Terminal

“Life is changed, not ended” is the wisdom of our Church (Preface 1 of Liturgy of Christian Death. Roman Missal). 

In many respects, the prospect of permanent infertility is akin to a terminal diagnosis. The weight can feel heavy, almost unbearable. For five years, I have had the privilege and honor of accompanying women and men who carry this cross. As a Sisters of Hannah mentor, my role is to sit and absorb the grief as our mentees pour out their hearts to us. This exchange, as difficult and heavy as it is, is sacred ground. I am reminded of my own heartache, the pressure and panic of wondering about the future, bargaining with God over medical decisions. In this crisis, our Church, which always seeks our good, invites us to see the gravity of our feeble condition with a sense of mystery. The consequential meaning of our identity, our wounds, our tragedies, our perseverance facing our mortality and the loss of a future hope is magnified by our limitations against the seemingly limitless power of nature. 

“We are living souls with terminal hearts, flickering like candles, fatally flawed. In the image of God” (Jon Foreman - “Terminal”). Because of our fallen humanity, we experience suffering. Because God loves us and desires to be in relationship with us, we have the opportunity for eternal life. We have an infinite capacity to love and to be loved through each breath. 

When you consider the purpose of your life, do you believe that God only gave you life so you could labor and suffer to earn salvation? Do you believe that God gives you life just so you can serve a particular role or produce a specific thing? No, this life - this existence - is for a more magnanimous purpose: to be in relationship with God and to share in His own blessed life (CCC Prologue section I. paragraph 1 citation). Everything else flows from that. We do not earn it; it is pure gift at the cost of Jesus’ Passion, death and resurrection.

So as this life and it’s mitigating circumstances change us, break us, even waging a slow death upon us - of dreams, of loved ones passing from this life, of losing the children we longed for, of putting a life-long dream to rest, and yes, even for some losing a spouse who gave up on the vow of a life-long marriage - all of this unimaginable heartbreak is seen, known and felt by the God who made us. This tragic collapse of our familiar longing is not His design for us. Death is not the final say. Loss of the dream is not our fading legacy.  

Instead, we are changed. The role, the call, the material make-up of our daily moments are itself the ultimate gift. That we live, that we love, that we are in the presence of mystery is the greatest most precious thing.  

At this moment, my father is quickly declining in health. He faces a terminal cancer diagnosis with debilitating dementia and pneumonia. I spent two days caring for him at his bedside: spoonfeeding him, wiping his face, moving his body to adjust his position so he doesn’t develop bedsores, and talking with him as he slept for 20 hours a day. For nurses and home health aides trained for this work, I am in awe of their strength and fortitude. It broke me. Yet, in those moments of wading in the throes of death with my father, I had the most incredible moments of presence. My dad opened his eyes and gazed into mine as I told him how much I appreciated his faith and witness. How much his love and mercy meant to me. He didn’t remember the moments or the specific details that I described but the joy and experience of sharing brought delight in his eyes. I don’t think I have ever felt so connected with my dad. He could not utter a single word, but his eyes communicated his appreciation and affection in the deepest part of soul. Those moments of presence, of gratitude, of love are everything to me. I will cherish them forever.

So many times we wait and watch life pass us by, the imperfections overloading our senses, preventing us from hearing the perfect soliloquy God is whispering to us. What are the moments and who are the people you share your presence with in grief? Who holds your gaze as you confide your heart and soul to them? While mourning the things that will never be or the children you will never meet, how do you find gratitude for the sacred breath that sustains you in this life? Though broken and lonely, your salvation is being paved with each day you respond to the invitation to rise and live again.

As a mentor, I have witnessed several occasions of peace and finality in embracing the new life of faith with terminal infertility. There is peace, there is joy, there is newness of life. I have seen it. I have held it in my heart as a witness and prayer mentor for the journey. There is no perfect formula for coming to this place. Each mentee has confided it is God’s grace alone that got them there. In some sense they did their part by choosing to respond to the light offered despite the shadows ahead. All in all, it is a mercy to live in faith in Jesus Christ, as a Catholic we have access to the fullness of life in Him. That is not reserved for eternal life, we can experience a bit of that truth right now.  

Indeed, your life has not ended, it has changed. You are loved, you have a future. God delights in you and is present to your life’s story. He is actively shaping your future, robed with glory. May you find balm and blessings in the midst of your grief.