Drip drop
goes the rain
hitting the ground
streaming down the drain.
It’s not raining today, but it has rained enough recently in Seattle to force my still hooked on summer attitude to shift toward darkness and dampness—and how to appreciate them. My heart and soul have barely emerged from the dark night, and now the weather patterns emulate the cold dark feeling I thought I’d left behind. Time to enter a seasonal appreciation for the night and for the rain…
i seem to have patterns of writing and dormancy for this blog. most of my energy has been focused on another blog—a project worthy of such effort. depression has left and i am alive and in wonder. i’ve been running a lot, and slowly emerging from the fog. perhaps when the marathon extravaganza is over i shall return to writing here, this blog of my spiritual wanderings. until then, find me here, at run megs run, and read why i am running two marathons within 7 days of each other. it’s inspiring, i guarantee it.
I left home quite some time ago. Here, I do not write of the leaving home I did at age 19. No, I mean that over a year ago I left the holy sanctuary of God’s surrounding love and squandered away some of my blessed life.
Leaving home…is a denial of the spiritual reality that I belong to God with every part of my being, that God holds me safe in an eternal embrace, that I am indeed carved in the palm of God’s hands and hidden in their shadows…Leaving home is living as though I do not yet have a home and must look far and wide to find one.
(Henri Nouwen, The Return of the Prodigal Son, 37)
Henri Nouwen so beautifully writes his journey home from depths and dark places in The Return of the Prodigal Son. Long ago acquainted with Nouwen’s work, this is one I missed—until now. His writing and life bring hope to me in an otherwise heartbreaking period in my life. Years of balance, strength, and peace have met their demise in the wake of rage and resentment. I am broken, shattered by a series of events in my own life, the choices I have made; and swallowed by similar downfalls in my family. Oh, what have I become that I obsess and rage instead of listen and pray?
In this moment of night I find myself emerging from melancholy to feel the embrace of God, rejoicing in another day, and thankful for shelter and food. I want it to linger, so I keep awake long into the night.
Nouwen says of home:
Home is the center of my being where I can hear the voice that says, “You are my Beloved, on you my favor rests.”—the same voice that gave life to the first Adam and spoke to Jesus…the same voice that speaks to all the children of God and sets them free to live in the midst of a dark world while remaining in the light. (37)
I have so many places, physical and emotion that have been “home”. Nouwen introduces the home that only a loving God can bring, and this home, I believe is expansive enough to encompass all places and times of being at home. These are “home” because I am loved by God.
Fearful of failure, I forge on. This is not the first time I have been at these crossroads, nor will it be the last. I should hope, however, that I am through one horrible cycle of self-destruction. The fear in me waits to fall again, and it says to me in a hurried tone: this time you may be on your own, even if you break through the darkness. Enter the image of the prodigal son—broken and shamed, he is embraced by his father. It is at the same time comforting and heartbreaking, as I prepare to welcome God’s embrace, and yet still have broken family and relations that are unresolved.
Faith keeps me going. “Faith,” Nouwen writes, “is the radical trust that home has always been there and always will be there.” Come what may with family, community, job, finances, health this radical trust believes I am home.
Annie Dillard writes of running from this love, too. In her book, Teaching a Stone to Talk, she writes:
Even now I wonder: if I meet God, will he take and hold my bare hand in his, and focus his eye on my palm, and kindle that spot and let me burn? But no. It is I who misunderstood everything and let everybody down. Miss White, God, I am sorry I ran from you. I am still running, running from that knowledge, that eye, that love from which there is no refuge. For you meant only love, and love, and I felt only fear, and pain. Sone once in Isarel love came to us incarnate, stood in the doorway between two worlds, and we were all afraid. (p. 141)
So here I am. Unsure of what lies ahead. But, for the time being, safely held by God.
This poem reflects something I need to give and receive in my life now…something I’ve lost beneath blinding rage. It isn’t pretty and I need to release it and grasp on tightly to the love of God. The poem is a critique of church rules and right ways of doing things. However, the silly lies of anger are written on my walls. I’ve been here before, recently even. Something clicked tonight at church, and I breathed in the life-giving breath of God. I hope love is written on my heart, and that this time it lasts—that God’s graffiti will paint over the anger permanently—I don’t want to sink back into that angry place.
God’s Graffiti
We’ve splashed our rules
all over the sanctuary walls…
so many rules we don’t have time
for dancing…
our graffiti
defiling the house of God.
God’s graffiti is different:
God writes LOVE
upon our hearts.
Some night, let’s sneak in the sanctuary
and paint over the rules
and write God’s graffiti
all over the walls…
LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE– Ann Weems
I need lots of rest—mind, body, soul. I read this poem differently now than I have in previous years. It is from a book of poems given to me seven years ago. The “journey” spoken of is the journey to the cross through the season of lent. At a time when foundations have been shaken, my relations with self and others out of sort, this is where I want to be: resting in God…
Come Unto Me
When the journey gets too hard,
when we feel depleted,
when our compassion
turns to complaining,
when our efforts toward
justice and mercy
seem to get us nowhere,
it’s time to remember
the humility part—
that it is God who has made us
and not we ourselves;
that the saving of the world
or even one part of it
is not on our shoulders.
It is then we can come unto him,
and he will give us rest.
With rest we’ll remember
what it is we are about.— Ann Weems
Quite the adventurer, I have traveled many places in my life, and aspire to continue my worldwide wanderings as long as I am able. These pictures below are from two adventures during March, the first a semester break trip to Greece in early March 2002 (the 2-month semester break also included travels in Italy, Sweden and Norway) during the year I studied in Germany; the second, a wandering through the UK in March 2007—the picture is from the top of Mt. Snowdon in Wales.
March often is the beginning, or at least the middle of the Christian season of Lent, the 40 days leading to Easter…a time for reflection, discipline, and a whole heap of other traditions. For me, this lent—these 40 days before I proclaim the resurrection of Christ, are about clearing house, de-cluttering mind and living space. I am not able to wander as in previous years, but this cleansing is necessary.
A case of being in the right place at the right time with the right camera. This picture captures how I have felt as of late…light shining through darkness, beauty, hope. (taken on 31 December 2008 at the Agra Fort in Agra, Uttar Pradesh, India)
28 December 2008
The distinct odor of exhaust and pollution hangs in the air. It covers the visibility of the sky above and sticks to my lungs. High above black Kites soar in circular patterns over the city. There isn’t a place nearby for a vantage on my two feet, although I’m not sure there’s much to see. It is warm, or at least to my perspective 50F degrees is warm. In the gray Seattle mist, 50F can be chilling. This sunny 50F in Delhi feels pleasant and welcome, considering I had left my normally rainy home with a foot of snow on the ground. So even when the overnight temperature in Delhi dropped to 40F, and Delhi wallahs were cold, I felt fine. No thank you, I don’t need an extra sweater.
The moment spent gazing at the soaring Kites in the afternoon haze is suddenly jarred by my reality of Delhi–a near miss with a person, animal, or vehicle of some sort. This time it was a man on a walk. This place isn’t crowded, I almost ran into him because I wasn’t paying attention. Wising up, I also notice there are runners. As I breathe in shallowly, I wonder how anyone could run in this stagnant choking air.
However, for the moment, I am satisfied with this mostly unobstructed walking path. Lodhi Gardens is one of the few places of clean open space in the densely populated city of Delhi. The walk exercises my legs, which are desperately in need of movement after 20+ hours of travel on packed planes the previous day.
My friend’s mother is chatting, and I chat, too, all the while my senses are on high alert, recording my surroundings for future use. Of special note are the ruins built by ruling powers of long ago. These structures stand in contrast to the families who sit on the open grass, talking and eating. I wonder about the families and their stories. The old Mughal period architecture surely has stories, too—of their builders, those buried beneath the stone, and of the millions of passers-by over the years…
I am going to write about my travels in India. What you’ll see is a patchwork of stories as told through narration, rumination, and information that may or may not be in chronological order…I haven’t decided yet how to continue. Today’s story is my arrival in India, and first impressions of Delhi.
Saturday 27 December 2008
After two long flights loaded with screaming children and minor incident with two drunk Russians involving a knife, we finally clear customs at Indira Gandhi International Airport. It is nearly midnight. Oh dear God, I think, as I try with all the concentration left in me, I am really looking forward to a warm bed. However tired, I’m alert through adrenaline, and I scan the airport, careful not to lose sight of my friend in the chaos. The air inside the airport is stale and smells musty, a sure combination pollution and the body odor of the thousands who have traveled through its doors. All around me people are sitting, standing, waiting, and carrying luggage. My stiff legs welcome the chance to dodge the piles of suitcases and the crowd of people coming and going.
Reprieve from the dry air from the plane, and stale air of the airport is not found outside in the night air, as I struggle to breathe the choking air through my nose. A slight burning sensation fills my lungs and I gasp for air. As we walk to meet my friend’s father, who not surprisingly, stands out amidst the sea of brown faces waiting for their passengers, beloved and stranger. I am in a dreamlike state, nearly in disbelief that I am actually in India. Wait. I’m in India!
I stare at the line of a hundred men of standing against a railing, some holding signs, others staring, seemingly straight through my being. This moment, I think to myself, is something to hold onto. As if in a movie, a distant Indian rhythm dances in my head and my sight turns to slow motion, passing a hundred beautiful faces with curiosity. Even the crowded airport is initially enchanting. Back from the dream, a cacophony of conversations, rumbling engines, and shrill car horns fill my ears. This, I would discover, is the discordant noise emanating from nearly everywhere Delhi.
The reunion with father was quick, as together the three of us strode through the crowds to the car where Francis, the driver, was waiting. Mother, conversation, and tea were waiting to welcome us to the residence in New Delhi.
Without regard to the poor visibility at night, my eyes are drawn out the car window to the world outside. On the road at midnight, and still there were cars and trucks crowding the road as we pass shadowy buildings. It became evident, almost immediately, that honking in India is not merely reserved in defense or anger, as it most often is in the US, it is a signal (replacing the turn signal blinker) and used liberally. Trucks are colorfully painted, and on the back have “Horn Please” written in English. And the trucks have the right of way. The rule of the road is, “might is right”.
At some point, midnight passes and it is after 1:00am on the 28th. I note in my head that back home, 13.5 hours behind and a world away, it is only noon on the 27th. It is 3am when my head finally hits the pillow—after a warm welcome at the house in New Delhi with my friend’s parents who served us tea, cookies, and generously handed out presents. I quickly fall into a comfortable, yet brief sleep. The last streaming thought before sleep was again, ” Wait. I’m in India!”
Awakened by the stirring of mind and body, I reflect on my recent world travel. As my senses were overwhelmed each day that I was in India, my mind is overwhelmed at the observations and memories. Bewildered and unsure of where to begin, I think I will free write this entry. More entries will follow with narratives of my experiences. Until then, streams of consciousness…
India defies simple explanation. While India’s borders occupy one-third the landmass of the United States, its population is more than tripple the US population. The subcontinent is extremely diverse in landscape, climate, culture, religion, and language. The north borders with Tibet and the Himalayas, and to the south lies a subropical paradise where spices grow and have been traded for centuries. Christianity was introduced to the subcontinent in the first century by St. Thomas.
I left a snowy Seattle depressed, and in need of renwal. Knowing that traversing India was not going to be quiet, I was prepared to be shocked. The first step outside into the Delhi night were oppressive–while marveling at the thousands of people passing through and waiting at Indira Ghandi International Airport, I was also chocking on the smog. I let the chaos wash over me, noting the hundreds of faces lined up waiting for their person to walk through the door. Even in the middle of the night, Delhi’s roads are noisy. My senses became full of streaming observation and I forgot my depression.
This morning, I am faced with what was my life, what it became, and what now am I to do with myself, the same person yet changed forever by India…
As I have recently found a spirit guide in the Great Blue Heron (see previous entry), water has long been an elemental spiritual presence for me. Waters are symbolic of baptism, of cleansing and renewal. I have been a long time away from water, too. The following is a meditation I wrote while living in Germany back in February of 2002. I would walk along the banks of the Neckar River in Tuebingen. The water became a place of comfort, a friend to me at a time when I was walking a lonely path with many questions on my heart…
O still river, how long it ha been since I have seen your waters gently flow by. How good it feels to sit here next to you, observing your nature. The long days have made me weary and you are at present my only friend. You understand me and speak to me in ways that others cannot. I see my true self through the reflection from your waters. You sustain me, you guide me and you give me life. And today, when the life has been sucked away from me, I come to you to be renewed. I come to sit at your banks and wash away the dirt from my face. As still as you are right now, I feel the power within your soul; I feel the power within my soul. And when our time together comes to an end, I take with me the images I see before me, so I can return to them in my dreams. Forever you will flow, forever you will be and forever I will be in you. O River of Life, I fall on my knees…I remember my baptism in your waters and I ask forgiveness. I leave your presence, a Child of God, renewed and cleansed. I look forward to the next time we shall meet. It may be here or in another place far off, but your waters are eternal and will never change.
Tonight I became convinced that the Great Blue Heron is my animal spirit guide. I have seen the Blue Heron many times this year, and each time has been a spiritual encounter. I saw one at Discovery Park and multiple times at the Ballard Locks. I haven’t been to those places lately, and I miss the walks I used to take. Lucky me that Herons inhabit near my home. The following is my winter encounter with the Blue Heron, and has awakened my spirit to her guidance of me…
Tonight I met a friend—or should I say, tonight a friend met me. Her sudden appearance was a welcome sight along a dark road on a cold night. Head bowed, body tense, I walked along a path next to the canal, lost inside my wandering mind. With a deep breath of chilly December air, I looked up and saw the silhouette of her body atop a rock against the lights across the canal. Silently and still, she stood, as if she, too, were in contemplation. My feet stopped and body paused. I called out to her. “Oh friend! I see you. Where have you been?” And I realized that I too, have been absent from these waters where we used to meet. I called out again, “Oh me! Where have I been? Too long has it been since I saw you last. Let us stand here and know each other.” I stood there, breathless, recalling past encounters with my friend, the Heron. Each time she stood in water, off at a distance, but the essence of her presence near to me. Each encounter was mostly silent, though rich with meaning. When it was time for me to go, I said goodbye and strode down the path. Oh Blue Heron, watcher over my life, protect me and guide me through this cold winter night!
What is the difference between depression and “dark night of the soul”?
I could post academically minded words about St. John of the Cross (a Carmelite mystic of the 16th century) and his writing, “Dark Night of the Soul” and compare/contrast that with a clinical definition of depression, but that would not suffice. No, I dare to share the imagery from my own mind as means to express the spiritual dimensions of depression and the dark night of the soul. I have experienced both.
This is a blog of a spiritual director, a wandering woman in search of self and home. Then so be it that deeper spaces be publicly explored. Besides, St. John of the Cross’ feast day is soon: December 14th. Happy feast of St. John of the Cross…
You see, for me, December—even amidst all the beauty it beholds in wintertime festivities, the contemplative nature of Advent, and the tradition of Christmas time—sometimes brings with it transition, dark days, and depression. Three times in my life has it been so intense that I have written the visions that have come through meditation, prayer, and during my waking hours.
This morning I cursed my disease. The genetic disease Neurofibromatosis (NF) is always with me, as are the 30+ tumors on my body. I am a strong woman, but there are days when it defeats me.
I don’t sleep as heavily as in years past. Regular bouts of insomnia have interrupted my sleep over the last six months. Stabilization is slowly coming, and I’m grateful for that. This week was a good week, so I am surprised at this unsettling feeling. Sometimes that quick moment of stability is disrupted and I cannot contain my sadness and frustration.
This morning I awoke too early and anxiety attacked. Thoughts raced through my head that I didn’t want to think about (friends, family, health, past, future, present…). But the worst of it was the bleeding coming from one of the small tumors on my face, just to the left of my chin. “Fuck it!” I said as I popped out of my bed. Who wants to deal with that at 6:30 am on a Sunday morning? It’s a little thing and was not profusely bleeding, but this is a tumor that is normally soft. Yesterday it became hard, is sensitive to pressure and is an open sore. This has happened before, as I am sure it will happen again. Usually the swelling dies down and the tumor returns to normal. Though the bleeding was not great, it is certainly concerning…and in my anxious state bitter thoughts rang toward my lack of health insurance. Bitter thoughts spewed against this disease.
I’m growing weary of this disease that changes and progresses. I must deal with it the rest of my life as I continue to live a public life in the world. In spite of my embarrassment for a suddenly larger irritated tumor on my face, I must wake up and go about the day, talk to the people who saw me the day before, visit the grocery store to buy food… My strong faith keeps me going, most of the time.
When I woke up this morning I wanted nothing to do with the world or anyone I know in it. Instead, I wanted to hide all day and obliterate the tumor from my body. I didn’t care enough to pray, either. It wasn’t just this morning—it bled last night before bed, too. I watched the sunrise, with a tissue clutched over the tumor, but met anyone’s presence with me as an intrusion. Obliterating the tumor and hiding are not healthy options. But it isn’t easy to go on. Oh, I love life and those who share it with me and all those I have yet to meet in this life. I don’t know what to do, except continue to wake every morning and call myself beautiful, even when my tumors ache, change, grow, or cause discomfort.
God give me the strength to arise graciously even when I curse what is happening to my body!
Yet as I write these words, I know of a suffering even greater. I am mourning the loss of someone I only know through acquantance from my hometown. A young man and his family grieving the loss of his father—suddenly, due to a brain aneurysm. sigh.
If I were to put an image to my life in this moment, it would be a misty mountain scene. This photo was taken in British Columbia this summer. After the ferry ride from Skagway, AK we docked in Prince Rupert, BC and began the long drive down to Seattle. What cannot be seen, are the beautiful peaks of mountains, hidden behind the mist. They are there, and what a sight to behold when they are not shrouded by clouds! This too, is a sight to behold in its mystery of dark and light.
Yesterday, Resurrection seemed an empty word. I know this is not true, but a mind sunk beneath shadows senses not what good may be out there. It is instead lost and fixated on gloomy predictions forecast under pessimistic conditions held tightly by a clouded and cluttered mind. Unseen joy is shrouded by some part of me that would rather shiver in the rain without a coat, and slowly sulk through puddles than to stretch my arms out and breathe in the cool air. Why is this so? What part of me has the warped desire to remain in sad shadows and depressed depths?
Today I have experienced joy, though with night-time, anxiety and fear return as the knots tighten around my throat. The times when I am joyful seem fleeting these days. Again, I know what gives me joy and that there is much to rejoice about now. On occasion, I am drawn out of the muck and dreariness into sun-splashed daylight. I recognize the journey to be lived is marked with perils, uncertainty, loss, joy, love, hope…
I imagine myself walking through the mist and shadows. And I can imagine this being a time of renewal. The mist wets my face as I walk on wet earth. This is a time for exploration, adventure (oh, there is adventure ahead of me. Where have I been, that I have forgotten!). The fog that surrounds is mysterious and mystical. Now is the time to be filled with wonder and let go of anxious thoughts and the desire to forget all that is good. Let it go. Let it go.
I am reminded of a song from J. R. R. Tolkein’s The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring. The words were written by Bilbo and sung early in the journey of Frodo with the ring. Walking on a path after dusk, the hobbits sang to lift their spirits. The song appears in the movie, though much abbreviated, and that is what I quote now:
Home is behind, the world ahead
And there are many paths to tread
Through shadows to the edge of night
until the stars are all alight.
Mist and shadow, cloud and shade
all shall fade, all shall fade.
Mist and shadow, indeed. May my wandering in the mist be transforming, and may the shadows not overcome me. There is still hope left to find, there is reason to sing. God is bigger than my hurts and the hurts I cause to others. God is bigger than darkness, for light shines in the darkness.
I am on a journey through mist and shadow. And I shall see the goodness and glory of what lies beyond the shadows. I am on a journey…
How does one discern the genuine character of love in its various forms (for here, I am not merely speaking of sexual attraction nor the state of being in love) manifest? When someone says, “I love you” what does that mean? How do we give and receive love? These aren’t meant to be answered, but arise from an encounter I once had. Here is a story of a stranger telling me that he loved me…(the majority of this description, by the way, is directly transcribed from an e-mail I wrote following the incident)
On this day seven years ago (28 October 2001), on a beautifully still autumn morning in Tuebingen, Germany I quietly strolled along the path next to Neckar River. I let my mind go and centered myself as I walked, breathing in “Jesus” and out “mercy”. I found the bench I often sit at that faces the water along a secluded path and sat down alone. I had my journal with me so I began to write, then put it away, just wanting to sit and pray.
I was startled by the appearance of a man, who called out to me. “Wie bitte?” I said, which in English means, “Pardon?” He replied in English, “Can we talk?”. I agreed. His name was Gilbert, a 30 year old African from Cameroon, seeking political asylum in Germany.
Then, he startled me again. He looked me in the eye and said, “Megan, I love you”. He repeated it numerous times. I didn’t know what to say, I didn’t know how to respond. I was not afraid, but perplexed and shocked. He said something from the inside told him to talk to me. He asked when we could meet again. I did not want to make any definite plans nor did I want to give him my phone number or where I live.
There was something inside me that wanted to hold back; as deeply as I believed in God’s mysterious love, even from a stranger, I was shaken. I doubted his sincerity. I have had encounters with strangers that have been moving—such as the man at the Columbia River whom I had met three months prior. He did not say he loved me, but the conversation so moving I had felt in the presence of the risen Christ. This time, however, I was not moved.
The next day I saw Gilbert again, though not intentionally. He repeated to say, “I love you.” This isn’t right, I thought to myself. I told him that I did not love him. But then he said that when he said he loved me, and if I said it in return, we would be like brother and sister. He said we would talk and meet with each other. He said there were different loves. This love he was saying to me in his words was “Agape” (or see C.S. Lewis’ The Four Loves)…But this love is like when I talk about [my friends from home], I say they I love them. This is what he said he saw in me. This was difficult for me, because I do not open up my heart to many people…there are few real close friends that I can say that I love. And here, was a man of 30 telling me he loved me and wanting to know if I loved him. Agape…in the back of my mind I wondered if this was his real intention, I had doubts.
Friendship-love, Agape-love (or Caritas)—those I understood and had experienced, and still do. But this man communicated neither. Simply put, there are strangers out there who are not to be trusted. Common sense and intuition told me to ditch the guy, but being the contemplative person I am, I carefully avoided him, yet continued to reflect on the love of God.
Seven years later, I haven’t stopped…
I recognize the ebb and flow of life will bring times of inspiration when words flow freely, as well as a duration of silence or desolation. This is a time when I can write. It should be known, then, that the entries previous about love and loss are rooted many years beyond the time I have lived in Seattle.
Seven years ago I lived in Germany, and in wrestling with a call into ministry, I unintentionally developed a way of life like one of the mystics…daily prayer, constant thoughts on God, although I studied, spoke German, and drank much beer. And even when I exhibited my share of fear, loneliness, selfishness, and fought with my friends, I lived for solitude and union with God. As it was then, writing is something which sustains me. Thus, through my denial, questioning, and soul-searching, I became what I thought I could not be. Looking back now, that may have been a joyful if not comical unfolding for my mentor.
The title of this journal bears the mark of great transformation while in Germany. As I wrote in my first entry,
“I chose the title “Wanderlust” after some consideration, although I may change it (decisions, decisions!). Wanderlust is borrowed from German, and for us English-speakers, means a yearning to travel or wander. While wanderlust is formed of two German words (wandern: to wander, and lust: desire), the word isn’t used as much in the German language. In German, this yearning within me might better be translated as, heimweh, or homesickness. My hope is to share the inspirations, longings, and homesickness for God through the eyes of a postmodern spiritual director and servant-minister.”
There are an infinite number of blogs whose authors espouse philosophy, personal drama, travel adventures, political commentary, and/or the mundane details of a given day—this one, however, has become more about soul-work. There are enough bloggers who write intelligent things about the emerging church, I think it best to stay in the realm of the spiritual. Maybe when I return to spiritually directing people, I can explore more about what spiritual direction means and what it is like.
I see though my stats that most hits to this blog occur through search engines, mostly to search of loneliness. Without knowing whether these words I write are read, I still am drawn to write out of my joy, loneliness, brokenness, and love even if only one person found solace. I have written in journals long enough to know that words on a page often lead to wholeness in my dealings in the world around me.
Therefore, I continue…
Some five years ago, I came across a meditation on the Beatitudes. Though I lost the pages, I did manage to write out part of it in a journal. This is my prayer tonight—for me and for others in sorrow. You see, last week I anointed people in my church community at worship. They came with hurting hearts, troubled souls, physical ailments, internal struggle. I let go of myself and made room for the Spirit to breathe life into those I prayed with.
Before worship I took a quiet moment to pray for strength and for peace to fill my body and soul. I was empty that day, in need of healing myself. I found, that the ministry of praying over others in their need filled me, and it was a blessing. I found myself in many of the brokenness expressed, and I also found God. This meditation describes the compassion in my heart…
Blessed are the Sorrowing: They Shall Be Consoled
And what does it mean to mourn? I asked the multitude.
An old man stepped forward
To mourn, he said, is to be given a second heart.
It is to care so deeply
that you show your ache in person
To mourn is to be uanshamed of tears.
It is to be healed
and broken
and built-up
all in the same moment.
Blessed are you if you can minister to others
with a heart that feels
with a heart that hurts
with a heart that loves
and blessed are you if you can minister to others
with a heart that serves
and a heart that sees the need before it’s spoken.
To mourn is to forget yourself for a moment
and get lost in someone else’s pain
and then,
to find yourself
in the very act of getting lost.
To mourn is to be an expert
in the miracle of being careful with another’s pain.
It is to be full of the willingness
of forever reaching out to
and picking up
and holding carefully
those who hurt.
To mourn is to sing with the dying
and to be healed
by the song
and the death.
— Marciana Wiederkehr, OSB
If I were to speak my previous entries in a spiritual direction session, I, as spiritual director, might ask a question often used: “What does it look like?” That is, when I say love, what do I mean? How is that expressed? Here is a story of what I mean, because I am not merely talking of eros love. No, I love with compassion, too. Though I have stories from my work with the homeless of deep love being manifest in and through them, I have a story when compassion was shown to me.
It was July of 1985. My family was present at a church retreat at Ocean Shores, WA. I was 5 years old, but I have vague memories of campfires at the beach, and even falling out of the bunk bed one night. The return home, however, has been forever and vividly burned into my memory.
Our car took the lead in a caravan of carpools. My dad was at the wheel with my mom as passenger; my sister and I sat in the back, largely ignoring each other, lest one of us dared to cross the middle boundary that lay between.
We only had a few split seconds before the car hit us, barely enough time for the brain to register that a car was heading straight in our direction. My dad hit the brakes, but we were on a bridge and it was too late. I remember looking up and seeing the swerving car; I didn’t even have time to be afraid.
There was so much love that day, in the presence of our church family, and those who stopped to help. The driver of the other car had fallen asleep, and hit us head-on. The impact of the accident knocked me out. I remember being carried out of the car by the vicar’s wife. Barely conscious, I remember seeing the remains of our crumpled car, though I blacked out and regained consciousness again in the ambulance. I have no memory of pain until I entered the emergency room. There, while the doctors were working to save me, my body went into trauma. The seat belt that saved my life also caused internal bleeding. I remember convulsing and throwing up blood; my body felt as if thousands of needles were sticking into me all at once.
Meanwhile, my mom and sister were going through their own trauma—my dad was the only one not seriously injured. And that God for that, as his attentiveness was much needed.
I spent a week in the hospital. My mom was severely injured. The dashboard had crushed her right leg. So at five years old, I spent those nights in the hospital without my mom to comfort and hold me.
One of those days in the hospital I received a visit from an elderly gentleman. He stopped to see me and talk with me, although I barely remember his face or what he said. But I will never forget his presence. He brought to me, as he did with other children in the hospital, stuffed animals hand-made by his wife.
Three years ago I was a hospital chaplain for 10 weeks…there I was able to love others as this man had loved me. My calling may not be to hospital chaplain, but the love I speak of fills my heart so much that I have no choice but to give this love. This is what I mean when I say I may not be meant for an eros love relationship (see C.S. Lewis’ The Four Loves). I am searching for love, yes, but even more I must search for ways that my love may be shown and how to let love be shown to me.
The knitted goose this man gave to me has been one of my symbols of love, compassion, and grace. And, as a clever 5-year-old, I named this creature, “Goosey”. My Goosey stayed by my side throughout my childhood, and on my most recent trip home, I brought him back to Seattle. Goosey has fared well over the years, only once needing to be mended. That goose is strong, independent, and well-worn—just like me.
I love this goose, and the goose was made with love. I love that man, who surely has passed away by now. And I know that he loved me.
Amen.
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