08 DEC c. BC 16, AD 1975, 1980 and 2017
By
Michael The Libertarian
“Michael,
what the heck is with the title?” I made sure you got this far,
didn't I?
Well,
the first date is an approximation, but it has been designated as the
day of the Feast Of the
Immaculate Conception
– the day Jesus' mother was born. There's a common misconception
that “immaculate conception” refers to Jesus. It's not. Anyway,
my point isn't to proselytize.
8 DEC, 1975 was the day my grandmother died. She being such a devout
Catholic and dying on that day was significant to me.
As I said, my grandmother was extremely devout. She was a slight lady
– only 4' 11” – but she was a firecracker. Unfortunately, I
had very little first-hand knowledge of her. I was born in '64. She
suffered from Alzheimer's Disease. The doctors (of that time) had a
lot less information about the condition. That's not a slam on them.
It's just a fact. Their best “guess” is she suffered from the
condition starting somewhere around 1970. That jibes with what the
family recognized with her behavior.
So, I was only five or six years old, when she started her slip into
darkness. I have some memories that date back, sightly later, but not
many.
From the family stories though … Wow! She was a strong, determined
lady and she didn't suffer fools, gladly. She was Irish, in case you
know the type.
When I think about this day, I think about two things that helped me
through that tough time in my life:
I remember sitting in one of the most beautiful Catholic churches
I've ever been in that wasn't considered a “Cathedral” – St.
Boniface Roman Catholic Church in Elmont, NY. I also recall the calm
dulcet tones of the priest as he spoke about her (he'd known her for
many years) and the specific sentence he said that brought me to
tears and comforted me, at the same time.
It
was December 12th
and he said: “We know that Alice, having worn the scapula all of
her Christian life, will be enjoying the most joyous Christmas she's
ever experienced. That tore it for me.
The other thing that helped me through happened the day she died. My
stepfather (her son) came home from work and found me, on my bed,
sobbing. He asked me why I was crying and I told him.
He asked if I believed in the Promise of the Scapular. I said of
course I did.
Well, the Promise of the Scapular, for those who don't know, is a bit
detailed, but I'll try:
If one makes the proper devotions (to the Sacred Heart of Jesus) and
attends mass on the first Friday of nine consecutive months and they
die, wearing the scapular, they will be spared Purgatory and ascend
to heaven on the first Friday after their death.
The first five Saturdays is a bit more involved so, I am going to
truncate it:
If one attends mass on five consecutive first Saturdays and completes
all the requirements of the devotion, the Virgin Mary promised that
she would intercede on their behalf, at the exact moment of death.
This intercession is spelled out as doing essentially the same thing
as the previous; it helps a soul skip Purgatory.
So, my step-father wanted to know that if I believed all these
things, why I was crying. I couldn't really formulate an answer other
than: “I'll miss her.”
This was one of three times in my entire life when my step-father
ever showed signs of being a father. He said: “So, you're not
crying because of her suffering or question whether she will go to
Heaven. You're crying out of selfishness; because you'll never see
her, again and you'll miss her?”
I
had to admit he had a point. He continued: “Look, it's okay to be a
little selfish, at times. There's nothing wrong with that, but a
little
selfish. Your mother tells me you've been crying violently for hours.
You're allowed fifteen minutes to cry for her. After that, you're
being selfish.”
That advice would come in very handy, later on in life.
8 DEC, 1980 is a date with which (many) more of you will be familiar.
I was in my room, doing homework and listening to the radio.
Suddenly, a special announcement came over the air; John Lennon had
been shot and was in the hospital. There was no report of his death,
yet.
I
have to say that I was never a huge fan of the Beatles. I did enjoy
all of their solo careers, but my extent of being a “fan” of the
Beatles was buying a three-inch-thick, letter-sized, soft cover copy
of “The Beatles
Complete”
song book and learned how to play every chord
shape
contained within. It was one of the very first steps on my road to
becoming a musician.
I no longer owned a transistor radio and I didn't think to grab my
boombox, but I did get dressed and get out the door, headed for the
train station.
I got off the Northeast Corridor line and transferred to the subway.
As I got closer to the Dakota (the building where Lennon lived that
was also relatively close to the hospital), people were getting on
the train and talking about the death of Lennon. Being a smart
sixteen-year-old, I surmised they weren't talking about Vladimir.
Because of the times in which we live, I feel I have to mention this:
at the time of these events, I had no idea about the accusations of
abuse regarding Lennon, coming from his ex-wife. I knew about the
Yoko Ono accusation, but that seemed like a one-off incident that
John had corrected … at least to Ono's satisfaction.
I spent the night in what would come to be named “Strawberry
Fields” in Central Park with a few thousand close friends. We lit
candles and commiserated about the sad occurrence of the day. For the
record: no tears were shed by your humble author.
8 Dec, 2017 -
So, this was my process as I sat down to write today. I was comforted
by promises of ultimate reward and believing death can be beaten.
I hope I manage to find this strength on 22 Dec.
- Michael
Comments
Post a Comment