Anniversary of the Death of My Momma

The following was from last night ... late at night ... the Eve of the Feast of the Queenship of Mary

My dearest Momma died on August 22, one year ago, and was buried on August 27.

I count it as a true blessing beyond words that my mother should have passed from this world on the Feast of the Queenship of Mary, Holy Mother of God.

And that her funeral should be celebrated on the Feast of St Monica, holy mother of St Augustine.

I still hurt and hurt and cry and cry. I can't sleep. What a dark dark night this is. But even now I know that my own tears at my mother's grave come to nothing like the tears of compassion and love that she wept for me. And are nothing compared to the tears of St Monica, who "watered the earth with her tears" for decades, and, by her intercession, gave us the conversion of that great Doctor of the Church, St Augustine. The Reading for the Feast of St Monica, from St Augustine's Confessions, seems to me so very moving, and I've read it again and again and again. It makes me think of my dear Momma.

I know when I think about it that grieving for my mother, like Augustine's grieving for his mother, like Christ's weeping at the Tomb of Lazarus, like the tears of grief that seem awash over this old world, all mean, among other things, that little Charles Delacroix is not alone when I'm crying and hurting on this dark night.

Right now, Christ Jesus is sitting beside me. His Arms are around me, His tears mingling with mine, mingling with the tears of Mary and all the saints in the world. "Laugh with those who laugh, weep with those who weep," says St Paul. Tonite I know ... well I believe ... and when i can't believe I claim the Faith of Holy Church ... in this Faith I know that I am more blessed than I can say as the Church, the Body of Christ, weeps with me; and invites me to join my tears to the Tears of Heaven and the Tears of Earth in sorrow for the passing of all who have gone before us.

Oh God ... it's so dark out. But You know all about that don't You Lord. You knelt alone weeping and sweating Tears of Blood we are told while the world slept. You crept and crawled and stumbled and fell on Your Way of the Cross. Your Blood drenched the parched earth beneathe Your Holy Cross. Your Blood flowed into the dead earth that is Golgotha, into the dead earth that is this world of suffering and that is this vale of tears. Your Precious Blood flowed into the dead earth that is little old Charles Delacroix. Your Precious Blood Flowed and Flowed. In Your Last Conversation you chose to converse with a filthy Crucified Thief whose mortal blood mingled perhaps with Your Immortal Blood on that hard, hard earth. On that Day as the Blood of God washed across the dead earth, a dying mortal Thief Stole Heaven at Your Divine Word as You Shed Your Blood over the whole Dead Earth. Oh God look down on this dying mortal sinner and by Thy Grace allow me, if it be according to Thy Will, to see my dearly beloved mother once again, with You and St Dismas and St Monica and Your Holy Mother, Gateway to Heaven, as you, dear mother, were my gateway to earth.

Von Balthasar says that all who live in this world live in a kind of Holy Saturday. If so then I am stumbling along even now on my Way of the Cross Following You, O Lord, on Your Great Way of the Cross, not only to Calvary, but into Your Holy Tomb, in which You Lay Dead, all day, all that long, long day, on Holy Saturday. And I am told that all who die pass through the Tomb of Tombs, the Tomb of the Dead Jesus on Holy Saturday. Tonight is very, very dark. But honestly I know ... well, most of this dark, dark night I know ... that tonite I am blessed to be with all the Church in the dark Tomb of Christ Jesus.

Tomorrow ... "tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace ..." yes, but the Tomorrow beyond all the dusty tomorrows of this world ... that Tomorrow, Holy Church Teaches me, is Easter Sunday.

But tonite I am Called to kneel weeping among the throng weeping at the Tomb of Christ, the Tomb of all, here in Holy Saturday. It is of course a blessing beyond blessings to be among those weeping at the Tomb of Christ Jesus, the Tomb of my dear mother, the Tomb of the Body of Christ. The Tomb of Christ Jesus this Holy Saturday is dark and silent but Our Lord has been busy ... He descended into Hell, Sheol, and freed all those who languished there in the dark of death. You freed them ... freed me ... freed us all ... and now we kneel in the Tomb of Christ at Your Tomb O Lord, mourning, in this dark, dark, dark night.

The night my mother died ... last year ... she lay ... right here, right in front of where I am sitting right now. As she died, she was with Him on the Cross on Calvary. As her breath slowed, and suddenly stopped, He gasped His Last Breath. And the Dead Christ, laid out in His Tomb, was with my dead mother. She lay on the Bier of Christ, although I didn't know it at the time. I didn't know anything at the time. But fortunately Christ knew. He knew. What else matters. What else really matters but Christ.

And for that very reason everything matters. Even an old woman who lay dying on a cold, cold night. An old woman who showed her son how to live. An old woman who showed her son how to die.

She died alone except for her son ... and her Christ Jesus ... and her Blessed Mother ... and all the saints of Heaven. Alone into the Alone, but she was not Alone.

There's an old monk at Holy Ghost Monastery in Conyers who wrote an amazing long poem called In the Dead Heart of Jesus. It's a sort of meditation ... after von Balthasar ... on being in the Tomb of Christ on Holy Saturday. I kept thinking about this then and keep thinking about it now. If he's right, if Von Balthasar is right, then I was privileged to be with my dying mother in the Dead Heart of Jesus. That the Sacred Heart of Christ could Die, torn and shredded by a Spear on Good Friday, and could lay Dead in the Tomb, before the Easter Resurrection of Christ: what a crushing thought. But then the Cross is crushing. The Cross that crushed God Himself to the earth on the Way of the Cross again and again and again. The Cross that crushes us all. The Cross that redeems us all. The Cross that is the Salvation of the World.

But oh how it hurts. It hurt then. It hurts now.

At least now I know what it is. The Cross. "Take up Your Cross and Follow Me." OK, then. If that's the Way, if that's the Way to Christ, then that's the Right Way.

Oh God. Oh well. Enough for now though. I'm going to try dozing just a bit sitting here. I was exhausted, and did doze, just a bit, a few times, that night. God Who sends His Cross does not fail to send a little relief too it seems. Maybe I can doze a bit now. That night, when I dozed off, God watched. He Watches now too. "Watchman, what of the night?" The Christ Who Closed His Eyes in Death in the Tomb on Holy Saturday, now Watches over all things. If He Watches over all things, in His Loving Providence, why not over me too

In any event, Thy Will not Mine Be Done. Amen. Amen.

Of Your Mercy Dear Jesus, I beseech You to take good care of my good Momma, who took such good care of me.

I would be more deeply grateful than I can say if anyone reading this would keep in your prayers the repose of the soul of my dear mother; and would be grateful for your prayers for little Charles Delacroix on this dark Night.

Love in Christ,

Charles Delacroix
Queenship of Mary