Sorting out the past

Today I am engaged in one of those infrequent but periodic “sorts” of the material evidences of my life. Every time I try to sort, I am overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of things and quickly become impatient, while these questions continually assail my mind, “Why are you doing this? Who are you saving this stuff for?” It makes me understand why so much has been lost to “history”—more has been lost through giving in to those questions than has disappeared through deliberate destruction. That’s what I think, anyway. I’ve seen it happen in families, my own and others I have known. People just get tired of moving around and storing all this “junk.” I wonder if our word “sort” is related to a French word of totally different meaning, sortir, “to depart.” And I wish my leaving were able to be more like the leaving of Almustafa in Kahlil Gibran’s book, The Prophet. His sorting was of a different kind, and when he took ship, he took nothing with him but himself. But as for me, I must sort out the past.

I’m taking pause now, because I came across something I thought I had lost many years ago, accidentally tossed perhaps, but it’s turned up. A packet of written materials for my mother’s and my wife’s father’s memorial services. We wrote special ones for them, but it’s been years since we sang the services. Yet, there they were, in a metallic gold peechee, hiding out in another box of memorabilia.

What I also found was handwritten excerpts I made from letters my late mother wrote me, in which she gave her testimony, little by little, as her life was ebbing away. We thought she would have died sooner because of her many ailments, but she had a massive stroke which left her half-paralysed and unable to speak or write, and in that condition she lived another ten years, finally succumbing to complications arising from pneumonia. Before her stroke, though, she had the chance to write down her faith, and knowing what her inner thoughts and beliefs were helped me to hope for her “having made it.”
My mother was raised a Roman Catholic, but for various reasons abandoned church worship. The content of her faith, and even her vocabulary, comes from an injured Catholic soul who struggled to get into a right relationship to the Living Christ, apart from formal dogma. This month is the 22nd anniversary of her repose on November 25th. She was born on Christmas Day, 1919, and reposed three days before Thanksgiving Day, 1986. I want to share a few of her words of testimony in honor of her difficult life. The old photos scattered about were taken at about age 8 when she made her first holy communion, and then in her mid-twenties or a bit later. She rarely let us photograph her, and so I have only memories of how she looked in old age.

From a letter dated January 4, 1974…

I’m always and forever thinking about God, and never—not once—have I blamed God for my unlucky life. Just knowing that God and I know this to be true is what’s keeping me on till God wants me. Even if everyone on the face of the earth ignores me or is angry at me, I don’t care. I have God if no one else, and I’m happy. I can pray and talk to God and I know He hears me. I’m always praying for everyone, but I don’t go telling them, and I ask God to forgive them, because they don’t know any better.

I do not demand from God. I only feel I got what I had coming, and I will get what I deserve. There is only One God, and He only knows. I even thank God for all the bad luck I’ve had. Hard to believe, but it’s the honest truth. And again I say, God and I only know this. I expect to be punished by God, if I need it, but also forgiven, if I deserve it.

I really wish I could be a nun, even at this late age. By God’s standards I am a sinner, but God understands and forgives me, I know. All I ask God is to help me do the right things, to be with me always, there to help me in this way, and to forgive me and give me another chance. All I can do in return is live a life like God wants us to. I never ask God to give me something, only to help me and show me the way to do my best, and never to give up.

You see, I’m not without sin, but I don’t blame God. I ask Him to stand by me and never lose faith in me. I can’t help myself, and maybe I’m taking longer [than I should], but I’ll always keep on trying, because I know God is with me.

I could say more, but I’ll close on this note. We’re all sinners. Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.

And from another letter, written September 2, 1974, these words about her repentance…

I sit and think all the time, how we only have one life, and how people can really waste it, like I did. The only time I feel so good is when I’m trying to go to sleep. I talk to God, and I just can’t explain how I feel and what I see, how it will be when I’m gone. You know, I feel so very happy, and I’m not afraid. God will remember me and forgive me, because I never blamed God for my bad life. I only remember what was good, and how happy I was. The rest that happened was only when I went off [on] the side road, and it took me longer to get back. Remember, it was [when we lived] on Ross Street, you were telling and showing us about that road, and how one can stray. It took me longer [to get back] because the devil was stronger than me. I feel I could have done something sooner and will never forgive myself for straying that long, but I know God will forgive me. So now, all there is for me is the straight ahead road, and I’m sure not turning either way. It’s too close to the end to let the devil win again.

If you’ve read this far, I thank you, brethren, for helping me stop and remember the soul of this dear sister, my mother.

Αιωνια σου η μνημη, αξιομακαριστος και αειμνηστος αδελφη ημων.
May your memory be eternal, dear sister, for you are worthy of blessedness and everlasting memory.

Now, as for us who are still here, time to sort!