Keeping a finger on the pain

Words from a wise Franciscan that keep coming back to me. I don’t like not knowing the root cause of an emotion or a response. To me its like untangling a knot, separating the strands till you find the thread you needed to find. Doug’s a problem solver too, he will patiently trace back to the root cause of why something reacted the way it did, he doesn’t believe in “band-aid” solutions.

I have continued to think on what was the trigger for Saturday, God is the Divine Physician, which wound needs to be cleaned? The process of healing is never tidy, it often involves debriding of the wound, a cleansing of the wound and the trust of the patient to be still. So I revisit the place, Mary holding the lifeless body of Christ, and follow the thread.

I remember speaking with Jeff Hartquist, the funeral director in Luverne. He was very kind. There had been a very brusque officer we spoke to in Minnesota, she was an anomaly, everyone else that we spoke to was very gentle. I spoke to Jeff right after speaking to the female officer. He had already received Justin’s body.  Every fiber in your being is screaming at you to go to your child, yet I had to rely on the compassion of a stranger to care for my son’s body.  He spoke of a cut that Justin had above his eye, but that otherwise his face was untouched and peaceful. He said to call again and that he would be in touch. He was as good as his word and called again to check on us as he was coordinating with Burrier-Queen to fly Justin’s body home. I remember sitting on the steps speaking with him. He spoke of sitting with Justin, knowing he was someone’s son, he shared that he washed Justin’s hair three or four times to remove all the silt and pond residue.  Scripture coursed through my brain from the Gospel of Luke “…even the hairs of your head are all numbered”…and my heart broke. I envied the hands that got to wash those dark curls, that should have been my privilege..why did it go to someone

else? I wanted to be the one to gently straighten those beautiful hands of his, those long fingers that could coax music from a trumpet or flute, hands that the cats lined up for and pushed each other out of the way to have smooth their fur. Mr. Hartquist gently spoke of Justin’s bruises on his left shoulder, assuring us that our boy had his seatbelt on, he said that there is only one thing that leaves that mark. We would later learn from the detailed coroner’s report that Justin sustained other injuries, I cannot shake the vision of his body so broken and bruised. I know I have found my thread.

Jeff Hartquist had called again when Justin’s body arrived and asked if we were pleased with how he looked. We shared that we had decided as a family not to view the body.  “Oh” he said “he looks good, you should see him.” Good to a funeral director and good to a mother are two very different perspectives. Doug, myself and Ryan were in one accord on this, there wasn’t even a hesitation, no doubt in our mind…my brothers agreed also.

But now I hear hissing in my ears…“coward, you abandoned him..you ran from the cross”, perhaps I should have looked upon that beloved face…held his lifeless broken body as the Blessed Mother held Jesus.  “But I am not a coward…my brothers and  I held our mother as she died and then sat in vigil with the body as we promised her” I reply to the accuser. I realize that hissing is the ancient serpent, the father of all lies, a liar and murderer from the beginning…don’t engage, rebuke him and he will flee.  More of the thread is untangled, it is indeed the right thread. Keep a finger on the pain…even though it hurts…

Modern society has little patience for the work of healing and grieving. Grief is treated like a disease…eager to medicate, placate, anesthetize, criticize, but for goodness sakes, please don’t feel it.. “it has almost been a year, get over it and move on.” Is it any wonder that we find all sorts of ways to mask the pain? We fear entering into anothers pain, it will cost us something, ask something difficult of us.

There was one though who entered into our pain, He did not fear our darkness, our pain, our wounds. He not only entered into our pain, He took on our flesh, the flesh of His mother so that He could feel our pain, heal our woundedness. There is always the question of why such a horrific death, a tortuous death…so much suffering, so much pain, so much blood. One drop of the Precious Blood enough for all of mankind’s redemption, why torrents…why scourging? Would we in our hardness of hearts been convinced of His love by a paper cut? His body so torn, is that not our souls before God? Torn, disfigured by sin and hate, bleeding in pain? He took that all on His body for love of us. And His Blessed Mother was told that her own soul a sword would pierce, she too has entered into our pain as only a mother can enter.

So I run to Mary, she knows my pain…I am a terrible daughter, unworthy of such condescension and compassion from the Queen Mother…but her arms are open. “I held him” she whispers…”I held your boy, be at peace and be still”.

I found this quote written out in Justin’s small journal.

“The sorrows of His Passion were His, but His Mother considered them her own too, for this is the meaning of compassion.”

World’s First Love by Archbishop Fulton Sheen