I've been lucky enough that, up until now, I haven't experienced a death in my lifetime that I've had to process as a young adult or adult. I've always told my parents that, in theory, the deaths that I would probably take the hardest, would be the deaths of my grandparents. My mom's dad and my dad's mom both died when I was too little to really know what was going on, but mom's mom and my dad's dad have both been around for ever. And ever. They're troopers, they get through anything. So ... even though I'm not close to either of them, I suspect that their eventual deaths will be extremely difficult for me to process.
But now today, I received news that Fr. Mark Catalana, a long time family friend, and both my brother's and mine Confirmation sponsor, passed away this morning from a heart attack. All of these ... feelings are so foreign. I don't even know what to call them, because just most of the time, I think I'm confused. Or at least everything feels so confusing that I'm getting confused? It's hard to process, considering he was younger than my parents are now. The process of processing is just proving to be very difficult.
I'm not totally sure I can specify exactly what his impact has been in my life other than this: because of his friendship with my family, I can say I'm probably one of few kids who can say that they grew up having a priest semi-regularly over for dinner. He's kind of like a grandparent; he's been around my family for pretty much as long as I can remember. I don't know if the relationship between my family and him started before this, but he was one of the parish priests at my parochial elementary school; my brother used to altar serve for him at morning mass, which my mom attended, and then suddenly he was a fixture in my family's life.
He had a big booming voice and he rode his bike around everywhere, even when he came out to our house for dinner, and he'd have to take a shower before coming downstairs to chat with my mom and try to hassle my brother into the priesthood. He prided himself on his one-minute sermons -- always a plus when he did morning mass, but always insightful despite the brevity. He took my mom's side when it came to Pope Benedict XVI vs. Harry Potter, and told us stories about his visits to Vatican City. He loved what he did as a parish priest, as a recruiter for the Diocese... He was the holiest man I know.
In all that he did, he was always with God (he said the best prayers before meals, which always made me feel a tad bit inadequate when I got old enough for him to start singling me out to say prayer). But, then, he also taught me that, as long as you pray, no matter what you say, the prayer is more than good enough, and that God accepts it gratefully.
It's funny, the chain of events that led up to me finding out about this ... I was just finishing up playing a game of volleyball, after a decent day, but I was happy. Endorphin high, I'm sure. But then Renee called me, and it was shocking and numbing and oh-so-confusing. It could have been paralyzing, but it wasn't. And I was already on my way to my car to go to CLC at LMU, which is my fantastic support system of wonderful people who love me and care about me ... it was all timed ... just right. And our fearless leader's prompt for the day was: "Right now, God is...", which was a perfect stream-of-consciousness writing exercise, which let me get it all out. Everything lined up right.
It was just ... so ... perfect. For lack of a better word. There's never a "perfect" time for something like this to happen.
But it got me thinking (and maybe this is just my confused brain trying to make sense of this confusing situation, but I really don't think it is): I can say that my faith is strong; I can say, that if confronted by someone who would hurt me if I confessed my faith, I would say that I believe in God ... but I can't say that I can see God working around me on a daily basis. I don't necessarily think about God every day. But with this immense tragedy, it all fell into place just as it should have. I cannot think of a better way for me to have found out, but from someone who cares just as much as I do. I cannot think of a better place I was on my way to, than who I was already headed towards. Today, the devil wasn't in the details; God was.
So, Fr. Mark, if making me see God in action every day was your last act to me on this earth, I think you did a pretty solid job of driving it home. I believed; now I will consciously act, every day. I will miss you so, so much, but I know I'll see you again someday. I'll remember you in joy, because that's who you are to me: living, breathing, holy joy.
Rest In Peace, Father Mark Catalana.
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