A Holy Thursday Kind of Monday

It was my wedding day, a beautiful Saturday in May. My future husband and I prayed in the church basement with our wedding party and liturgical ministers before taking our places in the doorway to the sanctuary to greet all of our guests and welcome them to the celebration. Then, after our vows, my husband and I washed each others feet while all those gathered guests, hundreds of our family and friends, sang “The Servant Song.” “Will you let me be your servant, let me be as Christ to you; pray that I may have the grace to let you be my servant too,” rang across the church. It was a high feast day in our world, and although the Easter season was over, it was a Holy Saturday kind of day. 

Little did we know at the time how true those words, that prayer, would be time and again in our coming life together.

* * * * * * 

Fast forward nearly 13 years and we found ourselves in the hospital giving birth for the fifth time. It was a less beautiful day, this time in March. And although there was lots of praying, this time there were no family or friends with us, only more doctors and nurses than we could count moving in and out of our room. Finally, after the scary labor and delivery that but for the grace of God and the skilled medical team would have been life-threatening for both me and our son, I found myself unable to hold my son for long periods of time, unable to move without being sick, unable to get out of bed on my own, unable to do much of anything but cry. And in those dark days, my husband once again bent down and washed my feet. This time as I sat on the chair in the make-shift shower in our hospital room, unable to clean myself.  

Two very different settings, separated by over a decade of other less obvious “foot washing” moments between us, but the same vow of service and love. And the same prayer for grace as I had to accept the unwanted reality of being served so completely in those days of recovery and grieving. It was just a regular Monday in the rest of the world, but there was a sacredness, and for me it was a Holy Thursday kind of day. 

Holy Thursday has long-since been my favorite day of the year, my favorite liturgy and favorite celebration. But I learned so much about Holy Thursday on that Monday this year, and so much more about the darker side of this day that I have previously seen primarily as a celebration.  I learned more about the reality of watching and waiting - watching in loneliness as my husband and nurses hold my son, and waiting through the suffering to be well enough to fulfill my role of his mother. The reality of feasting and fearing - feasting on the new life we were blessed with despite everything we’d gone through, and fearing still the what could have been and what was yet to come. The reality of how closely Holy Thursday hovers near Good Friday - the intertwined connection between celebration and suffering at all times. The reality of self-emptying - of giving of oneself physically, emotionally and spiritually in order for another to live more fully. The reality of the sacramentality ushered in at that First Eucharist - grace, sacrifice, remembrance, dependence on a Love and Offering greater than ourselves, greater than we can fathom. And in those brief moments when my husband, unbeknownst to him, bent down with cloth and water to offer a visible sign of this reality, I knew anew the beauty and importance of Holy Thursday in all its glory and its challenge! 

* * * * * * 

Fast forward two and a half weeks more and, as we watched our parish’s livestreamed Holy Thursday liturgy, not yet ready to venture out into the “Covid world” with our susceptible newborn, we got basin and towel and once more washed each other’s feet. This time along with our children, including the teeny-tiny feet of our latest edition. And as I recalled the personal foot washing I’d shared just a few weeks prior, snd that of over a decade ago that started it all for our family, I prayed for the little man attached to those little feet. May he grow knowing the love his parents have for him, the love his father has bestowed on his mother, and the love that our Lord gives to and asks of each of us every day. When he inevitably faces his own Agony in the Garden, may he too have a visual sign of love and offering available to him. May he find, and be, a foot-washer in his life. May he be blessed with Holy Thursday kinds of days, and Holy Saturday high feasts as well. 

And I prayed for us all - in this continuing tumultuous world - in the words that echoed throughout the church 13 years ago: “Will you let me be your servant, let me be as Christ to you; pray that I may have the grace to let you be my servant too.”

A blessed Holy Thursday one and all! 

My Amaris

When we found out we were pregnant again, after two miscarriages in a row, I couldn't get the idea of a "Rainbow Baby" out of my head.  A Rainbow Baby is the term used for a child born after a loss.  This would be a "double-rainbow" baby, and I couldn't wait to welcome them!

Bound and determined that this time would be different, that this long-awaited life would be ours at last, the planner (and dreamer) in me started thinking about names right away.  And while "Rainbow" seemed a bit too hippy-like even for my taste, I was captivated by the idea of a name that held meaning and significance for this special gift - this covenant, or promise, of life after the storm.

And in my search for such a name, I came across all kinds of words and names that (supposedly) meant "promise."  But the one that stood out to me was "Amaris."

One definition listed it as "promise." One said its origins meant "promise of GOD."

Others listed other meanings - from "Given by GOD" to "GOD has said."  Plenty of variations, but always the same theme. 

Amaris.

GOD's promise. 

I liked it!

(Mike, not so much)

So in my prayers, in my private talking to the baby, in my thoughts and plans and dreams (despite knowing that I wouldn't likely win Mike over and actually have a baby Amaris in several months, even if he did like it better than "Rainbow"), I called this child "My Amaris."  My promise.  GOD's promised gift to me. 

. . .

But then came the horrible series of events.  The scan that didn't measure up quite right.  The wait.  The follow-up that didn't look good.  The confirmation.  The loss.  The pain.  The heartache.

This child I had dreamed of, this promise of life after what already felt like too much death, was gone.

And in my grief, I cursed the GOD whose "promise" now felt empty.  What a lie, I thought, to promise life, to promise never again to take life, only to take the fourth life in total from us.  What a joke.

. . .

But then came the quiet reminder.  The tossing out old notes and drafted emails with thoughts and news and ideas and to-do's for the baby.  Sorting through and clearing out those things that we no longer needed in the coming months.  And one of them proving exactly what I needed right then: the scratch paper with potential names.

And there, next to "Amaris" was scratched not only "promise" and "promise of GOD," but the Latin word "Amor" and the note "Love of GOD."

Love.

That was the promise.

Not life.  Not a guarantee that we would not suffer or lose.  Not a promise that this time would end how we wanted it, or even that we may ever see an end result of ease.  But that no matter what - in loss as in life, in suffering as in joy - that we would be LOVED.

That is the promise of GOD.

That is my Amaris.

. . .

Admittedly, some days are easier to believe this than others.  (Admittedly, some days are MUCH more difficult to believe this than others!) 

But in my heart, I know it to be true.  That I am loved.  That I am held through all of this (and more) by a GOD who is Love.  That this Amaris is here, will never leave me.

Each and every child I have held - in my body or my arms - has been this Amaris.  Each and every person who has offered kindness, compassion and prayers - knowingly or not - has been this Amaris.  Each and every day that an invisible hand guides me and gives me the strength that I alone do not posses - to get through what I alone cannot do - has been this Amaris.  In good times, and in bad, GOD's love has been - and will be - there.

The promise that never again will there be such a storm that I have to go through alone. 

And on the good days, I am able to see the evidence of this.  They show me how strong and faithful the promise of GOD's Love is.

And on the bad days, when I cannot see it, when it is hard to believe, even then it is there.  That is the beauty of this promise - it does not rely on me.  It is still with me, whether I choose to feel it, to believe it, to want it or not.  

It admittedly is not the promise I wanted.  It's not the gift we prayed for.  But it is - it has been - it will be - the promise that is forever mine nevertheless.

The one I can not lose. 

My Amaris.  

"God said, “This is the sign of the covenant that I make between me and you and every living creature that is with you, for all future generations: 

I have set my bow in the clouds, and it shall be a sign of the covenant between me and the earth.  

When the bow is in the clouds, I will see it and remember the everlasting covenant between God and every living creature of all flesh that is on the earth.”   
 (Genesis 9:12...16)  

With Alpine Trails and Grief

Here we are already, Labor Day.  For us, school began last week.  For many others, school begins tomorrow.  It is the un-official "official" end of summer!  As I look back on what feels like the fastest summer thus far, and try to figure out where the time disappeared to, I can't help but think about the two biggest happenings of our summer - those events we gave not only our time to, but our emotional and physical energy.  Here's to the best and the worst of Summer 2017.

The highlight of my summer was being able to take a trip in early June with my husband to spend a week visiting friends in Alaska!  The trip was certainly the biggest and most exciting thing we did this summer (or any of our summers, for that matter)!

And the activity highlight of the trip for me was the hike we made our last day in Denali National Park.  We had done the whale watching earlier; we had done the camping in Denali the last few nights; we had done the long bus ride as far as we could go into the park, and had even seen a bear, a wolf and a lot of moose.  But that last day we pushed the limits of a great trip, by pushing our physical limits, with a BIG hike. 

We began at the "end" of the trail.  We would begin at the end, and work our way back to where we had been staying, to the familiar, moderate ground.  We knew instantly this would not be easy to do.  The Savage River Alpine Trail stretched out over 4 miles, and during that distance increased 1200 feet in elevation.  It was one of the most exhilarating climbs of my life!  Physically, mentally, spiritually.  It was incredible - incredibly difficult and incredibly empowering, incredibly holy and incredibly eye-opening (and did I mention, incredibly difficult?).  In the end, that hike proved the most memorable moment of the trip for me!  

But, unfortunately, not the most memorable of the summer. 

We made that journey just weeks before we made the next incredibly difficult journey of our summer - the loss of our baby to miscarriage. 

And as I look back at both, I see remarkable similarities:  

Both journeys started out the same - rocky and straight up!  A LONG way up!  Hard.  Harsh terrain.  Barren and rocky.  Every step seems more challenging than the ones you just made as you claimed they were the most challenging you'd ever done.  Pain and fatigue seeped slowly but surely through your body and your pounding heart.  If you look back at the solid ground where you were before, panic and fear would take hold.  At times all you could do was push yourself to just keep going, even (especially) when you just wanted to collapse; every time you'd let yourself stop to catch your breath, you were certain you could not go on.  Certain you would never make it.  Questioning whether you should have taken the steps that got you on this journey in the first place, and sure you would never want to do it again.  Straight uphill on unfriendly terrain.  The journey starts out shakingly difficult, unbearably painful. 

. . .

Then strangely, the terrain starts to change a bit.  You have reached a peak.  The steps start to even out a little, though there are still so many to go.  You know you are nowhere near done yet.  But you can start to look back now without fear of falling.  The challenge, the pain, are still very fresh in your memory, in your cells.  But you can now start to see another path.  You are grateful for the people who have made this journey before, who trod this way and set this path where you now walk.  From where you are, not only do you have a view of the challenging "what you've been through," you can now start to see out "beyond."  Back, here, forward - all directions, all of it.  You are able to see a bigger picture.  You recognize how much wilderness you still have to get through, but now that you can see it all together, can you recognize how much goodness is also there.  There are little buds of color coming into view, layers of depth to the view, and a whole lot of GOD.  It is a strange mix of challenge-still and gloriousness.  And either way, you've made it this far.  You are quietly proud of yourself, as you push yourself to keep going.   

. . .

And then you start making your way back down.  It goes much quicker, but it's still not "easy."  Once again, the terrain starts to take on another look; this time you start to see life.  A lot of green, lush, thick life.  Slowly, but surely, with each twist on the path and each decent towards the place you want to be, life continues to pop up.  There are still challenges - mud, rivers to cross, slippery slopes (those deceptively quick steps down that catch you off guard), tree branches to avoid and other obstacles to overcome.  But it feels more possible. The pain is either subsiding or becoming such a part of you that you don't notice it as much.  And before you know it (seriously, didn't it seem like time moved in slow motion as we climbed, how did it speed up so suddenly?!), you're back to "normal" again.  Back to the kind of terrain where you started, where you were before this journey took you straight up.  

Except that after a journey like this - and the way your body, your heart, your mind, your Spirit all put themselves into it in ways you didn't know would be necessary, ways you didn't know you were even capable of - after a journey like that, where you started is not the same anymore.  

Being back to "normal" is a new normal.  It may be the "beginning" of the trail, but it is a totally different place than where you started.

For you are now changed.  You will never look at the world the same again. 

. . . 

And although you have completed the trail, you know that you are still not done. The most challenging, most ingrained in your memory, part of the journey may be over, but you will still have to continue walking.  All paths lead to another.  You will take many, many more steps.   Some will be straight uphill, others will be among green life.  Most will be spent somewhere in between.  And in Denali, as in life, those paths cross each other and morph into each other with little warning at times.  You did not walk a straight, linear path; your workout is more complex than the time spent between the "beginning" and the "end" signs.  You made it through the exhilarating part of the journey, with all its terrain and challenges and blessings and insights.  But there are still new paths that you will continue to journey, and memories of that trail will continue to penetrate your mind and heart, until you are finally home.

It's not a once in a lifetime experience.

It's an experience that opens you up for a lifetime. 

That is how the journey is - with Alpine trails, and Grief.   

Blessed is the Fruit of Thy Womb: A Book Review

Ironically, I offered to preview this book while we were still waiting to find out "for sure" about our latest little one, long before our latest journey of loss.  And so what began as a desire to help a fellow-writer on a topic close to my heart, became a fellow-writer's book helping me on a journey of my heart.

The book is Heidi Indahl's "Blessed Is the Fruit of Thy Womb: Rosary Reflections on Miscarriage, Stillbirth and Infant Loss."

I met Heidi at the Catholic Women's Blogger Conference this past March.  She is a Montessori home-schooling Mom of many and a wonderful witness for her (converted-to) Catholic faith!  She blogs, works on curriculum for other parent-educators, loves Mary...and the best part (well, far from "best," but it was what resonated with me the most and made me love her courage) is that she writes honestly about miscarriage.  That's right, at a point very shortly after we lost our third baby to miscarriage, I learned that Heidi too has lost three littles the same way.  But what's more, Heidi knows the additional loss of her daughter Kenna to stillbirth and her daughter Siena to infant loss.

Her strength astounds me.  Her faith and hopefulness through it all I am still praying to find.  And her willingness to share about it openly and honestly is something I find too little of.  Something that made my journey, especially my first loss, extremely difficult:  Why is this so silent?  Why do I have to pretend this never happened, like everyone around me is?

But Heidi shares her journey.  And in doing so, shares her faith.  And in doing so, shares a bit of the hope that all of us who have gone through similar journeys are longing to find.

So when Heidi shared that she had written a book on miscarriage, stillbirth and infant loss and was looking for a few folks to review it for her, I wasted no time in zipping off my Facebook Messenger note!  

I first took a look at the book in May, and liked it.  

Heidi shares her own story and the journey her family have made through deaths and births and each again.  She shared the joys, the sorrows, and the unexpected grace that came through it all.  And although Heidi and I's journeys are different in a lot of the details, still I could relate.  What's more - I felt like she was relating with me!  It may seem a minor difference, if any difference at all; but for anyone who has experienced the loneliness of grief of any kind, I'm sure you can appreciate the intricacy and importance of this distinction - I wasn't alone, someone (even if only the character on a page) knew what I was thinking and feeling and going through; they were relating to me, and their understanding and affirming support meant the world!   

In addition to being sucked in by her honest story, Heidi had me with her brief reflections.  That's right, brief reflections. I almost hate to admit it, but as a busy, working, exhausted-would-fall-into-bed-before-my-kids-if-I-could Mom, I suck at reading!  I'm a slow reader to begin with, and add to it the lack of time and lack of energy to keep my eyes open, and my best laid plans and best intentions to read anything - from the newspaper, to novels to my prayer book - usually vanish quickly.  But Heidi's book was not a problem for me.  There is a reflection for each mystery of the Rosary (all four sets), and each is only one page long.

And they are beautiful!

Although brief, Heidi is able to bring in real-life elements of her and other women's journey of loss that closely relates to the Mystery and the experience of Mary.  I - the "Master" of Theology - found myself thinking about great theological and sacramental elements of our faith in a beautifully understandable and relate-able way. 

And each reflection ended with a reflection question or two.  I am an introvert, a brooder, a processor, a can't-let-it-go-er, a worrier, an I-miss-my-babies-er.  So with all those things, I can guarantee you I have spent a LOT of time thinking and praying and reflecting about my experiences of loss, and where GOD is in all of it.  But even with plenty of thought over the years and months, her reflections and her questions still opened me up to new thinking.  

Some opened up new insights.  Some opened up new comfort.  Some opened both, and more.  

But perhaps my favorite part of Heidi's book is that for each Mystery, after she breaks open a Gospel event, delves into Mary's love for us and all our children, invites us to think about our own experiences in new ways, then she challenges us to pray for others.  There is a saying that the best way to forget your troubles is to pray for someone else's.  I don't know if that is 100% true or not, but I doubt it can hurt.  And it was such a beautiful thing to me to be invited to pray for all those who would find out they were pregnant this day as I prayed the decade for the Visitation, or to pray for anyone in need of a miracle as I prayed the Wedding at Cana decade, and to pray in thanksgiving for those who walked with me in my grief as I thought about the Agony in the Garden.  Whether you read the book as a book, or as a prayer before each decade, or somewhere in between, the combination of reflections, questions and prayer intentions was beautifully done and opened up a place of grace for me (a place I even stayed awake for each exhausted night! :) )

I was certainly a fan of the book.

And then, the past few weeks happened....

But before I go there, I must make my confession: Mary and I, never best friends.  I mean, I love "Momma Mary" (as we call her in our house) and know that she loves me.  I love her faithfulness and strength and wish I could be more like her.  But we've never really been "tight."  I've tried talking with her at different times in my life, and it never felt like the right saint for me; I always seem to end up praying with someone else in the end.  Though there have been a few times (while pregnant with Layla and while praying for Stephen's name last summer) that I felt Mary speaking to me in a powerful way, I really can't list much more than those two encounters in my life.  So the Rosary (another confession) has been a prayer I tend to say when my brain won't stop worrying about something at night and I need the gentle repetition to help me fall asleep, and less to meditate on Mary's love of us and Jesus. (But I don't feel bad - did you know that St. Therese of Lisieux - one of my patrons, being the patroness of mission - didn't like to pray the Rosary?  And she's AMAZING!!  If she can become a saint without the Rosary, I might stand a slight chance too, right?  Different devotions for different people - the beauty of the church!  But I digress...)  

So without a strong relationship with Mary, and without a regular practice of the Rosary, when I first read Heidi's book, it was just that - a book.  A beautiful, spiritual, relate-able and grace-filled book...but still "just" a book.  It wasn't a form of retreat, as Heidi suggests it may be in her introduction.  Until...

This past week, as things once again spiraled out of control on our fertility journey and we lost our fourth little angel, I found Heidi's book in my bag.  Shoot! I was supposed to review that!  Between our trip, a crazy work schedule immediately upon return, and then the hell of going through this all again, I had totally lost track of my doing this.  So I placed it once again on my dresser beside my bed, and began to re-read it.  Only this time, it was more than a book.  This time, it was a prayer.

It was a prayer in that it spoke to me anew.  Those same reflections and questions that meant a great deal to me even years after my previous losses, had new and fresh meaning still after this immediate loss.  

It was a prayer to me in how it got me outside of myself.  Let's just say that the old saying proved true - during days when I can barely make it through the drive to daycare without crying out in prayers for myself and this journey of mine, it was a true blessing and felt like a load was lightened on my to be able to pray for others (to not be thinking about the pain 24-7; 23-7 is a little better :) ).

And it was a prayer to me in that I prayed.  I would read several reflections, and then pray those Mysteries on my Rosary.  My Rosary that hung next to my bed for years and has only been grabbed a few times, now found its way next to my pillow each and every night.  Maybe it's the grief, maybe it's the book, maybe it's Mary reaching out to me in a way that only another mother who has lost a child can know to do.  But whatever the reason, my Rosary and I are "tight."  Mary and I have a lot more in common to talk about than I realized.  And I can't thank Heidi enough for the gift of sharing her journey, and Mary's, with me just when I needed it!  

* * * *

Whether you "need" it or not, I would recommend this book.  It has beautiful insights into Mary, as well as into the loss that your family or friends (or yourself) may be going or have gone through.  

To learn more about the book and it's author, visit:

Heidi's blog: www.workandplaydaybyday.com

The publisher: Peanut Butter & Grace

A Seller:  Amazon.com

or St. Gerard books