I’m sure I’m not the only one who has taken time to write a heart-felt thank you card or some other greeting card for a special occasion. And I’m equally sure I’m not the only one who has found that card years later in a box of miscellaneous stuff. I just found two such cards, written after Christmas about 5 years ago. One of them is addressed to a dear couple in my life, the wife of which passed on not long after the card was written. As I process the death of my best friend (of over 60 years!) I am seeing such mishaps differently. We don’t always get a second chance to mail those cards, or to say thank you, or to tell someone how much they mean to us.
I guess the task ahead of me is like a post-humous thank you note. I’m going to be speaking at Wanda’s memorial and ‘celebration of life’ service. I want to do this with all my heart. Yet I’m struggling. I don’t know how to express my gratitude and my longing along with being real about the sorrow in a small thank you card – in the short time allotted. Most of the attendees will be antsy to move through the service, or they’ll be wandering down their own memory lanes. Somehow, I want this ‘note’ to be written, and “sent” (spoken) exactly as it needs to be – for me as well a for the hearers. I want us to come together in that talk, to remember together, to rejoice and mourn as one. I want to assimilate the memories and release the ‘might have been’ and ‘never will be’. I want to say “Thank you” to my nearest and dearest friend for all that was, and all the ways her life and legacy will continue to impact us.
At the beginning of the year, a friend of mine confided that she was fasting with her church for 20 days. This was a partial fast of two meals every day. She shared this in the context of talking about prayer. One comment stuck with me. “In my hungry prayers…” She went on to tell me how her prayers had taken on a different quality during the time of fasting.
Fast forward to another person, I’ll call her Jane. Jane decided to fast in preparation for walking the Via Dolorosa with Christ, a sort of “Lenten” fast. She started fasting one meal per day, with two meals on some days. She resonated with the idea of “hungry prayers.”
Jane has done some research on fasting. Fasting literally means abstaining from food. This can be with or without abstaining from everything (such as water) and some even make a case for a “juice only” fast. I would personally suggest that a juice fast be reserved for long complete fasts or for those who must have some calories due to a medical need. [By the way, “don’t try this at home” if you have any medical condition involving food consumption, and if you are unsure seek guidance from your physician!]
What Jane noticed first was her hunger. Her study of fasting had encouraged her to identify her motivation to fast. “Fasting is the natural, inevitable response of a person to a grievous sacred moment in life,” writes Scot McKnight in his bookFasting. What was Jane’s grievous sacred moment? She told me there were several. She had recently noticed some particularly stubborn defects of character surfacing in new ways. Or maybe they were showing up in old ways she thought was “handled.” She was noticing a creeping hunger for food that had nothing to do with nutrition. Jane shared that although she had not turned to food consumption (yet), she knew she was on shaky ground with sharp thoughts of eating compulsively. She knew from many years of experience that if she gave in to her cravings the food would also not satisfy her real needs and deeper longings. The idea of fasting from food made her worry that her food obsession would be intensified rather than abated. Jane was surprised that hunger, was a strong reminder to pray instead of reaching for food. Her “hungry prayers” took on a new dimension of longing for God in the midst of it all. She found herself almost automatically looking to Jesus with her in her temptations. She said “After all, Jesus was tempted in every way we are,” as summarized in the account of his 40 days of wilderness fasting.
Jane also had several weighty decisions and some less dramatic decisions weighing on her. This was another grievous, sacred moment. (I’ll take “moment” to mean event, reality, movement or concern.) Jane wanted to approach these decisions with a discerning heart. She wanted the freedom to choose beyond her capacity to reason or justify, for she knew her own inclinations were to do what was comfortable or familiar, not necessarily what is best or required the most faith. I was aware that Jane had been learning to discern the spirits which tried to counsel her toward one or another side of her decisions. The “false spirit” would entice her with options that seemed to push her away from God, away from faith, hope and love. These inclinations were often confused, “noisy” and demanding. She could also notice that movements from the “good spirit” guided her gently, kindly and patiently toward God, as clarified by a moving toward faith, hope and love. Sometimes even with the guidelines of healthy discernment, the matters at hand were shrouded in a fog of confusion. The false spirit seemed to be winning! Taking the entire situation – the decisions themselves and the process of discernment of spirits as her “grievous sacred moment” to “hungry prayer” caused the fog to begin to lift. Jane had hope for clarity and was encouraged to continue leaning in to prayer during her “hungry moments”.
We are becoming more familiar with the word “liminal.” I don’t know if Richard Rohr brought this word into our vocabulary, but his writings were where I first encountered the term. I really connected with the concept of liminal space in Ruth Haley Barton’s unpacking of the Emmaus Road encounter between two un-named disciples and Jesus. These two found themselves on the threshold between what they thought was certain, devastating disappointment as their certainties exploded, and the “what now, what’s next.” They were between the “now” and the “not yet.” Sometimes liminal space feels like leaping across a great chasm to me. I feel suspended in mid-air, not at all sure if there is a “catcher” or if there is any possibility of landing on my feet on solid ground.
As I reflect on the difficulty, ok, let’s be honest here – the pain, wounds, suffering, grief and trauma – of numerous ministry transitions, I recall the unbalanced feeling of being in that liminal space. I could remove the word “ministry” from the above sentence and add another file drawer of liminal thresholds. Couldn’t we all, if we are honest? And why would we want to be anything less than honest? I’ll let you answer that for yourself. I only know that for me it was a bit of a street fight. Between distress and devastation, the liminal spaces were both un-balancing and necessary.
Eventually, I quit and complaining about “what next” or “how can I recover from what we’ve endured,” and start noticing where God is at work. It takes time and wrangling to get to the point where I can stop fighting, sit still instead of fleeing, come out of hiding, and quit trying to be everything to everyone. (Yes, I do all 4 – fight, flight, freeze and fawn!) I have received profound benefit from spiritual direction and silent guided retreats in the past twenty years. With a little spiritual guidance, I begin to realize that it is precisely in the pain I can stop striving long enough to notice and receive God’s invitations to a fuller, deeper place of connection with God and so with my own soul. This eventually develops into a more loving way of being in service to others. When I get this upside down and try harder to “do the things”, I find I’m more cut off from my own soul and consequently have more difficulty delighting in God.
The other illuminating element of a productive liminal space is community. The people I expected to present for us were missing in action. We didn’t know how to help each other- but we did try our best. I longed for authentic community for more years than I can count. Sometimes I was so exhausted I was ready to settle for any sense of belonging. I did not know how to find or create and nurture meaningful and vulnerable life with others. I believe this is especially hard when one has been wounded by community. The truth is wounds received in community must be healed in community. Once I realized this, I began to scan with revised radar frequencies, paying close attention to blips on the screen. I knew that it was unwise to tell everything to everyone. But at the same time, I began to take vulnerability risks to see if others would accept the invitation to also be real – to discover if we could create a place of grace and inter-dependence. It was easiest to start with the smallest possible communities, and groups that were by their nature protectors of confidentiality. My spiritual director was “community” for me. I briefly attended a church different from my historical experience, one where I could be a “soul in God’s presence” without pressure to “do” anything. I signed up for a 12-step program for an area that needs attention in my life. I enrolled in classes and workshops. I participated in an inner-healing retreat with several private prayer sessions (me, a guide and an intercessor) plus time for silence and solitude. I signed up for two years in covenant with a Transforming Community. I took the plunge to lead a Confessional Community as developed by Curt Thompson. As I became a more trustworthy companion for others, then others were increasingly able to be honest about their own journeys. I started finding community where I never thought I would – inside of traditionally structured churches. I briefly attended a church of a different tradition than my own history – a liturgical church – one where I could slip in the back and exit without speaking to a person. Eventually, I introduced myself to the priest. I never did invest deeply in that congregation, but they were kind and held space for me to be a soul in God’s presence without demanding more involvement. I felt encouraged to seek out a congregation where I could join the community more fully.
Lessons learned for me include:
Don’t fight against the liminal space or try to jump the threshold.
Use the time in liminality to be in God’s loving gaze and watch for God’s invitations to a deeper connect to God.
When I feel lost or stuck, simply ask God to be with me in my “lostness.”
Take initiative to look for, create and nurture community, carefully choosing those which feel “safe.” Be bold to look in unlikely places.
Allow trained helpers to help – spiritual directors, mental health professionals, coaches, and other guides. God is the Physician; they are the care team.
Look for the light: liminal spaces can seem very dark, look for illumination that can deepen into transformation. We don’t make either happen, but we can pay attention and cooperate with the work of the Holy Spirit and the care of others.
Have you ever noticed how seemingly random trails of thought suddenly seem to converge? Either these musings suddenly make sense, or they are a whirl of confusion – or sometimes both in rapid and alternating succession?
I’ve been thinking about chaos since someone suggested that the chaos of (my) life might be the place/substrate for creation. WOW. God Spirit is hovering… I’ve been aware of this also even longer than I was able to form the word “chaos.” I then began running into other folks reflections on “chaos”. Allen Arnold (a great daily entry here)and Brandon Booth (over at signpost inn) What I noticed in me recently is external chaos is difficult enough to navigate – like a boat on a stormy sea. Even so, the internal chaos is even more daunting. After the sea has been calmed, I must face the question “why did your faith falter? Don’t you know that what I said will come to pass? Don’t you know that I have you in the external chaos and the internal muddle and confusion?”
Enter Matthew 11:28-29 once again. Again! This verse has been a prominent script on the stage of my reflection theater for . . . years. I’ve heard it and ruminated and entered into it so many times I could easily write it off with that “AGAIN! Enough already!” But I didn’t. “Take my yoke. Let me have exchange your burden that is too heavy and ill-fitting for you for one that suits you; it will seem light if you pull in the yoke with me.” Or the alternative exegesis of the term “yoke”… “Let go of the performance demands of the way you have always tried to please and satisfy what you think I require, the old constructs of religion, doctrine and (gasp) dogma. The problem isn’t with the teaching, but the way it’s been taught as a performance criteria for getting close to me, for being with me. My teaching is not like that. We can dance together in this way of being. Join me! Your service won’t seem perfunctory any more, but will be a delight, even as I delight in pulling alongside of you.”
I was thinking about all of this today, and wondered two things. 1) What is rest, anyway? I mean, seriously, what feels like and provides refreshment in my soul that I could call “rest”? 2) If we are pulling in the yoke with Jesus, then we also share his sufferings. Jesus told the two disciples who made the “big ask” to be granted to sit on his left and his right “you shall drink the cup I drink and be baptized with the same baptism with which I have been baptized.” (By the way, I noticed how often I make “big asks” based on my own grandiose ideas, not on the evidence of God at work!) How is that “light and easy”, a yoke suitable for me? I suppose that even in suffering, I can know deeply that I am not carrying pain or trauma or difficulty simply for the sake of suffering. There is a higher plan – crucifixion must precede and (in the Jesus way) is always followed by resurrection! Out of chaos comes… creation of something new; a new creature maybe?
Chaos – Creation. Drinking the cup of Jesus – easy yoke. Suffering, crucifixion – resurrection, new life. AND the reality that in each case, only in the first do we find the second… Only in giving up our lives do we find them. Only in the storm can we witness Jesus amazing power to quiet the storm. Only by encountering crises, and exercising our little faith do we grow in faith. In the darkness can we best see the light. Now, I’m still curious about “rest”… and what that really means for me.
Come Lord Jesus, come. Come quickly to our aid. Jesus Christ, Son of David, have mercy on me.
I noticed a book the other day that was focused on the first year of grief. I wish I could remember where I saw it, because I probably should read it. (Of course, I would have to tell it “take a number and get in line. There are 48 books ahead of you.” (probably more than that!) Maybe I need to write a book about grieving in the SECOND year. I’m not sure I was really “with” my grief for the first year. Today, I am giving gratitude that after nearly a year and a half, my thoughts about my mother, and the grieving that go along with those thoughts, have begun to turn from the difficulties of her later years. For the first third of the first year I was focused on caring for Mother’s things – her possessions, bills, preparing to see and selling her house, including dispensing and disbursing all of the ‘stuff’ from a good sized storage structure on her property, submitting some indemnity insurance claims…. the list goes on. I missed her, but sometimes the grieving was more over the “finalizing” itself than about her. In many ways, I was still taking care of her and fulfilling her wishes for her heirs. I was also “taking care of her” because I was so happy for her, and for her release from the downward spiral of her disease combined with her many other health challenges. The rest of that year, my grief turned to remembering her suffering and the hard things. There have not been many regrets about unfinished relational matters with my mother. But the regrets over decisions I made on her behalf, or choices I didn’t make sooner, and so forth crept in. This is a very negative and unproductive kind of grief! Yet, it must have been important for me to feel that sadness and to let it go, to receive her forgiveness if needed and to forgive myself for any ‘harms done’. And the harms done may have been mostly imagined or feared on my part. And then we moved and are doing it all over again, and layering grief of other letting go into the humus. Grief calls to grief – but that’s another post for another day.
(Sunrise over Serenity Acres)
Only in the past month or so, a year and a quarter after her death, the grief for my Mama has begun to shift, Thank God. I am beginning to ‘miss’ some of the beautiful parts of Mama’s last years. Today, for instance, I felt sad that she is no longer part of a group text my son sends out every day reporting his fasting glucose and daily diabetes maintenance activities. He often includes additional notes or a punny (or snarky) comment. She loved that. I loved it that he started doing this of his own volition. Mama could be critical and demanding – but when it came to Matthew’s daily “report” she was always encouraging, and rarely tried to “fix” him. As a nurse, she would occasionally suggest he seek medical opinions or he might even ask her advice about something. But this was a very small part of our daily “report. And I miss her being part of that.
When I remember Mama’s suffering, the grief I feel has softened. I don’t cry much when I grieve- in fact for a long time I didn’t recognize the thoughts and feelings I was experiencing being part of grief! Yet, the ‘rain’ and microbes of grief are doing their good work. It’s as if the leaves which fell from the trees are finally starting to give off nourishment to the soil of my life instead of simply being a painful reminder of those difficult days. Mama’s contributions to and participation in the last years of her life are gifts. Missing her in the remembering and the sorrow over what might have been mixed with the joy that was are also precious jewels.
About a year ago we learned, through a series of physically and emotionally painful events, that the cancer in Mama’s body had metastasized to her brain. On April 11, 2023 she left her battered earth-suit for another realm of reality. In the moment and the days and weeks following, there was much joy mingled with little sorrow. I had “pre-grieved”, and with the busyness of taking care of Mother’s last things and her “affairs”, I really didn’t have time to grieve. Besides, that seems to be my way of grieving: Pre-grieve, take care of what is needed with loving attention and tenacity, move on, the emotions of sadness, loss and longing come later. I’m beginning to miss her, and starting to move through and beyond the grief of reliving her last years, months, weeks and days. All of this comes with remorse and regret for ways “I” could have shown up differently, or made different decisions. Never mind that my thinking brain knows there’s no need for regret: I have to move through it anyway for my sensing and feeling brain to align with what I know is true.
Grief for my Mom and the end of her life has exposed other griefs – long held and deeply buried resentments I didn’t know were still there, letting go of what “might have been,” decisions in various areas of my personal and family history where I wonder what would have been different had an alternate choice been made. Grief in turn is it’s own kind of suffering. There may have been a wound or suffering “back there”, and the memory associated with the current grief is another kind of suffering. Walking through this alone is terrifying, but I am thankfully not alone. God has graciously provided several communities who are holding the container, the space, the crucible if you will, for the refiner’s fire of suffering to do it’s good work.
Part of the good work of suffering is surgery where the Great Physician makes a clean incision to deep places so that defects of character can be clearly identified. I must sign the consent form. With my willing and surrendered participation, the Holy One can then remove those defects of character, another word for which is sin. I use sin here as anything which does not serve God’s design and purpose, any “thing” (person, attribute, gift, possession, position, etc.) that in any way replaces God or in my heart and life. This includes self striving to complete God’s good work in my own flesh, by my own clever machinations.
Almost immediately after Mother died, I felt that a whole new volume of my life was ready to be written. I have had trouble visualizing the cover of that volume open and the pen moving across the page. Someone suggested I simply write “Here am I, Lord, your servant is listening.” Situations are presenting themselves (under the Holy Spirit, I have no doubt), and I am actively experimenting with ministry ideas. Yet, what might be written seems to be somewhere in draft format – not yet solidified enough to enter into the volume. I believe that the deep work of the laser beam of revelation and healing is necessary in my life. God is faithful to only allow what God knows is timely to examined. I have received so many confirmations of my status as The Beloved, which makes all of this possible. Grief itself in these areas is painful, sometimes sorrowful, but joy is also present. For this I am grateful.
One more thing about grief and my Mother. Finding instructions to care-givers about helping Mama with her bath triggered this entire blog. I realized early on in the days of helping Mama with her shower that I never really wanted anyone else to be her bath-helper. These were tender and intimate times, even if I sometimes we both ended up exhausted from the effort. We talked about things that mattered or had some levity while she rested and I took care of her feet following her shower. As I read my notes, it struck me how similar the work of suffering is in my life to Mama’s shower. She participated and did what was hers to do (which changed depending on her stamina and strength.) She had to be willing for me to do what she could not do for herself. We went past the superficial. We worked together for her cleansing. The profound work of grief and suffering is changing me, transforming the broken places – cleansing and renewing. I have to do what God gives me to do, and be willing for God to do everything else. I need to participate according to the strength and energy God gives.
“And we boast in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.“
Romans 5:2b-5 (NIV)
If you want to explore the relationship between suffering and hope, check out the current Transforming Center “Strengthening the Soul of your Leadership” podcast with Ruth Haley Barton and Curt Thompson, two of my favorite authors and community architects. Their conversation is centered on the content of Dr. Thompson’s latest book “The Deepest Place, Suffering and the Formation of Hope.” https://transformingcenter.org/strengthening-the-soul-of-your-leadership-podcast/
I’m noticing a great deal of inner resistance right now. This includes push-back and procrastination on activities that are potentially life giving. I’m involved in several groups with different goals, but they all seem to be converging right now on taking a ‘fearless and moral inventory” and becoming aware of defects of character that are ripe for removal (by God – I can only be willing!) There are “things I think I need but don’t really need” which are all false ways to get my own needs met, to feel safe or to have value. I harbor resentments, long buried, that I didn’t know I held. And I discover fears I’ve never really acknowledged for what they are – traps and delusions that block me from full receiving Love – both God’s and others – and also block the flow of love out to others. I’m really only blogging today to say that this wasteland of liminality is partly due to my own resistance to do the work which will allow lifegiving water to bring forth the beauty that is there.
Why do I procrastinate? Why is it so hard to just do what will give life? A few reasons come to mind quickly. Most of those don’t put the responsibility for delaying on me – but on some other being or spirit of evil. Why do I procrastinate? I don’t fully know. Spending a little time with that question may also bring out some of the root causes for those defects of character, those ways I’ve hurt others with my own selfishness or self-referenced way of being in the world. So, it’s back to the poustinia, to listen, to face what must be faced, and to be loved in the doing. I know that anything I face, Jesus already faced. I know that I’m not left as an orphan, but that he sees me, and is with me. Yet what I know sometimes seems distant, obscure, and not-quite-real. In the poustinia (the desert or wilderness) of the heart, perhaps I can become still enough for the deeper knowing, and even the unknowing, to guide me into a life of abundance, joy, redemption, and release. I hope it shall be so. (And hope does not disappoint.)
Can you dream with me just a little bit? I know some of you are like me, in that when you see a situation that needs to be addressed – an injustice, a hurt, an ugly paint job – you want to do everything to make it right. Immediately if not sooner. I struggle because I cannot do everything. I flounder because I don’t know where to start. I pray to see what is “my part” and to understand “what does love ask of me”, “what is the next faithful thing to do.” Those are great questions, but so often, I come away from agonizing over them without any clear direction.
Today a post by the Rev. Tina Harris was very helpful as we celebrate Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. I share it with you here. What can you imagine? What if we combined our imagined healthier futures – could we be more whole as persons, families, neighborhoods, communities, churches, business – even a nation? I wonder. And I’d like to imagine that it could be so.
Several threads are running through my head- and heart- today. At first, they didn’t seem all that related, but now they are starting to weave into something recognizable.
I typically engage in lectio divina every day with an podcast where the speaker suggests the movements of lectio and then reads a selection (same passage for all of the movements) taken from the coming Sunday’s lectionary reading, allowing space to listen to what God might be saying to my heart during each focused movement. Since Epiphany was yesterday, this week has largely been about the coming (and leaving) of the Magi to worship Jesus as an baby- whether infant or very young toddler, we do not know, but probably not a newborn.
(Aside: Why did the protestant evangelical shoot of the Church decide to just remember the coming of the Christ all in a lump. It’s almost like Mary became pregnant, said Hi to Elizabeth, travelled with Joseph to Bethlehem, gave birth, where they were visited by shepherd and Magi all in the space of a few days. I really like having a season of Advent – waiting and watching; then Christmastide- 12 days of celebration of the coming of the Messiah; then Epiphany – the coming of the Magi and ensuing drama. But that’s another post.)
At any rate, what struck me today as I reflected on Matthew’s account of the visit of the Magi was that they “opened their treasure and presented gifts.” As I listened for the Holy Spirit, I was humbled to think “just open your treasure and give what is there.” I have so many dreams and desires and longings right now for ministry and service and usefulness in the Kingdom. But today it was simple – “open your treasure and present the gifts that you have.” I know that the Little Drummer Boy is a figment of the imagination, but that story came to mind. “I have no gift to bring…”. I think my hidden fear might be “what if I open my treasure and there is nothing to give? What if my treasure bag/box is empty after all?”
Then I read yesterday’s reading in the “Read the Bible through in 2 years” plan. Yes, I’m behind already and it’s only Jan 7. Anyway, this was Genesis 6 – where Noah is tasked with building a massive arc to save humanity and all earth and sky creatures. I was struck by how evil and repulsive the world had become because of human depravity. We are tempted to think that things have never been worse in our world. Well… there’s Noah. His job, his treasure, was simply to be obedient and faithful to the task before him. I’m not sure what tasks are before me, and I don’t have a master set of blueprints for anything extra-ordinary. But the words of my spiritual director come to mind, “The phrase, “what is the next faithful step” comes to mind. Perhaps being qualified isn’t the main issue; perhaps it is more about being called and willing.”
Then, back to Matthew 6 for the NT reading. Gulp. I can’t unpack Matthew 6 in a single blog post, a single hour, day or week. (You try it, just go read Matthew 6 slowly and reflectively! It’s not a matter of “if” it will capture your attention, but “where” is God speaking into any one of our lives at this particular moment. I think I could read Matthew 6 for a year and not be done with Jesus’ words therein.) God’s provision certainly spoke to me – not to do whatever I do for the response and respect of an audience. Later, Jesus is teaching not to worry about where the resources would originate because God’s more than capable to do far more than I can imagine or perceive with my physical faculties. Then there is the ‘don’t worry’ passage… I get so caught up in ‘what next, what now, where to and how do we get there” questions, I forget to live fully present to this moment and fully trusting in God’s provision for whatever he may call me to or draw from my treasure for the future.
I’m left with “what gifts are mine to draw from the treasure that has been given to me?” “How can I present these gifts to Jesus.” (Don’t forget: these are gifts -graces- in the first place. They are not entitlements, or results of my striving, or figments of my imagination.)
Switch gears totally. I’m a little bit riled up about the trend we are in where it seems one has to fork over money just to have someone to listen to them. There are literal services out there you can pay just to listen. I get it that professionals such as psychotherapists have work to do for which they are specifically trained which involve listening deeply. We gladly pain them for their training in knowing what to do with what they hear, and how to help us both listen and respond to our own inner selves! Now we are seeing the rise of many kinds of caring and listening that all require a fee of some kind. Just today I saw an advertisement for a grief support organization. I’m in a season of grief myself. I’ve been drawn to understand grieving from various viewpoints, and especially how we can companion each other when one or both of ‘us’ are grieving – whether in a group of two or many. So, I wanted to check it out! The graphics and description were professionally displayed. When you finally get to the bottom line, you discover you can have this kind of support for only $34 a month. I’m not mad at the guy who developed this ‘ministry’, and I get it that to devote full time energy to it he needs to receive his living from somewhere. Something seems awry, however, when our ministries are also our means of support by design, not by the grace gifts of God (whether that from sources inside of or outside of those being served.) I really like the model of “freely give, freely receive.” I’m not promoting structed socialism or communism here, but a different attitude about being present to one another. Can we not learn to be present and to listen deeply? I guess I get it that we may have to pay for the expertise of a mentor or coach who has special training, or we may need to pay others for the use of space and resources required for learning or teaching….. but can we not take that training and then give ourselves away in it?
I don’t know the answers to these questions, but I wonder if the questions themselves are part of the treasure from which gifts suitable for giving will come in my own life.
I’ve been sad. This happens from time to time for a day, or two. I’ve learned to simply be “with” the slump. But this time, the sadness is hanging around a bit longer, and it seems to come a bit more frequently. I suppose this is part of grieving. I’m not particularly distraught about anything specific. My Mother’s absence from this world, retirement, my best friend’s fight with cancer, the distance between us and our progeny, not knowing what or where is “next”, a general lack of meaningful and fulfilling purpose, and wondering how the wanderings of my life will actually amount to something “in God for the sake of others” are all part of the soup, I suppose. Coming down from a flurry of visiting dear ones, probing possibly ministry engagement, and a family cruise vacation with my sister is kind of deflating. But none of this is a neat package for sorrow. I can’t even weep. My sadness feels less like rain, and more like being saturated with humidity on a hot day near the coast. It’s just there. I can’t shower it off, wring it out, dry it off, or shake it out. There are no puddles in which to stomp and and umbrella offers no barrier. Today I’ve been reflecting on God With Us, Emmanuel. I wonder if Mary and Joseph experienced any grief as they journeyed to and set up housekeeping in Bethlehem. Were they missing the normalcy of a typical marriage, an accepted pregnancy, the approval of family and support of community? Were they wondering what they had given up in order to gain Godself Incarnate? What was the grief mixed with joy like for Mary as she labored and Joseph as he waited? Did they wonder what the future held and grieve a little bit what might-have-been?
I don’t know the answer. I do know that God was for Mary, in Mary, with Mary, surrounding her, infusing her and as intimate as any two beings could possible exist in our human limitations; in our divine-human co-existence. Today, I sat with the idea that God is also with me in my sadness. I don’t feel any lighter knowing this. I don’t feel rescued from the fog. The feeling is more like sitting on a rock: I know intellectually that the rock is there, it supports my weight and it’s not going anywhere, fog notwithstanding. Yet I don’t think about all of that, I just trust myself to the rock without question. And God is a rock for sure. At this time, though, I can’t help but think about Jesus, God incarnate, God with us (and still with us through the power and mystery of the Holy Spirit.) Like Mary (but yet differently than Mary) Jesus is in me, God is with me, the Spirit infuses and surrounds me. I know this. I want to experience these truths as evident in the same way I trust the (living) rock upon which I stand. Maybe, for now, that is enough. God alone is enough.
agapesantos 