The last day I spent with my sister Mary Beth was Monday, April 13, 2009. It was a perfect day, spent on a sunny beach in Florida, made all the more perfect in my memory by losing her just 38 days later.
On that day in April she appeared in perfect health. A recent journey through cancer had shaken her world, but a pre-Christmas scan had shown her to be in complete remission.
My parents, along with my seven other siblings and their families, had breathed a collective sigh of relief.
Just days after she returned home from our time in Florida, a scan showed that the cancer had returned. We circled the wagons once again and prepared to help her through another round of treatment.
Every effort was made to turn the course of events that could not be turned. She died on May 21. She left behind four amazing children and a devoted husband. The hole in all of our lives is beyond words.
As I grapple to make sense of this tragedy, I know that in her human self she would be so very heartbroken to leave her life behind. She had a fine and charmed life. Her devotion to her family was total. I have had to dig deep to find my own spiritual beliefs to rest my grief on. I know her human self was not running the show. It was her spirit that knew it was time to move on. Those of us who are left behind have no way of knowing why, but I know that in a morning meditation recently her voice came to me with pristine clarity.
Addressing me by my family nickname she said, “Rudi, I really am OK.”
Her funeral was a Catholic Mass, held in a church she regularly attended, said by a kind priest with an Irish brogue. He did not attempt to placate us with empty words of her being in heaven now, but rather spoke directly to the great loss of a woman who was loved deeply by so many, and to the immense grief of our family.
Quoting George Carlin, he said, “Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.” He invited us to remember how often Mary Beth had taken our breath away and to be assured that we had taken hers. By that measure we could take some comfort.
A magical moment occurred within that Mass. Communion time came and, as in Masses past, I and my four other nonpracticing Catholic siblings prepared to sit out Communion in respect for my parents’ belief that only practicing Catholics take Communion. At that moment my mother turned to us and, holding complete matriarchal authority, simply said, “I want us all to go to Communion.”
And we all did. Within that sacred ritual, we, as a family, truly came into blessed union. I felt my sister Mary Beth smile from beyond the beyond.
Ruthanne Harris Carosio is a counselor and ordained minister with the World Congregational Fellowship Church and, with her husband, Louis, co-founder of the Radiant Life Center in Eugene. This column is coordinated by Lane Interfaith Alliance to offer inspiration, share personal spiritual experiences and bring a deeper understanding of individual faith perspectives with the intention of blessing our community and world. For information, visit www.laneinterfaithalliance.org or call 344-5693.