Jul 20

Jul 20 A string of beads....

My morning began reading a quote from Oliver Cromwell about the Irish people:

All is not well with Ireland yet. You gave us the money, you gave us the guns. But let me tell you that every house in Ireland is a house of prayer, and when I bring these fanatical Irish before the muzzles of my guns, they hold up in their hands a string of beads, and they never surrender.

They hold up in their hands a string of beads, and they never surrender.

My first time praying the Rosary was my grandfather’s funeral, ten years ago. Raised a Protestant, I thought the Rosary was exactly what Jesus condemned in prayer in Matthew: the pagans praying with repetitious words, thinking they will be heard for their many words.

I had no idea.

…yet, that first time, I found the rhythm soothing in grief…yet, more than that - I found the reminder of Christ’s death and resurrection - uplifting…dare I say, Biblical. But the emphasis on Mary? The emphasis on us as sinners? The emphasis on our death? ….no, thank you. I’m not here for that. My Protestant heart was protesting.

Then, I joined the Catholic church a year later. The practice of praying the Rosary didn’t come automatically. Moreover, the main Catholic in my life didn’t seem to interested in praying it the couple of times I suggested it. Okay.

…

Then, I reached a breaking point. July 20, 2015.

We found ourselves in a Dallas airport hotel, for a quick 3-hour sleep, before boarding a 6am flight to arrive at the Phoenix Mayo Clinic for a day-long lymphectomy - where a troublesome lymphnode was to be removed from Dan’s neck to be biopsied. …and then, we would know.

Know what? …the what behind Dan’s illnesses behind these months of cyclical illnesses, we would know! We would KNOW! WE WOULD FINALLY KNOW!

What would come with knowing? …relief is assumed. ….but, what if it’s not? What if knowing brings a scarier reality?

At this point in my life, I resisted death. I couldn’t imagine it. Couldn’t think of it. Couldn’t embrace the fact that my life would end - that anyone that I loved would die…because, how is that good? How can God be good if people we love DIE? I didn’t believe it possible - that God’s goodness could co-exist with the death of our loved ones…and so, I resisted.

That summer of 2015 my heart was one lump of resistance. I was erecting a barrier around my heart. Protect at all costs. Resist. Resist. RESIST.

I’ve described it as “giving God the Heisman.” (you know, that infamous Heisman pose with one knee tucked in close to the body, the opposite arm clutching your most prized possession in tightly to your body, hunching, with your other arm extended - holding off anyone trying to get too close. I firmly believed that God desired to take away what I was clutching onto. I was holding tighter to a lie - that God couldn’t be trusted; God didn’t really want the best for me or my loved ones - that God Himself wasn’t the best - than I was to God.

…and it was destroying me.

I was trying SO HARD to hold everything together. …and failing.

I was failing SO HARD at holding anything together.

The reason we were overnighting in Dallas?

My fault.

We were supposed to leave Iowa on July 20. …and, true to form, I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to say goodbye to my family. I didn’t want to enter into this dark valley - to this unknown biopsy…to the hard goodbyes to Tucson. I didn’t want to. I was RESISTING.

We ended up leaving far later than we should have to drive to Omaha. Oh, it was so stupid - and so my fault. …we had to return a rental car. …we had to fill up with gas - all things I didn’t count on - because of my resisting heart. We came up to the ticket counter to check our bag….only to find out they’d already shut the doors! We were THAT late.

We then played the game of getting on another flight. …which was to leave at 7; getting us to Dallas by 9, and Phoenix by 10 or 11. Awesome. Beautiful. Great.

…except. That plane ended up being delayed by a mechanical issue for 2 hours. We didn’t leave Omaha till 9. We arrived in Dallas after 11 - and then were overnighted at some hotel - only to be at the airport by about 4am - to get on a 5-something am flight - to be at the Phoenix hospital by 7.

…

Sleep evaded me that night.

My conscience urged me to pray…but I felt so betrayed by God, to be honest. To be in this space at all seemed like a betrayal by His providence. Didn’t God love me? If God loved me, WHY were we going through this? This was not good! This was WRONG.

So, how could I approach someone who OBVIOUSLY DIDN’T GET IT?

I couldn’t.

I resisted.

…but I also couldn’t sleep. At all. I was a mess - and I knew it. I knew I couldn’t keep doing this…I knew I was wrong…but how could I approach God when I obviously had gotten it so wrong?

Immediately, my mind went to Mary. Mary knew what it was like to spend a sleepless night waiting for an answer… The night that Jesus was betrayed by Judas and spent a night being questioned by the High Priest - Mary waited anxiously. She had been told by Simeon all those years before that a sword would pierce her heart, too…and had she spent all those years anticipating it? Here it was…just like mine was coming upon me. Mary knew.

Mary knew.

…I didn’t have a devotion to Mary at that time. I’d prayed the rosary while I ran, so I was familiar enough with the mysteries - but didn’t have a regular practice. At that point in my Catholic journey, I still didn’t really “get” Mary. In terms of a relationship, she was more like the Queen of England to me - someone I knew existed and respected and understood (so I thought) her role to the Church, but not someone I knew or even thought about regularly.

…

And that night, as I sat in that hotel bathroom, I let my heart soften with Mary’s understanding of my anxious fears. I allowed Mary to lead me through the Lord’s Prayer, taking me to Our Father. Our Father who art in heaven, HOLY is your name. Your kingdom come; Your will be done on earth as it is in heaven. …I let those words sink into my heart, pouring myself into each phrase.

That night, Mary brought me to her son Jesus, and Jesus brought me to his Father. My heart softened, and I found rest. They brought me the Peace of the Holy Spirit, who rested and stayed with me that day. …that loooooong day of waiting.

They carried me through the next week of packing and good-byes. They brought me to my final resistance point: the demanding God to show up for us, while we drove to Phoenix one final time - for Dan’s diagnosis on July 28.

That day, like the week before, we were late (only it wasn’t my fault this time). That day, we were at least 30 minutes late - which, in Mayo terms, means your appointment is cancelled. But, we could not afford to have that appointment cancelled. We were meeting with an oncologist who was letting us know if Dan really had cancer or this other thing (which I now realize was HLH - which, he did indeed have - he had BOTH). As I drove, Dan called receptionist after receptionist trying to explain our predicament. …and I grew more upset with each unhelpful hang-up. I recall pounding an empty plastic water bottle on the steering wheel as I demanded that God show up for us and help us out. WE CANNOT DO THIS. YOU MUST DO SOMETHING! (a pound for each word - and on that last word, the bottle flew out of my hand)

…ten minutes later, we received a call back. The doctor would see us whenever we arrived.

I’m not certain if I wept…but I knew that God was with us.

As we sat in the exam room and the doctor explained Dan’s confusing slides and his situation…I cried. I couldn’t help it. Dan listened. I cried. …yet I knew that we were not alone. I knew that we were not facing this situation alone.

Unlike the week before, I knew that God was with us. I knew that God would fight for us, we need only be still. I knew it.

The next day, I began a 54-day rosary novena. 27 days of praying the rosary, petitioning God; 27 days of praying the rosary, thanking God. Those first few days of praying the rosary were a literal balm to my soul. As Dan would read the mystery, I would ponder the Gospel story and was reminded of how much I needed God’s word in my life every day. I began treating Mary more like a friend or a favorite aunt than the distant figurehead.

The Rosary rooted me into the life of Jesus daily. Each day, I meditated on the promise his birth brought - or the culminatio of his earthly life through self-sacrificial suffering - or the beauty his presence brought to daily life - or the power his resurrection brings to the believer. Through the rosary, Mary brought me closer to her son Jesus than I’d ever come before. For the first time, my heart was in a position of humility. I was a sinner, and I was here to be with this loving, merciful person, Jesus. (who is also God, yes)

I look at this time in my life now, and I would say this is when I really became Catholic. Embracing Mary as our mother is a gift we Catholics treasure. For years, I resisted Mary; I didn’t want to be too Catholic, you know? And, I missed the gift she is. She is our model for how to live a Christian life. She was the first to give a “YES” to Christ. Her “yes” in the annunciation is the only thing that makes our yes to Jesus - our very salvation - possible. She is the model of what it looks like to give a daily yes to Jesus - to orient your entire life and being around Him. She is our model for evangelization. Mary’s number one calling is to bring people to her son. That is what she was born to do. So, if you want people to know Jesus - bring Mary to them; bring them to Mary. She will not keep them for herself, she was made to point them to Jesus. Mary’s delight is Jesus. If we stop with Mary as the “end” of the devotion, we miss her. Her very heart is her son; if we only adore her, we have missed her. Our devotion is vanity and only for ourselves, not her.

I will be forever grateful that the Holy Spirit nudged me to Mary five years ago tonight. Mary has brought me to her Son. Before, I worshiped only in part. I believed in ideas I wanted to be real. Today, I worship in reality. My belief has substance. Mary brought me to Jesus, and Jesus has revealed himself through the Eucharist.