For the longest time, I always avoided masses during Lent when Psalm 23 is the psalm of the week because it surely to break me. Once, just before my baptism, during one of the rites in my RCIA, I totally broke down and sobbed so hard the person next to me had to hug me and comforted me.
It is not something I can explain why I always cried whenever I hear Psalm 23. Clueless people will say, “Oh it shows how much God loves us and assure us He is with us. Isn’t that a marvelous feeling?”
Yea…..rite…marvelous.
They have obviously never traveled through that valley of darkness. The huge obstacle even the strongest faith cannot overcome. They probably do not know what lying beside quiet water means because one can get so exhausted from crying and worrying that the whole soul and body is spent on tears.
I only got to know Psalm 23 when my son was dying. I read through it again and again when I was sitting in the ICU, listening to the beeping of the machines. My eyes would go through the lines and it became a distraction, not comfort.
At his funeral, when Doc C came, the only thing I could think off then was to ask Doc C to read Psalm 23 over my son’s white coffin. Poor Doc C had a hard time reading because I gave him a King James version of the Bible. It was the cheapest Bible at that time, so I bought it.
So, that’s why I always hate Psalm 23. It is not comfort for me. It is scrapping open my wounds. What more, on the morning when I just watched the video of Teoh Beng Hock’s mother crying over his coffin.
This morning mass, i.e. Sunday mass, was extra hard for me. The cantor sang Psalm 23. After the first verse, I stopped looking at the words. I couldn’t afford crying at the beginning of a mass. On a Sunday with so many inquisitive eyes.
And across my pew, I saw a father with a disabled daughter. She is severely disabled and the father pushed her in an adult size ‘baby pram’. He was so loving, turning to her to communicate even though she doesn’t respond much. Sometimes, he stroke her hair. Moved the pillow used to support her head. Making sure she is comfortable.
Why does this scene makes it so much more difficult for me? Because if my son had not died, he too probably is in this sort of situation. That has always been the question for me. If he is around, would I be able to give the same kind of care, attention and love to my other three (before I had my fifth baby) children? So, sometimes, I indulged in the ridiculous trade off, that it is fine that God has taken Vincent back with Him so that I can be a better mom for the 3. See? 3 versus 1? But of course, I know I would have been an equally good mom to a disabled child too, if that has been the God’s plan.
So, I have never quite get over Psalm 23 yet. I hope no one use it on my own funeral. Ish!
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