Although I consider myself a spiritual person, I have not
been a big churchgoer in quite some time. So it was with some reluctance that I
found myself shuffling into 9:00 Mass alongside my husband and my mother- and
father-in-law.
I was exhausted. It had been six days since we’d lost power
during Hurricane Sandy. Six days since I slept in my own bed. Six days of
anxiety about how to keep my business up and running, how to keep my food from
spoiling, how to heat my home, how to get my husband’s elderly parents safely
out of their powerless home and back, how to avoid gas lines, how to find
lodging for our dog, how to make sure all our devices were charged so we could stay
connected to family and friends. For every solution, there were three more
problems. And I hadn’t had a full night’s sleep since the week before
Halloween.
Still, every time I started feeling sorry for myself, I
would remember all those who had it a thousand times worse. Who had lost
everything and were struggling to stay warm and nourished. Then I would feel
guilty. It was a no-win situation. A constant battle between my ears. And
usually the “committee meeting” to discuss this would take place in the middle
of the night.
This morning I was especially exhausted. I’d spent a half
hour crying, followed by a half hour taking a walk down to the now-placid bay
to try to clear my head and get some much-needed fresh air, sunshine and
exercise. But still I felt like someone had turned on a giant fog machine in my
brain. I took my seat in the unusually crowded church and began a half-hearted “Go
ahead, make my day” prayer. I didn’t really want to be here, but seeing as how
I was, I figured I might as well stay open to some kind of message. Any kind of
message. Oh, how I needed a message!
There was a children’s folk group tuning up at the side of
the church, and I thought back to my teens and early 20s when my dad and I
enjoyed playing music together at our parish folk Mass. He passed away in 2004,
but I’ve always felt he’s watching over me, especially in times of crisis. It
might not hurt to say a few words to Dad right about now. “Hey, Dad, about that
message … God might be a little busy, but maybe you’ve got a minute …”
The service was especially long and boring. The music, which
I usually enjoy, seemed to go on and on, and it all sounded exactly the same:
like a dirge. The one bright spot was that it was a children’s Mass, and the priest
invited the kids up to the altar after the sermon for a Q&A that gave us a
few much-needed chuckles. The Gospel message was that loving one another was
the most important commandment. Was that the message? Take the focus off myself
and move it onto others, especially in this time of need? That felt right, but
not quite “it.”
Still I waited.
After Communion, I checked my iPhone. We’d been here an hour
and a quarter already. I might have dozed off at one point. It really was time
to go. Clearly no burning bush would be coming to me today. Figured as much.
That was magical thinking anyway. The priest gave the final blessing. Everyone
started putting on their coats. I thought to myself ‘I really hope we don’t sit
here through the final song. Enough already with the music. No one will think
any less of us if we slip out a bit early.’
And then I heard the first notes of “Let There Be Peace on
Earth,” and my racing thoughts stopped abruptly. This was the song that used to
be my big “solo” at the folk Mass, with my dad accompanying me on the guitar. I
remembered his encouraging smile when I got to the part that tested my vocal
abilities, and the satisfaction I felt when I hit the high notes successfully
and drew approval from the congregation as well as from him. And I knew. This
was my message. Let there be peace. You can hit the high notes. You can get
through this. I’m still with you and it will be okay.
The fog lifted. The exhaustion, though still there, didn’t
seem quite so bad. We decided to go home right after lunch and prepare for
another cold night and the work week ahead. Put one foot in front of the other
and trust that all would be well.
Once aboard the ferry, we called our home phone, hoping the
answering machine would pick up, signaling that the electricity had been turned
on. It just kept ringing. As we debarked and hit the highway, we discussed how
to best prepare in the fast-approaching darkness: fire up the generator, bring
in wood for the fireplace, test the space heater, put the cooler on the deck,
grab some extra blankets from the cedar closet. Back in Milford, we noticed a
couple of traffic lights working that had been dark yesterday. And the turn
signal was functioning again. That was a good sign.
Then, as we rounded our corner, there was the welcome sight
of our front light on! The work crews stood across the street; they had just
finished the job. I let out a war whoop and started to cry! Power had returned.
In so many ways.
Let there be peace on earth. Thank you, Daddy.
