Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away. Sr. Regina Bechtle, SC (New York) shares just such moments in the reflection below.
A card on my desk by an anonymous author says: Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.
One September afternoon several years ago, I picked up a message on my cellphone from a number I didn’t recognize. A woman gave her name as Linda* and, her voice heavy with tears, told me that her sister Ellie* had died the day before. In the weeks before her death, all that Ellie could talk about was a prayer that she wanted read at her memorial service. It was a prayer she had written at the end of a retreat she made in New Jersey in July, 2002. Ellie remembered that she had shared it at the closing prayer service, and that a “Sister Regina” had asked her for a copy so she could use it in future retreats. Though Linda and other family members had combed her papers and notes, they were unable to find the prayer. Linda’s request: by any chance, was I that “Sister Regina,” and if so, would I have kept that prayer?
It was certainly possible that I had given a retreat in New Jersey around 2002, but my memory was fuzzy. I called Linda back, questions buzzing in my head. Where was she from? How did she ever find me? Linda replied that the family lived in New Orleans, where Ellie had been very close to the Daughters of Charity, one of whom tracked down my number. “She was really into anything Vincentian,” Linda said, and proceeded to read from notes Ellie had taken on that July, 2002, retreat: “St. Vincent’s conversion, St. Louise’s conversion, St. Elizabeth Seton’s conversion, Vincentian discernment, ‘The will of God for me is me’.” I felt goosebumps. Without a doubt, it was the format that two other members of my congregation and I used for our guided retreats on Vincentian spirituality.
My mind kicked into gear. Miraculously, amid the clutter of folders and binders on my shelves, I was able to put my hands on a list of participants at that retreat from six years ago. There were 13 religious sisters from New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and one young lay woman from Louisiana named Ellie. I don’t recall how she found her way to that retreat, but six years later our connections had come full circle.
Slowly my memory grew clearer, prodded by careful notes taken and kept by a remarkable young woman. Yes, I remembered Ellie and her prayer. Yes, I remembered asking her for a copy of it. Did I still have it? I didn’t have much hope, but I told Linda I would look among my papers and call her back by the next morning.
Holding my breath, I took several binders off my bookshelf, praying that they hadn’t fallen victim to one of my infrequent cleaning fits. I paged through one binder – no luck. Then I opened another one, leafed through a few pages, and stopped in amazement.
“July 14-19, 2002, Vincentian Spirituality Retreat,” the heading read. The page listed names and addresses of all the participants. The last name was “Ellie Arnold*, New Orleans, LA.” Stapled to it was another page dated August 19, 2002. It was a letter signed by myself and the other two directors that read:
“Dear Friends, Just about a month ago we were praying together on retreat. As a reminder of our time together, and as an encouragement to keep the fire of Charity aflame, we’re sending you the following prayer. You may recall that Ellie offered it at our closing session, and she graciously let us send it to everyone on retreat.”
The text of Ellie’s prayer followed:
Lord,
Help me remember that each person I serve is unique and special in Your sight. That each of them has a story and, while both victim and culprit, is Your child – is You!
Let me treat them with respect!
Give me some of the answers to help them on their journey. Grant me freedom from fear of being used and abused by those of Your children that society has marginalized.
Make availability one of my virtues!
Thank You for all those in my life who have been for me, what these children have lacked in their lives.
Never allow me to become so accustomed to their stories that my heart is hardened.
Fan the embers of love in my heart into a raging fire that consumes me but is never consumed.
Only let me tire when I come home to You!
And until then, let me live in the joy and gratitude of Your boundless love for me!
When I called Ellie’s sister with the good news, she started to cry. She had made a bargain with God that if she found the prayer, it would be a sign that Ellie was safe, happy and at peace. She got her sign. “Moments that take our breath away,” indeed.
I emailed the prayer to Linda with this message:
Here is Ellie’s prayer, found by a miracle of grace amid my papers and folders,
thanks to her. May she rest in God’s full embrace, at home in the fire of love that she longed for.
I told Linda that I would write to each person who had made that retreat, some of whom had already gone before her and were waiting to welcome her into heaven. Somehow it seemed that we were meant to hear her words again, a prayer resurrected, as she most surely is.
– Sr. Regina Bechtle, SC
* Names have been changed.
0 Comments