but who will pray for my soul?

That sounds more selfish than I mean for it to. But days like Thursday remind me why I don't like to go to the mailbox.

When I opened the box, it looked like a good mail day. There was a postcard and what appeared to be a holiday greeting. That was it. Two pieces of mail. Both addressed to me. This almost never happens. Typically our mailbox is stuffed to the brim.

I read the postcard as I waited for the elevator. It too was a holiday greeting, wishes from a friend for the New Year underway. It talked a bit about how there would be sadness in the year ahead. The words were truly beautiful.

I entered the elevator and opened the card. I should have known something was up as it was addressed "Chris Byron". But I didn't let that stop me. By the time I got to my floor I was trying to take in the news that my beloved teacher and mentor, Sister Mary Adelaine, had died.

The elevator doors opened and I couldn't move. They closed and I stood there for a moment by myself. I realized that I needed to get to my apartment (losing it on the elevator would not be a good thing), so I pressed the button for my floor again, and the doors (thankfully) opened. It also opened the floodgate of tears.

My apartment is at the end of the hall, and I was openly sobbing the whole way. If anyone heard me, they didn't come out to investigate further. I quickly made it to my door and found my keys. Part of me was grateful to inside, another part really didn't want to be alone.

I read the card a bit more closely and realized that my holiday greeting never reached her. For some reason this upset me. I think because I hadn't really contacted Sister Adelaine since my move to Chicago. I felt bad that we weren't able to see her before we left California, and I hadn't felt like there was much to report until it all started happening and I found myself caught up in it.

Making the day more difficult was the fact that before B left for school he had received an email from his Dad letting him know that his Ama (grandmother) was back in the hospital and not expected to make it through the night. I knew I needed to pull myself together before he got home.

I do believe that we are never given more than we can handle, but this was on the verge of ridiculous. Although I wouldn't consider myself close to B's grandmother, she was the closest thing to an ally I had in his family. For whatever reason it seems I made an impression on her in the brief encounters I had with her (I joked that it was mostly because I was a thorn in her daughter's (B's Mom) side, and Ama appreciated the payback that I represented).

Sister Adelaine, was a different story. Truly she was responsible for getting me through my last two years of high school and beyond. She was the first one I ever really opened up to about what was going on in my household, and she accepted it without judgement. Sister Adelaine was the first person I called upon learning of my Mother's death. She was one of the few people who could tell just from my voice what the matter was. She also routinely prayed for me.

So there is a part of me that very selfishly misses her beyond words. There is another part, that is beyond joyful at her reunion with God. As the card I received from one of the other Sisters said, "she is a powerful intercessor now." I believe that. She surely was an angel in my midst.

Hail, holy Queen, Mother of mercy, Our life, our sweetness and our hope. To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve, To thee do we send up our sighs, Mourning and weeping in this valley of tears.

Turn then, most gracious Advocate, thine eyes of mercy toward us, And after this our exile, show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus. O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary! Pray for us, O Holy Mother of God, That we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ. Amen.


background noise :: nobody, five for fighting