Whispers

Whispers IV: A Yellow Butterfly

Whispers I
Whispers II: An Old Man in a Plane
Whispers III: Obedience
Whispers IV: A Yellow Butterfly

As a child sometimes my father took us out on our birthdays for dinner and dad alone time. These were very significant times for me. Being alone with dad meant great philosophical conversations. One particular conversation lead to some incredible wisdom even though at the time I thought it was an awful thought. My dad said that even when you are married and love your spouse you fall in and out of love all the time. He said the feeling of “being in love” comes and goes. He further went on to say what mattered is your commitment to love. I was a typical little girl and thought happily ever after meant feelings of endless mushiness. These words of wisdom helped me understand that when the “in love” feelings were difficult, to behave as if they weren’t. Eventually the feelings return, often even more intense. Those dry spells are what give a relationship strength and depth. Faith like love works the same way. When my parents divorced I stopped trusting the commitment part of love and protected myself from testing the “out of love” phase by never feeling the “in love” moments. In my mind I always knew God was there even when I denied He could be defined. When I began to go back to my faith I wanted to logically understand God and His Church, but it didn’t really occur to me to feel anything. I was ready for the commitment part of faith, but not the feeling. Loving God would mean risking feeling alone, rejected, and abandoned and if I felt those feelings how could I trust Him. I gave God my mind, but not my heart.

My first baby came in June of 1996. I was so grateful to finally have a baby to hold in my arms. Later that summer I received a phone call from my childhood friend’s sister. My friend Amy had been killed in a car accident. It was as if everything stopped. It was so unexpected I didn’t really know how to process the idea that Amy was gone.

John 11:35 And Jesus Wept.

My new baby and I flew from California to North Carolina for Amy’s funeral. Other than my grandmother’s death, I had never lost anyone close to me. I didn’t know how to behave or proper protocol for the situation. I was not at all prepared for the depth of emotion that her family was going through. The memories of the raw pain still make me cry and want to hold them all. I had been a typical teen the last time I had seen them. In the past they were background characters to my adventures with Amy. Now they were real individuals. People I had known all my life and at the same time knew not at all. I had the privilege of staying with Amy’s parents. Even in the nightmare they were experiencing they reached out to make me feel welcomed.

The night before her funeral Amy’s dad told me how he and his wife, as well as a family friend had separate experiences seeing a yellow butterfly and having comforting thoughts about Amy. Later that night I lay in bed staring at pictures on the wall; pictures of Amy’s family and our friends growing up. So many happy, fun memories stood out in dark contrast to the anguish outside the bedroom door. [There were also reminders of my sins. Some of the pictures were of a time in my life I regretted. This time would haunt me for years to come, but that is a topic for another post.] Amy’s dad’s story played in my mind again and again. Not only for the moment of peace it seemed to offer, but because in truth it was the most he had ever said to me. As I cuddled my baby son and cried for the loss of my friend I prayed that I could have my own Amy butterfly too.

The following morning we went to the church. It never ceases to amaze me, no matter where I go I always feel at home in a Catholic Church: the same liturgy, the same Jesus. It was a comfort to belong again to the Church of my childhood, the same Church Amy and I had gone to. Amy moved when we were in high-school. When she came to Florida to visit we would always go to Mass. Even when I was no longer attending regularly, when Amy was around we went. There was always something uniting about going together. During the funeral I sat in the back of the church and tried to absorb the meaning of everything that was happening. Just believing God was there was not enough. I found myself desperately wanting His comfort, His love. The desire to feel what I was going through really mattered to Him suddenly ached in my heart. The powerful emotions of the last few days were catching up with me. The inner parts of me that had long ago been locked up were longing to flow free.

When my parents were divorcing I prayed and pleaded with God not to let it happen. If I believed anything was possible with God then He would certainly save their marriage. With the absolute madness that followed their divorce I begged God to stop the pain. When the pain didn’t stop part of me shut down and figured it didn’t matter to God. No one had ever taught me that sometimes God says no or because other people are exercising their own “free will” pain happens despite God’s will. Our choices matter. I wasn’t 14 anymore and now I understood God cares even when we feel pain. Knowing God loved me wasn’t enough. I wanted to trust God. I wanted to feel love for and from Him. I wanted to risk praying for the impossible and trusting my faith wouldn’t disappear if I didn’t hear an answer.

As we drove from the church to the funeral a desperate feeling came over me. It felt as if time was running out and soon Amy would be buried and gone. It wasn’t a rational feeling. I found myself begging God for a butterfly. “Please God, if Amy is with you send me a butterfly!” Over and over the same cry was filling my heart. I stared at the coffin my friend lay in and had to have a butterfly before it was placed beneath the earth. I pressed my baby’s little hand firmly against the casket leaving a perfect baby hand print. I prayed that since Amy couldn’t hold this son to please let her hold in heaven the precious life I had lost last year. “Amy please tell God I need a butterfly too.”

Making my way from the large crowd that had come to say goodbye to Amy, I noticed several yellow butterflies off in the distance flying above the trees. I smiled, squeezed my baby tight and took a gamble with my heart. I prayed for the impossible. “God, that isn’t good enough. How do I know it is not just a coincidence? Yes, there are many more than asked for, but I just need one to know it is You.” No sooner had the thought formulated in my heart when a large yellow butterfly floated from the trees toward me. Everything was in slow motion. I did not breathe. I could not hear anyone around me. I stared with open eyes begging, needing, hoping!

My God’s whisper floated on the breeze, dancing in the air, passing between my face and the infant son I clung to. With the flutter of His breath felt on my check, I breathed again and the noise around me filled my ears. I cried out, “Did you see it? Did you see the butterfly?”

I felt God’s overpowering love.

Another friend came to my rescue and took me to the car before I further embarrassed myself and bothered everyone else at this most difficult time. I sobbed as she held me.

My heart had sparked.

Happy Birthday Amy!

I look forward to being with you again in His presence someday.

Whispers III: Obedience

Whispers I
Whispers II: An Old Man in a Plane
Whispers III: Obedience
Whispers IV: A Yellow Butterfly

As a child I had always been a rule follower. If the sign said keep of the grass I used sidewalks, I didn’t talk out loud in the library or in line entering church, and never got a detention in school. Rules taught by parents and teachers were there for my protection and I didn’t see a point in wasting time learning lessons the hard way. It just seemed practical, efficient, and logical. With the loss of my first baby and a conversation with a priest in a plane I had heard God calling me home and figured the best way to know what God wanted was to obey the few dos and don’ts of my childhood faith until my mind was more clear. If I stopped fighting the current, I knew I would have time to look around and find out where I was and where I needed to go; besides obedience was comfortable. There were issues I had with the Catholic Church, but I knew God was there.

My husband was not catholic. In hypothetical discussions he claimed not to have a problem with my raising future children Catholic, but once I became pregnant I started to worry that maybe once it was real he would. Eight months after losing our first child we were expecting our second. We also began to spend time with some neighbors who were raised Catholic, but were not practicing their faith either. They had one child. I don’t remember how the subject came up, but during one conversation about faith and needing to return to it, I asked what was needed to Baptize our baby at the Chapel on base. She had mentioned needing to baptize her child too and even asked if we would be the Godparents. It was very moving to me to be asked, even though at the time I didn’t appreciate the responsibility of the position. I was also very relieved when my husband Jason agreed to be a “Christian Witness” (Godparents have to be Catholic). We started attending Mass, registered at the on base Chapel as parishioners and signed up for the Baptism class. When Jason said yes to being a “Christian Witness” he took his responsibility serious enough to at least understand what it meant. (Thank you Sherri and Gil for planting a seed.) I also made an appointment with the priest.

The baptism class was not very memorable, but my appointment was. Like the priest in the plane, this Father was an older man. Because we had decided on my sister and her husband as Godparents we opted to baptize our baby back in Florida so our extended family could be together. [On a side note it meant waiting till he was several months old when my husband had leave. We now hate to wait more than a week before baptizing little souls. For one of our more recent children we baptized the baby the day after I was released from the hospital.] Needing Father to sign a letter for my sister’s parish saying we were parishioners at our church and had taken the baptism class there, I went in to speak with Father alone. I was very nervous. Other than the priest in the plane I had not spoken one on one with a priest since childhood confessions. Father was warm and inviting and a little apt to forget what it was he was saying. We were talking about light subjects while father filled out the letter. When Jason’s not being catholic came up, I joked that we would convert him eventually. Father shocked me with his reaction. “Don’t you try!” Ummm… pretty sure priests are supposed to want to convert people. He gave me some incredibly wise advice and my knee jerk reaction to respected authority was to listen.

My preaching could hurt our marriage and would most likely turn Jason off to the faith. If I wanted him to ever convert we were to never argue about his faith. As his wife I was to pray privately and be a positive example of my faith. I had made my choice to marry someone who wasn’t catholic and it would be unfair to expect him to change now. In case anyone might think he meant we should not spread the Gospel and encourage people to join Christ’s church that wasn’t the point. This wise old man had seen a lot of couples over his many pastoral years. As Jason’s wife my nagging him to convert would turn him off. The first mistake with demanding conversion would be changing the rules after the game started. Secondly, Jason needed to be the leader of our family’s faith; it was his responsibility as the head of our household and a follower of Christ. I needed too for him to be the leader, even though at the time if it had been stated to me this way my feminist training would have bitten off someone’s head. [If you’re foaming at the mouth and seething with anger or just think I am some poor subservient twit feel free to write to me and we can discuss the issue, but that isn’t what this post is about.]

With a very thin foundation as to the whys I began to do the few dos and don’ts of my faith that I knew. It was obedience that was allowing me to hear whispers that were guiding me to understanding the many issues I had with the Church and even the issues I hadn’t yet realized I had. Going through the motions of relearning to practice my faith felt right, but not warm and definitely did not feel like a burning passion. With the exception of confession I was trying to be obedient. God’s presence was felt in my heart, but not his love. It would take a yellow butterfly to ignite the flame and time to create a burning fire.

Whispers II: An Old Man in a Plane

Whispers I
Whispers II: An Old Man in a Plane
Whispers III: Obedience
Whispers IV: A Yellow Butterfly

The summer after I miscarried I flew home alone to visit my family. I had taken some magazines belonging to my husband to pass the time. One of the magazines was about short wave radios. An older man sitting next to me noticed what I was reading and a conversation began. It was mostly the older man who talked. I was shy and he was hard of hearing so it worked out. He began to tell me how during WWII he had operated a short wave radio in the Vatican. His story was fascinating and I was very embarrassed at my lack of historical knowledge. Toward the end of his story he mentioned how I might have guessed he was a priest. Uhg… so much for history AND my catholic faith. I never put the two together. (Thank you post-Vatican II-feel-good-no-substance-religious education.) He then asked what faith I practiced. I gave my standard noncommitting answer, “I was raised catholic.” He was a seasoned priest and knew what I meant.

I don’t really remember the details, but our conversation continued and I had mentioned losing the baby and knowing I should go to church again. He started to talk about how sometimes when difficult things happen in life we tend to get mad at God. I blurted out loud without thinking, that I could never be mad at God! I was afraid my baby died because he was mad at me for the sins I chose to commit. Noticing how much this disturbed me, he turned to me and asked if I wanted him to hear my confession. I am pretty sure my eyes popped out of my head and my faced turned red. My heart began to race and my eyes watered. Until that moment the Sacrament of Penance hadn’t occurred to me. Please remember too we were crammed into a plane and the man required me to almost yell in ordered to be heard. I turned him down even though my heart was screaming to do it. I remember him saying that God didn’t punish me by taking away my baby, but most of what he said was lost to my own thoughts. They were thoughts of embarrassment that people could hear us, how part of me wanted to find a quiet spot and talk to him alone, and how I wished I could remember how to make a confession (sin of pride prevented me from asking).

We landed and I had to catch my connecting flight. Father promised to pray for me. Some how even without confession a part of me felt more at peace. God had sent this opportunity. Even though I did not fully appreciate it at the time, I still knew beyond any shadow of a doubt God wanted me back.

Okay, I guess that really is not a good example of a whisper. God actually sent a shepherd to find me. I was just to ashamed to be found.

(Douay-Rheims version) Apocalypse 3:20 “Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If any man listens to my voice and opens the door to me, I will come in to him and will sup with him, and he with me.”

He is knocking at your door too.

Whispers I
Whispers II: An Old Man in a Plane
Whispers III: Obedience
Whispers IV: A Yellow Butterfly

For many people there are dramatic events, life altering moments that propel them to change course or aid them to return to the right path. This has not been the case in my life. God instead sends me little whispers and I am ashamed to admit I am often not listening. There are times when I heard but misunderstood. I have called out to God in pain and often felt abandoned and alone. I prayed for help and seemed to have not been heard. As a teenager struggling with my family’s divorce I used it as an excuse to distance myself from the church and eventually God. When I lost my first baby the unbelievable need to feel God’s presence again was awakened in my heart. An encounter with an old man in a plane was an ignored whisper. The baptism of a Godchild was a start home out of obedience. A yellow butterfly was a gift of love allowing me to open my arms and embrace a God I had hurt and wanted to be close to again.

I started to spot while driving with Jason to his new duty station at the M.C.A.G.C.C. in Twentynine Palms, CA. We spent six weeks in a hotel room waiting for base housing, knowing I was going to miscarry and waiting for the inevitable to happen. I cried mostly and hoped that a miracle would happen and my baby would be alive. I didn’t want to leave the bed for fear that I would miscarry in public. At nineteen weeks I finally miscarried. I delivered the placenta alone in a very cold hotel room bathroom. The details of that delivery are the clearest I have of the nine (update: now ten) I have been through.

Later that week, knowing that it was over, I hopped on my bike with a map and rode around the small town for the first time. I needed to find the church. I had to sit with Jesus. I needed to know I would see my baby someday and that there was meaning to all this pain. I was drowning with the grief and guilt that this happened because I had turned from Him. I found the church. The front door was locked and I was too shy to ask around if there was an open chapel. It was enough to sit outside and know He was there present in the Tabernacle. Even as I questioned my catholic religion and couldn’t make sense of Jesus and how is death saved us, my heart still knew the Eucharist was Him! I would like to say that it was some divine moment and I instantly returned to the Sacraments, but I had a lot more baggage to deal with. God is ever patient and faithful even when I am not.