Sometimes Words Aren't Necessary

By D'Ann Lawrence White
I desperately struggled to find words that might comfort Dave Mangold.
We were at Wednesday night Eucharistic Adoration at St. Stephen Catholic Church in Valrico where we’re both members. I had just learned that they’d called in hospice for his wife, Wendi, the 35-year-old mother of three young children whose breast cancer had spread to her liver and spine.
I’d interviewed Wendi a few weeks before when her friends were organizing a benefit to raise funds for her to undergo clinical trials. I’d titled the article “Counting On A Miracle.”
My friend, Nancy Shirina, was with us at church, and I envied her ability to distract Dave, make him chuckle, giving his emotions a much-needed respite from the grief.
I, on the other hand, couldn’t contain my tears, and Dave admonished me.
“Wendi wouldn’t want you to cry,” he said sternly. “No tears.”
“But I was counting on a miracle,” I told him.
“We got our miracle,” he smiled and hugged me.
He was referring to the community’s response to the fundraiser -- the hundreds of people who showed up with yard sale items and baked goods, the businesses that donated raffle items, the residents who purchased tickets and supported the sale, raising $42,000, which will now go into a trust fund for the Mangold children: Mary, 1, Charlie, 3, and Davey, 5.
Dave told us how Wendi was ready to take her place with God; how she had chosen legacy gifts that her children would receive on their 18th birthdays; how she’d planned the details of her funeral and asked that everyone wear bright colors and celebrate her life rather than mourn her death.
Wendi died four days later and, just as she wanted, we all wore bright colors to celebrate her life at her funeral last Wednesday.
Two days after my conversation with Dave, I recalled Wendi’s healthy outlook toward death and the positive affect it will undoubtedly have on her children as we drove to St. Augustine for a rare family trip.
Our Yorkie, Cookie, was with us. Because of her small size, she went everywhere with us. She was perfectly content being carried around in a pouch and would rather be with her family than left with a pet-sitter or at a kennel.
Cookie never made it to the nation’s oldest city. She began having seizures while riding in the back seat with my 11-year-old son, Ian. We turned around and headed home, intending to take her to her vet. I was riding in the back seat holding her in my arms when she died.
Our regular vet, Dr. Sharon Hunter, was closed for the day so we stopped by Care Animal Hospital. Ian insisted on carrying Cookie into the clinic. A woman in tears rushed out as we entered the doors. Nodding knowingly when we described the symptoms, the veterinary technician told us Cookie was the sixth victim of contaminated pet food they’d seen that day.
I permitted Ian to choose an urn for Cookie’s cremated remains and I described to him how peacefully she died in my arms.
We went on to St. Augustine “because Cookie would have wanted it that way,” Ian concluded.
It was late by the time we reached the hotel but Ian couldn’t sleep. He wanted words of comfort, the same words I’d groped for when speaking with Dave earlier that week. I was tempted to call my pastor, Father Bill, but didn’t think he’d appreciate the late-night phone call so I began searching for the inevitable Gideon’s Bible in the hotel desk drawer instead.
I read Psalm 23 to Ian. He wasn’t inspired. He said he already knew the Lord was his shepherd and he didn’t fear death. He wanted to know how to make the hurt go away.
The next day our first visit was to the Mission of Nombre de Dios where we lit a candle and offered a Mass intention for Cookie at the Our Lady of La Leche Shrine.
As we explored the mission grounds we came upon the shrine of St. Francis, patron saint of animals. Cookie always wore a St. Francis medal on her collar.
Ian knelt and read St. Francis’ prayer out loud.
It’s a powerful prayer and Ian grasped its message immediately.
“…that where there is sadness, I may bring joy.
Lord, grant that I may seek rather to comfort than to be comforted;
to understand, than to be understood;
to love, than to be loved.
For it is by self-forgetting that one finds.
It is by forgiving that one is forgiven.
It is by dying that one awakens to eternal life.”
“He’s saying I’ll stop hurting by reaching out and helping others to stop hurting, helping them understand that death is really eternal life,” Ian said with a wisdom that belied his young years.
Those were the words I wanted to say to Dave Mangold. But they weren’t necessary after all. Dave already knew them.