{To My Birthday Buddy}

Dear Rosie,

Happy birthday! It's your first celestial birthday! I don't mean by that, of course, that it's been a year since you were "born into eternal life," as those funeral prayer cards often say. I mean it's your earthly birthday & you're celebrating it for the first time as a member of the Heavenly choir.

We always made elaborate party plans for our shared birthday. Your family certainly knows how to throw a fun party and you know I am always up for a fun party. Given the close proximity of our birthday to the end of the TAC academic year, however, it never happened. Perhaps if God had deigned for our shared birthday to be in July, for example, I might have been able to plan the trip. Or, if in His wisdom, He had ordained that we have a birthday that fell during the school year, it would have been a breeze to throw a marvelous party together. As it was, we never did have a party together. We did have enormous fun dreaming and scheming about them, though.

Now we get to spend every birthday together. Call me a sap ("You're such a sap, Bridget!" "I know... but at least I'm cute!" "...and predictable."), but I find this incredibly consoling. Without my faith in our all-good God, all I would be left with would be a huge Rosie-shaped hole in my heart. I have enough trouble dealing with that as it is. Every time I walk into the choir loft at our alma mater, I have to fight the urge to cry. I miss you. It's always worse when one of my visits corresponds to one of your sister Augusta's visits... I have so many memories of standing with the two of you, singing in that beautiful space, leaning on each other (physically and musically), sharing moments of pride ("We sound awesome!") and embarrassment (how many sheepish grins did we exchange as we hacked our way through a piece with great messiness?). That space is not the same without you.

My sappiness & sentimentality overtook me with great force at Luke & Jenny's wedding, which was just a few days ago. That Bollywood song, to which you knew every. single. dance. move (and, I'm sure, the name of it, too. I just label it with a pronoun.) came on, and we all rushed out on to the floor. Your cousin led us with great spirit and competence, but I missed you. Bollywood was your thing. Maybe it was the beer, maybe it was the great emotion of the day, maybe it was the fact that I was tired, but I started bawling. No, not pretty, dainty tears, but ugly crying. The kind that no ladylike person ever does, but I did. They were hiccupy, violent, and downright gross. Someone asked me what was wrong, and I managed to squeak, "I miss Rooooosiiiiieeeee..." In a moment of what I'm sure they deemed helpfulness, they gestured in the approximate direction of the town cemetery and said, "She isn't far. She's just over there."

Oh boy, did I stop crying then! I was livid. "No, she's NOT over there!" Because you're not. They may have laid your body to rest in that cemetery, but you - my beautiful, talented, lively, joyful, sassy, kind, generous, and awesome friend - are with God. You're with the Heavenly hosts. You are not in the graveyard. (In all fairness, I'm sure our mutual friend meant well and knows you aren't really in that cemetery, but the verbal slip-up had the effect of snapping me out of my self-pity-party, which we should be thankful for, I suppose.) You weren't far. That was true. Because you were there. (I know this for a fact due to that little miracle you pulled out for Lauren earlier that day. Thank you!)

Rosie, I miss you. So much. But it's our birthday. And for the first time, we can really celebrate it together. You, in your new role in the communion of saints, can celebrate with me today in a way that wasn't possible before. We've always been united in the love of Christ, but your union with Him has been perfected. I like to imagine (forgive me if this is heretical, but I don't think it is, so it isn't formal heresy, at least) that since your union with Him is perfected, that somehow our friendship has been made better & closer.

And today, we are going to PARTY! Because, you know, it's our BIRTHDAY!

Much love,
Bridget

Au Revoir, Rosie | Reflections on a Funeral

I sat in the choir loft, surrounded by nearly a hundred people. Most of them were Rosie's family. Below us, Our Lady of the Most Holy Trinity Chapel was packed, again full of family and friends. I looked around the choir loft. Cousins stood, arms around each other, crying silently. There were no dry eyes, even among students who hadn't known Rosie well - just her presence and influence in the choir and on campus.

It felt like Good Friday.

They carried in the casket. Six strong brothers and brothers-in-law, all bound by grief, but also bound by an even stronger love. Love for each other, love for Rosie.

I held in sobs, knowing that if I lost it, I'd lose it completely. I kept my eyes focused on the crucifix above the baldacchino, willing myself to keep it together. Again, it hit me - it felt like Good Friday. People mourning, people weeping. Solemn music in a familiar church, where I've watched the suffering of Good Friday turn into the joy of Easter Sunday.

My dear, sweet friend was gone. Her body was in that casket. And it was killing me. There was no Easter Sunday in two days.

The words of the first reading echoed through the church:

"The souls of the just are in the hand of God, and no torment shall touch them. They seemed, in the view of the foolish, to be dead; and their passing away was thought an affliction and their going forth from us, utter destruction. But they are in peace."

She is in peace. But why is she gone?

The words of the Psalm, chanted, gave an answer:

Audi filia, et vide, et inclina aurem tuam: quia concupvit Rex speciem tuam.  

"Because the king has desired your beauty."

Rosie told her brother that she regretted never having had the chance to marry and raise a family of her own. From that moment, he prayed that she would be granted the grace of Christ coming to her as a bridegroom. That she would feel all of the joys of being loved in an overwhelming, all-consuming manner with Christ, the King, as her lover.

I can't imagine Jesus refusing such a request. I have no doubt that Jesus took His Rose from us with all the tenderness and love that would befit a bridegroom.

I can see him gently carrying her over the threshold of Heaven, just as a groom does his bride, welcoming her home. And just as a man promises his wife the world in their shared home, Christ promises Rosie His Kingdom, where she shall want for nothing. There will be no more pain, no more cancer, no more death.

As I stood at the graveside, facing her family, I saw broken hearts written across faces. Father, mother, sisters, brothers, nieces, and nephews. All broken. It felt like Good Friday. So much confusion, hurt, sadness...

and faith.

Every one of those heartbroken family members had their faith in Christ shining through their sorrow. They are sad, and some of them may feel a little lost, but they all have faith.

Faith in the Resurrection of the dead. Faith in Rosie's present peace and joy. Faith in their reunion on the other side of the grave. Faith in Easter Sunday.
 
One of the nieces asked, as they lowered the casket into the ground, "Does Aunt Rosie have a pillow?"

And although I have faith in those same things, that couldn't keep me from weeping. I broke down there, watching her family, watching the casket disappearing. Watching her family cry. My heart aches.

There's a hole in my heart that won't be filled in this life. A place that was filled with Rosie's sweet, but independent, personality. A place filled with Rosie's love for quilting and loyalty to the purity of The Lord of the Rings books. Her half-serious, half-joking reprimands when Augusta and I got too wild. Her laugh as she joined in the fun. Her lovely voice, always leading the sopranos to confidence... except on those new pieces where she and I struggled to sight-sing and sometimes had conflicting interpretations of the intervals. Her constant love for her family and friends. Her joy, especially in her sickness. You had to remind yourself that she was sick because she didn't behave like an invalid. She was truly a faith-filled woman.

Leaning over the side of the grave, staring at the casket, one of her nephews inquired, "How will we get her back up?"

How will we get her back up?

We won't. But Christ will. Christ will raise her up on the last day. In the meantime, we'll miss her physical presence with us, but we will always have her looking down on us from the Heavenly choir. She was constant in her selfless love for those in her life - I can't imagine that's a trait that will disappear in her sainthood.

It felt like Good Friday. One of her brothers voiced the thought that I had kept inside all morning. But he continued the thought, as a good Christian should: "The rest of this life will be like Holy Saturday and we know what happens when Holy Saturday ends."

Yes, we do. 


I hugged Mr. Grimm, expressing my condolences as sincerely and deeply as mere words can. I was crying, he was crying. He let me go, held my shoulders, and I whispered, "I hope I can see you again soon on a happier occasion."

He pulled me close, kissed me on top of the head, and held me. "Bridget, this is a happy occasion. Don't forget that."

I hugged Mrs. Grimm, again struggling to express adequate sympathy, and thanking her for welcoming us all into her home.  "It's my pleasure, dear. You've always been like a daughter to us - and Rosie would want her family together so they can help each other remember to be happy for her."

Until we meet again, Rosie.

Until that Easter Sunday. 

Rest in Peace, Rosie

Shortly - very shortly - after publishing my last post, I got word that Rosie had gone with God.

She died surrounded by her family, who had just finished saying their family Rosary. Fr. Hildebrand, a Norbertine priest who is currently serving as a chaplain at TAC, said it was the most peaceful and beautiful death he had ever seen.

We love you, beautiful lady.

So. Very. Much.

We will miss you dreadfully. I look forward to joining you in the Heavenly choir, where your lovely voice has been welcomed enthusiastically.

In paradisum deducant te Angeli; in tuo adventu suscipiant te martyres, et perducant te in civitatem sanctam Ierusalem. Chorus angelorum te suscipiat, et cum Lazaro quondam paupere æternam habeas requiem.

(in English)

May angels lead you into paradise; upon your arrival, may the martyrs receive you and lead you to the holy city of Jerusalem. May the ranks of angels receive you, and with Lazarus, once a poor man, may you have eternal rest.

Praying for a Friend

 This is Rosie.

I took this photo nearly a year ago. She was dressed up for a Beer Garden party for her grandparents anniversary. She radiated joy, happiness, and faith.

She was also fighting cancer.

Tonight, we got word that she had been anointed, was barely conscious, and was struggling to breathe.

I ask you to pray for my friend. Pray that, if it be God's will, she be cured. If it's His will to take her from us, I ask you to pray that her death might be peaceful and painless. I ask that you pray for her soul to be united quickly with her Lord.

I ask that you pray for her family, each member being an incredibly example of trust in the Lord and His plan for Rosie.

I ask, finally, that you pray for me and all of her friends, who Rosie has touched with her wonderful smile, beautiful faith, contagious joy, and downright awesome self.

Much love.