Confronting Those Difficult/impossible Questions
Last month I wrote about difficult or impossible questions, but I did not expect to be confronted with such questions in the following weeks. On Feb. 18, my aunt and godmother, Kim Sermersheim, died of an extremely rare form of cancer. Then, just two weeks later, on March 7, our teacher and coach at Reitz Memorial High School, Dylan Barnes, passed away unexpectedly. I had not dealt with any really close, personal loss or tragedy until this year; and with each sorrow one after the other, I am overwhelmed. At the visitations and funerals, we said many prayers for them to reach heaven; but I know Kim well enough to be confident that she’s already there, which begs the question: what happened to all the prayers said for her? Were they somehow a waste, since the intention was likely already fulfilled? Selfishly, I’ve also been wondering how it changes me as a person – that at this point in my life I encounter all of this, whereas before I had no truly personal losses to speak of. How do I move on and love daily life without thinking of those I’ve lost?
The Catechism encourages us to pray for the dead and the whole communion of saints for their entry to heaven and for their intentions (CCC 1032), but it doesn’t mention anything about prayers potentially being “wasted” on those already in heaven. I think this may be because it’s impossible. After all, how can any communication with God be wasteful? Though these prayers may not go toward the original intention because it was already achieved, maybe they are reflected back to help us find comfort in God.
When I was thinking about my life and how I’ll have to tell future friends about the bleak beginning of my 2017, I was only thinking about Kim’s gaping absence and Mr. Barnes’ potential future students and athletes. But in no way do their deaths leave a blemish on my life. Kim was a shining example as my godmother and a crafty, witty friend as my aunt. Mr. Barnes offered fresh perspectives in the classroom and on the track, and his laugh could always be heard in the hallways. And while their absence is painful for us, their presence was a blessing in greater magnitude. Instead of mourning and moving on or never letting go of our sorrow, we should let them live through us. I hope that when I tell others about Kim, they’ll see her radiating through me; and when I describe Mr. Barnes, his influence will be evident.
I miss Kim, and I keep remembering everything we used to do together. I keep thinking that next time we go to Grandma and Grandpa’s she’ll be there, laughing and shaking her head at my brothers’ banter and then poking fun right back at them. Every time I walk past Mr. Barnes’ room, I glance in, expecting to see him at his desk with his enduring enthusiasm. It doesn’t seem real to me that they are truly gone for the rest of my life, however long that may be. It doesn’t seem final, and I suppose that’s because it isn’t. Death is always perceived as the awful inevitable; but if we live according to God’s calling for us, it should honestly be exciting. It’s the attainment of everything we’ve ever worked for if we get to spend eternal life with God. Death is only hard for those of us who are left behind because we’re selfish. We want those we love to stay with us forever, both physically and spiritually—but it will be a much sweeter feeling to spend forever in pure joy with them; and for that, we must pass through the door of death.
