by Angela Murphy
That could never happen to me. We live in the age of modern medicine. I have a strong faith. I pray for others.
These assumptions, and many more, were smashed to the floor and swept away that September morning when my firstborn daughter died at birth. I was young, only twenty-five, and had not yet experienced a devastating loss. This past September our family marked sixteen years since that day, and I know with certainty that I have changed. The greatest change, the gift that I have found uncovered in this journey of grief, has been compassion.
Before this sorrow upended my life, I prided myself on being strong, independent, and capable. I knew the best options, chose the right paths in life, and often looked down on those less competent. I was blessed and privileged–I knew this–but I did not realize how narrow-minded I could be.
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I also came from a family that discouraged deep displays of emotion and never talked about events or circumstances that were sad or unpleasant. My family responded to friend’s sorrows, tragedies in the world and the struggles of others with a perfunctory and dismissive “We will pray for you,” and then moved on with life. To this day, my parents do not speak of their feelings about the loss of their granddaughter.
Against this wall of repressed emotions and pride, my grief broke like a tsunami wave of confusion and pain, terrifying in its intensity and wholly unfamiliar in its inescapable reality of raw emotion. For the first few months after my loss I spent hours weeping before a grotto of Our Lady of Lourdes, in a tiny adoration chapel at our church. I believed God had permitted this in His inscrutable plan, but navigating life after loss felt like stumbling through a dark forest. The finality of loss and the reality of my pain were unlike anything I had ever experienced, and no one around me could help me navigate the new and alien landscape of my inner life.
But I could not hide or run away from my grief. All my family and friends knew of my loss since our daughter had been born full term. We chose to try again soon, and my next daughter was born only fifteen months later. There were many awkward conversations about how this was not my first child, not to mention the fear and worry that overshadowed that pregnancy. I became accustomed to talking about my loss and familiar with the knowledge that this was now my life. I had a child in Heaven (she was baptized in the delivery room), and that reality shaped my identity as a mother.
My life went on. We moved to another state. I gave birth to my second daughter, my rainbow baby. I became part of the “mom community,” both online and in our town. I met more people and expanded my circles. Blogs and social media were picking up speed and connecting me to more and more people and consequently, more stories of pain, suffering, sorrow and loss. But I could no longer be indifferent to others suffering. I could no longer move past another’s grief with an off-hand, “I’ll pray for you.” I was learning to walk the Via Dolorosa not only as Mother Mary, but as Simon and Veronica and the weeping women had done.
My own heart had been broken, and I had wept tears that would only be wiped away in Heaven. I no longer wanted to hide my emotions or pretend I had everything figured out. I had learned that life was precious and circumstances could spiral devastatingly out of control. Some people spend years growing in faith and love and trust in God and when a tragedy or trial occurs they are strong enough to endure. For me, the tragedy was an opportunity to learn strength and courage from a faithful God in order to endure.
For years I grappled with the pain, trying to understand the suffering, to accept the sorrow, to draw closer to God. But eventually I came to see that it was not just my pain that I was learning to unite to Christ’s passion. I was also being asked to carry the pain of other women, to not just pray for them but to feel their sorrow and let that strengthen my prayers for them and somehow unite their pain to the sufferings of Jesus and Mary.
Photo courtesy of Angela Murphy
Compassion comes from the Latin com, meaning with, and pati-, meaning to suffer. I was suffering with others and learning compassion. When I slowly realized this, I began to see a purpose in my loss and light amidst the darkness of my grief. I thought of my indifference and hard-hearted attitudes prior to my daughter’s death and knew that only intense grief and pain could have broken through the walls I was taught to construct as a child. I began to accept that Our Lady of Sorrows had permitted me to share her grief divine (as the Stabat Mater says) in order to share the grief of the sorrowful mothers God was bringing into my life.
Allowing this compassion to permeate my heart has not been easy. It means being available to listen when a friend needs to talk. It means gently naming what a sorrowful mother is feeling and perhaps offering a glimpse of what the winding path of grieving will look like. It means there are many other anniversaries of loss on my calendar, not just my daughter’s, and I have to remain close to Jesus in order to hold the pain of other’s sad days, not just my own. It means reaching out to a hurting friend, remembering to check in and stay in touch. It means not resisting the reminders of sad things and remembering the lives gone too soon. It means letting my children see my tears and letting them know about and pray for those who are suffering. It means being willing to acknowledge that life is not fair, bad things happen to good people, and suffering often seems senseless. It means keeping faith, hope, and trust alive despite the sufferings in the world and clinging to the belief that God holds life and death in His hands, but His ways are not our ways and His thoughts are not our thoughts.
Sixteen years later, I thank God for allowing me to see the graces and growth that followed my loss. I know Mother Mary has been with me every step of the way. I was brought up to believe that so much pain would crush a person, and sometimes the pain feels very heavy. But truly, the grief of others feels like streams flowing into the river of my own grief, which flows into the sea that is the most compassionate Heart of Jesus. Without Him, I would fall beneath the weight of these crosses. Occasionally, a lot of sorrows cross my life at once and I begin to falter. At those times I must return to Jesus in the Holy Eucharist, the source of all love and compassion, allowing Him to fill my heart with Himself. And when my heart overflows with His compassion and love, then I can go back into the world, ready to share His love with those whom He sends into my life.
Angela Murphy resides in a historic Virginia town and writes about faith, saints, nature and motherhood. She enjoys trying new recipes, reading fiction and travel memoirs and anything that involves flowers. You can read more of her writing on Substack.