'Spiritual consolation is an experience of being so on fire with God's love
that we feel impelled to praise, love, and serve God and help others as best we can.
Spiritual consolation encourages and facilitates a deep sense of gratitude
for God's faithfulness, mercy, and companionship in our life.
In consolation, we feel more alive and connected to others.'
St. Ignatius Loyola
Consolation wears many faces ... and maybe this sacred gift of grace is never more powerful than when we are in the midst of a fierce and raw grief. This holy invitation beckons gently even as we weep repeatedly, uncontrollably with a depth that we've never confronted before.
Who knew that there were so many hot and stormy tears locked somewhere deep within the human soul?
And again six days later right before the casket was closed for good and locked up tight.
And a few hours later at the graveside after the 23rd Psalm was prayed by family members young and old, and you and your sister passed out roses and kisses to each family member so that they were able to take away something sweet amidst the grievous yet grand memorial celebration.
I've always hated good-byes. And never more than now.
Tears cascade, they well up from someplace unfathomable at the oddest moments sprinkled throughout the day and night, don't they. A sight, a sound, a scent, a memory pushes all reason aside and you weep hard.
And then you continue to do the next thing ... depleted, drained, yet strangely relieved in some odd kind of way.
Yet through grief's rocky, unsteady path, the Christ-honoring consolation of our faith is a solid surety, intertwined with a steady flow of gratitude for the sacred faithfulness, mercy, and companionship of our God.
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And then there is the steady consolation that comes from partaking in the rhythms of life.
The photo shoot at day's end reminds us that our shared faith in Christ and our enduring commitment to each other are powerful cords that bind us close. Even if we do make each other crazy from time to time.
The joyful exuberance of children's laughter and love and play.
Of prayer with hearts united and hands held, kicking off the celebration of the upcoming arrival of my sister's first grandchild this fall.
Or letting the movement of water do its healing work.
There's embracing the grace to sit absolutely still because there's no energy to do anything more and to try would be a waste of what little energy remains.
And then there are the tall glasses of icy water that chase away the humidity that hangs like a shroud.
Hands busy at the household tasks of tidying up and wading through endless loads of laundry.
Beginning to contemplate the random piles and stacks of boxes that litter the house from end to end.
The flowers. Oh ... the flowers. Glorious. Fragrant. 'Pastel shades of Monet,' the florist coined them. We are relishing their fragrant whispers, their soft textures.
And these words here, a most calming, therapeutic penning of this post.
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And then there is the tender consolation that has come from you, my friends.
I sift through and re-read again the sweetest avalanche of emails and texts and comments and cradle each one with deepest appreciation. I walk to the end of the driveway and open the rusty green mailbox, smiling because you've somehow found our new address and have taken the time to send cards that speak His precious peace and bountiful hope.
I thank God for those who traveled hours to stand with me at the memorial service. To come toting my huge, cumbersome asparagus ferns and old tin watering cans that we couldn't jam into the truck when we left New York. And you, sweet friends, who braved the flat tire you had to deal with on the Mass Pike, but forged ahead to be with me anyway. Your calm presence strengthened me at the end of a very difficult day and your great big hugs soothed my spirit.
And to those who showed their love by delivering all kinds of yummy food to my mom's. Your gifts of chicken in all its many forms, the mounds of fresh fruit and the lasagna and the desserts? They kept us fed and nourished. Without you, we'd still be staring into the wide open fridge, trying to figure out what to eat.
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Even in our sorrows, the lovely blessings of consolation are scattered around us, right and left. We only need open hearts to experience God's healing grace in all its fullness. We lean hard into Him right about now. And He lovingly scoops us up and carries us through grief's valley ...
