Having faith

Today was Senator Ted Kennedy's funeral. I wasn't a supporter of the senator, but I always admired his fierceness in fighting for what he believed in. Listening to his children talk about him was beyond moving, and I was surprised to feel the hot tears running down my cheeks as I listened to them speak of their memories of him.

My own mother is approaching the end of her life, and I thought it was interesting that Kennedy's funeral was held at Mission Church. My parents brought me to that particular church once, many years ago. I couldn't have been older than 9 or 10 at the time, but I remember snippets of it.

I've always admired people, of any religion, who have such unshakable faith. My parents have that unwavering faith. Yes, it sometimes bordered on the fanatical at times, in my opinion, but they always took comfort in it. God and Catholicism is the foundation of their lives. It's the epicenter of their existence, above anything else. And although I haven't adopted the same zeal in which they practice their faith, I do admire them for it.

The night they took my brothers and I to Mission Church, a famous healing priest was there. A man who had the gift to perform miracles. The church was filled almost to the rafters with believers, and those who wanted to be healed...of their physical ailments, their sins...whatever they felt it was that was causing them suffering.

We had to sit in the balcony, body to body with those around us. It was hot and stuffy, and I was on the edge of sleep at any given moment. But some things about that night and that church and the reason we were there always stayed with me.

At the front of the church, before the altar, were large columns. Hanging from those columns, from floor to massive ceiling, were crutches and canes and walking sticks. There were wheelchairs and walkers on the floor around them. I'd never seen such a thing. I asked my mother what they were for, and she told me they had belonged to people who'd been healed by this priest.

I also remember people proceeding up to the altar, and the priest touching them on the forehead and mumbling some words, although we were too far away to hear what was said. Some of them passed out right on the floor. In minutes, there were half a dozen or so church-goers lying there, out cold, and other people crying and returning to their seats. I had no idea what was happening.

What I came to understand years later was that my mother wanted to be healed. She'd been to several such events over the years at different Catholic churches. She believed in these miracles, and always had hope that God would ease her pain one day. She didn't suffer from any physical ailments, but from mental and emotional illnesses that have plagued her since she was young. She wanted to be freed from her pain. When she wasn't healed, she would become depressed.

I never understood that. She is the most faithful woman I have ever known. Why would God feel that she was not worthy of being healed?

Of course, I know we, as Catholics, believe that God has a plan for all of us, although we may have yet to know what it is. But I always felt her pain when she returned home with the same mental anguish she left with, and no ease of her burden. And it made me angry.

Now, as her days on this earth slowly close, and as sad as I am to know that she will soon be gone, I know that her burden will be finally lifted. And I can't help but feel grateful for that.