MEL

“Scooch over in your chair to make room for your guardian angel,” I remember an elementary teacher telling the class in a silly manner.  At a Catholic school you learn about your guardian angel at a young age, and I remember it was a topic I was enthralled in.  I’m not sure when I learned the Guardian Angel prayer, but I can tell you as a naturally nervous child I said it A LOT.    

Angel of God, my guardian dear,

To whom God’s love commits me here,

Ever this day be at my side,

To light and guard, to rule and guide.  Amen

As I entered adulthood, I seemed to forget about my guardian angel, praying more to Mary.  Angels seemed more childlike I suppose.  Kind of like an imaginary friend.  In fact, I can’t recall the last time I thought about my guardian angel, or at least a guardian angel other than my daughters. 

In grade school, we were taught that a random chill meant an angel was touching you.  Also, that angels can direct your attention through the use of numbers, such as on a clock. 

I feel my daughters commanding my attention all the time.  I happen to look at the clock and see the time hit 21 almost daily.  The number 21 finds me all over the place, in the license plate on the car ahead of me or on a meal ticket.  Really though angels find all sorts of ways to make connections.  It may be a butterfly in an airport, a song for a friend, or a trampoline filled with feathers.  (Yes, those are specific examples I’m thinking of).  Although on the other side, they are always with us. 

I’m sure we all can reflect on something stupid and dangerous we did in our youth and wonder how we walked away from that situation unscathed.  More specifically, we were saved by an anomaly. 

“How did she not hit her head when she fell?” 

“It’s a miracle you came to the hospital when you did.”    

Angels have the ability to intercede on our behalf.  Although we may never understand why they don’t at times or what prohibits them when we need them.  The point is, maybe our original guardian angels deserve a little more attention. 

It’s interesting how often one’s most prized possessions are that of humble origin.  As I cleaned out my jewelry box the other day, I came across a piece of string tied around a flimsy medallion.  It immediately went into the “keep” pile.  Not for its worth but for what and who it represents, Nurse Catherine. 

Ah Nurse Catherine, aka the sassy, no-nonsense nurse I fell in love with during London’s time in the PICU.  She was with London from the beginning and remembers me like a bull at a gate, full force covering every spare inch of London’s hospital room with religious figures, holy water, and saint relics.  I’ll never forget the moment we made eye contact and I simply said, “I’m a crazy Catholic.”  To which she replied, “Me too.” 

Raised from a fervent Irish Catholic family she had a similar religious background yet she waivered with her faith.  Later she would tell me that she believes I was destined to bring her back to it.  (Ironic since after we met, my faith went a different direction).

Catherine witnessed the roller-coaster ride we lived with London’s time at the PICU and one night sitting in her dining room felt the urge to bring me her last miraculous medal. 

Catherine’s family is from Western Ireland and while visiting, her mother would always insist on praying at the Knock Shrine.  A place where on August 21, 1879, villagers witnessed a heavenly vision of the Blessed Virgin Mary, St. Joseph and John the Evangelist, as well as a Lamb on an altar. 

Catherine remembers attending in a jaded state, taking it all in and stating to her husband, “What a racket.”  (Meaning she was not buying into all this).  Before her husband could respond, Catherine recalls the “cutest little nun” walking over to her daughter, Mary Agnes.  Enthralled with this beautiful little girl, the nun gave Catherine 3 miraculous medal necklaces, one for each of them.  Catherine immediately began to repent for her lack of faith and took this as a sign from above. 

In case you are not familiar with the miraculous medal, the Blessed Mother appeared to St. Catherine Laboure with the design in 1830.  When Mary spoke to Catherine she said, “Have a medal struck upon this model.  Those who wear it will receive great graces, especially if they wear it around the neck.”  Over time it became known as the “Miraculous Medal” as the blessings that Mary promised were showered down on those who wore it.   

 

The first pendant Catherine gave to her cousin with leukemia, the second she gave to a friend with infertility, and she felt I should have the third as I prayed for my miracle. 

Although I did not get the miracle I wanted, Catherine continually reminds me to be grateful that London is not living in pain or with a low quality of life.  She believes that London did not suffer and that they were able to keep her “comfortable” during her PICU time.  This is what she prayed for and what she enlisted the assistance of the “Irish Bittys” in praying for as well. 

Ah the Irish Bittys, those who you might consider the MVP’s of the Rosary.  A group of elderly women so virtuous, they are essentially the number one draft pick for those in need of prayers.  You know, I can’t often picture myself living into old age, but if I do, I aspire to become an Irish Bitty myself one day. 

Since then Catherine has “upgraded” my string necklace to one of higher quality, but I still prefer the original.  Speaking of which, I think it’s time to start wearing it again.    

If anyone else has a miraculous medal story I would love to hear it. 

Before we really get going, I want to get one thing out of the way first:

I DO NOT THINK I AM SPECIAL. 

Since this week’s theme in our Hallow App is “Humility,” this topic only seems fitting. 

I bring this up because one of my biggest pet peeves is people who think they are “special” of sorts.  Those who think that God is rewarding them for their service through their success and lack of pain.  Those that ponder why they waste so much time worrying when God always provides and ultimately makes sure everything is ok.  I’m sorry to tell you that it doesn’t work like that, and you are not special. 

Perhaps I am so jaded on this subject because I remember a very specific time when I thought I was special.  With my perfect baby girl sleeping inside, I tied a ribbon around a tree in honor of a child who had passed.  I felt so lucky to have a healthy child completely ignorant to what was upcoming.  I felt so proud of myself for supporting my community.  I let myself feel special, and I’ll never make that mistake again.    

Since losing our precious baby girls, people have told me of sorts, “You have two children on the other side, that’s so powerful, they will guide you!”  This often leaves me feeling anxious whilst I scramble to think about what my purpose is.  If I do have all this help coming from upstairs and I waste it, what does that say about me?    

 So, I often do pray to my girls to not only lead me in my purpose but to make me cognizant of what they’re leading me towards.  To pay attention, to be open to their signs.  Yesterday when I got the idea to write about this topic, I was saying a decade of the rosary in the car.  Thank you, girls.     

As excited as I was to write again something was in my head telling me not to.    

I have frequently been told through my life that I care too much what other people think.  That proves true here as in my number one reason for not writing is simply my fear of appearing pretentious.  That not only is my writing not good enough, but people will judge me as someone who thinks her not good enough writing IS good enough.  She must really think she’s special! 

During today’s prayer segment, Jim Caviezel spoke about his hesitation to play the role of Jesus in the film, The Passion of the Christ.

“You know, God doesn’t always choose the best, but I realized that he had chosen me.”  Jim Caviezel

That line has helped calm my nerves.  The notion that I am not writing on this topic because I think I am the best, but simply, it’s what I am supposed to do.  Maybe this is what the girls are drawing me towards, maybe its one step in a process of many, and most likely it will never know why.    

Just to reiterate, I still don’t think I’m special, just a girl stress eating potato chips, serving as a vessel for her daughters’ words.  Because after all, I’m not special, but they are.    

Yesterday marked my daughter London’s would be 7th birthday.  My mother-in-law begged me to write something as I did following her death for so long.  The documentary of my grief journey of sorts.  I told myself I didn’t have the time, actually fearing that I no longer have the inspiration.  Although with London’s birthday this year falling just the day before Ash Wednesday, it seemed like a sign of what I should write about. 

There is a conversation my mind repeatedly goes back to.  A woman of faith, a mother in pain asking me how I’ve kept the faith after losing two children now.  I replied with a half-hearted laugh and simply said “I haven’t.”  The statement was part true, part comic relief.

PI know it kills my mother that I no longer go to church, but there have simply been too many times that the readings, the homily have missed the mark.  In turn I leave church angry and spiteful that the one place that should aim towards comforting those most in pain, failed yet again. 

The other day I was told my goddaughter was fighting attending Religious Ed.  In her battle with her parents, she retaliated with a defiant, “Aunt JuJu wouldn’t make me go!”  Hearing this I laughed and said she was probably right.  Half joking, I said I instead would have made her pinky-promise to play Ave Maria at her future wedding, then take her out for a cake-pop while we discussed my own version of religious ed.  Not a bad deal if you ask me! 

The truth is I really WANT to keep my faith.  I am just struggling to find a way in which the church coincides with the entity my pain has morphed me into.  My steadfast devotion was lost when I buried my first daughter.  My catholic school innocence gone.  No longer naïve enough to believe in the power of prayer, at least not the way I originally had. 

So ultimately, this Lent, my goal is to reignite my faith.  As part of Mark Wahlberg’s Hallow App Pray40 Lent Challenge I will write about my daily observance of this religious season.  Not because I think I am special, or an expert or that anyone besides my mother-in-law cares to read it, but because writing is my therapy and my release.  Plus, the pressure of a daily post deadline will keep this procrastinator in check!  Afterall, I do my best work under pressure! 

To be continued…