When the Saints Go Marching In

In the Christian tradition, November starts with All Saints' Day, followed by All Souls' Day. Days of reflection, time to remember those to whom we look for inspiration and guidance, those who have gone to glory, those we miss dearly.

It's also another reality check.

It's tempting to remember all of the good, to idealize our memories and place our loved ones on pedestals of perfection. We try to put on a veneer, hiding the hardships, airbrushing over the blemishes that were part of the lives we shared with our loved ones.

I have more than a strong suspicion that in the stories that comprise the "Lives of the Saints," we're not getting the full picture. We're getting a snapshot, a moment, even a series of moments, when these individuals made extraordinarily good choices against astounding odds. We're getting recollections of miraculous happenings, signs, extraordinary, exceptional moments that made those who heard them wonder... what was it about this person that made them so special?

Did these individuals lead perfect, sin-free, error-free lives? Did they always say and do exactly the right thing?

I highly doubt it.

As humans, we're flawed. We're imperfect, and we make mistakes. What makes us extraordinary is what we do with our choices when it comes to the trials life hands us.

We recently had a death in the family, a loss of someone who was dearly loved. My Uncle John enjoyed life, sometimes maybe to the extreme, but he also put the needs of others before his own time and time again. He wanted people to be happy, to be comfortable, to be relaxed. He loved children, especially his own and his grandchildren. He did his best to care for my Grandmother, who was determined to live in her own house for as long as she could. He had good friends, who faithfully checked up on them and provided meals when both of them were sick. John struggled with his own health issues, and sadly, complications from his chronic peripheral vascular disease and infection landed him in the ICU and on a vent. Seeing him fighting through the night he wasn't supposed to survive and making small improvements over the next few days as well as the hope my cousin sustained despite hearing how the odds were stacked against her father took me back to another ICU unit, another time, another hope. I didn't want her and her brother to have to bury her father. I didn't want to have to kiss him goodbye and tell him to give Arden a big hug for us. He was only 55. Still too young.

Seeing my Dad, a stolid giant, wipe away tears as he said goodbye to his youngest brother before having to walk down the hallway to the next ICU until to tell my Grandmother (who had taken her own fall, had a mini-stroke and was also transported to the hospital the same day as my Uncle,) that her son had died was beyond sad and surreal. I knew, but I didn't know. No matter what the age, losing a child is beyond the pale.

"It's a blessing," she said.

"Thank God," she said.

And then, she lead us in the Our Father.

My Grandmother has finally accepted the fact that she needs full-time care. Thankfully, once she recovered from the dehydration that made her extremely confused when she was first admitted to the hospital, she regained her sharp long-term memory and was able to clearly state her wishes and make decisions for herself. She's not happy about it, but she knows she can't live at home without someone to assist her. (She mentioned that John is the lucky one. *Sigh.*) She's now in a step-down rehab unit at the Masonic Home where my Aunt (a nurse) works. She will get the care she needs (with my aunt, cousins, and as many of us that can check in on her as possible), but I know her heart isn't in it. She's sad, she's frightened, and she has started to say she needs to get home to clean up a bit and take care of the bills. (My aunt and dad repeatedly reassure her that everything is being taken care of; she won't have to worry about that.) I can only imagine the kinds of thoughts that torment her right now. I can only hope we can surround her with enough love to help her through her transition and her grief. She is strong in so many ways (we're all amazed that with her fall, no bones were broken. Miraculous!) She has been through so much in her 89 years -- World War, struggling for survival, fleeing from Europe while pregnant an caring for a 4-year old, starting a new life in the U.S., learning a new language, working hard for her family.) She's strong beyond my imagination, but...

Losing a child is not as easy to get through as the words of a prayer. I know.

These are the moments we feel powerless, helpless, hapless.

All we can do is try our best to be there. Share life.

Disappearing from the narrative isn't an option.

Ours may not be the perfect story, but it's one of which I'm a proud part. The children will know about their Uncle, their Grandmother, their family history, just as sure as they'll know about their sister. None of them were perfect. All of them are loved.

Our souls are connected, after all.



Arden and her great-Uncle John, September, 2007


And... in what seems like a complete non-sequitur under the circumstances, we hope everyone enjoyed their Halloween celebrations!! We made the most of it!! More importantly, the kids had a blast!