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.

The Gift of Christmas Present

We give up joy when we focus on loss.  (Marie Crews)

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about how the ghosts of Christmas Past can sneak up on this time of year - and we don't have to be grieving to have them find us. I remember a conversation with my mom about ten years ago. My brother was spending Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with his girlfriend's family...and I felt left behind. I remember saying, "I just don't know how to have an 8-year-old's Christmas at 28!"

To me, it felt like Christmas had to be about reliving those past traditions in order for it to be Christmas. ...and how do you relive a tradition without an integral family member?

You don't. ...and that tension of recognizing what has been is not what is can be very hard, frustrating, lonely or painful. For me, I think that Christmas was the first of letting go of the parameters put on Christmas and letting it just be.

Lucky enough for me, I didn't have to endure too many "single" Christmases after that. In fact, the very next year was what Dan and I referred to as the "awkward" Christmas - when he traveled to Orient for Christmas dinner when we were sort-of/almost dating - and it was a really fun day, really fun - one that you want to have again...but afterward, I felt a little more confused. I mean, what were we? Did he like me enough to actually ask me out?  Looking back, a magical 8-ball could've told you all signs point to yes - but cautious Jessica just wasn't quite sure.

One of the gifts of Dan's presence in my life was a feeling of settling. Not like "settling" - where you give up...but a feeling of being...grounded. Whenever we speak of the peace of the Holy Spirit resting upon us - this is what I think of: the feeling of being grounded even when the rest of your life feels out of control.

I had felt, for so many years, that I was running behind everyone (my peers): not yet married, no kids...just me. and my parents. I must have a bit of a competitive nature because I felt like everyone around me was "moving forward" in their life, and here I was, a 28-year-old trying to either live out an 8-year-old's Christmas or live with the emptiness of being single. Dating and then being married to Dan changed that.

The last ten years have really been a lesson in loosening the parameters and allowing the present to be just what it is. However, it took Dan's diagnosis to make this lesson not just a good idea (an ideal), but a necessity. From the second day of the diagnosis, I realized that the best way to get through this was to stay grounded in this moment. That realization helped Dan and I truly live the last year of our lives with peace and joy in the midst of uncertainties.

I don't much remember Christmas last year. Maybe I was too focused on the getting through it...but, this year, though there are moments of heightened loss, I am finding my joy in the gift of Christmas present. My health coach shared this pearl of wisdom with me this past fall:

We give up joy when we focus on loss.

Those of us who have experienced loss realize the gift of today. Today, you have this moment to be with your family and friends: live it. If you feel pain, feel it. If you feel lonely, reach out. If you feel scared, open your heart to God. If you feel joy, laugh. If you feel you are not enough or your validation comes from giving the most presents or the goodness of the day is measured by what you get: then renounce those lies and send them to the pit of hell. Seriously. When you focus on loss, you give up joy. Don't let the joy of what really matters be stolen. You will only get this day once. Live it.

Jessica of ten years ago would be measuring herself by those around her. Has she arrived yet? Is she a wife yet? Is she a mom yet? Jessica today does feel the sting of loss at times. Of course she wants to be with Dan; of course she wants to be married; of course she wants to be a mom. And yet, this moment: this is enough.

It is a gift to be Aunt Jessica. ...and by all rights to be the cool aunt. Instead of spending Christmas Eve sewing last-minute gifts for your kid, it's for your kids (nieces).

It is such a gift to get to be Mom's cool friend to my friends' kids. When a 5-year-old requests that you be the one to put him to bed - and finds delight in your laughter and enjoyment of his presence: that is a gift. When an 8-year-old requests to wait on going home just so she can talk to you about her favorite things: that is a gift. (and when that 8-year-old is explaining how she just doesn't understand the logic behind one of the desserts at her favorite restaurant and she says, "It just doesn't make sense, you know?" You say, "I do know!" because you know that as a first-born, you need the world to make sense!)

...and when you get side-lined by a freak case of the stomach virus - you just come home and rest. Enjoying the chance to relive a bit of Christmas past: sitting in the dark with nothing but Christmas lights and Mannheim Steamroller...and taking a 2-hour nap before the opening of the presents.

In the past, I may have felt like if one little detail - or even one program missed - that Christmas would be ruined. For Christmas had been in the doing. Christmas is in the being - the dwelling. If we miss that, then we miss Christmas.

My dear friends, Christmas is about rejoicing: returning to joy in the midst of whatever your circumstances or feelings. JOY. The One who not only dwells in unapproachable Light but is Light itself has put on our flesh to be not only like us, but to be with us. If this is not a cause of wonder and awe, I don't know what is! But this same One has come to fulfill these words in himself: Comfort, comfort My people. Proclaim a day of rejoicing for the blind see, the lame walk, the captives have been set free! By the Lord has this been done and it is wonderful in our sight!

The gift of Christmas present: yesterday, today, and always.

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 wish I had someone to love me

There's this Dubliners' song, "I wish I had someone to love me," that is currently tearing at my soul. I learned of the song through a book I just finished, Ireland Unhinged, when the author included this line:

Meet me tonight in the moonlight
Meet me tonight all alone
I have a sad story to tell you
I'm telling it under the moon,

Well I wish I had someone to love me
Someone to call me her own
Someone to sleep with me nightly
I’m weary of sleeping alone

Those lines reminded me of an image a friend shared looking out over Dun Laoghaire:

 ...and this week, I've been trying to create this beautiful image as a creative outlet/escape.
But, that song - it is so achingly sad - that I almost can't bear thinking about the image.



...and then, this morning, while reading those Facebook memories, I realized what day it was: October 6.


October 6, 2008.


The day Dan and I broke up.

Immediately, I was back in that place. Back as a 28-year-old feeling the aching crush of hopes dashed wondering, "when?" When will someone ever love me?

Our relationship up to that point was going out on dates to get to know each other. We met April 29, and Dan asked me out that evening. Our first date (dessert) would have been May 3. So, by October, I mean we probably should have been figuring out what we're doing here. We went out on a date every couple of weeks or so. We talked on the phone some.... but, what were we doing? There was so much ambiguity. I wasn't really even sure if he liked me.

At this point, it just felt to me like we were at an impasse. It seemed like there was something separating us...but, I couldn't quite articulate what. The weekend prior, at a retreat, the speaker asked if there was anything in our heart/lives that was keeping us from God - and I knew that mine was Dan. ...but, like not Dan himself - the idea of Dan: the relationship.

I was a 28-year-old woman whose major life goal was to be married and be a mom. Sure, I had experienced some success in my career - but that had never been my priority. My priority...my benchmark for "life success" was to be in a loving, committed relationship: marriage, and raising the fruits of our love. ...and I was a 28-year-old woman who had been in ONE sort-of serious-ish relationship since college. ...and somehow managed to go out on a first date or two about once a year.

And then came Dan. Dan: the first person to EVER ask me out as soon as he met me. The first person that I had gone out an a first date with where I wanted a second date - ever. (the person I'd been in a relationship with before we'd been friends for YEARS before deciding to be in a relationship, and so, I don't even think there was a date. weird.)  I loved talking to Dan. I enjoyed getting to know him. ...but, I kind of got this vibe that he didn't really know where to put me...friend zone? girlfriend?

...and I realized that I was also at an impasse. I wanted him to like me more than I wanted to be honest with him. ...I don't know how to say this exactly - but I was afraid of being rejected by him (because I so desperately wanted a relationship - to move forward with my life) - so I was afraid to be my whole self - to reveal my whole heart to him.

So, there we were on October 6, sitting in my friend's living room, realizing we were at an impasse.
I knew he came over that night to break up with me (the Holy Spirit intuited it to me - so I had prepared my heart). When he finally got around to saying that he didn't think we should date anymore, I nodded. ...and then my entire mind went blank.

We stared at each other for awhile, as I waited for something to come into my mind to say.
What are you afraid of?

"What are you afraid of?" God, why would I say that? I don't even know what that means. What are you afraid of? Like...with us? in general? I don't get it. I can't ask him a question that I don't even understand myself. that's, like, super weird. Come on, God. don't make me ask this."

...and still nothing in my head except: What are you afraid of?

Finally, Dan (perhaps a little exasperated) said, "Do you have anything to say?"

So, I finally relented and said, "I guess. Um...what are you afraid of?"

He looked at me, "What am I afraid of? Like....?"

I shrugged my shoulders, "I don't even know; ...I just feel like God wants me to ask you that question."

"Like in life? or with us?"

"Both?"

...and then, it was like the floodgates opened and the impasse was decimated from the rush of the water.

Dan shared that he was afraid of disappointing his family, of not living up to expectations - feeling this weight to be something - to be successful. ...and with me, he just didn't feel like he was the right person for me - that he was enough for me.

And, finally, I said (exasperated), "I've just been waiting for you to figure out how amazing I am!"

He sat up straighter and looked at me and said, "You are amazing. ...and you deserve to be with someone who can love you."

...and I think that is when I started to cry. To be seen, to be known, to be loved for who you are (and who you want to be) - that is the greatest gift. That is what my heart had been yearning to find in another. ...and here was this guy - who was both articulating what I wanted to hear, and at the same time refusing to be the one.

...and I started to cry, too, because, though I never would have acknowledged it, I loved him. Not like you LOVE the person you're going to marry, but...the fresh kind, the new kind of love where you realize that you genuinely LIKE this person: who they are and the life that they bring to your life - and you want to be around that person just for those reasons (and a billion more)...

He looked at me, "Why are you crying?"

"Because I genuinely liked being your friend. ...and I will miss you...I will really miss you."

"We can't be friends?"

I shook my head. "That doesn't work. I just don't know how I would do that."

You see, Dan had been friends with every (save but one) girl he'd dated. I'd dated one other person - and it had been impossible for us to remain friends.

We parted ways that night - not knowing what the future would hold. I remember lying in my bed that night as a train rumbled past, praying, "God, if it's your will, please bring him back. Please, please bring him back." 


The next day, I lamented to my dad, "Dad, I just wish someone would love me!"
(emphasis on every word in that sentence) :) 

He replied, "If that's what you heard, then you weren't listening. He didn't say that he didn't love you; he said that he didn't think he could. ...and he told you before you were too invested - that is actually a very loving thing to do. He could've just dated you for a year - and then broke up with you. Or worse, married you."

I thought about those words all day as I nursed my broken heart. That night, I spent time thanking God for Dan. He might not have been the one, but he showed me that I was desirable enough to ask out right away; that there are men who still do that; someone who actually recognized my value...and if God could do that once, He could do it again.





...and now, here it is: October 6, 2017.

nine years later...and my heart feels so much like it's in that same place again.

My heart, this deep trove of feeling...bursting with treasured memories, and longing for hopes of a future...I look at this picture, and I swear I am there, and I feel every ounce of this song: 

I am standing on the edge of this pier, staring at the expanse between us, and feeling every bit separated from the bustle of Dublin. Just the moon and me.

Meet me tonight in the moonlight
Meet me tonight all alone
I have a sad story to tell you
I'm telling it under the moon,

Well I wish I had someone to love me
Someone to call me their own
Someone to stay with me always
I’m weary of being alone

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)