As the October anniversary of my mother’s death passes, and the Feast of All Souls approaches, it is inevitable that I would recall the many wakes and funerals of my loved ones.
St. Jude is known by many as a saint we call upon when things seem hopeless or impossible. He was a popular intercessor from early in the Church’s history through the Middle Ages, but this devotion waned to near obscurity afterward. That was until, in America, we faced the Great Depression followed by the Second World War.
It’s a blessing, but one you’re glad only to have once. I’ve been with my father, mother, and sister (my only sibling) when they died. The first time I was alone, but had time to say a quick goodbye, kneeling by my dad’s hospice bed. The second time I was with my sister and we each held one of our mom’s hands.
With all the recent Church scandals, why even bother staying in the Church?
It was one of those days you never forget. Sitting on the beach one summer evening last year, my husband and I decided to pray the Rosary. Close by on a blanket was our son, only 8 weeks old. As we started praying out loud, our son began to coo along with every word.