In the first months after Josh died, about the only place I went to church was the nearby Carmelite monastery. Their usual masses are at the crack of dawn, but on Tuesdays they celebrate at the much more reasonable time of 5:00 pm.
I haven't been there since summer because I've been in Seminary City, but I'm home tonight. I decided that the quiet of mass with the sisters would be a good place in which to prepare in silence for the next few days.
I walked in and sat down, looked across the chapel, saw someone I was sure I recognized ~ and spent most of the mass thinking about the last few hours I had spent with him. On September 3, 2008. When the service was over, I made my way through a few of the sisters who wanted to welcome me back and ask about seminary, and sat down beside the very tall (and now 93? 94?-year-old) man.
"Aren't you WF?" I asked. "I am," he said, looking surprised. "I'm Gannet Girl," I said. "You were with me when my son died last year." "Of course," he said. "How are you?" "I'm here," I responded. He nodded. "And how are your studies?" And so we talked a little about seminary and ordination exams and the call process and what might be next for me.
This is the Jesuit who was accompanying me on retreat when I got the news that Josh was gone. He was my original spiritual director's philosophy professor; I wish I had thought to tell him that I am doing an independent study on grace and freedom in Aquinas and Scotus and the Reformers as part of my way of coming to terms with Josh's death. He is one person I know who might actually appreciate that news.
He told me that he is spending just a few days at the Carmelite monastery for some prayer time of his own before going to another part of town for the holidays and then back to Michigan.
It seems quite remarkable that I would have run into him. I feel oddly as if I have come full circle, to the place and conversation I was engaged in right before I learned that Josh had died, right before everything about life as I knew it simply ended. Nearly sixteen months ago I spent a couple of hours in his office unloading the trauma of CPE, and there I was tonight telling him that I was contemplating a hospital chaplaincy residency.
It seems almost new-dimensional: as if some of the peace and possibility of the Incarnation has crept very very quietly into my life.
I haven't been there since summer because I've been in Seminary City, but I'm home tonight. I decided that the quiet of mass with the sisters would be a good place in which to prepare in silence for the next few days.
I walked in and sat down, looked across the chapel, saw someone I was sure I recognized ~ and spent most of the mass thinking about the last few hours I had spent with him. On September 3, 2008. When the service was over, I made my way through a few of the sisters who wanted to welcome me back and ask about seminary, and sat down beside the very tall (and now 93? 94?-year-old) man.
"Aren't you WF?" I asked. "I am," he said, looking surprised. "I'm Gannet Girl," I said. "You were with me when my son died last year." "Of course," he said. "How are you?" "I'm here," I responded. He nodded. "And how are your studies?" And so we talked a little about seminary and ordination exams and the call process and what might be next for me.
This is the Jesuit who was accompanying me on retreat when I got the news that Josh was gone. He was my original spiritual director's philosophy professor; I wish I had thought to tell him that I am doing an independent study on grace and freedom in Aquinas and Scotus and the Reformers as part of my way of coming to terms with Josh's death. He is one person I know who might actually appreciate that news.
He told me that he is spending just a few days at the Carmelite monastery for some prayer time of his own before going to another part of town for the holidays and then back to Michigan.
It seems quite remarkable that I would have run into him. I feel oddly as if I have come full circle, to the place and conversation I was engaged in right before I learned that Josh had died, right before everything about life as I knew it simply ended. Nearly sixteen months ago I spent a couple of hours in his office unloading the trauma of CPE, and there I was tonight telling him that I was contemplating a hospital chaplaincy residency.
It seems almost new-dimensional: as if some of the peace and possibility of the Incarnation has crept very very quietly into my life.
13 comments:
It sounds like a gift of grace and life...
I'm all for quiet Incarnations this year!
Wow. It really sounds like a Christmas miracle, given especially to you. I had the most magnificent dream of Joey on Sunday morning and I think that one came straight from heaven, too. Unexpected and so very comforting to think that God thinks of us.
Karen, I am SO glad for your dream.
And LOL Michelle; I guess yours is involuntarily very quiet. Hope you are feeling much better.
Michelle and Gannet Girl--- was thinking about Grace today, my mom, who showed me what hope was all about when I had none.
on an other note... I just ranted at God and God said... "It's only a car." maybe I'll sleep better. peace my friends.
What an amazing coincidence! I've always imagined that space as peaceful (you posted pictures some time ago) although I know you have not often found it there. I am glad that this time you found possibilities of Incarnation as well as a good conversation with a friend.
Thinking of you. Praying with you. Just a few more days until you fly south to warmth and the ocean. I'm hoping you find more moments with possibilities.
yes, sea birds are awaiting your arrival. how cool of them.
I seldom comment, but read you often and can tell you that I find a great witness of Him working in your life, His "footprints in the sand" within your words. May you know and sense such presence in abundance as you walk through this holiday season and beyond. Peace, my friend....
God works in mysterious ways, GG. So glad that He was working with you last night and that you were able to make that much-needed connection. Safe travels and peace in the coming days.
Word Verification=INGSPAN. I'm seeing that as Wingspan and thinking that the birds of the beach await you.
Thanks be.
Safe journey late tonight, early tomorrow. After some rain tonight and a bit tomorrow, the forecast in this neck of the woods is balmy and breezy.
I almost lost my son. Now that he is back and recovering, I haven't been able to pray. (after ful time non-stop praying during the dark days and hospitalization)
I have often read your posts and taken comfort. And I have often wished I could offer some.
I am astonished and glad to read of the recent transformations--of the joy that is finding its way, unbidden, into your heart. Thank you for being as fully honest about the loosening and lightening as you are about all the pain. Merry Christmas.
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