Lord Have Mercy

I can hear the chant echo in the cloisters of my brain:

Kyrie, eleison. Kyrie, eleison
Christe, eleison. Christe, eleison.
Kyrie, eleison. Kyrie, eleison.

I know I'm supposed to be talking about light, but if I don't describe the darkness, you won't know what the light means to me.

My mother's mental illness has come to a crisis point, again. Each time more damage is done. Over twenty years of voices, medications, side effects, losses, and relocations is taking its toll. The beast in her brain has transfigured itself, escaping the rusting chains of once-effective medications. She is refusing to take the new ones that could help. She is refusing to sign paperwork that would allow people to help her. That would allow her to have a place to live where she would be cared for.

She is beginning to let the beast take over; I'm afraid it will destroy her. She thinks I am out to get her; I'm afraid she will shut me out.

I assigned a harsh ringer to her number on my cell phone. This way, if I am with my children, I know not to answer the phone.

I have learned through painful experience how my mother's phone calls can affect me.

For the past several days, I have been feeling blank, shocked about the nightmare that she is in. Too shocked to sit down and pray, even. I should take the time to be in the Lord's presence, but I'm too agitated. Day to day, her story changes. I whirl between cautious optimism to bewilderment to despair to guilt to anger to depression to fear to pain to helplessness.

My soul cries out. The Spirit resurrects a rich memory from the masses of my early childhood.

Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world. Have mercy on us.
Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world. Have mercy on us.
Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world. Grant us peace.

This is all I know to say. This is all I have the strength for. Light of the World, help me. Help her.

Help us all.