In one the earliest memories I have of my mom, I am bundled into a church pew with my siblings, tucked between her and my dad, my brothers and I making as much noise as humanly possible for four tiny children in an extremely resonant church. The cheerios and board books, evidently not sufficient for quelling our childhood energy, lay scattered through the pew and on the floor. My mom, in an attempt to quiet us, began tracing letters onto our backs with her fingertip: You have to guess what I’m writing, hush! You won’t be able to focus if you’re talking. I felt the letters M-O-M-L-O-V-E-S-C-L-A-R-E inscribed on my back. My pride in guessing the secret message distracted me from whatever argument I had been maintaining with my brothers, and when the time came, we “went on a walk” to accompany my parents as they received communion.
I have been thinking about my mom a lot lately. Of course, I think about her every day, even more so now since she passed away two years ago, but this time in particular is special at Clonard Parish: it’s the season of remembering. As All Soul’s Day draws near, we are busy preparing for our Remembrance Service, in which the families of all those who have died over the past year are invited to pray, sing, and remember their loved ones together. This ministry of remembering is one that Clonard does exceptionally well; at every single Mass, daily Masses included, the names of all those whose anniversary of death occurs are read aloud, and the congregation responds in prayer. Eternal rest grant unto them O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May they rest in peace. Amen. Every day.
This art of remembering, of saying their names aloud, of stating: You were here, a part of our community, and we love and miss you is so deeply ingrained in our faith. The structure of the Mass itself is a memorial; we gather in memory of Jesus’ death and resurrection, leaning on ritual and tradition as we try to process the mystery a full two thousand years later.
The first meeting of Clonard Parish’ Bereavement Group ministry took place last week. It was a beautiful, intimate setting in which we discussed grief in the context of seasons, and how there is no straight path through loss. Grief is not a rational process, and it never goes away, though it does change. As my mom was dying, she would often talk about how close this world is to the next; It’s just a membrane, really. I’m just going to the other side of the veil. At the time, this insistence made me angry to no end. There is a qualitative, metaphysical difference between being here and there, I thought. How can you say it’s so close?
Now, however, I think I’m beginning to understand what she meant. I see her everywhere. I hear her in the lilt of my frustrated “JesusMaryandJoseph,” (a bad habit I attribute to her), in the way I replace every masculine pronoun in the Mass responses with “God” as she did, in the voices of the children playing next door to our office. Sometimes I even catch her profile in the mirror out of the corner of my eye. I feel that fingertip tracing her love on my back every day while living in community; when Kati checks in about a story I had shared over orientation, when Andrew remembers my sensitivity to smell and asks, “How did the kitchen smell this morning? I cleaned it last night,” in conversations with Kelly Anne about grad school and personality study, when Shane lets me chat with him about music and books in French, when Katherine shares about her family and sends her support from Dublin, in Maddie’s gracious acceptance of my external processing and occasional need to “have a good cry,” as my mom would say. I even hear my mom in the way the tea ladies ask if I have a boyfriend yet (Ah don’t worry about that, you don’t need anyone tying you down at this time in your life).
She is as close to me now as my own thoughts, but that doesn’t mean I don’t miss her. I miss her every day. I miss the way she would hug me, shuffle shuffle shuffle towards me, usually making some sort of cooing noise, then hold me for an uncomfortable amount of time, sometimes even counting out loud: You know you’re supposed to hug people for 20 seconds a day? (it changed almost every time. 12? 20? 30? Who knows) We’re only at 10, hang on a sec. (Grumpy high school me pretended to hate this). Grief has no end date, but remembering her, telling stories about her, brings her closer to the present.
I am so grateful for the way that Clonard Parish loves those who have passed over to the other side of that veil. This community has encouraged me to embrace my grief while also reminding me of that fingertip which traces my mom’s love in my life.
