The Sunday before Christmas our Priest had announced that a family had lost their son in a tragic car accident while he was retuning from a ski trip. It sounded as if the family was young, and really devastated. He was asking as many parishioners as possible to go to that Monday mass. My husband and I exchanged looks, saying a whole conversation in a minute. His dad was killed in a car wreck when Chris was 11. He's never gotten over it, I suppose you never do. His pain has been so palpable at times, that it can still dissolve him into tears to this day. Initially, I thought I would try my best and go to this funeral for this family. We had gotten an email about it as well with their name, I didn't know them, I thought to myself, and if I had time I'd go... But we were gonna be at Church Tuesday from 4pm until after midnight all told. I decided that that was enough.
It was Christmas eve. My daughter sang at the 5pm mass, and we all came back at midnight to hear my husband play trumpet at the midnight mass. We came early. Sat in the 2nd or 3rd row closest to the trumpets in the left side of the church. (Most Catholic Churches are in the shape of a cross, use your imagination). Jonah was clearly asleep and not waking anytime soon and Jake and Jordan sat on either side. I checked my Facebook and thought I'd show Jake my "note" about him and just how much I love and value him and why I get so teary eyed every birthday. He read it and whispered an exasperated "Oh, Mom!". The music began.
A family walked in shortly before mass, a fairly big group, with many extended relatives. Then I saw her. They were sitting down directly across from us. Grieving mothers all walk the same, bent over from the weight of it, holding on to her husband on one arm, and her oldest son in the other, trying to control her sobs. There we were. 10 years from now. The mother and father looked to be in their mid fifties, the oldest looked about 20, the daughter 17-18, and a missing son. A father, clearly broken and trying to control his emotions so hard he had his hand clamped across his mouth. The daughter cried audibly while hugging parishioners as she followed closely behind.
The mass begun. I don't remember a word of it. I thought of my friend who was trying to make sense of her life after loosing a daughter (my sons age) in the May 20 tornado. I thought of this mother across from me. I thought of Mary, the mother of Jesus, and that walk. I thought of myself. Tears uncontrollably poured down my cheeks. Jake leaned over to me and said, "That's that family, isn't it, Mom." I nodded. He kept watching. I said quietly in his ear, "That's what grief looks like, Jakey. That's how much she loves her son." He put his head on my shoulder and covered it in quiet tears. The daughter across from us had done nearly the same thing.
Now, my daughter pulls my ear down, and says "What's wrong with that family? Mommy, why are you and Jakey crying?" All I could say is, "That is how much your mother loves you. If you were ever taken away, it would destroy us, just like it is them."
"It's that family, Mom."
Nodding, yes.
"So then there were 2 boys and 1..."
Nodding, yes.
She grips my hand super hard, starts crying and doesn't let go. My mind has now drifted to my husband up there trying to play some pretty difficult material while 1/3 rd of the church is now crying, wondering if he's figured out what we had. Mass has ended. It's Christmas. I have my gift, that woman doesn't. Jordan takes off across the church making a bee-line for this grieving mother, whom I've never met, and I'm panicked about what could come out of an 8 year old mouth at a time like this. I left Jonah sleeping with Jake and I tried to catch up to her as she approached this family.
She said, "I don't know you. My mom doesn't even know you. I'm so so sorry about your son. (At this point, the father takes his hand away from his mouth and strokes her hair.) We will pray for you so much." And concluded her simple, yet heartfelt sentiment with a great big bear hug to this mom, and the dad joined around them in a group hug. We all cried. I think I mumbled something to her as well, but she won't remember me. She will remember that little 8 year old girl who left them and went straight to the feet of Mary, lit a candle and prayed earnestly for them.
I gathered my family. Tight. I approached my husband tentatively as I had moderate control of myself by now. He looked at us inquisitively, and Jake threw his arms around his dad and all he could get out is, "It's all so overwhelming." Fortunately, Chris was oblivious to all of what had occurred in mass. Jordan told him through tears and we left.
I had all three kids in the van, and trying to lighten the mood, somewhat, had put on some Christmas carols. I asked the kids what they were hoping to see under the tree when they wake up. I got various answers and said in an effort to try to connect what they had witnessed earlier, "Tonight you saw a very hard, and painful, dark side of love, tomorrow, you will be surrounded with laughter, surprises, love and friends, and thoughtful gifts given to you by people who love you very very much. You thought you knew what love was, what it felt like, now you now love on a much deeper level."
At which point Jake responded, "I've been reading about icebergs and ships running into them because they didn't know they were there. Like, you only think you know what an iceberg looks like, but it goes deeper and wider than you think."
"Exactly."
"So, Mom, love is an iceberg."
"Well, Jake, someday it will be a battlefield, but that's not for about 6 years or so. But tonight, yes, love is an iceberg."
"Mom, I love you deep and wide and more than you can see. Oh, and hey, what do you want for Christmas?"
Not a single thing.
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