The promise of a glorious day dawned on the Sunday morning in May of my daughter’s First Holy Communion. The sky was a cloudless brilliant blue, the air spring-fresh and clear; a perfect day for my baby girl to be receiving the Body of Christ for the first time. All the hours spent in prayer and preparation for this blessed event was happening today. God is good!

If that weren’t blessing enough; like manna from heaven, He even provided me with a talented team of friends who spent all morning transforming my seven-year-old daughter from her usual mismatched dishevelment, into angelic radiance.

I knew keeping her in that pristine state after the mass would be a challenge but I was hoping she would at least make it to the church all in white.  I watched, white-knuckled, from the living room window, as she happily ran in circles across the dew-drenched front lawn. Biting my lip, I turned quickly away, pretending I hadn’t seen the potential grass-stain catastrophe waiting to happen.

I ran through the house searching for my keys, applying lip gloss and making sure my son’s hair was combed and his shirt tucked in. Everyone was good to go.

Just as my family and friends and I were about to rush out the door, the phone rang. If it hadn’t been within arm’s length, I wouldn’t have answered it. It was my children’s father who should’ve already been on his way to the church. Instead, he was reconfirming what time the ceremony was starting at. Trying to keep the irritation from my voice, I repeated the information he had known and had been reminded about for months.

Then he dropped the bomb. “I’m bringing my friend.” It didn’t register immediately, perhaps because of the chaos. “Your friend?” I repeated. “Yes and, I’m telling you now so you don’t go crazy and, lose it like you always do.” The insult wasn’t anything new, the announcement was.

It hit me, hard. My mouth went dry and I suddenly felt choked while everything around me seemed to stop. The moment I had dreaded for almost six years was about to be forced upon me. I was going to be subjected to the woman my ex-husband was involved with; the ‘other’ woman who had taken my place and now shared his life.

Of all his endless attacks on my spirit; of all his battles I’ve had to engage in, this one was by far, the most vicious. He was going to make me endure this dreaded moment at my daughter’s First Holy Communion. The air around me was suddenly filled with the strong scent of my falling to pieces.

My cousin sensed immediately what was happening and graciously started leading my children outside. My friend came to stand by my side.

How could this be happening today? I looked up towards heaven and cried, “Why God?”   I don’t know how I made it to the church.

My beloved sister sustained me in church while my saint-of-a cousin sat in the pew behind me gently encouraging me to read the prayer card she had slipped in my hand, before mass began. I managed to push through the bedlam in my head and force all my thoughts on THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER (attributed to Pope Clement XI), one of my favorites and one I hadn’t prayed in a long time.

As the prayer seeped into my being, the organist began with the choir joining in and I watched as my beautiful, breathtaking daughter walked up the aisle like a bride of Jesus. Just as she got to her assigned pew, she stopped to turn her shining, smiling face my way and looked at me with so much joy and adoration that my heart overflowed with love and gratitude.

In that split second; that perfect moment, I realized that my ex’s ‘friend’ did not matter and neither did he. As much as I felt crushed and alone by his undignified act, I was not. I was sheltered in God’s armor and in the company of His angels the whole time.

It was then that I understood how truly God loves. It was then that He carried me.

“Do not fear or lose heart.”  2 Chronicles 20:17

Copyright June 2009 Manuela Giannotti