Loss on a rainy Monday morning (and how the family tree of a long dead saint comforts me)

This blog was started as an exercise in psychology.  I am inept at verbal expression of my feelings or thoughts - it would be great to be able to receive the Sacrament of Reconciliation by submission of a written declaration, that the priest could read and send back with notations:  "Very good,"  "Needs improvement here," "Be careful of pride," etc.

And so this is one of those navel gazing exercises rather than think about what a reader might want.  I am awake on a pre-dawn Monday with rain outside and some 2100 miles from home, away from my family, with one dog's remains at a pet cremation service after his death Friday and another in an animal hospital, with blood in his abdomen.

Maybe that contributes to the melancholy that has plagued me since awakening.

Last night I went to the annual Christmas Classic for St. Joseph Church.  It was a lovely affair but I realized it just was not the same.  Not that I expected it to be - people move on, time moves on, things change.  But it lacked a certain joy that in the past had, at least for me, set my heart into Advent to await Christmas.  It was good to see so many old friends and there were a lot of hugs and kisses in reunion.  But there was one sadness that I feel I cannot talk to anyone about for fear of being told I am an idiot, and will just put out here:  the priest who gave me Dante was present, a person with whom I had a close friendship, but a person who has turned his back on me, not even saying goodbye to that friendship.  This is a person I love as a brother, and whom I championed when he was pastor of St. Joseph.  I wanted to approach him to ask simply, "How are things going with you, little brother?" and congratulate him on being named the Vocational Director for the diocese, but I did not, knowing how uncomfortable it would make him.  And it saddens me greatly to see that even our shared Catholic faith is not enough for him to overcome what keeps him from being able to handle that, be it shame, fear, or revulsion.  Add to that the death of Dante, who was a physical bond between us, and the heavy, black velvet curtain drops, a metaphor I have used in the past for when I would enter into a depressive state.

‎In every friendship hearts grow and entwine themselves together, so that the two hearts seem to make only one heart with only a common thought. That is why separation is so painful; it is not so much two hearts separating, but one being torn asunder.
                                 --  Archbishop Fulton Sheen

I woke up with the curtain down, and set about to read the Office of Readings for today.  A glimmer of light came when I saw that today is the feast day of St. Francis Xavier, the great Jesuit missionary - and, more significantly, the name saint for my beloved father, Francis Xavier Martin.  I prayed the office, which included  a heartfelt letter from St. Francis Xavier to St. Ignatius of Loyola, expressing his fervent desire to turn hearts to God.  That made me want to read more about St. Francis Xavier, so after praying I looked up his story on line - and discovered that he is a distant relative of John Sevier, the first governor of Tennessee.

Lord, we beseech Thee for a winning coach for Thine Vols . . .

I do not know why, but this connection made my heart lighten, seeing that thread between my Dad, a great saint, and my home, as if it were a message to me that all will be well, and bonds forged not by coincidence but by love remain unbroken.  I prayed to St. Francis Xavier, Dad, and Governor Sevier (okay, he was not a Catholic, but he still is part of the Communion of Saints) to pray for me that my faith remain resolute and hope sustain me in moments of spiritual and psychological darkness.  I felt much better after doing so, ending it with the short, but powerful, prayer of Divine Mercy:  "Jesus, I trust in You."

In a short time I will call the animal hospital to check on Mac.  Last night, this blood count went up a point and he is eating more and drinking water - they have upgraded him from "critical" to "stable," although he is still closely monitored.  It is a slow recovery, but a recovery nevertheless, and with each passing moment my optimism grows, as well as my relief that I don't have to watch my children go through the heartache they had on Friday with Dante's death (the DigiSon was devastated and was worried for a time that he would not see Dante again as dogs have no souls, which I assured him would not happen; but it was also hard to see the Digidaughter cry, as usually she is in remarkable command of her emotions - and I know my Husband is hurting bad, since he loved that dog and often said how he was the best dog we have ever had for his temperament and loyalty).  I am so grateful for those who have given me and my family their support, understanding that losing a pet is losing a family member.

And later, while driving to Chino Hills to go to work, I have a Christmas small gift I will deliver at the church where my former friend resides.  No message or card, just a gift.  Father is a wee slow on the uptake - that shunt he once had in his brain makes him, well, "goofy" - but I am sure he will figure who dropped it off.  And if he chooses to regift it, well, if you know this priest and get an audiobook by Catholicism's greatest Southern writer from him for Christmas, commend him upon his thrift at recycling presents from people he does not like.  But I hope he listens to these stories as they are great tales of murder, mayhem, and misfits - and God's grace.  

Okay, time for some coffee and to call the animal hospital to check on my Big Mac.

Update:  Mac is "completely stable," to quote the vet tech.  More importantly, the level of blood in his abdomen has decreased noticeably!  This is very, very good news!

And further . . . today's offering at Mary Worth (yeah, I admit it, I still read it):

Okay, Lord, now You're just dicking with me, but I like how You roll with Your sense of humor.  Always have, always will.

Update:  Mac is getting discharged today!  He is stable enough to recover at home.

Oh, and I dropped off the audiobook for that peckerhead.  Yes, I mean the priest - and I call him peckerhead with all Southern love and affection, 'cause he is one.  Bless his heart.