NOVEMBER 2022 I
t was just after preschool drop-off on a mid- September day when the phone rang. My parents, a thousand miles away on the New York Truway
en route to my sister, were calling. “Tey couldn’t rouse your grandmother this morning.” Dad’s voice trembled. “If you want to say your farewells, now’s the time.”
I spent that morning with my aunts, my uncles, and my toddler, who did trust falls off the arm of Grandma’s couch onto my lap until Father arrived to administer last rites. Afterward, Father leaned over and put a hand on Grandma’s forehead. “Okay, Bernadine,” he said, “now it’s up to you and Jesus.”
We waited. Grandma’s breath, which had been labored in a way I’d never heard, suddenly changed. I thought she was choking. We listened to the sound of her breathing and not breathing, breathing and not breathing. And somewhere between wrestling my toddler and watching her mouth, there were no more breaths.
We stayed in that room for a while, insulated from the world, living with the emotion of the moment. We said a rosary—even my toddler, on his knees giving me “look what a big boy I am” eyes… until he decided it would be more fun to play tightrope on my calves.
When we emerged, I looked around the apartment, seeing Grandma in everything: the broken calculator she kept as a toy for great grandchildren, the Good Old Days magazines. My heart was full, but not with sorrow. Or at least, not only sorrow.
Nine years later, that morning stands among the holiest moments of my life. I think of Grandma every time I use her iron skillet, and I’m struck anew with the sense of having stood in the presence of the Divine. It’s not grief I feel in those moments, but gratitude.
November begins with memorial and ends with thankfulness. We’re conditioned to view these as opposites. Yet at some deep, visceral level, we know they are merely opposite-facing facets of the same jewel.
When I began pondering this reflection, I wondered what similar moments could be shared by others in our pastoral music community. I reached out; the response was overwhelming.
Tese are their stories.
Keith Kalemba Music Editor for the World Library Division of
GIA and Chicago NPM Chapter Director
I never expected to deal with having a father who took his own life.
When Dad took his life, he was starting to deal with dementia. I’m sure in his mind, he didn’t want me to have to deal with him, especially as his only child. I’m not angry with his decision, because I can only see the world through my mind. I don’t know what somebody who’s going through dementia is going through. I’m grateful that I don’t have the anger.
Recently, at the Liturgical Music Institute, I went out when everyone else was in class. I took a long walk and listened to Mahler and allowed myself to fall apart. But I was listening to something I find very beautiful and moving, something I’m very thankful for. I was kind of ‘yin-yang-ing’ the sadness and thankfulness.
“Collective grief moments give us all a chance to connect with each other.”
On the other side of that release is the gratitude of just having the cry—of just having the opportunity to express. We deal with emotions all the time, even if we’re not conscious of them. When we bring them to our consciousness, we have the opportunity to complete them when we express them physically in our bodies.
When sadness is expressed, usually there’s gratitude on the other side. We think of ourselves as thinking heads with emotions, when really it’s the other way around. We’re emotional people first. We tend to cognate our emotions away.
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