Rituals

I try not to talk about my faith too much. I am Catholic, I go to church and I am both a cantor at mass and the funeral cantor of my church. At many times in my life, the predictable comfort of weekly mass was the only constant in a life that was rife with uncertainty and unpredictability. While I have serious philosophical issues with some of the man-made tenets of the Catholic Church organization, I can't imagine practicing my faith anywhere else. However, I also believe that God doesn't care what building you are sitting in, what language you use, what missal you follow or what prayers you pray as long as you talk to Him somehow, and try to follow His ways.

Both my parents were deeply faithful. My father was Jesuit educated, and he was a member of Cursillo. He raised hundreds of dollars for churches over the years, lending his fundraising expertise free of charge. The church where both my parents are buried still use the nativity figures he donated to the church in 1962 when he found out the church couldn't afford to buy them. The altar of the church where my daughter made her first communion recently is framed by wooden pillars that my father helped to raise the funds to create. The Community Living house across the street from the church we attend now came into being because my dad raised the funds to make it happen.

My mother's faith was both simple and profound. While she was anchored by the gospel passage about God's house having many rooms, she also lived in terror of angering God. Her father's family were Protestant (he became a Catholic to marry my grandma) and fire and brimstone was in her DNA. My mother attended daily mass until her health prevented her from doing so, and then we watched it on television. While she was dead set against things like an open casket ("I'll reach up and close it and then I'll haunt you"). visitation ("why would we waste all that money. No one is going to come anyway") and using the funeral home cars (we'll just drive ourselves) she was definite about wanting a full mass and a "proper Catholic burial". Ritual mattered to my mother almost as much as her sense of decorum and proper behaviour. (and what her daughter was wearing...)

So when I was planning my mom's burial for the May long weekend, the first thing I did was contact the English priest at the parish down home. My parents' grave is located behind the village church in St. Eugene, Ontario. My grandparents were married there, my mother and all her siblings were baptized and receive their sacraments there, a few of my aunts and uncles were married there, and many of my family members are buried behind the church. However, the church is now French, and only has a priest once a month. The English church is about 20 minutes up the road, so I contacted that church first before making any other arrangements. The priest agreed immediately, set the time that would work in his schedule and we made all the other arrangements accordingly based on the priest's availability.

And then he didn't show up. The time of the burial he had chosen necessitated various family and friends travelling several hours to be at the graveyard in time. My mom's two lifelong best friends, aged 86 and 88 respectively, stood in the sun with 50 other family members. At first we attributed the delay to a street festival in the adjacent town that had a detour. By 1110 hrs, I was asking the clerk of the church to call the English church. He spoke to someone who confirmed the priest should be enroute. By 1130 hrs, my uncle, my mom's baby brother, and his son had to leave because they had another funeral to attend. The clerk even tried to reach the Deacon of his church...and then he handed me the book with the Catholic Rite of Burial...and I presided over my own mother's burial. I guessed my way through the prayers, thanked everyone for coming, and ended with the committal song from a Catholic funeral because I didn't know what else to do.

Various family have told me that it was nicer and more personal than if the priest had done it. Many have said that my mother would have been proud of me. But here's the thing. First of all, my mother wouldn't have been proud at all...she would have been mortified. I am not a priest or a sister or a deacon...I have no business using the Rite of the church. She would have been happy that I had "gotten on with things" because people were standing in the sun and my daughter was up a tree  (literally) from anxiety, but she would not have been comforted by me doing the ritual of her burial, because it would not have met my mom's definition of a "proper Catholic burial."

The priest was apologetic and claimed to have the wrong date in his phone although the date was correct in the planning calendar at the church. (if he used the phone for scheduling, why could no one reach him ON the phone that day?) He says he has offered a mass for my mom, and also said that he went to the graveyard the next weekend and said the burial prayers over my mom's grave. I have only his word to go on about that.

But here's the thing-I don't have the solace of witnessing the burial ritual. I don't have the comfort of the ritual and the knowledge that mom's final wish was fulfilled. I did my best under extraordinary circumstances, but I still feel like I failed my mom in her last wish.

I know that my mom is in heaven and I know that the mass is the important part, but I still needed the solace of the burial ritual to complete mom's last journey. I needed the comfort of the ritual, and more specifically, I needed the comfort of someone else DOING the ritual. Presiding over my own mother's burial was just another thing that I never thought I would have to do for my mom...and it was the hardest of all.

Eternal Life grant unto her O Lord, and let Perpetual Light shine upon her.

I'm sorry mom. I tried.

Appropriate Cross Post from Lisa Mac's Musings

Can a plain dressing mom and her fashionista daughter find middle ground? 

Snow Day and the OCD/Anxiety child

Cross post from Lisa Mac's Musings.

Cross post from Lisa Mac's Musings "Dear Toronto Blue Jays."

Dear Toronto Blue Jays

Earrings and Easter Eggs

When you are a member of a church choir, Easter is more busy than Christmas. From Palm Sunday to Easter Sunday, a church choir member has a lot of singing to do. Since I am both a church choir cantor and a member of the Grand Philharmonic Choir, with a tradition of singing a major Bach work on Good Friday evening, Easter means I am stupidly busy.

I abdicated hosting Easter Sunday dinner a few years ago, because I am usually (more of a) babbling idiot by Easter Sunday afternoon after the busy week I have just completed. Singing, especially singing at the level of the Grand Philharmonic Choir, is physically and mentally demanding and exhausting.

Since I was a child, one of my favorite things in the lead up to Easter was decorating Easter eggs. It ranked right up there with the first bite of Easter Bunny ears. I have passed my enthusiasm on to my daughter, and I had promised her we would decorate the eggs on Holy Saturday.

Having a child with OCD and Anxiety means dealing with a child with a laser-beam focus...and a need for constant reassurance. She went to bed Friday night knowing we were decorating Easter eggs on Saturday. She had been asking 30 times a day for 2 weeks when we were going to decorate the Easter eggs, and she checked the contents of the kit as many times a day...

At 3am Saturday morning, she was up and ready to decorate Easter eggs, because it was now Saturday. Yes, you read that right, 3 am. She STAYED up for the day and didn't crash until 10pm that night. We had gone to bed around midnight, and 3am is not a good time of night for me. I ended up going back to bed around 6am for a couple hours to try to beat the migraine into submission. The Kid came and woke me up at 7:30 am to inquire when we were going to do Easter eggs because the movie we had put on at 4am was over. She asked again at 9am. She asked again at 10am...We decorated the Easter eggs in the afternoon. They were lovely, at least I think they were, I was too tired to notice.

There are times when her challenges are exhausting, and when she is on a broken record about something, in absolute frustration I have said to her "don't ask again." And then I realize she can't help it. the combination of OCD and Anxiety creates a loop that she can't help. She will often answer "I can't help it." And she really can't. And then I realize it and feel like the world's worst mother. Maybe is a word we do not use in our house, because maybe means yes. It doesn't mean maybe.

Easter hasn't really been a big deal in our family tradition-wise (see Paragraph one). I was doing fine on Easter, until our music director handed me my mom's earrings, that my daughter had left at church on Good Friday. Minutes later, we started a hymn called "We Who Once Were Dead"... and I had to go and sob in the coatroom again. The combination of mom's favorite earrings and a hymn about death was my undoing.

I miss you, mom. I miss you in a million big and small ways every single day.

The Little Things

Cross post from Lisa Mac's Musings.
http://lisamaccoll.blogspot.ca/2013/02/the-little-things.html

The Firsts

When someone you love dies, the "first" events are agony-the first Christmas, the first birthday, the first Mother's Day, Father's Day...the "firsts" reopen the wounds and shine a spotlight on the hole in your life.

My mom died in November, and Christmas and my 50th birthday followed in rapid succession. I knew they would be hard. The "firsts" always are. I braced myself for it, and gave myself permission to feel whatever I was going to feel.

What has caught me off-guard, however, is not the firsts in my life, but the firsts in my daughter's life. I was prepared to miss mom for my firsts-my daughter's firsts are knocking me on my butt.

I had already bought my mom's presents for my daughter at Christmas, so my daughter's birthday was the first "first" for her without my mom. My mom would buy her beloved granddaughter everything under the sun. We all knew that time was finite, and I tried to pick the mountains I died on, within reason.

At the end of January last year, mom and I were out shopping for my birthday and my daughter's birthday. Mom was not herself that day- she was confused, she kept asking why we were at the mall...she had had what I know now was a TIA, but it was the first one, and I didn't know what it was then. We bought my birthday present, and then headed to my daughter's favorite store "Build a Bear." We bought a purple stuffed animal and my mom recorded a special message for my daughter "Grandma loves you..." When we got home, mom phoned 30 minutes later, in a panic because she didn't have a birthday present for me. It was sitting in a prominent place on the kitchen table and she had forgotten why we had gone out that day. She called and asked me 2 more times in the next hour.  I went back to mom's apartment and discovered that she hadn't taken her pills for days, and had forgotten to eat.  It was the day when everything started going wrong and marked the beginning of the spiral downwards to her eventual move to the nursing home, and her death 10 months later. On that day, I almost didn't take mom to Build a Bear because she always spent too much money in there. I'm glad I did.

My daughter makes her first Communion this year, and my mom was looking forward to it. Faith was a foundation of my mom's life and she was very pleased I was giving my daughter the foundation of faith as well. My dad was a man of faith, and he would have been over the moon watching his granddaughter make her first Communion, even more so than my mom.

As the lead up to first Communion, my daughter had her first Reconciliation this week. The church that is associated with her school is not the church we normally attend, but I have a family connection with it. It is the church that my parents attended until my dad died, and it is the church where we held dad's funeral. There are large wooden screens at the back of the altar that surround the sacristy. My dad led the fundraising campaign at that church to build them. They remind me of my dad.

As I sat in the church waiting for my daughter to make her first Reconciliation, grief overwhelmed me. What surprised me, however, was the grief I felt for my mom AND my dad. They would have been so proud of their granddaughter. Missing dad is usually reserved for Remembrance Day...this grief caught me by surprise, to the point where after my daughter returned to the pew, I had to excuse myself for a private cry in the bathroom.

There are a number of other firsts ahead of me, and I have to accept that some will be worse than others. Tears showed I loved.  I can own that.

(Sometimes I sneak into my daughter's room and play the bear. "Grandma loves you." and I answer "she sure did.")