Mary G Bruno

I have plenty of reasons to be angry at God. I’m sure you do, too. Some of my reasons include 20+ years of intense cyclic pain, permanent infertility without a single pregnancy, waiting almost four years to adopt again, painful intercourse, shall I go on?

There’s no shortage of suffering around us. This is one reason why many leave the Church or lose their faith in God altogether. I have certainly wrestled with the fact that I “did everything right” and was never able to achieve pregnancy. I think many of us feel a weird sense of entitlement to a life free from suffering even though that was never what Jesus promised. I know this in my mind, but I still sometimes find it hard to align the God I love so much with the God who can take suffering away, but often chooses not to. And I don’t always feel him holding me up when I can’t stand on my own two feet.

I am fully aware that God did not spare his own son, whom I know he loves with a depth I cannot understand, from the most brutal death in history. He did not preserve his dear mother from intense emotional hardship, either. I should know that allowing great suffering in life doesn’t mean God isn’t present, but because I don’t see him with my own eyes, it doesn’t always resonate. My faith is not strong enough. But moving to a new parish on the north shore of New Orleans several years ago made this more tangible for me when I saw a striking resemblance of God the Father in one of my fellow parishioners. His witness continues to renew my faith near-weekly.

We have a beautiful, traditional-style Church in Old Mandeville, but unfortunately, it’s not big enough to hold everyone in it for the Masses at the most popular times. It’s a good problem to have, but we do often find ourselves going to Mass in the gym. Womp womp. They actually do a good job at erecting an altar and arranging other holy pieces to make it feel more church-y. But it’s still a gym.

On a positive note, though, I think the way the gym is structured makes it easier for one particular middle-aged man to bring his severely disabled daughter, who I suspect is in her teens, to Mass. And this is where I get to lay my eyes on Jesus – before the Eucharist is even consecrated.

It’s easy to notice their entrance into the gym-church because his daughter uses one of those more elaborate types of wheelchairs. There are no pews, only chairs, so it would be easy enough to park it in any spot. But he doesn’t always do that. More often than not, he parks it in a hallway, stands her up, and sort of melts into her as a physical support and walks her over to a chair. That would be enough to elicit a few tears for me to wipe away before anyone noticed, but he doesn’t stop there. Every time it’s available, he situates her in the first row closest to the center aisle and is diligent about lining her up for the best view.

Once he gets her set, he sits closely to her and regularly checks in. His attention moves back and forth between her and the altar. She doesn’t appear to have much muscular control in her upper body, so every several minutes he carefully repositions her head so she can see more clearly. When he’s not adjusting her view, he’s holding her hand or fixing her blanket. If she is in her wheelchair, he will recline it to make her more comfortable at some point. 

On one Sunday morning, I caught the priest smiling in sweet approval, touched by the love of a father he witnessed in the front row. When it came time for Communion, she did not receive Jesus right away like her father did. Immediately afterwards, he rested his head near her shoulder for a short time, a reason for which I could only imagine was to allow her to be as close to Jesus as possible without receiving him herself.  

As the priest and Eucharistic ministers were finishing up, I noticed him lean in and say something in her ear before kissing her on the cheek. Then he found one of the ministers and asked her to break off a small piece of the host to give to his daughter, which she did with the girl’s father sitting close by so he could assist her in consuming it by stroking her jaw. She could not do it by herself and yet, this somehow made the moment even more beautiful. I am often speechless as I watch this take place on most Sundays, on some of which he melts into her again and walks her up to the priest to receive communion.

As limited as this young woman’s experience of temporal life may be, I don’t think she questions her beauty and worth as a daughter of God. And this, without a doubt, is an incredible gift that her earthly father has given her – an ideal reflection of our Heavenly Father that we can all take note of. 

This is the first thing that comes to mind for me. I look at this man and the Holy Spirit instantly declares that this is how my Father in heaven loves me. One Sunday, I was gifted with an image of myself as this young girl, and Jesus was helping me with every move that I did not have the ability to complete for myself. I was able to see how God dotes on me. And while it is true that he does not always take away my pain, he always becomes my direct support.

The second thing that comes to mind for me is the fact that wow, my suffering is not nearly as difficult as theirs is. That does not mean my suffering isn’t valid, does not matter, and that the goodness of what I have lost is not absolutely worth grieving for as long as I need to. But it puts some other things into better perspective. This earthly father could remain so angry and bitter at Jesus for not healing his daughter that it would keep him from attending Mass. He could resent him for requiring him to go through so much effort to merely bring her to Mass – or to eat a meal! Only God knows how difficult their home life must be.

But not only does he not resent Christ, it is clear that he recognizes and values the presence of Jesus in the Eucharist to such an extent that he refuses to allow his own suffering, and that of his daughter, to keep them away. He reveres God such that he joyfully and lovingly brings his daughter to him, which is no easy task, every week. And I complain because I’m tired and my daughter won’t sit still. Again, perspective.

What if we all knew how ardently we are loved by God, even more than this doting father loves his precious daughter? How different would our lives be if we believed that He is so attentive and present in every aspect of our day? When the pains of life are not so strong and when we can’t hold ourselves up? Even more, what if we all put this much effort and attention into the people that God entrusts to us, regardless of how small or inconvenient some actions might seem? What if we cared just as much for others when we don’t receive anything in return? I imagine that the world would look very different.

I can’t change the world, but I can change myself to become a better reflection of Jesus for all who come into contact with me. I can avoid letting my anger overcome my love for him and others. I can believe that he is truly present in the Eucharist and worth going to Mass for. I can trust that he is there to support me when I cannot support myself.

We have plenty of reasons to be frustrated with God, but don’t live in that frustration. Let the way this man loves his daughter, as magnificent as it is, resonate as a mere echo of the Father’s love for you.