I Am My Mother's Daughter

Christmas Eve mass was wonderful this year!  We met up with my parents and sister and brother-in-law, and my husband's brother and girlfriend, and two of our nieces.  I love being surrounded by my family!  We were there on time. (A big accomplishment!) All the kids were feeling well.  I was looking forward to greeting Father after mass.  I was looking forward to his homily.  This priest has history with our family.  He has been there for the good:  He married my husband and I, and baptized two of our children.  He has been there for the bad:  My grandparents' funerals.  My son's funeral... 

I remember that first Christmas without Michael.  It was bittersweet.  It hurt, of course, because I didn't have my one-month-old in my arms.  I thought about Mary getting to hold her new baby Jesus, and it hurt a little.  Then came the guilt.  Why should I be sour at the Blessed Virgin?!  Shame on me!  He is the Savior!  She is the woman who said yes to God and brought Jesus into the world!  With so many conflicting emotions, I just sat and tried to participate in the Mass.  As I sat there, I felt a closeness to Mary.  I wasn't sure why.  I felt that she was comforting me, like a mother tends to do.  I knew God hurt to see me so sad, but why did this sad thing happen?  Well, it's twelve years later and I still don't have an explanation. It's just another mystery, and I'm okay with that.  It is in this mystery that I find comfort.  I will try to explain... 

Back to Christmas Eve.  So, I got settled in my seat for the homily.  Father starts.  He tells us that this story might not make sense for the celebration of this night.  He goes on to tell of a time he was called to the nearby hospital just before Advent many years ago.  I immediately felt like he could be talking about us.  (ugh, why am I so self-centered?)  I dismiss it, but it keeps on coming.  He was definitely talking about Michael.  To my right, my husband was a few children down, and we gave each other that look.  The "uh-oh-we-have-to-remember-it-again-look."  I wondered if anyone else knew.  I looked to my left, and there was my sister, giving me the "is-he-talking-about-you?" look.  From that moment I zoned in on Father.  He had no idea that we would be there.  It meant a lot to me that all these years later, he said that there hasn't been one Christmas that he does not think back on that time.  For Father to let me in on his perspective of my nightmare shook me to the core.  If I had been on either end of the pew, I would have ran away from it all.  But, in God's perfect planning, I was smack-dab in the middle of a very long pew, very filled with people.  I could not escape.  I could only hold onto my Dear Daughter #1's hand for dear life, and be held up by angels.  At this point, I had to face the truth:  It DID happen.  It was definitely not a dream, because here I am, at Christmas Vigil, and the priest is telling the whole congregation what really happened:  He baptized my tiny three-day-old before the medical staff took all the tubes and wires off of him.  He saw me holding my dead child, gazing into his perfect little face, gently stroking his cheek.  Saying goodbye.  He saw family flooding in to support and comfort us.  I think the heart of everyone there broke a little bit that day.  When I look back on this moment, standing as a bystander, I see love, I see pain.  What I see on that young mother's face is the same expression I imagine was on the Blessed Mother's face as she cuddled Jesus in the stable, and as she watched him die on the cross.  I had always felt a connection to her, but I didn't think that I could even come close to knowing what she went through.  Knowing that she is the mother of the Savior of the world.  A mother holding that tiny, innocent babe in her arms, then years later, holding the crucified Jesus in her arms.  Could I be compared to Mary?  I don't think I come close.  What I do feel is a closeness to her because we both know the instant love of bringing a child into the world, and we both know the heart-wrenching pain of our child leaving the world.  She must have had some inclination that this life was not going to be easy.  But life isn't supposed to be easy, is it? 

I feel like this event in my life was a wake-up call.  Everything before this was a piece of cake.  That's when the true test had begun.  Was I going to wither away with grief?  Was I going to avoid any more children, to save myself from possibly going through the same tragedy again?  Was I going to stay in this marriage?  Does my husband even want me anymore?  Was all of this actually my fault?  Am I being punished?  If these questions sound ridiculous, you are right.  They are stupid.  They are lies.  Lies whispered to me from the demons who haunt me, who try to turn me away from our ever-loving God.  It is a true fight, no, a WAR, to lead me away from the true, merciful, and loving God.  Did God want Michael to die?  I don't believe he did.  Does God want to comfort me and show me the way home to my precious child?  Absolutely.  This is the comfort I find in this mystery, this tragedy, this suffering.  God wants us all to find our way home to him.  Our God, the Father, the Creator, knows best.  And my heavenly Mother knows best, too, because she does His will perfectly.  She is there waiting for me, helping me along the way.  She wants to help all of us.  We just have to let her.