It's been 10 days since you left this world. Ten days your wife and children have grieved your absence. Ten days that this jokester, this gal who always has something to say, has been silent. Someone asked me to write a few words about you and I was struck by my inability to do it. I was rendered silent by my inability to define what it is that you and your wife mean to me. I still struggle to speak about you in past tense.
On Sunday, I went to Mass angry. I hope that you can relate to occasionally carrying a heavy bag of emotions to our Savior. When Father held up the Body of Christ, the image of you seeing it all in front of you, in real time, in heaven, rendered me speechless. It was crystal clear. And I sobbed. I sobbed so heavy and so hard. I sobbed because I was so happy for you to be there. I sobbed because I am so sad that your family has to miss you. I sobbed because I can only imagine the experience, and wait for my own. I sobbed because I found myself pouring out requests. Pray for Matthew. Pray for me to be faithful. Pray for Love. Pray for my Dad...
You asked me why he was better and you were dying, once. I remember standing in the hallway after CWOC. You were pacing back and forth and we ended up talking. I love our talks. What a treat it was to hear what was going through your mind. Anyway, on Sunday, I suppose that I understood why you had to go first: so you could pray for us. I find bizarre comfort in the knowledge that you understand that better than us all.
My dear friend, you and your bride are our family. You are our great friends. You welcomed us in this vast universe that is the military and you sheltered us with laughs, wisdom, advice, encouragement, support. I will miss seeing your Ranger hat and pin. I will miss your laugh. I will miss how you never stopped asking questions, no matter how silly you thought they sounded. I will miss how you made everyone who encountered you feel simultaneously like the most awesome person in the room, and driven to be a better version of themselves. I will miss how you made my son feel ever so slightly a part of the organization for which is holds such high regard. I will miss you teasing me about being embarrassed to kiss my husband at the giving of the peace in Mass (and I will think of you laughing in heaven each time it comes). I will miss going to lunch and talking about everything under the sun. I will miss how desperately you sought to understand God's Love and Mercy in all moments. I will miss your honesty about your faults with me, and your drive to be better. I will miss teasing you about running when you should be resting. I will miss the expression of awe and wonder our Savior brought over you with each new discovery.
Thank you for allowing me and my family to be a part of your life. Thank you for sharing a tiny piece of your big heart with us all. You will never be forgotten. I know I join so many others when I say: I look forward to seeing you again, in the physical presence of our King.
Showing posts with label Catholic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Catholic. Show all posts
Sunday, February 17, 2019
Thursday, July 6, 2017
Answers
America,
He asked him to sacrifice his child. It's a horrible, ugly, agonizing thought. Who would ask that of a parent? Who would ask someone to give away their only son?
It's a thought too painful to fathom. Yet it is something that I understand for the first time in my life in a more tangible way than ever before. He asked me to sacrifice my child. He asked me to give up minutes, moments, snuggles, memories, experiences, etc. He asked me to lay it all down and turn around and walk away, and to find peace in His plan. His plan that I couldn't understand, and I couldn't grasp, but I knew was better than what I could hope for.
In the biblical narrative of what God asked of Abraham and Sara, we don't read about the tears. We don't read about the emotional agony behind the steps of trusting God. We don't read about the sleepless nights or the emotional exhaustion. We only read about the actions of faith. His faith was credited to him as righteousness.
My son was diagnosed with Retinitis Pigmentosa. As a result of this my only son is going blind. For some unknown reason, his vision is disappearing very rapidly (a reality that surprises his opthalmologists). In a period of 9 months, he went from no longer needing to see an opthalmologist to being legally blind at night and having lost a significant portion of his peripheral vision. In the past three months, his field of vision has continued to decline at an alarming rate and he can no longer see the color purple.
I am a homeschooling parent. How does one homeschool a child who can not see? I'm not so naive to think I can figure everything out on a whim, and my son is so smart! He deserves the best possible education he can get. Because of this, and a LOT of narrative in between that I won't bore you with here, we had no option but to look at a residential school for the blind.
I can go on and on about the hurdles that had to be overcome in regards to this residential school. I can't tell you how intensely I sobbed when the door was even opened to him. I cried so hard I couldn't even breathe, and I think my sister's (who was on the other end of the phone) quiet tears and prayers and hugs from miles and miles away, helped me to get myself back together so I could leave my room and keep on parenting that day.
There have been months and weeks of gathering medical records, evaluations, documents, and then the final "test" of summer camp (this was a camp connected with the school, where they would evaluate my son's ability to attend). If you're unsure about my emotional state, click back to my previous post. You'll see that I was a complete mess. Sacrifices, even ones taken with complete faith, are not without agony. Let me say that again. I had to lay down my dream of everything for my son. I had to let go of what I hoped would be, let go of homeschooling him, and pendulum swing to the opposite end of homeschooling, and grasp an empty bed, an empty room, an empty chair at the dinner table, and more for my ten year old child. I had to let all of this go, and walk.by.faith.
He came home from camp and we were torn about what to do. We decided to trust in God's plan, made known to us by whether or not he was accepted in to the school. If he was accepted, he would go. If not, that was our sign that something else was in store.
It's amazing to me how devoid of agony things can appear, when we are no longer waiting for answers. I'm incapable of sharing with you how broken my heart was. I can't even begin to say the oceans of tears I have cried. The idea of my son's empty bed... even now sends me into sobs.
My spiritual director advised me to pray a novena. For my non-Catholic readers, a novena is a specific prayer prayed in increments of nine. It could be nine times in a row, or over nine days, or some other multiple of nine. I am on day six of that novena. The school called me today to give us the news. My son was accepted. But...
For the sake of comic relief, I could let that "but" linger here. I could write about how my dog is currently pestering me for attention, or my children are asking me about eight thousand variations that they would like to add to their dinner. But I'm sure you'd like to know what the "but" was. Yes? No?
The "but" is that we have to be resident's of a state that we are not resident's of. The school reached out to the state's board of education to see if there was a possibility to waive that requirement with my son. This is a testament to the passion for helping visually impaired children that this school has. Their support, encouragement, and helpfulness goes beyond what I could have ever hoped for or imagined. They even went so far as to call the nearest military installation to see if it would be possible to have my soldier transferred there so that my son could attend (or to see if there was anything else that could be done). Unfortunately, there is not. The door is wide open for my son's attendance, if and when, we sell our house and move. So basically? He can't go. At least not in a few weeks when school begins.
I wish I could tell you the joy I feel over the clear answer. I am so excited to see what God has in store for my son and our family this year. The waiting is over, the answer has come. I was asked to be willing to let him go. I was challenged to examine Whom I really trusted. I was forced to put my money where my mouth was, and in this moment, I have been spared the agony of having to actually do it. We went all the way, as far as we could go. The door has closed, at least for now.
In the past couple of weeks, we have been blessed with options for continuing to homeschool my son.
At summer camp, we met another family who homeschools their visually impaired child. The school recommended several adaptive technological devices to continue my son's education at home (they knew that there was a chance he might be unable to attend. They created a packet of resources and recommendations that are specific to each child they evaluated at camp. Just another way that they are amazing!).
Today, we have a lot of decisions to make about what's ahead. Today, I don't know what tomorrow will look like. Today, I am so so thankful that the waiting is over and the answer is here. Today, I can't even begin to define the joy of knowing that in a few weeks I don't have to drop off my child and drive home without him.
I'll take it.
He asked him to sacrifice his child. It's a horrible, ugly, agonizing thought. Who would ask that of a parent? Who would ask someone to give away their only son?
It's a thought too painful to fathom. Yet it is something that I understand for the first time in my life in a more tangible way than ever before. He asked me to sacrifice my child. He asked me to give up minutes, moments, snuggles, memories, experiences, etc. He asked me to lay it all down and turn around and walk away, and to find peace in His plan. His plan that I couldn't understand, and I couldn't grasp, but I knew was better than what I could hope for.
In the biblical narrative of what God asked of Abraham and Sara, we don't read about the tears. We don't read about the emotional agony behind the steps of trusting God. We don't read about the sleepless nights or the emotional exhaustion. We only read about the actions of faith. His faith was credited to him as righteousness.
My son was diagnosed with Retinitis Pigmentosa. As a result of this my only son is going blind. For some unknown reason, his vision is disappearing very rapidly (a reality that surprises his opthalmologists). In a period of 9 months, he went from no longer needing to see an opthalmologist to being legally blind at night and having lost a significant portion of his peripheral vision. In the past three months, his field of vision has continued to decline at an alarming rate and he can no longer see the color purple.
I am a homeschooling parent. How does one homeschool a child who can not see? I'm not so naive to think I can figure everything out on a whim, and my son is so smart! He deserves the best possible education he can get. Because of this, and a LOT of narrative in between that I won't bore you with here, we had no option but to look at a residential school for the blind.
I can go on and on about the hurdles that had to be overcome in regards to this residential school. I can't tell you how intensely I sobbed when the door was even opened to him. I cried so hard I couldn't even breathe, and I think my sister's (who was on the other end of the phone) quiet tears and prayers and hugs from miles and miles away, helped me to get myself back together so I could leave my room and keep on parenting that day.
There have been months and weeks of gathering medical records, evaluations, documents, and then the final "test" of summer camp (this was a camp connected with the school, where they would evaluate my son's ability to attend). If you're unsure about my emotional state, click back to my previous post. You'll see that I was a complete mess. Sacrifices, even ones taken with complete faith, are not without agony. Let me say that again. I had to lay down my dream of everything for my son. I had to let go of what I hoped would be, let go of homeschooling him, and pendulum swing to the opposite end of homeschooling, and grasp an empty bed, an empty room, an empty chair at the dinner table, and more for my ten year old child. I had to let all of this go, and walk.by.faith.
He came home from camp and we were torn about what to do. We decided to trust in God's plan, made known to us by whether or not he was accepted in to the school. If he was accepted, he would go. If not, that was our sign that something else was in store.
It's amazing to me how devoid of agony things can appear, when we are no longer waiting for answers. I'm incapable of sharing with you how broken my heart was. I can't even begin to say the oceans of tears I have cried. The idea of my son's empty bed... even now sends me into sobs.
My spiritual director advised me to pray a novena. For my non-Catholic readers, a novena is a specific prayer prayed in increments of nine. It could be nine times in a row, or over nine days, or some other multiple of nine. I am on day six of that novena. The school called me today to give us the news. My son was accepted. But...
For the sake of comic relief, I could let that "but" linger here. I could write about how my dog is currently pestering me for attention, or my children are asking me about eight thousand variations that they would like to add to their dinner. But I'm sure you'd like to know what the "but" was. Yes? No?
The "but" is that we have to be resident's of a state that we are not resident's of. The school reached out to the state's board of education to see if there was a possibility to waive that requirement with my son. This is a testament to the passion for helping visually impaired children that this school has. Their support, encouragement, and helpfulness goes beyond what I could have ever hoped for or imagined. They even went so far as to call the nearest military installation to see if it would be possible to have my soldier transferred there so that my son could attend (or to see if there was anything else that could be done). Unfortunately, there is not. The door is wide open for my son's attendance, if and when, we sell our house and move. So basically? He can't go. At least not in a few weeks when school begins.
I wish I could tell you the joy I feel over the clear answer. I am so excited to see what God has in store for my son and our family this year. The waiting is over, the answer has come. I was asked to be willing to let him go. I was challenged to examine Whom I really trusted. I was forced to put my money where my mouth was, and in this moment, I have been spared the agony of having to actually do it. We went all the way, as far as we could go. The door has closed, at least for now.
In the past couple of weeks, we have been blessed with options for continuing to homeschool my son.
At summer camp, we met another family who homeschools their visually impaired child. The school recommended several adaptive technological devices to continue my son's education at home (they knew that there was a chance he might be unable to attend. They created a packet of resources and recommendations that are specific to each child they evaluated at camp. Just another way that they are amazing!).
Today, we have a lot of decisions to make about what's ahead. Today, I don't know what tomorrow will look like. Today, I am so so thankful that the waiting is over and the answer is here. Today, I can't even begin to define the joy of knowing that in a few weeks I don't have to drop off my child and drive home without him.
I'll take it.
Monday, September 12, 2016
Trainees
They sit there staring at me, with pleading eyes.
What's it all really like?
What's your favorite duty station?
Are you happily married? They say you can't be and be in the Army.
Do you care about us?
Every time I see them, something in me is changed. Every time I drive past, my heart aches. I love seeing how they change around their families, the version of them that I am blessed to spend time with disappears, confidence swells and joy overwhelms. America, I wish you could see how these boys are brave. They have a courage that I can't define, and it's simultaneously wrapped up in what-the-heck-have-I-done???
I tell them how much I admire them. They joined knowing that we are at war. There are no illusions in their minds about what they are facing. They know that a fight is ahead of them: fights against their fears, their drill sergeants, their desire to sleep, the enemy...
My husband asked me why it impacts me so. I told him it's because I know what's ahead. I've been to too many funerals and hospitals. I've had a front row seat for too many divorces, and fears. I know the enormity of the task before them, and I know that the vast majority of them will have an extremely difficult time handling it. I know that they will desperately look for someone to comfort them, and then make it almost impossible for them to come anywhere near to their heart. I know the walls that will exist, and I know the effort it takes to tear them down. So I feel compelled. I feel burdened. Pour in as much Love, as much courage, and as much Goodness as I humanly can, in the few hours I spend with them, as those walls are being built up. And I hope that it will stay there, with them, forever.
What's it all really like?
What's your favorite duty station?
Are you happily married? They say you can't be and be in the Army.
Do you care about us?
Every time I see them, something in me is changed. Every time I drive past, my heart aches. I love seeing how they change around their families, the version of them that I am blessed to spend time with disappears, confidence swells and joy overwhelms. America, I wish you could see how these boys are brave. They have a courage that I can't define, and it's simultaneously wrapped up in what-the-heck-have-I-done???
I tell them how much I admire them. They joined knowing that we are at war. There are no illusions in their minds about what they are facing. They know that a fight is ahead of them: fights against their fears, their drill sergeants, their desire to sleep, the enemy...
My husband asked me why it impacts me so. I told him it's because I know what's ahead. I've been to too many funerals and hospitals. I've had a front row seat for too many divorces, and fears. I know the enormity of the task before them, and I know that the vast majority of them will have an extremely difficult time handling it. I know that they will desperately look for someone to comfort them, and then make it almost impossible for them to come anywhere near to their heart. I know the walls that will exist, and I know the effort it takes to tear them down. So I feel compelled. I feel burdened. Pour in as much Love, as much courage, and as much Goodness as I humanly can, in the few hours I spend with them, as those walls are being built up. And I hope that it will stay there, with them, forever.
Sunday, April 5, 2015
Easter
I find this "holiday" to be painful. I find it difficult to celebrate and cheer. I find it brings my heart much grief and sorrow. Before you start trying to quote scripture at me about how He has risen (I DO, in fact, realize that He has risen), keep reading. :)
I hope that if you consider yourself to be a Christian, the recollections and events of the past few days have brought silence and contemplation in to your life. I hope that you have pondered what it means for someone to actually die for you. I hope that renders you quiet and serene. I hope it causes you to evaluate and question yourself in the grand scheme of this world and possibly change some things.
On this symbolic day, oh so many years ago, women walked to a tomb with broken hearts. Their hopes were dashed. Their understanding of everything was destroyed. They were devastated. This person, that I believe is the Messiah, showed himself to them (or possibly her) first. Not to his bro's, or the hot shots that killed him. He showed himself to broken hearted women. In a society that seems hell bent on destroying the value of women, I find this move astounding. I find this action to be powerful. Women are who He went to first, before He went to the Father (John 20). Maybe this is God's way of saying Hey females, I see you... You are not forsaken or worthless...
The greatest challenge for me is what believing demands, what it requires. Jesus said it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven (Matt 19.24). I am that rich man. It's bizarre to acknowledge that in a society which is constantly seeking out more, and evaluating what is lacking, but it's the truth. In this big blue planet, I'm one of the rich guys... So, it's easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for me to get in to heaven. Say what!?!?!?! You mean it's not just popping over to church and participating in the Eucharist? You mean it's not reading Bible verses and praying prayers and going on with everything like usual? No, America. It's not. And that's where I grieve. Because the reality is, I like stuff. I'm addicted to this world. I'm not so excited about the ideas and realities that Jesus laid out for me to follow, if I'm honest.
Easter makes me stand still and question. Easter makes me realize that I have choices to make. It's all or nothing, to be honest. I don't get to be comfortable and go to heaven. I either have to be all in, recklessly abandoned, or just give it up. Oh how hard it is to love Jesus more than the things of this world. Back to that old camel through the eye of a needle...
I find it exceedingly difficult to battle those addictions where I am living now. I hunger for the homeless of EP. I hunger for the needs of people bombarding my face at every opportunity. Here I feel to sheltered, too secluded and it is feeding the lust of my soul for creature comforts. Don't get me wrong, America, the broken are here. The hungry are here. They seem to be hidden away and not pounding my eyes at every intersection. My sinful heart brushes their existence to the side and gives me the space to believe my donations to a shelter make me "good". Bullshit. Jesus said sell everything, give everything away. Not just my cast-offs. Give until it hurts. Care more about Him than stuff, or money, or power, or status.
Easter makes me ask am I really a Christian? Am I a fraud? How do I love Him more than this world? What does that look like in my every day?
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