Broken Peace ‘s’

Is it a miracle or a coincidence? I had been working on an article for several days, arduously trying to get my facts right so that the end product I presented was as authentic as possible. Then, all of a sudden, I hit the wrong button, and almost all of what I had written over the past few days disappeared from my entire computer. Nothing worked, no matter how much I tried and how many IT experts I consulted. I had two choices either to try again fruitlessly to retrieve my lost work or to rely on the power of prayer to somehow miraculously retrieve it. Desperate Times, Desperate Measures In the meantime, I felt that I had made a copy of the unfinished work somewhere in the process. So I searched everywhere, in every nook and cranny, in every plastic bag I now use as my case or valise, desperate for a copy of this lost venture, but without success. Trying to replicate all those hours of thought and written words was such a dirge, but I tried to console myself. I desperately prayed to all the Saints of God, particularly one of my favorites, Saint Anthony of Padua, the patron Saint of lost things. My eagerness to finish the article caused me so much anxiety that I even lost sleep over it. I couldn’t content myself until I found the missing half of my article. This continued until the weekend, when I finally decided to dive into a new version of my original idea, forfeiting any hope of finding any semblance of my original thoughts. I sat by my computer, hit my story on the desktop, and thought about where I was to begin revising my original story. Suddenly, I glanced towards my printer, where I spotted a sliver of four pieces of paper protruding from my printer. I ignored it because it must be a remnant of what I was working on earlier. However, before hitting the print button on my latest endeavor, I extracted the A-4 pages. Surprisingly, the article's title matched exactly what I had been desperately searching for over the last week. I couldn’t believe my eyes. How could this be so? An article that I, and every close and known acquaintance of mine, had been unsuccessfully searching for over the past week or so surprisingly appeared on my printer out of the blue. This spiritual experience left an indelible mark on my psyche. I know we leave so many existential happenings to ‘coincidence’. I realized how gracious our God is in allowing His Holy Angels and Saints to come to our aid with the slightest requests.

Discover how a simple snowflake can inspire you. As I drove to the Church, the snow that was supposed to turn to rain continued to fall. Individual flakes hit my windshield, quickly revealing their uniqueness before melting away. By the time I exited the Church after Mass, the snow lightly blanketed the ground. It was beautiful! Dressed in white, the barren farmland and the trees that had shed their colorful leaves no longer looked so desolate and dead. Despite the cold, the snow spread a sense of hope through the air. Of course, my children were hoping the snow would continue so that they would not have to go to school. In my part of the world, snow does bring school-age children such hope and joy. But the feeling I had that day walking out of the church was different. Standing amid the falling flakes, a verse from Psalm 51 came to mind: “Wash me, and I will be whiter than snow.” Therein lies the hope I felt – the knowledge that God loves me despite my weaknesses and sins. I need only to ask for His forgiveness and supernatural help to overcome them. He wants to cover me with His love and mercy like the snow falling gently on the earth. Thriving in Grace I took solace in the gradual covering. Our Lord is patient with us. He does not dump graces on us but allows us time for transformation. He gently leads us on the path of conversion. As I gingerly walked across the parking lot, I appreciated the baby steps we take on our journey that leads us to become the saints God is calling us to be. He delights in even our smallest progress. By afternoon, that which was a field of overturned dirt was now a woolen blanket. How amazing that those little flakes gathered together make such a difference! Such is the transformative power of grace! At every Mass when we receive Holy Communion, our souls are washed clean in the Blood of the Lamb. With each sacramental confession, we are reconciled to God and to one another. The ‘dirt’ from sin that stains our souls is washed away by the graces bestowed in these two powerful yet gentle Sacraments. Then, God sends us out into the world. Each of us, as unique as a snowflake, has our own gifts and talents. We share the Gospel in our little part of the world. Perhaps we feel like we don’t do enough, or aren’t effective enough. We feel as tiny as that snowflake. But consider how God needs each snowflake to do its little part to cover the land. Together, we can change the world! I do not have to do it all by myself. Neither do you. We just need to land where God places us and be the unique person He created us to be, spread God’s love, and make known all the good He does for us. The world will be a brighter place if we do.

How does any parent survive the death of a child? I cannot begin to answer this question as a professional counselor but only as a mother who has lived through the worst nightmare of her life. We were blessed with two boys who were the joy of our lives. The night of the accident, my husband Cliff and I, along with our 15-year-old son Chris, spent an indescribable, terrifying night waiting, hoping, and praying that David, our 17-year-old, would somehow return home safely. The accident occurred around 10:30 pm, but the highway patrol never discovered it until 7 am the next day. When we received the horrible news, our scant flicker of hope crumbled helplessly within our hearts. I cried from the depths of my being. I was emotionally numb. Looking back after all these years, I see how God, in His compassion and love, supplied my body and spirit with an emotional safeguard that temporarily blocked out the enormous shock of this painful, unbearable reality. Thinking of that night reminds me of the touching words of the poem entitled Footprints in the Sand, in which our loving God said: “During your times of trial and suffering when you see only one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you.” God continued to carry our grief-stricken family through the painful funeral, the processing of life insurance claims, and the closing out of David's checking account. Each time I had to do these necessary things, I asked Jesus to give me strength. Tackling Grief After three weeks, I went back to work. I felt as though I was leading a double life during the months that followed. I would drag myself to work each day, drained and consumed with a deep sadness. For months, I felt as though I was an actress playing a part in a real-life drama. I tried to function normally at work, attempting to perform my required duties. At home, behind closed doors, I could then be true to my feelings and sob from the deepest part of a mother's grieving heart. Crying often became my only cleansing release. In this age of fast food, high-speed Internet, and instantly replaceable everything, society has a hard time accepting the fact that deep grief takes time to heal. If a person has a physical injury, he or she is pampered and taken care of until the wound has been completely healed. But it seems if a person has an emotional injury, he or she is expected, in a short while, to show up for work and be as efficient as ever. I finally had to accept the fact that society as a whole didn't consider emotional wounds to take time to heal. I had shared one part of that journey earlier in an article titled Impossible Made Possible*. Healing is not a single-moment-magic. I continued into the next year, processing through my pain and loss. With special dates like Thanksgiving, Christmas, David's birthday, and what would have been his high school graduation, I regressed into a deep sadness, filled with many days of crying. The professionals in the field of grieving state: “The healing process is more like a lightning bolt, full of ups and downs, progressions and regressions, dramatic leaps and depressing backslides.” When my sorrow overwhelmed me, God always sent caring neighbors, understanding friends, and loved ones. They each listened, loved me, and helped me to go on. Into the second year of processing my grief, I became aware of my deep hidden guilt. My guilt stemmed from an acute sense of regret about not being able to say all the many things hidden deep in my heart to my son David while he was alive. I knew, as a mother, I had made many mistakes while raising my son. I felt it was too late to share those precious thoughts and feelings with him. I suffered over this and asked God to forgive me. I felt God had forgiven me, but I couldn't forgive myself. I decided to write my son a letter in which I was able to express my deepest thoughts and feelings to him. After I finished the letter, I felt a sense of cleansing and release. David's physical life is over, but his soul is with Jesus, surrounded by unconditional love. This is indeed the promise that Jesus holds out to each of us. “I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in Me, even though they die, will live.” (John 11: 25) I have a renewed sense of hope because I know that I will see my child again at the Heavenly Banquet being prepared by our Father in Heaven. Through experiencing deep anguish and sorrow, I have emerged as a more compassionate person. As I release my son in love, I have received the healing power of God's grace. As my wounds have healed, so do I become an instrument of God's grace in reaching out to others who are grieving… *You can read the article Impossible Made Possible here: shalomtidings.org/impossible-made-possible

The Gospel for Easter Sunday is from Saint John’s account of Easter morning (John 20:1–9). We are told that Mary Magdalene arrives at the tomb very early in the morning while it is still dark. She has come to anoint the body of the Lord, which had been buried in haste because of the onset of the Passover. She spies the great stone rolled back and assumes that the body has been stolen. So she runs immediately to Simon Peter and the other disciples: “They have taken the Lord from the tomb, and we don’t know where they put him.” She doesn’t yet believe in the Resurrection, for she is operating still within a conventional framework. So the two disciples, Peter and John, make a mad dash toward the tomb, the younger John outpacing the older Peter. What an odd detail, by the way—so peculiar in fact, that it led the novelist Graham Greene to accept the historicity of the account. Upon coming to the open tomb, John looks in and sees ‘the burial cloths.’ Then Peter arrives and spies the same clothes, as well as the cloth that had covered his head ‘rolled up in a separate place.’ Have you ever wondered why there is such an emphasis on the burial cloths? The most obvious reason is that their presence is peculiar. If the body had been stolen, why would the thieves have bothered taking the elaborately wound cloths off, and why in the world would they have taken the time and effort to fold the head cloth up so carefully? But might they also be mentioned so prominently because they were treasured by the early Church? And might at least the principal cloth exist to this day? I’m speaking, of course, of the famous Shroud of Turin, which for centuries has been reverenced as a relic of the Crucifixion. I had a chance to see the shroud in 2010, when I was a visiting scholar in Rome and the cloth was exposed briefly for public display. It is remarkably long—long enough indeed to have covered a body front and back. On it can be seen, plainly enough, rust-colored markings that suggest the frontal and dorsal sides of a man about thirty years of age. Marks of violence can be seen on him, wounds from whipping and, quite clearly, from crucifixion—great gashes in the wrists and feet, as well as a gaping wound in the side of the torso. However, the most remarkable feature of the shroud was revealed only in 1898, when it was photographed for the first time. When the photographer, a man named Secondo Pia, developed the film, he noticed that the negative of the photo revealed an exquisitely detailed depiction of the man of the shroud, anatomically exact to a degree that no artist could have produced. So, what we see of the shroud, he concluded, is itself a kind of photographic negative. And when scientists pored over the detailed version, what they saw took their breath away. Not only was the anatomy perfectly correct, but the details of the wounds were telling, corresponding to the very sort of scourges that ancient Romans used. The ‘crown’ of thorns was more of a cap, and the wound in the side gave evidence of both blood and pericardial fluid: the blood and water that Saint John spoke of. Furthermore, traces of coins, bearing the inscription of Pontius Pilate, could be seen covering the eyelids. Also, seeds and pollen from the Middle East were found within the strands of the fabric. How was the image formed? Here, the scientists were truly stumped, for absolutely no trace of paint or pigment could be found, and the marks did not work their way down into the fabric but colored only the very surface of the shroud. The closest they could come to naming it accurately was to refer to it as a ‘scorch,’ something caused by an intense burst of radiation—which would furthermore explain the photographic negative quality of the image. What in nature would produce such a phenomenon? Nothing that we know. Does it indicate the fact of the Resurrection, when in a great burst of light and energy, the body of Jesus was brought back to life? The extraordinary and mysterious Shroud of Turin speaks to us a great Easter truth—namely, that at the heart of Christianity stands, not a myth or a legend or a symbol, but a fact, the bodily Resurrection of Jesus from the dead. It was this historical truth that sent the first Christians careering around the world to announce the ‘Gospel,’ which means ‘good news.’ They were not trading in philosophical abstractions or spiritual musings; rather, they were grabbing their interlocutors by the shoulders and telling them that something had happened. When Saint John entered the tomb and saw the burial cloths, he ‘saw and believed.’ There was something about those wrappings that convinced him. I wonder whether the same thing is true today in our hyper-skeptical age. We, too, can see the cloth in which Jesus’ body was wrapped, and we understand it far more thoroughly than Saint John ever could have. Does it cause us to ‘see and believe?’ ARTICLE originally published at wordonfire.org. Reprinted with permission.