This past week has been nothing short of horrendous. Personal and familial tragedies have left me feeling drained, hollow and empty. I sleep for ten or twelve hours and when I wake, I am somehow still tired. I have had a headache for about a week. However, despite the previous litany of complaints, I want to stress the fact that this post is not an invitation to a pity party for me. I am also not fishing for compliments or sympathy. I am a writer; I observe and am compelled to share these observations with an audience.
Today is Sunday and I went with my family to Mass, as I always do. Every once in a while, the readings and/or the homily hit upon an aspect of my life and of my current personal experience; they can be uncannily apt. I have always taken these occurrences as a sign from God that either I am doing okay, that I will be doing okay, or that He is answering a question that had been on my mind. Today was no exception; two of the readings dealt with two deceased sons being raised from the dead. It made me think of the funeral I recently attended, and of the family who lost a son and a brother. I spent two days with them for the viewing and the funeral and the repast. Time and again I witnessed the family struggle to cope and understand and even function. But time and again I witnessed this same family gain composure, stand rock solid, and support one another. The love shared was palpable, nearly tangible and it was invigorating. While the liturgy dealt with actual resurrections, I came to the conclusion that though their son will not rise and walk from the grave, he is still as present as ever because of the love of his family. They love him dearly, and love each other dearly. They love all those who came to their son’s viewing and funeral, and love all those who sent kind words and kept the family in their prayers. I honestly believe death can be conquered by love, and this family is living proof. I am so blessed to know them and have them in my life.