truly, we have no need to sail far

my DT and Uncle Matt-the day after

{source: littleflowerphotography}

first off, thank you for all your prayers
as we mourn the loss of my mom's brother,
my grandparent's first-born,
my 54-year-old Uncle Hill. 

some thoughts:

{warning. long post}  

        

        I am more and more convinced every day that despite the minute amount of physical poverty in Vienna, the spiritual poverty which the Holy Spirit will lead us to encounter will be overwhelming. The only recourse we will have when we are being present in moments of utter sorrow and despair is to those very arms of our heavenly Mother, outstretched in response to our prayers for strength, and your prayers for me. 

       With the recent death of my uncle, I am experiencing the Lord uniquely preparing my heart and soul to depart on mission. How? By giving me the chance to live my mission right now. 

       

       I returned to Wisconsin with my father after a week spent in Indianapolis preparing for and having the wake and funeral. Upon my return, I received a letter from a long time friend of mine who wanted to send some inspiration and support before I departed for mission work. He assured me of his prayers in what he worded as "situations of many tears more than you can fix; you can't fix anything on your own." Reading that line connected the dots for me as the moments of consoling my mourning grandparents, aunts, uncles, and mother were fresh in my mind.

       

       Through the effort of their lives spent hard at work, my grandparents have everything they could ask for materially. They have been blessed with a beautiful spirituality within the Catholic Church, and a large, loving, united family. Yet, they just lost their son, their first-born baby boy, and to them it is losing everything and raises many questions in their minds and hearts. My Dt and Opa are experiencing sorrow I've never experienced or witnessed quite this closely before. There were many times that I held my grandmother as she broke down, wondering out loud between sobs, "What am I going to do now? I just lost my baby! How am I going to make it?" My grandfather, who never cries, shed tears and held me a little longer every time I gave him a hug. 

        

         It is intense sorrow. Not sorrow that is ridden with despair, for unlike most people in modern day (wealthy and unwealthy alike), a faith-filled trust in God casts out despair, but a sorrow that is ridden with love. This raises questions of my own like, what would this experience be like if faith was not an integral part of my family's life? What if they didn't have a relationship with God? What if they didn't trust in God's mercy, love, and plan?

        

        And how do I answer the question my grandmother cries out to me? How do I respond to her sorrow that is so intense that it makes a trusting love actually flirt at times with despair? I want to fix it; I want to take it away from them. I pray to God to give me the sorrow to bear in their stead, if only they will be taken up into the peaceful and consoling arms of Christ. But, like my friend said in his letter, my mission work will certainly take me into crisis of many tears that I will want to fix, but won't be able to fix, at least not of my own accord. I can only pray and be with them, be a presence for them. Bring them hope by remaining near. Pray with them, be silent with them, eat dinner with them, watch tv with them, hold their hands, or sobbing, tired bodies when they cannot sleep. 

      

         In the most concrete and real way, my mission work is not starting in a month when I leave to go to Austria. I can't just decide to "live of love" when i'm in another country. It starts here-in my grandmother's chair in her kitchen, holding her as she sobs. {at the foot of my grandmother's cross} Holding my grandfather's hand as he cries, listening to the CD of my uncle singing and playing the drums in his old band. {at the foot of my grandfather's cross} At the foot of the cross of each of my family members and all those who mourn the loss of Hill. 

         I must ask Mary to teach me how to bring them consolation and peace from God through my simple presence with them in their suffering, as it pierces my heart as well. To see them experience so much sorrow that I cannot fix or relieve them of is my own agony-my own heart pierced with Mary's at the foot of the cross. 

         To be honest, it is hard and sometimes uncomfortable. You want to say something, but you do not know what to say. Your practical mind kicks in and you want to take them out to do something, to get their minds off of the suffering. You want to make them smile and laugh and forget for a while. But they don't want to move on and forget, even for a while, just yet. They are mourning, and the grief is, in a way, a comfort of its own. You want to try to fix the "problem" of their grief for a few moments, for it is frustrating to see the constant sorrow. You want to say, "What about your trust in God? Why are you sad when you trust that God's plan is taking care of everything, and God himself is taking care of your son?" These are honest questions only in the face of my own pain in seeing them suffer. I can't fix their grief, because it is not a "problem"; it is a process that is born of love, a process I can't do away with, much less speed up. They are united to Christ in His passion--every long and painful minute of that entire day of scourging, carrying, hanging, and dying. 

          Patience is required. Patience and compassion fueled by love and the understanding that they are in agony and I cannot take their suffering from them. I can only offer support as they live through it. Losing her son, my grandmother is not only experiencing her own crucifixion, but also her own moment of standing in the shoes of Mary at the foot of the cross, losing her son. St. John remained at Mary's side throughout the passion of Christ. He knew he couldn't make the jeering crowd quiet, he knew he couldn't leave Mary's side to go take the cross off of Christ's shoulders, he knew he couldn't stop the soldiers from hammering the nails. He knew he couldn't make the suffering of Christ stop, and he couldn't halt the suffering Mary experienced witnessing the cruel torture of her only son. I assume, with both his intense love for Christ and his Mother, he probably wanted to make it stop. He probably wanted to take away her excruciating sorrow, but he just remained at her side. As they stood together at the foot of the cross, he probably held her and supported her at times, maybe reminding her to remain strong, to trust in God's will, to keep breathing, maybe remaining silent because no words were needed, maybe holding her hand and following her gaze to the face of Christ, their Redeemer, their Hope.  

          Hope is the basis of it all. Whether or not the people I am with in the midst of their suffering hold hope in their hearts (maybe some of them will be atheists, some driven into despair by the apparent lack of meaning in suffering), my presence itself must be a presence of hope. And why hope? Because I cannot fix anything. I can dry tears, but I cannot prevent them from falling onto their grieving faces. My friend in his letter to me assured me that he would be praying-praying especially that God would send the Blessed Mother to be my pieta, as I am being the pieta to those I am loving. The reason for my hope, what fuels my presence with those in suffering of any kind, will be the hope I have in the strength that the Lord and His most holy Mother are making available to me in that moment. And hopefully, that hope I have will shine through to those I hold, and become their own hope as well. 

          To experience this loss right before I depart is a temptation to fear what I could lose while I am across the ocean--for the fleeting nature of life is made so much more apparent, the frailty of my aged loved ones so much more real. Yet, more than anything I thank God for the gift of this loss right before I depart because it is simply God continuing to teach me how incredibly hard this work is going to be, how incredibly confusing life can be at such moments as these, how incredibly powerless I am going to feel at times, and how incredibly excruciating the poverty of the heart and soul will be, even if the flesh is cared for. People need this love, this friendship, this support in loss. And as I hold my grandmother or grandfather and be their pietas, my heart is drawn to pray for all those who are impoverished--who do not yet experience the arms of love, the presence of love that will remain no matter the circumstances. 

if you have never heard of Mumford&Sons, do yourself  a favor and add them to your lyrical repertoire. i am going to introduce you to their sound in this and following posts. enjoy.