A Catholic Mom's Life of Prayer

Sr. Margaret Kerry, FSP, shares her sister Cathy's secrets of faith, hope, and love.

All that the friends of Christ did for him in his lifetime, we can do. Peter’s mother-in-law hastened to cook a meal for him, and if anything in the Gospels can be inferred, it surely is that she gave the very best she had, with no thought of extravagance. (Dorothy Day)

This is the story of a mother of seven, Catherine Mary Chrisco, my sister. Living with cancer for over ten years, she left us at fifty-nine years old on August 28, 2020. Her youngest had just turned twenty-one. After her mom’s death, Renee, her youngest child, found her mom’s prayer journal. We sat together to read the secrets of Cathy’s constant faith, hope and love:

I want to live with joy because you love me and fear has no place in total love.

I trust in your absolute love for me. I TRUST in your love for my children, you know what is best for them. I Trust you will never leave them and that you will unite us forever!

Prayers are the rope I am holding on to, Jesus you are holding the other end.

We both knew that her prayer was Eucharistic and Marian. Even during Covid and with cancer she knelt outside of the church of St Sylvester for her hour of Adoration to be in the presence of Jesus in the tabernacle.

Cathy’s earliest prayers included the everyday and ordinary time with her children:

Lord, today I washed clothes and dried them, and they still don’t smell right. I’ll wash them again tomorrow, but the day is at the end. Now I will read Bible, even if there are some things I just don’t understand. Then I will pray the Rosary. I want to thank you for this wonderful day.

Cathy’s last testament to her family was a prayer.

I love you guys. I cannot wait to hold you all in my arms again, what Joy!!!!! Stephen my husband, I look forward to being with you again. We will laugh so hard when we are together my smile will not disappear. To my precious grandbabies + Joys of my life: I will be always watching you and asking God for great graces to be sent to you.

At work in nursing homes and at home that same serene smile was shared with everyone. Her love for others gave her strength as she carried her own suffering. It was in that love she found God’s love. Cathy’s smile and serenity filled the spaces she walked in. “Even if I did not see her silently walk into the church,” someone commented, “I felt her peace.”

As I bent down to help an elderly lady I could see the suffering of others world-wide. Still, I was extremely happy, happy to help, happy to be on my knees bringing comfort to this lady. She asked me, ‘why you are so happy?’ I said, ‘I am in heaven.’ I felt heaven inside of me. I am totally at peace and totally happy. Joy is intense inside of me. I want to bring joy and love to everyone. I feel that I am in heaven fulfilling God’s love on earth.

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Unexpected joy and serenity in life and in the face of death is something we all hope for. #catholicmom

Her daughter Liz Chrisco wrote this amazing farewell at Cathy’s funeral, celebration of life:

Dear Mom,

Sitting under the moon at the beach tonight brings back the memories of when we were kids; and you would walk us, late at night to the beach near Grandma and Granddad’s old house, on a mission to see the baby sea turtles and the bioluminescence, talking with Granddad about the stars and constellations—looking for Andromeda. Now you’re with him… I wonder if the two of you know the secrets of the universe, if you can now explore the furthest galaxies and at the same time, the smallest particle in our bodies. I know we can all still feel your presence; now it’s just distilled. When I close my eyes, I can still hear your voice, see your smile and your walk.

You were way too nice to everyone—you never knew how not to smile, even to those of us you loved more than you liked. Sometimes I think of the stories of you when you were a little girl, unbelievably shy, eating only pickles and hiding from your siblings. You didn’t really change much—even though you showed us the grace of a true saint, I know you didn’t always want to show your face, or have a conversation, or be supportive, BUT you did it anyway, because you knew what love really was. The love that you showed to us was something more: it was a love you knew from another realm, something powerful and infectious, something that put all of us at ease and made us feel like we might be able to give that same love. Thank you for teaching us, thank you for showing us the light that was shown to you.

Even on your death bed, you found a way to lighten the situation and make us laugh. Remember when you could barely breathe, and were holding on for dear life? Some of the last words you spoke were “What’s your favorite food?”, even though you knew me, Renee, and Sr. Margaret would all choose Margherita pizza. But yes, that’s a true example of how beautifully full of light you were: always laughing and whenever we asked how you were feeling, responding with: “I’m alright, it’s just pain.” In the hours before your death, you showed the utmost grace. You fought till the last day, giving to your family until you could no longer stand. Even after your mobility was taken away, you did everything for us; you thanked everyone for the slightest help, you held our hands and used the little breath you had to tell us that you loved us.

You were the strongest in your darkest hour. All the years of suffering leading up to this were part of your warrior training. Thank you for winning the fight, thank you for not letting death take away your dignity. How didn’t I know till this cancer battle that you were enlightened? Thank you so much for coming to this earth and being our mom. No wonder you had so many kids, so many grandkids, so much family, so many friends—you were sent here to show us how to live a life with love and dedication and authenticity and gentleness and grace, and you did it all for God. That is truly what it means to live a meaningful life. No matter how many times I say it, it will never be enough: Thank you, I am so grateful. We all are.

As Liz sat down, spontaneous clapping filled the church. Cathy’s unexpected joy and serenity in life and in the face of death was something we all hope for. One of her last texts to me was: “Jesus is our true love. During the thunderstorm last night I saw Him sitting on my chair looking at me for only a split second but it will last forever.”

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