In the Hope

Hedy Doerr, 91, of Kearney died July 2. Funeral Mass Aug. 16 at St. James Church in Kearney. Burial at Kearney Cemetery. Survivors: sons, Jeffrey, David Doerr, and daughter, Cynthia Doerr and five grandchildren.

Terri Waskowiak, 83, of Kearney, died Aug. 23. Funeral Mass Aug. 26 at St. Mary's Cathedral with Fr. Richard Piontkowski Jr. officiating. Burial in the Grand Island City Cemetery. Survivors: sons, Dave Waskowiak of Grand Island, Jim Waskowiak of Stanton; sisters, Lee Bosse of Omaha, Max Williams of Aurora, Pat Schnittgrund of Omaha; four grandchildren; two step-grandchildren; eight great-grandchildren; six step great-grandchildren.

Loreen Czaplewski, 96, of Grand Island, died Aug. 26. Funeral Mass Sept. 3 at St Leo's Church with Fr. Richard L. Piontkowski Jr. officiating, assisted by Deacon William Buchta. Burial at Evergreen Cemetery in Loup City. Survivors: sons, Kellen Czaplewski of Papillion, Mark Czaplewski of Grand Island, Dr. Nicholas Czaplewski of Norman, Okla., Dr. Rodney Czaplewski of Omaha; eight grandchildren; eight great-grandchildren.

Kenneth Liess, 67, of Alda died Aug. 31. Funeral Mass Sept. 3 at St. Mary's Church in Wood River with Fr. Josh Brown officiating. Burial at St. Mary's Catholic Cemetery at Wood River. Survivors: brothers, Joseph Liess, Paul Liess, Charles Liess, Gary iess; sisters, Mary Ellen Merithew, Linda Martin, Elaine Rauch, Judy Luehr, and Lois Knox. 

James J. Novakowski, 54, of Grand Island, died Sept. 1. Funeral Mass Sept. 5 at Blessed Sacrament Church in Grand Island with Fr. Marty Egging officiating. Burial at Westlawn Memorial Park Cemetery in Grand Island. Survivors: brothers, Joseph Liess, Paul Liess, Charles Liess, Gary Liess; sisters, Mary Ellen Merithew, Linda Martin, Elaine Rauch, Judy Luehr, and Lois Knox.

Victor Goerl, 95, of Grand Island, died Sept. 1. Funeral Mass Sept. 6 at St. Libory's Church in St. Libory with Fr. Sidney Bruggeman officiating. Burial will be at  Calvary Cemetery in Clarks. Survivors: children, Barb Sack of St. Paul, Pat Epp, Mike Goerl, Kevin Goerl and Lisa Asche, all of Grand Island, Linda Goettsche of St. Paul, Dan Goerl of Gainesville, Va., Keith Goerl of Valparaiso, Ind.; 28 grandchildren, 41 great-grandchildren and three great-great-grandchildren.

Ronald Buettner, 82, of Lincoln, died Aug. 16. Funeral Mass Sept. 10 at St. Ann's in Lexington with Fr. Jose' Chavez officiating. Survivors: sons, Joe of Holdrege, John of San Antonio, Texas, and Bill of Lincoln; and four brothers, Bob  of Omaha, Richard of Virginia, Jack and David, both of Arizona; 17 grandchildren, 40 great-grandchildren and two great-great grandchildren.

Donald Reyes, 81, of Hershey, died Aug. 21. Funeral services Aug. 26, at Floral Lawns Memorial Gardens. Survivors: children, Debbie Lindsay of Topeka, Kan., Donna Fuentes of Hastings, Derek Reyes of Memphis, Delores  Chadwick of Sutherland and Victor Reyes of Lincoln; 16 grandchildren; 23 great-grandchildren; his siblings Belinda Potter of Colorado Springs, Colo., Vicky Martinez and Genevieve Reyes Young, both of North Platte and Mary Udell of Plainview.

Colleen Jochum, 91, formerly of Sutherland, died Aug. 26. Funeral Mass Sept. 2 at Sacred Heart Church, Sutherland. Burial will follow in Riverview Cemetery. Survivors: children, Mike Jochum of Beatrice, Tom  Jochum of Axtell, Nancy James of Severance, Colo., Katherine Kipp of Haxtun, Colo., and Scott  Jochum of Kearney; 13 grandchildren; 17 great-grandchildren. 

Frances Vieyra, 101, of North Platte died Aug. 26. Funeral Mass Sept. 3, at St. Patrick Church with Fr. Jonathan Sorensen officiating. Burial will follow at Floral Lawns Memorial Gardens. Survivors: children, Fred Vieyra, Jerome Vieyra and Victoria "Vicky" Valdivia, all of North Platte and Angelina Brown of Corpus Christi, Texas; adopted children, Stephanie Neemann of Fort Worth, Texas, and Stephen Horn of Corpus Christi; her sister, Carman Serrano of Littleton, Colo.; her brother, Louis Ortega of Wichita, Kan.; many grandchildren, great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren.

Gertrude Betzold, 78, of Kearney died Aug. 24. Funeral Mass Sept.1 at St. James Church with Fr. Joe Hannappel officiating. Burial at Kearney Cemetery. Survivors: children, Thomas Betzold, Jr., Marvin "Teddy" Betzold, Tamara Lawter, Robert Betzold, and Richard Betzold; 11 grandchildren; five great-grandchildren; three brothers; and three sisters.

Andrea Orozco, 28, of Kearney died Aug. 26. Funeral Mass Sept. 2 at St. James Church with Father Joseph Hannappel officiating.

Deborah Moore, 66, died Aug. 18. Funeral Mass Aug. 23 at St Agnes Catholic Church. Burial will follow at Fairview Cemetery. Survivors: mother, Marjorie Benzel; brother Stephen Benzel; her sisters, Danna Keisel and Cindy Hansen; children, Jaime Moore of Colorado Springs, Matthew Moore of Redding, Calif., Amanda Clayton  of Colorado Springs; six grandchildrenn. 

Dennis Parks, 71 of Gering, died Aug. 27. Funeral mass Sept. 1 at Christ the King  Church with Fr. Mike McDonald officiating. Burial at West Lawn Cemetery. Survivors: children, Amy Dishman of Blair, and Jason Parks of Firth; sister, Linda Hergenrader of Mitchell, and his mother, Rhoda Morgan of Gering; four grandchildren.

Jim Sevier, 71, of Scottsbluff, died Aug. 31. Funeral services Sept. 4 with Fr. Rayappa Konka officiating. include his wife, Maggie; siblings, Bob and Janice; and children, Robert and Stacy and step-children.

Clara Smith, 90 of Bartlett, died September 3  at Boone County Health Center, Albion. Funeral mass Sept. 7 at St. Michael's Catholic Church in Spalding, with Fr. Antony Thekkekara officiating. Burial at Bartlett Cemetery. Survivors: children, 10 children,  Dan of Hominy, Okla.; David of Bartlett; Dennis of Red Cloud ; Jeff of Shallowater, Texas; Gary of Ericson; Scott  of Brodhead, Wash.; Deb Eschliman of Ericson; Nancy Pankaskie of Republic, Kan.; Ann Bernt of Spalding; Lynn Smith of Akron, Colo.; 31 grandchildren; 60 great-grandchildren; sister, Teresa Kruse of Harlan, Iowa.

Joan Zimmer, 79, of Mason City died Aug. 19. Funeral Mass Aug. 23 at St. Joseph’s Church in Broken Bow with Fr. Jim Hunt officiting. Burial at Black Hill Creek Cemetery, south of Mason City. Survivors: husband, Jim; children, Mark Zimmer and David Zimmer, both of Mason City, and Lonnie Zimmer of Pleasanton;  brothers Arnold Siegel and David Siegel, both of Litchfield, sister, Linda Eberle of Hastings; nine grandchildren. 

Death becomes no one

      A week ago, my husband, Todd, became an orphan, just like me. His 82-year-old goofy singing former music teacher of a dad passed away 19 minutes before we got to the nursing home to see him one last time. In fact, Todd got the call he had passed just as I was checking in at the front desk. I gasped.

     “We didn’t get here in time,” I said to my husband as he ended the call on his cellphone.

      Fortunately, my husband had visited his dad several times throughout the day and had been there just an hour earlier. Although taken aback by the phone call, it was not unexpected.

        “I knew it wouldn’t be long,” he said. He watched his father’s health deteriorate over the past week and especially throughout his last day. He and my son had visited my father-in-law first thing that morning, but I had not seen him for 2 weeks, July 3, the anniversary of our daughter’s death. Two days later, I tested positive for COVID for the third time in 6 months. I was in quarantine for the next 10 days and when my father-in-law was placed on hospice, it became my last chance to see him before he passed. I had no idea it would happen so quickly.

        My husband is one of those people who can’t stand to see someone suffer, even if it means letting someone go. With Megan, he was as shocked as I was, blindsided near the end of our pregnancy. But we had both agreed to let her go peacefully, without medical intervention or extraordinary measures. The doctors didn’t expect her to survive the birth, so the fact that she survived past that was a small miracle. But every day we wondered if it would be her last. 

        The first night we spent with her, she stopped breathing eight times. Eight times. And every time we called the nurse, sobbing uncontrollably, she would come in with her stethoscope and say softly “I think she’s gone” crying herself as she spoke. Then Megan’s tiny under-developed lungs would take a big breath bringing color back to her blue cheeks, jump-starting our hearts as if we had stuck our fingers in an open electrical outlet. It was unbearable.

        My father-in-law, however, had been facing medical issues for the past few months, in and out of the hospital and nursing home, with no clear answers as to why. It was beyond frustrating, and being the oldest of his siblings, most of the responsibility rested with my husband. Even though my husband’s eyes were red and a little swelled with tears after that phone call, his was a sense of relief.

        “He’s with mom and Bryce now and he’s out of pain,” he said, his eyes glossy with tears. “It’s OK.”

        I, on the other hand, was a mess of tears and began to sob as the thought of the recent death of my mother came flooding back to me. It was all too familiar, eerily so. They had just put him on hospice the day before he passed. We were told that when my mom was placed on hospice, she was months away from dying but died shortly after hospice began. Like my father-in-law, I didn’t get the chance to see my mom before she became unconscious either. I even had COVID just days before my mom died, unable to see her due to quarantine as well. It’s an overwhelming sense of sadness, grief, and regret. Although there was nothing I could do either time, doubts began to filter through my mind – if I would have gotten there sooner, if I would’ve stayed longer the night before, if I had just spent more time with them. Even my son said, “I should’ve spent more time with grandpa.”         

        You can only prepare yourself so much while waiting for death to come and steal your loved ones. When the moment arrives, you are still not prepared. Those who can face it with courage and dignity are a rare breed and I for one, am not one of them. I am an ugly crier if there ever was one. I felt terrible — I could not console my husband. Once again, he had to console me.

        For those who are counting, this was the fourth loss in less than 6 months for our families beginning with the death of my mom on Feb. 7, my sister’s mother-in-law on April 4, my father on April 10, and now my father-in-law on July 16. The total of losses jumps up to six if you count the death of our 13-year-old family dog and the loss of my job of 18 years. They say God never gives you more than you can handle, but either that is horse puckey or God has more faith in me than I do.

        Not that this compares to what some people have gone through, but for me, it’s been too much. I can honestly say I’ve had enough, my faith is waning. Losing my mother has taken the worst toll on me, one that I couldn’t even imagine. Before her death, just the idea was overwhelming, the mere thought of not having her here, unable to call her or see her whenever I needed her.  To be honest, I refused to believe it would ever happen. I had hoped I would die first so I wouldn’t have to feel this pain — this wrenching, soul-stabbing, irrepressible pain that chokes me every time I think of it.

          For those who are not orphans yet, I can’t say enough how important it is to spend as much time as you can with your parents while they are here. Listen to the stories you’ve heard a hundred times, ask them questions, have them tell you about their parents, record them, record their voices, write it down – whatever you must do, just do it. You won’t regret it and you won’t ever have to say, “I wish I would have.” Because believe me, those words hurt, like daggers, a thousand tiny daggers stabbing your heart, taking over your fondest memories.   

         And there is no preparing for this when it happens. One day, you’re young and maybe newly married or with little kids and your parents are there with you babysitting, coming to birthday parties, still hosting Christmas, Easter, or maybe a 4th of July bash. Then they are gone in a flash. As I see my son cry over the loss of all his grandparents, three in just six months, I can’t imagine what it’s like for him. I’m supposed to be the grown-up and I’m the one crying myself to sleep — again — for what feels like the umpteenth time this year. But my father-in-law was ready and I have no doubt he is at peace now and overjoyed that he is together in heaven with my mother-in-law, Gloria, and other family members who have passed on, including my daughter, Megan, and my husband’s little brother, Bryce, who died just before he turned 2.    

         Before my mom passed away, my husband would tell me, quite often I might add, “your mom is not going to be here forever, you better spend as much time with her as you can.” I choked with tears nearly every time he said it. But I was able to give that advice back to him for the last few months. You won’t regret it, I told him and added he would never regret spending that extra time with his dad, time that my husband didn’t think he had to spare. It’s a small, tiny, piece of comfort and consolation we can hold on to that no one can take away. 

        Neither of our families will ever be the same, all these losses leaving huge voids that can never be filled. There is something terribly unnerving when you lose your parents and become orphaned – that connection to your very existence is gone. All you can do is live one day at a time, sometimes no more than one step at a time, for those who still need you on this earth until we see them all again.

        Rest in peace everyone.

Savannah diocese to end Traditional Latin Masses

Savannah diocese to end Traditional Latin Masses in May 2023

By Courtney Mares

Savannah, Ga., Jul 19, 2022 / 06:56 am

Bishop Stephen D. Parkes of Savannah has announced that Traditional Latin Masses in his Georgia diocese will cease in May 2023.

The bishop said that he had requested permission from the Vatican Dicastery for Divine Worship and Discipline of the Sacraments for parishes in his diocese to offer Mass according to the 1962 Roman Missal and received a response from Rome that one parish can offer the Mass weekly and three parishes can offer the Mass monthly until May 20, 2023. 

“I am grateful to the Dicastery for granting the above permissions so that Masses according to the Missale Romanum of 1962 may continue to be celebrated for another year. Since my appointment as your Bishop, I have been present at Masses celebrated with this Missal, and I recognize the reverence and beauty of these liturgies,” Parkes wrote in a statement.

“I am also aware that the eventual cessation of these Masses will be difficult for many of the faithful in our Diocese. Please know of my pastoral concern for you.”

Parkes noted that the Traditional Latin Mass will no longer be offered in Savannah’s Cathedral Basilica of St. John the Baptist starting August 7, as part of the implementation of the Vatican instructions in the diocese. He said that this Mass can instead be offered in the parish of the Sacred Heart on Sundays. 

“I am confident that Sacred Heart parish provides an appropriate and intimate place for worship and the parish leadership will be attentive to the pastoral needs of those who attend the 1 p.m. Mass there,” he said.

The Georgia bishop’s announcement came one day before the anniversary of Pope Francis’ promulgation of Traditionis custodes, a motu proprio which placed sweeping restrictions on the celebration of Mass using the 1962 Roman Missal, also known as the extraordinary form of the Roman Rite, the Tridentine Mass, and the Traditional Latin Mass. (You can read a further explanation of the document here.)

Catholic World News reported on July 18 that Cardinal Blase Cupich is expected to implement further restrictions on the Traditional Latin Mass in the Archdiocese of Chicago by withdrawing the faculties of the priests affiliated with the Institute of Christ the King Sovereign Priest (ICKSP) on August 1. 

Ravenna parish outreach reaches out to new parents

The CCW Outreach committee for Our Lady of Lourdes in Ravenna is busy this month providing meals to young families with new babies. Featured here is Cheryl Albright and Laurie Johnson (photographer) with a prepared meal for new parents Scott and Bayliegh Bohn with their son Barrett born June 7.

.

Precarious and Precious

It was 11 years ago today that my husband and I lost our daughter, Megan. She was born at a tiny 3 lbs, 3 ozs and lived only 10 days. This year has been particularly emotional given the other losses we have faced just in the past few months. Following is an essay I wrote about a small part of our short journey with Megan.

At the foot of my bed is an oak-colored cedar chest for my daughter. We found it at a very large furniture store in a very small town, and it was perfect. It featured a sunrise carved in the front, which looked more like a pineapple. Smaller than normal, it stored all my daughter's mostly pink things so nicely – her baptismal gown, her birth certificate and imprint of her feet, her baby blankets and several of her baby outfits as well as her baby book — an empty baby book.

Not that I couldn’t have filled out some of it. I just couldn’t stand the thought of not filling out the whole thing and having all those blank pages stare back at me, a painful reminder of what we didn’t have and what she never got to do.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. As we sped through Lincoln like we were racing in Daytona, I couldn’t stop my mind from racing. The ob/gyn appointment in Grand Island had us running late and that was just the beginning of the horrible turn of events.

Just a month earlier, my husband bought a dark blue minivan for our expanding family; a minivan, a blinking neon billboard that might as well read “family hauler.” At the time though, we had no idea that instead of two children, we would be hauling my husband, sister, and me, with my uncomfortably bulging belly. Uncomfortable was an understatement. Under my blue maternity top, the skin stretched across my pale beachball-sized abdomen so tightly that you could bounce a quarter off it. All that pressure wreaked havoc on my spinal column and every nerve in it felt pinched. I hadn’t been able to sleep much in the last 2 months, not only because of the pain, but my imagination running wild kept me awake as well. Mid-day in the June heat and humidity of Nebraska did not help either.

Desperate to speak with my former doctor, I spent most of the drive trying to figure out how to send him an email from my cellphone. He had taken care of me with my first pregnancy and delivered a healthy baby boy just two years earlier. I had stayed in contact with him when I found out we were expecting again, another miracle pregnancy despite all my fertility issues. Shortly after my son’s birth though, my doctor moved to Oregon, and I was forced to choose a new doctor.

Negative thoughts kept running through my mind, playing repeatedly like a broken record, compliments of that new doctor, a young blonde with not much experience I would soon learn.

“Oh, that’s way too much fluid,” she said just the day before, looking at the monitor while running the ultrasound probe over my belly glistening with a cold blue gel.

What does that mean, too much fluid? I wondered.

She called me at home later that day to tell me I was having a baby with a chromosome abnormality, something along the lines of Down’s Syndrome. My husband was furious she gave me that news, not only over the phone but when I was home by myself. I had suspected something was wrong through most of the pregnancy. No one believed me. It’s a maddening feeling, like when you are dreaming and trying to scream, but nothing comes out.

So now we were on our way to an ultrasound specialist in Omaha, twisting and turning along the interstate at 80 miles an hour, all the while keeping an eye open for our exit. I’m not going to lie, I grabbed the ‘oh crap’ handle more than once. I would have given anything to trade places with some of these people that were passing us like we were standing still. I’m sure they were all going somewhere that was better than where I was going, maybe the zoo or even shopping at the mall. Neither me, nor my husband knew how to get where we were going. Fortunately, my sister had been to the University of Nebraska Medical Center several times for infertility treatments and knew the way.

The closer we got, the more I felt like throwing up and it wasn’t just because of the pregnancy. I’ve always been a nervous person with OCD — and not in a productive “I have a super clean house” kind of way — but the useless kind that just makes me neurotic.

Once there, like a weeble-wobble, I waddled toward a help desk, explaining who I was and why I was late. I didn’t even know if we would still have the appointment or if it had to be rescheduled. Specialists are funny like that, but they got us in and led us through a maze of winding corridors, and even though they were pleasantly decorated with artwork, I couldn’t have found my way out even if I had wanted to. Apparently, we had come to the wrong building, and they took us through a back way labyrinth. My legs felt like Jell-O and between that and the extra pressure on my back from the excess fluid around my tiny baby, I really could have used a wheelchair though no one offered.

They took us to a tiny room, more like an oversized closet, dimly lit with canned lights in the ceiling. I laid on the exam table while the technician turned off the lights above me for the procedure. It didn’t take long as she rolled the wand over my belly, and I heard clicking as she saved multiple images. The technician said nothing, only that the doctor would be in shortly.

I stared at the doorknob, waiting for it to turn. The lights above me were still dimmed, but my husband and sister were each illuminated by small lights above their chairs as they sat next to each other. I was glad because they couldn’t see me sniffling or wiping tears with the back of my hand, or at least that’s what I told myself.

It was so quiet. I sat on the edge of the thin-padded table, swinging my feet back and forth like a pendulum. My sister bounced her knee nervously over her leg. My husband, who would normally be chewing his fingernails down to nubs, stared blankly in a daze. We kept waiting.

“Does anyone else have a sense of impending doom?” I said, just to break the silence.

Finally, the doorknob turned, and my heart skipped a beat. The doctor came in and introduced himself, then told us the news as he brought up the ultrasounds on a bright white display, big enough for all of us to see. He didn’t mince words and in fact, appeared to stiffen himself in his white doctor’s coat with his perfectly trimmed dark hair, not an emotion on his face. I started to cry in a sort of a whimper, Todd started to cry in a way I had never seen a man cry before. His eyes swelled with tears and turned red; his bottom lip began to quiver. He couldn’t speak clearly. It was a bit unnerving seeing a normally burly and solid man be reduced to that. My sister cried too, her shoulders rose and fell in short bursts that matched her sobs.

I began to ask questions.

“I’ll get to that. Just let me finish,” Dr. Stiff said, matter-of-factly.

He pointed out the things that were wrong with the baby, who we would name Megan, which were much clearer on the 3-D ultrasound then they were back in March. That was when the first ultrasound specialist said he was 98 percent sure everything was fine — 98 percent.

We were blindsided. Thirty-five weeks and four days of what we were told was a normal pregnancy had come down to these few minutes with a doctor who had all the sensitivity of a bug.

“The physical abnormalities can be fixed,” he said. “The club foot, the clenched fists and the defective heart, which you can see only has two chambers. However, she would need to be stronger to endure the heart surgery. But if she gains weight, her heart will have to work much harder, and she might not survive.”

They admitted me to the hospital from there, once again along the winding back corridors, and scheduled an amniocentesis to find out exactly what genetic abnormality she had. It was Trisomy 18, also known as Edward's Syndrome, a step worse than Down's Syndrome. We were all a mess of tears and tissues and sobbing — an inconsolable, uncontrollable sobbing.

It would be 10 days before my daughter succumbed to the damage done to her body practically before she existed, a hairline fracture in her DNA when her 23 chromosomes were formed. There was nothing I did or could have done differently to keep any of this from happening, I know this. No amount of bed rest or extra sleep, healthier eating or exercise would have changed the outcome. Had we opted to do something to extend her life — which in hindsight, had I known she was such a fighter I would have — we may have had more than 10 days.

I wish I would have.