Sometimes Life is a Pain in the Neck

Last Sunday night was a fitful night of tossing and turning and I woke up Monday morning in pain.  My neck and shoulders hurt like I've never experienced. It was the kind of pain your mind says "run from" but of course that's not possible because it's part of your body (and for me my knee was also choosing this time to give me trouble, which as an aside may be part of the reason I couldn't sleep--my stress relief of choice was not doable at this time--but that's beside the point--look squirrel).

I spent all morning trying to get comfortable. I rolled my neck; I used my hands to massage my neck; I tried sitting up straighter; I tried slouching--the dull ache continued sometimes punctuated by quick stabbing pains.  Nothing was working and pain makes me grumpy....

I pulled myself together (sort of), left my office and began walking towards the fellowship hall where I'd been invited for coffee with MOST (The Men of St. Thomas). As I was walking and still trying to get my neck to stop aching, I tilted my head back--excruciating pain; I tilted my head forward--equally horrible and then I held my head straight and steady, lowered and pulled back my shoulders--instant relief. Now to just remain in this position....

As I continued to walk I thought about this instant relief, and I thought about all the things that had led to the fitful night--things that I cannot resolve in an instance; things I may never be able to resolve; things that keep my life feeling anything but steady. But I can continue to move forward.

That instant if only momentary relief of pain showed me that when we walk around with our heads down avoiding facing life, with our heads down in shame, with our heads down not wanting to engage with the world around us--hiding the pain and vulnerability someone might see in our eyes, there is pain.  And when we walk around with our heads tilted back not looking down at the world around us, trying to keep ourselves above it all, there is pain. But when we continue to steadily move forward, heads and eyes facing forward--facing forward where we can see the faces of those around us, where we can search out the eyes of others who look back with love and compassion and understanding; where we can see the beauty of the world, and yes sometimes (all too often) we see more pain, sometimes we may even see judgement and pity and disdain, but we also can see we are not alone; we can see we are connected; we can see we are part of a bigger world-a world God created; a world God loves; a world where God continues to participate; a world where God wants no more pain and brokenness but rather healing and wholeness. When we move steadily forward eyes looking straight ahead we can move into the future...

I continued to walk with my head held steady; I saw the beauty of the tulips beginning to bloom; I saw the beauty of the dogwoods; and I heard the birds singing. I walked into the fellowship hall and sat with MOST, keeping my head straight, listening to their stories some stories of life's challenges and some stories of life's joys laughing along with them as I saw their smiles and the twinkle in their eyes. And for an hour my neck didn't hurt; for an hour I was a part of something beautiful and holy; for an hour my body practiced holding steady so my heart could follow along.

With Mary I Can Identify

For years I was ambivalent about Mary the mother of Jesus.  I thought little to none about what her role in my faith was or what it should be. I'd like to say it was in some sort of well thought out reaction to my Roman Catholic upbringing. But that would be completely untrue--I just didn't think about it. 

During seminary I started thinking more about it--this time probably in response to questions I would get from my fellow classmates (most of whom were Presbyterian) about whether we "worshiped" Mary like the Romans do. I felt ill-equipped to answer that question partly because I'm not certain Roman catholics' would use the word worship about Mary, and I didn't think it was my place as an outsider to speak to their belief and partly because I knew that in the Episcopal church there were varying thoughts and I didn't want to speak for anyone else. So instead I got to have something else to think about (some might use the words "obsess about" and others "agonize about" I choose to remain positive and in denial about my tendencies....)

After I was ordained I was still trying to find a place for Mary in my life of faith. One day during a noon Eucharist, Canon Amy Coultas preached on Mary. Afterward, I asked her about her sermon and she shared her personal journey with Mary and how she got to where she was today. (Her story to tell, but if you know her ask--) What it did for me was give me an anchor, a starting point, a different lens, and over the past several years my devotion to Mary has exponentially increased. With Mary, I can identify....

I can feel the joy and fear Mary must have experienced when she learned she was expecting. I think

about how miraculous her pregnancy was and I wonder whether she enjoyed the pokes and prods and movement as I did when pregnant with my four.  I can imagine after Jesus' birth how she must have looked down on his face and been amazed this person came from her body and how she knew at that moment she would willingly sacrifice her body, her very life for this little person.

I wonder if during those first few months--through the sleepless nights she thought about his future. I wonder if she had dreams for him, dreams that one day she would learn were not to be.

I think about when Jesus was "lost" in the temple and how she must have panicked not knowing where her young son was.  I know the terror of those moments and the hours of feeling out of control, helpless when I didn't know where a child was and the dark thoughts and the hope swirl around, bumping into one another, vying for power and waiting to see who will be victorious in the coming reality. And I know the feeling of finding a child and not knowing whether to hug him/her to me and never let go or whether to shake the daylights out of them for scaring me to death.

I imagine as Jesus began his ministry answering his call how she must have been in awe of who this man had become when she still looked at him as her little boy. And I can imagine how she must have been full of pride and excitement for his future while at the same time wishing he'd stay a little closer to home--and really what's wrong with being a carpenter and staying right under her roof? 

I can feel the pride she must have felt as her son performed his first miracle at the wedding in Cana and when he preached in the temple, and I can feel the hurt and betrayal she might have felt when she came to where he was, wanting to speak to him and through his disciples, he seemed to be dismissing her-- moving away from her. She was no longer the center of his world--I can feel the pain that comes with that.

I wonder if she had sleepless nights wondering where he was. Was he warm? Was he fed? Did he have friends? Was he tired? And I wonder if she selfishly wished he would just come home and not have to do things his way? I wonder if she stayed awake trying to think of the words to say to convince him to stop walking this path he had chosen--she knew it was dangerous; she knew it might end in imprisonment or death, and I wonder if she struggled with letting go?  I wonder if she struggled with trusting God?

I am in awe of the strength she showed following her son to the cross and knowing there was nothing she could do. I wonder if with every step she took a memory of his childhood came flooding back? I wonder if she wanted to shout at those mocking him, "Stop it; stop it that's my little boy."? I can feel the powerlessness and pain she must have felt when she knew he was undergoing intense suffering for something he believed in and she couldn't stop it. 

I cannot, however, imagine what it must have felt like to remain standing at the foot of the cross watching the very life that she brought into this world slowly and painfully seep out breaking the promise she made to herself all those years ago.  I wonder if she felt bitter betrayal as those who supposedly loved her son, considered him a friend, and turned their backs on him out of fear or ambivalence. I can. And I can imagine how she must have felt loved and

supported as her sister and her friend--two women who had also probably known Jesus his entire life stayed with her regardless of the danger to themselves--regardless of the gossip, regardless of the ridicule, regardless of their own fears.

I have fallen in love with Mary. She is a woman of faith, strength, courage, and of love. She is a woman who loved her son, supported her son, until the end--and yet it's not the end. I have fallen in love with Mary because Jesus did rise from the dead and that reminds me over and over that, whether our children stay near to us or move away, whether they choose the path we chose or forge their own, whether they live the dreams we dreamed or search out their own, there is always hope, there is always life, there is always resurrection...

A special thank you to my friend who kept asking when I'd write this--it felt good to write; it feels better to be finished. 

(Below is the sermon that prompted her annoying reminders I needed to write....)

Good Friday Sermon

Tell Me Your Story

I woke up yesterday morning with two things on my

mind--one that was the weirdest dream I've ever had; (I dreamed about attempting to dye a piece of my hair blue and about toothpaste); and two I've got to write that blog I don't want to write but I've promised I'll get written...

I started my morning routine--dogs out, coffee made, dogs in, begin order of devotional reading (yes there is a specific order in which everything must be done--but that's a whole other issue). As I read the second devotional book I froze and tears sprang to my eyes; I immediately thought about the coffee I'd had the day before with a dear friend who has a pink stripe in her hair which I covet--

and she also happens to be the cousin of the person I'd promised about the blog. I'm not sure how the dream connects other than the stripe in her hair and the continual blue stripe of toothpaste in my sink (I hate toothpaste caps that won't close all the way and it just oozes everywhere), and I'm not going to write that other blog, but finally after six weeks I had to write....

We'd met for coffee and started catching up.  As we settled into the comfortable chairs she looked me straight in the eyes and said, "I've heard the rumors, but I want to hear it from you.  Tell me the story." And I did. The whole long story--every detail, sometimes having to backtrack, sometimes repeating myself, but it all came tumbling out. She sat there and listened; she listened with her whole self--heart, mind and body; and she received my story.  She received my story; she accepted my story, but she didn't try to co-opt my story. She just let it be what it was.

She received my story which is different than hearing my story--she wasn't listening so that she could be the one in the know; she wasn't listening so that she could pass on the latest gossip or so that she could fix something; she wasn't just listening to the words--she was receiving part of me. She received my story with no judgement; she received my story with compassion; she received my story allowing me space and grace and dignity; and then she said, "Thank you for telling me." And suddenly I was a little lighter, a little freer. It was a holy moment.

What I read yesterday morning was from Mark Nepo's The Book of Awakening. He writes, "The line between living and watching is very thin. A moment's rest or pause for reflection can spread into a thickness of hesitation, and the next thing we know, reaching out or saying something or picking up the phone or stopping in unannounced is difficult, as if there is suddenly some huge wall to climb just to be heard. This is how we isolate ourselves, digging moments of healthy solitude into holes in the yard, and of course, the dirt we dig and pile up becomes a small mountain that separates us from everyone we love." (p. 117-118)

As I sat in my chair I thought about how easy it has been to continue to dig that hole--it has been easy to tell myself, "I've just accepted a new call so of course I'm busy" and "I need time for solitude and reflection so I can be a better priest" and I have closed off. My friend got her hands dirty; she pushed those piles of dirt away and offered me her hand to begin to climb out of that hole and over the mountain with the simple but life giving words, "Tell me your story."