When you meet some people there are those that leave an imprint on your heart that lasts a lifetime. Grant Lane was such a person. He was sharp-witted, talented, humorous, and possessed an alluring quality that drew others to him like a moth to light. In a word he was charismatic. His cousin was also my best friend but I didn’t know his family before she introduced us because they belonged to a different parish. Grant was also younger and when we were graduating from high school he was just entering ninth grade. I left for college, lived in a couple of different cities before I returned home to settle down, and by then he lived in another city too. We lost contact.

Happily married with three children my life was just as I always prayed it would be. One Saturday my husband, Robert, returned from the car wash soaking wet and said he wanted to ask me something after he showered. I continued cleaning the house and supervising the chores assigned to the children when Robert walked into our den and said, “Do you know someone named Grant Lane?” Initially the name didn’t register but after just a moment my thoughtful look became a smile. “Yes, I sure do. Why do you ask?” Robert explained that he met Grant at the car wash that morning. As they cleaned and dried their respective vehicles they talked at length and after a while both were surprised by the common thread they shared of my name. Grant wanted to know where we lived so he could stop by to say hello and meet our children. I was elated.

As I cleaned the house just a little more quickly I reflected on the last I heard about Grant Lane. It was two or three years ago. A mutual friend told me that Grant was living in another state and had gotten brutally mugged on his way from work! I was stunned. She asked me to pray for him, and of course I did. But later that week when I tried to find out how he was no one seemed to know. I wanted to phone or visit his parents to check on him but through mutual friends discovered they had left town to care for him. His sister, and cousin who introduced us, lived out of state too. As much as I wanted to know how Grant was doing there simply was no one else to ask; I continued to pray for him. One day flowed into the next until time seemed a wind driven rip current that swept our lives rapidly into the future.

Robert didn’t comment on any physical restrictions that he noticed about Grant therefore I was optimistic that he came through his horrible ordeal without long term physical injuries. Within an hour the doorbell rang, I hurried to answer it and was thrilled to find Grant on our porch with a broad smile on his face. The last time I saw him he was a boy, but before me that day stood a handsome young man. We hugged and he walked into the kitchen – where family and friends alike are always drawn – sat down, and soon after he met and talked to the children for a while. Their restlessness to play set in so out the door they ran which left Robert, Grant and I with time to visit. I was cooking dinner and Grant offered helpful tips on enhancing the flavor of my red beans and rice as a relaxed ambiance quickly settled.

After Robert, Grant, and I spent time getting reacquainted and much this-is-what-life-has-dealt-me talk, excluding the subject of Grant’s horrendous experience, a comfortable silence draped the room. I continued working on dinner, wiping counters, the stove, and when I did look up our eyes met. It was then that Grant broached the subject Robert and I had carefully circumvented. He asked, “Did you hear about my attack two years ago?” Willing my eyes not to water, slowly I answered yes, I had heard. Grant asked if we knew the details. “No,” I replied, and allowed honesty to lead me. “Grant, I prayed for you, but couldn’t locate anyone with any additional information. I didn’t understand if that was to protect you or your privacy but since knowing details wouldn’t help you I knew that praying to God would. I did know that you were taken to the hospital, but that’s all.”

It was obvious Grant had made peace with the attack. He didn’t hesitate to tell us his story. He said he left his girlfriend’s home and returned to his gated apartment complex. He parked his car as he had done a thousand times, got out and walked to his building. He punched in the code on the exterior door keypad and its electronic control gave him ample time to walk inside. He entered the elevator, it arrived at his floor and he walked inside his apartment. Once inside, he realized he had forgotten something in his car and returned to get it. As he had done just moments before, he reached the exterior door of his building and from seemingly nowhere a man stepped from the side of it. Grant said he didn’t think much of that, often other tenants were on the grounds and it wasn’t late, barely dusk. He recalled that he was distracted by his own thoughts and the man looked friendly enough. Grant punched in the last number of the entry code, just as the man approached him and politely allowed Grant to enter the building first. Together they waited in front of the elevator, entered, and it was at that point that Grant said he began to feel uneasy. When the elevator arrived on Grant’s floor he got off – so did the stranger. And, when the man walked in the same direction as Grant he said he knew that he was in serious danger. However, there were other apartment farther down the hallway; he could think of nothing else to do but stop in front of his apartment and open the door hoping the man would continue on his way.

The stranger sprang into action. He pushed Grant through the open door and a fierce struggle ensued. With never a word spoken, the stranger’s size belied his strength, and Grant described the fray that eventually shifted from his living room into his bedroom. Grant received a crushing blow that knocked him back and into a closet and unconscious. He was badly shaken but heard the perpetrator rambling in the next room. He pulled himself up and when he reached the front room where the sounds came from, no longer was it a test of strength between two men, the confrontation took a deadly turn. The assailant pulled out a gun, aimed and shot several times striking Grant in his chest, abdomen, and sides. He disclosed how whispers of certain death ricocheted in his mind as the weight of his body plummeted to the floor.

Grant looked deeply into our eyes and told us he knew that he was badly, if not mortally, wounded but on that day he will never forget that he (in the fullness of himself) hovered in the air above his body. He saw himself, his mortal body, as a bloody mound completely separate from the person he really was! It was surreal but irrefutable.

In an instant by the Grace of God, he seemed to reunite with the mound beneath him and found the strength to drag it to the telephone. Although he still doesn’t remember actually doing it, he was later told that he dialed nine-one-one just was unable to speak to the operator that answered. An ambulance was dispatched along with the police and that is how Grant made it to the hospital. He remained hospitalized for several months; extensive damage due to the gun shot wounds, caused the need for multiple surgeries, and finally he made it home. He was not expected to live but as he finished his obviously abridged account of all he had endured and the consequent suffering, he smiled and said, “But I did!” After his recovery he could no longer find peace in the city so he left it and moved back home where everything seemed to fall easily in place for him. His parents rejoiced, within two weeks he had a job, thirty days after that a home, and the friends he had left behind.

Spent from playing in the yard the children ran inside as Grant concluded his description of that atrocious experience. He joined us for dinner and when he left we hugged one another deliberately saying “so long” rather than goodbye. His home was only blocks from our home and he would always be a welcome guest with a standing invitation.

We enjoyed many more good times together laughing and talking about far lighter subjects than we had on that first visit. Whereas Catholicism and the bible confirm the dichotomy of body and soul it did no harm to have Grant’s testament that, indeed, the completely independent soul will transcend time and space forever and ever without need for this temporary home we rent known as the body. As magnificent as it is there comes a time when we will be sorely disappointed in its performance at one time or another regardless to how healthy we began, are, or think we will be in the future.

God, the Father, Jesus Christ, the Holy Spirit, and our beloved Blessed Mother along with St. Joseph are the only sure refuge we can ever hope will never let us down.

“Then the LORD God formed the man out of the dust of the ground and blew into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being.”                    Genesis 2:7

{Thank you for spending some time with me. May God always Bless you.”

Very early one winter morning my mother phoned to give us shocking news. It was the content of her conversation that was unfathomable, not merely the wee hour of the call. My thirty-five year old brother-in-law was dead. The loss came on the heels of their family thriving in a community where they were established and well known. I knew how much he and my sister loved each other but I didn’t know how she would get through this tragedy. Immediately after I put the phone down my husband and I prayed for her, his soul, and their two daughters. The thought of how she would endure the burdens ahead and the consequent loneliness left me profoundly sad. Even though it was hours before we would normally wake on that work day, going back to sleep was not an option.

I didn’t realize until he was gone that I had no idea if James practiced his faith. I was ashamed that I had not taken the time to find out, but I continued to pray for him. He was respectable, a loving husband, patient father whose actions reflected that he was also a child of God.  Shortly after his death Sheila told me that she would sometimes smell his cologne in the house. I felt that James was still there in spirit, his love would transcend circumstance and surely he was as shocked as we were to find himself no longer in the flesh. As if to confirm that thought a few weeks later in conversation Sheila shared another experience. The week before Christmas she received a call from a man who asked to speak with James. Sheila explained that he had passed and after he offered his condolences he told her that James hadn’t picked up the package he purchased from his store on the date they agreed he would months ago.  She went to get the package the following day and when she opened it there was a fourteen caret yellow gold insert diamond ring inside along with a card that professed his love for her. Receiving both brought inexpressible sadness and joy to Sheila. Yes, the gift was beautiful and symbolic of his thoughtfulness but it was his written words that stroked her senses to the point that she could barely relay the incident to me on the phone. I felt her pain. James died in October of 1981 nevertheless two months later his Christmas gift arrived for his wife.

Time was slow to heal the anguish of losing James for Sheila, their children or our family but as the leader that she had always been, she wrestled with her loss and stayed strong for the sake of her two daughters. We increased the frequency of our visits and our middle brother, then a recent college graduate, moved in with her to bridge the gap of a male presence in the home. God certainly plans well the lives of far too many to grasp as He masterfully accommodates each one.

One effect James’ death had on me was that it brought to focus something missing from my life, a hanging fragment significant enough to disturb the composure of my life. For a while I couldn’t pinpoint it, and although exactly how it happened is vague I do recall that I made a decision to revisit the teachings of Catholicism. We attended Mass on Sunday and Holy Days of Obligation, observed Lent and the sacraments, but there was a considerable rupture in my relationship with God. Something that I couldn’t quite discern was missing that neither recitation of the rosary, daily prayers, the readings at Mass nor the Gospel on Sunday was addressing. After serious deliberation the answer was to rest in the outcome of Vatican II. Throughout my twelve years in parochial school we were taught not to read the bible unless it was under the guidance of a priest. I held fast to that instruction long after the mid-sixties amendment to that teaching was made.

Finally, it was time to release my admittedly weak justification: that an inability to interpret Aramaic, Hebrew, or Greek rendered the available translations unreliable. I came to terms with that as only an excuse and decided to pray over the matter. I was confident that I would know the truth when I read it. Later, I browsed a Catholic bookstore and asked God to lead me to a trustworthy English translation of the bible but as an aside reminded Him that I would be distracted and lose the meaning of the message with “Thee’s” and “Thou’s” peppered throughout it. I needed a plain English bible. He listened.

Because I felt like an infant on pablum I started with a copy of the New Testament. I thought it would be easier for me to digest but unexpectedly Matthew, Mark, Luke and John along with Paul, James, Peter, John, and Jude served a succulent feast that caused me to devour the pages like someone starved, which I was. I was starved for the word of God and as I fed became incalculably gratified by this banquet. At the conclusion there was no doubt that I was spiritually fulfilled however the New Testament only whet my appetite; I returned to the bookstore and purchased the full bible. Whenever responsibility yanked me away I longed to get back into the word. The Old Testament, Genesis to Malachi, and the Deuterocanonicals/Apocrypha books increased my hunger. So inveigled by Ruth, Ezra, Esther, Job, all of Psalms and Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, especially Daniel, Esdras one and two, one of my all time favorites Sirach, and Tobit I experienced unimaginable joy.

Amazingly to me, no matter how many times I read “The Good News Bible, Today’s English Version,” it offers new insight from passages that I thought the Holy Spirit had already explained. Familiar sentences or stories that I have repeatedly read unexpectedly burst from the page like fireworks showering knowledge all around me. Just when I think I understand a passage or story, I find there is more to consider and heavenly wisdom infuses my deliberation.  Losing James was terrible for my sister her family and all who knew him. We will always miss him. Rather than hoping that his soul is resting in peace, the bible has fortified my faith that he is and confidence in seeing him again. I bought two additional copies of the bible, one for my sister and one for my husband.

“And this is the will of the one who sent me, that I should not lose anything of what he gave me, but that I should raise it on the last day. For this is the will of my Father, that everyone who sees the Son and believes in him may have eternal life, and I shall raise him on the last day.”                                      John 6:39-40

{Thank you for spending some time with me. May God always Bless you.}

When my sister, cousins, and I weren’t engaged in playing outside the preeminent pastime of my youth was reading books and going to the movies. Books ruled, but seeing that big screen at the theatre came a close second in how I spent leisure time. Glamour often is seen in the eye of the beholder, although there was an era past when it was epitomized in movie stars like Ava Gardner, Joan Crawford, Susan Hayward, and a host of others. Impressionable and enthusiastic about life, I was enamored with the image the stars roles reflected during the two-hour performances on that panoramic silver screen.

With the exception of my mother, her oldest of the three sisters, and my maternal grandmother, every other member of the family smoked cigarettes, just like the glamorous stars. Everyday of my youth I walked the half block to the corner store and bought a pack of Salem for my father and a loaf of bread for my mother. He left unused packs everywhere throughout the house and when we took trips it was wise not to get too close to an open backseat window in the car if you didn’t want ashes blown in your eyes. It was a normal part of our life to smell that familiar odor.

When we visited our maternal grandparents my grandfather never asked me to go to the store for him but he also left unused packs of Camel cigarettes everywhere. I was captivated by the habit; it was my idea of glamour and maturity which I could hardly wait to achieve. Childish, I know, but then I was a child. I felt differently, not at all like thirteen, more “mature” than my years. So, one day I helped myself (that sounds better than ‘stealing’) to one of my grandfather’s Camel’s and went down to the beach away from everyone where I could sit beneath the cliff and have the wind blow away evidence of my transgression. I wanted to teach myself how to inhale, hold the cigarette between my fingers like the movie stars, blow those glorious smoke rings, and ultimately blow smoke out of my mouth and simultaneously inhale it through my nose! I was so excited.

Struggling against the wind I finally lit the cigarette and promptly choked and coughed so hard that I nearly dropped it. Undaunted, I persisted until I was half finished but eventually forced to abandon my attempt because of the overwhelming nausea. My body greatly protested and I was sick of the stomach for the rest of the day. That experience diffused any desire to smoke for about two years. Over that period it occurred to me that perhaps it was my choice of cigarette that caused such a violent reaction from my body. After all, it was a filterless Camel. My father’s brand of cigarettes was Salem; they had a filter and were menthol. Unfortunately, I had much better luck with that brand. At first, my body did rebel but I forced it to accept what it was mightily trying to forewarn me not to continue. I held fast to the ruinous habit until I was thirty-two years old. I enjoyed smoking and honestly didn’t want to stop then but my mother, boss, and son continually implored me to stop; I continually excused it using the defense that I could stop at anytime I wanted – I just didn’t want to. And, I honestly believed that pretext.

My conviction that I could stop smoking cigarettes was shattered only when I made several earnest attempts and failed. By that time my husband, Robert, was the only person privy to the knowledge of those attempts and since he smoked too didn’t think much of my efforts or failures. A few times we discussed the health warning, hardly noticeable on the side of cigarette packs that read, “cigarette-smoking may be hazardous to your health,” and dismissed it. Even when the wording was changed in the early seventies and included the source and authority as coming from the surgeon general, we ignored it. By this time I was smoking two packs a day. For the first time I began to consider the term “addiction.” I was addicted to cigarettes and truly appalled by the realization. I was in deep trouble.

It wasn’t until my mother looked at me one day and said, “If you keep smoking you are going to die of cancer and I’ll be left to raise your children,” that I felt it critical to quit. After several additional attempts I began to feel it hopeless but the bluntness of my mother’s words continued to permeate my thoughts. She is the best mother any child could ever have but I definitely wanted to live to see my children grow up to be the God-fearing adults we were striving to help them become in their lives.

Devoid of my own capacity to beat this malicious dependency, one night I got on my knees, admitted to God that I was addicted to cigarettes, needed to stop smoking and could not do it on my own. I told Him that I truly wanted to quit. I asked Him to help me. Determined to act on faith that he would help me I took the cigarettes left in my pack on the nightstand, crushed them in my hand, threw them in the trash and went to sleep. I refused to consider any negative thoughts about my request.

The next morning I didn’t reach for the pack as soon as my eyes opened as was usual for me. I didn’t crave a cigarette with my first cup of coffee. I didn’t crave one after breakfast, lunch or dinner. I have not craved one since but let me be clear that it was not my doing. It was God’s work. My part was to initiate the request and act on His Word as written in Luke 11:9-10: “And I tell you, ask and you will receive; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks, receives; and the one who seeks, finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened.”

It began with worldly attraction and twenty-five cents (the price of a pack of cigarettes). It ended eighteen years later through the Grace of God, the Almighty, but could have ended with my life. I feel an obligation to be a trustworthy caretaker for this temple that God created for me to use while on His earth and feel all that is detrimental to the body also is adverse to the triune God. By invitation He lives within my temple and I would be remiss not to maintain a healthy wholesome environment as I live out my exile.

“Do you not know that you are the temple of God, and that the Spirit of God dwells in you? If anyone destroys God’s temple, God will destroy that person; for the temple of God, which you are, is holy.”                                 Corinthians 1:16-17

{Thank you for spending this time with me. May God Bless you always.}

My sister and I have always had a close relationship. It isn’t just because we easily find ways to focus on the lighter sides of life and are a great comfort to one another, it’s so much more. Once when Sheila (my sister) lived a five to six hour drive in another state my husband, Robert, offered to care for our three children over the weekend so I could visit her. I readily accepted. At the time my work schedule was especially demanding requiring a significant amount of overtime; I was burned out. Seeing Sheila always uplifted and invigorated me. Additionally, like so many marriages Robert and I were working through exasperating problems that weren’t slaying the union but most certainly were straining our resolve to overcome them. I felt unappreciated and I’m sure he had a list of complaints too. For us, it could do no more harm to test the theory of Thomas Haynes Bayly’s quote, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

I love driving, anticipated the quiet downtime the trip would provide, and really looked forward to reaching my destination. Whenever we made the visit as a family Robert always drove which afforded me an opportunity to just relax and enjoy the drive but on this particular trip I would follow our ritual of stopping at the halfway point, refueling, getting a snack and proceeding along. Since it was Friday I was exhausted so I reconsidered the trip when my workday ended and told Robert I thought it might be better if I left very early the next day. He reminded me if I did that it would substantially reduce the time Sheila and I would have together, and he encouraged me to leave as planned. Whenever the family made the trip we always left after work, and I had made the drive alone many times so I said he was right and left once I came home and put my luggage in the trunk.

I kissed and hugged Robert and the children goodbye, watched daylight slip from the winter sky as I pulled away from our home. I started my trip as I always do – with the rosary. We estimated that I would arrive at Sheila’s around eleven that night and I would call him when I got there. There were no cell phones at that time. On schedule, three hours later I pulled into a service station to refill the gas tank. As I reentered the highway and settled into resuming my trip the tensions of life were lifting and it was then that I reflected on all that was good and bad about my life. I felt better equipped to look at our challenging areas in a clearer light, without distraction of the demands of marriage, children, work, home, parents, relatives, friends, employers, and what they each expected of me.

Traffic was intermittently heavy but I was still enjoying the drive. The quiet gave me a chance to examine the source of being emotionally drained. There was much to consider. And, when I found that source to act on making whatever changes would benefit everyone involved. In terms of difficulty the latter surely outweighed the former. Doubts surfaced in my mind and I wasn’t confident that I could continue to perform in all the roles I had assumed. Then I noticed yellow and black signs that announced road work ahead and for the next seventy-five miles! Pavement shifts and elevations began immediately. Heavy-duty road equipment, orange and white barrels along with iron horses that delineated usable from unsafe lanes, mounds of dirt that had been dug in preparation of widening the highway and other construction equipment appeared on the left-hand side of the interstate. The drive took on another dimension then but simultaneously the flow of traffic seemed reduced probably because of the late hour.

I concentrated on getting back into position where I am most comfortable when driving on an interstate – seeing tiny red lights ahead and tiny white lights behind indicating the substantial distance between my car and other travelers. That accomplished, I tried to resume my thoughts prior to interruption of the diamond shaped signs. Other than minuscule lights before and behind me the moonless night was as black as a judge’s robe and it was only when my lights were cast on the roadside equipment that it was even visible. I relaxed enough to engage my cruise control once more, and after thirty of forty minutes the red lights ahead began to get larger which meant I was approaching traffic again. I changed lanes from the right to the left to maintain my speed while passing the vehicles ahead of me and once again get back into the pattern of choice.

Before I could react there was an abrupt forceful impact, an earsplitting screech, the distinctive sound of glass shattering, I was jolted forward, the seat belt locked across my chest as I lost control of the car, and suddenly smoke emerged around it. So dazed and disoriented I could only wonder: “Am I dead?”  Immediately after I asked that question, a voice (not a thought, but a voice) said, “Do you want to be dead?” It was so poignant that it seemed highly possible that it was audible. Surprisingly (to me in retrospect) I paused before I answered! Not that I have ever wanted to die but even in those drastic circumstances I was so surprised to be asked that question, and by whom, since physically I was alone?

My response was to ask another question: “Who would take care of my children and my husband?” Stranger still, the voice replied: “Well, you are going to be dead if you don’t move this car from the middle of the road. You are straddling two lanes.” I no longer cared if the voice was audible or not, I then sensed looming danger and tried to drive the car. It would not move. Since obviously I was having a conversation I said that out loud, “The car won’t move!” The voice said, “It is in Drive, put the gearshift in Park, start it and get out of the road.”  I did as instructed, instantly the car’s engine engaged and as the smoke cleared I could see that indeed the car was straddled across two lanes! I moved it to the right shoulder of the road. Instantaneously, three eighteen wheel trucks and four or five cars rapidly passed by to my left using both lanes! I shook uncontrollably as I realized how agonizingly close I had come to killing God knows how many, and being killed.

Something fell on my white blouse and I noticed the glass in the driver’s side window was gone. It was so black that I could not see my hand in front of me when I turned the ignition off in fear that whatever caused the smoke might ignite again. Instead of focusing on what just happened it occurred to me that with the window out I had no protection on this now deserted interstate, and with the ignition off it may not start again. Or, if it did, it might cut off at any time before I could get help.

I asked God to let the engine start once more and take me to the next exit. Uncertain, I realized that could be many miles ahead. The engine did start and there was still no sign of anyone else on the interstate, (it’s now well after eleven). Slowly I drove and continued to talk with God thanking Him for all the lives He had just spared on that night and for remaining with me. Over five miles later I came to the first exit from the site of my accident. When I reached it I decided to continue since I still wasn’t sure if there would be anyone open to help me, God was with me, and by my estimate I should have been at least within fifty miles of my sister’s home.

In faith, according to my odometer, I traveled another sixty miles to Sheila’s home. The car was badly damaged on the left front, side, hood, and of course the left window was gone. The safety glass saved my eyes and face. Blood was on the front of my blouse from a small cut above my lip as a result of a tiny chip, but physically no other harm came to me. Both Sheila and Robert were deeply upset about the accident but their first question to me was, “Are you all right?” I was so much more than all right! I was blessed beyond words. So were the travelers that sped by me on the interstate, except they had no idea how on that night their lives had been spared.

Before I fell asleep I wondered about the sheer number of unknown blessings that all surely must receive through the Grace of God. I’m sure they are too numerous to count but in my humble opinion that is only one reason to be always grateful to God regardless to one’s circumstances – perceived or real.

“Are not two sparrows sold for a small coin? …”  Matthew 10:29-31

{Thank you for spending some time with me. May God continue to Bless you.}

The youngest of nine children, my maternal grandmother, Mommie Edna, was devoted to the Blessed Mother. In her opinion there was nothing that the rosary couldn’t solve and that view was undeniably confirmed in her teen years. She was raised on a small island whose male inhabitants were shipped off to fight during World War I which left only women, elderly men and children in the modest Roman Catholic community. Unanimously, those left agreed to gather in the small church every evening to pray the rosary until the men safely returned home.

Not one man was lost or sustained grave injury so in thanksgiving, the practice of reciting the rosary continued for several years. A lifelong impact on the community resulted and the rosary was revered by young and old as the quintessential prayer. During our childhood my sister, cousins, and I spent summers in our grandparent’s home every year but as Mommie Edna attempted to instill this devotion in us we resisted her every attempt. For quite some time each day after lunch Mommie Edna would gather us and hand out rosaries only to be met with every excuse we could fathom: hurting knees, itching hands (from mosquito bites), pending chores, needing to use the restroom, feeling sick of the stomach or any other malady we thought would liberate us from having to pray the rosary. Mommie Edna patiently ignored our immaturity until it became obvious that we were too spiritually deficient to accept such a valuable gift.

Despite what she perceived as failure to equip her grandchildren with the most powerful weapon on earth Mommie Edna never failed to pray the rosary each night, in thanksgiving, during formidable times, or threatening weather that often racked the tiny island. Etched in my mind were images of her kneeling beside her bed with eyes tightly closed as her fingers systematically traveled along her rosary. In her prayerful fervor it is highly probable that she never noticed how I noticed her.

It wasn’t until after I married and had miscarried that I discovered in every generation of our family one or more have been barren, male and female. The fear that I would be included among the infertile became overwhelming.

The second pregnancy a year later gave me hope that I had escaped the fate of what I considered a dismal future. But, once again I was unable to hold the child to term. The difference in this instance was what the doctor said: “It will be a waste of time to perform a D&C (Dilation and Curettage) so I recommend a hysterectomy. You will never have children and may as well get this over with now while.” A kick in the stomach would have been kinder. I refused to believe it and responded that his recommendation was unacceptable. At the end of our discussion he acquiesced and after the procedure I found another doctor.

All who have experienced the loss of a child can surely understand my despair during that time. It was my constant companion along with the bleak knowledge of my family history. I found no consolation and struggled to regain my composure. In desperation to find solace I reflected on happier times in my youth and in doing so remembered Mommie Edna and the rosary.

By then I firmly realized that quite easily I could go directly to God and humbly ask that through His Son and Our Lord, Jesus Christ my prayer for a healthy pregnancy and child was heard and answered but that was not the route I chose. I knew that God listened, and may have answered my prayer, only I had no faith that he should: my sins overwhelmed me. Not that I was profusely or deliberately committing sin, but simply my human condition put me at risk to be denied. I recognized that all sin is still sin. I didn’t have the confidence to stand before the Almighty and ask for a favor of the magnitude I desired with any stain on my soul. I did however believe wholeheartedly that I could respectfully approach the Blessed Mother who surely could fully relate to my petition. I hoped she would join me in my prayer for a healthy child, go to her child and with His approval, the Father might have mercy on me. As at Cana, there was a stronger likelihood that Jesus would grant my favor for the sake of His mother if not for me. It may have been a childlike approach for an adult but I was willing to risk it. From that point on I made my request and prayed the rosary daily.

Today we have three children and they too are parents.

Although seeds were planted decades ago in the home of my grandparents along with evidence of its yield, my devotion to the rosary began in despair. As years unfold I strive to continue my devotion through daily recitation of the rosary but must admit more often than desired I fall short.

There will always be the burden of time and the weight of responsibilities and obligations, so when I fail to use the beads that are in my car, at my bedside, or hanging on the walls of our home I feel guilty. In those times I rely on my faith that she understands and say an Our Father or just speak to the triune God and the Blessed Mother from my heart.

As witnessed worldwide, the ardent invitation of the Blessed Mother to always pray the rosary is a compelling one that makes me ever aware of how remarkably fortunate we are today to live in such a consecrated period when we can choose to focus our prayers on her intentions rather than our own. And, as staggering as that is to me, she invariably thanks us for answering her call!

{Thank you for spending a few moments with me in this post. May God Bless you always.}

“This is how you are to pray: Our Father in heaven…”        Matthew 6:9-15

Our parish priest and the priest from my parent’s parish visited the hospital to pray over Robert and offered to remember him in their daily prayers. My father’s cousin whom we called Ms. Annie May, the most devout Catholic I have ever known, came to visit Robert too. [Five years earlier she was diagnosed with a tumor of the brain, hospitalized and unable to regain consciousness, everyone awaited her death. In private she told me that she actually was pronounced dead by the doctors at one point, had an after-death experience, and in spite of her protests was told then to return and finish the work she was created for. Shortly thereafter she regained consciousness and her health. Only Ms. Annie would have the nerve to balk at a heavenly command!]  I saw her at Mass one morning and asked her to pray for Robert. The following morning she arrived in CCU and prayed over him; thereafter, she visited him nearly every day and spread the word for others to include him in their prayers too.

Barbara was with him when I worked otherwise I could hardly bear to leave the hospital and slept in chairs, on the floor or wherever I could to be near Robert. Unable to eat, talk, or breathe on his own, his life swung in the balance. The staff was compassionate and tolerant of our plight as throughout the Christmas season Robert’s battle to live continued despite one mêlée after another. His susceptibility to nosocomial (hospital) infections especially troubled me and while I refused to worry, my concern was heightened. One particular incident wreaked havoc and sparked a crack in my faith.

The doctors were stumped by an unusual infection and could only be certain that it was not the MRSA (Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus) strain of staph that I deeply feared. Naysayer conjecture from others surfaced and I realized what was happening to us so briefly one day I went home to escape my senses. When I locked the front door I literally screamed to the top of my voice in every room to release weeks of otherwise restrained tension, showered, and returned to the hospital armed with a resolve to “live by faith, not sight,” and use my holy water along with my rosary.

When I returned to Robert’s glass compartment in CCU I stood over him, sprinkled him with the holy water from head to foot and verbally commanded in the name of Jesus that the enemy and all his agents loosen their hold and depart from my husband. I was no longer afraid, no longer timid or weakened spiritually by our circumstance, I was seething!

One morning an infectious disease specialist that I got a chance to talk with greatly consoled me when he confidently said he would find the culprit and order the right antibiotics to treat Robert. Somehow (although I believe that nothing is by chance) in our conversation I discovered that he was Catholic. A few hours later the doctor proved true to his word and Robert was breathing better than he had in weeks. The enemy wasn’t finished but at least I was reminded of who was behind all the mayhem and better able to cope.

Massive amounts of information to digest, doctors, nurses, monitor readings, mechanical ventilators that required respiratory therapists to increasingly suction Robert’s breathing tube to remove mucus from his lungs, the threat of a tracheotomy, pneumonia, and a host of other potential and ongoing complications distracted my usual focus on God. Just after I got my second wind we discovered that Robert would need a second lung surgery to correct yet another problem!

Ms. Annie May arrived the morning of that surgery and gave Robert communion. That was quite a feat given the ventilator mask on his face but she was an amazing woman who allowed nothing to thwart her work for God. I found a quiet place, said my rosary then got out my Pieta prayer book that Ms. Annie May gave me one morning at Mass in April! and said: “You’re going to need this.) I completed the “Prayer to St. Joseph over 1900 years old,” in the book, waited on God, and was careful to thank God, Jesus, the Holy Spirit, Blessed Mother, St. Joseph, and all the angels and saints for every blessing we received.

The second surgery heralded the end of our perilous journey. After six days of rehabilitation, on January 11, 2005, Robert was released from the hospital – albeit with eight prescriptions (including one that was so scary even the pharmacist pulled me aside to make sure we understood the possible side effects),and the rest of 2005 brought continued Blessings. Robert’s progress was steady and each follow-up visit to his doctors, all of them: oncology surgeon, pulmonologist, primary care, and heart, rendered good reports.

Of his thirty-six day hospitalization Robert said he recalls only the morning that Ms. Annie May gave him communion. It was his only link to reality; the host brought life back into focus and comforted his anxiety.

We deeply thank God every millisecond of every day for the extension of time he graciously blessed us to have. That’s how we now spend each day while we strive to complete our work here.

“But the Lord is faithful; he will strengthen you and guard you from the evil one.”           2 Thessalonians 3:3

The pulmonologist referred us to the best oncology surgeon in the city. After taking a PET scan we met with Dr. Walker, the oncologist, and on the first of December we reviewed the results. Robert was given the option of radiation and chemo, radiation or chemo alone, surgery, or whatever combination he felt comfortable with. He cautioned that the mass had invaded three ribs, was in a precarious position but felt confident that he could reach it. Without hesitation Robert elected surgery and my stomach cartwheeled. Dr. Walker explained the probable hospital stay would be five to seven days after surgery. “You’ll be home in plenty of time for Christmas,” he said. The surgery was scheduled for the morning of December 4, 2004.

My sister-in-law, Barbara, and I came with Robert to the hospital and despite all of the festive Christmas decorations there loomed an air of unwanted change. We prayed together and waited for the mass to be removed from Robert’s body and the healing process to begin. It came to pass that the wait was far longer than anticipated.

Instead of leaving SICU (surgery intensive care unit) in the three to four days we expected, he remained there eight days after experiencing atrial fibrillation (an irregular heartbeat that increases the risk of stroke and heart disease). Robert was moved to a room after that but was given medication that caused unexpected problems the following morning and was rushed to CCU (cardiac care unit) where he stayed for seventeen days. There another problem developed but an especially astute nurse recognized the symptoms as pericarditis and a pericardiectomy (pericardial window) was performed to correct it. He mightily struggled for his life, Barbara and I mightily prayed and asked everyone we knew to do the same. Still, the prognosis was dim. I had not heard Robert’s voice in twenty-five days and the enemy heckled that I would never hear it again.

The Introduction

When I turned five and started school my older sister and best friend, Sheila, guided me through life’s perplexities and new stages of being a student. At home we weren’t taught in mere words but principally by the example of Mama, her three sisters, and our grandparents to put God first in all things, respect everyone and self, to feel shame when we made mistakes, own up to those mistakes and, more important, to learn from them, appreciate blessings, be responsible, and maintain our dignity. Their martinet nurturing was tempered by unmistakable love that inspired us to want more than anything not to disappoint them.

No life is without trials and ours was no different yet our family traditions were steeped in Mass every Sunday and Holy days of obligation, and parish activities. At our parish that meant joining fellow parishioners every Sunday after Mass for coffee and donuts – a means of supporting the parish – selling raffle tickets throughout the year, attending the Halloween dance, various fund-raisers, working at the annual Christmas fair in the church hall and Midnight Mass at the end of the year.

I was an average girl living in a southern city born Catholic, in retrospect poorer than we realized at the time. I clearly remember one morning in religion class when the priest who taught us, Father Mulroney, said: “We all are God’s children.” Hearing that one sentence transformed me. Before the words registered it seemed to me that one day abruptly I woke in a state called life without instruction or explanation; it was perplexing yet an exhilarating condition and I was confused about its purpose. After Fr. Mulroney’s statement caressed my senses I could hardly think of little else. I was engrossed in the concept that all were children of The King! Specifically, “I” was The King’s daughter! It finally made sense why the teaching that had been emphasized: that our true mission in life was to know, love, and serve God, was significant. Although a huge degree of uncertainty remained as to just how one went about doing that I felt eminently more confident that with God’s help I would eventually figure it out.

The message was especially welcomed since we had recently lost a relative to leukemia. It was my first experience with death and it was traumatic. My aunt Georgia was in her early thirties when she died and unaware that I was listening, some friends of the family discussed how tragic it was that we would never see her again. I was devastated. If they were right, it seemed so unfair. Could any king want that for his children – a brief existence and then, nothing? I couldn’t grasp that. Surely no loving Creator could want that either. Consequently, Fr. Mulroney’s instruction that day had the clear ring of truth. Everyone could achieve life without end. That’s what I yearned for and had to know how to tap into the process. With his words I found purpose to my existence. Life wasn’t a permanent condition, and I passionately wanted to reside in the state of “forever” because I knew that God was there and I wanted to be with Him. I suspected that Aunt Georgia would be there too.

It was “life without end” that encouraged me to ride my new bicycle to school early in the morning to attend daily Mass as was required by a novena – a Roman Catholic prayer that is said for nine consecutive days for a specific intention. According to the promise of the completed novena, at the time death was imminent a priest would be on hand to hear my confession. I felt compelled to do all I could, while I could, to escape the loss of heaven, even if it meant a stint in purgatory so this seemed a perfect solution. It was hard enough just to keep Lenten resolutions so I felt that I definitely would need a priest at the end of my life to purge all intentional or unintentional offenses. Privacy too was very important since I didn’t want to explain to anyone what I was doing. It was strictly between God and me.

The few times I attended daily morning Mass I noticed that only four or five elderly ladies faithfully came and they always sat in the first pews of the church. To safeguard my mission I quietly would slip into the last pew during the nine days. My plan was working well until the seventh morning when I overslept! I only had twenty minutes to clean up, dress, get my bike out of the locked garage and pedal the mile plus trek. It was late May and although our city is known for relentless one hundred percent humidity this time of year the presence of any moisture that day was nonexistent. In the early morning light there was no breeze just oppressively static desert-like searing heat that draped itself across my skin as I closed the back door and stepped outside.

The towering white two-story stucco edifice of the church was situated between two prominent oak trees, one to the east with a thick trunk and large sprawling branches rivaling the height of the church, and one to the west slightly smaller. Between the church and the two-story wood frame rectory that Fr. Mulroney occupied was a garden with a path in it for the convenience of the priest and those going from one building to the other. A small cement bench was in front of the oak that was on the west side of the church near the garden. I often sat there on Sunday mornings after Mass waiting for my parents and sister to end their conversations with other parishioners before going to the church hall for donuts and coffee or home for breakfast.

On the morning that I raced to Mass to continue my novena I quickly pushed the front tire of my blue and white Schwinn in the bike rack, ran up the five outside steps of the church, then the steep inside staircase, and placed my books on the seat of the last pew greatly relieved that the priest hadn’t come onto the altar and Mass hadn’t started. There was still time to say my novena for that day. As I pulled out the sheet of paper with the prayer written on it a familiar feeling rose within. Oh, no, I thought. It can’t happen. I asked God not to let it happen, but realized that the uncontrollable was inevitable and changed my petition. This time I asked that no one know what was about to occur. If I could just keep it secret, that would be sufficient. I knew I was going to faint. It happened before so I knew what to expect. Like a slinky slides from a hand, my body folded to the floor. I didn’t know what caused it, how long it would last, and I wasn’t about to let anyone else know, especially Mama.

I regained consciousness when suddenly I felt a cool gentle breeze touch my face; it was strong enough to move the bangs on my forehead. Disoriented and with blurred vision, I realized that I was seated on the small cement bench outside of the church under the oak tree. As my eyes focused I tried to comprehend what had just happened. The stifling heat of the day remained while the breeze that I felt seemed not to be anywhere else except blowing across my face. No leaves moved on the low hanging limbs of the oaks, no motion whatever on the plants throughout the garden and yet, unmistakably, I felt the swirl of cool air. I looked at my bicycle in the bike rack and it confirmed that I wasn’t hallucinating. I really was outside of the church. This was reality, not a dream.

I wanted to ask how I came to be seated on the bench outside although I had collapsed inside the church, but no one else was around. When my legs were steady enough I climbed back up the two flights of stairs. Inside I found my books on the last pew where I remembered placing them, the novena laying on the floor by the kneeler, the priest performing the services of the Mass, and the elderly women in the front pews praying.

The evidence before me was astonishing. At that point there was absolutely no question in my mind that I had experienced a miracle. It was my first.

For months I contemplated every detail of the experience. Slowly I came to understand that it wasn’t just because I asked for help that God sent it, but because I believed that He would.

The reward of His intervention came through my trust in Him, not my request to Him. At that time we were taught then not to read the bible on our own but much later, after Vatican II, the position of the Catholic Church shifted and that teaching was rescinded. When I began to study the bible and read of the apostles in the boat when Jesus suddenly came to them and Peter asked to be allowed to walk on the water to prove that it was really Him it reminded me of this day in my life. As long as Peter believed he did not sink, but when he doubted he began to descend into the sea. I was convinced that my faith allowed God to help me that day. Not a God of magic or sorcery, but one of love. One that had the power to control my safe descent down two flights of stairs, placement and support of my flaccid body on the bench outside, and despite miserably stifling temperatures, command of a cool light wind across my face to restore consciousnesses.

There wasn’t a scratch on me so even if it was somehow possible that I could have come outside of the church of my own accord (in my unconscious state) I surely would have fallen down one of the two flights of stairs or on the concrete outside. And, how does a limp body sit up straight on a bench that has no back support? I have no explanation of how He did it, only that He did it.

My faith in God’s help that day served me well. It was a powerful introduction from a loving Creator to a child whose greatest desire then was to return to Him one day. And, my first experience of just how potent faith can be in this condition that is known as life. I had no idea then of the journey I was set to travel and how He would remind me throughout it that He was there, He cared about me and what I hoped to accomplish for Him and wanted to assist in just how I went about doing it.

It is said that God has prepared a place for each of us if we choose to receive it after this life. I know it goes far beyond that. I am convinced that God’s infinite love, mercy and kindness prepares this life far ahead of our exile here, arranges every person, place, and time we will encounter throughout it according to our free will choices.

For many years I couldn’t share this miraculous episode – not for fear of what others might think – but because it was so personal, so precious, those moments spent in the arms of my guardian angel (?) to a place of safety in a time of distress. These memories inhabited the deepest alcove of my heart and I told no one until it became impossible to withhold them any longer.

He loves each and everyone. We only need to believe. He will do the rest.