Last February I traveled to California with my daughter and my friends Lori, Cheryl, Shannon and Missy.  The opportunity to get away for a few days sounded too good to turn down.  And who turns down a trip to Beverly Hills?  The first night was surreal.  We had dinner at Lisa Vanderpump’s upscale Italian restaurant called Pump.  It was the perfect venue for my friend Cheryl because she is a major Lisa stalker.  As luck would have it, Cheryl’s dream would come true and she got to meet Lisa, along with her husband, Ken, and little dog, Giggy.  The whole thing was entertaining to say the least.

The next day we decided to shop down on Rodeo Drive.  Missy made sure she outlined the attire for the day.  Apparently my sweats and Shannon’s tennis shoes were not “Rodeo Drive approved” in Missy’s handbook.  Once we all met the criteria for our shopping outfits, we headed out.  Needless to say, we did considerably more “looking” than “shopping” that day.  If any of you have ever been on Rodeo Drive, you know what I mean.

Needing some afternoon caffeine, we walked into a cute little coffeehouse/bakery just off the strip.  Standing in line to order my coffee, I noticed an older gentleman sitting by himself.  After paying for my coffee, I glanced back over at the man and saw him smiling at me.  He was somewhere between my dad’s and grandpa’s age if I were guessing.  I remember him looking slightly foreign (perhaps Italian).  As I smiled back, there was something about him I liked.  He had warm eyes and large hands.  Around his neck hung a modest gold chain and crucifix.  You certainly don’t have to be a Catholic to wear a crucifix, but somehow I knew he was.  I told him his crucifix was beautiful and he responded by pulling a chair out beside him, motioning for me to sit down.  Without a moment’s hesitation, I took a seat across from him.  I can only imagine what my friends were thinking at this point.

I had a necklace on that day of my own.  It had a picture of Dalton.  As I sat down, I saw the stranger look at it.  We started with small talk.  He was a Catholic (duh).  His parish was only blocks away from the coffeehouse and he said he had just finished packaging food there for the hungry.  We visited about his involvement at his church quite awhile (something he was obviously very proud of).  Every now and then he would look at my necklace with Dalton on it.  We were briefly interrupted when his phone rang.  He looked down at it and said it was his pastor.  I remember how his eyes twinkled while he spoke.  I only looked away briefly to see my friends give me a motion like they were going to leave us alone for awhile.  I guessed they assumed he wasn’t going to kidnap me or anything crazy.

“Ok, Father.  I’ll see you in the morning,” the man said before hanging up his phone.  He apologized for the interruption and cupped both of my hands in his.  Instead of creeping me out, I sat transfixed in the moment and didn’t resist.  I had told him my name by this point.  I could feel his hands trembling as a person’s might who has Parkinson’s Disease.  I hadn’t noticed that before.  A smile of love and confidence crept on his face and he just stared at me for a couple long seconds.  “Jenny, you need to know that your son is okay.”

Since Dalton’s accident, many people have given me condolences saying that DD is in heaven and that he is happy.  That seems to be a typical reassuring thing to say when someone is grieving the loss of a loved one.  What set this stranger’s words apart from others was that the topic of my son’s death had never been mentioned while we were sitting there visiting in that coffeehouse.  With his eyes closed, the man proceeded to tell me of various apparitions he believes he has seen of the Virgin Mother over the years.  If he was making them up, he was an excellent storyteller.  HIs descriptions left no detail unspoken.  He told of the detail down to the embroidery on Mary’s gown and veil and how the sweet smell of roses seemed to be encompassing her with each vision.  I listened like a student hungry for knowledge, unable to get enough.

Very, very slowly the man opened his eyes.  I’m sure my mouth was hanging open in awe.  Composing myself, I asked him a question.  “How do you know he is okay?”  The smile returned to his face.  “Because I see him.  He is smiling, ” he replied.  I buried my face in my hands and cried in the middle of this coffeehouse in Beverly Hills, California.  I never asked where he saw him and with whom.  I didn’t need to.  All that mattered was that some divine intervention felt like it had occurred in order to reassure me of my son’s salvation.  Who wouldn’t be smiling if they were in the presence of God?

A couple weeks after my trip to California, an ex-student from St. Thomas Aquinas sent me a message through facebook and she told me of this song called “It Is Well.”  I googled it and found a version sung by Bethel Music.  I played it over and over and over some more.  Each time I listened to the lyrics, I felt the Holy Spirit entering into my soul.  Beginning with that “chance encounter” in Beverly Hills, my healing started to take place thanks to the comfort that can only be provided by the Holy Spirit.  I can’t bring Dalton back, but I can trust in a Lord who promises to heal the broken-hearted.

Far be it from me to not believe

Even when my eyes can’t see.

And this mountain that’s in front of me

Will be thrown into the midst of the sea.

Through it all, through it all

My eyes are on You

Through it all, through it all

It is well.

(Verse 2 and chorus of It Is Well by Bethel Music)

So what does this mean to me?  It means that even though I never, ever wanted to be in this position, I will take comfort from a God who gives it freely and abundantly.  All I have to do is accept it.  My faith in Him is strong and I truly believe He has everything handled.  He will weave this tragedy into something great, something I never expected. Knowing I must keep the faith in an all-good, all sovereign God, it is well with my soul.