There are no accidents...

I've been wanting to write about this a long time. In the midst of all my relief, happiness, and blessings, the reality check comes. It comes hard and fast and when it's not expected. It comes in the blink of a teary eye. I see an email note that tells me little Madeline McConnell is gone, snatched from her beautiful family, a family I barely know. I never met Miss M in person, only through little pictures on my computer screen. Yet Jeff and I sit staring helplessly at the monitor, tears streaming down my face, silent, Miss M's round mug peering out atop a busy bee costume. Not much cuter than that, to be honest. Not much in the whole world.
I'll retrace my steps. Madeline's Mommy is my dear friend Amy from college. Amy was an enigma to me, because she was one of the first devout Catholics I had ever known in my life. If I knew any, I wasn't aware of it. Amy hung her rosary on her maple bedpost in her dorm room in Case Hall. She actually prayed it when we weren't bothering her with our petty dumb freshman college drama or worrying about our dates or our hair. She didn't get sucked into all that. In hindsight, I realize it's probably because she prayed her rosary. She was captive by a bunch of protestants and non-believers, including me, who didn't have a clue. One of my funniest memories is of my sweet Baptist roommate, noticing the rosary on the bedpost, exclaiming, "What a pretty necklace Amy, how come you never wear it?" But none of us ever actually asked to learn how, or why, or simply join in. Amy was undoubtedly praying her butt off for all of us hopeless waifs, but never let on. Her beautiful humility was intact and she probably knew her prayers would be answered in some way, whether it helped us convert or not. It would help someone somewhere.
Fast forward 20+ years. Facebook connects me and my friend Amy. She's got a wonderful husband and three handsome little sons...and expecting a daughter with Down syndrome. I have one of those daughters, so I was more than happy to share with her that our daughter with DS is amazing, beautiful, the only one in the family who doesn't have a disability. But I knew Amy and her boys would just have to find that out themselves. And did they ever! Madeline was, well, the star of the show. Gorgeous beyond belief. Full of spunk and fight, which she needed for her laundry list of health problems including her little heart that needed all kinds of fixing. Ending up with a trach tube was the last of her major obstacles. At about sixteen months old she had the world by the tail, and as far as we humans could tell, things would get "normal" at some point. Until the trach tube came out. One minute Maddie is playing, the next she's not, and there was no warning, no sound, no message.
No one can "explain" how these things happen. It happens all the time though. But one thing is for certain- there are no accidents when it comes to death and judgement. God knows when and why and how the beginnings and endings of our lives occur. We certainly don't understand it though, and even more certainly aren't happy about it. Amy's pain must be excruciating. I've prayed and prayed, asking God to take care of her, to comfort and console, give her peace. The sorrow is hers. Maddie's little baptized pure soul is so dear to God; she must be even more beautiful in His presence, no worries. No more doctors and checkups, no trach tube mishaps, no midnight runs to the hospital. Things are infinitely better for her now, whether we can fully appreciate that or not. Meanwhile, Amy will "get it." I know she will, because He doesn't abandon those who love Him. He will not lead the McConnells to something then not lead them through it. He will bring about some great good, somewhere, somehow. Amy has already endured and conquered more than she ever dreamed she could...and this is no different. Meanwhile I will pray that Amy redoubles her efforts, finds a way to pass on this huge amount of knowledge she now has, of which most of us aren't privy, that she can await with love and patience the day she will see Maddie again. She needs to know this friend indeed is praying and doing penance for her, and she is remembered every time I pray my rosary. Rest in peace, little Madeline, and live in peace, Amy.

Talking about Jessica...

It's been one of those weird kind of springs, full of highs and lows and normalcy all jumbled into a rush of minutes and hours and days that simply won't slow down. On May 20th, after weeks of intense suffering, beautiful wife, mother, daughter, sister, aunt, and friend Jessica Lichtsteiner-Hosking lost her mortal life to cystic fibrosis. The fact that the disease had taken its toll in recent years, and the knowledge that it was inevitable that the CF would eventually kill her doesn't really make it any easier. Faithful folks say that knowing you are going to die is a blessing, a grace, because it allows you to become closer to God in preparation for death and judgement. I have no doubt this is true, and find comfort in that. And our Faith encourages us to be hopeful, all the while praying for the dying and the dead, that their souls may be together with God in eternity, and eventually we may be reunited with our mothers and fathers and friends there too...It's the human factor that is the hard part. We are people who live in groups- beginning with our own family unit and radiating outward to our schoolmates, relatives, coworkers, parish members, and communities. And though Jessica, who lived a whole 27 years, was not part of my daily life lately, I have so many memories of her, and to self-soothe my own heart I wanted to write about her.
Jessica was the oldest of eight beautiful children born to two of the most beautiful people I know. Talk about do anything for anybody- it's an amazing bunch. I met Jessica when she was perhaps 10 or 11, but she was one of those children with big doe-brown eyes and a sprinkling of freckles and sunny brown locks of hair- the genuine smile of someone who just means it. I taught her in school from the sixth grade on, pretty much all her science classes. I think I may be correct in saying those were her favorite classes as well, because she always had a penchant for anything science. It was no surprise to me that she went into a medical profession when she became a respiratory therapist.
She was always polite and kind-hearted; she called me "Mrs. Lampe" until the last time I saw her several weeks ago. I know she was her mother's helper always, but not because her mom "made" her do it, but because she was part of the family and wanted to help. Back in the fall she came into school to watch my daughter and some other little ones for a couple of hours while we taught class. It doesn't sound all that taxing, but she came in looking thin as a rail, on antibiotics and oxygen, obviously tired, but willing. Her attitude was one of resignation but it wasn't depressed or sad. It was realistic yet hopeful. Her smiling brown eyes and huge grin said it all.
The night she died, I was actually out on the trails out back, running as hard as I could. I knew through the grapevine that it was probably her last day on earth. I was striding along, and I was crying for her, for her suffering, for the suffering of her sisters and brothers, her friends, her parents, her husband and tiny daughter who would only know her mother by photos and stories. I would go from elation in knowing that her suffering on earth would soon end, hoping in her redemption, to bitterness that God chose to take her now and leave everyone behind to miss her and feel that vacuum wherever she had been before. I felt a piece of agony with her parents who had cooperated with God in bringing her here, only to see her leave forever, and thought that my heart would break.
As I ran along, I started climbing hills and sucking in air, gasping in the strain of it, and I felt a part of Jessica's torture. I felt that sensation of gasping, needing that oxygen, and I offered it up to God for Jessica alone. The hard part was that when I stopped I could get that oxygen. I could stop and take a deep deep breath and feel it fill me and save me. Jessica could do no such thing. And I so wished I could run over there and give it to her myself and say "here, I brought you some air! Take it! Fill yourself up with it!" And I knew I couldn't do that, but I just wished I could. So I was running along crying by myself in the woods, sobbing over loss and change and pain, not so much for me, but for good people, wishing it didn't have to be so. Because I know what happens. We all keep going. We move on and on and on and on. People come and go, we start thinking about school and bills and what to do with the car problems, what movie to watch, what shoes to buy. We meet new people and love them, people we love move away. And maybe that's the only way we could all possibly survive losses like that.
I hope Jessica's husband and family know she was loved and admired and will not soon be forgotten, lost in the runaway train that is life here on earth. I for one will say hello to her often and say a little prayer for her while I'm at it. Her humble life will sit quietly with us all, and memories of her will patiently hold us over until we see her again, God willing. Rest in peace, Jessica.