Behind swinging steel doors marked: “Sterilized Area,”  our child lay in a corner crib.  Huddling over her bed, we held her tiny ashen hands.  We listened to the beat of her heart as thin lines on a nearby monitor etched her progress.  Nurses adjusted her breathing tubes and changed her bandages.  Meanwhile,  doctors murmured softly and wrote notes on clipboards.  ”Her prognosis is grim”  they said.

Sometimes it was all too much and I needed to get away from the sterile syringes and the pulsing of electrocardiographs.   Each day, I slipped down the hall to a lobby lined with chairs.  There, I turned the pages of outdated magazines or watched talk shows.  I chewed on leathery apples from the vending machine.

Other parents sat there too,  parents like us,  parents whose children suffered from heart disease or cancer or ailments so rare I had never heard of them.  As I listened to their stories,  I wondered how God could allow such disappointment and pain.

Then, one day a new face arrived, a tall bearded man holding the hand of his five year old son. He wore the distinctive dark clothing of an Orthodox Jew; a tall dark hat with a brim, a long coal-colored coat with tails, and black tapered trousers.  Curious, I watched as he placed a shawl and a small black prayer book on his son’s lap.  Then he looked up an gave me a quick nod in greeting.

His name was Shimon.  A rabbi,  he had flown in from Boston that morning and was staying with a local Jewish community.  “My son needs a new kidney”   he told me.

As the days passed,  Shimon turned that lobby into a sort of living room.  He set a gold-framed picture of his family on a table next to the vending machine.  Each day he offered me kosher food from a brown paper bag; fresh-baked bread, red grapes, seasoned fish.  And every morning,  he put on the shawl and his yarmulke.  Then, with his prayer book opened he recited several Hebrew prayers in a soft voice.

Whenever he prayed,  I watched something amazing happen in the lobby.  One by one, each parent turned away from their magazines and talk shows.  Together, we bowed our heads.  I don’t think any of us knew or fully understood his prayers.  Most of us had come from Christian traditions, yet each of us felt a certain strength, a quiet comfort as he prayed.

In between those prayers and the breaking of bread,  Shimon and I conversed.  We talked of the cold Minnesota winters, the ocean breezes in Boston, our families and God.

Shimon spoke of the great I AM,  an inextinguishable fire that lead his people out of darkness.  “God is a brilliant flame that burns in times of uncertainty”  he said.  He was at peace with his God.  I,  on the other hand, found myself wondering if God even existed.  “God seems so far away.”  I told him.

Then, early one Sunday morning, Sarah took a turn for the worse.  The doctors discovered a staph infection in her blood. “It could take her life”  they said.

Our family surrounded her crib.  She lay almost lifeless,  her small body bruised from weeks of incisions, needles and stitches.  Like the other children in that ward,  she had battled more disease in a few short weeks than most people do in a lifetime. As I held her tiny hand,  I retreated to a dark, despairing place where the light of faith is snuffed out and God’s absence seems real.  Then, I made my way to the lobby and buried my head in my hands.

“Can I help you?” I heard the rabbi ask.

After a long silence,  I finally looked up.  “Shimon,” I asked,  “Why does God allow suffering?”

Shimon bowed his head.   For a few moments, he remained silent.  Then,  he turned to me and said something I will never forget: “I do not know much about the God you hold in your heart, ” he began, “except that he suffered and died on a cross.   Perhaps it is your suffering God who draws near to you now.”

His words lingered.  Images of Calvary began to fill my mind; the somber sky,  the nails of iron,  a cross on a hill.   In my minds eye,  I drew near to that cross.  I imagined a wounded Christ wrapping his arms around me, my sick baby, my husband, Shimon and every parent in that lobby.  An anguished God aching with the anguish of his children.

A warmth began to fill me.  It started out as an ember of hope but then quickly became a blaze of faith.  God was present.  I knew it.  I felt it.

Three days later,  Sarah recovered from the infection that had threatened her life.  With suitcases packed to leave the hospital,  I passed through the lobby one last time.  Cradling my baby,  I searched for Shimon to say good-bye.  He wasn’t there.  Some of the other parents in the lobby happily reported that a kidney had been found for Shimons son.  “He’s in surgery right now”  the parents said.

I scrawled a quick thank-you note on the back of a candy box and tucked it underneath his family picture.

It’s hard to believe that more than two decades have passed.

God gave Sarah twenty three beautiful years on earth, most of those years free from the physical challenges that defined her first weeks of life. Though she passed away just two years ago,  I am grateful for the time that God allowed her to grace our lives.  What a blessing she was and always will be.

I am also grateful for the wisdom Shimon imparted so many years ago.  The blazing flame of the great “I AM” always shines brighter than our darkest sorrows. And we are never, ever,  alone.

[Reprinted with permission from Guideposts. Copyright ©1997 by Guideposts.  All rights reserved. www.guideposts.com]

“It’ a miracle.  The cream saved me.  My fine lines have disappeared.”  She said.  The inflections in her voice rise and fell like she was giving an impassioned sermon.

I sat up.  I watched with wide eyes as she wisped a silky hand over her wrinkle-less face.

“Wow…Maybe I should order some” I said.

As the mother of two college-aged kids,   I was beginning to notice some fine lines on my face that had never been there before.

“I’m getting older” I told myself.

I listened as several other women shared compelling testimonies, their dramatic before and after photos flashing across the screen.  Then, a memory from my childhood began to surface.

I was nine years old again, standing in my grandmother’s kitchen.  It was snowing outside but I could feel the warmth of the bright December sun that streamed in through the windows above her stove.  With her short grey hair waved into pin curls, ”Mema” as we called her, wore an oversized shirt and plaid polysester pants.  She stirred a pan of bubbling sugar and water, twirling a wooden spoon round and round.  I stood close by, under my grandmother’s watchful eye, pouring a cup of corn syrup into the mixture.

I loved being with Mema.  A gentle light radiated from her sweetly furrowed face, a comforting glow that always wrapped around me like an invisible embrace.

Her bright countenance was a sharp contrast to the dark moments she had lived through in her earlier years.  Time and time again, my mother had told me about the hardships she had endured during the great depression; losing the family farm, poverty, and the death of her nineteen year old son during World War II.

Nonetheless, an irrepressible joy poured forth from Mema.  As a child, I always wondered why relatives called her a “rock of faith” given the heartaches of her past.

“God always works everything out.” Mema often said.

The candy mixture came to a hard boil as steam rose from the pan.

“It’s time to add the licorice” Mema said.  She reached into a cupboard and handed me a small bottle trimmed with a red label.

“This is my favorite part,” I told Mema as I opened the bottle of spice, just to breathe in the familiar scent.  “It smells like Christmas.”  I said.

My grandmother stood in the winter sunlight, her curled strands glistening like tinsel.  Her brown eyes twinkled like two candles, shining beneath her thick, bifocaled glasses.  The lines on her face all curved upward like a hundred grins.

“Mema, your wrinkles look like smiles.”  I told her.

Mema laughed.  She wiped her hand on the apron that wrapped around her waist.

“Wrinkles are God’s beauty marks,” she said, hugging me.  “Don’t ever forget that.”

The blond television host continued promoting her product.  She waved her arm over several anti-aging creams that were displayed on a table.  “For only three easy payments of $19.99, we will send the wrinkle reducer and the cleanser at no extra charge.”

As the commercial continued,   I found myself pondering Mema’s life in a whole new way.  The challenges she had faced in life were the tools God had used to impart lessons of trust.  Though her youthful appearance had faded, she had become wise in matters of faith.  It was Mema’s wisdom, born of adversity, that had made her beautiful, inside and out.  And every smiling wrinkle on her face proclaimed her loveliness.

I turned the television off.   I drew near to a mirror in a nearby hallway.  As I stood in the sunlight, I could see all the fine lines that framed my eyes.  ”I’ve earned these” I said as I thought about some of the challenges that I had faced in my own life.  Though I would not have asked for any of the struggles I had been given, God had been faithful to me.   Like my grandmother, I had learned to trust.   Now, my wrinkles were holy impressions, markings of the inner wisdom I had gained.   I smiled.  ”God always works everything out” I whispered.

Wisdom.  It’ not a miracle cure for wrinkles.  It won’t save anyone from crows feet. You can’t purchase it with three easy payments of $19.99.

Yet, in the eighth chapter of Proverbs we are told:

“For wisdom is more precious than rubies, and nothing you desire can compare with her.”  Proverbs 8:11.

This is good news for those of us who are often distracted by a culture that emphasizes external beauty.  Each day, television presents non-stop images of airbrushed faces, skinny thighs and flawless hair.  Women’s magazines are packed with articles that highlight the importance of losing weight and developing six-pack abs.  On any given trip to the drug store, the average woman will be bombarded with products that shout: “Don’t do it!  Don’t get older!”

Today, no matter what your age, ask yourself this question:  How have I gained inner beauty?

Then, take a moment to look at yourself in the mirror.  Do you see your inner radiance?

It’s there.  The light of God’s wisdom.  Let’s its warmth wrap itself around you like an invisible embrace.

Then rejoice.

Your wisdom is the beauty mark of God.

And that’s something to smile about.

My Dad loved watching our winter performances.  He was always a constant presence, keeping vigil by the snow banks that framed the rink.    Now that my siblings and I are all hockey parents ourselves, we often reminisce about my father and his love of the game.

In today’s column, I’d like to share one of my favorite hockey stories, a winter remembrance that has become a family classic.

The story is written from the perspective of Timmy, my youngest brother.   I hope this reflection reminds you that a father’s love is one of God’s greatest gifts.

Welcome to Heaven

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Back in the winter of 1969, when I was a little boy, my dad and I made an ice-skating rink in our backyard.  Set against the frozen Minnesota moonlight, I held a garden hose with mittened hands, the water freezing on its way to the ground.

My dad stood by, a six-foot-four giant in a puffy down jacket.

"It’s like heaven out here," he said, the smoke from his cigarette melding with the smell of hardening ice.

I looked upward, following Dad’s gaze to a starlit sky.  My toes were numb, curling inside my boots.  My water-soaked mittens were growing a thin coat of ice.

"Heaven?"  I asked.  I didn’t know what he meant.

The winter weeks passed while Dad and I spent many nights skating together on that homemade rink.  While wind chills dipped well below zero, Dad taught me how to grip a hockey stick and how to "slap shoot" a puck.  Beneath a snowy firmament, Dad and I would glide around a makeshift net made of shovels and sheets, the metal blades of our skates etching lines on the ice.

"C’mon.  Shoot it!  Go for a breakaway!  Don’t hit the goal post!"  Dad would shout, his voice echoing against the snow banks.

He was loud and gruff.  But at the end of every evening, as we gathered up equipment, Dad would quiet himself, lifting his eyes to the sky.

I knew that Dad stored the Lord in his heart, but he seldom used words to express his faith.  This nightly reflection was a prayer of sorts, his way of showing me that God was important.

One night, I got tired of waiting for him to finish up his intercessions.  I was cold and Mom had hot chocolate waiting for us in the kitchen.

"It’ll feel like heaven when we get inside," I yelled, trying to pry him away from his winter worship.

Dad pulled off my stocking cap and started tickling me.  We laughed all the way to the kitchen door.

Winter after winter, Dad was at my side, helping me to perfect the game.  He taught me how to speed skate around orange construction cones, how to pass a puck, how to guard a goal post.

By the time I made captain of our high school hockey team, Dad was content to watch me from the sides of a new indoor arena.

At the state tournament, as I scored a goal, the standing room only crowd began to clap and cheer.

But I skated past the crowded bleachers, racing my way to the goal post.  There, behind the plexi-glass, dad stood alone.  I tapped the glass with my stick.  Dad gave me thumbs up.

"Heaven!" he shouted.

As my high school years came to a close, I signed scholarship papers to attend Providence College in Rhode Island.  The school was miles away from Minnesota.

It was an honor to wear the Providence uniform.  I made a lot of new friends and played against the best hockey teams in the country.

Every week, I’d write Dad, sending him team programs and newspaper clippings.  The truth was, I get homesick whenever I skated in unfamiliar arenas.  The space behind the plexi-glass was always empty.

Then one Friday night, back in March of 1985, Providence played Michigan State, a national championship game.

Before the game, as I laced up my skates, my coach told me I had a visitor waiting outside the locker room.  It was my dad.

"Hey," I said, greeting him with a friendly punch in the arm.

"Not too bad a drive from Minnesota," my father quipped.

Standing in my skates, suited up in shoulder pads and thick breezers, I suddenly realized I was looking down on him.

He lingered for a while, trying to put his thoughts into words.

"The good Lord is proud of you," he said, patting me on the back.  It was seldom that I heard Dad talk like this.

"The good Lord is proud of you too," I replied.

The game began.  As I skated past the cheering crowds, I searched for Dad behind the goal post, but found him sitting with my mom in the bleachers, right behind the players’ bench.

As our eyes met, Dad pointed to a banner posted high above the rink — it spanned the entire arena.

Intended to highlight the superior skill and strength of the opposing team, the banner read:  Welcome to Heaven."

I laughed to myself as the referee dropped the puck to begin the opening face-off.

The crowd roared.  Minute by minute, Providence maintained a two point lead with Michigan State.  With five minutes left in the game, our team scored a goal.

Looking up toward the bleachers where Dad was sitting, I expected to see him give me thumbs up.  Instead, I saw the team chaplain and a doctor huddled over him.  There was a look of shock on my mom’s face.

As an ambulance pulled up in front of an entryway that overlooked the goalpost, my coach ushered me through the jammed crowd.

Dad died 15 minutes after I arrived at the hospital.

While the team chaplain comforted my mom, I slipped away to a large lobby window.  Still clad in my skates and uniform, I watched a snow shower blanket the city.  I began to recount the last few hours.

How fitting it seemed that a "Welcome to Heaven" banner had decorated the arena where Dad had passed away.

I was certain that eternity was now within his reach, a reward for teaching me about the love of God.

He taught me about this love, not with well-spoken words, but in the time he spent with me.  Throughout the years, Dad had stood by my side, like an ever-present heavenly father, teaching me how to perfect the game of life.

How to share laughter.

How to offer the gift of presence.

How to pray without uttering a sound.

As I stood there, a passage from Matthew’s gospel came to mind:  "The kingdom of heaven is near"  Matthew 3:2.

I understood a little better that the love between a father and a son is a bit of heaven on earth.

It’s been over twenty five years since that night in Michigan.  Now, I have three little boys of my own.

This winter, my youngest son and I made an ice skating rink in our backyard.  As he held the garden hose with his small mittened hands, I stood by, dressed in a puffy down jacket.

Though wind chill dipped well below zero, I looked upward and smiled.

"It’s like heaven out here,"  I said softly.

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[From MOMENTS OF GRACE: STORIES OF ORDINARY PEOPLE AND AN EXTRAORDINARY GOD ,  by Nancy Jo Sullivan.  Copyright 2000 by Nancy Jo Sullivan.

Used by permission of Waterbrook Multnomah, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc.]

The following story, originally published in Guideposts magazine, reminds me that even when we walk through cold valleys of uncertainty, God’s presence always lights our way.

I happily share it with you.

That winter, now twenty five years ago, it got so cold that ice formed inside the kitchen windowpanes.  Gasoline froze in the tank of our family car.  Bare, brittle limbs snapped in the breeze, and newscasters warned of wind-chill and frostbite.  Despite the bitter weather, I walked alone each morning through our new neighborhood, dressed in layers of down and wool.

I walked and I walked.  Maybe defying the elements made me feel I had some control over my life.  That year, I had lost two loved ones to death, and our first baby was born with Down’s syndrome.  As much as I loved our child, I still felt stunned.  God seemed concealed, hidden somewhere in this cold winter of death and disappointment.  So I trudged in solitude, day after freezing day.  Only in front of a stranger’s brick house did I become gradually aware of a presence, a kind of peace.  Here, for a moment each morning, I felt something promising, hopeful, and reassuring.  I didn’t know why.

Spring finally did come, and children once again pedaled bicycles on the side-walk, men swung golf clubs on the green fairways, and I exchanged my down and wool layers for jerseys and faded blue jeans.

One morning, I took my newborn, Sarah, with me on my walk.  In the bright sunlight in front of the brick house, I saw a mother playing with her young twin daughters.

I watched as she gently guided the girls’ hands over rough bark and offered them lilac blooms to smell.  Just when I realized the children were blind, the mother greeted me with a wave.

"May they touch your baby?"  she asked.    While the two girls softly stroked Sarah’s face, brushed her fine chestnut brown hair, and held her tiny pink hands,  t heir mother spoke about what it had been like when her children were born and what unexpected blessings she had found in those early years.  "In adversity, we must be on alert," she said, "for God will find a way, somehow, to touch us.

I wondered if I should tell her about my walks.   Finally, I said, "Last winter when I passed by your home each morning, I felt strangely reassured and comforted.  Warmed."

My new friend smiled.  "You must be the person I felt compelled to pray for this winter," she said.  "I thought someone in this neighborhood was going through a difficult time.  Now I know it was you."

[Reprinted with permission from Guideposts .  Copyright 1996 by Guideposts.  All Rights Reserved.]

It was early December, the first week of Advent.

“I’ll have a medium latte with a shot of hazelnut.” I told the clerk

The coffee machines whirred as I took off my gloves and loosened my wool scarf. I could smell mocha and cinnamon.

“Can I get that to go?” I added.

While I waited for my drink, I began going through a mental checklist of upcoming tasks that I needed to complete at work. I was the coordinator of a large Faith Formation program. My December calendar was already packed with a host of seasonal activities: projects, programs, and weekly classes for the children.

“It’s good to be busy,” I told myself.

Eleven months earlier, my oldest daughter, Sarah, had passed away at the age of twenty-three due to complications with her Downs syndrome. Though I had weathered the worst of my grief, and I had two other daughters who brought untold joy to my life, this first Christmas after her death was indescribably difficult. Sarah was gone. And we missed her.

“Latte to go,” the clerk called out.

“Thanks,” I said as I put a plastic lid of my cup of hot coffee.

As I made my way to the door, I noticed an elderly woman sitting at a table near the counter. With her gray hair neatly curled and styled, she wore a red blazer trimmed with a Christmas tree pin. Her face looked welcoming and kind, covered with wrinkles that looked like little smiles. She was dipping a tea bag into a ceramic cup filled with hot water.

“I wonder if she is waiting for someone. I hope she isn’t alone,” I thought.

I turned my glance toward the decorated windows. There, another elderly woman sat by herself drinking from a shiny red mug. She was dressed up too, donned in a pine green sweater and pearls.

As I stood by the door, holding my coffee-to-go with gloved hands, I watched as the woman in pearls got up and made her way with slow shuffled steps towards the table where the other lady sat.

“May I join you?” she asked, her aged hands wrapped tightly around the mug she had carried across the room.

“Why yes, I’d love to have the company,” said the seated woman as she happily pulled out an empty chair.

The two strangers sat together and began getting acquainted. I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation: “ I grew up a few blocks from here…My husband passed away five years back…My grandchildren are coming to visit for the Christmas holidays….” they told one another. They talked with the ease of friends who had known each other for years.

I looked at my watch. Though I was running late for work, I left the coffee shop with a smile on my face. Trudging through the snow to my car, I couldn’t stop thinking about the newly forged friendship of these two beautiful ladies.

They had illustrated, in a metaphorical way, the wonder of that first long-ago Christmas. Over 2000 years ago, God left his heavenly throne and visited the coffee shop of our humanity. When he noticed that were alone, in wait of a savior, he befriended us.

“He came to keep us company,” I told myself as I drove to work and my windshield wipers whooshed away the flakes of snow.

The chill of my grief began to melt as God’s presence warmed me like soft flames crackling in a fireplace.

A passage from Matthew came to mind, an Advent verse that I had memorized years earlier:

“Behold, the virgin shall be with child and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel, which means “God is with us.” Matthew 1:23

“I’m not alone.” I thought. Even amid the sorrow of this season, Emmanuel was near. His cup of compassion was mine to share.

As I drove home, I felt something I hadn’t felt since Sarah’s passing. Hope.

A year has passed since that winter morning. Once again, it’s early December, the second week of Advent. I’m at a much different place than I was last year at this time. Over the past months, the gift of hope, given to me by the women in the coffee shop, has continued to influence my life.

While it’s true that I still grieve the loss of my Sarah, this past year, Emmanuel has remained my loyal companion. Each morning, he has drawn near to the table of my heart. Time and time again, I’ve heard him whisper, “May I join you?” It is his unwavering presence that has given me the strength to go on.

This Advent, if you are feeling the chill of loss, let the presence of Emmanuel fill you with warmth and comfort. Pull up a chair for him at the table of your heart. He’d love to have the company.

[All Rights Reserved. No part of this article may be reproduced without prior permission from the author. njosully@gmail.com ]

Last Saturday afternoon, as she studied for an anatomy test at the kitchen table, I sat across from her, typing on a laptop computer. Working feverishly on an article that had a Monday morning deadline, my glasses kept falling down on my nose. As I pecked out paragraphs, the computer keys clicking, Rachael began memorizing the names of facial muscles, repeating each multi-syllabled term, out loud.

“Buccinator…it’s the muscle that makes the lips whistle” she said. Her eyes were fixed on a thick textbook entitled, Human Anatomy . Wearing an oversized school sweatshirt, her long hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

As I tried to concentrate on writing my article, she slurped coffee from a ceramic mug and kept reciting terms.

“Zygomaticus…the smiling muscle…” she called out while mimicking a pseudo grin. I kept right on typing. “Frontalis…it raises the eyebrows and wrinkles the forehead…” From the corner of my eye, I watched as she purposely furrowed her brow.

I turned off my computer. I was distracted. “Are you hungry for lunch?” I asked.

“Thanks mom…” she said without looking up from her book.

While I stood at the counter, fixing turkey sandwiches, Rachael continued studying anatomical diagrams on the pages before her. Then, suddenly, she turned and made eye contact with me, her face glowing with enlightenment.

“Mom…Come here and look at this drawing…” she said while pointing to a sketch of a human skull. I drew near, set her lunch on the table and glanced at the sketch. Though I had taken anatomy in college and was familiar with the sutures she spoke of, I found myself overcome with a new-found sense of wonder.

“The sutures look just like stitches…” Rachael said as she took a bite of her sandwich.

“You’re right.” I said, adjusting my glasses. Sure enough, the thin connective tissues that held together the bones of the skull had the appearance of thread. I couldn’t take my eyes off the picture.

Words from Psalm 139 whispered to me:

“You formed my inmost being; you knit me in my mother’s womb.

I praise you, so wonderfully you made me; wonderful are your works!

My very self you knew, my bones were not hidden from you,

When I was being made in secret, fashioned in the depths of the earth (13-15).

As Rachael continued studying, I found myself thinking back on the months that I carried her in my womb. So many years ago, God had fashioned every part of her perfectly, a myriad of tiny muscles, tendons, and tissues that now enabled her to smile, whistle and wrinkle her brow. Before I even saw her, her little bones were being stitched together, the threads of God’s love, fastening her humanness, forever, to heaven.

“Mom…Will you help me memorize the neck bones? Rachael said as she handed me her textbook. She was completely unaware of the gratitude that was welling up inside of me. “You can read the names of the bones and I’ll tell you what their function is…” she added.

I turned off my computer. I could work on my article later. This was a holy interruption, a sacred moment to recall my daughter’s beginnings and to praise God for the person she was becoming, a woman who now understood the miraculous power of grace.

Today, if your children distract you, be sure to stop, look and listen. God may have something to say.