Following the Naked Christ

This week has matched the dates of Justin’s death and funeral. This Saturday morning in the church the scents and sights were so familiar as there were two funerals this week. The lingering essence of incense, the smell of sacredness, the sweet floral scents from the flower arrangements. Memories of setting up for Justin’s funeral, a task I shared with Rose who never left our side those brace of days. It reminded me of the women hastening to attend to Jesus’ body in the tomb. The privilege and grace of being a woman. A bright blue high sky on a Saturday, only nine months ago.

I spoke earlier of this unseen opponent called grief, silent and stealthy, never knowing when it will grip you and squeeze your heart until you cannot breathe. I have been able to override this grief, partition it so I would not feel anything, until this morning. This First Saturday is the Feast Day of our Lady’s Immaculate Heart, one of my favorite days. Our deacon was giving a beautiful homily reflecting on the Blessed Mother’s joys and sorrows. I could feel the creeping tightness, I just bit my lip and focused. Then he spoke of how Mary held her son at his death, the linen that swaddled him at his burial. Visions of my baby alone with no one to hold him in death took over, I had to leave. Haven’t missed a Mass in nine months, but I couldn’t stay. I slipped away to Justin’s grave, it was the closest I get to my son. I did what any mother would do, I cleaned his headstone of every speck of dust that I could find, he now has the cleanest headstone at St. Peter’s. And I hated myself, hated this vulnerability that now is part of my being. Hated the weakness of the moment. Hated that people might nod knowingly and say she finally cracked. I envisioned some even gloating that I showed a momentary weakness if they heard tell of it, or God forbid it should happen again. Worried that I could now be seen as a “liability” or “emotional”…we are so brutal to each other are we not in the labels we affix to one another.

So I stood, continuing to polish off the now nonexistent dust and the thought kept coming to me of what I had read in “The Pain of Christ and Sorrow of God” by Fr. Gerald Vann, OP. He speaks of  the stripping of Christ’s garments at the scourging, the ultimate poverty, the vulnerability, the humility of God.  I remember reading from this small treasure of a book,

“..when God in His wisdom asks suffering of you, the suffering of privation or loss, then you will know that you have thus a small part in this sorrowful and glorious moment of the Passion, and that in some small way you are following, naked, the naked Christ.”

And I thought “no Father…I can suffer loss, but the thought of following naked, the naked Christ…please do not ask that of me.” I realized  this morning  that nakedness takes many forms, the stripping away of the exterior shell, the facade of being impervious to emotion or grief, we should all run with great abandon to follow the Poverello, the little poor person, St. Francis of Assisi who tossed his fine clothes to renounce all grandeur, to follow naked the naked Christ.  Christ held nothing back from us at Calvary, “this is My body” He said, “given for you”…vulnerable, naked, nailed, mocked…”this is My body, given for you”…

I thought also of Jesus weeping, did His chest ache, did the cry burst unbidden from Him?  The grief of the death of His friend Lazarus. Did His Sacred Heart ache for the death of all men…can you not imagine that voice ringing out “Take away the stone”, the Lion of Judah, the unmistakable majesty that could not be contained nor hidden for that brief moment…as again that voice rang out, commanding “Lazarus, come out!”

I hear a car, I know who it is.  I recognize the familiar footfall, I hear Doug say “I thought I would find you here”. He is not troubled or embarrassed by my silent exit from Mass. We stand in silence for a moment and then he asks if I would like some coffee. I am such a addict, not much could pull me away from the continued polishing with now shredded tissues, but coffee does sound good.  The exhaustion is already profound and it is only 9 am. Coffee is actually restorative. We find ourselves at the diner in Frederick, food might be a good idea too. We come home to a silly, wiggling puppy

who tries very hard to be a “calm puppy”…but he grins and dances, coaxing us to go outside with him and play. My phone chirps, its a text from Ryan, he has another job opportunity. I call my family with Ryan updates, their joy and fun is restorative also…we calculate how many hours Ryan would be from us.

Profound sorrow and joy can co-exist in the same moment, they are not mutually exclusive of the other, both need to be embraced, acknowledged and lived.  Another day tucked away, another small step taken.