MICHAEL

For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world might be saved through him.

John 3:17

Neal was as affected by my grandmother's death as I was. She was the one he chose to be his confirmation sponsor as he entered the Catholic Church. He trusted what happened with the man who gave me the message. I believe it touched him and helped him believe what happened with the messenger in Germany. I'd imagine it's not easy for Neal to hear these stories especially when I find them hard to accept myself and they happened to me.

Invigorated by faith, prayer, and my strengthened call to make more of my life, I found myself deeper into everything ministry. That summer Neal joined me. He went to the Steubenville conference as a chaperone and witnessed firsthand what swept me off my feet.

Eight thousand teens packed the coliseum. It was an explosion of colored of t-shirts from corner to corner, hands clapped and girls squealed in delight while the boys remained cool. It wasn’t until the host got the crowd going with skits and icebreakers that the boys gave in and participated in song gestures.

It was a weekend of worship, adoration and talks. I thought for sure this would be the time Neal and I would bond and grow together in ministry. We’d work with the teens together and grow closer in Christ as one. I wanted this for us and our family.

“I’m not singing or dancing. And I’m not doing hand gestures.” Neal stood in the back of the group with his arms crossed. He smiled and kept time to the music by bobbing his head.

I’d look back every now and then concerned the other boys in the group would follow suit. The boys were standing right next to him participating in worship. They had their hands up and at one point Neal put a hand on a young man’s shoulder and bent over him in prayer.

On the last night of the conference, after the teens heard speaker after speaker discussing topics on morality and chastity and everything in-between the program went into adoration. The priest exposed the Blessed Sacrament and the host and other speakers read from the bible encouraging teens to bring their fears, behaviors and addictions in prayer.

My flesh was electrified with the presence of the Holy Spirit and my heart ached for the teens in my group who were led to tears in prayer, desperate to embrace the love God poured upon them. I kept busy praying over every teen in my group. I knelt down beside them. “Just say Jesus.” My priest taught me that was the best prayer to give when the teens were amidst the Spirit.

I looked up at Neal and saw him sitting on the edge near the group with a young woman from the group. Mascara ran down her face and her mouth was open wide. Neal put his arm around her and said something. She bent her head in prayer and I saw him close his eyes and his lips move.

Thank you God.

Neal tried and I loved him for it but I also knew this wasn't for him and that's where we differed. I loved everything about the charismatic culture of our faith and Neal was more of an old school traditional.

When I received a call that fall to be a speaker on the following summer’s Steubenville conference team I was elated. It was a dream come true. A dream I never knew I had. Had someone told me these amazing opportunities and spiritual blessings would occur in my life, I would have walked away certain I’d met a crazy person who'd lost their mind.

God had shown up in my life. A new world was revealed to me with endless opportunities all because I'd surrendered my life to God.

Thanksgiving Day that same year, a little over nine months since I'd received the emergency hysterectomy, I fell ill. My parents were in town and I was preparing my contribution to the Thanksgiving meal that was to be served at my in-laws’ home and like a punch in the stomach I felt sick. There was no fever. I felt queasy. It was centralized in the middle of my stomach. I managed to get through cooking the meal and made it to my in-laws’ home. I took a few antacids and settled down on the couch. I’ll lie here till it passes. It's a 24 hour virus. No big deal.

An hour passed and the pain worsened. I didn’t want to get the others sick so I drove myself home a few short blocks away.

I had been home about ten minutes when the pain grew more intense and centralized in my side. Because of the surgery and complications from nine months prior I realized it might be my appendix. I grabbed the phone and made it to the bathroom only to fall on the floor, doubled over in stabbing pain.

"Neal." My breath came in rapid succession. "I think it's my appendix."

"I'm on my way.”

Within seconds of hanging up the phone I felt a blow to my stomach as if someone had taken the end of a baseball bat and rammed it into my side. I don't recall much from this point except to open my eyes and see the tops of the trees whiz by as I lay in the passenger seat of my parents’ car.

There is a vague recollection of nurses trying to straighten my body out enough to get a CT scan but the pain was so intense my body protected itself remaining in a coiled position. I heard moans and cries at some point I realized they came from me.

"It could be an ovary.” Floating voices swirled around me.

"No I think it's the appendix.”

"It's all over the place. It’s too hard to tell.”

I was evening when I woke. My contact lenses were in which was odd because I knew when I had my last surgery I removed everything.

Dad and Neal flanked either side of my bed and once they saw my eyes flutter open, they both hovered.

Neal reached down and kissed my forehead. "You doing okay?”

I nodded and tried to sit up but the effort sent a wave of nausea and pain through my mid-section.

"Hold on, now." Dad’s voice was gruff. “Stay still. No need to move around."

"What happened?"

"Well," Neal rubbed my arm above where the IV was inserted. "Your appendix ruptured. It took them awhile to get you cleaned up because you are septic. You'll have to be here until all of the poison is drained." He pointed to my side.

Gingerly I lifted up the covers and saw a plastic tube protruding from my side attached to what looked like a rubber light bulb filled with blood and puss. My head spun. I dropped the sheet and lay back down. "That's disgusting.”

"It is." Dad sat back down.

In the haze of medication I dozed in and out of sleep as nurses entered my room to take vitals, check the bulb and replace it with a new one. For two days the pain medication kept me in a fog and finally by the third day I felt it fade.

Family and friends came in and out, kept me company, and watched sitcoms and Lifetime movies. My parents stayed in town an extra day and left after my fourth day in the hospital. I wasn't in any more danger but I couldn't leave until all of the poison was gone or it would contaminate my other organs.

I was a grease pit. I couldn’t take a shower because of the drainage tube so I was left to do a one-handed sponge bath. My hair hadn't been washed in almost a week and was three shades darker than normal and stuck to my head like a helmet. I couldn't stand to look at myself let alone have visitors come in and see me in this condition.

I waited for the nurse to check my vitals. “Would you mind helping me wash my hair?”

"You haven't had help washing your hair? I’m so sorry. You’re so quiet in here. I guess we took advantage."

"Quiet?" It didn't make sense. What were they taking advantage of?

"Most patients get irritated and difficult after they've been in here for more than a day or two. You've been in here all week and you're always smiling and polite. I guess we assumed you were fine."

It struck a chord. It wasn't the first time I would be 'looked over' because I didn't feel worthy enough to make a stink or cause a commotion because I needed help. At the same time I felt guilty for asking her to help wash my hair. I didn't want to be a nuisance like the other patients.

Instead of this visit being about me I wanted to make it about them. They worked hard. They were in charge of my health so I needed to make sure they were happy. Many wonderful conversations formed from this new exchange. I came to know my nurses and what shifts they held, what worried them, and what stresses waited for them at home.

By the sixth day I felt like I'd become a main fixture on the hospital floor. The sepsis wasn't letting up and it looked like I still had another two to three days of drainage before they would let me go home. It wasn't what I wanted to hear but I felt a strange peace.

In the very early morning hour of four o’clock on the seventh day of my stay a young African-American man came into my room. He had a fresh “out of graduate school” eagerness about him. He wore scrubs so I figured he was a nurse I hadn’t met in to do the early morning temperature and blood pressure checks. I am a light sleeper so when he walked in I opened my eyes and turned to face him.

He walked up to the bed and looked down at me. "I need you to tell me why I should believe in God."

God is my loving witness and I'll never forget it. Like cold water poured over my head I sat up wide awake. "Excuse me?"

"I've been hearing a lot about you and I want to know why you believe in Him so much? Tell me why I should."

"It hasn't been easy, but God has shown me in ways that can't be doubted that He is real, and that he has a purpose for me. I need to follow His will."

We went on with a conversation for an hour before he looked at the time and realized he needed to continue working. I never saw him again and I never found out if he ended up believing in God.

These experiences solidified my faith even more and encouraged me to be bold with my truth. I wrote fervently to finish the book, took every opportunity to speak to other youth groups, and put everything I had into the youth group at my parish. My intentions were good, but all that work kept me from seeing my marriage falling to the wayside at home.

This time it wasn't so much about our sexual relationship than it was about not being on the same spiritual page. It wasn't a problem our marriage counselor could fix. One of us would have to step off our pedestal of pride and recognize we needed to bring our relationship directly into God's hands.

Leading retreats, speaking at conferences and every youth program took precedence over my family. The more Neal resented my time at church, the more I stayed away from home. When I was approached to attend a new parish wide retreat called ACTS I jumped at the opportunity to once again get away from the discomfort at home. Plus I wouldn't be 'in charge'; this retreat would be for me.

I had an attitude going into the retreat as well. The 'retreat' aspect is what I needed, but by this point I had led so many retreats it was hard for me to be led. It wasn't until I sat with my small group table and listened to the speakers give their testimonies based on the different themes of ACTS (Adoration, Community, Theology and Service) did I recognize how many other women struggled with the same issues I kept at bay.

When we discussed the talks among our small group it opened my eyes to what I'd been missing over the past few years - adult conversation. From being at home with little kids to youth ministry I was the one giving the advice, mentoring, the love, and correction, but I also needed to receive.

After one talk in particular our group realized a sorrow we all shared but had never spoken about before. The loss of a child through miscarriage.

“I’ve had eight miscarriages.” The young woman who sat next to me didn’t flinch when she revealed her loss. Instinctively I put a hand on her arm to console her.

She smiled. “I hate to say it but when you keep trying and continue to miscarry you become numb to the loss. Her story…” She stopped. Her hands when up to cover her face. “I’m sorry. I just never thought of these eight miscarriages as my children. We ended up adopting two beautiful kids.”

I was shocked to hear this because I didn't realize her children were adopted. They looked like her and her husband. I couldn't fathom suffering what I had gone through once eight times.

“I’ve miscarried too.” I spoke up because I knew she needed time to cry. “I had twins but one ‘vanished’ and the other one survived. My son Ryan. There are times when I think about what it would have been like if both had survived. But it’s too hard. I feel like I’ve felt him before but I’ve not baptized or given him a name like she did with hers.”

The ladies nodded and some shared about their own experiences with miscarriages while the young woman next to me silently cried.

A woman across the table spoke up. “It’s nice to think our babies are in heaven, probably not babies at all but young men and women.”

This shook me to the core. I had always felt I knew the child I lost was a boy. I had even felt him come to me when Ryan was about three years old. I was in bed with my eyes closed but not sleeping and felt a presence standing at my bedside. I assumed it was Ryan because we had moved him into a 'big boy' bed and he made a habit of getting up in the middle of the night wanting water. But when I opened my eyes it was a brilliant white light the same height as Ryan but no form. My heart pounded, and it felt as if it reached out to touch me and that is when I cried out and turned on the light. After I tried to tell Neal what I'd seen and he had mumbled his disbelief I turned off the light and realized who it could have been.

I begged for him to come back but he didn't. There were moments when Ryan played in his room by himself and would laugh and talk as if someone were with him in the room. Again I felt it could be his twin but I brushed it aside.

All of this happened but I never thought to give him a name, though I knew in every part of me that the miscarried child was a boy. I couldn't go any further with the retreat. My heart was stuck on giving him a name and a blessing. Over-stepping my place as a retreat attendee I went to the director and my parish priest and gave him my idea.

“Can we do a blessing for the children we have all miscarried and lost?” My voice cracked. “Almost every woman at my table has suffered a miscarriage or more than one. I know there are more women in here who could benefit from doing this.”

Apparently there were others in the group that needed the same closure as I did, because the director cut a part of the retreat that was more 'fun time', and our priest held a blessing for all those who had lost children.

“For those of you who have lost a pregnancy due to any circumstance if you will please come forward to receive a blessing.”

A breeze went by the nape of my neck and my hair stood on end. I took a deep breath and walked up front. The young woman who suffered eight miscarriages came up and stood next to me.

There were eighty women at the retreat (including those attending and those serving on team) and many came forward.

The priest’s face fell in sadness and understanding. I looked behind me and found only a handful of all the women present still in their seats.

It was heartbreaking.

The priest opened his book of blessings. “I want you to hold your hands in front of you, palms up. Now close your eyes and think about each pregnancy you’ve lost. Imagine your child. Son or daughter. And give him or her a name. If you’ve lost more than one do this with each child.”

I stood with my hands open to heaven and felt my son, Michael, come stand by my side. He felt to be the same height as my son Ryan but with a different, calmer spirit.

Michael.

God gave me his name. It was written on my heart. He had been with me and Ryan all along.

I heard children's laughter and I knew my friend felt the same.

The priest took holy water and came up to each of us, making the sign of the cross on the palm of our hand with the water. “What is your child’s name?”

My heart filled with pride. “Michael.”

“May God bless the repose of Michael’s spirit. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” He put a hand to my forehead and whispered a prayer. “May God bless you.” He went to the young woman next to me and she named off each and every child she’d lost. I could see the shock in the priest’s eyes.

The smile on her face only showed joy.

When we all dispersed and had time to reflect and embrace the gift we'd been given my friend came up and hugged me. "I felt them all. They were laughing and I knew every one of their names."

"I heard them too.” We both laughed through our tears.

On the last day of the retreat we were given an opportunity to share what the retreat had done for us personally. I listened to one woman after another talk about her moment of finding God, feeling him as I did a few years before on my own bedroom floor. It hit me, how high my pedestal had become and how I'd set my family aside. The truth was humiliating but I knew I needed to share.

I stood up in front of the seventy-nine women. "This retreat has given me so many gifts that will change me for the better. But one thing I know is that I'm addicted to my job in youth ministry, and I've allowed it to come between my family. I know I need to look at my priorities and put my family first."

I sat down and rubbed the chill from my harms. I can’t believe I said that out loud. My heart beat fast. God had redirected me once again. I can’t wait to tell Neal.

When I came home from the retreat I wanted to sit with Neal and tell him all about what I'd experienced and the revelations I received.

“Can’t talk now. I’m meeting some guys at the club. We’ll talk later.”

He'd been home with the kids for four days. I couldn't blame him but it solidified my knowledge of what I'd done. I'd allowed a new wedge to come between us.