It Is Better For Him

The priest at my church is from Croatia. His name is Father Josip, or Jozo for short. He has a thick accent with heavy rolled "r's". Sometimes I am not sure if he even remembers me. On the other hand, I'm often surprised by his thoughtfulness and attention to detail when I'd least expect it. For example, he had been gone in Croatia for several weeks, and was not able to preside over my wedding, which he didn't seem to concerned about. In retrospect, I know it was because he was confident he had a more than suitable replacement in his stead. However, when he returned and I saw him after service for the first time, he greeted Mike and I warmly and said, "I thought of you when I had the ice cream!" and laughed uproariously. It took me a few moments to realize he was picking up a conversation we'd had during our meetings preparing for my Confirmation and Marriage. We talked about the delicious ice cream only found in Croatia. Better than Italy. I picked up his cue, smiled and nodded in agreement, "The ice cream in Croatia is the best in the world!" He, still laughing, "Oh, I know it is!"

After my father was admitted to the hospital from suffering multiple strokes due to complications of his cancer, I had called Father Jozo to give my father the Anointing of the Sick. He assured me it was the absolute best thing I could do. He said it would absolve him of any sins and ensure his entrance to Heaven. "It is by far the best thing, oh yes." He kept saying. Despite my fears and doubts, his confidence strengthened me. He said, "You will cry. You are human and this is natural. But you will be happy he is going to be in a better place. My father died of the lung cancer, you know. I actually was praying for him to die. He knew the day he would go. He ate a very nice dinner and went to bed and then he died. It was very sad, but it was better, you know."

There was a woman there who prayed with my sister and I, and suggested fasting for spiritual strength with us one Friday. I fasted from morning until night, as did this woman and my sister. I only had coffee in the morning (otherwise I'd have lost all functionality) and water to prevent dehydration. I fasted and I prayed and I hoped and I cried and I suffered and wondered if I wouldn't be able to help with all that. The day my father died, the nurse called another priest to see us. He was also reassuring me that it was okay to stop the feeding tube, that I wasn't actually killing him. That I wasn't committing a sin. It wasn't so much that I was afraid of sinning, but afraid that I simply hadn't done enough. I hadn't done enough in the weeks leading to his death, in the past few years, working all the time, too busy to see him. After my trip to Italy when I didn't bring him a souvenir. When I'd forget his birthday since he'd forgotten some of mine. When I didn't steal enough of his packs of cigarettes when I was younger and tear them up. When my love for him didn't practically pierce space and time and just fix things. Fix everything.

I missed church the weekend after my father's funeral. It was daylight savings time, and the church was empty because we were an hour early and didn't realize it. We went to the front pew, prayed, read the bible verses to ourselves. I cried a bit and we went to get dog food. Even after realizing the time change I didn't have strength to go. I was sort of angry at God for taking my father.

I returned yesterday for the first time and the priest had heard of my father's passing. He called me into the robing room and held my hand tightly, with sad eyes he just said, "I'm so sorry to hear about your father. It is better for him. (Pause) It is better for you too."

Of course I gained comfort hearing these words again. And believed him. And oddly enough, the mass that day spoke of death and the importance of prayer for the souls in purgatory.

Thinking of my father in a better place is incredibly hard to bear because if you asked me - right here, right now would be a much better place. Without the cancer. Teaching me to build something.

I'd say The Problem lies in my belief system. If my father has indeed entered eternal ecstasy with God - then Hallelujah - and I'll work towards recovering from the loss. If not, I'm mortified, angry, depressed, debilitated. And I fluctuate between the two states. Belief and Disbelief. Either you think Jesus was right, and I mean 100%, or you think he was a raving lunatic. I mean, there is not much room in between. It's not like you can say, "Well, Jesus said he was human the son of God. I can believe that. But when he talks about Heaven? Not so much." I'm no theologian. I've explored all sorts religions in search of truth - and ultimately have rested in Catholicism. And now, when I'm to put those beliefs to the test I'm failing miserably. My doubt has never been heavier. Or have so much at stake.

Sometimes I think I can feel his presence. Sometimes I feel emptiness. Sometimes I'm happy with memories. Sometimes I'm sad with regrets. My primitive and basic expressions of "happy" or "sad" emotions stun me. There is nothing complex going on here. Things just suck. Or they are okay. He is either in heaven or he is somewhere inexplicable.