Saved On The Way Down

"On the way down, I saw You and

I won't forget the way You love me.

On the way down, I almost fell right through, 

but I held onto You."

- Ryan Cabrera, On The Way Down

    Because of my English major nature, I have a tendency to find poetic ways in which to describe myself and my feelings. As I was reading for my classes last week, I felt complete solidarity with Gilgamesh as he traveled through 12 leagues (which is 2.4-4.6 miles long) of darkness and the Puritans who mourned death constantly in their poetry. I began to read The Shack for the second time and felt complete solidarity with Mack's ultimate heartbreak. Often, when I know I need to cry, I compare myself to a bubble of tears getting ready to burst if even the gentlest brushes me with their touch. However, this time, the bubble seemed too weak a comparison. So, I found a better one instead.

    Sometimes I think emotional pain is so much worst than actual, physical pain. However, that could easily be because I have such a high pain tolerance. For a whole week (and I know I am not alone in feeling this way), since Mike's passing, I've felt like an emotional earthquake. I felt that as the minutes go by, I was cracking more and more. I felt like the emotional earthquake was breaking the stability. But it wasn't doing it the quick and painless way, it was taking it's good, old time to break me down. At any moment, I felt like I was going to crack fully and then the tears would just flow without stopping. But I didn't break; not yet.

     My wonderful Daddy (seriously, he IS the best) picked me up from school late Wednesday night after my class ended at ten. The drive home was not like my usual rides home filled with laughter, loud conversation (we're so Italian sometimes) and tons of singing, but rather quiet, dazed and tearful. As we drove, I watched the sky from my window as silent tears flowed down my cheeks. I was almost home in my bed where I could finally let out the sobs I had been holding in all week. Suddenly, my dad told me who would be celebrating the Funeral Mass: our previous pastor, Fr. Larry. I could say nothing but, "Oh great," dreadfully. Just earlier that day I realized that the last time I had cried that hard was almost three years ago when he was transferred out of our parish. I knew instantly that if I even glanced his way at the funeral, I would crack. 

      Within hours I found my stomach churning as I mentally tried to prepare myself for what I was going to have to go through with my family and dear friends. I headed the church to practice the psalm and Ave Maria, songs I knew like the back of my hand. I didn't cry. I went to the funeral home and silent tears fell down my face as I hugged my Parish Family. I went back to church and prayed with the other members of my parish family; shed barely a tear. Mass begin and my heart continued the process of breaking. I realized Mike was a person I never thought I was going to lose. As much as I know that all earthly life comes to an end and everyone dies, he was that strong, fatherly figure who just couldn't die. It seemed impossible. As I sat in the pew barely listening to the first reading, I felt the emotional earthquake starting in full force. I felt sick to my stomach as I said over and over and over again, "Jesus, please. Help me." 

     I walked up the aisle, bowed at the altar, and began to sing the traditional psalm 23. Having sung the familiar verses so many times, I could easily close my eyes and sing from memory. For some reason, closing my eyes made singing so much easier. Perhaps because I couldn't see the beautiful members of my parish family. However, for the last verse, I opened my eyes. I sung so loud and clear and then suddenly, I cracked as I tried to sing, "I shall dwell in the house of the Lord all my days." I was done. I lost my voice in the cracks the earthquake was setting off. The tears exploded, and what would normally make any other person want to runaway and hide, I stood there, listening as my parish family sang what I was meant to sing. When the piano stopped playing, I turned to make my exit off the altar, but suddenly was engulfed in arms so big and loving. Fr. Larry had crossed the altar, pulled me into a giant hug and that's when the sobbing started. You know, sobbing where you can't breathe, the kind of sobbing I described last blog post. Right there, on the altar, wrapped in a giant hug, I sobbed. 

     He had always been the one who made everything else make sense. He was that crazy uncle that I just loved and loved. He made fun of me playfully, knew when he had to listen, made everything wrong that ever happened seem ok and always, always, always stood up for me. When I found out he was being transferred, I cried so bad for so many days. I couldn't believe he was being taken away from us. And yet, things were ok for a while once he left. He kept in touch, called me every so often to see how school was going, to see how the family was, you know, casual. Then life got busy for him, and life got busier for me, and until yesterday, it had been almost a year since I talked to him. Now that's not to say I didn't think of him or pray for him, but I almost came to the peace of knowing things would never be the same and the distance was growing. Yet, there he was, holding me in the tight teddy bear hug as I sobbed over the loss of our friend. 

      As my Daddy read the second reading with his strong voice, Fr. Larry sat with me and told me how good it was to cry, how healthy it was, and if I didn't cry, he'd be worried I didn't care, that I had lost the loving sensitivity I always had, that he loved. Within a few minutes, the earthquake had happened, the cracks were opened, the tears had flowed out and he had poured in the cement in the cracks to put me back together. It was literally like he hugged the pieces back into place. He cared enough to break away from the traditional priest stereotypes so many times, and this time was no exception. You see, I was headed down, down, down, into the cracks of a deep sadness, but He saved me by sending someone who always seemed to have saved me before. I am so blessed to know not only beautiful sisters and religious, but also some kick butt, sincerely caring, superhero style priests!

      As I've told many who've asked today, things are still going to be hard; how can they not be? However, I've had closure, I'm at peace and I've been put back together. I can't thank all of you enough for all the prayers you've said for my Parish family and for me. The spiritual support is immense. I truly am so blessed to know such great people. Especially those who are willing to save me on my way down.