Men are not too good at remembering anniversaries, which are essentially relationships. Women, naturally relational, are much better at it. Remembering the day of someone’s birth or wedding or death is an act of communion with a person, transcending time and space.
Today is the third anniversary of my mother’s death, and the women of the parish began reminding me about a week ago. One arranged a Mass for her today; one reminded me by email yesterday; this morning another woman gave me a drawing of my mother and me that her daughter had sketched from an old photograph.
I’ve been offering my rosaries and Masses for Mom since she died on September 26, 2021, and for Dad since he died on May 21, 2023. Last February I was on a beach at sunset and sat on a dune to pray a rosary for my mother. In my teenage years, Mom and I would go to the garden after dinner to watch the sun go down over South Mountain while we prayed the rosary. After finishing my rosary at the beach, I strongly sensed Mom speaking to me. “Thank you, Joe, for all the Masses and rosaries. I don’t need them anymore, but I give them out to those who do, especially for your father.”
At Mass today we begin the Book of Ecclesiastes, the Wisdom of Qoheleth. “Vanity of vanities, says Qoheleth, vanity of vanities! All things are vanity!” He means that nothing on earth lasts, and nothing here below has any real substance apart from the Good God who created it. “All rivers go to the sea,” he continues, “yet never does the sea become full. To the place where they go, the rivers keep on going.” Life is a river that flows on with or without us, taking us to the place we must end up, to “the sea,” a symbol of the infinite and the eternal. We came from God, and we are returning to God.
My mother patiently sustained various physical ailments throughout her life, like many who went through the Great Depression. For example, after my grandfather’s business failed in 1933, he drank himself to death, and the family was plunged into penury. Mom’s widowed mother could not afford to provide milk for the table, so my mother suffered osteoporosis most of her life. During one particularly difficult illness, I asked Mom if she found her life too difficult. “Certainly not!” she exclaimed. “Life is about much more than health!” On the eve of her last day on earth she said “they tell me I’m dying, but I sure don’t feel like I’m dying!”
Mom loved St. Thérèse of the Child Jesus. In 1997 I took a large group of young people to Thérèse’s basilica in Lisieux, where she is buried. At one altar a photograph of her in death quotes her last words: Je ne meurs pas; j’entre dans la vie. “I am not dying; I am entering into life.” I distinctly smelled roses at that altar, and I lost my fear of death on that day. In July I was back in Lisieux with a group, and again I smelled the roses as I passed her tomb. There she is again! I thought to myself.
My hope is say the same words my mother said as she lay dying: I sure don’t feel like I’m dying!
Today is the third anniversary of my mother’s death, and the women of the parish began reminding me about a week ago. One arranged a Mass for her today; one reminded me by email yesterday; this morning another woman gave me a drawing of my mother and me that her daughter had sketched from an old photograph.
I’ve been offering my rosaries and Masses for Mom since she died on September 26, 2021, and for Dad since he died on May 21, 2023. Last February I was on a beach at sunset and sat on a dune to pray a rosary for my mother. In my teenage years, Mom and I would go to the garden after dinner to watch the sun go down over South Mountain while we prayed the rosary. After finishing my rosary at the beach, I strongly sensed Mom speaking to me. “Thank you, Joe, for all the Masses and rosaries. I don’t need them anymore, but I give them out to those who do, especially for your father.”
At Mass today we begin the Book of Ecclesiastes, the Wisdom of Qoheleth. “Vanity of vanities, says Qoheleth, vanity of vanities! All things are vanity!” He means that nothing on earth lasts, and nothing here below has any real substance apart from the Good God who created it. “All rivers go to the sea,” he continues, “yet never does the sea become full. To the place where they go, the rivers keep on going.” Life is a river that flows on with or without us, taking us to the place we must end up, to “the sea,” a symbol of the infinite and the eternal. We came from God, and we are returning to God.
My mother patiently sustained various physical ailments throughout her life, like many who went through the Great Depression. For example, after my grandfather’s business failed in 1933, he drank himself to death, and the family was plunged into penury. Mom’s widowed mother could not afford to provide milk for the table, so my mother suffered osteoporosis most of her life. During one particularly difficult illness, I asked Mom if she found her life too difficult. “Certainly not!” she exclaimed. “Life is about much more than health!” On the eve of her last day on earth she said “they tell me I’m dying, but I sure don’t feel like I’m dying!”
Mom loved St. Thérèse of the Child Jesus. In 1997 I took a large group of young people to Thérèse’s basilica in Lisieux, where she is buried. At one altar a photograph of her in death quotes her last words: Je ne meurs pas; j’entre dans la vie. “I am not dying; I am entering into life.” I distinctly smelled roses at that altar, and I lost my fear of death on that day. In July I was back in Lisieux with a group, and again I smelled the roses as I passed her tomb. There she is again! I thought to myself.
My hope is say the same words my mother said as she lay dying: I sure don’t feel like I’m dying!
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