In loving memory of the real Mamma Lilly: Maria Lilia Ruelas [1942-2024]
By Luciana Ballesteros-Heras
It was Easter morning. Queen Spring had bedecked the earth with her fragrant white blossoms. Radiant beams of sunlight splashed across the verdant green grass while the neighborhoods were tinged with the pastel hues of pink, yellow, and blue. A merry troop of jolly rabbits hopped gleefully amongst the lush, flowering bushes. The world was consumed by a ravenous cloud of blitheness and gaiety. But amidst this cheerful crowd of faithful followers of Christ, Clara Fletcher sat in her bedroom, forlorn and confounded, pondering her family’s current dismal condition.
“Why is Grandmother weeping? Why has Uncle abandoned us? Why is Little Annie the only one smiling anymore?” she inquired of the bare wall before her at which she was blankly staring, because evidently five-month-old Annie did not make a suitable conversationalist for eleven-year-old Clara. Unfortunately, the wall also failed to do this, and thus Clara was left with merely her own thoughts for company.
Throughout Lent, a series of sicknesses had spread throughout the Fletcher family, except for Little Annie, who was well in all respects. However, only one Fletcher suffered from an illness of the body; the rest had been afflicted with a fever in their spirit.
Clara’s great-grandmother “Mamma Lilly” suffered from a severe lung disease and was bedridden between doctor visits. The words “Death was not distant” rang in the family’s hearts as they desperately clung to their beloved grandmother, who was quietly, calmly preparing for her heavenly home. “Grandmother Adele,” Lilly’s daughter, was afflicted by Dread. “Mamma” or Miss Bernadette had not yet discovered a cure for the agonizing infirmity of Undying Worry, from which she had been suffering since early childhood, and shrewd Clara came down with Utter Confusion after attempting to gather sense and logic from her family’s sad condition. In the fullness of time, the family was despondent, fretful, and fearful, barely grasping onto the glimmering hope of happiness that dwelled in the joyous festivities of Easter.
The morning was a glorious and joyful one, spent at Mass, immersed in prayer and communication with the Lord Almighty. Noon was not vastly different, save for the fact that the Fletchers were not in Church—physically. The family celebrations at home were carried out, the scripture was read, and the garden was arranged for outdoor dining. Come afternoon, Clara’s mother was abruptly called to the hospital where Mamma Lilly was resting for reasons that were not disclosed to the curious girl. Thus, her afternoon and evening were spent waiting—for what? Even perspicacious Clara could not define that. If she were any younger, Clara would have complained about the absence of chocolates and hot-cross buns, but now she whined neither for the chocolates nor for her mother. She merely sat in her bedroom, silently and solemnly, her meditation only interrupted by the startling ring of a phone.
The caller, Clara’s mother from the hospital, explained to the answerer, Clara’s father, precisely what the girl presumed: that Mamma Lilly was dead.
The astonishment, sorrow, and grieving that followed are all too immense to elucidate, but Easter Day was the mere beginning of discomfort. Throughout Easter the Fletchers were whipped into a frenzy of disorientation, which included making arrangements for a novena, preparing for a funeral, and hosting consoling friends. Each day brought them a sober-faced comrade to their door, and each comrade brought with them the same pitiful remark: “I’m sorry for your loss.” Clara was now more confounded than ever. Were not her family believers of Heaven? Were not they certain that Mamma Lilly was in the care of her Father?
Here is where reality and fantasy part ways. In reality, “Clara” kept quiet and still, dutifully sobbing and mourning alongside her family, but presently fantasy has more courage than reality. Clara regained strength from some unknown Force, and to her companion’s “I’m sorry for your loss,” she proudly retorted: “I’m not.”
What a flush of joy one must feel after discovering that in the face of adversity and tribulation, her faith is not demolished but kindled!
She was not sorry that Mamma Lilly had led a blessedly full life while on Earth. She was not sorry that she was reunited with her father, and she was not sorry that she, herself, was not with her. The history of the world consists of humans facing hardship and hardship facing the humans, but they can be consoled by four meagre words, which oddly encapsulate the very spirit of the Christian life: “I am Homeward bound.” It applies to every child of God, and to the children of God: the gift of Home was a gift graciously given to us by our Lord, Jesus Christ on Easter day.
