T.S. Eliot called April “the cruelest month.” For my family, that tag this spring seems particularly apt.
Last week, my son Jeremy and his wife Mary were awaiting the arrival of their baby boy. They were eleven days past their due date when Mary went into labor. The midwife arrived at the rental home into which they had just moved. After a long labor, the midwife determined that the baby was in a bad position, and the four of them went to the Warren Memorial Hospital, which was a twenty-second drive from the house. For six hours, Mary continued with her labor. Mother and baby were both healthy. Finally, after some consultation, the medical staff began prepping Mary for a Caesarian.
Last week, my son Jeremy and his wife Mary were awaiting the arrival of their baby boy. They were eleven days past their due date when Mary went into labor. The midwife arrived at the rental home into which they had just moved. After a long labor, the midwife determined that the baby was in a bad position, and the four of them went to the Warren Memorial Hospital, which was a twenty-second drive from the house. For six hours, Mary continued with her labor. Mother and baby were both healthy. Finally, after some consultation, the medical staff began prepping Mary for a Caesarian.
Suddenly, the baby’s heart rate plummeted. The medical team went into high gear, and the baby was born a few minutes later. They intubated him and stabilized his heart rate, but by then the shocked doctors and nurses were preparing Mary and Jeremy for the worst. Jeremy baptized the baby, Vincent Alexander, and a priest from their parish performed the sacrament of confirmation.
The medical staff offered the forlorn hope of taking Vincent Alexander to the neo-natal intensive care unit at the University of Virginia. The wind that night was too fierce for a helicopter, and so an ambulance transported the baby to Charlottesville. My daughter Kaylie and Jeremy followed, driving through blasts of air that shook the car and caused the tractor-trailers to weave all over the highway.
Meanwhile, a nurse at the university hospital contacted the hospital in Front Royal with the news that the baby was dying. The Front Royal hospital offered to transport Mary to Charlottesville via ambulance. Accompanied by her mother, Mary endured the ninety-minute drive to the university hospital. She arrived very early Sunday morning in time to hold Vincent for the first time before he passed away in her arms.
According to the teaching of my Church, my grandson Vincent Alexander is now in heaven with God. He is baptized, confirmed, and without sin. He is one of the saints.
And like all of that blessed company, Saint Vincent has already begun performing miracles. In our present age of discontent, when we daily undergo a media bombardment of bad news, the reaction to Vincent’s death should remind us of the goodness, largesse, and beauty that resides in so many hearts. The outpouring of prayers, gifts, emails, and kind words gives us a glimpse of the powerful force of love that moves in the human soul.
Here are just a few examples of what transpired.
Within two days, a Go-Fund-Me account set up for Mary and Jeremy by Kaylie brought in thousands of dollars from several hundred donors, money that will help the young couple with medical expenses and serve as a cushion in this awful time. Hundreds of people sent prayers by email and telephone. Students at Christendom College, the alma mater of Mary and Jeremy, offered a spiritual bouquet of prayers. Several women in the community organized a meal plan for the grieving couple. My daughter’s neighbor offered to sing at the Mass—her voice was true and lovely—and her husband volunteered free of charge the use of a large home to Mary’s family while they were in town. Friends and family drove extraordinary distances to pay their respects at the Mass and burial.
Vincent’s death has touched other hearts as well. Several of the medical staff were inspired by Mary’s strength and courage during her labor. Some of those who wrote emails were clearly moved in the direction of grace after reading Jeremy’s post on Facebook. Surely many parents looked at their little ones with renewed tenderness, love, and gratitude. Others of us realized, as we so often do in a crisis, how much our loved ones mean to us.
Usually we think of miracles as events contrary to nature: the mother who prays to a saint and finds her daughter cured of leukemia, the baby who is the lone survivor of a plane crash. But there are other miracles. That we are alive on a planet whirling through time and space, that we daily encounter creatures who are the sons and daughters of God, that unlike any other creature we possess the deepest ability to love and care for one another: these are also miracles. Like Vincent Alexander, the deaths of those whom we have loved, bright pennants against a blue sky, should remind us of these daily miracles we so often overlook.
For me, however, the miracle wrought by Saint Vincent took place in my heart.
When I sat there in the hospital holding my dead grandson, I wanted someone to blame for his death. How was it possible that a baby who was perfectly healthy less than twenty-four hours before now lay lifeless in my arms? I wanted answers. I wanted someone—a doctor, a nurse, God Himself—to explain to me how and why this had happened. For the first time in my life, I felt enraged by death. I wanted to put my fist through a wall.
But my son and his strong-hearted wife soon changed my anger into love. They wanted nothing to do with the blame game. In the words of my son, they were “thrilled” by the medical care and compassion shown them by the doctors, nurses, and aides. They grieved Vincent, yes, but they also found joy in his brief life, and showing more faith than I possessed, were happy that he was now with God in heaven.
Their attitude prompted me to look at my own life. I thought of the many occasions when I have given way to bitterness or pointed a finger at someone else for my circumstances. I thought of the bad habits I have practiced at times. I thought of sins I have committed. In running what Saint Paul called a “race,” which means following the will of God, I have not only often faltered, but have frequently fallen face down in the mud.
Since Vincent’s death almost a week ago, I have somberly thought of him and his brief life. I have watched how he inspired charity and faith in so many others, and have looked hard at myself.
April may be “the cruelest month,” but it’s also that time of year when many people turn to “spring-cleaning.” It’s the time we rid our homes of clutter, wash the windows and floors, plant flowers, and splash some fresh paint on the walls.
I’m thinking of Vincent, and I'm thinking it’s time I took a scrub brush and some soapy water to my heart and soul.
So thank you, little one. Thank you.
The medical staff offered the forlorn hope of taking Vincent Alexander to the neo-natal intensive care unit at the University of Virginia. The wind that night was too fierce for a helicopter, and so an ambulance transported the baby to Charlottesville. My daughter Kaylie and Jeremy followed, driving through blasts of air that shook the car and caused the tractor-trailers to weave all over the highway.
Meanwhile, a nurse at the university hospital contacted the hospital in Front Royal with the news that the baby was dying. The Front Royal hospital offered to transport Mary to Charlottesville via ambulance. Accompanied by her mother, Mary endured the ninety-minute drive to the university hospital. She arrived very early Sunday morning in time to hold Vincent for the first time before he passed away in her arms.
According to the teaching of my Church, my grandson Vincent Alexander is now in heaven with God. He is baptized, confirmed, and without sin. He is one of the saints.
And like all of that blessed company, Saint Vincent has already begun performing miracles. In our present age of discontent, when we daily undergo a media bombardment of bad news, the reaction to Vincent’s death should remind us of the goodness, largesse, and beauty that resides in so many hearts. The outpouring of prayers, gifts, emails, and kind words gives us a glimpse of the powerful force of love that moves in the human soul.
Here are just a few examples of what transpired.
Within two days, a Go-Fund-Me account set up for Mary and Jeremy by Kaylie brought in thousands of dollars from several hundred donors, money that will help the young couple with medical expenses and serve as a cushion in this awful time. Hundreds of people sent prayers by email and telephone. Students at Christendom College, the alma mater of Mary and Jeremy, offered a spiritual bouquet of prayers. Several women in the community organized a meal plan for the grieving couple. My daughter’s neighbor offered to sing at the Mass—her voice was true and lovely—and her husband volunteered free of charge the use of a large home to Mary’s family while they were in town. Friends and family drove extraordinary distances to pay their respects at the Mass and burial.
Vincent’s death has touched other hearts as well. Several of the medical staff were inspired by Mary’s strength and courage during her labor. Some of those who wrote emails were clearly moved in the direction of grace after reading Jeremy’s post on Facebook. Surely many parents looked at their little ones with renewed tenderness, love, and gratitude. Others of us realized, as we so often do in a crisis, how much our loved ones mean to us.
Usually we think of miracles as events contrary to nature: the mother who prays to a saint and finds her daughter cured of leukemia, the baby who is the lone survivor of a plane crash. But there are other miracles. That we are alive on a planet whirling through time and space, that we daily encounter creatures who are the sons and daughters of God, that unlike any other creature we possess the deepest ability to love and care for one another: these are also miracles. Like Vincent Alexander, the deaths of those whom we have loved, bright pennants against a blue sky, should remind us of these daily miracles we so often overlook.
For me, however, the miracle wrought by Saint Vincent took place in my heart.
When I sat there in the hospital holding my dead grandson, I wanted someone to blame for his death. How was it possible that a baby who was perfectly healthy less than twenty-four hours before now lay lifeless in my arms? I wanted answers. I wanted someone—a doctor, a nurse, God Himself—to explain to me how and why this had happened. For the first time in my life, I felt enraged by death. I wanted to put my fist through a wall.
But my son and his strong-hearted wife soon changed my anger into love. They wanted nothing to do with the blame game. In the words of my son, they were “thrilled” by the medical care and compassion shown them by the doctors, nurses, and aides. They grieved Vincent, yes, but they also found joy in his brief life, and showing more faith than I possessed, were happy that he was now with God in heaven.
Their attitude prompted me to look at my own life. I thought of the many occasions when I have given way to bitterness or pointed a finger at someone else for my circumstances. I thought of the bad habits I have practiced at times. I thought of sins I have committed. In running what Saint Paul called a “race,” which means following the will of God, I have not only often faltered, but have frequently fallen face down in the mud.
Since Vincent’s death almost a week ago, I have somberly thought of him and his brief life. I have watched how he inspired charity and faith in so many others, and have looked hard at myself.
April may be “the cruelest month,” but it’s also that time of year when many people turn to “spring-cleaning.” It’s the time we rid our homes of clutter, wash the windows and floors, plant flowers, and splash some fresh paint on the walls.
I’m thinking of Vincent, and I'm thinking it’s time I took a scrub brush and some soapy water to my heart and soul.
So thank you, little one. Thank you.