Sorrowful mysteries
Roberts, Nancy L.
THE LAST WORD SORROWFUL MYSTERIES Nancy L. Roberts It was December 2,1961, and I was in second grade. When I came home for lunch that snowy day, I was surprised to find my dad sitting with my...
...A few years later, Dad spoke to me in a soft voice about how, some forty years before, he had held the small white coffin on the way to the cemetery, just he and the parish priest driving, and how they said prayers at the tiny gravesite and burned sweet incense...
...It is surely a miracle that any of us is born at all...
...That night, as I lay in bed trying to fall asleep, I experienced cramping and bleeding...
...For more than forty years, this unlikely memorial to a baby who died in early December has marked the start of Advent, the season of waiting for the Christ Child, in my parents' home...
...The reason for Richard Hugh's death may have had to do with an enlarged heart and liver, probably resulting from an early misreading of my mother's pregnancy and the mistaken prescription of cortisone for a skin condition...
...Each December 1, the anniversary of both Richard's birth and his death, my mother unwraps the seamed tissue papers that protect that little tree and lovingly places it atop a modest table in the living room...
...Nancy L. Roberts is professor of journalism and mass communication at the University of Minnesota-Twin Cities...
...He put his arms around me and gathered us into a large, overstuffed chair...
...Small comfort...
...Small comfort...
...The smell of the fire was sharp for just a moment and then the smoke wafted up the chimney...
...Two days earlier, when the doctor's staff had hurriedly run the test so that I would know the results before the holiday, I had wept for joy-That Christmas night, I contemplated the prospect of a new baby in late August, a big baby with lots of dark hair, and blue or brown eyes...
...The envelope contained $37 they had collected going door-to-door, an offering to help with the funeral expenses...
...I lit a candle, said a prayer, and then burned the paper in the fireplace...
...He had been named Richard Hugh, after his maternal grandfather, and he was a beautiful big baby with blue eyes and a crown of dark brown, curly hair...
...The next day, the doctor confirmed the sad news...
...There was no reason in particular, she said...
...Tears again filled my eyes as I measured the espresso and put water into the machine...
...Richard was the first boy born to my parents after four healthy girls, and a few years later they had another girl, followed finally by a boy...
...It probably wouldn't happen today...
...I went home and poured myself a glass of red wine-my first after several years of trying to get pregnant-and on little pieces of paper I wrote down the name I had chosen for this child, Rachel Elizabeth...
...Then he explained that the new baby would not be coming home tomorrow with Mom, that the baby had had difficulties and was now in heaven with the angels...
...That's how it was done in those days...
...And yet, is it any less a mystery that any one of us is born at all...
...But I had you four kids waiting at home for me, and then two more later, and life went on," she said quietly...
...By morning, I was passing small amounts of bloody tissue-and I knew my dream was dead...
...I could see her and I was sure she was a girl...
...The package contained an artificial Christmas tree, less than a foot tall, glittering and studded with plastic bananas, pears, and peaches...
...Now you too have an angel in heaven waiting for you," he said to me...
...sometimes these things just happen...
...They said something in hushed tones and gently handed Mom an envelope and a little package...
...People said, "It's for the best...
...Our special news was that, after years of unexplained infertility, tears, and tests-I was pregnant...
...When I came home for lunch that snowy day, I was surprised to find my dad sitting with my older sister in the living room...
...Without doing anything beyond what "normal" couples have to do, it had happened...
...I remember not really grasping the import of this, and I ate my peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and went back to school...
...Two minutes later, the steam valve misfired, hot water and espresso grounds shot all over the ceiling, and I stood there stupefied but unscathed...
...Twenty-eight years later, I stood in my kitchen on Christmas night, making cappuccino for guests who were helping my husband and me celebrate...
...There it remains, a quiet, powerful reminder of the courage to continue after the loss of a dream, and a hint of the mystery of God becoming mortal in the body of a helpless child...
...One evening a few days later, after Mom had come home from the hospital, the doorbell rang and there stood a couple of neighbor ladies, bundled in their long wool coats against the snow...
...But every year at Christmas, I remember...
...there must have been something wrong with the baby that made it miscarry...
...And so do I. Passing years dull the sting of pain, but not the mystery of our incarnation...
...Once, at Christmas, I heard a priest say that we should gaze on the smallest babies brought to church that day and contemplate God's unfathomable willingness to assume such a vulnerable form in our midst...
...Recently my mother remarked she had always felt sad about not getting to hold her baby or gaze on his face...
Vol. 130 • December 2003 • No. 22
