The Sun & other Stars

During a moment of great loss, the Shroud of Turin was a window to look past my pain and into the promise of eternal life. It was a small but essential part of my story during my mother’s passing, one of the most challenging and meaningful moments of my life. Her illness was not a surprise, but we didn’t expect to have death waiting at the door that year.

We had hoped to celebrate summer with trips to the Dunes, walks in Downtown Chicago, and harvests of Michigan cherries, peaches, and plums. And apples once summer turned into fall. We wanted to feast on life! My mother hadn’t been with us in two years, having gone through her treatment for breast cancer in Mexico. The dreams quickly vanished; instead, our summer was one of trips to the hospital.

Death allowed itself in, but so did love.

When friends learned of my mother’s terminal diagnosis, calls, texts, and emails reminded us that we were not alone. We started a nightly prayer circle on the phone. People from California, Mexico, Puerto Rico, and El Salvador joined. Others listed my mom in prayers in Colombia and other countries. Strangers offered Mass in her name.

Many people—I don’t know how many or even who—stacked the refrigerator with enchiladas, fried chicken, ham, bread, fruit, vegetables, juice, pop, tamales, salads, water, cereal, and snacks. Some friends just handed me money. Others sat with her for a few hours so that we could get away and run errands or do some laundry. People would show up knowing that we needed the company.

In early July of that year, my mom entered the hospital for the final time. By then, I had lost my sense of the days. I didn’t know if it was Monday or Thursday, or Saturday or what the date was. My sister, my father, and I were taking turns at the hospital, not wanting her to be alone at that point. And people kept coming. They kept me afloat, and several acts of their love became my anchors. They remain so to this day.

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One night, when my mother’s heartbeat swayed between life and death, a crowd of people came to the hospital. She was still somewhat responsive, if only with her eyes and some movements of her head and arms. The group gathered around her bed and, one by one began to thank my mother for what she had done for them. One thanked her for groceries when their family had none. Another, for help with a kind word of advice. One woman thanked her for encouraging her daughter to sing at the church as a young teen. My mother lay still, her eyes closed.

One afternoon, that woman’s daughter, a young woman by then, showed up with the youth choir and sang songs of faith and gratitude. Later that week, that same young woman showed up with some friends at 1:00 a.m. with donuts. They asked us to sleep while they took over our vigil for a few hours. The donuts were for the morning coffee.

People showed up like that during those two last weeks. Another evening, I was alone with my mom, and a woman I had never met came into the hospital room. She sat, handed me a rosary, and we prayed. It was the first time I prayed the rosary in years.

Since then I have learned that this is what Dante described as the force that moves the sun and other stars. It’s the force that shapes and creates the universe day by day… moment by moment, giving birth to all creation. It also moves the human heart to connection, communion, and service. It’s love.

All those people chose to love because, in some way, they had been shaped by that same force. It awakens and opens our eyes to the beauty in nature and each other and the fact that death does not have the final word.

I have also learned that this love is not anything we create but a spirit and person we connect to. In Christianity, we believe that God is love and was made manifest in Jesus. I know that when love felt absent during those most trying times, it surrounded and carried me.

This love calls us back to him, especially during this season of Lent.