Evie

Fortune Cookie Faith

/ allsaintsfarm / 4 Comments

“Faith is the realization of what is hoped for and evidence of things not seen.”

Hebrews 11:1

I want to begin this post by sharing an e-mail correspondence written by my husband within days of Evie’s death.  His words were published in the Canton Repository and although I could just link to the article I feel it necessary to repost them here because you really need to read it through to fully understand the impact of what I am about to set forth:

“On Tuesday morning, it had been three days since Evelyn died. I was worn down and beginning to lose the hope and the comfort that had sustained us immediately after her death. Around 5 a.m., I lit a candle, knelt before the cross that sits atop our family prayer table and began to express to the Lord (and to Evie) that I felt completely empty and abandoned – that all of this was completely meaningless.

For some time I knelt there attempting to capture in words the profound darkness that I felt inside. I then began to plead over and over with God to renew my faith, to help me to abandon myself to him and to constantly seek him even when I feel like nothing makes sense. I kept saying ‘please do something, please do something.’ In front of me, lying flat on the prayer table was Evelyn’s First Communion banner – a shield shaped piece of felt with fabric flowers sewn onto it in the shape of a cross by Evie herself.

Because I had laid my head upon the table weeping, I was able to see inside the upper portion of the banner where a dowel rod had been inserted so that the banner could be hung from the wall or a pew. Immediately after finishing my plea that God would ‘do something’ to keep me from losing faith, I noticed that a very tiny piece of paper had been shoved into the fabric sleeve alongside the dowel rod. I pulled it out. It was two fortune cookie ‘sayings’ rolled up together. I knew that these must have been put there by Evie because she habitually kept anything that had any significance to her (we called her ‘Stash-n-Dash’ since she never stopped moving and preserved every memory somehow/somewhere).

I unraveled the two quotes. The first one said, “The greatest ownership is the embracement of emptiness.” These words knocked the wind out of me. I already felt completely empty and alone. Now I felt as though I was being taunted, like there really was no hope and I just needed to admit it. Crying hysterically at this point – the lowest point of my life now that I think about it – I unraveled the second paper. The saying on it was, “Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things unseen.”

I immediately recognized these words as God’s own words to us in Hebrews 11:1 and, in that moment, heard them as a very clear exhortation to believe even when I cannot see a thing, to hope even when I feel nothing but hopelessness. In that moment God answered my prayer. He ‘did something’ just as I had asked. In his mysterious providence, he had arranged for those two particular quotes to be placed in those particular cookies, and then for Evie to ‘stash’ them in that precise part of that particular banner (and for that banner to be taken off the wall and placed precisely where it was shortly before I knelt there) so that I would read those quotes at that exact moment.

I’m not one to interpret the divinely intended meaning in every event – not even close. As a historical theologian, I tend to see meaning over vast swaths of time. But in that very moment, I clearly heard the voice of God speaking to me, saying exactly what I needed to hear, through crumpled up fortune cookie papers that should never have been found. And in those papers, I also heard the whisper of my precious little girl, imploring me to trust and obey – the simple lesson we had taught her every day of her short time in this world.”

My last post, if you recall, was about Evie’s birthday.  As I relayed, I had been dreading that day for the past nine months.

Shortly before her birthday I discovered that the mass at St. Mary’s (our parish) would be offered for Evie on that day.  This year, her birthday was on a Sunday.

Typically, I read the Sunday Mass readings in advance but for some reason,  I did not read the passages for August 7th.  In case you are not familiar with how the readings at Mass work, they are not chosen by the priest of the parish or the deacon or any other member.  They are universal.  Everyone on earth will hear the same Bible passages at any Mass they attend anywhere.  The readings rotate on a three year cycle so as to expose parishioners to all of the Scriptures over time.

As I sat in Mass on Evie’s birthday, crying and begging God to feel close to her and to feel her with me, the lector walked to the front of the sanctuary and began to read.

The passage was Hebrews 11

I was floored.  It couldn’t possibly be a coincidence that this chapter from Hebrews would show up on a tiny strip of paper wadded up inside Evie’s First Communion banner AND read on Evie’s birthday.

Not to mention the fact that as the passage progresses, it proceeds to illustrate the faith demonstrated by the likes of Noah, Abraham, Moses, King David and all the Old Testament saints who make up a portion of the “great cloud of witnesses.”

The girls and I had spent last September and October studying the Old Testament together before Evie died and learning about the great faith of these very men.  Evie loved celebrating the saints.  She expressed her wish to enter heaven around All Saints Day.  The name of our farm reflects that desire.

God works in mysterious ways.

Since then, I’ve been pondering the meaning of this.  What is the Holy Spirit trying to convey to us through our little girl and this immeasurable suffering?

The message comes back full circle to the words penned by my husband after finding those  fortune cookie papers.

Trust and Obey.

We seem to live in an evidence-based culture these days.  We want answers and we want them fast.  We want proof for everything.  We only believe and take in what we can see right in front of us.  God is for the superstitious, unintelligent, archaeic, less-evolved among us.

So we build our towers…higher than God.  We presume to know everything.  We’ve got it all under control.  We don’t need Him.

Until we do.

Until questions arise to which there are no answers.

Until something life-changing occurs and we realize that we are incapable of controlling anything.  Then we realize that trying to hold life with a clenched fist is like trying to hold water in your hand.

It’s an illusion.

Faith is stepping outside of our control, our preconceived notions, and our pride and opening ourselves up to a realm of existence far beyond our limited experience.

Men like Noah, Abraham, and Moses demonstrated extraordinary faith beyond anything we encounter on a daily basis.  They were willing to sacrifice their livelihoods, their reputations, and their families to answer God’s call.  Even more profound is the fact that these men never saw the fruits of their faith in their own lifetimes.

Yet they trusted in God and obeyed.

Can you imagine God asking you to build a gigantic boat filled with animals?  Or being willing to walk your only son up a mountain to slay him?  Or approaching a powerful king and letting him know that you’re about to evacuate half of his kingdom?

These men represent the “cloud of witnesses” spoken of later in Hebrews.  We are literally surrounded by extraordinary saints…men and women who answered God’s call to do radical things.  Think of women like Blessed Mother Theresa, who left her religious order to answer God’s call to minister to the poor and destitute living in the slums of India.  She remained faithful to this calling even through years of spiritual darkness.  St. Monica relentlessly pursued and prayed for her wayward son Augustine for more than 17 years and he eventually became a saint.  St. Louis Martin trusted God through the death of four children and his beloved wife from breast cancer and lovingly submitted when God called all five of his daughters to cloistered religious life.

These ordinary people were able to live extraordinary lives because they had faith.  Not the kind of faith that says, “Yeah, I believe in God and I go to church.”

They had the kind of faith that makes the world stop and take notice.  They didn’t exactly blend in with the crowd.  Their faith actually became “evidence” for the existence of God because nobody would live like that or do those things unless God were working through them.

In my grief, my faith ebbs and flows.  There are times when I feel close to God and hear Him speaking to my heart.  Other times, all I can see is my daughter buried in the earth and  broken hearts that cannot be fixed in this lifetime.   The mess in front of me looms large and the impossibility of what I am trying to accomplish weighs me down like a leaden vest.  Like the Israelites, I question what God is doing and trudge along wearing foggy lenses… only seeing my own misery and not the Promised Land that God has in store for me.  Sometimes I can’t imagine that Heaven could be any more glorious than the life I lived before October 31, 2015.

It’s easy to get caught up in the here and now when life is hard.  When life is good, we get comfortable and think this world has it all.

But there is so much more than this world.  There is a whole realm of which we are not even aware.  There are angels and saints.  There is a resurrected man with scars on His hands and our names written on His heart.  There is a God who is weaving the fabric of our lives into a beautiful tapestry even when we can only see the tattered threads.

Do we live like this is is true?  Are we “running the race to win the prize?”  Do our daily lives, our decisions, our relationships reflect our ultimate goal…heaven?  Or are we blending in with everyone around us, forgetting that Jesus calls us to live radically different lives…to stand out as “salt” and “light” to an unbelieving world?

We don’t need to look inside a Chinese cookie to know our fortune.  We need only crack open the Scriptures to see that  God’s promises are clear and true.  He’s preparing a place for us…if only we will trust and obey.

 

 

Celebrating A Beautiful Life

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A child’s birthday is about relishing in the gift of  their life on Earth…an opportunity to lavish them with affection and declare our sentiments.  Unlike other holidays, it’s a day solely devoted to one particular child marked with traditions, ceremony and celebration.  We marvel at how quickly the years have passed and reflect on who they have become.

In celebrating, we also ring in another year of life.  We look forward to all of the milestones that await and imagine who our child will be in five, ten, or even twenty years.  Will she go to college, marry, and have children?   Will there be a house full of cousins and grandchildren some day?  Or will she feel called to religious life?

But when your child’s life on earth ends abruptly, birthdays take on a whole different meaning.  Instead of something you enjoy planning and celebrating, your child’s birthday becomes something you survive and a painful reminder that there will be no more birthdays.

Evie would have been 12 tomorrow (August 7th).  Now, in the pictures, she is forever eleven.

This year, there will be no more breakfast with Daddy and dancing to their favorite song.  No more birthday hugs.  We can’t ask her how she wants to celebrate or watch her open up her gifts.

I have been dreading Evie’s birthday since the day she died.  I never imagined that last year at this time we would be celebrating her last birthday on earth.  I’ve kept the above picture on my phone as a way of preparing myself for the inevitable.  My thoughts have been consumed with how we will celebrate her life differently this year and I’ve shed countless tears.  In talking with other bereaved parents and reading about how they celebrate the birthdays of their deceased children, I’ve come across varied responses.  Some have parties to honor their child or visit the cemetery and have a special meal.  Others prefer to lock themselves in their room.  I desperately want to do something to honor her beautiful life but I know that no matter what, it’s going to be painful.

In our case, August presents an even greater challenge because it is a month of celebrations.  Eden’s birthday is the 9th and the girls always celebrated together.  Cecilia’s birthday is also in August as well as my brother who passed away.  That’s not to mention other family birthdays that occur this month in addition to our anniversary of becoming Catholic and Eden’s baptism day.

A big part of me wants to crawl in a hole and come out in September.

Birthdays, anniversaries, holidays…they will never be the same without her.  Celebrations that I used to look forward to have become a source of dread.  When you lose a child, the year feels like a relentless cycle of holidays, parties and events.  I find myself looking forward to a month with nothing on the calendar.  I guess I’m not in a very celebratory mood these days.

But I still live on earth and I’m still a mother.  My kids aren’t going to let me skip all of these special days and escape to a deserted island no matter how badly I might want to.

That does not mean, however, that I need to win an award for the most amazing birthday party or cake.   I’m not required to put on a happy face and pretend like I am not hurting inside.   A birthday doesn’t necessitate that I post pictures on Facebook of all of us having a good time amidst piles of presents, guests, and sugary treats in an attempt to veil the sorrow of missing a huge part of my existence.  It seems that sometimes we get so caught up in the celebration that we forget the reason behind the ritual.

Evie absolutely adored family traditions and she loved to celebrate…but not in a way typical of some children.  She enjoyed marking the days, but her way of doing so was quite simple…a few hand-picked flowers in a Mason jar, a homemade card with words of love, a hug.  Although she had many friends she never wanted to be the center of attention.  She was quite happy to have everyone at the party bring a donation to charity rather than a gift.  Her favorite celebrations were those that revolved around the liturgical year and the saints.   Usually, when asked what gift she would like for her birthday or Christmas, her list was pretty simple and/or generally related to her faith.  Her most recent gift request, before she died, was her very own tea set to use for hosting saint feast day parties.  Just this past October, before she passed away, she held a tea party for St. Thérèse complete with roses and store-bought chocolate eclairs.  Before that, she asked for a guitar so that she could learn praise and worship songs.  She was getting quite good at playing those.

So this year, I’m taking a cue from her.  I’m going to simplify the celebrations and focus on  drawing my family closer to the great heavenly feast that awaits those who love Jesus.  Because instead of fretting over party-themed foods, gifts, and decorations, the reason for the rituals  should compel me to look deeply into the eyes of my children on their birthday and tell them how much they mean to me, how much Jesus loves them, and what a gift He gave me when they entered my world.  Special days beckon me to stand at the foot of the cross and embrace my faith in a God who heals our brokenness and holds our future in His hands.  I can thank God for the gifts He has given us on Earth  while also allowing my pain and heartache to be evident.

Because you can hold pain and hope at the same time.  Jesus did just that when he wept over the death of His friend Lazarus even as he walked toward his tomb to raise him to new life.

On Evie’s birthday this year, we will attend mass together as a family where Heaven and Earth collide in a feast of love.  We will eat Poppyseed Chicken Casserole and Dairy Queen Ice Cream Cake (her favorites).  We will share memories with her closest friends.  But most importantly, we will tell her what a beautiful, loving, compassionate, kind, thoughtful, and simply extraordinary daughter she was and how very proud we are of who she became in eleven short years.  And although we cannot see Evie’s beautiful, slightly crooked smile when we declare these things, we know that she hears us.

Although her absence from our lives is beyond painful, I wouldn’t take back a second of our time with her.  I thank God for every moment I was privileged to have as her earthly mother as I  entrust her now to her Heavenly Mother.   And I will continue to mother her by loving Jesus and others until the day of our heavenly reunion in a place where every day is a tearless celebration of Life.

 

 

 

The Great Paradox

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Three weeks after Evie went to Heaven our son Gabriel was born under very harrowing circumstances at 32 weeks gestation.  What began for me as a kidney stone turned into double pneumonia, low blood platelets, an emergency c- section under general anesthesia, followed two days later by  surgery to have a temporary kidney stent placed and the stone removed.  Gabriel spent three weeks in the NICU but thanks be to God he came home healthy and thriving.

Since then, threads of joy and sorrow are woven together into the fabric of my days.

Gabriel is so much like Evie in appearance and personality.  When I look into his beautiful blue eyes I am transported back to those sweet little moments of Evie’s baby days.  His bright smile and infectious laughs bring much joy to our family, but with each one a sword pierces my heart again because I miss so deeply the one who is not here on earth with us.  I wonder how she would have interacted with him.  I think about what her face would look like as she watched him smile and giggle at her.

                                                Evie and Gabriel at six months

There are so many other moments like that in my days.  It fills my heart to see Eden and Cecilia get along and play together but it breaks my heart that Evie isn’t here to play too.  When I go to the construction site of our new home and see the bedroom that was designed for three girls it brings me to tears knowing that there will be many happy memories made but they will not include her.  Simple things that should be fun like helping Eden pick out new clothes or taking her to the craft store can trigger the torrent of tears because I see all of the things that I am not purchasing for Evie anymore.  When Cecilia utters something  hilarious or adorable I feel the tightness in my chest as I imagine how Evie would have laughed at her and appreciated her cuteness.  I cried when Cecilia lost her first tooth because Evie was not there to experience the moment and be proud of her little sis.  Swimming at the pool, family vacations, milestones…  I can’t even begin to imagine how many more moments of joy mingled with sorrow I’ll experience in this lifetime.  This feels like the tip of the iceberg.

Yet, this is the paradox of the world we live in…a world permeated with pleasure and pain. Where joy and sorrow are partners in a cosmic dance.

So what’s a girl to do with all this pain and sorrow mixed up together?  How does one bear it?

The world seems to be saying, “keep busy, seek pleasure, and do whatever makes you happy” even at the cost of hurting myself and others.  Society wants to turn away from what is painful or inconvenient.  Aversion to failure and suffering abounds.

But what if something catastrophic occurs in our lives?  We lose our jobs, our homes, our marriages?  What if the most horrendous thing happens and our child dies?  Is it possible to run away from such incredible sorrow and live the “good life”?

Frankly, no.

Because perfect joy is not wrapped up in our circumstances.  It  is not manifest in distraction or pleasure.  It’s not even a feeling.

“True happiness is not found in riches or well-being, in human fame or power, or in any human achievement-however beneficial it may be-such as science, technology and art, or indeed in any creature, but in God alone, the source of every good and of all love.”

Catechism of the Catholic Church 1723

The great paradox is that the Source of all joy entered into our suffering and through suffering brought joy to the world.

Pain and suffering are not always the enemy.  In fact, they can be quite the opposite.  Jesus, through His cross, paved the way to show us that we can lean into our own suffering and even embrace it as a means to unite us more closely to Himself.  In suffering we become more detached from the world and more sensible to our calling and purpose in life.

Saints and Christian martyrs have been privilege to this great mystery for ages.  They welcomed pain when it beckoned and even hoped for it as a means to bring them to greater joy.

Consider this poem from St. Thérèse:

“My joy I find in pain and loss,                                                                                                             I love the thorns that guard the rose,                                                                                                    With joy I kiss each heavy cross,                                                                                                                And smile with every tear that flows.                                                                                                      …

‘Tis all for Thee, dear Jesus mine,                                                                                                       Yea, suffering is my gladsome choice;                                                                                               My joy on earth-my bliss divine-                                                                                                             Ah, ’tis to make Thy Heart rejoice!

Since love’s divine, celestial breath                                                                                                   Is all I need my heart to bless,                                                                                                                      What matters life, what matters death?                                                                                                 Love my peace, my happiness!”

I don’t mean to say, however, that suffering well is an easy task.  It takes an extraordinary amount of perseverance.  Surely Jesus wasn’t having a good time when he was beaten half to death and forced to carry a large wooden cross up a steep rocky hill.  In fact, in the Garden of Gethsemane his prayer to the Father was “If it is possible, let this cup pass from me; yet, not as I will but as you will.” (Matthew 26:39)  The suffering is very real and difficult.

Just as Jesus fell to the ground on His way to Calvary.  We too will fall.  Many times.  But we do not suffer alone.  Jesus is always walking beside us.   When our strength is gone He carries us.  And just as Simon helped Jesus carry His cross we too can help one another make the difficult journey.

If I really love Jesus more than anything else I can accept my crosses knowing that no matter what happens in this life, my joy can never run dry because its source is an eternal spring of living water.

“For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor present things, nor future things, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

Romans 8:38-39

A Beautiful Life

/ allsaintsfarm / 24 Comments

Three Girls at Eden First Communion

On October 31, 2015 (the Eve of All Saints) our lives were changed forever.

I took our three little girls to a piano recital and only brought two home.  Our oldest daughter Evelyn played her piano piece perfectly, bowed to the audience, and collapsed in front of her two little sisters and everyone else in the piano studio.  I was nearly 7 months pregnant with our youngest son at the time.

Despite heroic efforts on the part of parents in attendance, paramedics, and the emergency room staff, Evie could not be saved.  She likely had an undetected cardiac condition still to be determined.

We lost so much beauty in our family when we lost Evie.  Here is an excerpt from the obituary that my husband wrote:

Evelyn was born in Oxford, England to Chad and Jennifer and was home educated along with her siblings.  Evelyn took delight in reading, drawing, sewing, swimming, practicing piano and guitar, playing dolls with her sisters, exploring nature, and simply being with her friends and family. She was eagerly anticipating the arrival of a baby brother – due to be born later this year – and the opportunity to care for him as a ‘little mommy’. She spoke often about her desire to be a mother and an art teacher when she grew up.

Always smiling, Evelyn was a little girl with enormous joy in her heart and an insatiable sense of wonder and awe for God and the world. She sincerely loved others and was known by all for her eagerness to help, to share, and to bring peace wherever she saw pain or conflict. Evelyn was also known for her abiding sense of contentment: She was satisfied with what she had, asked for very little, and freely gave much away.

The source of Evelyn’s serenity was her intense love for Jesus Christ. She believed that in him she already had everything. Evelyn was an example of prayerfulness, often finding private places to recite the Rosary or forming prayer groups with her friends. She also enjoyed singing hymns with her family, especially those she had memorized in her schooling, and she had a deep affection for the unique presence of Christ in Communion. Many times Evelyn expressed her longing to one day see him face to face and to be counted among the Saints in glory. She found particular inspiration to love and follow Jesus from the very short but extraordinary life of Saint Therese of Liseaux.

There is just no way to comprehend the void that she has left in our family.

The loss was shocking, unexplainable, incomprehensible.  She left behind a nine year-old sister who was her best friend and another little sister who saw her as a second mommy.  She never got to meet a little brother for which she had spent much time praying and her big brother was crushed and angered by the unfairness of it all.

She left behind a dad who took immense pride in his girls.  A dad who read them fairy tales in front of the fire, took them backpacking, had snuggle fests, fed their souls, and danced with her on her birthday.

I was left without my biggest helper–the girl who wanted to do everything and of whom I was incredibly proud.  She was a girl after my own heart and even looked so much like me. We were having such a good school year together spending every morning in prayer, hymns, and studying the Scriptures.

We were in the process of building a mini-farm.  A peaceful place to be together as a family and share our blessings and gifts with others as well.  She was so excited about it.

Everything seemed to be falling into place for us.  It was a beautiful life.

Those early days of loss were excruciating.  Painful beyond words.  Raw.  We were surrounded by so many who loved us and loved her.  Stories emerged of the impact she had on so many.  Doves were seen at her funeral procession, which seemed to stretch on for a mile.  Little fortune cookie papers were stuffed into her First Communion banner with messages that my husband needed to hear at the very moment they were discovered.  As we began to collect her things, we were amazed at what we found.  Little love notes, a journal she began writing to her unborn baby brother, insights into her spirituality.  She had a depth of love for Jesus far beyond her years.

The life that we knew came to an abrupt halt the day Evie died and we were propelled into a reality so painful that it threatened to swallow us whole.  

But it hasn’t swallowed us.  We are still living, breathing, functioning.  We are making it through our days.  Is it still painful?  Yes, incredibly.  Do we still have moments when our longing for her is so great that it takes our breath away?  Absolutely.  Many.  But we also have moments of peace, consolation, and even hope for the future.  And how can that be?

Because death is not the end of the story.  Jesus is the resurrection and the life and He makes all things new.

This blog is an outlet for me to share the insights that the Holy Spirit gives me along this heart-wrenching journey.  My prayer is that it can also be a source of comfort and strength for others–whether you are walking this path yourself or trying to support someone else.

The climb to Calvary eventually leads  to the empty tomb, where every tear is wiped away. Someday we will hold her again and our hope will be fulfilled.  Thank you for joining me on the journey.