Finding the path to life and joy

Welcome back to the blog! While I've taken a hiatus from posting, I've not stopped writing. It's just that I'm exploring different platforms (and have decided on nothing)...because, I think that I have outgrown this site.

...for those who are 'new' to reading my posts - here's a history: I started this blog as our wedding website. Instead of a site on The Knot (or whatever other site there is), I wanted a place that we could have to keep our family and friends updated on our new life together. So, prior to May 29, 2011 - this site had tabs about our wedding, hotels, registries, our awesome wedding party, the story of how Dan and I met - and posts about wedding prep. After, I wrote about our life together as newlyweds. Then, it became our 'homebase' for Dan's treatment. ...and for the last 3 years, where I have shared my journey through the valley of death...and into life. So, eventually, you'll see something new!

That said: let's spend some time here.


Words, phrases - those matter to me. (along with proper punctuation - for the love of God stop using apostrophes to pluralize a word!)  (ahem, let's start over)

Words, phrases - those matter to me. They speak deeply to me.

How many of us have heard, "Oh it's better..." as a phrase to console. "Oh, it's better. Dan is in a better place. It's better for him to no longer suffer, to no longer be living in a body that fights itself."

a) No. That's not helping. because - How can it be better for us to be separated by death?

b) I know that God desires for us (aka all people) to be in relationship. He created us for relationship: first with Him, then with each other. I know that God cherishes relationships - and has graced our marriages as a Sacrament - to be a revelation of His Son to the world. ...so, how could that (our relationship ended by death) be better? How could it be better that this revelation be destroyed by death?

And so, I reasoned that if God allowed this - then, He intended to redeem it. Specifically, I believed - trusted - that He could make good come out of this tragedy. That He could call from light from the darkness of this veil of death - that joy could emerge from the mourning.

Take those words into the frame of our marriage - our covenant of oneness - what was better for one of us, must be better for both of us. This 'better' must be reciprocal by reason. If Dan's death led to resurrection for him - and that IS better, I wholeheartedly concur - then, surely, there must also be resurrection for me.

This is the truth that I clung to as I began the journey of walking through the valley of death. The death of our spouse isn't the end - but the beginning. The valley is where we do the hard work of grieving. God's shadow protects us as we fumble forward - feeling our way toward life - and resurrection.

As I visited Dan on Memorial Day, I had a little conversation with him:

You know, I think the real work of our Sacrament didn't come until you died. It took that release of the flesh to allow me to fully trust you. ...and, it took the release of the flesh for you to fully, unselfishly love - and for me to respond and receive. 

I suppose that's true for all of us. While we are in these bodies, we can never be fully free from selfish ambition or vanity - though we can certainly strive for it. We learn to - sometimes, slowly - sometimes painfully - but, we learn to put the other's needs above ours. We learn to listen. We learn to value the other's voice. presence. help.

Our whole life leading up to marriage is an exercise in, "I can do it myself." (say it in your best toddler voice) We are taught to rely on self...so much so that even God can become an afterthought if we construct our world carefully enough.

This was me. I did this, Dan.
...yes, you did, too. You did, too.

Our journey toward holiness was learning this together.
Our journey toward completion was learning this, even in death.

Finding myself separated from you by death, I looked to you for a guidance - in a way I hadn't in life. I had relied on - and relished - your presence, though I also relied on myself. 
Finding myself without you, I learned to listen for you. I allowed you to be what you wanted to be - 
...the light to help see me through,
...to heal the hurt till the hurt is gone...
...and you consistently led me to Jesus.

...everything I had wanted you to do - to be - in life, you have done in death. 

...and I guess, that's how I know resurrection is real. 
...because somehow,* you are alive and guiding me - though you died. 

When I listen, 
when I quiet myself 
and when I ask: I know.
I know you're...here. 
Still trying to get me to dry my tears and not take life so seriously - to just relax, Jessica.

God is far better - far bigger - than we can even grasp. 


*
This morning, while looking through one of our wedding albums, I was reminded of one of our wedding readings.

1 John 4:7 - 12
Beloved, let us love one another, because love is of God; everyone who loves is begotten by God and knows God. Whoever is without love does not know God, for God is love.  

In this way the love of God was revealed to us: God sent his only Son into the world so that we might have life through him. In this is love: not that we have loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as expiation for our sins. Beloved, if God so loved us, we also must love one another.  

*No one has ever seen God. Yet, if we love one another, God remains in us, and his love is brought to perfection in us.

A Sacrament is the revelation of God to the individual and to the world. First, the invisible, almighty, overarching God revealed through Jesus. Not only was God revealed to us through Jesus, but through Jesus, in Jesus, God became accessible to us. We had access suddenly to the Almighty, Ever-living, Everlasting God. Through the Holy Spirit and the reception of Sacraments, not only is God revealed to us, we now become a revelation of God to the world.

This is mind-blowing. And how does St. John instruct us to reveal God? Through love. By loving, we are brought to perfection.

You guys, we are imperfect. We love each other imperfectly. On our best days, we still end up rubbing against each other. My image is that our spouse is like sandpaper for us: smoothing the rough edges - perfecting us through love. But it hurts! But it is worth it - to be smoothed out into our best self.

My friends, if you are in the thick of it - where marriage is hard - where your spouse is grating on you - where you feel like at every turn you are coming up short: stay the course. Lean into the Holy Spirit right now and ask for the grace to be LOVE revealed to each other. Marriage is a beautiful, powerful thing - and precisely because of that, it can be hard.

Receive - don't resist. Yield - don't shield. If you learn to journey toward life together - Love will you bring you to perfection.


Happy anniversary. DK Forever. 

That first Christmas...

The other day I saw a meme on Facebook about grieving at Christmas with tips about that "first Christmas." I thought...I don't remember anything about that first Christmas without Dan. I had to sift hard through the memory bank to come up with anything.

...and then I remembered.

To take you back there, this is the Christmas letter I wrote on Christmas Eve.

What I remember most about that first year was exhaustion. I don't remember what I bought my family (other than some cool light-up stocking caps for the boys). What I remember most was feeling like living required every ounce of my energy. Just getting through the day required an immense amount of strength. I think every fiber of my being was clenched to keep myself together.

...and I remember sitting in the front pew of Immanuel Lutheran Church listening to O Holy Night - and I cried. I cried and cried and cried. My soul was weary. My heart heavy. My body tired. ...but, I didn't feel a thrill of hope. I didn't know if rejoicing could come.

...and that magical second line drew me into my the arms of my Savior, my Jesus.

"In all our trials born to be our friend. 

He knows our need - to our weakness, (He is) no stranger..."

 That first Christmas wasn't all sadness; no, I am determined to be able to rejoice with others. I determined to be strong, I suppose, to not be a wet blanket upon everyone's joy. ...but, I carried such sadness in my heart, still. I think I can only admit to that heaviness, sorrow, and exhaustion now; now that it is only in retrospect; now that I am not weighed by that burden. But, I don't know that I could have admitted to the depth of it then. It would have overwhelmed me too much. However, Jesus knew my need - my need to be sad, to cry, to be held; with Him, I could release.

In Him, I could find release (and have). For me, it is now my third Christmas without Dan. For my friends grieving this Christmas, know that it is okay to feel your feelings. It is better to feel your feelings than to "put on a happy face." Your body cannot hold onto the trauma you've felt - let it release the tension.

For me, this past year has been a slow maneuver of release. The day Dan died I was told that I had to let him go - which probably triggered a response in me to say: I will not. I will never. I will carry him. I cannot leave him behind. I cannot let go of Dan.

I don't know how else to explain this except that I have physically felt my body holding on. I have muscles that can't seem to unclench. Training for that half-marathon certainly didn't help my body release. I should have treated myself with some gentleness, but instead...I pushed it. This year, I started doing some morning stretches 4-5 days/week. My body is finally releasing - after 3 years of tension.

In October, I started attending a gentle yoga session 1-2 times a week. Through the addition of this practice, I can feel the tension (slowly) letting go. During one week, we were laying on our backs with our legs up the wall - a good stretch to release the hips, where most of my tension is. This pose was then used in our 'shivasana' - the resting pose.

 As I lay there, I could first feel parts of my body tense, and as I pressed into the ground - release. I had an epiphany: I don't have to be the one holding myself together. I don't have to hold myself together. I don't have to carry the tension. I was made to be supported. The world was created to support us...we were not created to be self-supporting or self-sustaining.  We were made one for the other.

In all our trials born to be our friend.

He knows our needs; our weakness no stranger. 

Behold, your king. Before him lowly bend.

Oh holy night, when the Light of the world put on flesh to be our friend. Oh holy night, when the God who created us became just like us - entering the world just like I did - exiting the world through death - He became like us in every way to form a new way to commune with God. He carried every burden so that we could know we are never alone - in any trial, in any weakness. He experienced frailty, humiliation, loneliness, desolation, hunger, grief - so that we would know there is always HOPE. That HOPE will always spring up even when the darkness seems to be closing in.

 Light cannot be overcome by darkness - and LIGHT can be within us. In Him, our burden can be LIGHT - not dark nor heavy. Through the miracle of Jesus, we can experience joy even in our mourning.

I am living it. Jesus has changed my life. I didn't think it was possible; I thought that I was "good with God" three years ago - but, the emptiness that Dan's death brought has been so consumed with the Light of Jesus Christ that joy is more the cadence of my life as a widow than sorrow. That is resurrection. ...and resurrection is one of those miracle that only exists because of Christmas.

Merry Christmas my friends! May God bless us, every one.

My heart still breaks

I don't know any other way to say this then to say it how it is: my heart still breaks when other people die. ...and it always will, I think. ...and that is a good thing, I think.

Nearly three weeks ago, I had news that one of my former students' wife died - at 26 - of a rare cancer. Two and half weeks ago, my dear friend and roommate lost a close friend of 22 years. Last night, a friend of my brother's passed away, at 30 (ish), of cancer with a wife and young son. In the summer, a friend from high school passed away after years of battling brain cancer, leaving his wife and two children.

...and I type my condolences and when I say, "I am so sorry," I literally mean: I. AM. SO. SORRY. I can't type those words on your facebook page without tears filling my eyes. I. AM. SO. SORRY.

I am so sorry...that you have to say good-bye to someone who has been a bedrock to your life; who has occupied your heart; you has become the voice in your head. I am so sorry that your person is no longer physically present to you...and now you have to navigate life without them.




Six weeks ago, I met a man whose father passed away in a tragic accident (before his very eyes) about 6 weeks prior. He (John) was assisting me in a cover letter workshop for my class. For some reason, we were talking about something...maybe how I got to MSU - and, I am now at the point in my life where I weigh whether or not to include that I came to MSU because of my husband and my husband is dead now. I know now that not everyone can handle the information - and I know now that whenever I say something about Dan dying...I am met with, "I'm sorry."

When I shared whatever I was saying, John then told me about his dad. ...and I said the obligatory, "I'm sorry" (and laughed - it wasn't out of context; it was the type of conversation we were having; trust me it wasn't a weird heartless thing). He laughed, too - and said, "Yes! You'll notice I didn't say that to you - because people have been saying that to me this whole time...and I know now how fake/insincere it comes across. ....and I used to be that guy. I used to say that all the time to people."

...and it's true. I can count on one hand the number of people who haven't said, "I'm sorry," when I mention something about losing Dan. At first it was weird, and then I came to expect something because everybody says it. You just expect that when you're telling the story about how you came to MSU that when you mention Dan passed away that there will be this interruption in your story (I'm sorry), that you have to acknowledge.




...there will be this interruption in your story...




...that you have to acknowledge....





That is why I write it to these people: to my student, to the childhood friend, to the widow I've never met  -- because I know this loss that they've experienced. I know it. I know it so deeply that sometimes I forget the wound. It seems impossible that you could forget the depth of the loss...but healing really does exist. It really does come...

...but, my heart still breaks.

...my heart breaks that these young people - these people whose lives and love I've watched grow and blossom - that they must also share in this deep grief, this heart-shattering, world-rocking loss.



...and you know what? my heart breaks at the unfairness that these beautiful people didn't get to live out their dreams.

With today's loss, there is just so much parallel between Dan and Chasen's stories. They were not the same - but there are so many parallels. ...and you know what? I'm so mad that these two were taken in the prime of their life. That these two men with dreams and goals and abilities to make them realities instead were given a cup to drink that included cancer and dying too early... and I'm just broken about it.

I'm so mad that Dan didn't get to live out his life. He finally made it home. He finally made it to a place that appreciated his work, effort, and truly valued him... and he didn't even get a year. and the year that he did get was filled with chemo appointments, sickness, pneumonia, and back pain ...and the unfairness of it all is so...upsetting to me, today.

He would have been so good at his job. When he had to make the call in late December 2015 to not field a team for 2016 - that broke his heart. He loved working. I am so sad that he never got to fulfill his dream.


...and sometimes the unfairness that instead I'm left behind to try to decipher his dream and his goal and see it become life - or to make something that remains that tells the world of Dan Kiesling - I just feel so inadequate to that task, sometimes. I was ready to support his dreams, be his cheerleader - I didn't have the career ambition, he did. Why am I the one left?



I know this post is wandering today. I just want you to know, I guess, that my heart still breaks at the injustice of death. Even when I know that healing can come - that God can be closer to our hearts in grief than we can even imagine to be possible - that God can make beauty from ashes...I still wish that this weren't the case. ...and I wish to God that these beautiful lives were not whisked away so early or that we had to try to make sense of life without them.

Emma, Chasen, Brian, Shay, Dan - they were golden like the sunset.



...and I am so sorry that we have to learn how to live without their physical presence...

Remembering - what grief feels like

Hindsight is 20/20. Only in the rear view can we really see what we just lived through. When we have emerged from the fog, we can begin to see the crisp lines, the hard edges become clearer - for before they were just blurred edges. The reality dulled by the grief and disbelief. 

Two years ago today, I posted this: 

At that time, I was nearing the 3-month mark. Three months of learning that Dan was dying, and then Dan dying, and then...walking through a fog trying to find life.

Last week, a friend and mentor celebrated her "retirement" from the university. Two years ago, our other full-time advisor announced his sudden retirement - and I was the only one for 500 undergrads. I was the only one for 500 undergrads with only a year at this place under my belt. I was the only one for 500 undergrads with only a year at this place, teaching 3 classes (one had 2 sections). I was the only one for 500 undergrads with only a year at this place, teaching 3 classes, and drowning in grief.

I didn't know I was drowning in grief. I thought I was doing pretty well, really. ...and I was. But I was also drowning. 

You don't know how exhausting just living is until you have had the life drained out of you...and no one to replenish. That's what that first year was like for me. I was in the deep end, treading water, doing my best to shout encouraging words to everybody else, holding the hands of the students who needed it, trying to keep them afloat...while slowing going down.

I didn't realize how much Dan's presence and his love had buoyed me. He helped anchor me. He rooted me. ...and now, where was I? who was I? 

These were the questions that sat at the back of my mind - though I didn't acknowledge them. I'm not even sure I heard them. If I did, I did my best to ignore them - to just get through this day - because dang it, I CAN. Susan didn't know how much just her presence in the office gave me a lift. It was a reminder that someone else was helping. Someone else could shoulder what I couldn't carry. I didn't actually have to do it alone.

If you know someone grieving, just be their community. Listen to them when they start to share their heart about what is burdening them. We, the grieving, each have "an impossible task" - the one thing that seems impossible to us. Listen to us describe it to you. Don't give us advice. Don't offer to carry it for us. Just listen. That's the thing - we who are grieving and have lost our person - we are far emptier than you can begin to fathom. 

We don't need advice. We need you to listen. Hear us - because we feel a bit like no one does. (Even when we know God hears us; we need a human, too) We need you to tell us that it is okay for us to take a grief day (if we are the type who need both permission and are trying to manage it all on our own)...and, we might just need you to say, "Let's go sit outside in the sunshine." "Let's go for a walk," if we haven't left the house in a while. 

Let's be still, together. 

Back to School...

I'm being reminded from various factions that I haven't posted in quite awhile. To be honest, while I have some things to share, sure...I haven't quite felt the push to write - or to share it on this blog. I think part of this is influenced by the fact that while I have always been the sole writer, this was our space...and I feel as though in my life I am emerging from the shadow of death, ready to embrace "the next."

For the first school year since Dan died, I am ready. Sure, my syllabus is still "under construction" and the D2L site isn't as pretty as I want it. But, I am ready. I am excited. Genuinely excited and looking forward to this year. Ready to build connections with students and see them soar.

During my first lecture of each year, I give a little personal background to my students by answering the question "how did I get here?" Then, I have them share with a partner their story of getting here. During those first three semesters, this has been my little plea to say, "please be gentle with me, students," my reason for being here is a little muddled right now. I am here because Dan was, and thus, I know of no other place to be.

As I have emerged from the shadow of death and grief, I can say that I am choosing to be here - because Dan was, yes; because of everything this department and school and place meant to him, yes - but also now because of what it means to me. I am excited to work with the people in my office suite and department. They inspire me. I am excited to work with my students to see them grow in the way that they have been designed and encourage that.

So, in the last two days, I've toyed with the fact that maybe I don't have to drop the "widow bomb" on the first day of class. Maybe I can just be ... me. Just be a bubbly, effervescent Jessica whose excited.


The swing of life as a widow doesn't mean that not wanting to share with students means I'm leaving behind Dan, or shamed of that part of my life, or I have forgotten. These are impossible things. It just means the death isn't the prominent thing - the death of Dan doesn't define me; I no longer have to be defined by the separation.

Instead...maybe, I can focus on the presence of Dan that has always been my comfort.


As I drove into work today, I listened to some praise and worship. There was a common theme in those songs: death. The destruction of death.

As I drove, I thought about the new school year. Wow! Three years are completed already? That doesn't seem possible. Starting year 4? Wow. That doesn't seem possible. ...and then, I thought that I have now had twice as many years at MSU without Dan than I had with him.

...and that doesn't seem possible, either.

Two years?

Two years that he hasn't been here.

How can that be?


Sometimes our life together feels like a dream. Like it was so long ago...and that must be some type of a grace God gives us, so we can focus on today. But, sometimes - I am given the grace to remember those school days together. Our drives into work along Grand River - and how can that have been three years ago, now? How have I survived two years without him, and am now starting my third?

So, I wept.

and wept.

and wept.


I can grieve for the life that I do not have, so that I am ready to embrace the life that I do have.


MSU, we love thy shadows....




Ah, Daniel Dean...pray for us.

DK Forever.

Coming full circle...

Eight years ago, June 30, 2010, my grandfather, Joseph M. Kremer breathed his last. My grandpa was my hero, an idol, one of the greats...and I couldn't imagine life without him. ...and without knowing it, eight years ago, I entered into this tug-of-war in my heart - this niggling question of doubt: how can God be good if we die?

I didn't realize it at the time because I knew the answer. I knew the right answer based on my years of study and attentiveness: God is good. Period. End of statement. What is there to question?

Because, up until that point in my life I had known no other reality than goodness. I hadn't really endured suffering or hardship. Nor had I experienced love, really. I mean, yes, I knew the unconditional love of my parents and family; I knew phileo love - the constancy of friends... but not the depth of love that causes you to realize that you can't imagine a moment where you didn't love this person...where your soul knew a level of completion that it hadn't before.

When Grandpa Joe (affectionately known as Grandpa McGillicuddy to his grandkids) died...his was the first loss that I really felt. My grandpa had been sick for a while; his kidneys first started to fail three years earlier. For three years, his body battled the slow process of shutting down - and my grandmother, the angel that she is, allowed no one else to care for him. (eventually of course there were nurses that had to come in, but up until the last few weeks, she was adamant that he would be home)

He had a stroke (I think; now the details are becoming fuzzy to me) a few weeks before he died. At that point, he moved into a nursing home. I visited him with my aunt Mary, cousin Amy, and Grandma, after my cousin Cynthia's wedding. He was alert and attentive. Like he was. ...and I think it was that week that the reality of losing him started to sink in for me. I remember sobbing in Dan's basement as the reality that a man like this was a gem; a rare treasure; and that this earth would lose something profound when we lost him.

To live such a life, right?

To live such a life that the world notices.
...that a void is left not only in the lives of those that loved you - but in the world itself.
...that a space is created asking another to take up the cross of courage and compassion, to step into this life of truly living and serving and loving others.

I wouldn't say that he loved with abandon - but rather, with reason. He considered. He contemplated. He sorted through a complex issue with logic - and compassion. He then communicated through wit and humor, endearing those to his side - or, at least to listen and to consider. His faith was the foundation of his life, creating an ordered discipline and understanding of the world. His love of family was placed securely upon that foundation: ordering his choices and tempering justice with compassion.

It is through reflecting on his life that I start to see the lesson he modeled to me: love justice, seek mercy, and walk humbly with your God. (Micah 6:8) I think of his last letter to me where he said, "we were put into this world to help one another." He taught me to not only believe in the good of the other person, but more importantly to be the good.

.....

So, yes, his loss was profound, but at the time, I didn't realize the question planted in my heart. For as he left this world, then Dan left Iowa for Arizona - and my life speed started to ramp up. I decided to join the Catholic church, and during that year of formation sensed my grandpa's pleasure at this new path I was embarking on my mountainous journey toward God.

During RCIA, I remember doing a visioning prayer exercise where we were envisioning a wall around a palace...and the palace was supposed to be heaven and what we were picturing was where we were, in our hearts/belief, at that moment in relation to God/our understanding of death, etc. (I obviously am not remembering all the details perfectly) BUT - I do remember that for me, it was like a bright, autumn day, the fields surrounding the place were golden, ready for harvest...but there was no entrance. I was on the outside of that wall, with no way to get in.

For right-understanding-Jessica-who-believes-in-God-and-has-made-a-good-confession-of-faith-and-therefore-is-not-afraid-of-dying...like-any-good-Christian-and-of-course-she-is-a-good-Christian; if-she-is-anything-she-is-a-good-Christian - that was a really startling revelation. And, like any good respondent, upon realizing this, I promptly threw it away - paying it no mind - it wasn't in line with the truth. ...and I am in line with the truth.

So, I went on with my life. Joining the church. Getting married. Moving to Arizona. Starting my married life. Moving forward.

...but that seed...that fear of death...that separation...continued to grow/fester.

...and then Dan was diagnosed with cancer.

In a way, the diagnosis amplified the fear, yes. ...but, it also steeled my resistance to believing that cancer would win. The barrier that fear had created was melting in my heart with every Rosary that I prayed - as I focused on the truth of who Jesus is, and focused on His works. I am sure that Mary was fervently praying for me to not only know, but to fully love her son not only through this trial, but beyond.

I have said it before that I never thought Dan could die. I mean it. I was afraid, of course, that he would - but I truly believed that if God was good, Dan would not die. How could he? How could He? How could He bring me to this man, and cause him to love me, and give us this life together - only for it to be snatched away? How could that be good? How, in a thousand lifetimes, could that be considered good?



It would seem, of course, that God had more lessons to teach me.

A lesson that, I think, both my grandpa and Dan knew to be true, through their years of suffering in the body: God's goodness is bigger - than death - than life - than our present circumstance (no matter how good or bad). God's goodness is more than we can even start to comprehend. His goodness is LIFE. His goodness is LOVE.  His goodness is the very reality of His presence to us - even in our present suffering.


In those weeks after Dan's death, as I attended Mass and prayed the Rosary, God so simply laid it out there: our dying defeats death. It completes the one circle, while starting another.

Most authors/grief counselors will impress upon the truth that grief is not linear. You do not progress in stages - like ascending or descending stairs: instead, it is a spiral. You are experiencing many things as you progress upward (or downward depending on whether you are healing or festering) - and you will circle back to different stages and emotions - and even memories - as you progress. ...and, I think this is also true of our life: we are spiral. Moving upward or downward...and our dying is not the end of our spiral, but a gateway to the next.

Now, let me say this: Jesus' death is the ultimate dying that has defeated death. I am not saying that we are mini-Christs or anything like that. His death is what defeated sin, and therefore eternal death - while opening up the gateway to eternal life. Only Jesus. Likewise, through Him, through our living of this life and carrying our cross: doing the right, loving goodness, and walking humbly with our God, does our dying defeat the cycle of sin/death.

Early on after Dan's death, I remember coming to Mass with the question: "but why death, Lord?" As I prayed the Glorious Mysteries of the Rosary that day, the 4th mystery - where Mary is assumed into heaven (thereby not dying), I knew why we, though Christians and thus "saved" from death, experienced death. Because of sin. Although, we have been washed in the waters of baptism, as we walk through this life, we are still battling sin and temptation. Though we are safe in the grasp of our Father, the enemy is still prowling about like a roaring lion trying to ensnare us, to entrap us, to get us to throw up our hands and not do the right, love goodness, or walk humbly with our God - anything to get us to be ineffective and not bear fruit.  ...and our death is actually like a final thrust of the sword into his heart. A reminder to him that he cannot - and will not - win...and though a void be left, by the grace of God, more will be coming to fill our place.


If you have never read the Book of Wisdom, I highly encourage you to set aside some time and read the first 5 chapters. You will be blest.

Reading 1WISDOM 1:13-15; 2:23-24; 3:1-4

God did not make death,
nor does he rejoice in the destruction of the living.
For he fashioned all things that they might have being;
and the creatures of the world are wholesome,
and there is not a destructive drug among them
nor any domain of the netherworld on earth,
for justice is undying.
For God formed man to be imperishable;
the image of his own nature he made him.
But by the envy of the devil, death entered the world,
and they who belong to his company experience it.

But the souls of the just are in the hand of God,

and no torment shall touch them.

They seemed, in the view of the foolish, to be dead; 

and their passing away was thought an affliction

and their going forth from us, utter destruction.

But they are in peace.

What healing looks like: honest questions

This Lent, I decided to get back to basics: back to simply immersing myself in the Word of God, my first love. Looking longingly, lovingly into the words of Jesus to return to his heart, my heart. It has been such a gift. I can get so fixated on the doing of life that I mistakenly think that it's the doing that God cares about most. I forget the gift in being in His presence and adoring who He is...and somehow, reading & writing is how I meditate best, cultivating thoughts on Him - and me - and life springs up inside me.

I've been reading through the book of John - slowly, chewing, cherishing each section. I've wanted to share some thoughts I've had - and it just so happens that yesterday's Gospel reading and today's reading fit right in with what I was meditating on last week. (...and this one was a hard one for me, took a couple of days of honest prayer)

Without further ado, my thoughts on John 4:43-54, the healing of the Royal Official's son.

What isn't said that is necessary for understanding?


The Royal Official comes to Jesus in Cana:

Sir, I hear that at your word, water becomes wine.
Sir, I hear that you have performed many signs and wonders -
my son, my son whom I love...
he is sick - near death - please come and heal him.

I wonder, I picture him, bowed low, cap in hand,
humbling himself in spite of his position -
out of respect for authority and deep love for his son -

How could Jesus' heart be indifferent?
unmoved to compassion?
He is not like me. He does not grow tired or weary.
He will.

...but my heart has experienced this loss.
My heart cried out; I humbled myself - didn't I?
Didn't I?
Was it not enough?
Surely if not me, then his own parents -
was it not enough?
Were we not enough?
Was our faith too small for healing?
Did we accept that dying is just part of life?
That you, God, didn't will it for Dan?

I don't understand, to be honest. Why did you heal this man's son - and not Dan?
God, forgive me for my unbelief - for my questions,
but I need you to show me.
It feels too much like indifference, sometimes.
Forgive me for thinking your ways are mine, but I ask you -
with a contrite heart, please come into this part of my heart
and heal my hurt. Help me know how much you delight in healing -
in our wholeness.


...
There are no notes on John 4:45-54.
a son healed and not one word...
Jesus knew that the generation needed to believe;
this man believed that Jesus alone could heal his son.
he did.
~only say the Word~
He did: you may go; your son will live.
he believed -
and then -
he heard; he saw: at the very hour He spoke -
healing.
and a household believed.

Your words are LIFE.
You give Life.
You are Life.
You are more than a teacher.
You are God.

In February 2016, Jesus told me that Dan would be healed. Clearly, as Father Mark prayed for him and I prayed, begging for his healing: I knew it. I felt it. I "heard" it.

It can be hard to explain this - because 6 months later, he died. But Jesus told me something about healing that day:
Healing is about wholeness - 
and a person is only whole in Jesus.

Miraculous healings - these are signs to accompany faith -
to produce, affirm, confirm, strengthen faith...
so that a person may experience greater wholeness with Jesus.
or even a community of people.

The thing is - this Royal Official's Son, he still died...eventually.
For me, that is what I must accept:
that in the goodness of God,
in His providence -
Dan's death, leading to ultimate unity: wholeness with Jesus -
this could lead more to faith in Jesus than his life could.
It seems impossible -
but with God all things are possible -
even life from death.

Searching for my heart's love

Today, I am sharing with you one of the most significant moments of my pilgrimage to Ireland. This was the Saturday of our trip; our second-to-last day in the Emerald Isle. Our pilgrimage included daily Mass, and the members of the pilgrimage took turns sharing the duties of reader. I read the first day (Sunday)...and was asked to read prior to Saturday's Mass. Nearly every other day, I read the readings ahead of time - so that I'd be ready, just in case. I didn't on this day. If I had, I probably would've said no. :) 

...without further ado, my story:

7/22/17

Today, I read.

I'm not in prison; just reading behind the bars separating the chapel from the Benedictine sisters.

It was a very hard reading, especially given the dream I had the night before I left for Ireland. In a soap-opera-like turn of events, Dan had been discovered as not dead, but I'd believed that he was - and had been in the process of "living my life" - when this announcement was made. So, I went to where he was (this strange hospital/school) - but I couldn't get to him. I could hear him, but I couldn't ever get to where he actually was. It was very upsetting.

Today's reading was from the Feast of Mary Magdalene:

A reading from the Song of Songs 3:1-4b: 

The Bride says:
on my bed at night, I sought him whom my heart loves;
I sought him, but I did not find him.
I will rise then and go about the city;
in the streets and crossings I will seek
Him whom my heart loves.
I sought him but I did not find him.
The watchmen came upon me, as they made their rounds of the city:
"Have you seen him whom my heart loves?"
I had hardly left them
when I found him whom my heart loves.

I feel like I have a choice of two things to write about: the deep sorrow in my soul ... or the fact that only in the heart of Jesus do I have any solace or hope of comfort. Our Mass today was said in a Benedictine Priory dedicated to the Perpetual Adoration of the Sacred of Heart of Jesus (Cobh, Ireland).

The Gospel reading was Jesus appearing to Mary Magdalene after his resurrection. "Don't cling to me, for I have yet to return to my Father; but, go - and tell my disciples to go on ahead of me - to wait and to pray till I come to them."

Father said Mary, devastated by the loss of the One who had restored her to wholeness, was probably rejoicing that things would be back as they were. As she embraces Jesus, he seems to know that her heart longs for the way things were - and yet, "Behold, He is making all things new." Always.
(it's not a one-and-done, but a constant converstion to the newness.)

So, he gently tells her. He speaks to her heart - and then sends her out with the gospel - "Behold, you (even you) will be my witnesses to the ends of the earth." Go - tell my brothers what you have seen and heard and touched. Go.

So, Mary does.

She does exactly the opposite of Moses (whom we've been hearing about all week). She doesn't question, "Who am I to go?" Mary Magdalene has been transformed by love - and she knows the One who has made her new. She knows she is loved, and she loves him in return.

She doesn't question, "What will I say? Who will I tell them who sent me?" Jesus tells her exactly waht to say and to whom to go. She knows the One who sent her - and she trusts him because He has loved her in a way no one ever has.

I had a moment last night where I think God came to me... I had this vision brighter than I'd ever seen - my eyes were closed, and these images of green and gold - like sunlight through trees - brighter than anything I'd ever seen, passed before me - and I felt like I was in the presence of holiness.

I just wanted to stay in that place; bask in that presence...but I felt prompted to ask for what I wanted.
But I had no idea what to ask for.
I had no idea what my heart wants most.
I didn't fell like I could ask for it - instead just a "I don't know; what do you want for me?
What will you do for me? Do you want me to hope for the things I have before? for motherhood, for marriage? Will you do that for me?"

...and then it was dark and I felt like I'd lost it - like maybe I don't really know His heart for me.


After Mass, three different people told me that the face that I read this particular reading is a sign. But a sign of what? I don't know.

Have I found the One whom my heart loves?

I feel like I'm a "yabbit" here. Yes...but.

Yes, in an amazing, miraculous way I have found more of Jesus in my heartbreak. I am in love with him more now than I was with Dan here. I have a much stronger, more profound, deep knowledge that I am loved - and I trust his heart more for me now than when Dan lived.

I do. I love Jesus more now than a year ago - and I want to love him more. I want more of him. I am no longer afraid of the Holy Spirit living in me - I want that. I want more of Him. More. More. MORE.

But, I still want to love a person. I want to be married. I want a family. I still want those things. I do.

The hardest part of grief is feeling you straddle two worlds. Two lives.
One that feels broken, desolate, a promise dashed.
One that hopes breathes, that lives, that laughs.

Two hearts.

Like today's words: Don't. Go.

I don't know how to live in two worlds. I don't know what my "don't" is...but my soul clings to Hope. My heart has been buoyed by Hope - and my Hope has a name: Jesus.

A view from the backside of the Priory

Now that it's been over 6 months since I penned these words, I see how the Holy Spirit has continued gently leading me through this process of voicing my heart. I can't speak for all Christians, but for me, I have often felt a need for permission to want what I want. Like, it is somehow holier to be all "whatever God, have your way" - when there are desires he's pressed upon us - when he wants to hear us articulate what is on our hearts.

Of course this doesn't mean that I dictate my will to God and expect him to "Magic 8-ball" my requests; but what I am invited to do is to share my hopes and dreams - and ask the One who has loved me with an everlasting love, who has created me, who knows me to have his way in me...while trusting that what he's laid on my heart is good - and that the One who calls me is faithful - and He will do it.

So, what's all that mean, anyway, Jessica? Gah, you've figured me out, self. You know how I like to couch my thoughts. 

What does it mean? Well, I want to be a mom, and I want to be married. I want to be part of a family; I want a family. I do. Those are still desires of my heart...and I want to trust God to provide for me, believing that He will...in His way and His time. It took me awhile to be brave enough to voice it. 

St. Mary Magdalene, pray for us.

Humanity + Holiness

The wonder of Christmas really is the miracle that the holy can become human...and vice versa, that the human can be reunited with the holy. As humans, I think this combination doesn't feel "seamless" - it often feels more like the tension between the dark and the light. (I just saw The Last Jedi last night, so that imagery is still vivid) Humanness and holiness don't seem to exist on the same plane, for us.

...but that couldn't be farther from the truth, could it?

Our humanity is what makes our holiness accessible. Our humanity makes holiness not seem like an impossible ideal, but instead a glorious place of love, acceptance, mercy, and joy.


What has flagged that for me this Christmas? My mom.

My mom doesn't tend to get the "shout-out" she has earned in my life, probably because of the centrality she plays. You don't notice the importance of breathing - you just do it everyday, every moment...and that's sort of how my mom is. She is SO MUCH of who I am that I don't even know how to recognize and honor her importance.

At Thanksgiving, we had a "discussion" where she said, "Can we just stop making fun of me for my short-comings? It's always funny to bring up the things that I do wrong. Well, it's not funny to me!"

...and it's true. We often have a really good laugh at my mom's antics...like the bumper boats incident. Those moments are inscribed into our shared family experience. ...but, we don't laugh at the them because they highlight her imperfection - I love them because they highlight her accessibility. Her realness. Her willingness to put herself out there...and show her vulnerabilities - and to laugh at the outcome when it wasn't ideal.  

My mom's willingness to be herself, to allow her "imperfections" to be displayed makes me love her more. My mom's immediate reaction to a problem with, "Shit. Shit! Shit! Shit!" makes me love her more. If she responded beatifically to every situation, well, I think we would be the most insufferable people. Completely inaccessible to others. Unrelatable. Untouchable. Separate. Removed. 

Instead, she is the person to whom I can give a gift that combines two seemingly unrelated things:

because she is my personal reminder that humanity and holiness dwell together. She can laugh at the message of "Sofa King Bueno" while allowing the immutable truth of Jesus Christ present to us to be the anchor of her soul through the storms of life.  ...I think people might say the same of me - and that is often why describing her importance in my life is so difficult. She is my first teacher and my best friend.


Humanity and holiness dwelling together. My friends, this is the Christmas Mystery. That the Creator of the Universe, God from God, Light from Light...could even put on our flesh and become human - that is mystery itself. ...but the fact that this God would choose to put on humanity...that is love itself.

Our image of holiness is one that is removed. separate. untouchable. ...because our sin doesn't allow us to encounter holiness. The effect of coming close to the fire of holiness would be to burn away to impurities and the imperfections - and that seems scary. To encounter the fire of holiness in our state would certainly be our undoing, our end.

The idea of God often seems far from us. God is removed from us. Separate. ...unreachable...untouchable...unrelatable.

...which is why the Incarnation, God becoming flesh, Light entering the world in the form of a person should bring us to our knees - out of sheer awe and relief and worship and joy.

Jesus, who did not believe equality with God was something which should be grasped,
humbled himself and taking the form of a man,
and finding himself in the form of a man, submitted to death - even death on the cross -
that at his name, every knee should bow on heaven and on earth and under the earth,
and every tongue proclaim that "Jesus is Lord!"

The miracle of Christmas is humanity and holiness reunited, knit together in the form of Jesus Christ. Jesus - the baby in the manger, born in the humblest of places into a working-class family...
Jesus - the teenager who senses his calling, who knows he is meant for more - submits to his parents' desire for him to stay home and near them...growing in grace and favor;
Jesus - the teacher, inspiring and confusing;
Jesus - the miracle worker, loving and noticing and touching and healing - the unlovable, the forgotten, the untouchable, the broken;
Jesus - the prophet, speaking words of truth that divide soul & spirit, right from might;
Jesus - the prince of peace and the stumbling block;

Jesus - in a manger, in his mother's arms.
Jesus - in a temple, sitting among his teachers.
Jesus - in a boat. on a beach. at a well, speaking to individuals, to friends, to the masses.
Jesus - at a dinner with his friends, reclining at table.
Jesus - praying for a miracle. desperate for a resolution. seeking consolation.
Jesus - taking up his cross, and shouldering the mantle of his calling.
Jesus - bearing all the brunt of hatred, power, man's inhumanity to man, our sin and all that has separated us from the holiness of his Father....he took it all upon him. ALL.
Everything that separated us from the presence of holiness himself: God the Father, Jesus destroyed through that cross. Everything. EVERY THING. including death.

For me, the images that evoke Jesus' humanness the most are his prayer in the Garden of Gethsemane and his crown of thorns. I see in those two images the very image of what it means to be human - to wrestle with the weight of suffering and death, the vulnerability to be scared and tell God about it, and to find the love and the strength to endure cruelty, pain, and the worst. excruciatingly painful and humiliation - and love and forgive - to do it all willingly and with overflowing love: that is what it means to be holy.

In his humanity and through his holiness, Jesus has been the restoration of our life. He has redeemed our lives through love. In him and through him: holiness and humanity can dwell together in harmony once again. They are not ying-and-yang. It is our true self, our true calling. Humanity and holiness dwelling in harmony.

Only possible through Jesus Christ, the God-Man. This Christmas, let us throw off all that hinders us and coming running into the arms of our Savior and Lord. This reconciliation - this is the greatest gift.



...and it enables us to look at the circumstances of life knowing that it's sofa king bueno because it really is well with our souls.


Merry Christmas!

Ghosts of Christmas Past

There was something else I wanted to write about today. ...but Feelings gotta feel. So, I'm going down this tunnel looking for some light.

Has anyone else felt the heaviness of the season lately? The heaviness of expectation.

It makes sense when you think about it. Advent: the coming. The preparation for the birth. The month that seems to last 1,331 days instead of the typical 30-31. ...except that with this particular time, it seems to go too fast for one to be adequately prepared, which just adds to the heaviness of expectation.

I have felt that heaviness...it feels like dread. Like this weight that you want to shake, but you can't. It's coming for you; it's here; the time is upon you and you're.just.not.ready. You're not ready, and here it is. ...like a thief in the night.

I've heard the passages about Christ coming "like a thief in the night" many times. ...but until writing the above paragraph...I didn't really realize that's exactly what grief is like. That's exactly what Dan's death felt like to me: a thief in the night. I wasn't ready...but it came anyway.

...it came anyway.

The last 24 hours, I've been quite sad. I was reminded that December 11, 2008 was a pretty significant date in the story of Dan and Jessica. A year ago, I wrote about the start of our relationship.

December 11, 2008: Dan and I attended Esmerelda, a Christmas production put on by my church. Because of this amazing work that God did in my heart from the time we broke up on October 6 (when I was too afraid of losing a potential relationship to invite him to something that was really important to me: afraid) to November 30 (when I wasn't concerned about a relationship, but just wanted to spend time with him), he was attending. For at least the month prior, I had been praying that God would do a miracle in Dan's heart. ...and I thought that night would be the night of the miraculous.

Prior to attending, Dan came over for dinner. Whatever I had made really didn't turn out well. We ate it anyway. The wine, Matchbox from Fireside Winery, was good - and the conversation was excellent. We talked about our families and traditions...and for some reason, I think we talked about Ohio...and it felt so natural, so much like home.

Then, we went to play. It was great. ...then, we went out for dessert at Perkins and I had triple berry pie. We talked a long time; I remember we talked about how Dan had been baptized twice...how his very life (existence) was a miracle.

It was...magical. It was perfect.

December 12, 2008: I was working on two, take-home finals at a local coffee shop (Cafe Diem). ...and, I talked to my dad about the evening...and I realized that I had no other reason to see Dan. I had just had this wonderful night, and now, I realized, I didn't know when I would see him again. The ball was in his court, and I could only wait.

...and I cried. I sat in my car and cried actual tears as I cried out to God in prayer. What my dad had said 2 months earlier when he said that I loved Dan - was right. I loved him and I didn't even know if he liked me back. I had put it all out there...and...what would be next?

I sobbed and sobbed as I asked God to make a way.

I came in to the coffee shop and opened up my email. There was an email from Dan...stating that he had a really nice time and that he would like to see me again. Would I be interested in going to a movie that weekend?

Of course.

That movie was Four Christmases, one of the many Christmas movies in our repertoire.

A couple of days later, we met for a drink to celebrate the end of finals. ...I finally worked up enough courage to invite him to my family Christmas (per my mother's urging). His response was, "...um.....well...." (which is like an eternity) "Well, to be honest, I was kind of hoping for a better offer."
Me: "A better offer? Seriously? Do you know how much courage that took for me to invite you? ...and you said you were waiting for a better offer?"
Dan: "Well, I mean - a closer offer. I mean, you live like an hour and a half away...and that's a long way to go..."
(I agree. It is - which is the whole reason I didn't want to invite him in the first place, Mom.) Instead, I just sit there.
Dan: "I'll go. I'll go."
Me: "ok...."

So, on Christmas Day, Dan drove an hour and a half (one way) to have dinner with the Rohrigs. I was so nervous. I'd never - NEVER - had a boy join me for a family anything - let alone Christmas dinner. It was just my parents, brother and girlfriend and me...but I'm not sure if that means more or less pressure.

It was a lovely dinner. We exchanged some small gifts. My dad gave Dan a hammer. (which we still have) We played A Christmas Story monopoly in couple-pairs which morphed into It's a Wonderful Life monopoly when my dad became the banker with all the money (Mr. Potter) and my brother the staunch hold-out against his take-over (George Bailey).

It was fabulous. ...and suddenly it was 6pm and Dan needed to drive an hour and a half back to Ames and do chores along the way for the Ritter family.


I still wasn't sure how Dan felt about me, but I was pretty sure he liked me. A few days later, we watched the.longest.movie.ever (The Curious Case of Benjamin Button) - but he held my hand for the first time. ...and it was magical. Seriously. It was electric - just like the say in Sleepless in Seattle.


That was my December 2008; nine years ago now. It was magical. It was everything those blasted Hallmark movies portray.

Our subsequent Decembers together were equally as beautiful - and dramatic. (like that one where he proposed) :)

...and that is what makes the present December hard.


I don't really remember what last year was like. I probably was very adament to not let grief ruin the season. I don't know. ...but as I think about when I will do all.the.things, I feel a bit like ghost of our Christmas past is tapping on my shoulder:
remember when Dan proposed? 
remember how Christmas cards were SO your thing?
remember when you received SO many cards the year you moved to Michigan? 
remember when you had someone to spend the day with - regardless of where you were?
remember when you could get a hug any time you wanted? 


The Ghost of Christmas Past is going to come anyway. Grief is going to come anyway. We have a choice: we can let them come or we can try to shut the curtains of our 4-post bed - but, they will still sit there. Conversely, we can sit with the memory - and though it pierces our present - our hearts are being made more tender in the process.

The present is bitter because the past was so sweet. ...and the fear is wondering how it's even possible for someone to experience magic again. Like, is that even fair? Is it fair for someone to get magic twice?


I don't know. What I do know is that this time of Advent is a time where I can allow myself to empty the pain and burden I carry...because a time is coming when the valley will be filled. If I choose to be emptied, I can be filled. I believe that God who promises is a God who does - and that his promise is Emmanuel: God with us. God present-to us. The God who fills us with His very presence. The God of the Impossible, the Inconceivable, the Incarnate.

I will wait for him. I welcome him. ...and though I walk through the valley of the shadow, I will not fear - for He is with me.

What Grief Feels Like: Wave Pool

For those of you who are not my Facebook friends, here's a piece of news for you: I bought a house! It's a quaint little 1900 house in my favorite Michigan hometown. It's hard to believe I signed almost two weeks ago - and will be fully moved in less than a week.

The day of the signing, I posted on Facebook that I was feeling very overwhelmed. People kept asking me if I was excited, and honestly, I felt anything but excitement. I felt mostly overwhelmed. Like you've taken me to the edge of the sand, shown me the ocean, told me that something exciting is just beyond that horizon...but, I don't believe you because all I see are the waves.

My Facebook memory that day had pulled up a quote a friend had shared from 1 Peter: May the grace and peace of our Lord Jesus abound as you grasp more and more the hope of our call. Two years ago, while we were going through Dan's treatment - I saw those words as a prayer we should pray for all those when we are tempted to say trite, worthless lies like: God doesn't give you more than you can handle. Stop saying that - and start saying, "I will pray for you that even in this overwhelming circumstance that the grace and peace of our Lord Jesus will abound for you that you will come to know with more assurance the hope of our call, of his firm love for us and our security in that love" - because that is the only thing worth meaning.

I digress. I posted that asking for my friends to pray for me as I prepared to sign for my house. ...and all the stress I had felt gripping me for the previous two days melted away - and I felt overwhelming peace before, during, and after the signing. SUCH PEACE. Amen. God is good.


So, now it is crunch time. It is get the shit in the boxes time. Moving starts at 1:30 pm on Sunday (if you're looking for a fun time for a couple hours. I promise I'll make it worth your while).

...and tonight, while I started packing the bathroom closet, I got bowled over by this:

Those are beach towels - which for any of our Tucson friends might look familiar. For those new to our story, our Tucson home had a pool. (which was impossibly to keep blue. IM.possible.) We loved hosting our friends and family when they visited in the pool - and kept towels on hand for those in need. 

I pulled seven beach towels from the top shelf and placed them in the box...thinking about Tucson. ...and then thought, "when will I ever need this many beach towels in Michigan?" ...and that thought began a spiral into the what was, and what will not ever be wave pool. 

Wave Pool. If you've been to a water park, you've ventured into the wave pool. It's tolerable - a little constant motion of the waves moving you back and forth...and then, as you get a little deeper, it gathers force pushing you back and pulling you deeper, water breaking against your body.

I mentioned via text to my friend Leslie that I felt a little weepy. I tried to explain why...and then the tears came. Once they started, it became a sob. ...and then gasping sobs, holding onto the door frame while your whole body grieves for what has been lost - both what was, and what will not be. 

I hadn't experienced that level of grieving for a while. ...not since returning from Ireland - so (exactly) three months ago. 

Beach towels.

and curtains. 

"They" say that you don't know what will trigger you...and I guess that's true. ...and there's no need to try to figure it out. What is needed is that you let yourself enter into and endure the wave pool. Because you know what happens in the wave pool? It subsides. It stills. It is not constant. It is not forever. ...but, you have to let yourself feel it or you will not reach the stillness of healing.

Yesterday's Gospel reading (Luke 12:13-21) is the parable of a man with an abundant harvest who decides that he will build bins and storehouses, as a way to ensure that he will never be in want - and will never have to rely on God again - because he has provided for himself and ensured his provision for years to come. The warning to him comes: "You fool, don't you know that this very night your life will be demanded of you, and the things you have prepared - to whom will they belong? So it will be for all who store up treasures for themselves, but are not rich in what matters to God."  

That reading, especially that line sat with me. As my grief wave began to still, I remembered, "for one's life does not consist in possessions." ...I don't need 7 beach towels. I don't. There are people who do; these are nice towels. They should be shared - and used - and not stored in boxes growing musty and dusty. 

One's life does not consist in possessions. 

Use your possessions to make memories with people. People. 

Be rich in what matters to God: people. 

My people, may grace and peace abound to you through our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

Give Thanks in all Circumstances....really?

The reminder of October 6 and its significance to Dan & my relationship combined with the Friday night Alpha session, "Why do we pray?" prompted me to think about thankfulness in all circumstances.

One of the main lessons from the retreat I'd been on the weekend before Dan and I broke up was "give thanks for all things in your life," a la St. Paul in 1 Thessalonians 5:18.

On Friday night, as we talked about how we respond to God when our prayers don't seem to be answered and handling the feelings that come. Since I'd just reflected earlier on how I'd thanked God for dating Dan in the wake of our break-up, this idea of thanking God for whatever comes our way was fresh. Suddenly, this thought popped into my head: "I've never thanked God for Dan's death."

The next morning as I spent some time in prayer, I sat in my living room thinking about this. The more I thought, the more I realized that I couldn't do it.

"God, I am thankful for the life we had together.

I am thankful for the time we had together.

I am thankful for the LIFE you gave us in the midst of all that uncertainty and the disease.

I am thankful for the person Dan was, his faith, the lessons he taught me, for his love and the way that he loved me.

I am thankful for us.

I am beyond thankful that in the wake of his death, you have become more present to me than ever. I am thankful for how you have carried me.

I am thankful for the ways you have provided for me in the past year+.

I am thankful for the people you have brought into my life since Dan's death.

...but, I just...I'm not thankful for his death. 

...and even for all the good that may come, God...still...I can't. If you want me to be thankful for this, then you'll have to change my heart."

That evening, I went to worship and adoration.  The event had been fine. Not mountain-moving, but time with Jesus is always good. Toward the end, I was thanking God and talking to Dan about just how crazy it was that I was here...in no way could I have guessed nine years ago, as I was thanking God that He'd brought Dan into my life (even though he didn't think he was man-enough for me)...that 9 years later, here I would be - a Catholic, doing a super-Catholic thing, adoring Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament.

...and then, I thought about my morning prayer. ...and I heard,

"I'm not thankful for Dan's death, either. I don't expect you to be. I'm not thankful for anyone's death."

Hear that.

Many of us who have experienced great loss will wrestle with trying to understand God's goodness in the wake of what comprehensibly does not seem good. At all. Ever. No matter how much life may come in the wake...that death was not good. We need to hear that God does not look at death as a good thing. 

God doesn't will death - but it is allowed. Death is the natural consequence to sin; sin is separation from God. Sin cannot exist in the presence of Divine Holiness, Life itself. ...and, death is the ultimate consequence: separation from life. We will all experience death because we are human; the presence of original sin, the consequence of fallen humanity. Death is that awful consequence.

...but, it is not the final say. Jesus came to destroy death and the barrier it created to our eternal existence with the Divine. Jesus came and died to destroy death. Jesus' resurrection is our sign that death has, eternally, been destroyed - and our life, united with God, has been restored.

Now, united to Jesus through baptism and faith in his life, death and resurrection: death is simply a room we will pass through onto life: united with the One who destroyed death.


We don't have to be thankful that death exists. We don't have to be thankful that death has separated us from those we love. We can be righteously angry that death exists.

BUT: we must also acknowledge that death is NOT the final word because of Jesus. Death need not separate us from the love of God that it is in Jesus. Death need not separate us from the ones we have loved. We CAN rejoice and be thankful that Jesus has destroyed eternal death and separation in his body, through his death. We can be thankful that this is NOT the end. We can return to joy (rejoice!) again and again and again because JESUS.

I'll be here for you

Friday morning, I had a weird experience. Prior to my morning shower, I moved my (big - one of the liter sizes) bottle of shampoo from the back left corner of the tub to the front right corner so it was next to the conditioner and body wash. During my shower, after squirting the shampoo into my hands, while lathering up, I thought, "Hmm. I don't know if I like that there. I should move that back..." and proceeded to then get caught up in other thoughts all together taking me to different lands.

I turned around to rinse, opened my eyes - and saw the bottle of shampoo returned to the back left corner where it had been sitting - prior to me moving it that morning.

What? Did I do that? ...how could I have done that? My hands were busy the whole time...

Huh.

Weird.

It reminded me of a moment this spring when I'd used the last of the toilet paper on the roll. I took the empty roll off, and thought, "Eh, I'll do that in the morning. I'm going to bed now," and put the metal thing back in its place.

When I woke up the next morning and walked into the bathroom, there was a new roll of toilet paper in its place.

What? Did I do that? ...do I sleep-walk now? ...I don't think so.... I don't usually get up in the night to use the bathroom - and when I do it is a full-wake up process.


Thursday night, I'd had a conversation with a student about "mysterious occurrences" and a talk she'd just listened to about a nun who'd recently died and the order started to experience some "strange behavior" - i.e. the candles being blown out at the same moment in Mass every time. A priest recommended they commit to praying for her for 30 days. On the 30th day, the candles went out again - but this time at the giving of the Peace...signalling her spirit was now at peace.

So, Friday's occurrence made me wonder: have I not been praying enough for Dan? I thought that I'd received my confirmation that Dan was, in fact, at peace with our Lord.

So, this morning, I offered up my Mass for Dan, for his peace, to be fully united with Jesus.

Now, it seems worthwhile to mention that while in Ireland, I had such a strong sense of Dan. I was receiving his gift of a song in my heart, and I just felt very much like he was leading me - and leading me on to someplace new...into a place of embracing more of me...of a future... But upon returning, I haven't sensed him like that. So, the last two months in that regard have been quiet of his presence, but quite full of life.

I settled in to listen to the readings:

Reading 1IS 55:6-9

Seek the LORD while he may be found,
call him while he is near.
Let the scoundrel forsake his way,
and the wicked his thoughts;
let him turn to the LORD for mercy;
to our God, who is generous in forgiving.
For my thoughts are not your thoughts,
nor are your ways my ways, says the LORD.
As high as the heavens are above the earth,
so high are my ways above your ways
and my thoughts above your thoughts.

Responsorial PsalmPS 145:2-3, 8-9, 17-18

R. (18a) The Lord is near to all who call upon him.
Every day will I bless you,
and I will praise your name forever and ever.
Great is the LORD and highly to be praised;
his greatness is unsearchable.
R. The Lord is near to all who call upon him.
The LORD is gracious and merciful,
slow to anger and of great kindness.
The LORD is good to all
and compassionate toward all his works.
R. The Lord is near to all who call upon him.
The LORD is just in all his ways
and holy in all his works.
The LORD is near to all who call upon him,
to all who call upon him in truth.
R. The Lord is near to all who call upon him.

Reading 2PHIL 1:20C-24, 27A

Brothers and sisters:
Christ will be magnified in my body, whether by life or by death. 
For to me life is Christ, and death is gain. 
If I go on living in the flesh,
that means fruitful labor for me. 
And I do not know which I shall choose. 
I am caught between the two. 
I long to depart this life and be with Christ,
for that is far better. 
Yet that I remain in the flesh
is more necessary for your benefit.

Only, conduct yourselves in a way worthy of the gospel of Christ.

I remain...for you.

It is better for you that I am here, Jessica.

Pray. Hope. Do not worry. (St. Padre Pio): reflect upon this was my penance this morning.
Do not trouble yourself with the why, Jessica. Only know that I am here for you. ...I was moved to tears.

Today's Gospel reading focuses on the generous love of God displayed in Christ Jesus. The generous, unmerited - based on no works or no amount of effort - love - and God's right to shower it freely on everyone based on His right as God...and our only work is to receive with an open heart.

During the Our Father, the high school boy next to me did not hold my hand. Holding hands during Mass, especially during the Eucharistic Prayer portion was one of my favorite things to do with Dan. Sometimes, during the Our Father, my open hand will feel a bit heavy - like Dan is holding my hand.
Immediately today, I felt Dan's presence. The presence of love spoke right to my heart, I am here for you. Inaudibly, I prayed the Lord's Prayer; my heart completely overwhelmed with the love of God.

I am here for you.
..
Those words instinctively evoke our wedding song, "I'll be Here for you", written by Robert Earl Keen. The beautiful, aching lyrics - that seemed to me melacholic for a wedding, but somehow accurate for life when we married - reaching fulfillment in our life together.

I'll be the light to guide your way onto same place new... 'Cause better days will come again; clouds will break, your heart will mend. ...I'll be where I've always been, I'll be here for you.  

The truth that God was leading me to this Mass I'll detail in another post. But know, that this experience with Dan was helping to prepare for me what he is asking me, to accept one of the hardest teachings of this faith - this life: unless a grain of wheat falls to the earth and dies, it bears no fruit. All those hopes and dreams, the desires that I have longed for since childhood, I must not simply take them to the Cross; I must put them on the Cross. I must let them go and die...accepting that the generous love of God for me is exactly enough in this moment. He may choose to resurrect them - and He may not...and I must accept that this is love. ...and LOVE is generous and enough- and Jesus, who is the embodiment of love, is enough for me...and can fill every area in the way He lovingly, generously chooses. ...and it will be good.


I only need to look. Look at the story of us. Perfectly imperfect. Extraordinarily ordinary. Ethereally earthly. Terrestrially transcendent.

Buoyed by Hope. To remind me of His great, immense, all-encompassing love for me, he allowed Dan to press into that veil - and to remind me that he (Dan) is here. and, He (Jesus) is here. Here. Right in middle of where you are. where I am. ...and generously holding out the invitation that today, we can take His hand and He will lead us onward.



Onward and Upward!
(as F.C. Parrish, Jr., my friend & mentor, would close every class)