Can we get to heaven without suffering? Reflections during Lent.

I’m Catholic and it’s Lent. For the past few days our parish has been celebrating a Lenten series with Fr. Joe Rodrigues, a Salvatorian priest visiting from Wisconsin. Fr. Joe has entertained us with song and story bringing the Passion into today’s world. His Lenten series has been a time of reflection and connection.

At last evening’s event five biblical characters spoke ( monologues crafted by Fr. Joe.) followed by five parishioners sharing their personal stories. It was like a play showing – not telling – that we are no different today than those who crucified Christ more than 2000 years ago. I was invited to follow our Mother Mary’s monologue with my personal story. Opportunity to ask questions and share reflections followed the sharing of stories. In each personal reflection and question I was surprised by the voice of pain and suffering. Each referenced tragedy as the reason why they fell to their knees in prayer, why they opened their hearts to God. I am no different. It is tragedy that reshaped my relationship with God. But what I don’t understand is why it takes tragedy to open our hearts to God? Can’t we get there via another route?

Below is the personal monologue I shared. I invite you to read, share your personal story, and offer your insight. Is it possible to reach God without pain, suffering, and prayer? If so, how?

I have been blessed with 5 children. Today they range in age from 10 -26. But when my youngest was 6 months old, and my oldest was 16, one of my twins, Sarah, was killed. It was a car accident. 8 teenagers. A midnight joyride. August 2004.

 

Never once did I give thought to losing a child. Certainly I’d never given thought about what Mary experienced as her son carried the cross to save the world. When I was asked to contribute to Mary’s part, I found myself returning to those first few years when the grief overwhelmed. That love between mother and child… in each of us, deep down, we know a mother’s love. It’s a bond that is always there; the good and the bad, it never goes away. Beginning with the knock at my front door that August morning my faith was challenged and reshaped like I’ve never known before.

 

I was raised Catholic, and, it’s fair to say that until Sarah’s death I took my faith for granted. Do know that I love all religions. I believe that all religions offer value and guidance. But when the fireman knocked at my door and told me in less than a handful of words that my child was dead, a strange sense overcame me as if I wasn’t alone. Moments earlier I had been dreaming about Sarah. She was hopping into the back of a blue pickup, promising that she’d never leave me.  Somehow, in that moment when the fireman delivered the news, I knew that everything would be okay. It was as if God’s grace swooped in. And that strange sense has never left me.

 

When Mary watched her son trudge the dirt path burdened with a wooden cross, she had to ask to be let through. That was her son. Imagine the tensions, the judgments…didn’t these soldiers, these onlookers have hearts? How could these people be so cruel?

 

I will never forget those early weeks after Sarah’s accident… the judgments from parents, kids, and people we didn’t even know. Everyone had something to say, an opinion to offer. For months, the newspaper printed editorials that held no truth. Where were their hearts? I dug deeper into my faith. My Catholic roots offered support. I needed God on my side. I needed Mary’s gentle heart to envelop me. The rosary became my best friend.

 

When Mary cried out to her son one last time, he tried to shield her from view, tried to protect her. Jesus didn’t intend for his mother to suffer. I know Sarah didn’t intend for her family to know such pain. Daily I turned, and continue to turn, to Mary. How did she manage her grief? How did Mary weave the pain into her life? We all know loss and grief. It’s raw and real and returns when least expected. I find peace when praying. I find courage, perseverance, hope, and faith when focusing on Mary.

 

I remember well the last time I saw my daughter. Mothers never forget those moments. It was a Sunday afternoon. She grabbed a box of frozen mac and cheese and said “I love you, mama,” as she raced out the door to spend the night at a friend’s house. I am sure Mary never forgot that last encounter with her son.

 

Now, as I said earlier, things happened, and continue to happen today, that I can’t explain. Some may say that I am forced to believe if I want to see my child again. But, given all the coincidences, those things that can’t be explained…I know for certain that life continues after death, that God’s love is real, that His way is the Way. I am certain that it is God’s grace intervening when I least expect it, reminding me that I never walk alone.