where learned the martyrs peace and joy? Teach us this lesson, so that Thy peace may rejoice our broken hearts, and that we in our pain and trial may nevertheless be glad."
Perhaps the virtue of hope will free me from this shrinking in my daily life. Father, with the help of Your grace, one day I can take this seemingly unending grief from my broken heart and place it in Your loving hands. In that moment, Father, perhaps heaven will become real again, heaven, where, by the conviction of my faith, I know our son lives now in eternal happiness.
But not yet. For now, the grinding process of accepting what has happened to our dearest son persists day to day.
"We seek for sympathy in our distress; we dwell, after a death, on the soul beloved and gone; without it, the earth is a desolate spot; we hug the grief to our hearts, and think to keep them empty forever, sacred to a memory."
How will this dwelling on his soul, this hugging of grief ever end? By Your grace alone, Father, as your own saints have tried to explain.
St. John of the Cross:
"God makes the soul empty - that He may fill it."
Grant me the grace to desire to fill this empty place in my heart with You, dear Lord.
St. Augustine:
"One never loses those whom one loves in Him Whom we cannot lose."
Strengthen my faith - which has, thanks to You, never wavered - with the sure understanding of these comforting words from your great saint. In Your mercy, fill me with more than mere understanding. In Your own time, in the manner You chose, with Your Fatherly love, grant me, in the words of a famous director of souls:
"...a more personal love of God. Nothing but love will fill up the void which the taking away of love has caused. God must grow into that empty place. There is no cure but Divine love - not simply Divine worship - but Divine love. God must become more and more dear, more and more desirable. Then He will become more and more sufficient. He wants you to find your delight, your repose, your compensation, in Him and in His things; but more in Himself than in His things. Delight thou in the Lord."
Back now to those earlier questions: Rejoice? Be thankful?
The final words of this rich, consoling chapter in The Inner Life of the Soul gives the answer thusly:
"Have we tried this remedy for sorrow? Will we try it now? If we will, the peace of Christ shall rejoice in our hearts, and we shall indeed be thankful."
Happy Sunday!
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