For one, several months ago I was ordering something from a religious supply store on-line and at the last minute added a set of ten beautiful novena cards to my cart. The cover was in French. Novenas are one of my new favorite ways to pray. Sustained focus on a simple request or problem for nine days helps me reorder priorities. I thought I'd pass them along to others as the opportunity arose. I've since given away seven to friends that were going through a tough time. I recently passed by the remaining stack on my dresser and looked at it carefully. The translation on the cover reads, "Behold the heart that has loved mankind so much. It is pure love and mercy. Come to me, all of you who are tired and afflicted and I will comfort you." It is literally a novena to surrender to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. And for good measure, there's a quote from Padre Pio on the back, "The whole of paradise is in your soul." One of the ten was meant for me! Two to go.
The Sunday Gospel after we returned was the one from Matthew about separating the goats on the left from the sheep on the right by their corporal works, or lack. As we walked out of church Jason told me he'd had a St. Francis moment during that Gospel. Just as Francis wasn't supposed to re-build a physical church, Jason wasn't supposed to raise actual goats. He was meant to serve the "goats," he encounters. Feed my sheep, and herd the goats. That's some goat farming I can get behind.
The Sunday before Ben's surgery he received the sacrament of anointing of the sick after Mass. Father talked about our need for physical touch, which is why we lay hands on those receiving anointing. I thought about my healing, mine wasn't done by human touch. But then I recalled how Jason had spontaneously reached across and grabbed my hand in that moment when the heart shaped sun shone peace and joy and strength upon us. There was physical, human touch then too! Jason had unknowingly participated in my healing, by laying his hands upon me, just as I was restored. "Be my healer."
On the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, two weeks after our return, I happened across an enlarged image of the Miraculous Medal, the medal that I feel was a catalyst in this whole adventure. I studied it, always looking for the meaning in things. On the back below the symbol for Mary is a tiny engraved set of the Sacred and Immaculate Hearts. How many bricks to the head does it take?
Catechesis Check-in: Obviously I value medals, rosaries, religious statues, and images. I do not believe they are magical or contain healing properties and I do not worship them. They are not God. They do convey a message about God and help me, a limited human with poor imagination, understand God a tiny bit better. God, of course, can use whatever means He wants to do His works, and I do believe some religious objects have had miraculous things happen to them or around them.
I keep a picture of my dad on a shelf in our family room. Sometimes I kiss it, because I miss him and I will always love him. I remember the lessons he taught me. I keep a statue of Padre Pio on that shelf too because I believe he's watching out for us and his message will help us. I do not think I will get to exchange my scapular for a free ticket to heaven. But my scapular does offer a daily physical reminder of the call to serve others. I do not think wearing the miraculous medal gives me grace, but it reminds me to ask for it. I need reminders.
Though I was feeling affirmations of clarity during those first days back, I also experienced doubt. A few days after I returned I went through a period of emotional turmoil. I was having vivid memories of Ben's first cardiac arrest, when I felt my prayer for his return was answered. Did that desire somehow cause his lifetime of suffering? I felt guilty and sad and conflicted about being healed while my son was not, and yet, how could I be sad when God had done something so wonderful? Also, I just didn't know what to do with myself. I felt compelled to tell everyone what had happened to me. Yet, I wasn't looking forward to skepticism or people thinking I was crazy, or a liar. But everyone that knew me well that witnessed me now easily climbing the stairs had questions. Plus, I was giddy, bursting with amazement each time something that had been difficult came easily. There was also the paradox of standing in the presence of Jesus' beating heart last week and yelling at my kids in Target this week. And another thought: Have I been greedy, asking for miracles when I've already been granted so many? Others needed healing much more than I. Why was this unworthy request granted? And how dare I question it? If faith healed me, would doubt make me sick again? After a morning of tears, I made an appointment to talk with my pastor. Poor guy.
He wisely reminded me of Peter's struggle with coming down the mountain after the Transfiguration. It is hard to return to the day to day after experiencing that thin space between heaven and earth. But that is the lesson. I'm to carry that experience into the world, living the call God has given me. As for the guilt, I didn't cause Ben's suffering. I was obedient in accepting his illness, in loving the child we'd been given and in raising him to know, love, and serve God despite the struggles. Peace was restored, at least for the day.
And so I write, asking the Holy Spirit to guide these words, to use them as an instrument to be the hands and face of Christ. I pray these words adequately render honor to the One who inspired them. I ask Him to open the eyes and ears of you who read this. Not that you look for meaning in my little stories, but that you recognize God's message in your own life. Seek and you will find.
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