Amazing Grace

                                                Amazing Grace



As the old saying goes, "God draws straight with crocked lines…"


Opie described his new friend to his father as, ...a man  with a  shiny silver hat that's as bright as the sun. He walks on the tree tops and wears a belt that holds all his extra hands, so that he jingles when he walks, like he has rings on his fingers and bells on his toes.

How could any adult reasonably be expected to believe that a person such as this exists?  And yet Mr. McBeevey really did appear just as Opie described him…

                                              The Andy Griffith Show

                                              Mr. McBeevey Episode Rerun



                                                      * * *

Believing that some people have the gift of healing has always been easy for me. Understanding that God sometimes works through people such as these to bring about all sorts of uncommon and unexplainable cures has never been very tough. After all, we live in a very vast world; God is GOD, and ultimately God can do whatever He wants.  Too, every day we meet people who really are gifted by God in all sorts of remarkable ways. Thus the possibilites are truly endless…

Yet when the healing part is sought for someone I actually know and love -- once this is no longer just some abstract and impersonal exercise -- the believing part, at least for me, can be so much more ...awkward, difficult.

For instance…

Following my Dad's second open-heart surgery, he began having severe 24x7 pain in his left hand and arm. He could barely function above the pain, it was so excruciating. First he saw an orthopedic specialist who did surgery on his left elbow to relieve nerve compression. Following recovery, however, the pain continued.

So then he saw a neurosurgeon who discovered spinal disc compression. He underwent a second and far more serious surgery. The recovery from this was long and -- as he experienced terrible complications --  harrowing, so when the pain continued yet again, this was a terrible blow.

My Dad -- normally a strictly "conventional-medicine" kinda guy -- next saw a acupuncturist; then an acupressure therapist. Nothing brought him relief for very long. Finally, then, he and my Mom decided to go to Minnesota, to the Mayo Clinic for help, only to be sent home with devastating news: The pain was brought on by nerve damage done during the second open heart surgery. There was no cure, nor any long-lasting remedy for his pain.

It was no secret, from that point on, that my Father no longer wanted to live. At first he spoke quietly, yet openly of suicide. So I had a long talk with him. I told him that if he really loved us -- our Mother, my brother, my sister, and I -- that he could never do that to us because we could never reconcile ourselves to loosing him in that way. Gently yet bluntly, I told him that for the rest of our lives we would be crippled with guilt and with shame, and that our grief would never, ever heal. Long story short, I guess, for better and for worse, I pretty much shamed him out of it.

In response though, his desires only went underground and he just gave up on life. He wouldn't get dressed, shave, bathe. He refused to see company. He'd be rude to us every time we'd try to coax a visit. He quit eating. He'd just sit, suffering, alone, mostly in the dark, just waiting to die. We watched as he withered quickly from a robust 220+ pounds to under 90 pounds, ...as he rapidly dropped from a 42 inch waist, and my Mom began shopping for his clothing in the Boys departments.

You'd have to have known my Dad to understand the depth of the tragedy this was for us. For, you see -- despite his previous ample size -- his heart and his smile had always been the biggest parts of him. He was very Irish, very ornery, so full of mischief, usually scheming his next practical joke. He had always been the effervescent optimist, always outgoing, always booming with  laughter. He was the heart and center of every room, and he kept everyone around him delighted, everyone magnetically involved and included.

Thus watching him wither was just too much for me; I grieved terribly!  Every day I'd call my Mom, insisting that there must be something we could do, something we could try... And every day she'd remind me that we'd already done..., and we'd already tried..., and that sometimes this is just the way some good men die. Her Uncle Jack had a stroke and died withdrawn and bitter. Her Dad was diagnosed with a cancer that sent him into severe withdrawal not long before his life ended. So, patiently, she coaxed me to just accept things as they were and go on. But this was MY DAD ! !  He never gave up on me, despite the God-awful kid I had been.  All my life we had been so close, so this was just impossible:  I could never-ever do that.

One night, after another long conversation with my Mom -- long after my family had gone off to bed -- I sat at our sun room desk and started writing, thrashing around in my pain for some sort of emotional catharsis. Eventually this evolved into a letter, and, because it was a letter never intended for mailing, still, it helped to be writing to someone, so I wound up addressing it to Mother Teresa, figuring that she probably understood human suffering better then than anyone else on the planet.

I cried as I wrote huge long descriptions of my Dad and how very much he meant to me. From the beginning of my life he was always one of my very best friends. The anecdotes were warm and went all the way back to my early childhood, yet I tried to flesh him out fully -- telling both good and bad. I told her that he had never been much of a churchgoing man, and that he was not only not Catholic, but that he could be pretty anti-Catholic -- that he was born into an Irish Protestant home. I told her how he wasn't thrilled when I converted to Catholicism, though he promised me he would honor my decision, and, always, he did.

Though he had drifted far from faith during my early teen years, yet in my early childhood it was my Dad who was largely responsible for my faith formation: It was he who first taught me to pray and prayed with me daily. I detailed his pain, and his despair. And I asked for her prayers -- not so much for a healing, because I've always believed that God only allows pain as part of a plan, and always one with a strong positive purpose -- but rather for a return of his spirits, for his zany, zesty love of all, and love of life.

It was almost morning by the time I finished my letter, and, though relieved, I was also drained, exhausted, as I had poured every drop of my grief into it and sobbed my heart out all the way through.  Quickly and quietly I collected, ordered, and folded the pages, tucked it in an envelope, and pushed it towards the back of my desk's center drawer.  All too soon  life continued with it's usual vengence, and so, easily, I dismissed it.  I forgot all about it.

Some weeks later, then, my husband, Dave, was rummaging through the drawer looking for something and found it, then came to me and asked if he could read it. Though it was a little embarrassing, I said yeah, sure.  It was, after all, no big thing…

Moments later, however, Dave found me again and told me that he thought this was really an excellent letter (--amazing, since Dave almost never enjoys reading my stuff), and he felt that, definitely, I should mail it.

That just felt too weird to me... I could not believe my ears!

We bickered back and forth for several minutes about this. He kept insisting that it just couldn't hurt...; and it just might help; and that it was only my pride holding me back. He told me that if one of our kids was similarly afflicted, that he knew me well enough to know that I'd do anything, try anything, run down any lead, exhaust every dollar trying to find some way, any way to help.

In areas of faith especially Dave is not usually so opinionated; thus quickly this became very unnerving. So -- in a valiant, last ditch. TA-DA! type effort -- I reminded him that a letter addressed to Mother Teresa in India was sure to be noticed as it passed through our small town post office, where he worked (part-time then)…  I was, of course, inferring the raised eyebrows he might expect on the job; the heightened level of religious zealotry others might suspect.  But his only response was, "So...?"

So I mailed it. But the thing I most regret now is that I didn't mail the letter out of any great faith on my part. I mailed it, pure and simple, just to get him off my back. As a Catholic Christian woman, even as just a daughter, this was hardly my finest hour. Little did I realize, then, that -- as the Bible describes marriage, "and the two shall be one," that he and I were working in unison then -- where I was weak Dave was strong -- reaching out together as each others perfect compliment.

Okay, so I did it, and, to be sure, I did it all very quickly, before I lost my nerve. First I called our local Reference Library requesting her address, then I readied the envelope. I drove the letter to town right away. I even felt foolish as I dropped it in the mail slot. But then it was done.  Very deliberately, almost defensively I returned to everyday life. And, once again, I forgot all about it.

It was maybe two months later that a small letter-sized envelope arrived in the mail addressed to me. There was no return address on it. The postmark said it was from the Bronx, but I don't know anyone in the Bronx…, I do, however, know someone in New Jersey who's stuck me with many an unwanted chain letter.

Wary, I examined the envelope.  The sender had typed my address on it  and obviously, with a very old typewriter, as many of the letters were either extremely light in print or floaters. I figured that it maybe it was from Covenant House --  another clever plea for money, or from some other sly charity. Once those people get your number, you pop up on everyone's wish list. And I just hate saying no… Oh, who would be sending me this, I agonized as I turned the unopened letter over and over in my hands, wondering what to do with it. It's sad to think now how close I actually came to just throwing it away.

But once I changed my mind, I opened and unfolded it quickly. It was short -- just a couple of paragraphs, and it was typed on exactly one-quarter of a regular-sized sheet of typing paper. The type face was really old. I scanned it first, catching only odd glimpses of this incredible discourse on why people suffer. Who would be sending me this???!!,  I wondered, then my eyes dropped to the bottom where she had signed her name: Mother Teresa.

OH MY GOD! I read it, and reread it, and reread it again. She had scotch-taped a Miraculous Medal to a top corner, and had included a pamphlet of sorts, a beautiful prayer litany that she had written herself.

And she promised me she'd pray for my Dad! Hope stirred strong and deep within me, and some part of my heartache was lifted. Again I was crying, though these were tears of joy. I found myself both very, very nervous and deeply comforted, both in the exact same instant.

And yet… She wanted me to tell my Dad that all his suffering really was meaningful. She wanted him to wear the medal, and she wanted him to pray to Mary. My practical knowledge of him flew into instant revolt. After all,  I couldn't help but be terrified that this very well might only make matters worse.

But I had asked for her help, and, in her response, she had made these requests?  How could I ever say no to Mother Teresa…?

Thus a whole new agony took hold of me and haunted my next several days. Oh, what-am-I-going-to-do? What-am-I-going-to-do? I pocketed the letter and carried it with me at all times. Several times a day I'd reread it, searching for some sort of wisdom, for strategy, for some sure-fire plan.

I shared Mother's letter with my Mom who agreed with me that, yeah, it very well could only make matters worse, and then I shared it with a good friend who lived right next door. Marlene's a wonderful friend and a lifelong Catholic lady and, initially, she was as blown away as I was to be reading something actually sent by Mother Teresa.

Maybe a week later she and I accidently crossed paths again.  She was full of questions:  Had I talked to my Dad yet?  What happened?  How did he respond?

So I told her all my fears, and told her -- because writing has always been my strongest suit, my surest means of communication -- that I'd been thinking of writing a letter of explanation to my dad, then enclosing her letter in it. But I was having trouble figuring out just what to say.

She shook her head no, then softly pleaded, "Terry, just give him the letter." She reminded me, that Mother's wisdom was not for me to add-to or to subtract-from. That it simply was mine to give to my Dad; and that, then, it had to be his decision whether to accept or reject it. The timing of our conversation and her obvious caring added to the wisdom of her words and the moment seemed so… "inspired", so I just went with it. I just so happened to have a couple of hours to myself right then, so, knowing that my Mom was away then at work, I drove straight to my parent's house.

Each point of entry, however, was dead-bolted. Thus I  breathed a great sigh of relief as I strolled back to my car in the driveway, readying myself for retreat. But then the front door opened, and my Dad stuck his head out , reached his hand into the mailbox nearby, then, noticing me, he said, "…Terry?"

I explained that I'd just stopped by for a quick couple of minutes, but if he was resting or this wasn't a good time, I could come back later. He said, no, that that was okay and that he'd actually like a visit.  In-and-of-itself, that was a first small miracle.  It had been such a long, long time since my Father had actually welcomed a visit.

We sat in the family room silently watching an old Andy Griffith episode on TV. It was the Mr. McBeevey episode, the one where Sheriff Andy's convinced his young son, Opie's, new friend is imaginary. Opie describes someone he met in the woods as a man who wears a shiny silver helmet as bright as the sun, and who walks on the tree tops. His friend wears a belt that holds his many extra hands, that makes him jingle when he walks, as though he has "…rings on his fingers and bells on his toes." Everything seems so cute, so harmless until Opie brings home gifts given to him by Mr. McBeevey. Concerned, then, that his young son might be stealing, his Dad firmly demands that Opie confess aloud to him that Mr. McBeevey isn't really real.  Yet Opie, with tears in his eyes, simply can not. Inexplicably swayed by the strength of Opie's conviction, a troubled Andy explains to Barney  -- his deputy and his best friend -- that, no, he did not punish Opie, and that while he certainly does not believe in Mr. McBeevey, he does believe in Opie. He relates to Barney, how, many times in his young sons life he's probably asked Opie to believe things that must have been very hard for him. Now his son was asking exactly the same of his Dad.

Near the episodes end, Andy meets Mr. McBeevey, Opie's very real friend -- a telephone company repairman -- who appears, after all, exactly as Opie'd described.

I sat in awe and silence and marveled at how well the stage was being set for me. And though I was very, very moved, and very, very attentive, I remained quiet. I still didn't have the words to begin.  And I was still afraid…

The early evening news followed with some feature on a promising new medical procedure. But this footage only infuriated my Dad. Quickly his voice rose and loudly, he began to rant and rave. "The practice of medicine! The practice of medicine! You know why they call it that, don't you? Because that's exactly what it is: It's just PRACTICE! They don't know what the Hell they're doing…!"

As suddenly as he'd started, he stopped, and his tone quickly shrank to sad and apologetic. He hung his head "…I'm sorry, Terry. I guess I've just lost my faith in doctors." [Pause]  "I guess I've pretty much lost my faith in everything." [Pause}  "I've even lost my faith in God,"  I watched a tear slide down his cheek.

There would never be a better door opener than that.

Somewhere in the Bible Scripture promises believers that when we are put to the test, we shouldn't worry what to say. --Wisdom will just come… I've seen that work so many times. How could I have ever doubted…?

Timidly, I pressed forward: "Dad, I've done something, and I need to tell you about it, and I'm afraid that it's only gonna make you mad."

Deep breath… I had his full attention.  His gaze was riveted on me. 

I began by reminding him about when the pain in his arm began, and what an aggressive man he'd always been in pursuit of a solution. I outlined for him the many doctors he saw, all the terrible tests he endured, the surgeries, and the many therapies and procedures he underwent. And then, when seemingly no one could help him, how he went straight to the TOP: He went all the to the Mayo Clinic! But then, when not even Mayo's could help, how I decided to go  to the top for him, yet I chose a different path…


I told him that I wrote to Mother Teresa. And that, amazing as it sounds, she actually wrote me back! And, slowly then, I told him everything she wanted me to tell him…

He began weeping. His head was bowed and he was sobbing. My words somehow began spilling easily. We were both crying. I told him that I knew he didn't want to live, but how I just couldn't let him go like that, and how it was just tearing me up inside watching him go on the way he was. I said that I'd written to Mother about all this. I told him how I'd asked her for her prayers. Then, gently I told him that she wanted him to have this message (I held the letter out to him), and she wanted him to have this medal… He shook his head no and said, "It's enough for now just knowing that you wrote…"

But a little later that night he called my house and asked me to bring him the letter and the medal. I went right away. Then the very next day he called again, his voice unexpectedly light and breezy, and said that he thought it was time that he and my mom went on a vacation. Please, could I drive them to Florida?

So just a couple of weeks later I took time off work, pulled my two youngest children, Mic (age 8) and Kaelyn (4)out of school, (leaving Molly, age 12, and David, age 16 at home with their Dad) and we packed his van and went.

And though he was so weak, and so very frail, and he looked terribly thin -- just like a death camp survivor in fact -- from that day forward, once again, his smile was the very biggest part of him. Miraculously, I'd received everything I'd asked for… His zany zest for life and his great love of all, especially for his family, was back!

I spent time with him almost daily after that. And though the pain was always with him, yet so also were abundant blessings of faith, love, and laughter. My Dad returned to the faith he knew in my childhood and became very, very much a praying man again.  His regularly attended church was Reverend Robert Schuller's (televised) Crystal Cathedral, and his daily support groups became "Highway to Heaven" and "Little House on the Prairie" episodes. He welcomed company, and he and my Mom, once again, hosted many festive holiday celebrations.

Yet over the next several years, his overall health only further declined. He developed diabetes; then severe arterial sclerosis, which required many, many surgeries. He had strokes, as did my Mom. He went blind in one eye, but still his spirits held strong.

The worst blow came, however,  when he had to have his left leg amputated just below his knee. That was an absolute nightmare for him and we all knew it, for my Dad had done volunteer work in veteran's homes for many years, and he always just shuddered with the losses suffered by amputees; their particular life struggles always gave just him the willies. So I fretted obsessively that he'd backslide into depression.

Yet, just hours after surgery, an unsuspecting nurse, new on shift, came in to do rounds and rather routinely asked him his height.  In rapid response he quipped, "What? 5'11" on one side and maybe 4'10" on the other?"  Everyone present startled, then just cracked up laughing (...even the somewhat disoriented nurse).  The mood of the whole room radically lifted.  This was, after all,  just SO HIM!  And pretty much from that point forward, we all knew he'd be just fine.

My Dad died less than a week after my eldest son's wedding. He'd had congestive heart failure for months, had been in and out of the hospital many times. Every method of treatment had been employed yet nothing worked. And there was just nothing left to try. The week before the wedding, he coded (code blue), and though he rallied once again rather remarkably, still, sadly, he was unable to attend his first grandson's wedding. That just had to be a huge heartbreak for him…

So we brought the wedding party to him. Right after the ceremony our limo stopped at Methodist Hospital, and my Dad, proud as a peacock, was crowded and surrounded again by all his family dressed all their finery. And -- just one more time -- he was once again the life of the party.

Mother Teresa died in September of 1997. My Dad's suffering was so intense then, that I prayed and prayed to her, asking her to take him HOME. Peacefully he died October 2, 1997.

* * *


[The text of Mother Teresa's letter to me:]

August, 1991

Dear Terry,

Thank you for writing to share something of your sorrow and helplessness to relieve your father's pain. Suffering shared with Christ's Passion is a wonderful gift. Yes, a gift and a sign of His greater love -- a sign that your father has come so close to Jesus, that Jesus wants him to be the One to keep Him company in His Passion. Help your father to see the meaning in all his pain. It is not useless but precious for him and for you all if only he offers it up in prayer and patience. Also help him see that his most wonderful gift as a human is that he can share in the Passion of our Lord. It is indeed Jesus suffering in him and through him today -- reliving His Passion in our midst.

The Passion of Christ, the suffering of Our Lady and that of so many saints is the greatest wealth of our church. Your father too is a part of that wealth. Keep close to him like Mary kept close to Jesus at the foot of the Cross. I am enclosing a miraculous medal of our Blessed Mother for your father. Ask him to put it on with child-like trust in her love for him and her care of him, and say often: "Mary, Mother of Jesus, make me alright". I am praying for you all. God bless you.

Mother Teresa