I inherited my inability to wait patiently from my father. He would (and did) drive thousands of miles to collect me and/or my sibling from various places/schools/homes/malls/jobs/ when we were younger without a moment's hesitation. And happily at that. But heaven forbid we make him wait one minute beyond that four hour drive - or five minute drive. He wasn't the least bit bothered by the length of time it took to reach his child, only the time spent waiting for her once he arrived.
And yeah, I'm kind of like that. Minus the kids waiting to be picked up, of course.
So after Mass I always sit in the pew and wait until the hoards file out of the church and start to vacate the parking lot, because my hackles rise almost instantly when I'm faced with the prospect of a waiting in my car. And then sitting in stop and go traffic until I can turn onto the main road home.
Sometimes I sit in my pew and watch the little groups chatting after Mass. Other times I kneel with my eyes closed in what would appear to be prayer, but usually actually isn't. I have trouble concentrating on prayer when people are moving and chatting around me. I'm entirely too nosy for after Mass prayer.
Why I bother making it look as though I'm praying is beyond me. Maybe I'm secretly hoping that God won't notice I'm planning the week's meals in my head. Maybe I'm hoping he'll just take a quick glance at my exceptional praying form (head bowed, eyes closed) and give me a gold star that I can redeem later in life.
I could use a gold star. He owes me.
Which brings me to the point of all this.
Last Sunday whilst I was kneeling in what no one would ever suspect wasn't prayer, I happened to look up and see an extremely pregnant woman standing at the foot of the altar staring up at the depiction of Jesus and his disciples. She was deep in thought (or maybe prayer, who am I to judge?) and was patting her belly very deliberately, as though punctuating whatever words were running through her mind with each little pat.
I froze in horror. And in my mind I screamed, "No, no, no - it won't make any difference! What will be, will be no matter how fervent those prayers are - no matter how hard you plead!"
And that seems like an awful reaction.
But I still think it's true. God help me, I do.
I admit that sometimes I still whisper quiet, tentative prayers for people who I think need them. I have asked God to cure. To save. Even since Thomas, I have uttered those words. Even when I know how utterly and completely they failed when I prayed them nearly five years ago.
And that's why I'm not sure they make any difference at all, those frantic, pleading kind of prayers.
Because, if you've noticed, people still die no matter how many people are busily begging for a different outcome. Because that's when they were supposed to die. Period.
I believe in God. I believe in miracles. I believe in the power of prayer - but only in so much as it can bring comfort to the helpless who have no other recourse but to beg, so that they feel they've done something. Anything.
I just don't believe in that kind of prayer anymore. There are other kinds, of course. Prayers of gratitude? Those are fine. Prayers for guidance and clarity? Also fine. But prayers to save the lives of others? I don't think anyone here has that kind of power, no matter how fervent the words, or how many of us are saying them.
I don't see this as a weakness or some little chink in my armor of faith. I see this as a realistic way to proceed from this point on. To ask God to save someone when it's their time to die only sets me up for the kind of confusion, feelings of betrayal and all-consuming anger I felt when Thomas died.
I hope the woman at Mass has a healthy child. But I can't pray for that because it's already decided.
No matter what I want. It's already decided.
Showing posts with label Faith. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Faith. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
I took your collective advice...
My letter...
Good morning Father,
I’m not sure where to begin, so I’ll just jump right in...
My husband and I had our first child, a baby boy we named Thomas, on March 9, 2005. He died the next day (due to an injury at birth). He was buried from St. M on March 17th and is resting with my Grandparents in S Cemetery.
It’s been a very, very long road. And there have been many, many times when I was very tempted to (and probably should have) seek the support of Father W. and, after he left, you. But I didn’t. I was too embarrassed to admit how shaken my faith was – and how horrified I was by that fact. My faith has always been something that gave me great comfort and strength in times of struggle and sorrow, but somehow it failed me. Or I failed it.
Anyway, I’m doing okay. I come to Mass every Sunday searching for something that will help me heal, even though I’m still often angry and confused. The fact that we have been unable to conceive again since the death of our son hasn’t helped in that area, but I know God has a plan and a reason for having us go through the sorrows and trials we do in this life. Knowing that doesn’t always help when I’m missing my son so much I feel like my heart might literally break in two, but at least it helps me keep some perspective.
Okay, that’s the background (and what a lot of information it was...).
Anyway, Mother’s Day is an extremely difficult day for me. I suffered two miscarriages before losing Thomas, and I’m now dealing with secondary infertility. It’s agonizing. I love that mothers are particularly remembered during the Mass on Mother’s Day, and it’s lovely to have all mothers stand up and receive a special blessing.
But I wonder if maybe next year you could make a point of also mentioning mothers like me – those who have lost their children (through miscarriage and infant loss). And maybe even those who are struggling to become mothers. There was a special intention for people who have lost mothers this past year, but no mention of those of us who might have lost our children. In my case, all of them.
Mothers in mourning are a forgotten group in so many ways. No one likes to talk about dead babies, after all. We grieve quietly in order to avoid making other people uncomfortable, but all we want is to have our sorrow acknowledged and to hear the names of our lost children spoken to us as though they did exist. Because of course, they did.
Actually, I’ve been thinking a lot about talking to you about having an annual Mass of remembrance for children lost to miscarriage and perinatal death. I know how much it would mean to me to have a special evening to remember my son and my other two lost children - a safe night surrounded by other people who truly understand. A night just for us to remember, grieve and celebrate that we gave life, no matter how tiny that life was.
I would be more than happy to help organize such an event. I thought it would be nice to ask those who planned to attend (and even those who didn’t) to submit the names of their children lost to miscarriage and infant loss so they could be included in a program of some sort. There is nothing sweeter than seeing my son’s name in print. It seems like such a small, insignificant thing, but it’s absolutely huge to me.
October 15th is officially Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day in the US, but it’s recognized as such in grieving circles here too, so perhaps a date close to that might be appropriate.
I know you must have people coming to you all the time with their special interests and I apologize if I’m just another one of those folks, but I hope you’ll give all this some consideration. When I had my first miscarriage women literally came out of the woodwork to tell me their stories of loss. I was in a choir at my old church at the time (before I officially moved to St. M) and as soon as everyone knew what happened, the floodgates opened. I was told the story of at least 10 lost children in that one choir, often over tears. I was floored. It never occurred to me that so many people experienced loss like this because women just don’t talk about it. Unless, of course, it happens to someone they know.
That’s why I think an evening of remembrance would be so wonderful and healing for so many people. It would give us a chance to remember together. And, as I said, I’ll do anything to help. I’m a writer and my husband is a designer, so between the two of us I’m sure we can work on announcements and the program – or whatever else you need.
Okay, I’ll cease and desist now. I only intended to ask about a mention for mothers in mourning on Mother’s Day...but sometimes I ramble.
Thanks so much for listening, and for everything – particularly those comforting words of wisdom that keep me coming back each Sunday and help me heal and make sense of this life and my place in it.
Regards,
Kristin
And his reply...
Hello Kristin,
Thank you very much for sending me this note. I can imagine the pain and difficulty it must be for you with that loss. Certainly, I would be glad to sit down with you and look at how our parish could respond to this in a sensitive and caring way. I will be away this week but next week when I get back I will be in contact and perhaps we can meet to discuss this.
Thanks again for coming forward with this, talk to you soon,
Fr. M
I revealed slightly more than I intended to (Clomid makes me ramble), but actually I'm glad I said everything that I did. Not only am I thrilled to know that he wants to meet with me, I'm relieved to have finally, FINALLY admitted that I'm waging an epic battle of faith. I said it out loud. To a priest - to someone who gets God a lot better than I do. To someone who maybe, just maybe, can help me understand him better too.
I somehow feel a thousand pounds lighter today.
Good morning Father,
I’m not sure where to begin, so I’ll just jump right in...
My husband and I had our first child, a baby boy we named Thomas, on March 9, 2005. He died the next day (due to an injury at birth). He was buried from St. M on March 17th and is resting with my Grandparents in S Cemetery.
It’s been a very, very long road. And there have been many, many times when I was very tempted to (and probably should have) seek the support of Father W. and, after he left, you. But I didn’t. I was too embarrassed to admit how shaken my faith was – and how horrified I was by that fact. My faith has always been something that gave me great comfort and strength in times of struggle and sorrow, but somehow it failed me. Or I failed it.
Anyway, I’m doing okay. I come to Mass every Sunday searching for something that will help me heal, even though I’m still often angry and confused. The fact that we have been unable to conceive again since the death of our son hasn’t helped in that area, but I know God has a plan and a reason for having us go through the sorrows and trials we do in this life. Knowing that doesn’t always help when I’m missing my son so much I feel like my heart might literally break in two, but at least it helps me keep some perspective.
Okay, that’s the background (and what a lot of information it was...).
Anyway, Mother’s Day is an extremely difficult day for me. I suffered two miscarriages before losing Thomas, and I’m now dealing with secondary infertility. It’s agonizing. I love that mothers are particularly remembered during the Mass on Mother’s Day, and it’s lovely to have all mothers stand up and receive a special blessing.
But I wonder if maybe next year you could make a point of also mentioning mothers like me – those who have lost their children (through miscarriage and infant loss). And maybe even those who are struggling to become mothers. There was a special intention for people who have lost mothers this past year, but no mention of those of us who might have lost our children. In my case, all of them.
Mothers in mourning are a forgotten group in so many ways. No one likes to talk about dead babies, after all. We grieve quietly in order to avoid making other people uncomfortable, but all we want is to have our sorrow acknowledged and to hear the names of our lost children spoken to us as though they did exist. Because of course, they did.
Actually, I’ve been thinking a lot about talking to you about having an annual Mass of remembrance for children lost to miscarriage and perinatal death. I know how much it would mean to me to have a special evening to remember my son and my other two lost children - a safe night surrounded by other people who truly understand. A night just for us to remember, grieve and celebrate that we gave life, no matter how tiny that life was.
I would be more than happy to help organize such an event. I thought it would be nice to ask those who planned to attend (and even those who didn’t) to submit the names of their children lost to miscarriage and infant loss so they could be included in a program of some sort. There is nothing sweeter than seeing my son’s name in print. It seems like such a small, insignificant thing, but it’s absolutely huge to me.
October 15th is officially Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day in the US, but it’s recognized as such in grieving circles here too, so perhaps a date close to that might be appropriate.
I know you must have people coming to you all the time with their special interests and I apologize if I’m just another one of those folks, but I hope you’ll give all this some consideration. When I had my first miscarriage women literally came out of the woodwork to tell me their stories of loss. I was in a choir at my old church at the time (before I officially moved to St. M) and as soon as everyone knew what happened, the floodgates opened. I was told the story of at least 10 lost children in that one choir, often over tears. I was floored. It never occurred to me that so many people experienced loss like this because women just don’t talk about it. Unless, of course, it happens to someone they know.
That’s why I think an evening of remembrance would be so wonderful and healing for so many people. It would give us a chance to remember together. And, as I said, I’ll do anything to help. I’m a writer and my husband is a designer, so between the two of us I’m sure we can work on announcements and the program – or whatever else you need.
Okay, I’ll cease and desist now. I only intended to ask about a mention for mothers in mourning on Mother’s Day...but sometimes I ramble.
Thanks so much for listening, and for everything – particularly those comforting words of wisdom that keep me coming back each Sunday and help me heal and make sense of this life and my place in it.
Regards,
Kristin
And his reply...
Hello Kristin,
Thank you very much for sending me this note. I can imagine the pain and difficulty it must be for you with that loss. Certainly, I would be glad to sit down with you and look at how our parish could respond to this in a sensitive and caring way. I will be away this week but next week when I get back I will be in contact and perhaps we can meet to discuss this.
Thanks again for coming forward with this, talk to you soon,
Fr. M
I revealed slightly more than I intended to (Clomid makes me ramble), but actually I'm glad I said everything that I did. Not only am I thrilled to know that he wants to meet with me, I'm relieved to have finally, FINALLY admitted that I'm waging an epic battle of faith. I said it out loud. To a priest - to someone who gets God a lot better than I do. To someone who maybe, just maybe, can help me understand him better too.
I somehow feel a thousand pounds lighter today.
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