Life on Purpose: making sense of grief

I got a phone call the other day that I have been dreading for years.

The scenario played out in my head in the wee hours of the morning and in the dark of night.

I imagined how it would go, picturing it in fast and slow motion. I guess I hoped that by imagining scenarios, I would be better prepared when the time came.

My sister, who has struggled for years with a debilitating neuro-degenerative disease, appears to be taking a turn for the worse. Doctors and nurses are preparing the family that the end is near.

The family member on the other end of the phone as shocked and confused as I was and certainly more exhausted as they waded through the information and decisions that needed to be made in light of this most recent decline.

This week has been a whirlwind of phone calls and meetings in the midst of prayers for peace and solace for my sister and her husband and their young adult kids. I’ve been planning a visit to Florida for early July. I’m bringing my mother and my daughter Johanna to celebrate my niece’s 21st birthday. This week it was a question of whether or not we should move the trip sooner.

The days have been a whirlwind of confusing emotions, from anger at the lack of information we have on this disease that has left my 56-year-old sister cognitively and physically debilitated to grief and disappointment that despite all our efforts, death still knocks persistently at the door of a young woman’s life.

When I finally fell asleep at 3 a.m., my grandmother met me in my dreams. Nanny was my Dad’s mother and the Irish Catholic matriarch of the Devine clan. She was a witty and holy woman. And though I remember more of years visiting her in a nursing home than I do at her home, Nanny still made a lifetime impression on me with her faith and the example of her life.

Last night, I dreamt that she rose from the dead. I saw her lying on a bench in the midst of a family gathering. It was like a morbid Irish joke. Nanny told me that she was only sleeping. When she got up, I went to tell my brothers and sisters but they all said I was crazy. That’s a pretty typical response for one of the youngest of eight children.

Then, all of a sudden, in the dream, I realized Nanny was looking for my sister, to take her home.

I thought maybe it was a sign for me to go by myself to see my sister sooner.

When I got up the next morning, I went to Mass struggling with the decisions of whether to go or to stay as I spoke with some of my brothers and sisters and sobbed on the phone. In the midst of my tears, my second sign came in the form of a mourning dove.

Now, you might think I’m crazy or you might recall reading about the way God uses birds in my life. Growing up, one of my favorite memories with my Dad is bird watching. We used to feed them on a roof of a shed and birds of all kinds came to our feeding station. My Dad bought binoculars and a bird book as I learned the names of these beautiful creatures. To me, they were like flying flowers in the garden of the sky!

Seven years ago, Dad was diagnosed with aggressive cancer and died within 40 days. Ever since that time, the mourning doves have been my prayer companions. Their soulful song reminds me that life is bittersweet and beautiful. But most especially, when life is particularly difficult or I am struggling to find answers, the mourning doves presence moves from being on the sidelines to being straight in front of me.

Just weeks ago, while my sister was languishing, a mourning dove ascended from the ground to a window I was passing by. The bird spread its wings to reveal it’s full breast as it hovered in front of me. It looked like an image of the Holy Spirit.

This morning, the doves came even closer. Coming home from Mass, I stayed in the driveway to speak to my brother and sisters on the phone, not wanting my tear-filled conversations to disturb my daughters still sleeping in the house. I agonized over the pros and cons of waiting to visit my sister in two weeks or rushing to her bedside now.

As I spoke, I became aware of a stirring in the ground cover outside my car window and I recognized a mourning dove. He appeared to be listening to my sobs and tilting his head, as if wondering if I was okay. I knew my Dad was with me too, praying for us all.

So I poured out my heart to the mourning dove who sat less than two feet away. As I rattled off my thoughts amidst tortured sighs, I noticed a sound that I had never heard before. It was not unlike the rattled breathing of a person in their final breaths. I’ve heard it before, even at my Dad’s bedside as I prayed with him before he died. Its a somewhat comforting sound for a person who is at peace with death. With each rhythmic breath, the sweet bird let out a little whistle. I took comfort in this bittersweet reminder of life and death.

In the next moments, I opened the car door to see if I might actually sit beside by my avian inspiration. But the bird flew away to a nearby post and watched me from afar. Thankfully, no one was within earshot of my pleading as I asked my feathered friend and my God for a heavenly sign that I was to go to my sister’s side sooner than later.

I whispered, “Lord, if I should go, send my bird friend back right here to my side as I sit and make it clear to me that I must be at my sister’s side now.”

Within less than one moment, the dove flew above my head, over to a nearby tree branch, cooing loudly to another dove. Then, in the next moment, two doves came, swooped down to the ground beside me, where before the lone dove had stood.

I had my answer and it was clear. The Holy Spirit, yes, even in the form of a dove, was inspiring me to go to be with my sister. The plan fares worked out, my schedule cleared and as I write this column, I am just eighteen hours away from spending the weekend with my sister.

I didn’t book a hotel or rent a car, I only reserved a sleeper chair beside her hospital bed for our sister sleep-over weekend. I’m going to tell my sister stories about the old days when she used to drag me around the block and make me sing for the neighbors. I’ll remind her about playing hide and seek on dark summer nights and building large forts in the cold winter snows.

Whatever the weekend will be, at least I know it was inspired by a message in a dream and the song of the mourning dove.

At night I’ll leave the hospital to try and catch her a firefly to sneak it into the room. In the morning, we’ll watch the sunrise and maybe the mourning dove will come tap at her window.

Eileen Benthal is a writer, speaker and wellness coach with a B.A. in Theology from Franciscan University. She is the author of Breathing Underwater: A Caregiver’s Journey of Hope.