the healing hands of God

“How do you know that God is present?” is a question I have been asked more times than I can count. But although it is an easy question to ask – especially to someone who has made a life commitment because of a deep belief in that Presence – it is not an easy question to answer. Being born and raised within a Tradition of belief and having been schooled in the rubrics of the faith, the “know” part is fairly easy to answer; the “how” part, not so much. It takes time, examination, reflection on previously lived moments to recognize God present in the passing of a day, and still it often ends up as a piece of knowledge: the flowering tree I passed on my way to work; the $20 I found in my coat pocket the day I forgot my lunch; my nephew’s laugh-out-loud enthusiasm of a rolling tennis ball; the extended deadline of the assignment I didn’t finish…

But sometimes, some times, I recognize God without having to reflect back. I am able to feel God’s presence in the moment – I think it’s called Grace. It doesn’t happen a lot; it doesn’t even happen often, at least not to me. But when it does, it reaches a place deep, deep within, and fills me to overflowing. I recently met someone in whose presence I feel the Presence of God. The relaxing encounters have been so profound that I have been reduced to tears when we meet. I’m not sure she has any idea how sacred for me her time is; how through her hands I experience the healing hand of God; how grateful I am to be able to feel the Grace in the moment; how I thank my God whenever I think of her...

something to be said ...

theresa, if the mind pictures words and the heart feels them, i suppose there is something to be said ... when with eyes closed you can be seen and felt with reminiscing warmth, i believe there is something to be said ... while i pray for your journey and love you from afar, i know there is something to be said ... thank you. sarah

I met Theresa, or "T.O." as we often called her, 25 years ago when she lived and journeyed alongside me as my Novice Director. We became friends in the years that followed and she walked and witnessed me through first and final vows. Yesterday morning she passed away and all I can do now is say thank you through the tears.

One Week Ago Today

A journal entry from June 26, 2009

My father was buried one week ago today. Before the coffin was closed, people were invited to say their last goodbyes. I waited until everyone else had passed before I went up. He looked asleep, that's all. I removed my mobius ring from my right hand and put it on the little finger of his left hand. I wore it as a reminder that what is inside of us flows constantly outwards and vice-versa. My dad lived that way ~ what you saw is what you got and who he was. It was my way of being with him in the next life to give him the ring. I made a sign of the cross with my thumb on his forehead and sealed it with a kiss. I whispered to him that I loved him and then the casket was closed.

Waking My Dad

A journal entry from June 18, 2009

What did you think of the day, Dad? There were so many people who came to see you ... So much love and respect was spoken of you, so rightly so. I know you were proud of your family today ~ were you surpised by the witness of your life spoken by your grandchildren? They adored you, Dad. I miss you. It felt almost like watching a dream ... Seeing you in that box. I kept waiting for you to open your eyes and smile with your wink, but you did not move. I found myself saying over and over again "I cannot believe my dad has died." I truly am in great disbelief. My tears speak of my great love for you, Dad. I wish you hadn't left us so soon, so quickly. I love you.

My Dad Left Us Today

A journal entry from June 15, 2009:

My dad left us today. He always said he was counting on there being a purgatory so he'd have a chance at heaven. But he needn't have worried, not even for a second. My dad was one of the kindest, most giving people to walk this earth. He asked nothing of anyone except for them to be themselves. And he had a WONDERFUL sense of humor. He loved to laugh and he used to thank Trish and me for coming by and making him laugh. All of his children received his sense of humor and love of laughter. My dad was greatly respected by all of his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, all of whom are shedding tears this night. I miss you, Dad, and "I love you a whole great big bunch."

A Visit With Dad

A journal entry from June 4, 2009:

I saw my dad today. I could not believe my eyes. I took his hand and he held on tight. He looked so sick, so weak. I struggled to keep my tears inside - I did not want to scare him. He just kept smiling at me and mouthing the words "I love you" over and over again. I gave him my card and Trish read to him the message I'd written inside ...

Dad,

If I could choose to be anyone I wanted to be

I would choose to be you.

You are goodness and light,

peace and mercy,

generosity and grace,

kindness and love.

You are a helper to those in need

and a consoler to those in sorrow.

You are strength, patience, and welcomer

to everyone and everything that crosses your path.

From you I have learned that every gift needs to be shared

and every person be given a seat;

that animals should be respected

and children taken care of;

that truth allows freedom

and money deserves responsibility;

that patriotism involves love

and family is everything.

That a smile is indeed a funny thing and does wrinkle one's face ~

though I never have been able to locate its secret hiding place! :)

I love you, Dad, with every single bit of my heart and soul,

and I thank you for finding me worthy to be your daughter.

I love you,

Sarah

Trish put it on the wall where he could see it before we left.

Home Again

A journal entry from June 4, 2009:

You have grown so much, Mijo, but you're still my little peanut. I love your waddly walk and fascination of all things new; your nose-scrunching smile and courageous abandon to push the limit - even if it is your own. And your love of song and musical instruments makes my soul soar. To end the day rocking you to sleep in my arms ~ or was it me in your arms? Either way was pure Sacrament; a Sacred moment for which I am deeply grateful. Tomorrow, Mijo, when I venture to visit your Grandpa, I will remember this night, these moments, and take virtual refuge in your arms. I will invite Grandpa to join us this time.

Remembering Dad

Last year at this time my father was quite ill and preparing to undergo a necessary surgery to restore his health. Because I was some 500 miles away and the surgery was deemed risky for his age and current health, I prepared to travel to visit him a week before he was to go into surgery. I knew I had only a couple of days to spend with him and that this could possibly be my goodbye. I wanted to leave him SOMEthing, but what? I decided to make him a card. I put a crayon in my nondominant hand and drew a picture of him with his eight children. He would be delighted with something made by hand, no matter what it looked like. I would take it with me and add a message to the inside before I saw him ...

Grace

Grace I spread my poncho wide And beckoned my soul take rest In a piercing gaze it held me Uneasy by the queer request Silently we remained in expectation Of that which neither one knew Like a work in patient progress Before its creator is through When slowly, cautiously my heart settled And courage made present its place The tear-stained words I uttered From shame transformed into grace A grace amazing and musical Its melody comforting and known Freely, in love unconditional I knew I’d finally come home

Grace-filled moments ...

My friend is dying. She laid atop her bed in a fetal position, fully clothed, coat and purse at the ready by the foot of her bed. Her eyes half-closed, or maybe half-open. She looked pale, tired, and gaunt. She wanted to go out for a bite to eat, but not really. Her stomach had been paining her for several days already, it was distended and hard. She wanted to pretend that she was well, like she used to be, able to rise and move quickly and join me for a Coney or Taco Bell run. But her body had gotten the best of her; the fatigue she could no longer deny.

Maybe I’ll rest just a little longer.

I removed her shoes and covered her with an afghan, hung her coat and drawered the purse. We would spend the evening inside this time, without food or talk thereof.

I watched her stir in fitful sleep. Her stomach growled in loud protest to the little room it held amidst the growing masses of poisonous consumption. I cannot fathom being in her skin; I wonder if she can understand being in mine.

Nineteen months earlier I’d been forced to bid another close friend farewell. I sat by her side as her body succumbed identical to the scene before me. Same pain, same poison, same patient. I beckoned her to remain close to her comadre, to midwife her transition and welcome her home.

The thunder in her belly grew louder and tears began to escape from behind the veil covering her eyes.

I hate this. I hate it all.

I thought the same as the words left her lips. I rose and lay on the bed beside her. She rolled to her back, handed me the pillow she’d been hugging between her arms, and tucked her toes under my thigh. I rested my hand on her boney knee and gently caressed her leg as she spoke.

She spoke of fear: not of death, but of pain … of having to say goodbye … of putting others through loss, especially her mother … of not expecting this death to have arrived so soon …

And we shared the silence. The unspoken heartache of the moment. The here and the now which would forever be one of the last. We cried and we honored the wordless ache we both harbored hidden from the other.

Then came a knock at the door: her night meds. She rose to brush her teeth and I readied her bed for sleep. I tucked her into bed and we embraced in deep love and gratitude for the sacrament shared. I arose and stepped toward the door, then turned back and told her “I love you, Mar.”

I love you, too, Sar.