No stranger to suffering

It was the evening on the first Sunday of Lent, close to the feast of Our Lady of Lourdes, and at the conclusion of Mass, I offered parishioners an Anointing of the Sick. Afterwards I was asked to anoint an elderly parishioner who was ill at home.

Early next morning I found her small cottage. As I came into the yard, I was surprised by the array of flowers blooming prodigiously in garden beds and pots ­- geranium, marigold, zinnia, pansy, petunia. It was a canopy of colour, shimmering with life, flavour, scent and surprise. I imagined the ancient Hanging Gardens of Babylon looked something like this and I stood awhile in admiration before knocking.

The door was already open, and I ventured inside. Madge was sitting in the lounge, and to me, she was in pain, as she leaned to one side to avoid pressing her backbone into the chair.

“I’m sorry I can’t get up,” she said politely and sincerely with a smile. “Next time I’ll greet you with a cuppa in the garden.”  

I commented that I found her garden so mesmerising.

“The flowers speak to me,” she said, “and whether I have a tough day or a good day, I wander out into the garden and my mood is lifted. It’s my sanctuary; my little place to talk with God.”

“What do you talk about?” I asked, already captivated by her openness.

“How good my life is, how wonderful my children and grandchildren are, how much I enjoy life despite missing my husband so much.” She laughed. “Bill passed away just a few months ago and left me with shingles on my back! That’s the reward you get for being married for 60 years!”

I stopped to soak in this engaging, intelligent and delightful woman carrying her shingles and her grief so tenderly. As I looked around, the lounge walls were filled with photographs of family including portraits of what I anticipated were Madge’s five children.

“Tell me about your children,” I asked.

“This one is Kevin, my firstborn. He had a rare disease from birth and passed away when he was only two. It was terrible being a young parent and feeling so helpless,” she said.

“I learned to garden at that time, and it taught me how to see life differently. I would plant seeds, take care of them, and wait until they flowered. They filled me with joy for weeks and then fell over with the frost. And I would start again and try different things. There’s a beautiful healing in the garden. It keeps reminding me to hope and the colours just sing with joy.”

My heart opened in empathy. “And your second child?” I asked.

“That’s Michael. He was engaged, and the wedding was all arranged, but for some reason, it didn’t happen and he went into a deep depression and took his own life. He was a gentle soul, and the rejection was just too much.”

I paused in admiration at this woman carrying her deep pain so firmly and somewhat courageously without bitterness.

Next was a photo of a young woman with a beautiful smile surrounded by children. “That’s Susan with her children,” Madge said. “She gave us our first grandchildren. Sadly, she married an alcoholic husband who murdered her in a fit of rage. Those poor children grew up without a mother.

My eyes and body collapsed with disbelief, amazement and awe as I struggled to take in what was being said. How can anyone carry so much pain with such dignity? Where is her tender strength coming from?

“My other two are Cathy and Jenny and they are the most wonderful daughters,” she said. “They can’t do enough for me. They’ve been through so much and we sit together in the garden and talk over a cuppa.

“When the grandchildren were young, they would play around with the soil and plant seeds and take care of their own flower bed. That’s my garden of joy, my garden of hope and inspiration. It’s where I am so at peace. I think I’ve passed that gift on to my family! They have special flower beds in their own yard too.”

As I offered her Holy Communion and an Anointing of the Sick, it was I who had received communion and been lovingly anointed by Madge. She was no stranger to suffering, but neither was she a prisoner to it and in the desert of grief she cultivated hope. She was entitled to harbour bitterness over all she lost: instead she nurtured gratitude for what she had. In the soil of emptiness, she planted abundance, and in the blossoming flowers, she heard the angel’s voice promising new beginnings.

I walked outside into her Easter Garden, released by hope, graced with awe and filled with joy. Christ is Risen!  He is risen indeed! Alleluia.

We encourage you to share and use this material on your own website. However, when using materials from Majellan Media’s website, please include the following in your citation:  Sourced from www.majellan.media