Tag Archive for: death

A Catholic Man Considers Grief and Bereavement

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A Catholic Man Considers Grief and Bereavement

 

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” (Matthew 5:4)

 

We say many “comforting” things to people in mourning. Still, I have discovered that for those who are in a mournful state, comforting them sometimes is not possible. Many have what is akin to a deep, open wound that is extremely painful. For many, the healing and scarring process takes a long time. The scar formed is always there to remind us of what was.

We firmly believe, and hence we hope that, just as Christ is truly risen from the dead and lives forever, so after death the righteous will live forever with the risen Christ and he will raise them up on the last day. Our resurrection, like his own, will be the work of the Most Holy Trinity. (Catechism of the Catholic Church 989)

 

Oh yes, we know all these things. We indeed say that we believe these things. Every Sunday, we profess our faith out loud and in public, saying, “and [He] rose again on the third day.”

As Catholic Christians, we have been comforted by our faith during our lives. The belief that death is only a transition to a world filled with perfect happiness is instilled in us. We shall be sharing our heavenly world with Jesus, the Blessed Mother, angels, saints, and loved ones gone before us. There will be no more pain and suffering, no illness, and nothing negative. Shouldn’t we be jumping up and down with joy? Unfortunately, “tomorrow” now has a permanent hole in it, and we have no idea how to fill it.

 

Victims of Adam and Eve’s original sin

We are human beings after all. We are also victims of Adam and Eve’s original sin. This is the sin that brought us illness and death. This is the reason for our grief. This is the reason for our pain and suffering. This is the reason for bereavement, which means “deprivation” or to have “suffered a loss.”

 

“Big Boys don’t cry”

Having these feelings is normal. As a man, I have tried to stifle any outward display of emotion in public. (That is how we were raised—”big boys don’t cry.” Well, real men do.) At home, who cares? No one is there to see my crumblings. After my wife’s funeral a few years ago, I did fail miserably at Walmart. Several  days after her funeral,  I had gone there to get a few things. I noticed that there were no customers in the  cell-phone section  I needed a memory chip for my phone so I asked the clerk where they were. He pointed them out and I grabbed a new chip and handed it to him.

He offered to put it in the phone and transfer my photos into it. He opened the picture file and there is my wife smiling at me. I lost it and morphed into a babbling spectacle at, of all places,  Walmart. A nice little crowd gathered for my impromptu performance but kept their distance. Hey, I might have been a lunatic or an old terrorist … whatever. You get the picture (pun intended). I was told by the facilitator of a bereavement group that my reaction was perfectly normal. Maybe it was, but I sure was embarrassed.

 

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We come face to face with a journey we all must take

The point is, as Catholic Christians, we all witness death during our lives. And we should remember that seeing death brings us face to face with a journey we all must make. Grief is an internal process, and everyone experiences it in their own unique way. We all know of the Resurrection and the reward of eternal life. However, it can be tough to deal with when you get hit with the personal impact of a loved one’s death and the grief that instantly explodes inside you.

 

What she did for all of us is indescribable

Time and prayer help heal those deep wounds. But days come and go and it does happen. We are mortal humans. We must feel the pain. Imagine how our Blessed Mother felt watching them torture and kill her Son. What she did for all of us is indescribable.

Belief in the resurrection of the dead has been an essential element of the Christian faith from its beginnings. “The confidence of Christians is the resurrection of the dead; believing this we live.” (CCC 991)

 

We should never forget this. Do not be afraid—the Eternal Now awaits us all. It will be a wondrous place indeed.

Copyright©Larry Peterson 2023
Images: Pexels

To Her Husband, the Only Thing that Mattered was the Arrival of the Priest

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By Larry Peterson

Lee and Shirley Mae had moved from Pittsburgh, PA, to Pinellas Park, FL, back in 1984. Lee, a World War II veteran who served in the South Pacific during the war, had met Shirley Mae at the Greater Pittsburgh Airport years before. Lee, a widower, worked for United Airlines. Shirley, who had never married, was a waitress at the airport restaurant. They fell in love and got married. A few years after Lee retired from United, they headed south, settling on the Florida west coast near St. Petersburg.

They purchased a two-bedroom home in a 55+ community called Mainlands of Tamarac. They immediately joined the local Catholic parish, Sacred Heart Church. It was perfect for the happy couple, and they quickly became involved in church ministry. They both volunteered as ushers, and Lee became an Extraordinary Minister of Holy Communion. They also worked together every year during the annual Fall Festival, coordinating all the food court workers.

It was sometime in January of 2020 that Shirley began feeling “not right.” She was having a bit of trouble breathing, had a slight cough, and was experiencing fatigue. Lee and Shirley knew it was time to see the doctor, and they did. Doctors told her she had lung cancer.

Treatments with oral medications began in February. The pandemic resulted in a change of lifestyle, and Lee and Shirley adapted the best they could. They did not dare venture outside their home, and food and supplies were delivered and placed near the front door. Days turned to months, and Shirley’s health kept slipping downward.

Lee, who is a vibrant 96-year-old, could no longer care for his wife by himself. Sometime in early September, Hospice arrived on the scene.  Towards the end of September, a hospital bed was placed in the family room. Shirley was no longer able to sit up or eat by herself. Hospice workers were now coming in several times a day.

Hospice wanted to move Shirley to the hospice center. Lee was horrified at the prospect. He told the nurse in charge, “My wife and I promised each other we would never let any one take either of us to any kind of home. She must stay here with me. Please, please, do that for me?” Hospice, realizing Shirley’s time was not far away, agreed.

Lee and Shirley are devout Catholics who attended Mass every day. They are also neighbors and close friends of mine. I became personally involved in helping them early in summer. Nothing was more important to them than my bringing Jesus in the Eucharist, especially on Sunday.

The end of September and the beginning of October seemed to blend together. About 5 P.M. on October 8, my phone rang. Brenda, a close friend of Lee and Shirley’s, was calling to say that Shirley had passed a few minutes earlier. I had promised Lee that no matter what time of day or night it was, a priest would come to pray over Shirley when she passed. I immediately called the church.

The church has a phone menu, and if you press #8, you got the emergency line to the priest. I left a message, and I headed over to Lee’s house. Shirley was lying halfway on her side. Her head was bowed down a bit, and her eyes were half-open. She had a simple smile on her face. I was transfixed at how peacefully beautiful she appeared. I called the church again. Then I gathered those willing around Shirley’s bed, and we said a Chaplet of Divine Mercy for her.

Upon finishing the Chaplet, I called the church a third time. As I hung up the phone, it rang. It was Father Kevin, our pastor. He was out in Tampa at a convocation with priests and the bishop. Father Vijay, our other priest, was with him. They were was almost an hour away. The problem was the funeral home van was on the way to pick up Shirley. I was told they could not wait for the priest.

It is interesting how things can work out. Nothing was more important to Lee at that moment than the priest being there to pray over Shirley. Father Kevin said he could leave right away and, if traffic was light, he could make it in 45 minutes. I said, “Okay, father. Thanks.”

Fifteen minutes later, the funeral van pulled up. Father Kevin was at least a half-hour away. One of the hospice nurses came over to me and told me that they had another stop to make and could not wait. It was time to get bold.

I walked over to the van driver and told him the situation. The guy told me he was sorry, but he could not wait for more than fifteen minutes. I told him very nicely that “the only way anyone gets near that woman  before the priest does is over my dead body.”

The guy smiled and said, “Okay, okay, I get it. I understand.”

Father Kevin arrived within the 45-minute time frame. We all gathered around, and calmness filled the room as Father prayed over Shirley and blessed her. Lee stood next to him, holding his wife’s lifeless hand, tears coming from his eyes. As Shirley was removed from the house, Lee stopped by the gurney and held her hand one last time.  Sobbing softly, he bent down and kissed her goodbye. She was still smiling.

Her funeral is scheduled for October 31, Halloween. Ironically, wearing masks will be appropriate.

copyright©LarryPeterson 2020

Does God send us “signs,” to let us know He has heard our prayers? You Decide.

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By Larry Peterson

Looking into her eyes, he said, “There is victory over death.”

I recently attended a funeral Mass, and during the few minutes before the Mass started, something extraordinary happened. I believe God sent a messenger to share with all those in attendance an affirmation of what we proclaim to believe; that there is life after death. It all happened within a few moments, and it was entirely unexpected. How many people actually paid attention, I do not know.

The messenger’s name was Ann Marie. (interesting that Our Lady’s name is Mary and her mother’s name was Anne).  The usual protocol at a Catholic funeral Mass is that after the Mass ends, family and friends can get up and say a few words about the departed. At this Mass, Ann Marie went up to the ambo immediately before the Mass began. The funeral was for her dad, and she wanted to say a few words about him before the Mass started.

For those of us who have lost loved ones, incidents happen after their passing that some take as a “sign.” For example; a photo of the loved one suddenly falls from a shelf, landing in front of us; a sudden smell of her perfume or his after-shave fills the room; there is a knock on the door and you find no one there. These incidents can sometimes give a person a message which they believe tells them all is well, and not to worry. The flip side is it can cause others to feel their loss even more while others may not pay any attention to them. Most times, “signs” are just coincidences.

But the most prominent ‘signs” seem to come from dreams. The Bible has many stories of people receiving messages through dreams. St. Joseph was visited three different times by the angel in his dreams. We know that it was a dream that saved the baby Messiah’s life. So, I believe, as do others, that we do receive “signs,” especially if we are experiencing significant personal loss. Often, these signs come to us in dreams. Maybe it is God’s way of helping us through our grief.

Ann Marie looked out over the now-seated congregation and began to speak. Her demeanor was steady yet sad, and her voice was soft yet clear. She wanted to tell us about her dad. She just spoke from her heart about a guy named Jerome Schreiber, who was called “Jerry” by everyone; everyone except Ann Marie, who called him “Dad.”

Jerry was born in 1926 in South Ozone Park, Queens in NYC. He worked for the Brooklyn Union Gas company and was a mechanic for them until he retired. Jerry was a devout Catholic, a member of the Knights of Columbus, and was the type of man that helped make America the greatest country in the world. He was all about God, family, and country.

First, Ann Marie spoke of her dad’s kindness, gentleness, humility, compassion, and love for all people. Then she paused and told everyone about the dream.

Two days after Jerry passed, Ann Marie had a dream. It was clear and vivid with perfect sound. She was in bed and her dad was standing at the front door of their house, looking in from the outside. The light outside was brilliant and he was standing in it, smiling at Ann Marie. Looking into her eyes, through his smile, he said, “There is victory over death.”

On this day, in Sacred Heart Catholic Church, Pinellas Park, Florida, Jerry Schreiber, a Catholic man who lived a life filled with the love of God, family, and neighbor, and had journeyed to his heavenly reward two days before, sent us all a message. It was a message we can love and embrace, a message that can reinforce and fortify our sometimes doubtful faith.

His daughter, Ann Marie, was gifted by a visit from her deceased dad who gave her the message. God’s grace told her to share it with us all. She did that and we, in turn, should share it with others. So let us  never forget Jerry’s message; “There is victory over death.”

For those who believe no explanation is necessary; for those who do not, none is possible. -St. Thomas Aquinas

Copyright©Larry Peterson 2020

Allow No Regrets into your World on Father’s Day

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No matter the past, tell him you love him and hug him tight. You do not always get a second chance.

By Larry Peterson

My dad died suddenly during Christmas season of 1965. Yes, a long time ago: December 30, to be exact. Due to that, I have carried a regret inside me for my entire life. I still want a do-over, but it can never happen. Sometimes you just do not get a second chance. And then you live with “if only.” I have been doing that “if only” thing for a long time.

Our mom had passed on a few years earlier. She had just turned forty when leukemia killed her. Dad was crushed and began drinking, It took a few years, but his body rebelled, and he had an acute attack of pancreatitis.

I was the oldest of the five kids and, at the age of twenty, thought I was a lot smarter than I was. I’d had to put college on hold and had been working in construction since high school. We needed the money. I got home from work about six o’clock to find out he had been taken to the hospital that morning.

My sister, Carol, who was home with our younger brothers during Christmas break, had been there. She and a neighbor had taken him. When I walked into our apartment, Johnny, who was the youngest at six, started crying and blurted out, “When is Daddy coming home?” I told them all to take care of each other, and I would be back very soon.

My father was on the third floor in room 317. I was stunned at what I saw. He had a tube coming from his nose that went down into a large bottle on the floor. Brownish-red gunk was draining from inside of him into that bottle. It was disgusting. My gag reflex kicked in. I could not walk over to the bed.

A doctor came up behind me and introduced himself. He was taking care of dad, and he gave me a quick rundown. I was hardly listening. He knew I was nervous, so he said, “Walk in with me.”

I did, and I have no idea what I said to my dad. The doctor began feeling Dad’s belly and looking at his eyes. My father had sky blue eyes, and they were fixed hard on his oldest child. He must have been wondering why his son was standing about five feet away from the bed. I could not speak because I was trying to be grown-up and not throw up.

The doctor left, and some words of twenty-year-old wisdom babbled form my lips about stopping drinking and eating better. He never responded but just kept looking at me. He was scared, and I did not see that. I said, “Okay, Dad, I gotta go. I’ll be back tomorrow.” I had to get out of there.

Walking down Arthur Avenue to the bus stop I turned and looked up at his window. I began to cry. I realized I had never hugged him or said “I love you” or anything. I had just left. He was supposed to be home in a day or two; it would be okay. I could have gone back, but I did not. He died at 3 a.m, scared and alone. Why? Because I was afraid of being embarrassed and throwing up.

There it is. Therein lies my regret: never having said, “I love you” one last time and leaving my own father to die scared and alone in a strange place with strange people. Is that pathetic or what? He had just celebrated his 53rd birthday.

Father’s Day has just passed, and I have some advice to all of you who still have your fathers living. Forget the past; make sure you tell them you love them. If nearby, make sure you hug them. If far away, make sure you call them: no texting and no emailing. The day will come when you have no more second chances. You do not want to live with an “if only.”

Yes — there is a story about the five of us “orphans”: The Priest and the Peaches.

Copyright ©Larry Peterson 2019

Being able to celebrate new life while grieving death: the Mass made it happen

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In our Catholic world, March 25 is the feast of the Annunciation. Yes, this is the day the Holy Spirit came to an innocent, pure teenager in Nazareth and announced to her that God wanted her to be the Mother of the Messiah. Mary said, “Yes.” It was a day to celebrate a New Beginning. It was a day to celebrate New Life.

On March 25, two millennia later, at 2 a.m., my wife, Marty, in a comatose state, was wheeled into the Hospice Center on a gurney. They placed her unresponsive body on a bed, gently washed her face, brushed her hair, and pulled the blanket up, tucking it under her chin ever so nicely. Her death watch was underway. For me, celebrating New Life was completely evading me.

Marty died at 6 a.m. on March 27. The first anniversary of her passing fell on Tuesday of Holy Week. There was a Mass offered for her that morning. There is a distinct irony to it all. My first wife, Loretta, who had died in 2003, had passed on April 4. There was a Mass offered for her that morning. Smack dab in the middle of these two Masses was Easter Sunday, which fell on April 1 this year. Death — Risen Life — Death.

Well, you know, sometimes messages and signs from above are “in our face,” but our human side blinds us to them. Especially when a person is plugged into the part of themselves that feels grief and sadness and loneliness. When you are in that mode, there does not seem to be much to cheer about. That has been part of my roller-coaster ride for almost a year. Up and down, up and down, up and down.

My mom died many years ago. February 18 was the anniversary of her death, and the 8 a.m. Sunday Mass was being offered for her. I did not expect anyone from my family to be there. I had planned to bring up the gifts with someone from church. I had no idea who that might be. Enter my oldest son, Larry Jr.

Junior was married the day before. His bride was a woman from Kenya, a beautiful person and the most unlikely daughter-in-law I ever expected. Her brother was the Catholic priest who officiated at the Nuptial Mass. It was a magnificent wedding, but it was not until the next morning that I knew how Jesus and Our Lady and all of those people we pray to and lean on were actually there.

That is also when I learned how all that death surrounding me was proof of New Life. It was not a contradiction; it was not a dark joke; it was a validation of the faith I have embraced, and we all share.

My son, who rarely attends Mass at my parish, texted me at 7 a.m. His message was simple, “Will be at Mass this morning. See you there.” They had no idea it was for my mother. Junior had never seen his grandma, as she had died nine years before he was born. Their attendance at that Mass was spontaneous and unplanned.

I stood in the back of the church and watched as they brought up the gifts. I have very little memory of my mother, who had just turned 40 when she died. But at that moment I knew that she was giving me a message. I could feel it. It was real.

She was standing there, next to the priest, as her grandson and his new wife handed the gifts to him. She was smiling, and then, I am pretty sure about this, I think she gave me a little wave. Maybe not — my tear-filled eyes were blurring my vision, but everything was crystal clear behind them. In God’s world, New Life and New Beginnings break the bonds of grief, sadness, and death.

The prayer that an extraordinary minister of Holy Communion says before giving Holy Communion to someone is,

“We come to know and believe that God is Love, and he who abides in Love abides in God and God in them.”

This Easter, Marty, and Loretta, on the anniversary of their deaths, will each be on one side of the Risen Christ. They both had received the last rites of the Catholic Church. The faith we love tells us that they abide in Love, that God is Love and they abide with Him. Their deaths have brought them to New Life. I know it is true. Even my mother told me it is true, and she will be with them.

Copyright 2018 Larry Peterson

It’s Perfect – Not!

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By Janice Lane Palko

It was Father’s Day weekend thirty-one years ago. Married only a couple of years, my husband and I had moved into our first house that previous January. We’d spent that spring painting, wallpapering—the things you do to get a home into shape. On Saturday of that weekend, I’d cleaned the whole house while my husband had spent the day outside trimming hedges, weeding, and cutting grass in anticipation of a Father’s Day picnic for both sides of our family—the first event in our first home.

As we called it a day, I remember looking at our neatly manicured lawn and gleaming house and thinking, “Everything is perfect.”

Then the phone rang at 7:04 a.m. Who calls that early on a Sunday morning? I thought as my husband rolled over and answered it. When I saw the color drain from his face, I knew something was terribly wrong. He hung up and stared blankly at me, too stunned to show any emotion. “That was my mom. Tommy’s been killed in a motorcycle accident.” Tommy was his twenty-three-year-old little brother.

We’d anticipated a Father’s Day picnic filled with fun and laughter. Instead, we were now faced with death, identifying a body at the morgue, and making funeral arrangements.

So much for perfection.

Flash forward to June seven years later. I’m sitting in a counselor’s office after suffering for months with panic attacks. “From what I’ve observed,” the kind therapist said, “You are very hard on yourself. You need to allow yourself to be human. You think you have to be perfect.”

As you can see, my dance with perfection has been filled with missteps. From Tommy’s death, I learned that life is not perfect and never will be, and through my joust with anxiety, I learned that I am not perfect and never will be.

So, how does someone who’s had these types of reality checks with perfection square them with Jesus’s words in Matthew’s Gospel where He instructs us to “Be perfect just as your heavenly Father is perfect.”

To a perfectionist, His words area a recipe for disaster. You may have heard the adage “Perfection is the enemy of the good.” Well, when we perfectionists get rolling, we tend to discount anything, however good, that does not meet our level of perfection. We get tangled up in being immaculate. I’ve worked hard not to be a perfectionist, so when I came across that bit of scripture again recently, I, once again, reacted to it with disregard and confusion—not a good way to react to scripture.

I know perfection is impossible and shouldn’t even be pursued lest I become paralyzed in my quest to be flawless. There is no perfection on this side of eternity. I know I cannot be perfect, I made myself sick trying. Why would Jesus impose such an impossible directive on those He loves?

Ah, but I’ve also come to learn that when Jesus commands us to do something, He always promises to provide us with the grace to achieve it. His words in John’s Gospel provide the key. “Apart from me you can do nothing.” Apart from Him, I cannot reach perfection. Apart from Him, the world wallows in sin and destruction. Perfection in the way Jesus means is a work of transformation and something for me not to achieve but to surrender to. Through Jesus and His act of redemption, we reach perfection. Paul in his letter to Philippians gives us this assurance: “I am confident of this, that the one who began a good work in you will continue to complete it until the day of Christ Jesus.”

I’ve learned that Jesus is working on me, and that sounds absolutely perfect to me.

This Year, Experiencing Death and Resurrection during Holy Week became a Personal Reality

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Author’s note: The following was written during Holy Week. It has to do with my wife’s death, funeral and the fresh grief that followed. I thought I should share it here. 

Marty’s funeral was April 6th. Everything was perfect; the Mass, the music, the people, the cemetery and the traditional “fellowship” that followed. I arrived back home about 3:30 pm and headed to the dining room table. I looked around and the reality of the moment sent a shiver though my body. I realized I was alone . . . very alone. I began to cry (yes, men do cry).

So I sat down and sobbed and fought hard to stop. I blew my nose, took few deep breaths and unconsciously stared at the paperback book in front of me. It was an old book of quotes. I have no memory of placing it there but I must have. Just like that it was in my hand. (In retrospect I believe someone unseen guided my hand to it).

I flipped it open and read the first quote staring at me. It was from Edgar Allan Poe about his wife: “Deep in the earth my love is lying and I must weep alone.” I read it again and thought how pathetic that was. The quote from the great writer embraced nothingness. It was so sad. It also jump started my brain. My crying turned into deep breaths and then my thoughts jumped to Holy Week and Resurrection. I was supposed to be rejoicing. Whatever was my problem?

Well, like everyone else, I am human. The death of a spouse leaves a deep hole inside you. When you get back home after everything is over you see her everywhere. That’s the way it is. You are wounded and bleeding. (I know–I lost my first wife 14 years ago to cancer.) Slowly, over time, the wound closes. Inevitably it leaves an unseen ugly scar which you learn to live with.

Once again I mentally dashed to my citadel, aka my Catholic faith. It was that pitiful quote from Poe that made me realize I had been witness to a great journey. I had stood by as my wife received all she needed from her Catholic faith to advance from this earthly life to the next. I even posted on Facebook how she had received her “Jesus hug” when she arrived.

There is a grief process we all go through when struck by the death of a loved one. But our magnificent and comforting faith can become our “fortress of solitude.” It eases the pain; it can dull the ache in your stomach; it can help you fall asleep. (For me, a Rosary in hand is more powerful than any Xanax.) Most of all, our faith helps us to make sense of what has happened.

My wife was blessed to receive an Apostolic Pardon when she was on life-support. Seven days later she came off life support and the next day received Holy Communion. Two days after that, she was still breathing on her own but unconscious. The infection had traveled to her heart.

She was transferred to Hospice House and, upon her arrival, my son and I said a Chaplet of Divine Mercy at her bedside . The next day a group from the church came by and said a Rosary and a Chaplet in her room. The last morning of her life an old friend of mine from the SVDP Society came in and we said a Chaplet together. The Chaplet is very powerful when said by someone’s death bed. If I count the Apostolic Pardon, the Chaplets, and the Rosaries, plus Holy Communion, she was most definitely prepared for her impending journey.

Holy Week is upon us. We journey with Christ through His passion and death and then we rejoice at His Resurrection. It was all done for us for one reason—Love. This year my wife gets to witness it all, up close and personal. I can see that great smile of hers beaming everywhere. I have absolutely nothing to cry about, do I?  But, since I am human, I’m sure a few more tears will find their way into the days ahead. But it is all GOOD.

Happy Easter everyone.

Copyright 2017 Larry Peterson
This article was originally published at Aleteia.org on April 17, 2017.

The Extraordinary Powers of the Catholic Priest–Imparting the Apostolic Pardon

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My wife, Marty, passed away on March 27. Some of you may have seen my posts over the past few years about her ongoing battle with cancer and then Alzheimer’s Disease. No matter; what killed her was an infection called sepsis. It went to her heart and that was that.

There was, however, a spiritual beauty and inspirational moment that occurred during her journey to the end of her life. It happened soon after she was on life support. It showed me clearly why God had brought Marty and me together to begin with and how the power given to a priest through Holy Orders is so awe-inspiring. The following story, published at Aleteia, describes what happened.

I was standing next to an unconscious body that was being kept alive through the use of mechanical means and medications. Somewhere inside that body was my wife, Marty. She was on life support and my work of many years as her caregiver was either on hold or would soon be ended.

Marty has had Alzheimer’s for several years already, but as 2017 arrived, things had spiraled downward. Over these last three months, the disease has been markedly advancing and has affected her walking. Several times, she has even forgotten who I am.

One day a week or so ago, I wanted to give her the afternoon meds. She refused to take them. She said she could not let a stranger give her poison. I am accustomed to her unpredictability but this was a first.

I resorted to having a close friend come over to “identify” me to Marty. My wife was unflappable and refused to give in. After about a half-hour of cajoling, she finally, yet haltingly, relented and took her pills.

Last Thursday, Marty spent most of the day sleeping. She ate nothing. I attributed it to new meds she had been prescribed. Friday the sleeping intensified and again she did not eat. Saturday was worse and late in the afternoon, when I checked her vitals, her oxygen level was at 82.

I called 911.

The paramedics oxygenated her and took her to the ER. She was freezing cold and they discovered her core temperature was down to 93 degrees. Sepsis was suspected and later on validated.

By 4 a.m., she was in ICU and on life support. She had become “unresponsive” and needed to be intubated.

Through my jumbled thoughts in the midst of the commotion, one thought came crystal clear. Call the priest.

Read the rest at Aleteia.org.

 

Please keep both Marty and me in your prayers.

Copyright 2017 Larry Peterson

Jesus, our Saviour and our Example

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The tension builds.

Halfway through the week from his triumphant entry into Jerusalem, hosannas still echo in the streets and Jesus is preparing for his passion. The disciples don’t understand; they still expect Jesus to conquer their political enemies.

But he knows better. He knows what he faces.

Betrayal.

Abandonment.

Death by crucifixion.

Most of us can understand and identify with betrayal and abandonment in this day and age, but it is a rare individual who can identify with the intensity of what Jesus experienced on a human level.

But none of us can—or need to—understand the depth of abandonment Jesus experienced on the cross. My God, my God! Why have you abandoned me?

Because of Jesus’ obedience, we know that God will never abandon us, will never betray us.

Nor will most of us identify with the cruel torture he endured. For those who can, my prayers and the prayers of many are with you, that you may find comfort and healing through Jesus’ sacrificial love and God’s tender mercy.

Jesus did not rescue the Jews from their Roman oppressors, nor does he rescue us from the human condition. But he rescued us from our ancient enemies:  sin and death.

Let us walk with Jesus through this Holy Week. Let us pray with him in the garden. Let us witness his pain, his death, which he accepted for our benefit. Let us in turn accept our infirmities, our suffering—and throw ourselves at the foot of the cross.

Not my will, but thine be done.

He bore all our sin on his cross; let us, in love, bear but a sliver of his.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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