This is the Most Important Thing

I wish I knew what it was, exactly. Or why. Or which question to even ask in the first place.

I'm simply at a loss for words lately.

There is this feeling that has come upon me, one which is terribly new but feels like it's been there forever: that life is going to be difficult to get through. As awful as it sounds. The toughness has begun.

And surely there are more difficult and trying situations out there in the world. I suppose I was incredibly naive to think that my life could continue on without a share in the suffering. 

I now see, with new eyes, my grandmother, and wonder how she's made it so far. Eight kids. Thirty-some grandkids, and an ever-increasing number of great-grandkids. How has she made it through?

Breast cancer. Hip replacement. The death of every single one of her siblings. Her husband. Her son. Where is the hope in that?

And there is undoubtedly so much more I do not know about. How has she made it this far?

But all along I've known it. Memories contain many answers. If not complete answers, wonderful hints, at the very least.

1. My grandma's dresser (in her and grandpa's room where we would sneak into for the best hiding spots while playing hide & seek) was and probably still is topped with the most beautiful and pure crystal rosary. More than one, actually. And evident in the broken chains on some and faded beads on others, these rosaries were never for decoration only.

2. Sunday's together at Mass and early family dinner following. Helping Grandma open the can of Hidden Valley crutons and filling my plate with nothing more than olives and cheese and sunflower seeds. But Mass and Family. Consistently. These are the most important things.

3. It was one of those summer sleepover Saturdays. Excitement for us, then, was a trip to the dollar store (my, how times have changed!). Grandma convinced Grandpa to drive us there. So we got in the car - the old green van - the one where you could change the radio station from the back seat (and probably severely annoy the driver).

And while we were busy trying to change the oldies on the radio to something more youthful (funny how now I'd do the opposite), we noticed that we weren't headed to the dollar store. We, instead, pulled up at church. On a Saturday morning! I remember us saying (in probably the most annoying attitudes ever!) "but it's not even Sunday!"

I tend to elaborate on memories and turn them into grand stories sometimes. But this - this is not exaggerated or edited. This is how it happened.

Grandpa turned around to us in the back seat and, with the most stern yet sincere disposition said: "This is the most important thing."

"This is the most important thing."

We went into adoration, I remember looking out the window a good part of the time.

But oh my goodness! "This is the most important thing!"

Even when I don't know the answers. Or the questions to ask in the first place. There is a constant answer. I tend to avoid it, too, because after all, it makes no sense. How could the answer to suffering be more suffering? Someone hanging from a cross?

Irony in all it's elegance. And surely without it, I'd be a hopeless cause.