The Chapel and the Tomb
Thursday, June 30, 2022
My second day in Steubenville. I got up at seven o’clock this morning and set out to visit the Franciscan University of Steubenville (FUS) that everyone is so crazy about. I don’t expect much after yesterday. It’s been a bit depressing so far.
As I’m driving up to FUS, everything changes. The campus—a sprawling place with lots of trees, lawns, and manicured flower beds—takes my breath away. As I drive up to the main entrance, entering the “Rosary Circle,” a roundabout whose flower-filled center resembles a rosary with a cross in the middle, I am greeted by a huge painting of the Holy Mother on the side of the main building.
Christ the King Chapel, where all the Masses are held, is only a short walk away. I spend forty-five minutes praying the Rosary at the church, looking for divine input but getting nothing. I need answers, Jesus. Please tell me what to do. I don’t know whether I should move to Steubenville any more than I did yesterday.
Sr. Maria Regina comes to mind again saying, “Just take one step at a time and then check back with God before you take the next step.” That makes me feel slightly better, but not much. Why am I here, God? Why did you want me to come to Steubenville?
I leave the church and walk over to the Portiuncula, the tiny chapel that Father J. told me to go check out. According to the FUS website, it’s a replica of the small, dilapidated church outside Assisi that St. Francis, name patron of the university, fixed up after Jesus told him to “rebuild my church.” But it wasn’t just the physical church St. Francis rebuilt. According to the FUS website,
It was in the Portiuncula that he founded the Friars Minor; there that he clothed Clare in the religious habit and began the Order of Poor Clares; and there that Francis yearly gathered the friars in chapter to discuss the rule and renew their dedication to the Gospel life. And it was at the Portiuncula where St. Francis died in 1226. That first tiny Portiuncula, a holy place and the center of St. Francis’ activity, is recreated here on Franciscan’s campus as a grace-filled haven for quiet meditation and eucharistic adoration. […] The simple beauty of the small stone structure reverberates with the power of the Lord’s presence. The stillness, imbued with the peace of the Lord’s tender concern, draws visitors in and focuses attention on the eucharistic Lord.
The Portiuncula is located in a beautiful little woodland area that has a granite display of the Stations of the Cross along a woodsy trail, plus an extra station that shows the resurrected Jesus—or possibly the Second Coming, because it depicts people kneeling and worshipping him, but also people hiding their faces and shrinking back in terror.
I turn the corner and see a charming little stone chapel the size of a Tiny House nestled into a grove of trees. It’s a very warm and sunny day, so both of the big doors have been left open, which transforms the chapel into an outdoor space with a roof. I briefly wonder if birds might nest in the dark rafters—how fitting that would be. After all, St. Francis got his claim to fame by preaching sermons to the birds who were said to have listened attentively when he spoke. I notice that there are a lot of songbirds around, as if they too are paying homage to the great saint.
The Portiuncula is a field stone structure filled with a few simple pews with kneelers and a wooden, hand-painted tabernacle that’s currently closed, underneath a large crucifix. A student is occupying one of the front pews, so I sit down in a pew further back to give both of us space. Kneeling is out; my knees are already hurting from the Rosary session. There are several worn, dog-eared books next to me on the bench, and I happily recognize them as Bibles, not song books. In search for inspiration, I open one of them in a random spot and get the end of the Book of Daniel, where Daniel exposes the fraudulent priests of pagan god Bel who’d sneak into the temple with their whole families and eat all the sacrifices people had left for the idol. Then the king throws Daniel into the lion’s den anyway, but an angel airlifts the prophet Habakuk to the den to serve Daniel breakfast.
Huh? All it does is remind me how hungry I am. I figured some early-day water fasting would be good if I want some answers, but my stomach is starting to growl.
Wait. There’s something in the book holder in front of me. A thin pamphlet of some sort; maybe an Order of the Mass kind of thing they have here? But no. My pew is the only one that has a pamphlet. The front reads, Morning Watch Devotions, Music Camp 2019. Curious, I open it and start reading. It starts with a sweet poem about the natural beauty at camp, which is not so different from what I’m surrounded by right now.
The Monday devotion in the pamphlet catches my interest. It’s a devotion by Thelma Wells taken from the multi-author devotional, We Brake for Joy. She describes how after a conference in San Antonio, the Holy Spirit told her to stay in town with her team, but she ignored His soft voice because she had another commitment in Nebraska. The Nebraska event ended up being canceled due to power outages and a huge snowstorm. She writes, At home, I told my husband I wish I had listened to my heart. I had sensed what God wanted me to do, but I was too fearful to respond.
That gets my attention. Too fearful to respond. I certainly have a lot of fear surrounding this move (or not-move), but I’m not entirely sure where the fear lies: I’m afraid to move to Steubenville because it’s such a huge leap of faith. But then I’m also afraid to stay in Vermont, stagnating and slowly withering away—because really, what’s there for me, in a place where it took me twenty years to make a handful of friends, where I’m permanently banned from the local message forum, and where despite the beautiful nature, I barely spend any time outside?
Thelma Wells continues: My experience with the prompting of God has been that when he does, there is a peace in your body, mind, and spirit that you feel but can’t explain to anyone who hasn’t experienced it. […] What will you do when God is prompting you? I’d suggest you ask for clarity. Wait for the answer. I can’t tell you how you will know when the answer comes, but I can tell you that you will experience peace in your mind, body, and soul. Listen to your heart.
Oh my gosh. Tears spring to my eyes. This is exactly what I needed to hear right now. And there’s more. The Wednesday devotion is by Wells too. She discusses Psalm 23, my family psalm, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.”
She says, The next time you hear this verse, concentrate on the assurance that you can depend on Him to watch over you, to protect you, to provide for you, to comfort you, to calm your fears, to love you always. You shall not be in want.
I’m positively bawling now, going through a whole pack of tissues while trying to hide my sniffles from the student (a different one) sitting in the front pew now. I know it’s Jesus himself talking to me, from his pretty tabernacle, through this three-year-old pamphlet that someone left in the book holder of my pew just for me.
And more of Wells’ words in the Friday devotion: [To] know that we are loved by an all-knowing, all-powerful, all-present Lord is the greatest feeling of acceptance anyone can have. […] Imagine Jesus himself saying to you, “Child of mine, I love you with an everlasting love. I love you with unconditional love. I love you because I want to! I love you when others think you’re unlovable. I love you when you have sinned. I love you in good times and bad. I love you!”
Just like you told me you loved me, Jesus, on that day in 2017. It was shortly after my divorce, and I wasn’t a Catholic yet. I sat in church that Sunday, listening to the readings and homily, which were all about love and marriage, and getting choked up thinking no one would ever love me like that again.
The elderly priest celebrating Mass that day was a stranger to me—a substitute for Father P. who was out of town. When I walked out the door after Mass to shake his hand, his face lit up in a beatific smile, and he said gently, “I love you very much.” I instantly knew it was you, Jesus, speaking directly to me through the priest. He didn’t know who I was or what I was going through. You did, though. I’ll never forget this.
Back from Memory Lane, I think I’ve cried enough. What a gift, but I feel like I need to pay it forward, to leave something for the next person who comes here in search of answers and comfort. I part with my copy of Jacques Philippe’s Time for God and the Padre Pio prayer card that’s serving as a bookmark. On the first interior page, I write a little note for the finder, encouraging him or her to keep it “because God wants you to have this.” After sticking the book in the book holder, I get up and leave the Portiuncula, grateful and relieved.
But Jesus isn’t done with me. I spot a pretty stone-paved circle with flower beds and shady benches just fifty feet away from the chapel. I almost pass on going there, but it looks so enticing. Listen to your heart, Thelma Wells’ advice echoes in my mind.
As I step into the circle, I discover a small grave stone with impatiens planted around it. The engraving says, Tomb of the Unborn Child.
A wave of grief, so unexpected and so enormous, I can barely breathe.
My unborn child.
My little girl.
The one I never mourned because she was only a few weeks old when she passed away in my womb twenty years ago, and because I never saw her body, and because K. and I weren’t married yet and didn’t have any money, and because… well, it was just better that way. The one I always knew would be a girl and that her name would be Emily. The one who showed up in A.’s dreams when he was five or six—a brown-haired girl slightly older than him. He told me she was his friend and they played together while he was asleep.
I completely lose it. I cry so hard, the sobs are shaking my entire body. If I were truly alone, I’d be wailing, but I manage to keep it together at least to that degree.
I cry for about an hour. Then the Holy Spirit prompts me to take out my notebook and write a letter.
Dear Emily,
I never took the time to weep for you, the little girl that would have been my beautiful daughter. I was too busy navigating life and thinking of other, “more important” things. I wish I’d known you, little one. You would be twenty years old today, and I bet Alex and you would be the best of friends. He dreamed of you when he was little, and I knew immediately that it was you. I told him about his sister too. And yet, to this day, I never mourned you the way I should have.
You would be in college now, perhaps even the very same college whose campus I’m sitting on. Maybe you would meet your future husband here, a good Catholic boy in the process of growing into a good, caring Catholic man and who would give you a stable of adorable kids. Maybe you would have just told me that you wanted to get married, and I’d be a grandma in a year or two. Or maybe you would love Jesus so much that you would want to give your whole heart to him and be his spouse forever.
Whatever you would have done, Emily, I know I would have been proud of you. I can see myself together with A. at your graduation, beaming with pride and happiness, seeing the bright smile on your face.
Goodbye, my little one, my daughter. I’m glad you’re with God in Heaven where the angels and the Holy Mother were there to welcome you and love you and keep you safe and warm. I’ll see you when I get there. Until then, know that I miss you and think of you a lot.
Love, Mom
I place my miracle rosary with the now gold-colored links on the memorial stone that reads, “May the angels lead you into paradise.” It’s yours now, Emily, a gift of love from me and Jesus.
