Sleeping Beau

"The woman is the heart of the home. Let us pray that we women realize the reason for our existence; to love and be loved and through this love become instruments of peace in the world." - Mother Teresa

Elliot Andrew Jin-seo, my third son

Who only smiles on Fridays;
Who loves, delights, and begs to be tickled, especially under his chin;

Who brought new life to a thirty-year-old plus donkey, whom he affectionately calls Donkey Daniel;

Who to our mantra stolen from The Help, "You are kind, you are smart,
you are important," added, "you are handsome;"
Who stole my heart with his half-smile and wave from behind the altar at church today;

Forgive me for often refusing to see the Christ in you. I love you.

Good night Sweet Prince.

Help me keep these things in my heart

"I was glad when they said unto me, Let us go into the house of the LORD." Psalm 122:1

What I want to remember and hope not to forget is my eldest son's determination and persistence in attempting to master the hymn for Christ the Bridegroom: "No, mom, let me sing it," he would insist before we prayed for our meals; how I would hear him throughout the course of the day humming and singing the words, "Behold the Bridegroom comes at midnight. And blessed is the servant whom He shall find watching..."

What I want to remember and hope not to forget is how his face-swollen, bruised, and scabbed after a powerful fall the prior evening-glistened with the sacramental oil; how while I held him in my arms, he boldly lifted his thick, four-year-old hands and offered them to our priest for anointing, for the healing of soul and body. 

What I want to remember and hope not to forget is how they bent down on their knees mesmerized by our priest carrying, dragging, the life-sized cross on his shoulders and back around the candlelit church three times; how with lips quieted and bodies stilled they listened as he chanted in haunting tones the Byzantine hymn:

  

 Today He who hung the earth upon the waters is hung on the tree,

The King of the angels is decked with a crown of thorns.

He who wraps the heavens in clouds is wrapped in the purple of mockery.

He who freed Adam in the Jordan is slapped on the face.

The Bridegroom of the Church is affixed to the Cross with nails.

The Son of the virgin is pierced by a spear.

We worship Thy passion, O Christ.

We worship Thy passion, O Christ.

We worship Thy passion, O Christ.

Show us also Thy glorious resurrection 

What I want to remember and hope not to forget is how their four tiny bodies flattened themselves prostrate on the ground before the icon of Christ hanging on the cross, how they bowed down their mouths and with puckered lips kissed the wounds on His feet.

What I want to remember and hope not to forget is how in the midst of our Holy Saturday liturgy, my tenderhearted daughter wandered over to my friend's mother, whose body is now confined to a wheelchair, reached out, and fearlessly pressed her young hand into Sally's aging one; how together the two sang "Lord have mercy" again and again.

What I want to remember and hope not to forget is how alone in his room he crafted together pieces of wood in the form of a cross and then meticulously painted it green to reflect life and then desired to not keep it for himself but to give it away. I want to remember how our priest took my son's simple gift and reverenced it, placing it upon the altar of the church, raising it up in the midst of the Paschal liturgy to bless all of us present as my son stretched out his body and slept.

What I want to remember and hope not to forget is her pure joy when she received a delicate corsage of pastel flowers from her father; how she proudly danced amongst her brothers, flaunting that she is indeed Daddy's precious princess.

What I want to remember and hope not to forget is how after tucking their weary bodies into bed following the Paschal feast that ended at 4:00 a.m., the voice of my third son rang clear out of the darkness of his bedroom: "Happy Easter Mommy."

What I want to remember and hope not to forget is how they crowded around a beautiful woman, a fellow parishioner who because of a lifelong disability and an illness in her family was unable to join us at the Church, and boisterously sang the Paschal hymns "The Angel Cried" and "Christ is Risen;" how they kissed her cheeks and hugged her neck, practicing resurrection on that Feast of all Feasts.

Christ is Risen!

Kristo Gesso!

Kristos Tenestwal!

El Messieh Kahm!

Wounded healer

"To choose the little people, the little joys, the little sorrows and to trust that it is there that God will come close-that is the hard way of Jesus...Something in me always wants to turn the way of Jesus into a way that is honorable in the eyes of the world. I always want the little way to become the big way. But Jesus' movement toward the places the world wants to move away from cannot be made into a success story." -from The Road to Daybreak by Henri Nouwen

In the village cemetery, we buried my Aunt Margaret yesterday, in a grave dug next to her third daughter. Despite the grief, the tears, the physical absence of her from us, which makes those she left behind seem a little less than whole, we rejoice. My aunt was a great woman of great faith, the stuff saints are made of. Though she didn't read her Bible like she should, she once related to her pastor, she talked with God constantly throughout her day as she went about her mundane tasks. And when her belief in God's compassionate love was fiercely challenged by the premature and tragic death of her daughter Sheri from a brain tumor at only twenty-two years of age, she held steadfastly to her belief in Christ and His Church. Instead of despairing and allowing the seed of bitterness to take root and fester in her soul, my Aunt Margaret transformed any bitterness that she was tempted to give in to as she turned her loss into something beautiful for God. According to her pastor, Sheri's death solidified my aunt's faith and she began to view her vocation as one of reaching out and comforting those who were mourning. And with her hands and her heart, she gave herself in concrete ways, coming alongside those who were suffering and helping them heal and turn their sorrow into joy. Her tangible acts of love poured out to those around her both encourage me and goad me on to follow her example, Christ's example, of not looking for the big ways, the ways that will be recognized by others, but to serve those around me in ordinary, simple ways. It was a blessing to have her in my life. May her memory be eternal.

"For I am already being poured out as a drink offering, and the time of my departure is at hand. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Finally there is laid up for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will give to me on that Day..." - II Timothy 4:6-8

Well done good and faithful servant

"Death is a lonely visitor. After it visits your home, nothing is ever the same again. There is an empty place at the table; there is an absence in the house. When someone close to you dies, it is an incredibly strange and desolate experience. Something breaks within you then, which will never come together again. Gone is the person whom you loved, whose face and hands and body you knew so well. - from Anam Cara by John O'Donohue
 
On Sunday afternoon, my aunt and uncle celebrated their 52nd wedding anniversary at their home in the midst of their children, grandchildren, and one great-grand daughter.  A half-dozen long stemmed red roses, a gift from my uncle, were carefully placed by his wife's side. Despite the celebratory nature of such an event, I cannot help but believe that it was a somewhat subdued affair since ever present in the minds of those celebrants was the knowledge that this would be the last wedding anniversary Margaret and Dale Fields would share together on this earth.

This morning, minutes before eight o'clock, Aunt Margaret fell asleep in the Lord, surrounded by her loved ones, who have faithfully and tirelessly kept vigil at her side since she returned to her home to die mere weeks ago. As she departed from this life into the next, a single tear escaped her eye; a single tear shed like that of her daughter, my cousin Sheri, who passed away nearly twenty-five years ago in the same house after being cared for by her mother, father, and sisters.

Into thy hands O Lord, we commit the spirit of Your servant Margaret, a beautiful woman who served quietly and with joy. May those of us who remain follow her humble example, striving to spread Your peace and goodness in a world desperate for hope. And may she dwell where the light of Your countenance shines.