Grieving with Faith—It Still Hurts!

During a recent meeting with my spiritual director, I asked in tears if there was anything different about my grieving, compared to that of someone without faith; in any significant manner, has my faith altered this weight of sadness and oft-appearing flood of tears that has marked the last nine months of my life?

I mean, it is STILL THERE. The grief ebbs and flows at times, but also appears not infrequently with a rawness that literally brings me to my knees.

I am writing about this during Advent, when I've been too overwhelmed and busy to write since May, because I know there is no way I am the only one carrying grief and heartbreak into the holidays. And those of us who are hurting need to know we are not alone!

My spiritual director replied that my grief is different than that of someone who does not have faith, because I grieve with hope. I have hope that I will see my daughter again one day. I have hope that my suffering is, in some mysterious way, useful for some greater purpose. I have hope that although I suffer in this world, it is OK, because I was not made for this world; my suffering here is temporary and will seem both fruitful and short-lived from the perspective of eternity.

Yes, my grief is different than that of someone without faith. But he also added something else I very much needed to hear—that doesn't mean it's not painful.

I don't think any of us who grieve hear that often enough. In fact, I don't think we really hear it at all.

Grief takes time. It's suffering. It's hard work. It can make you sick if you're not careful, or even if you are. Tasks that once were mundane can become profoundly difficult. Sometimes you wonder how you can possibly go on one more moment with so much pain in your heart and soul. And yet, somehow—perhaps you called out His name?—you made it through that moment, and even into the next.

Faith gives us reason to hope that our grief is not the end of the story. Perhaps I cannot even see past the next word, but I know the end of the story is stamped with Victory, and Its name is Jesus.

Jesus. He walked it all too. He was stripped of everything. His closest friends abandoned Him. He was humbled—the King of heaven and earth, given a crown of thorns. He was whipped again, and again, and again, in a manner much more painful that the hurts that assail me, even on my worst days. He fell. He fell again. And then He fell again. He had to continue uphill, with a heavy cross on his back, when I'm sure He couldn't even comprehend how to put one foot in front of the next. He experienced utter exhaustion. Searing pain shot through His hands and feet when they hammered in the nails, and then a sword pierced His heart.

Jesus understands suffering.

Jesus also understands hope. After all, He is our reason for hoping.

That Baby whose birth we are preparing for in Advent? The King whose humble entrance into our world made even the poorest, simplest shepherd unafraid to draw near?

He gave Himself to us out of love, and when He reached what certainly looked like the end of the story, He turned the world upside down by rising from the dead, by ascending to heaven, and by giving us all reason to believe that the same ending can be written into our own stories.

It's not platitudes; it's truth. Nothing is wasted. I do not understand it all, but the One who gave His life for us in the most painful of ways will not allow us to pointlessly suffer. That He does allow us to suffer is more true than I wish it were. But that He works all things to good for those who love Him (Rom 8:28) also is more true than I can imagine.

***

I hope you can find some strength and encouragement in this song, Trust in You, by Laura Daigle.

Too Busy Not to Pray

I recently had a tough weekend, in which—among other things—my oldest daughter broke her ankle. My husband was out of town, and caring for someone with constant needs left me feeling like I didn't have much time for prayer.

However, I did find myself swiping through my Facebook feeds for some mind-numbing distraction from my daughter's pain and my own feelings of being overwhelmed.

I was definitely crying out to God throughout the weekend, but I did not just stop and prioritize my prayer time. And honestly, the deep well of patience I needed to draw from in order to help my daughter just wasn't there in the way I believe it could have been, if I had just withdrawn for even a few minutes to truly pray.

A coworker stopped me in my tracks Tuesday morning with a comment that summed up what I think I should have been doing. I have heard what she said before, but hearing it from a college freshman—versus reading it as a quote from a saint or pope—just brought the words so much to life for me. Like a neon sign on which God wrote, "Duh, Heather! Yes, it really is this simple."

What wisdom did she share?

This college freshman, heading into her finals, said about her weekend, "I knew I was too busy NOT to pray."

It's when we are so busy that we need to carve out time for God more than ever. How else will we hear Him? How else will His wisdom guide our moments and our days, rather than the swirl of chaos and the stress of the moment?

One other very powerful image of this is the story of the mother of John and Charles Wesley. Her workload was immense, and she had very little support. But she knew the importance of prayer time—she knew her responsibilities meant she NEEDED God so very much. So she taught her children to recognize that when she was sitting with her apron over her head, it was because she was praying.

Catch that? She put her apron over her head so that she could pray. Surely I could muster that for five minutes. Maybe I wouldn't use an apron, but we have a living room full of throw blankets that would be perfect for the job. Truly, I hope I can learn from her example and that of my wise-though-young coworker, and not let anything come between me and my time with God.

It's not about more requirements on a check-list, it's about building a relationship. It's about the fact that I need to make time to receive the Lord's love, so that I can share it with those around me. It's about the fact that I just need time to Just Be Held, as is so beautifully put on this song a dear friend recently recommended.

Thank You, Beautiful Children of God

I wrote in my last post about JJ Heller's song "Who You Are."

I just have to take a moment to mention how much I love the video to her song. Friends, some of whom have faced some significant losses in life, are gathering for a meal. The food, candlelight, wine, and togetherness bring some healing to these broken hearts.

As I watched the video, and listened to the lyrics, I was reminded of being at Mass. After all, the Mass is a meal, with our Church family, the Bread of Life, wine, and even candlelight.

Even when I am not recovering from my own heartbreak, I find such joy, comfort, and strength in the members of our church community. I find extra hope and strength in the ones I know have faced their own heartache. In the ones who--when they say "Amen" to the Body and Blood of Christ--are saying "Yes, I believe, and I continue to put my trust and my life in your hands, dear Lord, even though my heart is hurting so much right now."

They have faced some of life's greatest losses, and they are choosing to continue to say "Yes" to the Lord Who loves them. They continue to put their hope and trust in Him. They continue to find beauty in the gift He gave us on the Cross.

They know it is no small gift. But they also know--in such a deep and real way--that because of our Lord's acceptance of His suffering and death, they do not walk alone in their own suffering. He gave them both hope for reunion in heaven, and knowledge that they never face anything alone in this life. He said "Your will, not mine, be done." He did not have to say that. He chose to because He loved us and because He loved the Father.

These beautiful members of my church family have lost children. They have lost other loved ones. They have lost limbs. They face or have faced potentially life-threatening medical diagnoses for either themselves or their children.

Nevertheless, I have seen them smile with a light that is not feigned joy. I have heard the firmness in some of their voices when, as extraordinary ministers of the Eucharist, they have spoken the words, "The Body of Christ" or "The Blood of Christ." It is as though they are saying, "Yes, right now I am broken. He was too, for me. But then He rose, and now I have hope that I will one day do the same."

Or, perhaps some days their hearts are simply crying out, "Lord, I believe; help my unbelief!" (Mk 9:24) Still, they are crying out to Him.

I am so grateful for these warriors who do not even imagine how they are helping equip others for the battle.

A couple weeks ago, I spoke to a woman for an article I was writing. She helped her church organize a beautiful outreach for the Jubilee of Mercy. (Pope Francis has declared this year a Jubilee of Mercy, with special graces available to all of us.)

At the end of our call, I commented on her joy. Her voice radiated joy; I felt so grateful to be talking to her.

Her response surprised me so greatly. She explained that she retired from her "normal" job a year ago. Shortly after, her husband became ill. In December, he passed away.

Seriously--less than four months after this woman's husband passed away, I was noting the REAL JOY I heard in her voice.

She explained that while she had some trouble getting into the project (delivering mercy packets to all of her church's 2000 parishioners), reaching out to others with the message of God's mercy kept her going.

"God has something for me here," she said. "I'm doing what I think God wants me to be doing--bringing people to His kingdom."

Her example tells me there is joy in that. There is joy in doing the Lord's work, and in giving Him our "Yes." We may have days, and periods that stretch so much longer than days, when there is pain and when we question how we can continue to move forward. But there is joy in bringing people to the Lord; there is joy in doing His will; there is joy in simply resting in Him. He is where we will find healing; He is the source of our hope; He is our joy.

Thank you, dear beautiful children of God. I have been privileged, strengthened, and blessed to see you live these very Truths.

'Who You Are'

I discovered this song the other day. It is by JJ Heller, whose songs "Your Hands" and "What Love Really Means" spoke to my heart so deeply as I was pregnant with, and then mourning, our son Benedict just over five years ago. (We lost Benny at twenty-one week's gestation.)

"Who You Are" made me cry. But it also brought me great peace.

The song focuses on two people with great losses in their lives--a woman who hasn't been able to have a child, and a man whose daughter died. Heller sings,

"She says, 'I don't know what You're doing . . . But I know Who You are."

Sometimes life doesn't make any sense, full of war and pain and accidents. He's praying 'I don't know . . . what You're doing, but I know Who You are."

"You have a Father's heart, and a love that's wild. And You know what it's like to lose . . . a child."

And I just have to respond by saying, Yes. This.

Heller perfectly describes what is in my heart right now. The ache, and the why. But also the trust.

I don't know what God is doing. And losing my unborn daughter hurts. A lot.

But I know God is good. And I know He loves me. He cherishes me, and He wants me to be whole.

He has always provided for every one of my needs, and He will continue to do so.

It is not easy to walk with this pain in my heart. And with hormones that have been going crazy in my body. It is not easy to care for five children who are sad, hurt, confused, and angry, when I have had a decent amount of those emotions myself at times.

But I know Who God Is. And I trust Him.

I don't need to know the answers. He does.

At first, there may seem to be more pain in walking this way--in placing the hopes and heartbreak and questions into God's hands and waiting for Him to provide, if not an answer to the question of "Why?" at least some guidance to the question of "How do I move forward from this?"

It seems perhaps more painful at first, than trying to find something to bury our pain underneath, or some kind of busyness to help us push it aside, but I think the only way to find true healing and peace is to simply keep turning to God in each moment. It likely will take longer than we would like, but yes, He will redeem our suffering. If we allow Him, hopefully He will redeem us along the way as well.

He will lead us, step by step. He does lead us.

I found myself placing my trust in God's hands in a similar way after my son Luke's terrible accident in 2007. I had run him over with our van, and as I held him crying, "I need you, Luke," it seemed God asked me if that was true. Could I not survive without my son?

God's great mercy enabled me to recall how He had already walked with me through so many trials. I knew without a doubt He would continue to do so in the future, and I entrusted both my precious son and myself into His hands.

How can I not do the same with my dear Gianna Cecilia? Luke is still with us (May I continue to praise God every day for the gift of that miracle and my son's life!), and Gianna is not, but aren't they both His children?

As I read one woman say in the Magnificat on March 12, just two days before learning our daughter had died, "I know she doesn't belong to me; she belongs to Another who loves her even more than I." ("Loved by Another," Kimberly Shankman, p.178)

We went into the recent Triduum (the days just before Easter) with a lot of grief in our hearts. I wanted to feel something meaningful on Good Friday, some kind of closeness with our Lord and all He suffered that day.

But I didn't. Instead, I laid on the couch with a low-grade fever and felt numb.

With the reasoning I could do, though, I was able to remind myself that this was the day He died for us so that we could live with Him. This is the day (and Easter, when He rose) from whence springs the hope I have of seeing my daughter (and son, and the two other children we've lost to miscarriage) again one day, in heaven.

As I tried to explain to one of my sons recently. our time without Gianna here is so short compared to the time we will have with her in eternity. That doesn't take away the pain now, but it does give me hope.

Jesus' tremendous gift on the Cross is the reason I can lay in bed and pray each morning that our Blessed Mother will give Gianna a kiss for me before I start my day. His gift is the reason I truly have a reason to believe with all I am that my prayer is being heard--and that my generous Mother is happy to oblige.

Comfort in Sorrowful Times

I delivered our sweet baby girl on Friday, March 18, 2016.

Right in between St. Patrick and St. Joseph's feast days, you'll find what for us will always be Gianna Cecilia's day.

When I faced this the first time, with our son Benedict, I had only found out the day before that he had died, and the entire process felt like an assault. God was there with us, I could feel Him, but the only verse that kept coming to my mind was, "When you were younger you dressed yourself and went where you wanted; but when you are old you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you and lead you where you do not want to go." (Jn 21:18)

Although I still had to do something I did not want to do, with Gianna's birth, everything was slower and more gentle. I smiled interiorly at the thought that I could tell the difference between the birth of my son, named for two male saints, and my daughter, named for two women saints. Not that I didn't experience God's grace and presence, and prayers, during Benedict's birth. But during Gianna's birth, I felt like those two saints' prayers were with me in the little things, in the kind of things women would think about, even down to the nurse bringing me a chicken salad with dried cranberries when I was finally able to eat. She had just finished telling me there probably wouldn't be any decent options, and expressed her surprise that the meal actually looked good. For someone who hadn't really eaten in a day or so, it was very good!

I was surprised and deeply moved by the mementos given to us at the hospital--things made by other moms who also have lost babies. We got a beautiful teddy bear and knit blanket, which honestly helped me sleep much better throughout my time there. We got a very pretty basket full of a mug and tea, a journal and a pen, Kleenex, flower seeds, and a note saying two women donated the box in memory of their babies Miriam, Josiah, and Luke. I cannot express the comfort that box brought me.

We also received a beautiful rosary made by students at a local Catholic school, for families going through such a loss. The card it came with listed the spiritual and corporal works of mercy, which reminded me that we are in the midst of the Jubilee of Mercy. Not only have I been called to share God's mercy this year, but clearly I also have been called to receive it. Through our suffering, those students were able to "comfort the afflicted." My parents and my friend bringing us dinner tonight have been able to "feed the hungry" (and "comfort the afflicted" as well).

Gianna's actual birth also was more gentle than Benedict's. However, the experiences of holding each of them are very similar in my mind. They are among the most sacred and holy moments of my life. I am in awe of the beauty of God's handiwork that I have seen expressed in each of my children. With Gianna and Benedict though, we knew our moments to actually hold them would be so brief, and there was a special quietness and beauty and a knowledge of God's presence that I don't think I have experienced in that way at any other time in my life.

For quite a long time, I was able just to hold my daughter close to my heart. It felt so simple and obvious, "Yes, I am her mother, and this is where she belongs." We were able to tell her how much we loved her. We were able to pray over her. We will always be her parents, but for a short while, we were able to be her parents in a physical way.

I am so thankful to the medical professionals who honored the preciousness of these moments, and who brought so much reverence and awe to their time helping us as well.

We will lay Gianna to rest at the Angelus Memorial, with Benedict. He was buried wrapped in a handkerchief from his great-grandparents. This time, the hospital gave us a beautiful sleeping bag, also made by a mother who has experienced a similar loss. The inside was a beautiful pink satin, and the outside was a softer pink material, with some pearl-like beads sewn onto the top. It was so comforting to know we could wrap her in there, and she can be laid to rest in something so beautiful that also was made with much love.

Every nurse was supportive, gentle, and so caring. I chose a different doctor and hospital for this pregnancy, based on what I perceived to be my higher risk (because of my age and other factors) and simply because I felt like God was leading me to choose this doctor, who is very pro-life, and very experienced. I believe I definitely benefited from his experience, and from the compassion of the nurses who work with him. I don't think I can express my gratitude enough.

I still want to share some of the Bible verses that have touched my heart and strengthened me through this time. But I am glad I found this chance to share some of the graces God blessed us with, and the kindnesses shown to us by people at the hospital and from those mothers who are reaching out to help others experiencing similar losses. These were all such gifts to me, and I don't want to forget them.

Trusting God in Goodbyes

I have the saddest news to share . . . .

On Monday morning, I learned our baby died in utero. She measured 17 weeks 5 days (I was expecting her to measure 18 weeks), so she had just recently passed. But she had no heartbeat.

Nicholas was the only person with me, and he amazed me with how familiar he'd already become with these visits when we left and he kept asking, "Why aren't we getting a picture of Sissy?"

My current doctor does an ultrasound at every visit, so Nick has come to expect those keepsakes.

We never had an ultrasound with our first child, but I am so grateful for every single moment I got to see this sweet girl on screen, with her strong heartbeat and her constant movement. She was so vibrant and so alive! She took my breath away.

We named her Gianna Ceclia. There are a few stories behind her name. First, I became familiar with now-Saint Gianna when I was pregnant with Brendan and her relics came to my parish. They placed her gloves on my belly and prayed for my unborn child. I felt such a connection to her that I read books about her and have prayed to her in the past, for pregnancies and other matters.

I mentioned this story to my boss, who recently met Gianna Emanuela, St. Gianna's daughter (the one she delivered shortly before her death). He actually came into the office last Thursday with a prayers card containing a relic (a piece of St. Gianna's shirt). Gianna Emanuela gave this card to him and his wife, and they gave it to me.

It brought me such comfort. And, as we were considering the name Gianna anyway, it helped move that name into the top position.

Wen I learned a few days later that the baby had died, it seemed so natural to name her Gianna.

Cecilia is, in part, to honor Nick's insistence that we call the baby "Sissy." He loves his Sissy so much, and constantly wants to rest his head, hands, or feet on my belly. He must kiss my belly and hug it dozens of times every day. His certainty that this baby was a girl was so great that I am almost convinced his guardian angel whispered it to him. I remember telling him about the pregnancy, and how he had a moment of doubt and uncertainty (he has, after all, been rather spoiled by being the baby all these years), but then after a moment, he seemed so happy, certain, and in love with what he was positive was his baby sister.

He actually said to the baby sitter this morning, "Did you hear Sissy died?"

When she replied in the affirmative, he said, "I wish (he paused, and sighed) I could hold her and love her."

Such a boy.

St. Cecilia also is a patron of music, and I feel, in some way, this baby is part of a song my husband and I are offering to God with our lives. Or at least, of the offering we are making, the part with her is so beautiful, it is like a song. That has more to do with her and Him than us, but the song is there nevertheless.

Other memories I have of our daughter's short life are telling Brendan and Kate I was pregnant. Brendan was the first person I told, aside from my husband. He looked up at me with moist eyes and exclaimed, "I just had a tear!" Emotions can be hard to wrangle out of that boy, but I have never seen a love that compares to his for Nicholas and this baby.

Kate just broke into sobs, and cried, "These are tears of joy!!"

How did I raise these children, who have such beautiful hearts for new life and who are so willing to let their lives (and rooms) be re-arranged to make room for one more soul? I am so grateful for them!

After we learned the baby was a girl (oh, that ultrasound--in which she looked so healthy, strong, and beautiful!!), Kate, Nick, and I went shopping for some clothing on Kate's insistence. Kate's joy was so beautiful! She was so eager to share her bedroom and to just love her baby sister with all her heart.

I wrote in the last blog post that listening to Fr. John Ricardo helped me to see this baby was like a fine wine God was bringing into our lives--something (someone!) so beautiful that we didn't even know we needed, to add such beauty and richness to our lives.

I just want to say that I still believe that to be true. I must keep this brief, because I will leave for the hospital in a few hours to be induced and to deliver our precious daughter, and there is so much to be done before I am ready to leave my children for the night. But let me say that the Lord has worked wonders in our hearts and in our lives through this baby. He has helped us to let go of so much that isn't Him, and to put our faith so much more completely into His hands.

He is trustworthy--but so often we hold back on giving Him all of our trust. With this baby, He helped us to take some giant leaps closer to being entirely in His hands. To knowing--and living--the truth that there is the only place we will find safety.

There is so much I do not understand. I do not know why our baby died, I do not know why His purpose couldn't have been served just as well with her in our arms and our home than in heaven.

But I cannot take back the trust I put in Him when I was ready and willing to open our arms and home to the gift of a new daughter. I knew then that we were in His hands, and in His will, and that He is worthy of our trust. So I must continue to live that now, when things aren't as I would wish them to be. His faithfulness has not changed. His worthiness will never change. His love of us, and His desire for our good, always will be more than I can imagine.

We are in Your hands, dear Lord. Your Word has spoken to us today, as we prepare to go to the hospital to deliver our baby, and Monday, when we learned she was gone. Thank You for such Truth that has traveled centuries to reach our hearts and to comfort us here, where we are, today.

Thank You for the gift of Gianna Cecilia. Thank You for the gift of Meghan, Brendan, Luke, Kate, and Nicholas--and for this reminder of the miracle each of their lives is. Thank You for our marriage and the grace to live it out each day.

I simply want to post this now, but when I have time later, I hope to share some of the verses that have spoken to my heart this week. Please keep us in your prayers.

On new babies and fine wine

My last post shared how this has been a year of change for our family. Our oldest daughter started high school forty minutes away. And I went back to work.

However, that is not the biggest--or most beautiful--of the changes our family is facing. In December, only a couple months after I started working, I discovered that I am pregnant. Yes, pregnant!!

My husband recently celebrated his forty-fifth birthday!

A new child is always, always a gift. And I am grateful. But, especially in the beginning, I will admit I also was a bit overwhelmed (along with being exhausted).

How would this work? Had we been completely foolish?

And, of course, the answers were (in order)--with God's help all things are possible, and no. Honestly seeking God's will, and leaving room for Him to work in our lives in ways different from what we ourselves might have planned is never, never foolish. Except, perhaps, in the way Jesus was foolish, He was both God's own fool and the King of Kings. Let us all love like Him and be fools like Him!

Kate and my Dad share a birthday. She just turned nine!

I also had other concerns about my pregnancy, however. I think it is inevitable that after you experience significant loss and trauma related to childbirth, you can never return to the innocence of thinking everything will naturally just work out.

I was (and continue to be, to a certain extent) afraid of losing the baby, and also for my own life. My last miscarriage was very traumatic, and I am surprised to realize how much it affects me even now. However, I also must add that as God helps me see those scars, He also helps heal them.

One of my biggest challenges, especially early in the pregnancy, is to trust between doctor's visits that my baby will continue to be alive. I allow my children to come to visits with me so they can hear the heartbeat, which is such a joy to them, but doing so is an act of the will that requires me to place hope over fear.

At my second visit, in January, I was feeling concerned for the baby and was weighed down by worries about how everything would work out and whether we had been so ridiculous to allow this to happen!

And then I heard that heartbeat again, and the tears fell. I really don't think I had expected to hear it.

Ready for their Christmas concert . . . .

And on the way home, God blessed me with a gift that has stayed with me ever since, and that has steadied my heart and comforted me in such a powerful way.

I was listening to Fr. John Ricardo's program Christ is the Answer on Ave Maria Radio (see 52:40). He was discussing fulfillment. He explained it is like asking for water--and instead, having someone bring you a glass of "exquisite Italian wine." He said such a gesture would "not just quench your thirst; [it would] bring you joy." That is what God wants to give us--abundantly more than what we even ask for. We may think we have all we could want, but He wants to give us more. Out of His abundant love, out of His merciful Heart, He desires to pour Himself into our hearts and lives.

As Fr. John spoke, I knew this was what this new baby was to our family: an gift of God's abundance; Him telling us that although we thought our family was just fine, He had something even greater in mind for us; a gift of His abundant love that He wanted to share with our family--and that we couldn't have received if not for my husband and I trying to say "Yes" to God, and leaving room for Him in our marriage.

Christmas morning!

If you consider our family as a banquet, each member surely provides a different, but necessary and beautiful course. We could have continued on with water, but this child is the fine wine the Lord truly wants to serve our family. This child adds something, again, that transforms the entire atmosphere of the feast. We were happy with the relatively comfortable place we'd found ourselves, where we could kind of look ahead and see how things would work out, but He wants to stretch us, and to make room for more of Himself. He wants us to walk blindly in faith, so that we can arrive at a place even more beautiful than what we'd mapped out of the factors we could grasp, however good they may have been.

Thank You, dear Lord, for loving us so much that You want more for us than we can even imagine for ourselves. Thank You for helping us let go of things that are comfortable, and for walking with us into uncharted waters, so that we may receive more of Yourself. Thank You for being the One Who can meet all our needs.

Recently, we learned the baby is a girl. On Nick's insistence, we currently refer to her as "Sissy." Thank You, also, dear Lord, for the gift of Sissy--who I promise will one day bear another name!