In times of great stress, I find myself hearing my grandmother's voice. She is a woman of unbelievable strength, now 83 years of age, still driving, working and living a full life. She raised 7 children while taking care of her own elderly parents, and loved her husband more than anything in the world, though he was alcoholic. Now do NOT misread this; he was wonderful and sweet, but she was the woman of steel who made ends meet and kept the world going when others could not. She is well-read, and a devout and prayerful Catholic. When Da died at the age of 59, she was a rock and a symbol to whom we could all look for strength. I can still see her at Da's wake, tall (to my 8-year-old self) and kind and quiet, speaking in a low, soft voice to all the friends and family who came to pay their respects.
I hear her voice speaking to me, with so many wonderful phrases of hope and strength that she always kept on the tip of her tongue:
"Laura, in the Light of Eternity, what does this matter?"
"Laura, pray to the Blessed Mother; she always hears us!"
"Laura, pray for the grace to understand what this means. It always means something."
And so hear I sit tonight, weeping over my keyboard, hearing Nana Fitz's voice and praying for grace. Dear God, I am praying.
God has been good to me. He has brought me through much, and given me Paulie, who I love more than I could ever actually explain. Paulie has, thus far, seemed to come through cancer treatment very well, but now we are faced with more health obstacles that have come to light through this surgery. Every time I feel as though I have a handle on the "medical overview", it changes. I have just finished taking Paulie's blood pressure--high, and with an irregular heartbeat. I walked over to the bureau, put the cuff and stethoscope inside a drawer, and burst into tears. When will the end of the worry come? Why couldn't God do this to me instead? I'm strong; I can take this. Don't make him, God. He's already taken care of me; let me take this for him instead. Please, PLEASE!
And then, again, I hear Nana: "Laura, pray for the grace."
When I was young, I thought she meant grace in a lady-like sense. That I could somehow pray for the delicacy to see things as a young lady, and not muck things up like my rough, blunt younger self. Maybe to be less emotional, more rational. Now my rough, blunt older self sees that praying for grace is really praying for a steel skeleton. It's praying for the grace of wisdom. It's praying for a rock-solid center, so that you can look to yourself when there may not be any others close at hand. It's praying for the grace to be broken in so many places that they all calcify as they mend, and make you rough, blunt, and hard as iron.
I'm praying, Nana. I'm praying.
I hear her voice speaking to me, with so many wonderful phrases of hope and strength that she always kept on the tip of her tongue:
"Laura, in the Light of Eternity, what does this matter?"
"Laura, pray to the Blessed Mother; she always hears us!"
"Laura, pray for the grace to understand what this means. It always means something."
And so hear I sit tonight, weeping over my keyboard, hearing Nana Fitz's voice and praying for grace. Dear God, I am praying.
God has been good to me. He has brought me through much, and given me Paulie, who I love more than I could ever actually explain. Paulie has, thus far, seemed to come through cancer treatment very well, but now we are faced with more health obstacles that have come to light through this surgery. Every time I feel as though I have a handle on the "medical overview", it changes. I have just finished taking Paulie's blood pressure--high, and with an irregular heartbeat. I walked over to the bureau, put the cuff and stethoscope inside a drawer, and burst into tears. When will the end of the worry come? Why couldn't God do this to me instead? I'm strong; I can take this. Don't make him, God. He's already taken care of me; let me take this for him instead. Please, PLEASE!
And then, again, I hear Nana: "Laura, pray for the grace."
When I was young, I thought she meant grace in a lady-like sense. That I could somehow pray for the delicacy to see things as a young lady, and not muck things up like my rough, blunt younger self. Maybe to be less emotional, more rational. Now my rough, blunt older self sees that praying for grace is really praying for a steel skeleton. It's praying for the grace of wisdom. It's praying for a rock-solid center, so that you can look to yourself when there may not be any others close at hand. It's praying for the grace to be broken in so many places that they all calcify as they mend, and make you rough, blunt, and hard as iron.
I'm praying, Nana. I'm praying.
