As we look back on answered prayers, we able to see the Lord’s handiwork and have a better understanding of how his grace does even more than what we ask. Many years ago on a dark, cold winter morning, as I prayed in church I met a woman who would change my life. This simple woman taught me lessons about my faith that no textbook or teacher had been able to. She taught not only by example; her mere presence radiated the grace that she received by living a life of simple obedience and love of the Lord.
Her name was Cynthia. She came from a family of twenty-four children, and when I asked where she ranked in order, her standard answer was “My mother named us alphabetically.” She was a woman accustomed to suffering in her life, but despite her pain—or maybe because of it—she grew deeper in her faith. After many years of marriage, four children, and the death of her husband, Cynthia became the housekeeper for a priest in our diocese, whom she served faithfully for forty years. She was loyal but tough; some would say a little rough around the edges. She cared for this dear priest the way she had cared for her family and the farm where she grew up in this small, northern Michigan town.
The morning I met Cynthia, my heart lay heavy like the snow that surrounded our small mission church where it nestled in the cherry orchards of the Lake Michigan shoreline. My son had been struggling with a serious drug addiction for several years. He had been in and out of jail, and I lived in fear not knowing where he was or, more importantly, what the state of his soul was. I sat in that dark church with only the faint glow of the sacristy light near the tabernacle shining down upon me. I was praying for a miracle—that somehow the Lord would save my son and bring him back to the family that loved him. Little did I know that my prayers were about to be answered in a very unusual way.
As I laid my burdens before the Lord, I began to sob loudly. I surrendered everything to him, something that as a mother I found extremely difficult. I didn’t hear the back door of the church open or the footsteps of the small, old woman as she approached the pew I was sitting in. She slipped in beside me and laid her wrinkled hands on mine without saying a word. I looked into her round eyes that showed great strength and compassion for me, a stranger. Before long I was pouring my heart out to her, and she promised to pray for my son, a promise that I believe she is fulfilling even from heaven today.
From that moment, a special relationship began with Cynthia that was different from any I had known before. Every step of the way I felt God’s grace working not only through her but also through me. Shortly after that first meeting, our pastor died, leaving the other parishioners feeling a certain responsibility for Cynthia. As our priest’s housekeeper for those many years, she had no home of her own, no transportation, and was past eighty years old. It was agreed that Cynthia could remain in the rectory until other arrangements could be made, and because we would have only a part-time priest visiting on weekends. A few parishioners agreed to run errands for her, but they soon found that her list was endless and her disposition a bit demanding.
One weekend, Cynthia approached me and asked if I would be able to take her into town for first Saturday Mass and confession. For forty years this devotion had taken root in her, since as a member of the rectory household it had been convenient for her to receive the sacraments. But now, without a morning Mass on Saturdays and with no priest to confess to, it had become difficult.
Cynthia was especially fond of the Carmelite monastery that sat on a hill overlooking our little city. The priest who resided there loved his vocation and attracted many people to his weekday Masses and confessional. I knew that Cynthia was earnest in praying and making sacrifices for my son, and I was happy not only to be in her company but to help her fulfill this monthly devotion.
As time went on, our first Saturdays turned into every Saturday, and after Cynthia moved into an apartment in town, weekday Masses became a staple. As you can see, Cynthia had become an agent of change in my life.
As the weeks went by, I found myself attending daily Mass, monthly confession, and watching my new favorite program on EWTN with her. Cynthia had the Catholic station on continuously in her apartment, and it was the subject of many of our conversations. After Mass I would drive her to the grocery store or to her many doctor appointments. We would stop for coffee and doughnuts, as she insisted in rewarding me for my efforts. Out of the little money she had, Cynthia always bought a red carnation for her sacred heart statue and, on feast days, bouquets to place before the other statues of our Lady or the other saints that filled the tables in her home.
One day I asked Cynthia if she would like me to bring the pilgrim statue of Our Lady of Fatima to her home. The statue traveled to many homes, consecrating the families it visited to the sacred heart of Jesus and the immaculate heart of Mary. A good friend and our favorite priest at the Carmelite monastery often accompanied it and said a rosary and litany and afterward blessed the home it was visiting.
Cynthia lived in a large senior citizen apartment complex. When I suggested bringing the statue there, she insisted that I bring it for all the people who lived there. She told me to post fliers and had an announcement placed in the next community newsletter. She told me also that it would be a good idea to have refreshments, so I made calls and found volunteers to provide them.
Many of the people who lived in her apartment building were not Catholic, but to Cynthia that did not matter. She knew that the hearts of many of them were aching to know God and be loved by him. The pilgrim statue of Fatima remained in her apartment complex for several months. Many of the tenants took it into their homes, had their apartments blessed, had the rosary said, and the consecration made there. Through Cynthia’s obedience to the Holy Spirit in her life, I saw that cold building become a home and the people who lived there a family that now had a Father, a Brother, and a beautiful Mother to watch over them.
Cynthia had a huge rosary like I’d never seen. It was made of wood, and the beads were the size of golf balls. As her health began to fail, she was placed in a nursing home. The rosary lay always across her lap, and her hands and lips were forever in prayer. EWTN played continually on her television, and, since she was a little hard of hearing, it played loudly enough to evangelize the whole floor.
One day I brought Cynthia a video from EWTN on the value of suffering. When I suggested she look at it, she told me once again that she thought everyone should see it. The nursing home was interdenominational, and the video was very Catholic. Once again I was a little hesitant, but at her insistence I asked the staff if we could set up a time to show it.
When the day came, the room was filled to capacity with people in wheelchairs and with walkers and canes, people who were carrying heavy crosses. As the video played, I saw that Christ was truly working through Cynthia’s suggestion. The people became very aware through this video that their mission here on earth was not finished. They were not just rotting away, waiting for death to come take them; they were part of something bigger: the mystical body of Christ. Christ was using the suffering they offered him to help their brothers and sisters who were spiritually blind and paralyzed in their sinfulness. Tears rolled down their cheeks, and they left that room with a renewed sense of purpose.
Cynthia was an agent of change, a leader. She bloomed where she was planted. I knew her only those few final years of her life, but she helped me find something in myself that gave me the greatest joy that I have ever known: how to listen and serve the Lord. Cynthia took the time, place, and circumstance that she was given in, and she brought Christ there.
In the beginning, I felt that I was doing her a kindness by attending to her errands and fulfilling her demands. What I realized later was that when I served her, I was serving Christ himself. I also became aware that Christ was dwelling in me, using the gifts that I had been given to do the self-giving work that needed to be done in order to build his kingdom here on earth.
My son still struggles with his addiction but has sought help and is in the process of returning to the Church as well as to our family. On that dark, cold morning, a miracle happened in my life. My prayers were answered, and, as God often does, he gave me more than I could have ever asked for: He gave me a dear friend, who helped me see what Christ himself saw in me. It was what I saw in Cynthia: the potential to become a saint.