Sadness is, unfortunately, a universal experience. It is a feeling that arises from our own personal loss, deprivation or failure. Since sadness is not the same as sorrow, we ought to distinguish one from the other by defining sorrow as a sense of grief over the pain or stress of another. Often sorrow and sadness come together, as they do when a loved one dies. This distinction may seem arbitrary, but it will help to clarify our discussion. We will define sadness then as a response to our own loss, and sorrow as a response to the loss or grief of another.
Sadness comes to the good and the bad, to the worthy and the unworthy, to the simple and the sophisticated. It can even have a paralyzing effect in animals when they lose a newborn offspring or experience cruel treatment. Sadness is a response to the loss of what we need, or at least of what we expected to receive.
Religious people sometimes fall prey to the delusion that they will be able to avoid sadness by reason of their faith and trust in God. The advice of St. Teresa of Avila, “Let nothing disturb you,” leads them to believe that they may arrive at a state of detachment in which they will never again experience the sadness that is the lot of most human beings. It seems to me that this expectation is unrealistic.
While great saints at the height of their development may have gone beyond the experience of personal loss, most other people on the way to holiness do indeed feel grief, remorse and a profound sense of loss from time to time. Read the lives of the saints and you will find situations of sadness in their lives. The Little Flowers of St. Francis describes an incident when the saint is sitting in a garden weeping by himself. He was consoled through a mystical experience in which he heard an angel play a stringed instrument in the distance.
Our Lord often advised the apostles not to let their hearts be troubled, but he himself was troubled in the Garden of Olives. While we can debate whether this experience was pure sorrow, as when he wept over Jerusalem, or whether it was sadness and sorrow together, we cannot escape the fact that he experienced these emotions on the very night before his crucifixion. My definition of sadness and my understanding of Christ’s humanity permit me— in fact, almost require me—to believe that some of what he felt that night was sadness. His agony involved grief over what was about to happen to him, to his human life, and to his work of establishing the infant Church.
Unfortunately, those who seek an escape from the normal sadness of life through prayer and religious practice often use the defense mechanisms of denial and repression to create a false sense of tranquillity. This only stores away the tears and anger for another day. Constant denial of the realities of the human situation can lead eventually to a profound sadness and depression, which often require therapeutic intervention and medication.
Life usually presents grief in stages. In between are periods of joy and blessing. Any realistic approach to life advises taking the bad with the good, and reacting to each situation according to values, beliefs and strengths. We all know people who survive dreadful losses and go on to live another day. They cope not by denying their grief, but bv accepting it and living through it with faith and hope that a better day will come.
Most of us don’t have to worry about denying our feelings of sadness. Long ago we learned—perhaps too easily— to live with them. Your problem, like mine, may be not in denying sadness, but in feeding it, living into it with too much energy. Many religious people have depressive sides to their personalities; they sing the Holy Week hymns all year long. The temptation to sadness is all the more attractive because it seems to be a more sophisticated emotion than unalloyed happiness. Educated people often vie with one another in making dolorous evaluations of the passing scene and in dire predictions.
Illness, personal misunderstanding, failure to achieve life goals, and alienation from friends all contribute to an abiding sense of sadness. The prayerful person will soon find that this sadness seeks an expression in prayer. Such prayer may not be found in books, nor fit most people’s definition of prayer.
The following prayer of a chronically ill person gives an insight into how bitter such prayer can be.
The Prayer of One Very Ill
Lord, the day is drawing to a close and, like all the other days, it leaves with me the impression of utter defeat. I have done nothing for You: neither have I said conscious prayers, nor performed works of charity, nor any work at all, work that is sacred for every Christian who understands its significance. I have not even been able to control that childish impatience and those foolish rancors that so often occupy the place that should be Yours in the “no-man’s land” of my emotions. It is in vain that I promise You to do better. I shall be no different tomorrow, nor on the day that follows.
When I retrace the course of my life, I am over whelmed by the same impression of inadequacy. I have sought You in prayer and in the service of my neighbor, for we cannot separate You from our brothers any more than we can separate our body from our spirit. But in seeking You, do I not find myself? Do I not wish to satisfy myself? Those works that I secretly termed good and saintly dissolve in the light of approaching eternity, and I dare no longer lean on these supports that have lost their stability.
Even actual sufferings bring me no joy, because I bear them so badly. Perhaps we are all like this: incapable of discerning anything but our own wretchedness and our own despairing cowardice before the light of the Beyond that waxes on our horizon.
But it may be, O Lord, that this impression of privation is part of a divine plan. It may be that, in Your eyes, self-complacency is the most obnoxious of all fripperies, and that we must come before You naked so that You, You alone, may clothe us.
This prayer of Marguerite Teilhard de Chardin, president of the Catholic Union of the Sick, and sister of the well-known Jesuit writer, is not without hope, but it is a hope born of pain and suffering. The prayer reminds me that a believer who is not experiencing sadness at a particular time must appreciate the profound expressions of sadness of others who are enduring severe trials. There must be a special place in purgatory for people who tell the suffering, “Cheer up. It’s not so bad.” Worse still is the mindless cliche, “I understand,” if you really don’t. If you have been through a particular sadness which you can realistically and honestly share with someone else, you may break through to that person’s experience.
But be careful. I have lost children whom I raised. I can explain and share that with a grieving parent. But I have never lost a spouse. I have never been arrested and disgraced. Although I can share in the sadness of someone who is going through these problems, I must not tell them that I understand their particular grief. I do not. It is far better to be silent or quietly consoling than to say “I understand,” when I really don’t.
Sadness has to be lived through. Sacred Scripture offers many prayers that can help in time of sadness. They teach us to overcome it. Although we will consider how to overcome sadness later, there is a prayer that I would like to present here as a confrontation of sadness. Sacred Scripture attributes this prayer to Jonah the prophet when he was in the belly of the whale. Most of us have had a symbolic experience of being in the belly of the whale, that is, in a frightening situation that unexpectedly saves us from certain destruction. Being swallowed by the whale was Jonah’s terror; it was also his deliverance.
Yahweh had arranged that a great fish should be there to swallow Jonah, and Jonah remained in the belly of the fish for three days and three nights. From the belly of the fish he prayed to Yahweh, his God. He said:
I called to the Lord, out of my distress,
and he answered me;
out of the belly of Sheol I cried,
and thou didst hear my voice.
For thou didst cast me into the deep,
into the heart of the seas,
and the flood was round about me;
all thy waves and thy billows
passed over me.
Then I said,
“I am cast out from thy presence;
how shall I again look upon thy holy temple?”
The waters closed in over me,
the deep was round about me;
weeds were wrapped about my head
at the roots of the mountains.
I went down to the land
whose bars closed upon me for ever;
yet thou didst bring up my life from the Pit,
O Lord, my God.
When my soul fainted within me,
remembered the Lord; and my prayer came to thee, into thy holy temple.
Those who pay regard to vain idols
forsake their true loyalty.
But I with the voice of thanksgiving
will sacrifice to thee;
what I have vowed I will pay,
Deliverance belongs to the Lord (Jon 2:2-9).
Often we can pray only for the grace to survive. Expressions of fear and sadness, especially those addressed to God in prayer or shared with others, are usually helpful. Even bitter expressions may contain a desperate trust in God. Prayers or expressions of sadness “let off steam.” They are a control valve for powerful emotions, and they win the grace of God.
Although sadness should not be overindulged, it must nevertheless be expressed. A sad person needs to find ways and means to express this emotion, not only in prayer but also in art, music, and such actions as mourning for someone who has died. To just get trapped in an expression of sadness is to feed and overindulge it.
When I was an altar boy, it was often my responsibility to accompany a priest to the cemetery. An old prayer which was recited at the grave often returns to me in times of sadness. “Let them languish not in fruitless and unavailing grief nor in sorrow as they who have no hope, but through their tears look meekly up to Thee, the God of all consolation.”
To live through sadness is honest; to live on sadness is destructive. At times it is necessary to give oneself a good jolt and move on. This is where the poor people have an advantage. I have often participated in the funeral of a poor black or Hispanic person in the inner city. Sadness, sorrow and bitterness find their full expression at such a funeral. But eventually the need to survive demands that grief be left behind. The struggle to live goes on. The most unfortunate people are those who have the resources to indulge sadness for weeks, months, or years. In such cases concern for someone else who needs help may cause the sufferer to put his sadness aside.
I once knew a man who had lived through the most dreadful of horrors, the Holocaust. He survived the death camps of the Nazis only to live through an insurmountable sadness that lasted for years and went far beyond the sorrow he felt over the destruction of his family. He used his grief and sadness well to remind others that the horror could happen again if we did not accept responsibility for our collective guilt. But he himself lived on sadness. Then one day he had to give up some of his grief because God had given him a little daughter. Children cannot grow on a diet of pure sadness. They have to laugh, and so he changed for his child. He moved on. It was the other half of the beatitude, “How blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”
Sorrow
One of the noblest human emotions is sorrow, or grief, over the experience of another. Every compassionate figure in human history, every great saint, is known to have shared in the sufferings of others. Every truly human person is familiar with sorrow. Every thoughtful Christian must at times meditate on Christ as the Man of Sorrow, as one who is familiar with grief. The prophecies concerning Christ were filled with a tragic note and were fulfilled in the life of Jesus of Nazareth to an extent far beyond what could have been expected. A Christ without sorrow is a mockery—a false god at best. While there are religious figures, particularly in the Orient, who are presented as having arrived at a stage beyond sorrow, such a claim has never been made by Christians of their Founder. How could such a claim be made of one whose dying words include, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
Unfortunately, contemporary Christianity has tended to deny the reality of the cross by covering it with gold and jewels, or by hiding it where it can scarcely be found. Such denial is noticeable in many modern churches—perhaps as a symptom of the subconscious dread of nuclear war which causes people to deny the sorrowful element in life and in the Gospels. One is reminded of the czar who forbade Tchaikovsky to end his ballets on a tragic note, because his imperial patron had to live with such calamities and sorrows in everyday life.
Sorrow is inescapable. We all long for things that we cannot have in this life, especially for a love that cannot be lost. If we happen to go through times when we experience little personal grief and sorrow, there is the universal suffering around us. We are bound by our humanity and our faith to be part of that sorrow, to recognize that the mourner’s bell rings for us. It ill becomes a Christian to act like those tourists who go to exotic lands but stay hermetically sealed in luxury hotels, so that they don’t have to see and smell the poor who swarm around their beautiful paradise. Often what is quaint or rustic to the tourist represents severe need and the fruits of injustice done to the local inhabitants. The Christian must react in some compassionate way to the needs and sufferings of others and cannot afford to wall himself off emotionally.
Often the poor children who look with hungry eyes at the pleasure domes of the tourist trade are made even more unfortunate by the very trade the tourists bring. And when the poor rebel and follow leaders of vengeance and wrath, the tourists are surprised. They fail to comprehend that they themselves were part of the oppression they piously condemn. They failed to share in sorrow and hence they did not respond to it.
Sorrow is not only the great leveler of the rich and poor, but it is also the way one can understand and participate in the suffering of others, so that eventually there may be some change for the better. Eugene Debs, the nineteenth century socialist leader, summed this up very well in his final courtroom statement before he was unjustly condemned: “So long as any man is unjustly deprived of his legitimate wages, I am that man. So long as any man is unjustly imprisoned, I am that man.” While we may not accept Debs’ solution to the problem, we have to accept his sentiments, especially if we accept the Gospel.
Personal suffering and sorrow are the very things that can make intellectual convictions about justice and mercy take on a human dimension. Such writers as Dostoevski, Tolstoy, Dickens and Hemingway used not only their talents but also their personal sufferings to make society aware of human need and injustice. They appeal to the sorrow and compassion of their readers in order to build a bridge between the poor and those who are fortunate enough to have the leisure to read books.
There is a strange and often misunderstood problem here for organized religion and especially for the Church. Much of the world’s sorrow comes from sin and misbehavior. The devout person who tries to lead an orderly life and fulfill his or her responsibilities is likely to experience less sorrow than the disorganized, irresponsible person. Religious practice and morality remove a person from a sizable portion of the world’s sorrow. “Happy are they who walk according to the law of the Lord,” and unhappy are they who do not. Unfortunately, this can lead the devout to be less sorrowful and, consequently, less compassionate than the poor sinners of the world. A number of Jesus’ parables warn about this tendency. The saints, combatting their own possible complacency, purposely avoided the comfort of their virtuous lives by sharing in the misery begotten of sin. In any society the difference between the pious and the saintly is often the degree of compassion and acceptance of another’s pain through sorrow that has strangely linked the saintly and the sinful.
We should not only cope with our own sorrows and learn from them, but we should also share in other people’s sorrow and suffering, even if they have brought them on themselves.
The devout are often unprepared to understand the bitterness and helplessness of other people. The devout are seldom beaten, betrayed, sold into slavery, raped, or made the sport of others’ vices. When these things do happen to the devout, there is usually outrage, a cry for justice, and sometimes social change. But the poor or the dependent often suffer in silence with no hope of justice. I have often been struck by the mute helplessness of unwanted girls who are given over to prostitution by a parent who neither wanted nor loved them. Most people think these girls have “gotten off the track.” The fact is that they never had a track to be on in the first place. Their children are often as unwanted as they were. They are children of suffering and pain. The only link between these girls and me is an abiding sense of sorrow. I cannot really empathize with their view of life, since their experience is entirely different from my own. Sorrow alone is the bridge. I ask never to be delivered from that sense of sorrow. I ask only to let it consistently move me to do something else, something more, to relieve the sorrows of those I meet on my way through life.
Sorrow comes eventually into every life, and those who are familiar with it often discover that it can be a blessing. The sorrowful have a better chance of making progress and overcoming apparently insurmountable obstacles than those who experience relatively little pain and suffering. Sorrow is a stern teacher who can instruct us in maturity, patient endurance, and hope. Sorrow itself gives no hope, but it recruits hope, to borrow a phrase of Kierkegaard’s who knew much about it. “Sorrow makes us reach out in hope if we have anything to hope for at all.”
This is why sorrow has played so great a role in the pursuit of holiness for Christ’s followers. Christianity has taught that suffering is a bitter waste unless it is joined with sorrow, that is, with suffering for others and with hope. Hope is an act of faith, made solely with the assistance of grace, which causes us to believe that God will give us and those who are dear to us the means of salvation. Hope and sorrow go together. Sorrow grieves for the sufferings of others in this world, and hope makes this grieving endurable. Consequently those who have hope must expect to endure more sorrow than others do, because they can go on, whereas others are simply numbed or destroyed by pain. Christian suffering is a unique combination of sorrow and hope. Its origins are the same as those of any other human suffering. It is akin to the suffering of any believer who hopes in God, but Christian suffering has a special component. It is linked with the mystery of Christ, the Man of Sorrow.
In the personal notes of Cardinal Cooke, the late archbishop of New York, I found the following lines on suffering:
Suffering teaches us three things. It teaches us not to cling to this life but to keep our eyes on eternity. A person who has suffered will not fear death.
Suffering teaches us to be compassionate to others who suffer.
And, finally, suffering teaches us to unite all of our own pains to the suffering of Christ, our Lord, who suffered for us.
The suffering that seems to lack any purpose is the most destructive suffering. When transformed into sorrow through compassion for another and suffused with hope, suffering can give rise to great joy. There are innumerable misfortunes in life arising from accidents, the malice of others, and natural disasters. From automobile fatalities to birth defects, from the killing of the innocent to epidemics, human life is vulnerable to all sorts of things that cause suffering. Sorrow and hope, compassion, and a belief that God will bring good out of evil as he did in the life, death, and resurrection of Christ are the keys to a joy that the world cannot give.
Joy
Just as there are all kinds of suffering, so are there all kinds of joy. Joy finds an echo in the animal kingdom when we see puppies frolic or kittens purr. Human joy comes from the fulfillment of needs and desires for security and pleasure, or from the end of pain. Sadly, there are evil joys which, as Scripture says, cause men to rejoice at iniquity. This joy is usually described as adding a particularly wicked aspect to evil deeds, as if the natural goodness of joy should never have been corrupted by rejoicing at evil. The worst pictures in the Dachau concentration camp museum show soldiers laughing at the torments of their victims.
Apart from the joy of evil, which is a curse, there is a whole gamut of passing or ephemeral joys, some of which are good, like the joy of celebrating with friends. Some passing joys may be indifferent, like the joy of seeing your team win a game, and some may be sinful, like the joy of a thief. In the Gospel, our Lord warns us not to cling to passing joys. The parables of the rich farmer and of the rich man and Lazarus are among several warnings Jesus gives to his followers not to cling to earthly joys. We can and should experience joy at good things, and even consecrate indifferent good fortune with joyful thanksgiving to God. But such joys must always be kept in perspective.
The greatest joys are the things of the spirit and those that pertain to the desire for fulfillment that cannot fail. Everyone knows that true joy cannot tarnish or be taken away. Those who do not believe in the everlasting deny that such joy is actually possible. Thus they are ultimately pessimistic because they believe they can never find the joy that they seek the most.
For those blessed with some awareness of the work of the Spirit, great joy is possible. The angels said to the shepherds, “Behold I bring you tidings of great joy. A Savior is born for you.” This great joy is surpassed finally by the joy of the apostles and disciples when they realized that the crucified Master had indeed returned from the dead. These are examples of spiritual joy which the world cannot give.
Unfortunately most of us—even most devout Christians—are not attentive to this great joy. We go perfunctorily about our duties, we live in close proximity to things that gave the saints the greatest joy, i.e., the Eucharistic Presence, the word of God, the knowledge of salvation, the joy of serving Christ in the poor, and we go among these things with little joy. I have been to religious gatherings that could easily have served as an advertisement for the League of the Militant Goddess. I’ve heard the Holy Spirit invoked at proceedings that he could have had nothing to do with, because joy is a sign of his presence.
Why is this? The question is not why Christ’s followers suffer. They should. The question is why they have so little joy. Not only can joy co-exist with sorrow and suffering, it should make them endurable and holy. Who has not witnessed the rare joy and peace of a believer who faces a terminal illness with faith and hope? This joy, which is a gift of the Holy Spirit, is founded on the hope of eternal life. It can have an amazing effect on the healthy who have ears to hear and eyes to see.
Perhaps most unusual is the radiant joy of the martyrs. The accounts of martyrdom abound with stories of their joy at joining this most powerful witnessing to a faith in life after death, a salvation promised by God. Certainly there are many martyrs whose causes we do not agree with and whose death may seem to be little more than fanaticism for an empty or erroneous cause. And yet there is a psychological fact that cannot be avoided. The believer who is willing to give up his or her life for a cause will experience serenity and a mysterious joy at the moment of death. The origins of this joy certainly are their belief that they have traded what is passing for what is eternal. They have given up temporary joys for the hope and expectation of eternal joys. Our Lord himself speaks of this joy on more than one occasion. Perhaps the most powerful teaching he gives on this subject is to be found in John 16:20-22.
Most of us will never face martyrdom. We will, however, face the terrible sorrow that comes from the loss of someone we love. We will encounter sadness when our lives and potentials are diminished by sickness or premature death. Recent studies in developmental psychology indicate that even very successful people in later middle age are apt to experience a sense of failure. And what about the sorrow that comes from some irreversible calamity—an accident or severe illness that leaves someone dear to us physically or psychologically incapacitated?
We have all experienced some instant when our future suddenly takes a different turn. And then out of the darkness we are “surprised by joy,” in C. S. Lewis’ marvelous expression; “suddenly, unexpectedly God is there.” He offers a way. Perhaps at first we are so angry and bitter that we don’t want to see the way out or take it. Many in fact do this and never again find joy in their lives.
We hesitate. We refuse to be deceived again by the promise of happiness and peace. But something beyond us drives us on. We find in the darkness itself an answer to sorrow, a way out of tragedy. It is not a magical answer, but rather a way to make the darkness part of the answer that we must carve out of life with God’s help.
The words of Psalm 139 have a new meaning:
Even the darkness is not dark to thee.
The night is bright as day.
The mystery of Christ is revealed in ways that are practical for our needs and sufferings. The mystery of Christ brought salvation and eternal hope out of the greatest tragedy and sinful injustice ever perpetrated by the fallen children of Adam. His final prayer, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do,” brings hope not only to the worst sinners but also to the most devout Christians who realize with fear and trembling that along the way they may often have passed Christ, hidden in the disguise of the outcast.
The mystery of Christ has many aspects. None of them is more important than this: out of sin, suffering and pain, God’s love, revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord, has brought hope and eternal life. This realization can bring the highest and most invincible joy to those who accept it. It is a joy that the world cannot take away. It is a joy that goes beyond even the joy of the martyrs.
The suffering and sorrow of the martyrs seems remote from our everyday lives. Even in suffering and sorrow our lives seem unimportant and can appear to have no meaning. But to God no suffering or sorrow is unimportant if it can be transformed by love. This love, shown to God or to those dear to us in him, has a transforming power. Through the gifts of the Holy Spirit love can bring joy into sadness and sorrow—and can eventually transform them into eternal joy.
The following true story movingly illustrates how grace can lead to victory over death. The sorrow of this girl and her family was very real. Her ultimate joy is what we must all hope for in our sorrow. This account is provided by Sister Lois Darold, principal of St. John’s Villa Academy on Staten Island.
The Story of Felicia
Felicia Mangione was born with a hole in her heart. She lived under medical supervision during her first six years, after which the hole closed and she enjoyed a year of good health. During the summer between her second and third grades she was hit by a car. Her skull was fractured and she was in a coma for almost three weeks. The doctors could give no assurance of her recovery.
When Felicia came out of the coma, she assured her parents that she was all right. She spoke of having talked to Jesus. He told her that in this world there were too many people who were “takers,” as far as God was concerned. He was asking her to be a “giver.” For the next year she was in and out of hospitals for corrective surgery and eventually a plate was placed in her head. During this period she accepted uncomplainingly all that had to be done.
For the next five years Felicia developed as a “normal” young girl. She loved a challenge, never using her past illness as a crutch. Among her favorite pastimes were bicycle riding, horseback riding, and skating. She was active and involved, and served as a junior assistant to a local Brownie troop. In September 1984 Felicia entered St. John’s Villa Academy on Staten Island, New York, as a freshman. Almost immediately she found her niche among the cheerleaders. Dedicated and enthusiastic, she was present at all practice sessions and made the time pass quickly with her gentle sense of humor. She worked hard at her studies, worried about exams, and shared hopes and dreams with her friends. Friends have described her as a quiet girl who made people laugh when things grew tedious. Her parents and neighbors remember her at this period as conscientious, sensitive to others, independent, fun-filled, and somewhat detached from material possessions.
In July 1985 the first symptoms of a new illness began to appear: tiredness and black-and-blue marks; finally one day Felicia lost consciousness. Her trip to the emergency room one July night and a subsequent visit to her doctor led to the diagnosis of aplastic leukemia.
Felicia and her parents now began the numerous trips to Manhattan hospitals, hoping that a variety of treatments would put the disease into remission. In September she was admitted to NYU Medical Center and placed in protective isolation. During this time she began to wrestle with God. Without turning away from him, she nevertheless experienced anger, confusion, and anxiety about the future and especially about missing school. She received cards, bouquets of flowers and balloons, teddy bears, and phone calls to say that she was not alone. There was an outpouring of prayers and words of encouragement.
In October the doctors recommended her transfer to the National Institute of Health Hospital in Bethesda, Maryland, in the hope that an experimental treatment might prove successful. Felicia’s mother, Marie, went with her; she stayed in the hospital room and entered into her daughter’s “journey” in a special way. During October and November Felicia underwent a series of treatments and constant transfusions. Her doctors, nurses, and hospital staff came to know her as the gentle girl with the soft smile who never complained. Whatever they had to do she accepted; at times she apologized if she moved during a procedure.
Members of the chaplain’s office as well as a personal priest friend of the family began to visit Felicia regularly. They talked, prayed, and shared the Eucharist with her. During this period she seemed to be coming to terms with something within her spirit. Her mother would pray with and for her, but she said Felicia never offered to share her troubles and her mother did not press the issue. There were many offers to bring Felicia to the chapel, but she declined to go, although she never resented her mother or other family members going. At some point, Alice, the Protestant hospital chaplain, passed along to Felicia a little book of thoughts, prayers and reflections edited by a Franciscan priest. Felicia opened it to the poem “The Weaving.” Her mother recalls Felicia’s deep impression with the poem, which she read often. She confided in her mother, saying “Mom, God has finally spoken to me.” When she could no longer read for herself, Felicia would ask her mother to read the poem to her. It began to give her a sense of peace and consolation. This poem, written by an unknown author, is the key to understanding the great spiritual step this girl took as her physical life ebbed. It is the step of absolute trust.
THE WEAVING
My life is but a weaving Between my God and me;
I may not choose the colors, He knows what they should be;
For He can view the pattern Upon the upper side,
While I can see it only On this, the under side.
Sometimes He weaveth sorrow, Which seemeth strange to me;
But I will trust His judgment,And work on faithfully;
‘Tis He who fills the shuttle, He knows just what is best;
So I shall weave in earnest And leave with Him the rest.
At last, when life is ended, With Him I shall abide,
Then I may view the pattern Upon the upper side;
Then I shall know the reason Why pain with joy entwined,
Was woven in the fabric Of life that God designed.
On December 8, one of the sisters of St. John the Baptist (the congregation which runs the high school) was professing her perpetual vows. Sister Ann Francis knew about Felicia and had been praying for her. She was asked to pray for Felicia in a special way on her profession day and promised to do so. Marie was informed of the upcoming event and said she had been praying especially to the Blessed Mother. I recall now that Sister Ann Francis asked me to remember this girl and her family at the Mass I celebrated on the feast of the Immaculate Conception. Little did I expect to preach about this girl some day.
On Friday, December 6, a priest friend came to pray with Felicia and bring her Communion. Afterward, she dropped into a sleep and seemed to have a terrible nightmare. During Friday and Saturday, whenever Felicia slept she seemed to be engaged in a strong struggle within her spirit. On the morning of Sunday, December 8, she awoke and appeared to have found a peace that even her illness could not disturb. From then on she began to ask to visit the chapel and surprised everyone by the amount of time she spent there in quiet prayer. On more than one occasion when someone tried to bring her back to her room, she asked for more time, stating, “I haven’t finished talking to him yet.” Or simply, “I’m not ready, I’m still praying.” During the time in chapel, she seemed oblivious to her pain.
Around this time Felicia was quite taken with concern for another young girl suffering from the same illness. She prayed for her often. When her mother questioned why Felicia never prayed for herself, for healing, she replied: “I can’t. God wants me to be a giver.” During December, Felicia’s strength began to fail. The hopes of remission were fading as treatments became more frequent. Those who attended her during her last weeks attest to her unfailing courage, her gentle faith, and her quiet trust in God. She was a source of faith and strength to those who came into contact with her. As her body grew weaker, her spirit seemed to grow stronger. And always she expressed a concern for those around her, especially her parents and brother.
On the morning of December 31, Felicia refused to take any medication, simply saying, “No more now.” Having celebrated Christmas with her family, she now began to lose more of her physical capabilities, including partial vision and the energy to speak much. Her immediate family was with her on this last day of the year and witnessed her failing condition. Later, they shared with one another the fact that at different times that day they had gone to chapel and asked God to release her from her suffering. Felicia died at 9:30 P.M.
Sister Lois’ account of Felicia’s life and death demonstrates how an ordinary person can deeply influence the lives of others. Felicia’s early death brought the most profound sorrow to her parents, family and friends. Her mother has explained: “She was not only my daughter, she was my friend.” But Felicia’s death was also a profound message for many in her circle of friends and acquaintances, and for those who read this book. It proclaimed an unshakable faith and hope in this life, and, beyond it, in a life with God.
A young life taken away is cause for deep sorrow. A death overcome by everlasting life is filled with a joy that this world cannot give. Such a joy is never easily won. In Felicia’s life it was won by pain, struggle, prayer and generosity. Through her efforts she came to an honest acceptance of her impending death. She looked with new eyes at the “weaving” of her life, knowing that God alone sees the other side. This won for Felicia the opportunity to be an encouragement to other people in their sorrow. Little did John and Marie Mangione realize the depth of meaning that the name of their little girl would have. Felicia means joy. In their case, it meant sadness and sorrow mingled with joy as they followed their little girl in the wheelchair into the chapel where Christ awaited her with a joy that no one can take away. Someday their joy will also be complete.
So you have sorrow now, but I will see you again and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joy from you (Jn 16:22).
Epilogue
Pain Is Not Unhappiness
In recent years it has been popular and at times helpful for writers to offer solutions to spiritual difficulties drawn from psychology and clinical techniques. It must be obvious to the reader that in this series of meditations I have endeavored to do the opposite. In exploring apparent psychological problems, I have tried to draw answers from the teachings of faith and Christian tradition—especially the Gospel. My purpose has been not to imply that the first process—namely, seeking psychological solutions—was erroneous. Rather my intent has been to examine the impact of Christian revelation and personal faith on the conflicts and difficulties of life.
In following this course I must acknowledge my debt to Professor Viktor Frankl who pointed the way in his work Man’s Search for Meaning. However, Dr. Frankl did not endeavor to use solutions drawn from the Gospel or Christian revelation, because he was—and assures me he still is—Jewish in his belief. For answers to life Frankl drew very effectively from his own experience of God during the Holocaust. I have drawn mostly from the experience of others and sometimes from my own. I have obviously based this book on the Christian message contained in the Gospel. The religious experience of one who believes in a personal God—the God of Abraham and of St. Paul—is one that unites human needs and divine gifts in a dynamic relationship, one that constantly grows and changes, one that can seem harmonious or conflicted, peaceful or dark. All our potentials and negative possibilities, our human capabilities and limitations come into play in a manner that resembles Jacob’s wrestling with the angel. From such experiences we emerge changed and often wounded. If our personal experience is an authentic one in which there is more truth than illusion, the change will always be in the direction of growth and maturation, of coming to full stature in Christ.
We are incapable of achieving our desired destiny by ourselves because of the innate limitations of human nature, because of the wounds that derive from the mysterious reality of original sin, and because our hearts are restless to possess the transcendent God.
The revelation of Christ and our adoption by God that was won by his blood are essential if we are to achieve our eternal goal. Our peace in this world requires that we actually, even forcefully, live our lives in the light of that revelation.
Spiritual maturity for the Christian requires a constant energetic struggle to overcome moral faults and to behave according to the teachings of the Gospel and the Christian tradition. It demands an intellectual struggle to come to an ever-new knowledge of the mystery of Christ in our own lives and in our relationship with others, including strangers and enemies who represent Christ to us. Finally, our spiritual journey must be marked by trust and hope that God providentially gives us the things necessary for salvation. This knowledge will sustain us in the mishaps of life, in the circumstances of the physical world and in the operation of natural forces.
As the Christian world vision is achieved by mind and heart, by intelligence and will constantly assisted by grace, the meaning of life as a journey toward the Father’s house begins to grow clear. Pain, suffering, illness, rejection, failure and death fall into a new perspective. Life begins to be seen as a difficult journey through a vale of tears.
Admittedly, the need for a sense of humor, the need to laugh, is accentuated by this knowledge, because the tears would be overwhelming if it were not for life’s absurdities and jokes. Those who know how to endure pain will know how to laugh in spite of it all.
Once in my life, early in the 1970’s, having inadvertently bought the superficial humanism of the moment, I gave up (I am ashamed to admit) the recitation of the Salve Regina (the “Hail, Holy Queen”). The reference to life as a valley of tears and as an exile seemed not to be in keeping with the spirit of those palmy days. Then one evening I suddenly faced the most shattering experience of my life. A troubled youngster with whom I had worked for ten years slipped into insanity and took his own life. I stood in the dark city street in front of our boys’ home and there echoed in my soul the old prayer, “Mourning and weeping in this valley of tears, and after this, our exile, show unto us the Blessed Fruit of thy womb, Jesus.” On that dark night the mystery of Christ was revealed to me as never before.
Afterward I did some research on this remarkable prayer and discovered that it had been written almost a thousand years ago by a man who was born so deformed that he could never stand. The author, Blessed Herman, lived forty painful years in the German Benedictine monastery of Reichenau. He was a genius who wrote a number of scientific studies, even though his speech was so impaired that he was difficult to understand. Herman eventually went blind and turned his talent to writing hymns and poems. The Salve Regina, which ends this book, is his masterpiece and has been recited billions of times since his death, bringing hope and joy to those who prayed it in dark times.
A few years ago I met a remarkable young man, Dr. William Barton Hurlbut, who is a physician, poet, and composer and is also an admirer of Blessed Herman. He shared with me his own story of a stumbling block that became a stepping stone. He also shared his beautiful lyric poem, which is really a hymn in honor of Blessed Herman. I can think of no better way to end this book than to let Dr. Hurlbut, an expert on medical ethics, tell his own story and sing his hymn.
I Knew Our Lives Would Never Be the Same
During my years as a medical student, I studied under world-renowned scientists. My biochemistry teacher, Paul Berg, won the Nobel Prize for his work in recombinant DNA, and others were conducting equally dramatic research in embryology and brain chemistry. I could see that a revolution in our understanding of biology was beginning and that it offered great hope for curing disease, but it also had disturbing implications.
In my senior year I helped set up Stanford’s first course in medical ethics and I accepted a post-doctoral fellowship to study theology and medical-moral problems.
One week after I graduated from medical school, my wife had our first child. The labor was long and there were problems in delivery. The obstetrician decided to do an emergency Caesarean section. By the time we got to the operating room, there was no fetal heartbeat. We scrubbed our hands for the required seven minutes to avoid infection, knowing that every second meant more damage to the baby. When the little girl was finally born, she was limp and pale. I think I heard the resident physician say, “She’s dead,” but they tried to resuscitate her. After almost ten minutes, they managed to get her heart beating and then rushed her to the infant intensive-care unit. She had gone without oxygen for an incredibly long time.
I remember driving home from the hospital in the early dawn with tears streaming down my face. All I could do was call out to God. Because of the lack of oxygen, our baby had severe seizures and cerebral palsy. She might never walk, talk, or even sit up.
I knew our lives would never be the same, and there were moments when I wondered whether it might have been better if the child had died. But above all my wife and I hoped for life. We prayed for God’s healing but especially for the grace to love unconditionally the child he had given us. We knew that she was God’s invitation to us to grow in love, to become more like Christ.
And then a wonderful transformation took place in our hearts. I had always had a certain dread and fear of having a handicapped child. Now I realized that such a burden could also be rich in joy. It had brought us into the very heart of life.
I remembered St. Francis: one day he met a leper and gave him a coin; then, in spite of his enormous dread of leprosy, he embraced the man, desiring to love him just as Christ loves each of us. He later said that from that moment on, all his dread became the source of great sweetness. He had overcome his deepest fear. Now the sick and the poor, the unlovely and unloved, were his brothers and sisters. Regardless of their circumstances, he treated all people with courtesy, as beloved of God.
That radiant love was the most beautiful gift of all. How I hoped that my little injured child would receive such respect and courtesy as she went through life.
By the grace of God she has been greatly healed. By all medical standards it has been an extraordinary healing. The seizures stopped, the spasticity steadily declined, and we were able to take off her leg braces. Now she is a happy, active child going to a normal school. She has some difficulties, but her handicap is relatively mild.
But as with all Christ’s healing miracles, there was more than physical healing. Our daughter’s healing was like a window that permitted us to view the beauty and mystery of God and his plan for salvation. I would never have hoped for such an experience, and yet it has been one of the deepest, most transforming blessings of my life.
I am so grateful to be a Christian and united in faith with those who, throughout history, have stood up for the weak and abandoned—like the early Christians who rescued the unwanted infants from the garbage heaps of Rome.
I think we are at a crucial point in history. Advancing biotechnology will allow us to manipulate the basic fabric of human life. We will be tempted to use our knowledge as an extension of our vanity and pursuit of pleasure. There will be pressures to intervene in genetics and embryological development to produce desired physical and mental characteristics. And I fear that the view of the body as a complex machine, which is so helpful to scientific investigation, is leading to an incomplete, perverse vision of human life.
I remember an incident one day when my daughter was first starting to talk. She had fallen down and came in to tell us she had hurt herself, but she said, “Mommy, my self hurts.” That little self in there, that mystery of flesh and spirit present from conception! That sacred image of God!
What great good lies ahead if we can use our medical knowledge with tenderness and mercy—with a tenderness that sees the wonder and sanctity of life, and a mercy that recognizes in suffering an opportunity to grow richer in love.
HERMAN THE CRIPPLE
by William Barton Hurlbut, M.D.
I am least among the low, I am weak and I am slow; I can neither walk nor stand, Nor hold a spoon in my own hand.
Like a body bound in chain, I am on a rack of pain; But He is God who made me so, that His mercy I should know.
Brothers, do not weep for me! Christ, the Lord, has set me free. All my sorrows He will bless; Pain is not unhappiness.
From my window I look down to the streets of yonder town, Where the people come and go, Reap the harvest that they sow.
Like a field of wheat and tares, Some are lost in worldly cares; There are hearts as black as coal, There are cripples of the soul.
Brothers, do not weep for me! In His mercy I am free. I can neither sow nor spin, Yet, I am fed and clothed in Him.
I have been the donkey’s tail, Slower than a slug or snail; You, my brothers, have been kind, Never let me lag behind.
I have been most rich in friends, You have been my feet and hands; All the good that I could do, I have done because of you.
Oh my brothers, can’t you see? You have been as Christ for me. And in my need I know I, too, Have become as Christ for you!
I have lived for forty years In this wilderness of tears; But these trials cannot compare With the glory we will share.
I have had a voice to sing, To rejoice in everything; Now Love’s sweet eternal song Breaks the darkness with the dawn.
Brothers, do not weep for me! Christ, the Lord, has set me free. Oh, my friends, remember this: Pain is not unhappiness.
