DAILY CATHOLIC     FRIDAY-SATURDAY-PENTECOST SUNDAY     May 29-31, 1998     vol. 9, no. 104


To print out entire text of Today's issue, go to SECTION ONE and SECTION TWO
          With the messages for the world having been concluded three years ago, slowly the public "Hidden Flower of the Immaculate Heart" has been able to return to the fullness of being Cyndi Cain, wife and mother (roles she never abandoned even for a moment during the public years). However, after much prayer and discernment, she feels strongly that there is much God wishes her to share, for He continually teaches us in our hearts and with the grace of the Holy Spirit, we are to share, to learn, to grow and to be there for one another, as He is always there for us.

          In each weekend issue she hopes to find the time in a busy schedule of caring for a sick child, schooling another son, and the regular work of keeping up a home not to mention helping with the ministry, to write a few lines in sharing with all the experiences and lessons learned in her own introspection. Cyndi has chosen to call her few words, humble and poor in the face of the Almighty, "SYMPHONY OF SUFFERING", for He has placed these words in her heart. To suffer: How all hate the thought, and how, when one is a mother who is faced with the onset of an illness for which the cure may be years away we feel our hearts break in many places. Yet, God hears a beautiful melody here. The angels hear it, too, and so do the saints. The melody reaches to the Heavens and joins with the unending chorus of all the hosts of Heaven praising God. It is Cyndi's sincerest hope that perhaps, together with the reader, we can take our sufferings, which are different yet similar, and place them into this great hymn of praise to the Creator, our Lord, God and Savior, Jesus Christ, and learn to make beautiful music unto the Lord. Below is her third rendition.

A Mother's suffering can reach the highest notes in Heaven
part two

          What parent does not desire to see their child or children healthy, happy, filled with God's grace and maturing both physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually?

          What mother does not suffer along with their child or children at every step of the way? The maternal bond with the child is life-long, starting from the moment of conception. That bond cannot be severed by anyone, or anything. It is part of God's Perfect Plan. It does not mean that the mother ties the child or children to her apron strings (does any mother wear an apron anymore?) keeping that child close to her even when the child becomes older. Certainly, any mother cannot do that in good conscience, recognizing that the child, a gift from God, must lead their own life as God has planned, for that is the fullness and richness of God's loving tenderness toward all His people.

          Still, the mother has that "intuitive" bond with the child that surpasses all rational explanation, and often baffles the father, the husband. However, as wife, mother, and a woman, I can only write about suffering from that perspective. To do more would be ridiculous; to do less would be an insult to God.

          My husband and I remember quite vividly the bright, happy child who was born to us over fifteen years ago. We have always considered both of our sons "miracle" babies, because we lost two children, both in the first trimester, prior to having our sons. When the miscarriages occurred, we were saddened, particularly when the doctors informed me (us) that I would most likely never be able to carry a child to term. Well, God had other plans. Even then, even before our conversion of heart through Medjugorje, my husband and I believed that if God intended us to have children (whom we truly wanted) then He would work things out.

          Our oldest son was born bright, happy, and healthy in every way. His development was normal. He was so full of awe and wonder and curiosity for all that the world held for him. He was unafraid of the world, never meeting a stranger, always exploring, racing ahead to another adventure, tackling the tasks of walking and running (he preferred not to crawl), and then onward to the continual tasks that he mastered one by one as he grew from infant to toddler, to child, and now to adolescent.

          Now, because of his illness, he does not remember any of the "good" memories of his early childhood. He can see these times, or at least some of them, on the video tapes we took (we were heavily into video taping just about everything in the lives of our children until God saw fit to have the camera stolen so we'd concentrate more on Him, and less on our archives of past memories). Still, he'll watch these, and then he'll cry, because he can't relate to them. He sees it, but it's not him. The "him" that he knows is a person who has become lost not only to himself, but also to God, and to us. He hangs onto hope by a thin thread that, for now, exists in his mind because of the medication, not because he can tangibly see, feel or believe in God, and the Infinite Love of his creator, nor the unconditional love of his parents and younger brother.

          Like any other mother out there, I, too, had dreams and hopes for my sons. For my oldest, I looked forward to that time when a certain amount of independence would be his. I looked forward to his high school years, which I suppose in retrospect, I naively envisioned as a version of "Happy Days", with all the fun of sports, dating at the appropriate age, driving, and working toward full independence.

          The reality is that these things will not be. My son will not know the normalcy of his teenage years. Instead, because of abuse suffered at the hands of so-called "Christian" people who emotionally and psychologically abused him, because of an accident when he cracked the back of his head against a rock, because of being given an antibiotic which, we now know, caused the chemical balance of his mind to go awry, he will miss the joy that should be there, and instead, suffer in his dark, black world that sees no light and doesn't believe there is hope anymore.

          No hope! Ah, to hear him say this. To see in his eyes that it is reality for him. To reach out to him, to try to encourage him, and to hold him in my arms and rock him as I did when he was a baby! Words are difficult to find to express the overwhelming range of emotions that hit me full force at these times.

          There are no words I can offer my son, for he does not hear them. When, after he has cried himself into a calmer frame of being, I retire to my room where I fall upon my knees and pray. There are times when the rosary beads find their way through my fingers, and I am able to pray in this fashion. More often than not, it is a wordless prayer that rises from my soul to God, a plea from a Mother's heart that God, in His Mercy, will heal my son, but only as He Wills, never as I will. It is a plea that is enveloped in acceptance of this suffering, of acknowledging before God that as my son lives and bears his cross as best He can, so do I believe that God helps him, and will help my husband and I do the same thing.

    Next week: part three

Cyndi Cain

May 29-31, 1998       volume 9, no. 104
Today's Catholic Pewpoint Editorial


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