M
maggieodae
Guest
"Be Not Afraid"
Last year the joys of Easter came crashing down on Tuesday, March 29. Just three days after a glorious Easter Sunday celebration, I suddenly found myself walking the hill to Calvary once more.
I had begun the day praying for our beloved Papa, John Paul II, who three days before had so valiantly rose up to give us all his Easter blessing. The pain of his effort was so poignantly etched upon his face, my heart broke as I pondered the magnitude of his suffering. Deep in prayer for our Holy Father, I wandered out to my little barren “Mary garden.” In the summer months it is bursting with beauty and inspiration. But spring had barely arrived, and so it was still a blank canvas for God to fill up with His created design.
Walking along and pulling the dead stalks of last years flowers, I began praying the ancient rhythm of the “Holy Rosary.” I prayed as I worked, asking God to be merciful to the Holy Father, and to hold him close in these the last days of his life. At least that was my thought at the beginning of the day.
By late morning, our world would be changed in ways I could never have imagined. My husband Gene had gone for his early morning appointment at his doctor’s office, a bi-monthly cancer check-up. From the time he was nineteen, my husband has struggled with cancer, a total of thirty-four tumors.
In October of 2003, he was diagnosed with oral cancer. This kind of cancer had claimed the life of my husband’s mother when he was just a little boy. This latest cancer had required ten hours of surgery and the removal of half of his tongue. But God was gracious: The tumor had actually died prior to surgery; the doctors said Gene would not require chemo or radiation. They would just keep checking his progress for the next few years.
A Shadow Returns
For thirteen months Gene went to these bi-monthly appointments, to check his continued healing progress. From there he would go to his office and get on with the work of making a living. Praying was my job, but this day my prayers were all centered on John Paul II and his needs.
When I reached for the ringing phone on my garden bench, I was not prepared for the sound of my husband’s voice, heavy with sorrow and cracked with emotion he seldom exhibits. A lump grew in my throat as I listened to him struggle to deliver the news he had just received from the doctor: the cancer had returned with a vengeance. Since his last checkup, the malignant enemy had grown stealthy to a very large tumor, and the prognosis was once again not good. The cancer had skipped to the other side of his neck this time.
Holding the phone, I could only gulp back the tears and struggle to regain my composure. For just a moment, I felt myself begin to weep and cry out, “Dear God, not again! Dear God, we have climbed this hill so many times, I don’t think I can climb it one more time.” And in that moment of weakness, the Easter blessing of our suffering pontiff quickly came into my mind: "Be Not Afraid."
For the next few days, those words remained in my heart: “Be not afraid.” It was an echo of courage, which John Paul II gave to us all on that balcony in Rome on Holy Saturday. As John Paul began his final journey to Calvary, we walked beside him in spirit, gaining strength from his witness to hope and the dignity of suffering in this life… this vale of tears.
By Saturday of Easter week, the “Passion of Christ” played itself out once more as our beloved John Paul II had finally finished his race in a moment of great sorrow – and great glory. Hearing the announcement, I fled the house in tears of sorrow to my barren garden refuge. I mourned for the loss of our beloved pope, and I grieved for my family, not knowing what could ever make the world seem right once again.
Last year the joys of Easter came crashing down on Tuesday, March 29. Just three days after a glorious Easter Sunday celebration, I suddenly found myself walking the hill to Calvary once more.
I had begun the day praying for our beloved Papa, John Paul II, who three days before had so valiantly rose up to give us all his Easter blessing. The pain of his effort was so poignantly etched upon his face, my heart broke as I pondered the magnitude of his suffering. Deep in prayer for our Holy Father, I wandered out to my little barren “Mary garden.” In the summer months it is bursting with beauty and inspiration. But spring had barely arrived, and so it was still a blank canvas for God to fill up with His created design.
Walking along and pulling the dead stalks of last years flowers, I began praying the ancient rhythm of the “Holy Rosary.” I prayed as I worked, asking God to be merciful to the Holy Father, and to hold him close in these the last days of his life. At least that was my thought at the beginning of the day.
By late morning, our world would be changed in ways I could never have imagined. My husband Gene had gone for his early morning appointment at his doctor’s office, a bi-monthly cancer check-up. From the time he was nineteen, my husband has struggled with cancer, a total of thirty-four tumors.
In October of 2003, he was diagnosed with oral cancer. This kind of cancer had claimed the life of my husband’s mother when he was just a little boy. This latest cancer had required ten hours of surgery and the removal of half of his tongue. But God was gracious: The tumor had actually died prior to surgery; the doctors said Gene would not require chemo or radiation. They would just keep checking his progress for the next few years.
A Shadow Returns
For thirteen months Gene went to these bi-monthly appointments, to check his continued healing progress. From there he would go to his office and get on with the work of making a living. Praying was my job, but this day my prayers were all centered on John Paul II and his needs.
When I reached for the ringing phone on my garden bench, I was not prepared for the sound of my husband’s voice, heavy with sorrow and cracked with emotion he seldom exhibits. A lump grew in my throat as I listened to him struggle to deliver the news he had just received from the doctor: the cancer had returned with a vengeance. Since his last checkup, the malignant enemy had grown stealthy to a very large tumor, and the prognosis was once again not good. The cancer had skipped to the other side of his neck this time.
Holding the phone, I could only gulp back the tears and struggle to regain my composure. For just a moment, I felt myself begin to weep and cry out, “Dear God, not again! Dear God, we have climbed this hill so many times, I don’t think I can climb it one more time.” And in that moment of weakness, the Easter blessing of our suffering pontiff quickly came into my mind: "Be Not Afraid."
For the next few days, those words remained in my heart: “Be not afraid.” It was an echo of courage, which John Paul II gave to us all on that balcony in Rome on Holy Saturday. As John Paul began his final journey to Calvary, we walked beside him in spirit, gaining strength from his witness to hope and the dignity of suffering in this life… this vale of tears.
By Saturday of Easter week, the “Passion of Christ” played itself out once more as our beloved John Paul II had finally finished his race in a moment of great sorrow – and great glory. Hearing the announcement, I fled the house in tears of sorrow to my barren garden refuge. I mourned for the loss of our beloved pope, and I grieved for my family, not knowing what could ever make the world seem right once again.
