Before the pandemic set in, I attended my favorite women’s conference that my dearest friend puts on for our community through her church each year. At the end of the weekend, the speaker asked us to pray about ‘one step of obedience’ we could take in our relationship with God. I…did not like this. The phrasing weirded me out, and, frankly, that is a dangerous prayer to pray. It invites change and suffering. I do not like to change, or suffer. So it was with much grumbling that I opened my heart up to this prayer, and asked the Lord, “What can I do?” Softly, clearly, I heard the Lord ask me to have another baby. I laughed. And then the pandemic hit our area, so I figured we were off the hook.
As insane as it seems to plan a baby during a global pandemic, once Al and I started thinking about having a third child, the more the idea took hold of us. What started as a hilarious suggestion grew into a deep desire. We were able to conceive our 3rd child in early October, endured 18 weeks of intense morning sickness, learned that he is BOY (I would have bet our entire savings this was a girl baby), and settled on the name Francis Benedict. St. Francis is special to both Alex and me, and we decided early on in the pregnancy that he would be a great patron for baby Pyles #3.
During the initial 20 week scan, they noticed one of his ventricles in his brain is enlarged. They referred us to a level II ultrasound to double check the measurements. We were able to get that scan done on 2/8. It was during that appointment that we discovered significant abnormalities in Frank’s growth and development, specifically with his heart and brain. I opted for an amniocentesis; the results from that test confirmed what the doctors suspected. Francis had Trisomy 18, and was not expected to live long after delivery.
Called, longed for, created, and joyfully loved, our little Frankie B is the sweetest step of obedience either of us have ever taken. This situation sucks. Certainly, we are suffering, and we will suffer more. There is a tendency when faced with suffering to look for the greater purpose or good that will come out of it. Why is this happening? What is the POINT? Friends, Frankie is the point. His life, however much shorter/more different than we wanted it to be, is the point. He is an end unto himself. He is good. And there is a great deal of grace to be found in that.
Before I get to Francis, I want to thank you all for coming here and recognizing him here in our Church.
If anything that has come out of this experience is that community and family is so important. We have been blessed by all of you and those who aren’t here with support both material and spiritual. We are loved.
Kate and I were talking a couple nights ago and the statement that came out of that conversation – was that we will always be a family of five. We might not all be here together, but Frankie will always be a part of our family.
We would not have chosen to do anything different with our time with him. Even if we were given the same diagnosis and the same result would occur. We had a perfect day with our son. Frankie was this stubborn Pyles from the beginning, and he was also the sweetest. Neither of our older kids warmed up to me like Francis did.
He fought from the very beginning. Crying as he was born and peeing immediately. He loved his head stroked, loved to cuddle against his mama’s chest, and loved to be held. He turned to his sister and brother’s voices and smiled at them. He was fully with us from the beginning. He always kicked back when he was in utero when his siblings hugged Kate’s belly. He always moved at the sound of my voice. Frankie wanted to share himself with us, which is I guess one reason why we are here today, to share him with you and we will continue to do so for as long as we can.
Something else that came to me as I sat down to write this, is that despite us wanting there to be a larger “plan” or looking for where God and his Spirit could be, we saw Him through all of this. We didn’t think we’d be able to hear Frankie’s voice, but we did. We didn’t think we would spend more than a couple hours with him, but we spent almost 24. We didn’t think that we would be able to meet him, but man, did we.
Kate and I know Frankie. Our hearts opened a new room as soon as we set our eyes on him. Our love for him was no longer this theoretical, abstract thing. I would do anything in my power to keep my son safe and out of harm’s way and in this case, it meant letting him go.
There will be plenty of hard days, weeks, months, and years ahead for us. They will all be worth it though, because we were able to spend that day with Frankie.
We often think that children belong to parents and yes, in a certain sense this is true, but they are also a Gift. There is clearly a Will involved when these little souls come to us at conception and we as parents are just stewards. We care, protect, and nurture these precious ones, but we don’t own them.
And this is certainly true in Frankie’s case. We gave him the best life we could imagine for him, knowing that his body would not work as it was supposed to. And you know what? That’s okay. He wouldn’t be our Frankie otherwise.
Francis Benedict was our son. Francis Benedict is our son. And he was enough. People even before his death would tell me that his life would mean something down the line or that his death would impact so many people or that our story would be such a gift to many people and I can’t discredit that because it has.
But I will say that Frankie can simply be. He can simply exist. It didn’t matter that he had Trisomy 18. In fact, we don’t even resent his genetic abnormality. Or that he died so soon after being welcomed into the Church and meeting us. It was enough that he was able to experience our love and live with us, even if it was only for a blink of an eye.
It’s a little surreal to me, that he is gone. In the last five years, I’ve buried a mother and now a son. I thought a few weeks ago that something would harden or that I would be angry, but I’m not, at least not right now. Instead, all I feel is love.
We miss our son terribly, especially whenever we venture into his would be nursery that he will never see. Yet, he doesn’t have to suffer or struggle and we wouldn’t have wanted him to bear it any longer than he did.
Once Frankie was born he was driving the boat. He chose how long he would be around and he chose when to slip away. He may not have chosen his genes, but he fought to be with us for as long as he could.
Another final image that has emerged in the past few days, is this old Catholic symbol of a pelican digging into its breast in order to feed its hungry chicks with its own flesh and blood. While this echoes Christ’s sacrifice for us, it also echoes Kate and I’s parental love. The grief is powerful, but the incredibly deep love that we have for Frankie is what has kept us going and continues to keep us going through all of this.
We love you Francis, it is a privilege being your parents, and we cannot wait to meet you again.
“Our little Francis lived for almost exactly 24 hours. He had a full head of dark hair, giant eyes, and beautiful, long fingers. He liked to have his head rubbed, and was particularly fond of his daddy. He knew his brother’s voice, calmed at his mama’s touch, and clearly had his sister’s flair for drama.
We love him. We love him. We love him.
We arrived at the hospital at 7am on June 2nd, and started preparing for the external version and induction almost immediately. The doctors were able to move Frankie into position, but because of the extreme amount of amniotic fluid, he refused to stay put. We attempted to induce labor for about 8 hours before Frankie lodged himself fully breech again, and we decided to move forward with a c-section. At this point, a c-section was a relief! This stubborn child did not want to get into position, and not even the best that science and medicine that CDH had to offer could make him do so. They were able to delay the start of the c-section long enough for our family and the photographer to get to the hospital, which was extremely kind and considerate of our care team. I would also like to point out that this was the general attitude of every person at CDH that we interacted with. They were kind, considerate, and so tender with us. Whatever they are paid, it really is not enough. The entire L&D floor deserves a raise.
Frankie was born just before 9pm (I thought it was 9:20! but the hospital record says 8:46), and here is where we begin to count the many miracles God chose to perform for us.
1. Frankie was born CRYING. This was not supposed to happen. He cried long and hard, and it was beautiful. We were prepared to never know his voice, since typically, T18 babies aren’t able to vocalize very well. To hear a normal, newborn cry was indescribable. 2. Frankie PEED ON THE DOCTOR as he was being examined. This was not something he supposed to be able to do. Also, it was funny. 3. Our son could hear us. He knew our voices, and responded to them. Many babies with T18 need assistance to hear, and although I had always THOUGHT Frankie B was responding to our voices while still in utero, it was amazing to see him turn his head towards us as we spoke. 4. We were able to introduce him to his siblings, grandparents, and one of his aunts. The kids gathered around him, rubbing his head and kissing his fingers. They touched his little nose, and sang him a lullabye they had made up. Gus demanded to hold him, and was delighted by the experience. 5. The joy in the recovery room was palpable. I knew we would feel happy on some level, but it wasn’t stilted, or colored by despair. We were all just…HAPPY. It felt like the celebration of a long fought battle, finally won. It was christmas day, and the night after finishing finals, and a wedding reception all rolled into one. 6. Frankie grasped our fingers and held on tight. T18 babies are also not typically capable of opening and closing their hands and fingers without therapy. Miracle. Nothing on the ultrasound indicated he’d be able to do this, and often indicated the opposite. 7. He was stable for 12 hours. He was doing so well, the doctors had begun conversations about a care plan to bring him home with us. Due to the severity of his complications, for him to have that many good hours was a major surprise to all of us. It meant that not only did we have time with him, that most of it was…almost normal newborn time. 8. Alex got to baptize him while he snoozed against my skin. It was beautiful. 9. The nurses let my mom stay in the room with us overnight, which meant Alex and I could take turns resting without having to put him down. It also meant we had someone there to take videos and pictures while we soaked in every moment of him. 10. We got to bathe him, and comb his hair while he was still alive. He LOVED it, and we loved that he loved it.
There is more. God poured out an abundance of beauty in that space. There were many deep and mysterious moments in the 24 hours that Frankie lived. We both need more time to process and reflect before being able to put them into words. I figured we could start with these 10, and continue to gather the graces from that day for the rest of our lives.
There were also extremely hard and horrible moments. Frankie’s sudden decline the next morning, and the realization that he would be leaving us before we could make it home. Dying is a process that neither of us had experienced that intimately before, and there is really no way to prepare to watch your child go through it. One day, I might have the words. Today is not that day.
Frankie struggled hard for about 5 hours, and then settled into a semi-peaceful space somewhere very close to death for the next several hours. We held him close in his favorite position, tried to keep his mouth from getting too dry, and prayed over him. I tried to keep him warm, and Alex read to us from the book we brought to help pass the time. Somewhere along the way, I dozed off. Alex took him in his arms, and they watched the sun set, sitting together in the quiet until Frankie finally slipped away. Alex woke me up once he realized Frankie wasn’t breathing anymore, and we called the nurse in to check his heart. He died between 8:45-9:00pm on June 3rd.
Our nurse brought in a cuddlecot, so that we could keep his body with us for as long as we needed to. The cuddlecot is just a bassinet with a cooling mechanism underneath, to keep the body from changing too quickly after death. This was the best thing we did for ourselves. We both were able to have an emotional release, then shower and drink a cup of tea, and get a good rest. Then we spent time holding his body, and soaking up the details of his face, his hair, his hands. And when it got to be too much, we could set him back down again and take a break. When the absence of his weight in our arms got to be too painful, we could walk back over to his cuddlecot and hold him close. We weren’t hit with the double trauma of losing our child, and then having his body taken away from us before we could process what was happening. We could be with him, and let our brains catch up to the situation. He changed slowly, but he did change. We knew when it was time to let him go. The nurses arranged for us to be discharged at the same time we walked his body down to be released to the funeral home, so that we didn’t have to return to our room without him.
And then we came home. Now, we are trying to figure out what life looks like with one of our children in Heaven. We are in strange new territory, navigating this fresh grief. We feel grateful for the way our priests, family, friends, doctors, and nurses cared for us, and for the way each person we reached out to helped us decide how to steward Frankie’s life. We looked at each other today and realized that we honestly have no regrets about the choices we made for his care. How many people get to say that?! So there is peace, still, even in the midst of the pain. We can never claim that Jesus did not walk with us throughout this experience.’
“I hadn’t planned on writing another update until he arrives, but here we are. Tomorrow we head into the hospital to deliver Francis. We have an appointment at 7:15am for an external version, to see if we can get this little stubborn fellow to lay in the right position for labor and delivery. If the version fails, we’ll move forward with a c-section. Please continue to pray for the intentions in the last post, but we are also hoping to avoid a c-section. Please include that in your prayers, as well.
I also want to say thank you to our friends and family, who have walked closely with us and shared in Frankie’s life with as much joy and care as anyone could ask for. We would not have made it without the support. You’ve made us brave. Thank you.
Lastly, I wanted to share some things that I’ve been thinking about. I know I’ve shared some of this before, but I’ve personally spent a lot of time in the past 17 weeks reflecting on the promise of eternal life through Christ’s death and resurrection. The lifespan for a child with trisomy 18 is…small. Most don’t survive the pregnancy. Of those that make it to delivery, most die within their first year. Some are able to live to be 5, 6, 7, or even teenagers! But that percentage is miniscule. They would have needed to have a less acute presentation of the disease to begin with. It was clear from very early on that Frankie’s body was not created to survive his first year of life, which brings me back to God and His promises. For 17 weeks, I’ve daily tried to face this question: is the promise of eternal life through Jesus Christ enough for me? In the face of my child’s death? Is it enough?
I have never struggled with my faith in a major way, but I have always wondered at the suffering person who praises the Lord. What is the motivation? Is that authentic? Aren’t they just trying to pretend they’re not really hurting? This experience has turned that judgement on it’s head. The pain we feel does not leave us. But the joy of the promise of the Resurrection is also inexplicably present. I hope no one reading these entries mistakes the presence of faith as the absence of pain, or as us attempting the appearance of that. We live with feet in both realities. I believe this is the what it takes to truly embrace the Gospel–opening yourself up to the sufferings life offers you, and working out what that means for salvation. As Chiara Corbella Petrillo wrote about the death of her second child, Davide, “He (Davide) showed us God really does miracles, but he doesn’t follow our limited logical thoughts…He demolished the idea of asking the Lord for an easy and happy life which doesn’t resemble to the life of the cross Jesus bore for us.” Our lives are meant to resemble our Savior’s. But are we prepared for that? Can we still love a God who doesn’t make things easy, smooth, and happy? Can we accept the sufferings He permits without it damaging our view of God’s goodness?
Today, as we took some time gazing at our little son’s casket before taking it to the funeral home (our very last checklist item for this week), I saw in the shape of the wood, and the softness of the lining something entirely unexpected–hope. Pain, yes. I expect the pain to be here forever. But the hope. It took my breath away. The absolute only explanation for that feeling in that moment was the presence of God, and His promise of eternal life.
So, yes. The promise of the Resurrection is enough, although it tears my heart to accept that. Fighting against death and raging at God both feel like action. And action feels good. But one can only lead that charge for so long; the pain persists. The mystery of God is that instead of moving away, or waving a magic wand to erase that pain, God became Incarnate and chose to enter into it. I don’t know why. It’s not how I would do things, given the chance. But it’s what we have, and I am grateful for it. Thank you, Jesus.
Bl. Solanus Casey, pray for us. Chiara Corbella Petrillo, pray for us. And friends, please, continue to pray for us, and celebrate with us as we get to finally hold Frankie B in our arms. “
“This past weekend, my sisters and their families came to our house to celebrate Frankie’s birth (well, impending birth). Our induction is officially scheduled for Wednesday, June 2nd. Exactly a week from today! We don’t know, and have never known, how much time we’ll get to spend with him. In fact, most babies with Trisomy 18 do not survive the pregnancy itself. The fact that I am sitting here at 36 weeks pregnant and writing this update is a statistical improbability in and of itself. Each day since that first day has been a gift. We knew that a pre-birthday party was something we wanted to do, but we weren’t sure how much time we’d have. We planned it for this past weekend before we knew he would need to come early, and thank goodness we did! Celebrating his upcoming birth in the exact same way that we celebrate all of our family birthdays (low pressure dinner, cake, kids playing while adults catch up, etc.) brought both of us so much joy. It reminded me, personally, that Frankie belongs. Not only does he belong, but his life is one worth celebrating in joy. It reminded me that when he is gone, he won’t be forgotten. We had a party! We took pictures! He was really here!
We are currently living in tension of excitement and dread. We are so ready to hold our son, and see him face to face. We are tired of this ‘in-between’ we’ve been living in since February. But we know that meeting Frankie face to face also means having to say goodbye to him. How does one prepare for that? When people ask me how I’m doing, I’m never sure how to answer. I am okay. I’m stable, at least. Sometimes I’m filled with dread, and other times with joy. Most of the time, these feelings live side by side, and we haven’t quite found a word that fits that experience yet.”
Snuggling his umbilical cord, just like Aggie did!
“Last week was a good week for baby Frank! He seemed to be doing well when they checked him on Thursday, and we have remained pre-eclampsia free. Although I can feel myself really slowing down as we enter the 34th week of this pregnancy, it seems that Frankie B is content to stay where he is right now. Thank God for that!
We took a trip out to Dubuque this past Friday evening-Saturday afternoon. Although we hope that Frankie lives for as long as possible (despite myself, I still carry the dream of his full earthly healing), we feel it is important to have his funeral and burial details as complete as possible before birth. This weekend, it was time to pick up his casket. The Trappist monks in Peosta, IA, provide free caskets for infants and children, which is an amazing resource! They also plant a tree for each casket they provide. It was a beautiful thing, to see all those trees growing together, knowing our little Francis would soon have his own. It should have been horrible. It makes no sense that this was comforting, but it wasn’t horrible at all. It was full of peace. We felt calm, and loved.
Alex and I have spent a lot of time in discussion about ‘what is important to us’ in this time before Frankie’s birth. Going to get his casket in person was on the top of the list. It might seem like a gruesome move from the outside, but we only have so many ways we can provide for our son. Being the ones to handle his casket means a lot to us. Taking the kids with us was something we went back and forth about for a long time, but since recently I have been really struggling to be away from them, we decided to take them with us. We know that we cannot shield them from grief. Even if we pretend none of this is happening, they will still know death. I strongly believe that it’s best to confront these things honestly and openly with the kids. They deserve to know the plan for their brother’s life.
We also realize they are 2 and 3, and don’t fully grasp everything we say/need activities to not lose their minds, so we checked into a hotel to break up the drive (2.5 hours in a car is a long time for pandemic children). We took them out dinner, and swimming in the hotel pool. We let them eat lucky charms in bed, and watch cartoons at 6am. We also went up the Fenelon Place Elevator in Dubuque (one of my favorite things to do in college), and took pictures of the wonder and awe on their faces. They had a blast…and somehow we did, too. It was certainly emotional, and we both had our moments, but Alex and I kept looking at each other during that trip, and saying, “I think I’m having…fun?” and “How is this so NICE?!”
We experienced so much joy just being our little family on an overnight getaway with the kids, and doing something special for and with baby Frankie. Gus and Aggie have taken to narrating things for Frankie. They get close to my belly and tell him everything that’s going on. They kept shouting, “FRANKIE WE ARE AT THE POOL! DO YOU LIKE THE WATER?!?!” It is so funny and sweet!
God gave us a respite on mother’s day weekend. It was all such a gift. Back at home, the grief we feel is ever present. Some days, like yesterday, it is so oppressive that it’s hard to get out of bed. We both feel so worn down and weary. I honestly do not know how we will make it through whatever comes next, other than the belief that God still walks with us, and will supply all that is lacking. People keep telling us we are strong. But we don’t feel strong. I mostly feel like I’m being carried forward–held tightly in the arms of the Father as we move closer to the death of our sweet little baby. I promise you that we do nothing by our own strength.
The 34th week of Frankie’s life should be fairly quiet. We are almost all the way prepared for his birth, and the logistics of his death. This week, we hope to be able to schedule our induction date. Next week, I begin my maternity leave. Soon, so soon, he will be in our arms. Thank you for being with us on this hard and holy road. Thank you for loving our boy.
Little Francis with his hand up by his face. He was 3lbs in this picture!
“Yesterday we spent the day at Lurie’s Children’s Hospital for Frankie’s last fetal echocardiogram and detailed ultrasound. This final look at his organs, brain, his little chin, and bones helped us to craft a care plan for the rest of the pregnancy and his life outside of the womb.
From here on out, we will do weekly growth scans to check on how he is surviving en utero. We plan to deliver around 37 weeks gestation. After delivery, he will be baptized and spend as much of his life as possible in our arms. We will feed him, and bathe him, and take pictures with him until it is time to let him go. This could be minutes, or hours, or days. We won’t know until he is born how long we will have with him, but delivering around 37 weeks will give him his best shot without causing him undue pain. And then, when it’s time, we will make sure he is as comfortable as possible as he passes into eternal life.
Are we still hoping for an earthside miracle? Of course. But we are not grasping for one. We are not demanding one. We want what God wants, which can be a hard thing to figure out. Because, surely, God does not want us to be in pain. He does not WANT us to suffer. The question has been posed in our home, “what kind of God allows a child to die right after he is born?” Today, I would answer, “the kind of God that would create a child simply to have him delighted over.” The purpose of Francis’s life is for love to grow in our family, here and in Heaven. From his first breath to his last, he will be delighted over. And that is very good.
In the Catholic Church, today is the feast day for St. Gianna Beretta Molla, a doctor and a mother, who died on this day in 1962 due to complications from a c-section. She was an extraordinary woman. When she was faced with her own mortality, she said to her doctors, “whatever God wants”. So it is with us, now that Frankie’s birthday is within sight. Whatever God wants. We can trust Jesus with Frankie’s life.
Thank you for walking with us on this very strange and sad road. We will update more frequently as we move through the next five weeks, although these posts will be less about medical updates, and more reflecting on the time left, and memories we hope to make with our boy while he is still with us. We are sad to be nearing the end of his life, and we are also so, so excited to meet him face to face and hold him in our arms. It is going to be so beautiful.
An Update for Holy Week (from the caringbridge site)
“Today we went in for another ultrasound and fetal echocardiogram. The echo went really well! His heart now is only showing a large VSD which won’t affect his quality of life for several months. The peds cardiologist was happy with what she saw, and said his heart should be strong enough to withstand a normal labor and delivery. We don’t have to make any decisions for a long time. It feels good to put that worry down, for now.
The second ultrasound we had today gave us more bad news than good. His constellation of complications leads them to believe he has a condition in which his esophagus and trachea are growing together instead of with a clear separation. His nasal bone is still absent, and jaw is incredibly small. There is more amniotic fluid than normal, and his stomach is also very small (meaning he isn’t able to get amniotic fluid through his digestive system like a typical baby his age, which is very bad news). The placenta seemed to be working within the normal range today, but with his severe growth restriction, doc was concerned about it’s efficacy long term. While Frankie could make it to delivery, his size indicates a higher risk than we thought for stillbirth.
We are in the same place we’ve always been—how much intervention do we provide to reach which goals? Only now our goals are much more modest. Is it necessary for us to meet Frankie while he is living? Do we want to sustain his life long enough to have him meet his siblings? Or do we accept his life the way it comes, without grasping at those milestones we once took for granted? So much of the rest of our time with him will be defined by how we proceed from today’s appointment.
We would love for Frankie to be born without these complications–and are asking for prayers for that through Bl Solanus Casey, but I want to share with you why we aren’t begging for that big miracle first: We sincerely have no doubts that God will heal Frankie B. That is the whole purpose of this week (Holy Week + the Easter Triduum) in our faith tradition, and really the point of Christianity in general! Through Christ’s death and resurrection, we all have access to the Divine Healer. Death has no power that lasts. He heals. It’s Who He Is. But we have to ask ourselves, what does healing look like for Christ? We have to accept that the biggest miracle God will work for our boy won’t happen before he dies. Jesus has already given us a “fix” for this. He has already given us everything. The promise of Heaven is enough for us. Although we suffer (more than I can say), nothing is wasted. The best is yet to come. “
“Today I spoke with the genetic counselor about the preliminary results from the amniocentesis. She shared with me that Frank has what’s called ‘mosaic Trisomy 18’. This means the extra 18th chromosome is only present on about half his cells. Typically, this can result in a less severe prognosis, although with the complexity of Frank’s heart and brain defects, we should still not expect him to survive long once he is born. We will know more about life expectancy once we meet with the pediatric cardiologist. What we know so far about his heart is that he has a VSD (hole at the bottom of his heart), an AV canal defect (creating a hole at the center of his heart) and an enlarged aorta. We’re looking forward to meeting the cardiologist so that we can have someone explain it to us like we are five (truly). “
I know God can heal and perform miracles. The Spirit loves to heal. God says of Himself in Exodus 15:26, “I am the Lord, your Healer”.
He healed my tailbone after I fell down the stairs. He started my (dead) rental car so I could make it to the airport on time. This, and more. How often has He performed these countless, tiny miracles? How many times has He met me, face to face? How many times has He revealed His Goodness? I know He is a Healing God. Belief is not the issue.
It’s not that I don’t believe God will heal our boy. It’s that I’m not convinced that a miraculous healing on this side of the Veil is what He has in mind. He will heal Francis. This is for sure. The thing that causes me pain is that I might have to wait until Heaven to see it with my own eyes. I ache.
When I am in the depth of my grief, I can feel Jesus there with me. His eyes questioning me, “Are my promises enough for you? Is the healing work I did on the Cross enough for you? Am I, Myself, enough?”
The whole point of His Incarnation, Passion, Death, and Resurrection is so that a human person, in relationship with Jesus, will be fully healed and restored to God in Heaven. Death does not destroy us. This is the center of my entire system of belief.
But is it enough? If this is the healing that the Lord has to offer us, is that enough? To have our Lord forgo the miraculous earthly healing for my son, to instead draw us all deeper in the mystery of His Passion? Francis will be healed. And I will have to prepare to let him go. I ache.
DEAR LORD how heavy this cross is! How surprisingly tender and piercingly difficult is this mystery! I ache.
In the past six weeks since Frankie’s diagnosis, I have found that at the bottom of my soul, at the very end of my strength, rationality, wit, and courage…I can say yes to whatever comes next, thanks to the grit produced by the abundance of God’s life within me. The fruit of the Spirit born out of this bitter seed is my unexpected Fiat in the dark places. Not the fluffy, passive acceptance that is the hallmark of the false feminine piety forced on my gender, but the steel resolve of a person who has trained to run their race; fortitude in the face of deep suffering. Death does not destroy. It won’t destroy Francis Benedict and it won’t destroy me. I did not expect to find that within my own heart. It turns out that my whole life has not been in vain until now, but a preparation to carry this cross all the way to my own calvary. Reader, do not expect it to be beautiful. But I think I’ll be able to get there.
Yes, Lord, your promises are enough for me. But, Jesus, my whole soul aches with the pain.
This, and More 