The next couple of months were spent largely at home attending to our kids. The boys seemed to be doing well and Catie was learning EVERYTHING we taught her. Between her neurological insult and a constant level of sedation from Phenobarbital, she couldn’t just automatically take in all the stimuli and “information” of her world. However, when Mark and I facilitated the learning process by intensifying the sensory-motor aspects of whatever lesson we were trying to get across, Cate “GOT IT”! It was so encouraging. I observed the professionals,read as much as I could find, and we worked for hours every day. Cate loved it and so did we. For example, her muscle tone was low and she was always a little on the tired side so either Mark or I would sit her on a large rubbery therapy ball that was slightly under-inflated and keep her moving just enough to heighten her level of mental alertness, and also stimulate her muscle responses. Our voices were animated, we always used touch and made sure she was looking straight at us, and we had a large variety of routines and items that Cate found appealing. The more she learned, the more excited we became, and the more she saw our enthusiasm, the more she tried. We felt hope punctuating our fears.
Shortly after Christmas, we emerged from the crying room of St. Paul’s Church to go visit the large manger in the front. A middle-aged couple stopped us to say hello and meet our family.
We’re Bruce and Patti Pause” she said. “What a beautiful family you have. Are you new here?”
“No. We don’t usually make it out this early to Mass though.”
“You must be so excited to finally have a girl.”
That did it. I began to cry. They were understandably confused so I told them about Catie’s birth and all she was at risk for developing.
“May we pray with you?” Patti asked.
“Sure.” (I was nervous, no stranger had ever spontaneously offered to pray out loud in public with me before . . . but what the heck?!)
They began in English “Lord Jesus, we bring this precious young family to you. Please bless them and meet all their needs, and especially the needs of little Caitlyn.” Then they began to softly mutter words or sounds we couldn’t make out. It was definitely different, weird even, except for the PEACE. There was something loving and beautiful happening. When we got home Catie was very alert and I said to Mark “Those people really, really prayed.”
When Catie was about three months of age, the six of us we were yet again in the crying room during our routine noontime Sunday Mass at St. Paul’s. As usual it was a peaceful, contemplative experience. Not. Anyway, as we were leaving our soundproof isolation booth, Mark saw a three by five card near the door. It read “Five o’clock Healing Mass at Sacred Heart-St. Columba, Schenectady N.Y.”
“Irish, look at this. What’s a healing Mass?”
“I have no idea.”
“You want to go?”
“Sure.”
I had been wanting to understand “God’s will” about suffering and healing. I was thoroughly confused about whether we were “supposed” to suffer (And like it no less, or “offer it up” or some other totally counter-intuitive response to the horrible things that happen in life. Throughout my life I had obviously received mixed messages about suffering and healing. I was desperately wanting to sort it all out.) Reading scripture, I’d always loved how Jesus seemed to heal pretty much everybody He met. The Saints seemed to love to heal also. However, you didn’t see or hear much about it these days. If medical science didn’t solve the problem, then the suffering was more often than not something we were told to accept as “God’s will”. I wanted a healing. I remembered Gaga’s story about my Uncle John and the Sacrament of the Sick. I also wanted to find out more about Father DiOrio. Who was he? Was he a saint-in-the-making? Where did he live?
I had the idea if I could get my hands on the “Evangelist”, our Catholic paper, I’d find out. (We paid for this paper faithfully every week. But for whatever reason, we never received it in the mail.) I called the diocesan office and asked about it. Still, it wasn’t coming. So maybe a healing Mass would be helpful. We had nothing to lose (Except maybe our sanity . . .. I mean, really. . .. bringing four little kids to Mass twice in one day?)
At about four fifteen that afternoon we began getting all four kids back into their snow suits. We arrived at the healing Mass just as it was about to begin. Both of us were immediately struck by how different it was from the traditional Sunday Mass we normally attended. There was an animated music ministry and people were singing enthusiastically. Some had their hands in the air. I experienced something I couldn’t quite understand and find difficult to describe. It felt as if there were a “WIND” in the church. The air itself seemed “thick” or “infused” with something other-worldly.
The six of us squeezed into a pew near the back as we were late, and the building was packed. I leaned over to Mark “What do you think?” He shrugged his shoulders and said “I dun no, but I’ve NEVER felt God in church like this before.” Exactly.
After the Mass itself ended, Father McCoy, a Jesuit missionary home from Japan, called people who wanted prayer for healing to come forward. We got on line and waited our turn. When Cate and I finally made it to Father, he immediately took her hat off and blessed the right side of her little dark, fuzzy head. (That was where most of her injury was.) I felt warmth and energy and a Presence. I returned to the pew and Catie was hyper-alert and seemed to be surrounded by an invisible energy and peace. Mark and the boys all received a blessing too. After a few moments of praying with his eyes closed, Mark said to me “Irish, did you see the people falling down on the floor?”
“What?!”
“Yeah, there were people falling down after Father anointed them.”
“I didn’t see anything like that, but look at Catie. Doesn’t she seem, uh. . .. energized? Super awake? Something!”
He made a face that spoke volumes as he nodded yes. His quizzical and excited demeanor said “What is going on? Whatever it is I want it?”
As we left the church Mark saw a copy of the Evangelist lying on the back table. He took it.
At home Catie continued to be in some heightened state. Mark and I sat with her on the sofa and we could both feel a peaceful, loving, but powerful force encircling her. It lasted for hours. The next day Mark went to the Schenectady library on his lunch break from G.E. He looked up healing and came home with a book on the Protestant Evangelist and healer, Kathryn Kuhlman. I ran out to the Friar Tuck Bookstore at the old Northway Mall and found a copy of Francis Mac Nutt’s book Healing. (Mac Nutt had been a Catholic priest. He left to marry. He also had a PhD. in theology from Harvard and had served as a medic in the military. He was knowledgeable about both God and disease/injuries.) I stayed up almost all night for a couple days devouring these two books.
In the back section of the Evangelist there was an add for a bus trip to see Father DiOrio at the Worcester Memorial Auditorium in Ma.!! Yayyy!!! I called the lady, Carol, who was organizing the trip. She was a parishioner at St. Paul’s too. She told me that several years earlier she had been instantly freed of agoraphobia at a service of Father DiOrio. I booked two seats. Carol asked if she could come visit us. I was a little nervous but I could not deny our own experience at our first healing Mass and I knew that these priests were in good standing with the Church, and that what they said was in line with the bible and what the Church taught. We were going to leave no stone unturned.
What was happening?!
In Between Two Worlds 