Thanksgiving?
Yes, I had a good Thanksgiving dinner with family back in Pennsylvania; however, three things did make me question this special time–to give thanks. The day afterwards I called a good buddy of mine to do some traipsing on the local rail-trail. I found out that he was considering going to the hospital when I had called him for the walk. He never, ever, has indicated a desire to visit a doctor, let alone a hospital emergency ward. Strong pain was present in his abdomen and for me, there was no question, I was going to take him to the hospital.
I spent most of the day there. It was sunny and warm, a great late fall afternoon, perfect for walking, hiking, traipsing. A mentally unstable woman kept very loudly singing her own version of “The Star Spangled Banner” in her room in the ward. It was good to spend time with my buddy and chat a bit, in between the alarms of pain he experienced. It was good to talk a bit with his girlfriend, even though we were trying to figure out the possible diagnosis for the one we both love in our own ways. Bad food? Sprained stomach mussel? Liver? Kidney stone? Ruptured spleen? An incipient alien like the one from the movie, “Alien”?
After two big tests the diagnosis was inconclusive. He still has pain. I still worry even though it’s going on two weeks now.
During the time of my first phone call to him, he had another phone call. (As I am talking to him about going to the hospital he says, “Ah hold on, there’s another call…” Blimey man.) It was from a friend of mine, a relative of his. The father of a mutual friend of ours had died Thanksgiving night. I knew that my mutual friend had taken him into his busy household to take care of him. I knew that things weren’t looking good for him. I knew that there was some closeness between the two.
I took a day off and came back up for the funeral a few days later. I couldn’t make it to any of the viewings even though I wanted to. Some of me was afraid to, but I would have if I could. The viewing in Martinsburg for a friend of mine who died in 1997 still seems so damn fresh for me. I did one of her eulogies.
The death of my mum is still very strong within me, but not just her death. It was the whole painful period beforehand of watching a loved one deteriorate before you that was painful for me, and likewise, so damn fresh still.
During the funeral, I couldn’t help but to think of those powerful mediations of the Stations of the Cross by Sister Judith Brower of the Benedictine Monestary of St. Gertrude, in Idaho. I use those when I lead that devotional during Lent. I always choke up when I read some of those. Two in particular kept hitting me in the brain:
Station 6: Veronica wipes the face of Jesus
Jesus, teach me what it meant to have Veronica wipe your face with her veil:
To know the concern of someone who feels your agony.
To know her inability to offer much help—and her desperate need to try.
To be touched to the heart by her willingness to bear part of herself to offer you comfort
To leave an image of yourself in her eyes as your gratitude.
Jesus, teach me what it means—for Veronica to wipe my face.Station 8: Jesus meets the women
Jesus, teach me what it meant for you to meet these weeping women:
To see them crying for you and for themselves and for their dreams.
To know their agony at their inability to do anymore but offer their love.
To be unable to offer them consolation.
To somehow console them.
Jesus, teach me what it means—to meet weeping (wo)men.
I hate the feeling of helplessness as someone you love very much lays before you, and you or anyone cannot do much if anything to change the inevitable. I do not regret that time, as hard as it was for me, for being with my mum back in 2000. The death of a friend in Martinsburg in ’97 came as a horrible surprise. Even Christmas itself brings back strong memories of my dad who died at home when I was 8. It was on December 20th.
All that I can say is “I know”, and I was going to be there for my friend for his dad’s funeral.
Being back home usually erupts in periods of reminiscence: the schools that I attended, the places where I hung out, waiting for buses at certain corners, places that helped form me. During my time in the hospital while chatting with my buddy’s significant-other, I heard word of the possible closing of my original church, St. Peter’s.
It doesn’t look like much from the outside—a pretty much unadorned red-brown brick, soot covered structure with Victorian neo-gothic hints. Inside, you’re in a mini cathedral with vaulted ceilings, pillars, a two story marble high altar, simple but elegant. Despite some attempts over the years to “bring it up-to-date with the spirit of Vatican II”, it still maintains much of its character from when it was built in the 1870’s. My first experiences of Christianity, both good and some not so good, where in that building. Christmases there were always magical. To this day, I can’t find a “Midnight Mass” anywhere that equals that experience. (With the exception of the Slovak Catholic church that later became my parish as well, just one block away. But it is part of “the exception”.) “No! They can’t close that place! It’s the mother church to the area!
I went to what might be the last Sunday to the place. Sure, they’re going to close it up for the winter. There are now three churches that make up one combined parish, including the aforementioned Slovak parish.
Originally it was four churches but they tore one building down. It was a perfect example of ancient basilican style that had murals painted by German Benedictine monks. The place always smelled of candles and incense even though such wasn’t used in there for quite some time. The city lost a gem back then. If my church won’t open, the city and posterity will lose another one. However, the crown in which the gems are held rotted years ago. Such is anything in the “rust belt”.
My first school is gone. My second school is gone. The places I hung out at are gone. Now this. I’m still not over the renovations they did to the Slovak church back in the late 1980’s. (Yes, in this way I am a conservative of the worst sort perhaps.)
Change is inevitable. Why does change seem to be so damn negative though? Loved ones die. Loved things get lost or torn down. Even new love sours. Prices of things go up and rarely, if ever, come down. That is my outlook at present.
I know that I’m overdue for doing a Ďakujem for expressing thankfulness. I’m sure I can come up with positive notions of change. At this moment right now, it’s tough. I and friends of mine are getting old, loved ones have passed on, loved places and things are lost or being destroyed. God, please keep me from being one of those old foggies who sit and look outside a window at life and say, “I don’t like it out there…, it ain’t the way it used to be…” And then they hide.
And then we have Darfur, there’s the mess of Iraq, and then there are folks who microwave their babies or use them as clubs to beat their boyfriends, and you could get shot about 50 times and killed by police for being in the wrong time and place. Maybe I should hide too.
I just want to go to midnight mass in a magical familiar place with some old loved ones. Unfortunately, I know that I’m not alone in this feeling and it is not new, neither shall it be old. (Perhaps more on this later as I work on this).
