Memory

After attending Mass and Confession this past Saturday, I went to the statue of Our Lady of Fatima to pray. I love to gaze at her. She is beautiful, filled with hope and joy. I believe she is asking me to ponder my childhood. I do not understand why. However, a childhood memory immediately came to mind which I would like to share.

My memory: My mother, father and I lived across the street from my grandmother (my mother's mother) in an upstairs apartment. On Saturday nights, I often spent the night at my grandmother's. We would walk to St Stanislaus Church for the Saturday Vigil Mass. On Sunday mornings, my great grandfather often came to visit my grandmother. They talked in Polish - I never knew what they were saying. But, before they started talking, my great grandfather always gave me a quarter or a fifty cent coin and told me to put it my piggy bank. I left my breakfast of over-easy eggs and toast and did as he asked.

I loved spending time with my grandmother. I loved listening to her stories. I loved her house, too. At five years old, I was over the moon when we moved in with her - I had a sister and baby brother by then. My aunt (my mother's sister) was still living at home. It was a full house - the more, the merrier, as far as I was concerned. After we moved in, I occasionally slept with my grandmother. It was my habit to sleep with her when I came for my overnight stays when we lived across the street, so I still wanted to sleep with her when we moved in.

On one of those nights, I was having trouble falling asleep. The routine before going to sleep started out the same as the others always had. I crawled into bed while my grandmother opened the window blinds so that the light from the street lamps could lighten the pitch black of the room. I loved the street light coming in. My grandmother crawled into bed, shut off the little light on her bedtable and took out her super cool glow-in-the-dark rosary beads - a bit more light to brighten the darkness and ease my fear of the dark. In this bedtime routine with my grandmother, I felt very loved.

This time, my grandmother fell asleep before I did. In my sleeplessness, I discovered that night that my grandmother slept strictly on her back (and she doesn't finish the rosary before she falls asleep, either). Her hands were folded across her ribs. Her feet pointed straight up to the ceiling. She was motionless. I didn't know if she was breathing. She looked like a dead person lying in a coffin. Suddenly, she took a deep breath, but then, once again, laid apparently motionless, breathless. This was scary for me; I wondered if my grandmother was dying. I laid for a long time straining to see whether or not her chest was moving - in the darkness of the room, I couldn't tell.

Even though I was frightened, deep in my heart, I felt a consolation, a soundless voice saying, "Do not worry! Your grandmother is alright. You are safe. It's alright to go to sleep now. See, your eyes are getting heavy. Close your eyes now. It's alright." These were the words of a loving mother, my spiritual Mother, Mary. Even though I had been frightened, I was less frightened now and I finally let my heavy eyes give way to sleep. The consolation I sought did not come from my sleeping grandmother, nor from my mother, my father, my siblings, my aunt who lived with us, and not from myself trying to answer the question of whether or not my grandmother was dying by intensely watching for her breath, but rather, it was Mary who came to me and gave me that consolation.

"Thank you, Mary, for your words of consolation. I'm so silly, Mother, to hear you and still feel afraid. As a child, I listened better than I do now as an adult. Be patient with me. Stay with me. Keep telling me the sweet words with your sweet voice to calm my fears and my anxious heart. Thank you for your patience in giving me these consolations over and over again. Praise You, Lord! Thank You for giving us Your blessed Mother, Mary!