From time to time, it is not unusual to receive ads for “bereavement” gifts and memorial “options”, I usually snort, sigh and dismiss the ad. But at vulnerable times something may catch your eye….there was a small music box that had a place for a photo and played “The Waltz of the Flowers”. Memories came flooding back that I had not thought of since last Christmas. Justin loved Tchaikovsy’s Nutcracker Suite. We had always dreamed of going to one of the large theaters when the Russian Ballet Troupe would come into town at Christmas, how grand it would be to hear the live orchestra, see the wonderful costumes….but we never got to go. And I do not want to go now, it would hurt too much.
I found our copy of the Nutcracker Suite and took it with me in the car….was unprepared for how heart rending it would be to listen to those familiar pieces….music is such a powerful force, it rekindles memories and touches our soul, can make us long for that child we can no longer touch. And for the very first time, I was angry….angry that we don’t have that memory of going to the ballet together, angry at how so many experiences are for the privileged, that beauty and culture are beyond the common man’s ability to afford. Angry that either we are so overworked that there is no time, or worse….we are under worked and cannot dream of experiencing the ballet or opera. Angry that my boy is gone and a dull, grey hallway is my view of life. Our Justin who could dance from topic to topic in conversation, or not speak at all, but settle in with a book, a cat and a cup of tea…whose phlegmatic temperament was a good foil for my choleric/melancholic self….
The year of firsts was only the prelude to the symphony of unrelenting sorrow that is the year of seconds. That first year after your child dies you catch glimpses of what your life will be like, recurring motifs swirl around you, but you do not experience the full of it, the blessed anaesthesia of shock drowns out the cacophony that descends around you that first anniversary. The year of seconds is dark. Autumn used to bring such contentment…such excitement for that first rush of cold air. I can remember calling the boys outside when we would get that first blast of Canadian air and we would just stand outside without coats and let the cold wind rush over us, cleanse us of the stuffy summer air. We would breathe in great breaths of crisp air and revel in the mad swirls of leaves. The Fall now only brings memories, memories of Doug arriving home a year ago this week with Justin’s belongings from South Dakota. The boxes of books, his much loved kitchen tools, his sweaters that still held his sweet scent. You shelve boxes, both physically and metaphorically….waiting for quieter times to sort through what the box contains, the same with the emotions and sorrow that you shelved so that you could focus on the task at hand….those too need to be taken out and allowed to be felt, to weep and mourn for the task that was beyond imagination.
The year of seconds is dark, the desolation of spirit profound. The flame that burns within is so fragile, so easily snuffed out by thoughtless people and life’s situations. I am dismayed at how little it takes and how quick I allow my small flame of excitement and joy to be snuffed out, there are no resources or energy left to ward off the draft. It is an act of the will to allow the flame to catch again, to tend it, to relearn how to nurture its flickering. I love to see the votive candles flickering in the silent, dark church in the early morning, those bold little flames keeping vigil in prayer, the faith of those who light the candles, trusting that their prayers will be carried to God and kept in His Heart. Grateful for our Pastor who allows real candles to touch our senses and our souls, to breathe in that first breath of sacred air when you step into the sanctuary, it is truly a sanctuary, a holy place, a place of refuge. A place that for a few moments I don’t have to cup my hands around my little wavering flame, I can for a few moments allow it to be caught up and burn with other little flames and the darkness retreats a few steps.
Oh Mother of Perpetual Help, grant that I may ever invoke your powerful name, the protection of the living and the salvation of the dying. Purest Mary, let your name henceforth be ever on my lips. Delay not, Blessed Lady, to rescue me whenever I call on you. In my temptations, in my needs, I will never cease to call on you, ever repeating your sacred name, Mary, Mary. What a consolation, what sweetness, what confidence fills my soul when I utter your sacred name or even only think of you! I thank the Lord for having given you so sweet, so powerful, so lovely a name. But I will not be content with merely uttering your name. Let my love for you prompt me ever to hail you Mother of Perpetual Help. Mother of Perpetual Help, pray for me and grant me the favor I confidently ask of you.
(Then say three Hail Marys).
oh that is my favorite novena!