This is one of a series of chapters from my book about life with our special-needs daughter, Catherine.
Part 7 - Today’s Gospel Reading
I arrived at
St. Catharine Catholic Church in Bexley, OH a little after the morning Mass. My brother, Fr. William Hahn, was waiting patiently for me in the church sacristy. Together we made our way from the sacristy through the cross-shaped church to a side altar dedicated to the Blessed Mother, only stopping to genuflect before the tabernacle.
Some mass attendees knelt in various “arms” of the church silently uttering prayers or telling their beads as the old folks used to call it. The soft glow of sunlight through the stained-glass windows gave the stone church a warm look and feel. These parishioners and visitors alike knelt in prayer with the Eucharistic Lord pouring grace upon their souls. They were, for a moment, tabernacles not of gold but of flesh and blood.
“
Are you ready?,” my brother asked in a whisper with a gentle smile.
I replied nervously, “
As ready as I’ll ever be.”
The question was a complex one. Was I ready to receive the Lord of the Universe under the appearance of bread and wine during this private Mass at this side altar? Was I ready to, like those now quietly making their way out from the warm womb of the Church where they had been nourished and into the harsh but beautiful world, was I ready to become a tabernacle of flesh and blood? Who could fully be ready for that? Who was worthy of that?
The question was actually two questions or at least a question on two levels. Was I ready to begin the journey of heaven and earth at Mass? Was I ready to begin the journey of a life with Catherine? Both demanded an answer. Both were about to happen, today.
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| Nicole and Becket in 2016 |
On the evening previous, May 1st, 2008, I drove Nicole to Grant Hospital in downtown Columbus. The doctor wanted her there the night before so they could monitor both her and Catherine as we prepared for her delivery on the following day.
By now, at the time of this writing, I’ve seen my wife go through this process of preparing for the birth of a child 8 times. Eight times I’ve seen her strip down and put on those lovely, elegant hospital gowns. Eight times I’ve seen her stuck with needles, prodded by strangers, and push new life into this world. Each time I stand helpless, in awe of her and the power God has given her. Eight times I’ve felt unworthy to even be in her presence. Eight times I’ve wept in vicarious pain. Eight times I’ve wept tears of joy.
Catherine was only 37 weeks but considered full-term. Her growth had slowed tremendously and the doctors felt that her best chance for survival was to be delivered so that they could begin addressing her conditions. They would begin administering Pitocin slowly the night before and then increase it throughout the night into the next day. Nicole lay in the dimly lit hospital room drowsing in and out of a restless sleep, grasped between contractions, as I knelt before the altar in St. Catharine’s less than 5 miles away. We tried to keep God in mind and pray that this day His will be done.
Father Hahn had stayed at St. Catharine’s rectory the night before with a priest friend of his. He was here in Columbus to pray with and for Nicole, Catherine, and me. I’m sure that he spent the night in prayer for all of us. After mass he and I would go to the hospital. I would be there to comfort and encourage my wife and welcome my first daughter. He would be there to pray for us and baptize Catherine as soon as he was allowed to do so. This private Mass, on this Friday morning in May, was one that would give me strength and hope for the day ahead and years to come.
As the Mass with just us two, three if we kept God in mind, more if we realized the truth behind the veil, the cloud of witnesses, proceeded, My brother read the Gospel for Friday May 2nd, 2008...
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Fr. William Hahn at
Damascus Catholic Mission Campus |
“Amen, amen, I say to you, you will weep and mourn, while the world rejoices; you will grieve, but your grief will become joy. When a woman is in labor, she is in anguish because her hour has arrived; but when she has given birth to a child, she no longer remembers the pain because of her joy that a child has been born into the world. So you also are now in anguish. But I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joy away from you. On that day you will not question me about anything. Amen, amen, I say to you, whatever you ask the Father in my name he will give you.” (John 16:20-23)
My brother is an excellent homilist, a brilliant preacher. He has the gift of taking the readings from Mass and bringing them to life in a way that the hearer can relate to. He draws from his deep prayer life, study of scripture, and life experience in helping the walking wounded. I’ve heard him offer Mass and preach in his parish, on mountain tops, and at the kitchen table in our own home. I’ve been moved to tears at his beautiful reflections that touch a heart still tending toward stone. Yet here, there was nothing more to be said. What could he add to Our Lord’s words on this beautiful day, on this day of the nativity of Catherine Therese Hahn? What thoughts, advice, or encouragement could be given when the words breathed by God were truly sufficient? At this hour, on this day, only a fool would rush in where angels fear to tread.
We looked at each other as he whispered, “
the Gospel of the Lord.” His eyes were pools as were mine. We sat side by side looking at the image of the Woman whose hour had brought so much joy into the world. Miles away another woman was preparing for her hour, preparing to bring joy into the world too.
This Gospel, on this day, has proved in the past 12 years to be both a prophecy and a comfort. I have wept and mourned so often but my grief has always become joy. I’ve wept knowing that this daughter of mine will never dance and twirl as so many other girls do. She will never sing in that sweet melodic tune of a girl who could not stop singing though her life depend on it. She will never sing* that way that rather says my life depends on me singing for fear I burst with joy if I don’t! She will not have crushes on boys nor will I walk her down the aisle. I mourn over these things, often. Tears fall on my desk as I pen these words. Tears fall each time I re-read this chapter.
I know that I am not alone in this grief. I know that I am not the only father to weep quietly in his room, in the woods, or in his car over the things that will never be for his child. You are not the only father to ever see other kids and feel a tinge of jealousy, anger, or resentfulness over what your child will never have or experience. It’s okay to cry and mourn these things. They are a real loss. They are a real cross that we must carry. It is probably one of the heaviest crosses I’ve ever shouldered. Cry and cry often, the loss is real, the pain acute. However, it’s not the end of the story. I believe this. I trust in the Gospel I just read, “
..your grief will become joy...your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joy away from you.” I trust that one day Catherine and I will walk and talk in eternity and this current grief, these shed tears, will seem as those of a child over a lost balloon. One day she and I will dance and sing and run and do all of those things I mourn today. I trust that. You should too.
Like the parishioners I had seen upon my arrival at St. Catharine’s, I too became a living tabernacle of flesh and blood for
the Flesh and Blood. Father Hahn and I knelt in prayer for a long time after Mass. We stayed there, close to the image of the Blessed Mother, offering the prayers that had no words. Prayers that to try to put to words would be an insult to the prayer itself, commercializing it, cheapening it. These prayers were from the depths that neither of us knew existed. We poured out our hearts to the Queen of Heaven asking her to intercede with her Son on our behalf.
Miles away the pitocin increased as our prayers increased. I wondered if Nicole had had the chance to read the Gospel for today. I could see her there on the bed as I had left her. I could hear the beeps and buzzing. I could see and feel the IVs in her arm.
When a woman is in labor, she is in anguish because her hour has arrived; but when she has given birth to a child, she no longer remembers the pain because of her joy that a child has been born into the world. So you also are now in anguish…
*Two days after I wrote this chapter, I heard Catherine singing as she lay in bed, singing herself to sleep. I need to stop using that word, “never”, I do not think it means what I think it means...
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