On Friday, Sept. 21, the equinox by effortless force eased summer aside to make room for fall. It wasn't that you could tell the difference. The last minute of summer felt the same as the first minute of fall. Hour to hour, day to day, a melding of time - if not for the calendar I would not have known the season had changed. How deceptive our feelings can be.
I also didn't know that near the time the sun was beginning to cross the celestial equator, making equals of day and night, a season of life had also changed for a group of nine pilgrims who made their way to Eden Hill that day. Six weeks earlier, death had claimed member of their family. It felt the way death always does at first: sad and bitter, a bitingly specific human grief accompanied by a chronic, dull ache that mixes abandonment, frustration, heartache, and even - if we are honest about our reactions to the death of a loved one - anger.
This is the void of grief. We do well to know it and welcome it when it comes, as it does to all of us.
This void creates the perfect condition - "season," if you will - for faith. If there is ever a time when we need faith in faith, it is when we grieve. Faith can pour into the breach like nothing else, filling the stinging emptiness with the salve of hope. The gloom still lingers, true, but the bitterness retreats, having done its job.
Exquisite Agony
Into this chasm caused by the death of a loved one, the soul friendly with God can begin to feel a kind of exquisite agony, analogous to the ecstasy of the saints. The intense love for a departed dear one can even create in the survivors an oblique longing for death itself. This is not a death wish or in any way suicidal. It is the opposite: It's a life wish expressed through the heart's longing for unification with its Creator, to whom faith tells us our deceased beloved has returned. Saint Faustina beautifully captures this complicated feeling of the "divinity" of death in her Diary:
O my Creator, I long for You! You understand me, O Lord of mine! All that is on earth seems to me like a pale shadow. It is You I long for and desire. Although You do so inconceivably much for me, for You yourself visit me in a special way, yet those visits do not sooth the wound of the heart, but make me long all the more for You, O Lord. Oh, take me to Yourself, Lord, if such is Your will! You know that I am dying, and I am dying of longing for You; and yet, I cannot die. Death, where are you? You draw me into the abyss of Your divinity, and You veil yourself with darkness. My whole being is immersed in You, yet I desire to see you face to face. When will this come about for me? (Diary, 841)
Only death's divinity can fill the "abyss" caused by grief. This divine accommodation functions as a built-in survival mechanism. This "device" creates a new sadness separate from grief itself, produced when we desire God but cannot yet be there with Him. This terrible longing often occurs when a loved one dies, and we are left behind to deal with it.
God knows all about grieving. For example, when Jesus stands outside the tomb of his dead friend Lazarus, He weeps (Jn 11:35). Later, when Jesus foretells his own impending death, He refers to His soul as "troubled" (Jn 12:27).
Another example of God's intimate knowledge of grief can be found in the Agony in the Garden. What is the Agony but the Second Person of the Trinity grieving over His own death? The God-man's divine nature understands and accepts the need for His messianic death. His human nature, however, recoils in dread. Faith wins out, and Jesus utters the most courageous words in the Bible, as He tells His Father: "not My will, but Yours be done" (Lk 22:42).
'What do you do with such feelings?'
God doesn't abandon us in such a moment. On the contrary, He is as close as ever. If we use it properly, grief allows us deep awareness of the divine presence. Though I can't plug myself into the mind of Jesus during the Agony in Gethsemane, my guess is that He felt God closely there. It's only after Jesus tells the Father, "not My will, but Yours be done" that "an angel from heaven appeared to Him and strengthened Him" (Lk 22:43).
In 1994, in the dumps after the death of my Aunt Dolores, who was like a second mother to me, I asked a Franciscan hermit friend, "What do you do with such feelings?" He answered, "Feel them." In other words, you must walk straight through the grief. Do that, and you will not only survive but also learn and grow. I took Br. Michael at his word. His counsel proved good.
Mourning packs a double whammy: first, a profound sense of the loss itself; second, we ache to make sense of death, which naturally involves the question of God. We either doubt that He is with us, or we yearn for Him so strongly that we almost envy the dead for having gone to Him.
Longing for God produces a similar effect as does doubting Him, since longing implies His perceived absence. Either way, we sense abandonment. The experience of being "left alone" by God following the death of a friend or loved one should be expected. It is healthy and doesn't mean our faith has left us. The "feeling" of void is a sign of God making His move on us.
The third possible response to death's desolation is to stunt our feelings, deny the experience, objectify death, and sweep it aside as a triviality ("Oh well, we all got to go sometime" or "Doesn't he look beautiful," said in front of an open casket). This denial echoes Peter's denial of Jesus, sending us away, weeping into the night. On the other hand, to walk straight through grief opens us to God's good care.
Open to God's good care - that was my sense of the state of mind and quality of soul of the nine family members who blessed my day on Eden Hill, Sept. 21, on the equinox, the day of seasonal transformation. Season follows season, life follows death.
Called to Die, 'but I rejoice at that call'
I was on the Hill for pragmatic reasons, because that's where I do my writing for the Marians of the Immaculate Conception. The nine were there to celebrate new life - not the life of earthly birth but the hidden and hoped for life of what God, through His merciful love, wishes to be our common spiritual destiny.
This is the rebirth Jesus mentions to Nicodemus (Jn 3:1-21), one of the Pharisees and a member of the Jewish ruling council who comes to Him at night to learn of his teaching. Jesus tells Nicodemus, "Unless a man is born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God." The phrase "born again" is sometimes translated as "born from above."
Jesus' answer puzzles Nicodemus, who, thinking literally, asks, "How can a grown man be born? Can he go back into his mother's womb, and be born again?"
Jesus answers:
"I tell you most solemnly, unless a man is born through water and the Spirit, he cannot enter the kingdom of God: what is born of flesh is flesh; what is born of the Spirit is spirit. Do not be surprised when I say: you must be born again. The wind blows whenever it pleases; you hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. That is how it is with all who are born of the Spirit" (Jn 3: 5-8).
Jesus' response calls to mind the invocation of Ash Wednesday: "Ashes to ashes and dust to dust." That which is "born of flesh" dies as flesh. That which is born as Spirit endures as Spirit. It does not die.
Jesus' analogy is perfect. As gifts from God, life and death are like the blowing wind: self-evident but a total mystery as to how they are created and to where they go. We can speak of "heaven," but only as a word, a concept, an idea. As Jesus tells Nicodemus, "No one has gone up to heaven except the One who came down from heaven."
Born to Earth, Died to Heaven
Earth can only be reached by being born. Heaven can only be reached by dying. Physical death is how the soul, lovingly driven by and to God, perfects its life's work. Death culminates the honest efforts we haltingly begin and imperfectly pursue in our earthly lives. Our birth from Spirit occurs in the mind of God as an act, a word, of His will - "born from above," as Jesus calls it, in God's own image and likeness.
We become perfected only as we become united with the Divine Body. Again, we turn to St. Faustina:
O my Jesus, You alone know of my efforts. I seem to be a bit better, but better only to the point that I can go out on the veranda instead of lying in bed. I see and am fully aware of what is happening to me. Despite the diligent care of my superiors and the efforts of the doctors, my health is fading and running out. But I rejoice at Your call, my God, my Love, because I know that my mission will begin at the moment of my death. Oh, how much I desire to be set free from the bonds of this body (Diary, 1729).
Faustina wrote this as death approached. Nonetheless, she writes of her mission as not ending but about to "begin."
Consolation for the Grieving
The nine pilgrims on Eden Hill were beginning, as well. Related by blood or marriage, these nine souls came together to memorialize a beloved tenth. This band of husbands, wives, sisters, brothers, and cousins had gathered at the National Shrine of The Divine Mercy in Stockbridge, Mass., to celebrate the life of G. Thomas DeBarbieri.
Let me introduce you to them:
Anne Crispino (Tom's sister) and her husband Jerry from Queensbury, N.Y.
Fred and Marge Teillon (Fred is Tom's first cousin) from Liverpool, N.Y.
John and Jackie St. Cyr (Jackie is Tom's first cousin and Fred's sister) from Orleans, Mass.
Brent Teillon (Tom's first cousin and Jackie and Fred's brother) from Morrisville, Vt.
Carol Connors Budekiewicz (Tom's first cousin) from West Roxbury, Mass.
Mary Lagomarsino (Tom's first cousin and Carol's sister), from Orlando, Fla.
Tom died on the Feast of the Transfiguration, Aug. 6, 2007, at the age of 66. Fred Teillon got the inspiration to hold a day of memory, prayer, and healing on Eden Hill.
Why Eden Hill? "My wife and I come here often for Mass," Fred said. "We've been doing so for about a year, after our daughter Michelle bought a house in [nearby] Glendale, Mass. We get to Mass on Eden Hill about four or five times a year. This was the best possible location. This is a very peaceful place," he said, "a very reverential place. When we come here, we have the feeling of being blessed. You feel different when you come here. It's like another world, away from all the stresses out there."
Fred contacted Tom's sister, Anne Crispino, a retired teacher, and the rest of the family group. Fast-forward to the afternoon of Sept. 21.
The celebration of Tom's life included Mass in his name at 2 p.m. in the National Shrine, followed by a prayer-and-testimonial service in Our Lady of Mercy Oratory and Candle Shrine.
That I literally stumbled upon this story fulfilled the classic definition of "luck": Luck happens when opportunity meets preparedness. I had just left my office with the intention of wandering over to the Shrine to see what was cooking. Something always is. Call it the journalist in me.
Preparation Meets Opportunity: Voila! Instant 'Luck'
The walk from my office to the Shrine takes about five minutes, 10 if I stop and smell the flowers along the way. To get there from my office, I walk a diagonal path that goes past "The Cottage," where the Internet Department works (Felix Carroll, Terry Peloquin, Eva Shuster, and Nick Daverin), past the convent of the Sisters of the Oblates of the Most Holy Eucharist, and over the crest of Eden Hill, where the Shrine awaits.
I didn't get 20 steps. Just as I began my trek, my story literally walked my way. I couldn't have scripted this any better. Tom DeBarbieri's family came into view almost as if a director had yelled, "Action!"
Put yourself in my place. I go out looking for something, not knowing what - no clue -and these people of God walk into my life ... well, my notebook and camera's viewfinder, anyway. They were the opportunity. I was prepared. Voila! Instant "luck."
The 'It' People
Two things stuck me when I first saw them. First, there was an indefinable "it" about the group. Something told me I had better approach them. Second, they were walking together with a common look on their faces, happy and sad at the same time. They appeared wistful, the feeling you get when you recall a fond memory that you know can never happen again.
Wistful is melancholy with the edges rounded off. It is happiness tinted with blue. Wistful comes upon us the moment we sense that time, therefore life, is passing. A mother puts a little boy on the school bus for the first time. A teenager tells his dad that, no, he doesn't want to go out and toss a baseball with him because it's no longer cool. An old man wanders lonely, thinking of how he used to stroll the same avenue with his late wife. They are wistful.
I was curious, fascinated and intrigued. That's what made me say hello.
"Hi there. Enjoying your stay on the Hill?" I asked.
"Yes, very much," said Fred, assuming the role of group spokesman.
"What brings you here?"
"Well, we're hear for a memorial day for one of our relatives."
That's all I needed. We began to talk, and I got the story.
'The Lord had great mercy on Tom'
After Mass, Tom DeBarbieri's family headed to Our Lady of Mercy Oratory and Candle Shrine, on the other side of Eden Hill, adjacent to the building where I have my office. That's where I ran into them.
In the Oratory, each member of the family spoke of Tom's life. Out of respect for their private moment, I stayed outside. After they were done, I got to meet these good people at the best moment of their mercy.
"The Lord had great mercy on Tom," said his sister, Anne. "He died peacefully, having received the last sacraments."
Anne is a retired teacher who taught religious education to public school students in Glens Falls, N.Y.
"Tom died on Aug. 6 [of this year] on the Feast of the Transfiguration," she added. "I think of it as the day he, too, was transfigured, to go home to the Lord. When my dear cousin Fred said he wanted to do this, I was joyful. Divine Mercy is special to me. I love St. Faustina. When I taught, I told my students about the wonderful mercy of God. I wanted them to know the love He has for all of us."
Jerry Crispino, Anne's husband, called Tom "a special guy. He had a firm handshake. He had an honesty that you had to like. I'm glad we could do this today, for him and for Anne."
Mary Lagomarcino of Orlando, Fla., Tom's cousin and Anne's sister, expressed her joy at being on Eden Hill.
"The moment you come here, you feel a sense of peace and serenity," Mary said. "It's beautiful, with the rolling hills and the trees. It was wonderful to remember Tom in such a sacred place."
Brent Teillon, Jackie and Fred's brother and Tom's first cousin, was making his second visit to the National Shrine of The Divine Mercy. Noting that he loves nature and that he frequents the outdoors, Brent said, "That's where I feel God. I feel Him here [Eden Hill]."
Into New Life
The day ended. I said goodbye to the new friends I had made. I felt clean, like I had taken a shower. It was the afterglow of having witnessed this wonderful example of family love and mercy in action.
I perform each deed in the face of death.
I do it now as I would want to do it in my last hour.
Although life, like the wind, will pass swiftly by,
No deed undertaken for God will perish (Diary of Saint Maria Faustina Kowalska, 1435).
Taking these words to heart, this day of love and mercy for G. Tom DeBarbieri will live forever in the mind of God.
Eternity's equinox came. Death danced into new life. Nine took note - 10, if you include me ... and please do. I never met Tom, but I can honestly say I knew him.
There is no death at all. There is God to welcome us home. From Psalm 130:
From the depths I call to You, God.
Lord, listen to my cry for help!
Listen compassionately
to my pleading!
He does. He does.
Dan Valenti writes for numerous publications of the Marians of the Immaculate Conception, both in print and online. He is the author of "Dan Valenti's Mercy Journal" for this website.
