De Profundis

For those of you who don't read Latin,  the title of this post is the first two lines of a psalm that is read during the Office of the dead: Psalm 130:

Out of the depths I cry to you, LORD;
  Lord, hear my voice.
Let your ears be attentive
   to my cry for mercy.

    (v 1-2)

It is one of my "go to" psalms when I am in the Dark Night,  feeling cut off from God and wondering if the Infinite Threeness  is even taking notice of little old me.    It has become even more meaningful now in my present darkness.  With the death of my mother not only am I cut off from God, but I am untethered from a connection to that grounding sense that I belong to someone here on earth.  Today I feel utterly orphaned, and it makes me profoundly sad in a de profundis way.

I used to wonder if it was something I had done that sent God away from me.  Had I been so obstinate and selfish that God had just given up on me and turned away from me as a lost cause.  Was I just too proud of my own will to be worth anything to God?

 If you, LORD, kept a record of sins,
   Lord, who could stand?
 But with you there is forgiveness,
   so that we can, with reverence, serve you.

(v 3-4)

I realize that I have a connection to other people, like my husband and my children,  and that they need me and I need them, but, as Fr. Bill put it this morning when he talked with me a bit after Mass,  You just don't  belong to anyone the way you belong to your parents.  

I am beginning to wonder though if my sense of longing isn't more profound because I entered the dark night long before my mother died.  I was already trying to find a way to pray that brought me consolation.  I had been. for over a year in a spiritual land where the scenery was unfamiliar.   God was trying to communicate with me, but I was struggling to decipher the new language that was now flowing in my direction.  

I wait for the LORD, my whole being waits,
   and in his word I put my hope.
 I wait for the Lord
   more than watchmen wait for the morning,
   more than watchmen wait for the morning.

(v 5-6)

And then mom died, who hadn't said anything meaningful to me since 2007 really, because of the prison in which she had been trapped by her disease.  But I loved her and I know that in her way she loved me.  I could go and sit with her, ore even just know that she was there and it made me feel connected.  

Not so now,  that connection has been severed.  I hear a song on the radio, or see a movie on television that she used to love, or something happens in my life and I would love to tell her about it,  but then I remember that she isn't there.  The only analogy that comes close is what it feels like when you lose a tooth,  there is a physical space that you can feel where the tooth used to be.  I can feel that space in my life where my mother used to be.  It is gaping and empty -- de profundis .

The one thing I know, in all of this is that I may be orphaned, but I am not alone.  All those other people in my life; my family and Fr. Bill and my parish family, and my friends are there because God doesn't want me to have to go through this alone.  So while I may not understand God's language in prayer, I do feel God's presence in others.  Everyone who brightens my day, or brings me comfort, is sent from God.   And while they can't take the place of my mom,  they can help me past the bad spots.  God will do the rest,  all I have to do is have faith and hope.

(Israel), put your hope in the LORD, 

   for with the LORD is unfailing love 

   and with him is full redemption. 

 He himself will redeem Israel 

   from all their sins.

(v7-8)

PAX

Grief Support Just When I Need It

So, I though I was doing pretty well.  I was finding the time to get things done, and don't feel as though I am living underwater most of the time anymore (swimmers might understand that reference but it is the best metaphor for how I felt the first two or three weeks after mom died -- as though I were totally submerged in water and the rest of the world was somewhere on dry land.  I could see it and hear it but only in a diffuse, muffled way.) 

I am still taking naps every day, but to be honest I enjoy my nap time and they aren't interfering with my other commitments so I think I will continue them.

I was at a really low point one day.  It suddenly hit me that I am an orphan now, because both of my parents are dead.  Why at fifty years old that should even be a thought that would cause me any concern seemed to make my sorrow even more deep.  As I was sitting in my grief that day, I received a letter from a beautiful woman in her early 70's who was part of my Spiritual Direction Internship Cohort Group.  In the letter she reminded me that we had decided that she was my adopted mother, and while she could never take mom's place, she would gladly step in and send me the love, and motherly concern that she knew I was missing.  How carefully God orders our steps.  Her letter came that day because she had been traveling when mom died and had only that week had the time to sit down and write.  

Just this week, I have been reading a book called Availability by Robert Wicks.  I got to church a little early on Wednesday morning so I was reading in Church.  As I read a section on allowing one's self to be open to God's love, it occurred to me that I had been experiencing a really dry spell during my prayer time --a long stretch of withdrawn consolation in prayer.  It hadn't stopped me from spending my time in contemplation, I just come away feeling empty rather than refreshed or restored.  As that realization swept over me I could feel my eyes filling up with tears.  Then, Mass began and it was announced that it was the Feast of the Archangels (Michael, Raphael and Gabriel).  This day happens to be my father's feast day.  The tears really began to flow. 

Fr. Bill, our pastor must have noticed, because when I ran into him going into the parish office the next day he made a point of asking me if I was okay.  He has a way of drawing the truth out of me, (I wonder if that is so for everyone he talks with) so instead of saying "things are just fine"  I actually told him that I was still struggling a bit.  He gave me a few really great pearls of wisdom about grieving.  The most important for me at least being that walking through grief is like entering a valley.  You walk along the valley floor for a long time before you begin to climb back out of the valley on the other side. 

Another piece of wisdom came on an unrelated subject from friends in my supervision group .  When I am done crying, I will move on.  The crying has a purpose.  I have known the grace of tears,  but somehow was hard pressed to offer that grace to myself in this situation.

So, the valley may be long, and deep, and filled with suddenly flowing tears, but I know that with friends like these surrounding me I will make it to the other side and my joy will return. 

Pax

Words Can't Express

We just received some very sad news. Our beloved retired pastor Fr. Charlie Chesebrough died this morning. He has been a part of my family's faith life for the past fourteen years, as more than pastor. He was a friend, confidant, mentor and all around great example of what a servant priest should be.

When I was a member of the Parish Council I was pregnant with the angelbaby and because I was secretary I spent many many hours working closely with Fr. Charlie during my pregnancy and after she was born. He had a special bond with her. As she grew up, whenever I would have errands at the parish office the minute she burst through the door she would make a b-line for his office (sometimes bursting in on conversations he was having with people) to give him a hug. They always had a very special bond.

I am at a loss. I realize that this last year has been a great struggle for him health wise, and really ever since he retired two years ago every day has been a gift, because his lungs were so compromised by emphysema, but I still feel such crushing loss to think that I will never see him again.

Please join with me in praying for the repose of his soul and for consolation for his family, (his brothers, and their wives and children, as well as the parish families he brought together in his nearly forty years of priestly ministry.

Pax