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My cousin Alex
died the week before Christmas past. He was 14. I visited his grave
today on my way home from work. A few feet away from his plot is
where we buried my other cousin, John, the year before that. He was
21. I pass the cemetery where they are buried twice everyday, to and
from my office building. It hits me harder some days than others.
Today was one of those days. I wept for all that could have been, for
all that had been. But mostly I wept for us, for those of us they
left behind. I once heard a priest say funerals are not for the dead,
but for the living. I suppose burial plots are the same way. I try
to leave something for each of my cousins when I go and visit them, a
drawing or a flower or a poem. I guess it’s an exchange. They left a
part of themselves in my heart and I hope I can return the favor,
though I know I cannot.
It’s an odd
thing, going to graves. I know they aren’t really there; but it’s
better than sitting in my room and talking to the wall. I do that too
sometimes. But let’s just keep that between you and me. Where I talk
to them most often, though, is at church. That, I think, is the best
place of all to hold a conversation with my cousins. It’s a wonderful
thing being Catholic, knowing that not even death can sever the bonds
of love that tie us together. I can talk to Alex and John and ask for
their help in my times of trial and share with them my moments of
joy. I think about the possibility of having my own personal saints
up in heaven praying for me before the face of almighty God and I have
to smile. Yes, I do weep sometimes when I think of the things my
cousins could have been but weren’t, but then I think about all that
they are and will be, of the wonder and awe they must be experiencing
in the presence of our Lord. Then I think I am the one that is short
changed. They have begun their new lives while I am still working
through my present one.
In the world we
live food gets served to you in minutes while you wait in your car
anxious to already be someplace else; planes soar thousands of miles
in hours and the internet brings information to your fingertips in
seconds. Sometimes the only things that make me stop and reflect are
death or tragedy. Ironic I suppose, because that is the real
tragedy. Like a large flashing red light, they call to me to take
stock of my life, to bring up that dusty list of what I hold dear from
the back of my mind. I blow off the dust and read the list, not
always finding things as I might like them. I know I am all too
familiar with making resolutions that last the moment, but float back
into the little compartment of my mind that is reserved for things
that I’d like to do but are never realized.
I have been to
too many funerals of young people in my life. I’ve lost count of the
people under 25 that I’ve had to say goodbye to. And at each and
every one I can see the same questions reflected in the faces and
tears of the people around me that plague my heart. God, this is not
fair. This is not right. He was only 14. He had so much life to
live. What did he do to deserve this? Is there a God? How can God
be good if He allows this to happen? And ultimately, why?
Each of these
questions always brings me back to a single answer, a single word, or
should I say The Word. “And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us,
full of grace and truth” (Jn 1:14). This Word, this answer, that God
spoke before the beginning of time became flesh, took upon Himself my
broken humanity, healed my wounds, and returned my dignity. He gave
me the answer to my suffering by suffering. He endured the pain of
torture, the ridicule of His people, the abandonment of His friends to
teach me how to love. And in the end the answer to suffering and to
death is again one word, Love.
I turn to His
Words, the bible, and find a man named Paul with a profound insight
into this answer of Love. He tells me in fact to rejoice in my
sufferings. While the entire world tells me to run away from any and
all suffering, my faith calls me to embrace it. Why such a seemingly
paradoxical idea, I ask Paul. Because, Paul replies, suffering
produces Love. Jesus through His immense Love made suffering holy.
As He opened His hands to be nailed to the cross, He beckoned to me to
join Him in making my sufferings holy. In His very life, He showed me
that the way to holiness and true Love was through suffering.
Love, I have
learned, is nothing less than the dying of myself for another. Oh
sure, I can jump in front of gun for my loved ones and die for them in
the heroic instant, but moments like these are romantic dreams that I
will probably never be able to live. They are, for the most part much
easier than the dying St. Paul writes about and the dying that Christ
calls me to, that of the thousand daily deaths. Of forgetting about
buying that hamburger and putting an extra five dollars in the
collection basket on Sundays, or spending time with my parents when
I’d rather be with my friends, of getting up a little early and going
to daily mass, and regular confession. It’s about holding my tongue
and instead spending an extra 10 minutes in prayer praying for the
people that hurt me. It is the swallowing of pride and saying I’m
sorry, I was wrong. This is the Love that I am called to, the Cross
that I must pick up.
In a world that
tells me to take care of myself, look out for number one, Christ asks
me to forget about myself, to forget what I am going through and see
the aches of my brothers and sisters. Like the poor widow who gave
her very last penny, I am called to suffer for those around me, to
love them without bound, without end.
Yes, sometimes
the suffering I endure is not of my own choice. And yet, these I
think are the real moments of grace. At the funeral of my cousin
Alex, I watched my uncle bury his son and saw the face of our holy
mother, Mary, as she buried her son. And all she ever said was “let
it be done according to thy will”. I wonder if I would have said that
as they nailed my son to a wooden beam. I watched as the individuals
slowly said their goodbyes as the coffin was lowered into the ground,
and saw the image of Christ in every one of them. I saw the hand of
God opening to each of them offering them the opportunity to turn
their suffering into holiness. I wonder how many of them accepted. I
wonder if I have.
Suffering is an
opportunity. I can either become callus, cynical, and selfish. Or I
can be what God created me to be, holy. I can embrace my sufferings,
my hurts, my pains, and offer them for the world’s sanctification. I
can turn away from myself and Love those around me. I can put my
broken heart on view for the world to see to heal those around me. I
can become Christ-like. I can become the child that my Father calls
me to be.
Suffering,
whether in small doses or large quantities are God’s call to me to
forget about myself and death is an announcement that I must answer
for my life. St. John writes that God is Love; and Love is not
self-centered, it does not think about taking, only about giving. If
I am to live eternally with God, in His all-consuming Love, I too must
learn to be selfless. Suffering is God’s gift to me to teach me to
forget about myself and to take measure of how well I Love, because of
all the things that last, Love is the greatest.
I try to spend
time with my cousins every week. Considering that there are 26 of us,
just on my mother’s side, it’s quite a task. Perhaps it’s 27 or 28
now, you know how Vietnamese families are. We play football, legos,
and of course video games. Sometimes we go roller-skating or go for
ice cream. On certain days I see the faces that are missing; I think
about the games we used to play, the trouble we would get into. It
only makes me sad for a second though; I know they are awaiting the
rest of us, ready to welcome us into the kingdom of our Father.
That’s another thing that makes me smile, knowing that I have family
waiting for me. I think about what our family has gone through, of
the struggles and trials, and there is a great hope in me. Whatever
life throws at us, as St. Paul writes, in everything God works for
good for those who believe in Him.
I think I have
found the road and taken the first timid steps. Will you join me?
Love, you know, is never alone.
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