THE  BROKEN  CRUCIFIX

She could hear them tell each other -  that she - this lady - their mom - their sister -  in this deathbed - had only a short time to live.

She was happy they were there - at her bedside - her three kids - 2 sons and a daughter - as well as 2 brothers and a sister - whom she had not connected enough through the second half of their lives.

The priest had been there. At least a half-dozen of her closest friends - had been there. The priest had anointed her forehead and the palms of her hands with the sacred oil and the sacred prayers.  The friends had anointed her with their sacred stories - a few funny things that happened on a few bus rides - as well as when they worked together in the Altar Rosary Society - 2 terms - 6 years.

But what she really saw was the broken crucifix on the bare light tan wall above her bureau on the other side of the room from her bed.  It had fallen three times. It was broken three times. It was glued back together three times - each time by her.

The first time it fell was when she was 11 years old. Her father was dying and the emergency rescue squad was called to their house and in moving him out on a gurney - one firefighter got squeezed in the maneuvering - into the wall - his helmet hitting the crucifix. It fell. And the small 18 inch plaster statue of Christ on the wooden cross broke into 4 pieces when  it hit the wooden bedroom floor.

The rescue squad  kept moving - down the tight staircase - to the front door - with dad strapped onto the gurney - oxygen mask over his mouth - out to the ambulance - and off to the local hospital. The live body was more important than the broken body of Christ

Upstairs she picked up the broken crucifix - the broken Christ.

She kept it in her and her sister’s room.

That summer - after her father’s death - she put the pieces of Christ’s broken body - back together - with white paste glue - that she used in art class - at school.  It worked. She was meticulous and made the 4 broken pieces of the broken Christ fit exactly back together.

After two days - after it had dried - after she got it  firmly back together - the wooden cross with the plaster Christ - she put it back again on her parent’s bedroom wall.

Down through high school years, she would semi-consciously spot that crucifix many times when she got home from school or sports or work and walked up the stairs to her and her sister’s bedroom on the second floor.

When her mom died - when they were asking who wanted what from the house, she said, “Number 1:  I’ll take the crucifix in mom and dad’s bedroom.”

She got it and put it in her bedroom - in her house - on the wall - that she was facing when she was sleeping.

It fell two more times in the years to come. Each time she repaired the broken Christ - each time with better and better glue: Crazy Glue - then Monster Glue.

And now it was her time to die …. In a bed room - facing that crucifix.

She was happy she was dying at home - unlike dad and mom. Dad died in the hospital that night - the night  the rescue crew came to their house and the crucifix fell for the first time. Mom died in a nursing home - but only two weeks after she went there.  The plan was to bring the cross to the nursing home - but death was arriving too soon.

“Good thing,” she realized.  “Maybe it would have got lost in the events of  mom’s death.”

Now - those around here bed were  nervous quiet - making nervous comments - as she lay there dying in her own bed.

She felt joy and sorrow - not enough glory - some light - looking back at these series of mysteries called life.

They figured she was in a semi-conscious space and place - figuring the morphine had pretty much knocked her out.

She was talking to Christ - her broken and her mended Christ - on her wooden cross - on her bedroom wall.

She was saying and praying for her kids, “Father forgive them because they don’t know yet what they are doing.”

She figured only her youngest would want that cross like she did - when her mom died. This last one -  was still going to church - along with her 6 kids - sometimes reluctantly.

She knew her other 3 kids were not broken enough yet to know how Christ shows up in the pages and rosary beads of our lives.

“When we need him.”

She prayed for all 4 of her kids - hoping they will find the right glue - called redeeming healing  - when they realize their broken spaces.

She prayed for her ex - long gone - far away and she thanked our Lord for teaching her forgiveness. It took her at 10 years to move from Jesus words on the cross, “My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?”  to her favorite prayer and words from the cross, “Father forgive them for they don’t know what they are doing.”

She opened her eyes one last time - before she died that Friday  afternoon - she looked at the broken Christ - her broken crucifix - and smiled - and every one of those around the bed told the following story for years to come.

“Mom opened her eyes one last time before she died. She smiled as she looked at me. Then she closed her eyes and died. She had such a peace filled look. Amen.”