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Like many
Americans and people around the world, I watched with horror as the
tragedy unfolded on the TV screens: thousands of innocent lives
destroyed by a senseless act of violence. A sense of loss, pain, and
sorrow permeated my heart for days afterwards. I heard wrenching
stories of the widows and of heroic acts of the perished husbands, and
I cried with their heartbreak. As I cried with them, I also cried for
myself. The loss and sorrow somehow seemed familiar.
When I lost my
country twenty-six years ago, I felt similar pain and sorrow. For the
first time, I realized that I had not mourned losing that part of my
life which I left behind. I walked away from the place I was born and
grew up with my family and my friends elsewhere. For twenty some
years, I walked on the same streets, shopped at the same stores,
attended the same church, lived in the same house...I left all that
behind in matter of hours. It was so sudden that I didn’t even have a
chance to say good-bye to my father who was out of town at that time.
I later heard that he broke down tears the next day he came home. His
nest was now empty. His children dispersed in the whirlwind. I never
saw him again after that; he passed away a few years later.
As I listened to
stories of heroism, of selfless sacrifices, of life perished, and
watched images of the mountain of rubbles of the World Trade Center
and of the burning wing of the Pentagon, helplessness mounted in my
heart. I wish I could be there to help, but even if I was there to
help, what could I do to help alleviate the pain and the loss? How
could I console those who lost loved ones? My heart could not harbor
enough of the pains. My arms could not embrace all the little ones who
lost their parents. I couldn’t attempt an explanation for such evil
acts.
The memorial mass
offered by our parish helped tremendously. God was always the weight
underneath my boat that kept it from capsizing in the stormy ocean of
life. If anything happened to me, I ran first to the altar. But the
heavy heart remained with me. On Sunday, it was my turn to be
Eucharistic minister. I cherished this privilege because as I handed
out the body of Christ, I felt like I slipped Christ into each heart,
each household. As usual, I performed my job hopefully and
reverently, acknowledging each person and child who came to receive
Christ.
I noticed that
some people wore the red-white-blue ribbons which reminded me of the
tragedy. Perhaps some of these individuals lost their loved ones or
knew someone who did, in the events of the past weeks. Their pain
must be deeper, and because of that, I handed out the consecrated
hosts with added earnest.
As I drove home
after mass, tears suddenly streamed down my cheeks, and I cried like a
baby. It dawned on me that though helpless, I was allowed the
privilege to slip Christ to those in need. Only He could do what I
couldn’t do, be where I couldn’t be. Only He could console and heal.
Only He could give strength and courage anywhere, all the time.
Not only would He
be there to console and to heal, but through my faith, He allowed me
to be there with Him as well. When I received him, I received the
whole human family into me. It was the same flesh and the same blood
that flowed through my veins. It was the same body that we shared.
Through Him, I would be one with my human family in their moments of
darkness. He allowed me to be in His heart, and He, in mine. So when
He consoled the grief-stricken people, I would be there with Him, and
as a result, I felt consoled. When He embraced the little ones, I,
too, would be embraced. When He listened to their moans and cries, I
too, would be listened and be understood.
Through the
Eucharist, the Church taught that God gave me everything: His
divinity, His body, His blood, and especially, His soul - the soul of
the Father who also lost His only Son. He was always in love with his
Son. On the night of betrayal, it was shattered to pieces. Through
the abandonment of His Son, He shared with the human family the
loneliness, the sorrow, the pain, and the loss in the face of evil.
He understood my loss and shared my pain. But He had hope for me, not
only for me but also for the nation and for the whole world, because
His Son had won over darkness: “he had trampled death by death.”
I continued to
cry with the widows and the orphans, but in my heart, I knew now that
God was there. He was always there to share with us the darkest
moments of our human and personal history. His presence gave us hope,
and His grace would lead us through.
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