Musings

‘Deatheaters’

What do you do when you lose 4 members of your family in a space of less than 2 years? First your aunt, then grandma 1 followed by grandma 2 and now your uncle.

What do you do when you know that your dad is hurting so much over the death of his brother and the only thing you can tell him is ‘has the burial date been fixed?’ When you want to hug him so tight but you can’t ‘cos you’re thousands of miles away?

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2 crazy friends posing as VOLDEMORT and L. MALFOY in a HP’S themed dinner

What do you do when you realize that despite your mum’s brave front, she’s so devastated by the turn of events? So much so that she has asked her prayer group to pray over her and cast away the spirit of death.

What do you do when your sister is so upset because she thinks that some family members are partly responsible for her uncle’s death? Because as she has judged, they failed to take adequate care of him while he was sick.

What do you do when the answer to ‘has the date been fixed’ is ‘no o. We’re waiting for money’? And you know that it’s just a polite way of saying ‘my dear, we’re still recovering from the burial of your grandma last October’.

What do you do when you want to cry out ‘enough? Why do we have to do expensive burials, depleting savings and even up to the point of borrowing? Why can’t we do simple but dignified burials?’ why do we have to give a banquet, to throw a party when we know that we can’t?’

What do you do when these thoughts accompany you throughout your day but you hold your peace because you can only think ‘will my people understand?’

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Musings

Jonathan’s Chronicles

January is almost ended. Only four more days to go. It feels like I’ve already lived a year. I think I am getting better in the art of assuming the problems / needs of others and of sharing in them; making them mine. And so I have lived so much. I’ve wept and smiled and laughed so hard.

But today made the crowning point of it all.

Jonathan was born and died today.

When I was in primary school, I learnt a rhyme of Solomon Grundy for the days of the week –

Solomon Grundy; born on a Monday, christened on Tuesday, married on Wednesday, …, died on Saturday, buried on Sunday. That was the end of Solomon Grundy.

It didn’t make sense then. I couldn’t fathom how Solomon who lived for only one week could have done so many things. Now, many years later, I don’t have a Solomon. I have a Jonathan instead. I’m going to let him tell his own story. It’s a short one. It lasted not one day but 60 minutes only; 3600 intense seconds.

—–

My name is Jonathan and I am a being for death. Of course that quote isn’t mine – it’s Heidegger’s. A 60 minute old child isn’t supposed to know anything, to have lived anything, to have felt anything. But I know a lot. I know what it is to be chosen to be kept and loved by a mum and a dad and 2 sisters and a brother.

10 weeks ago, when I was five months old inside my mum, we went to hear what the doctors had to say. They said something like ‘fatal kidney failure’ and mentioned ‘death’. At that point, I stopped swimming and squatted still. Not because I knew what that word meant. I mean, I don’t have any online dictionaries inside the womb. I stopped because I could feel mummy’s dread.

The doctors went on and advised abortion given the circumstances. The baby – I – wasn’t going to live after being born. Most couples chose that option. The other one wasn’t worth trying. I wasn’t worth keeping.

Daddy thanked the doctors and got up, ready to take his wife home. A decision had to be made. Mum’s cloud of dread hung thick over me. I laid still, face up, wondering what it all meant.  Mum began to cry as soon as they got into the car. I was disturbed as the cries racked her. But that cry was good, very good. It drove the cloud of dread away. All was clear again. My life had returned to normal. My world was okay again. I resumed swimming.

Two weeks later, I heard Tess, Dan and Leah whispering together. Dad and mum had called a council. Dad repeated what the doctors said, omitting death and the abortion option. It made no difference anyway. I still didn’t know what those words meant. What mattered was this – that thick fog had been dispersed two weeks ago and it hadn’t come back since then. My siblings erupted into cheers. Dad had added that although the doctors had vouched for the uselessness of the decision, we were, they were going to keep the baby. And – mum added – we’re keeping Jonathan. Hurray!

Now they had to inform the rest of the family. Well, I suppose each one reacted in his way. Don’t ask me. I don’t know. What I know is that since that day when Dad told his family and mum told hers, I became a celebrity. There was ‘Jonathan’ on many lips. There were many cries to heaven for Jonathan. My aunt Charlie went as far as telling everyone of her over 100 Philosophy and Theology classmates in Rome; her Jonathan was passing through a rough time and could they please say some little prayer for him and the family.  My feeling of importance shot up. I am Jonathan and I am world famous.

Mum changed clinic. She simply started going to another. I found it strange. But no matter. I guess a woman like her knows what’s best for her baby. The doctors in the new clinic said it was going to be very difficult, almost impossible. But never again did I hear the words ‘useless’ or ‘needless’ or ‘in vain’. Given that everyone, even my 2 year old sister Leah, was saying a little prayer for me, dad decided to add his grain of sand. He would pat mummy’s stomach many times. And I felt his touch; as if he was holding on to me, asking me to fight, to hold on. But I don’t even know what ‘to fight’ means.

Fast track to New Year’s Eve. I was now 28 weeks old. Mum was going to see the doctors again and Dad had patted me to say that he was coming of course. The doctors mentioned February 13th and added ‘an hour more or less’. Dad, I suppose, sent the message to his extended group. My aunt repeated it to all her classmates – a cry for help for Jonathan. Help for his family.

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Baby Jonathan and his brother

Today finally arrived. But it wasn’t February 13th as planned. I couldn’t wait. I had to come now or never. At 6.40am, I was born into earth. After the quick clean up by the nurses, everyone rushed in. Mum was weak but smiling. Dad too. But there was this tinge of sadness in the corners of his eyes. Mum’s dad was there. Dad’s parents too.

They all wanted to hold me, to cuddle me. I couldn’t understand. I could only rest in the intensity of their love. As if they could transform every one of those minutes into days, into years. Imagine, 60 years instead of 60 minutes. But what am I saying – I don’t even know what a ‘year’ is.

They took pictures with me. I was truly a star. They wanted to keep these memories of their baby and their brother and their grandchild. I was slipping away. But I didn’t know it. I was just content to be in the arms of Tess, Dan and Leah; their arms joined together to hold me, their brother. Time pass quickly. Time passed quickly. Mum called for her baby. And she cuddled me with dad on the bed beside her. I was still slipping, going by the minute. Leaving, leaving…, and still leaving; until the 60th minute when I left. Mum’s dad broke into tears.

—–

Jonathan died at 7:40am today, 60 minutes after he was born, surrounded by family and by love. They dressed him in a white dress with tiny wings attached. Their little angel! And they mourned him, each in his / her way, but together, closely bound by this baby.

Thanks to Charlie for the privilege to share in this story. 2 weeks ago, I practically wept over the death of Catherine, who died from infections after giving birth. She was a total stranger to me. I stumbled on her story on Facebook and wept with the knowledge that she died in an attempt to give life. Women shouldn’t die in the life giving process.

My sorrow was dealt another blow when I read Akwaeke’s story of removing her uterus for reasons which I would never have imagined. Dear Akwaeke, I wish you a quick and complete recovery from your surgery; and a light in your path of discerning your place in this world. I’m with you!

Then came the good news of the birth of my niece. My sister posted pictures on Facebook, thanking our dear mother for having gone to help with the baby. I appreciate my sister. I love the baby. My senses have been sharpened by sorrow. I value this new act of generosity by my sister and her husband. Never again will I take it for granted. My sister added – ‘many more grandchildren on the way’. How beautiful.

Dear Rebecca and Simon, parents of Jonathan, we are with you. And Jonathan too. From heaven. He’ll help you adjust, recover; help you to live through those moments when you’ll want your child in your arms, your new born baby. When your breasts will be full with milk, ready to feed your Jonathan who now has no need of it. You won’t ask yourself if it was worth it – you already answered that question 11 weeks ago when you said yes to Jonathan, to Him. Thank you so much for keeping Jonathan. Thank you so much for giving him the 60 minutes chance. Thank you. Thank you.

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Musings

Grief – struck!

Victoria Lindbergh Rizzi | Awestruck Catholic Social Network: My God, why! That’s what I want to scream. I want to break OUT, running and crying, letting the tears loose. But I am speechless. Petrified. My lips tremble with the sobs that won’t come out. Why? Why do I have to know someone and then he goes. He dies. Cut off in the noon of his life. His name is Mauricio, the brother of a very dear friend. He was an architect. Was. I recoil as I write it. Was! Everything ended. He was going to get married. He came visiting last summer with his fiancée. He was making progress in leaps and bounds in his career. He was a healthy young man, lively, jovial. I was looking forward to the wedding; then to the announcements of each of their children as they arrive. Mamma mia!

The flurry has left my fingers. The words trickle now, one at a time. But the dumbness has also left my soul. I am not running. I stare at my screen, calm! I am trying to understand it knowing that I will never understand. But I have my Christian faith to hold on to. It consoles me to remember that Mauricio is a Christian. He lived his short time on earth very happy to make God happy. I have prayed a responsorial for his soul. I’m praying for his family and friends who have to deal with the shock and the loss and the gap, the big big gap. I’ll continue praying for Mauricio; in this wonderful communion of saints which we live in the Catholic Church, we are never alone, living or dead.  And I know that he’s happy, he’s in heaven. Because happiness after death is for those who know, who knew, how to be truly happy on earth.

I have to go. My friend needs me at her side more than never before.

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Little things

When you suffer …

Living as I do in the mire of a crossroad of many cultures, my plan was to blog about ‘true polyglots’. That will come later.

‘I just read’ a man’s heart-pouring account of his wife’s death by euthanasia.

I started this post some weeks ago but couldn’t continue. I felt so heart – broken for his loss, for his bitterness and even more for their outlook on life. I’m back at it again.

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When we suffer, we can either wallow in the valley of the shadow of intense, indescribable pain; or we can take one little step out to the light and appreciate the flowers and fruits of our suffering. I’m back to finish this post because I read Jonie Smith‘s story where she describes in broad strokes how she takes this great little step every day. It’s  not an easy step for being tiny and here the Christian faith helps as it is helping Joni.

Through these challenges, God gave me an awareness of what so called ‘mercy killings {Euthanasia} were stealing away from the sick and elderly. The ‘culture of death’ mentality was trying to steal us away from an intimate walk with Jesus Christ. His loving sacrifice that he had waiting for those who suffer. This world wants to steal our peace, our joy and our uniting our sufferings with His. This world wants to steal our chance to love like Jesus. Jesus taught me what it was to ‘offer it up’. All we need to do is to ask Him to pour out His grace on our brothers and sisters and to offer up our pain and illnesses, our disappointments as well as our joys for the sake of others. God loves us so much that He wants us to share in His loving sacrifice of His Cross. The instrument of His Love and grace, His peace and life in us. The mystery of his Most Sacred Heart.

If this sounds like Greek to you, I’m available to explain further. Just let me know, ok! Meanwhile enjoy this from  ‘The Father’s tale’.

It struck me recently that God wrote a large story in the lives of the people we read about in Scriptures, and it was usually for reasons beyond their understanding. He did so for several purposes, but one of them was to teach and illumine others who would not be born until thousands of years after the events. Is it possible that He is ‘writing’ our lives as well, for purposes we cannot begin to understand, and perhaps may never understand in our lifetimes? Our inexplicable sufferings, especially the blows of injustice, may be far more valuable to other souls than we can now guess. Thus the necessity of thanking Him for all our trials, adversity, unjust sufferings, because the fruit of these may be of incalculable worth, though hidden from our eyes.

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Fiction, Uncategorized

Don Giulio

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Don Giulio’s favourite

 

Tell my son’ said the body lying on the bed. The words spilled out with all the force she could muster ‘tell my son if you can, that I have cancer. That I will like to know how he is before I die’

Don Giulio stepped out of the clinic gate, a new responsibility on his shoulders. He was the chaplain of a prison in the south of Italy; a prison that housed many members of the Italian mafia. Including a boy, a young man of twenty – three. Of him, Don Giulio knew only two facts. That he was like the other mafias whose goal was power and only power; And, that he had a mother who was on her deathbed in Rome.

‘Things will sort themselves out’ he mused to himself, his over-rational self as he liked to call it. How best to communicate the message to the boy was his worry. ‘Tell my son…’ the dying woman had said. ‘Dear Holy Spirit of God’ Don Giulio prayed ‘may this son listen!’

 

The boy was weeping inside his whitewashed cell. ‘I have no mother’ he had screamed, banging the door in Don Giulio’s face. Yet, he was weeping. Don Giulio remained standing outside, listening to it. It was saying for the umpteenth time that the thread that connects man to the Good has not and will never be lost, whatever happens.

Footsteps. Sounds not of weeping. A prison warden with his keys dangling from his hips. Don Giulio beckoned to him and pointed to the door screen.

Now Don Giulio could see him. The boy without a mother was still crying.

‘You do have a mother’ Don Giulio maintained ‘How fortunate you are! Without her, you will not be a man’.

‘Yes, a man’ he said, as the young man’s bowed head jerked up and back down again. ‘You won’t be a man and much less, a mafia’.

And he stepped out of this other door, one less responsibility off his broad shoulders.

‘Now let the young man cry’ it said to him. There will be time for conversation later.

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