Those Who Mourn

by Yvette Buller

I remember how hard it was to go to Mass right after Michael died without crying throughout Mass. I can’t put my finger on exactly why that was. I can only guess that it had to do with the prayers, the music, or just being so close to the place where I knew Michael spent so much of his time. I suppose it could have had to do with the type of feelings I was having. I always felt unworthy of God’s love and losing Michael seemed like a byproduct of that. Maybe it was the reminder of the funeral. I can’t be sure. I just know that in the beginning, it always happened to me.

I remember another grieving mom telling the story that going to Mass was a trigger for her. She would see small children with their parents in Mass, and it reminded her of what she was missing. She also kept picturing those tiny caskets which brought her back to the days she buried her children.

One recent morning, as I knelt in prayer before Mass began, I thought of my sister Denise, then my brothers Joe, David, Earl, my son Michael, Mom, Dad, and all the rest, and I immediately got choked up and teary-eyed. I think that was the first time it happened to me before Mass even began. It has been six years since Michael died, but since then, I’ve lost Denise, Joe, and Earl. The grief is still so raw.

That same night, my husband and I attended a mission at our Parish Church. The presenter just happened to speak about this very thing. The topic of the mission that night was prayer. She reminded us about the difference between Public Revelation and Private Revelation before telling us a story about Catalina Rivas.

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Catalina Rivas is a Bolivian mystic who lives in Cochabamba, Bolivia. She converted at the age of 47 in October 1993. Shortly after her conversion, she began to hear Jesus in interior locution, receiving messages of love and mercy. In her best-known work, The Holy Mass, she describes seeing angels gathered around the altar, the saints joining in worship, and heaven opening during the consecration as Christ becomes truly present in the Eucharist. While Catholics are not required to believe private revelations, her account beautifully echoes the Church’s teaching that the Mass unites heaven and earth in the worship of God.

These points come from Catalina Rivas’ reported private revelations. While some of her writings have received an imprimatur, Catholics are not required to believe private revelations. They are intended to encourage a deeper appreciation of the mystery of the Holy Mass and should always be understood in light of the Church’s teaching.

I only bring this up because of the timing. She mentioned Catalina only briefly and suggested we look up her story on our own if we were interested. Of course, because of the encounter I had that morning, I was eager to learn more. I already knew that during the consecration, heaven and earth are mysteriously united as Christ makes present His one sacrifice on Calvary. The Church teaches that in the Mass we participate in the worship of heaven, joined with the saints and the souls being purified in Purgatory as one Mystical Body of Christ. Reading Catalina’s account through that lens made it all the more compelling.

“But you have come to Mount Zion and to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem… and to innumerable angels in festal gathering… and to Jesus, the mediator of a new covenant” (Hebrews 12:22–24). Every time we gather for Mass, we participate in that heavenly worship, even if we cannot see it with our eyes.

As I reflected on Hebrews’ description of the heavenly liturgy, Catalina’s account suddenly made sense to me. If heaven truly joins earth at every Mass, if angels surround the altar, if the saints worship with us, and if Christ becomes truly present in the Holy Eucharist, then how could a grieving parent not be moved to tears? When our hearts ache for those we love most, the Mass becomes the closest place on earth to heaven. It is where longing and hope meet. Perhaps that is why so many of us find ourselves weeping in the pews.

I have come to believe that grieving parents cry at Mass because the Mass is where the ache of separation meets the hope of reunion.

Because of this, I now find myself looking toward the altar during the consecration with different eyes. If heaven truly meets earth at that moment, then I want to look upon that mystery with the eyes of faith. I think of Michael, my babies, my family, and all the faithful departed joining in the eternal worship of God. Whether I can see them or not, I know that Christ is there, and that is enough.

As I began reading about the Church’s understanding of the gift of tears, I realized it was not simply an emotional response. The spiritual tradition describes it as a grace of the Holy Spirit—a gift that can arise from repentance, an overwhelming awareness of God’s mercy, compassion for the suffering of others, or a deep longing for the Lord. I have come to believe that God wastes none of our tears. The psalmist tells us that He keeps them in His bottle (Psalm 56:8). Even the tears we shed in the pews become known to Him and, when surrendered, can become a prayer.

At first, I wondered whether the tears I had shed after Michael’s death were the same gift. The more I prayed and reflected, the more I realized the answer was both yes and no.

The tears of grief are born of love. They come from the aching absence of someone our hearts still reach for. Parents were never meant to bury their children, and those tears are holy. Jesus Himself stood at the tomb of Lazarus and wept. He did not dismiss grief; He entered into it.

Yet I have also come to believe that God can do something extraordinary with those tears if we place them in His hands. As grief stripped away so much of what I once relied upon, it also opened my heart to Him in ways I had never experienced before. Over time, my tears were no longer only about what I had lost. They became tears of surrender, longing, gratitude, and even hope. They became a very simple prayer: “Lord, receive these tears. Unite them to Yours and let them draw me closer to You.”

I cannot say that every grieving parent will experience this in the same way. Grace always remains God’s gift. But I have learned that when grief is surrendered to Him, He can transform even our deepest sorrow into a place of encounter with His love. Looking back, I believe some of the tears I once thought were only tears of grief had become something more.

Because I have experienced “tears in the pews” ever since Michael died—and still do more than six years later—I began to wonder how common this experience is among grieving parents. While I couldn’t find any reliable statistics, everything I read and heard suggested that it is remarkably common.

Frühmesse (Early Mass), Adolph von Menzel, 1852.

Over the years, I have accompanied many bereaved parents, and time and again they have shared stories of unexpectedly breaking down during Mass. Their tears are often stirred by the music, a passage of Scripture, the homily, the consecration, or the reception of Holy Communion.

Curious to learn more, I asked twenty-five bereaved parents to share their experiences. Every one of them said they had cried during Mass at some point. For some, it had happened only a handful of times; for others, it was simply too many times to count, spanning anywhere from six months to ten years after the death of their child. Most said that the music, Scripture, and homily were more likely to bring tears than seeing other children or families, although several parents identified that as a significant trigger as well.

What moved me most, however, were not the numbers but the heartfelt comments they shared. Though each person’s journey through grief is unique, they generously opened their hearts in the hope that their experiences might help you feel a little less alone.

What I have come to realize is that my connection to Christ is also my connection to my son. The more I reflect on the mystery of the Mass, the more I find comfort in knowing that, as the Holy Eucharist is consecrated, heaven and earth are united. I cannot help but think of Michael, my babies, my siblings, my parents, my nieces and nephews, and all those who have gone before me, joining in the eternal worship of God.

Rather than making me want to stay away from Mass because of my grief, this realization has drawn me ever closer to it. It has deepened my longing—not only for my loved ones but also for Christ Himself, Who is the source of every reunion we hope for.

Whether the tears that fall are simply tears of grief or, at times, the gift of tears, they have become something precious to me. They remind me that love does not end with death, that hope is alive, and that every Mass is a foretaste of the day when, through Christ, we will all be together again.

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