At 46, a birthday/feast/death shared with a Saint
Our Jocelyn had Jesus' same knack for rhetoric
Yes, the loss of Jocelyn remains raw. I see much of life through a different lens since she shuffled off this mortal coil. Death will do that to the living. I hear the daily readings with a mind’s eye upon memories of her life. I am told this is how grief works its way. Memories of my lost friends and other family members appear in scripture constantly. It’s both lovely and painful.
Memorial of Saint Charles Borromeo, Bishop
Romans 12:5-16ab
Luke 14:15-24
I’m not sure anyone in the family has made, or even imagined, the connection between our late daughter Jocelyn and St. Charles Borromeo. I didn’t see it until today.
Jocelyn died on June 23, 2024. She was born on November 4, 1977. Nov. 4, today, is the feast day for Charles. Charles died on November 3, 1584, at the age of 46. The Church selected November 4 as his feast day. Jocelyn was 46 when she died.
Feast day for Charles and now our Jocelyn, both dead at 46.
It’s a coincidental connection, at best, I suppose. Jocelyn, though, likely checked on this fella, looking up the saint’s feast on her birthday. She was fascinated with these kinds of details. Borromeo and Jocelyn were the older ones in families with six children. Besides being a theology nerd, like Charles, the comparisons with Jocelyn probably stop there.
However, the two share an uncommon character trait. Borromeo was a severe man and an eventual heavy-handed archbishop. It doesn’t sound good, but the biographical details reveal the necessary courage and stability that come with the leadership gene. The priest-cum-bishop was an uncompromising leader, which at the time was of great benefit to the Catholic Church. Without his determination, the Church would have been overrun.
Jocelyn possessed this uncompromising character trait as well, although her heavy hand dealt less with Borromeo’s worrisome wars and terrorism and more with the fundamentals of right and wrong—a welcome check and balance feature in a family.
Fueled by Charles’s similar stance on ethical issues, Jocelyn held the unapologetic reins of authority over her five younger siblings. Both of these heaven-sent souls were loved for that kind of leadership. She was frustrated at times with those outside of her control, but respectfully appreciative (though dismissive of those who should know better). God gave her a remarkable conviction. In her inner circle, her children and husband were protected fiercely.
Charles fell ill with “intermittent fever and ague,” and died from an unidentified disease, according to his biography in Lives of the Saints. Jocelyn was taken out by cancer, recorded only in family epitaphs.
The laundry list of seven gifts in Romans 5, which Paul then associates each with their subsequent responsibilities, reminds me of Jocelyn. She possessed the gifts of hospitality, ministry, zeal, sincerity, and hope, and had a deep affinity for the lowly. She graced many family and friends with them. However, the gift of “teacher” eluded her. Teaching took more patience than she was given. “That I cannot do,” she once said with emphasis. “Six out of seven isn’t bad,” she might have commented. (Or, maybe that’s just me.)
I am also reminded of Jocelyn in watching Jesus’ orchestration at the meal with the elite from Jewish high society, as told in today’s Gospel from Luke. The way Jesus handled their stuffiness and arrogance fit our daughter and sister, Jocelyn, to a “T.”
“But they were unable to answer his question,” wrote Luke about Jesus’ responses to the haughty Jews who foolishly tested him. Our Jocelyn had the same knack for rhetoric. Parables would not have been a tool for her, but the blunt truth she could deliver.
Yes, the loss of Jocelyn remains raw. I see much of life through a different lens since she shuffled off this mortal coil. Death will do that to the living. I hear the daily readings with a mind’s eye upon memories of her life. I am told this is how grief works its way. Memories of my lost friends and other family members appear in scripture constantly. It’s both lovely and painful.
I like to think of this communion with the dead as akin to the Father’s love and mercy. It’s essential to strive for what we yearn for — reuniting with those we've lost by praying for them and honoring their memory. We barely meet the basic requirements of love here, and so depend mightily upon his mercy. That’s why Jesus took every broken trust, angry word, and heinous intention upon himself. He brought the ancient dead to Heaven by claiming them as righteous, for goodness’ sake.
Paul knew from our failures what we must do:
Let love be sincere;
hate what is evil,
hold on to what is good;
love one another with mutual affection;
anticipate one another in showing honor.
Jocelyn mirrored well God’s purpose for graced gifts, though like many of us, she didn’t realize that fully, until now, gazing upon the source of all good, the model of mutual affection, and the epitome of honor. Her view of the beatific vision of God at this moment is one we can hardly imagine.
In the meantime, until we join our loved ones in that gaze, we want to do the right thing. Let us, “Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.”