The Hardest Holy Week

It's Holy Week. I love Holy Week; I haven't been able to participate in Holy Week and that has made me angry and sad--well until this morning....

Facebook and email was clogged this morning with comments, blogs and announcements about Maundy Thursday. Again, I love Maundy Thursday, and I'm going to miss it this year. Or so I thought...

I am 8 days post op total knee replacement surgery. This morning I woke up and settled myself on the couch. Chris brought me a cup of coffee and asked, "Can I get you anything else?" "No," I started but then remembered I needed to ice my knee, "Could you get me some ice?" He left to get it, "Um," I hollered after him, "And the pillows from the living room, oh and my medicine." When he got back I was almost finished with my coffee. "Could I.." I started, "Never mind. I'll get it."

"No you won't." Chris responded, "I've got it." Guilt and shame washed over me--I get it not necessarily the emotions everyone would feel, but there they were all for me bathing me like the bath I haven't taken in a week should be. "I'll try to straighten up later." "No," Chris continued, "you won't. I'll do it when I get home."

At this point I started stammering on about how I wish I could at least unload the dishwasher but I can't let my leg hang down that long (yesterday it was wild during PT--I could literally watch it swell). He assured me it was fine, and left for work--probably feeling relieved. I did not.

I started thinking about how much I hate having people wait on me. I appreciate it, but I hate it. Taking care of people is something I like to do, something I want to do, something I need to do. Need--what does that mean?

I thought back to a blog I had read this morning that quoted Brene Brown's definition of vulnerability, I define vulnerability as uncertainty, risk, and emotional exposure. With that definition in mind, let’s think about love. Waking up every day and loving someone who may or may not love us back, whose safety we can’t ensure, who may stay in our lives or may leave without a moment’s notice, who may be loyal to the day they die or betray us tomorrow – that’s vulnerability. 

It suddenly became so clear--vulnerability, for me, is not reaching out to help others even if that means I may be rejected. I'm okay with that--there's plenty of people who will accept my help. Vulnerability, for me, is about letting other people help me. Somewhere, at some point in my life, I have learned that having people help you is sign of weakness, but more than that, I have "learned" that people will get tired of helping you, that people assume you're taking advantage of them, that people will see you as weak and needy and they will leave you. Weak and needy people, I learned, are tiresome and not worthy of continued relationship for any reason period, and I have to avoid becoming that person at all costs.

(For the record I would very much like to delete the previous sentence because it just came out, but I'm not going to...)
And that led me back to tonight's Maundy Thursday service which I'm going to miss. The book of occasional services it says the following,

"Fellow servants of our Lord Jesus Christ: On the night before his death, Jesus set an example for his disciples by washing their feet, an act of humble service. He taught that strength and growth in the life of the Kingdom of God come not by power, authority, or even miracle, but by such lowly service. We all need to remember his example, but none stand more in need of this reminder than those whom the Lord has called to the ordained ministry."

"Therefore, I invite you who share in the royal priesthood of Christ, to come forward, that I may recall whose servant I am by following the example of my Master. "

I have been known to wax on about how this is the opportunity for me as clergy to be reminded that I am a servant--I'm pretty sure I say it with a tone that suggests it is hard to be humble in this way and I should be commended for kneeling in front of them, (keep in mind until this week I am kneeling--and then having to get up again--while wearing 3-4 inch heels--that deserves extra humility credit for sure!) lovingly washing their feet (I do try to be gentle and touch all parts of their feet), and then gently patting them dry (that is really hard as I always want to break into the song I used to sing to the children when toweling them off after baths.) But the truth is I LOVE IT! 

Here's another truth--I'm selfish about it. In some parishes I have served there has been a tradition of parishioners washing each other's feet, and I point out the lines in the BOS that I translate to mean it is the ordained who should wash others' feet. I ignore the next lines, or I choose to interpret them as meaning figuratively for others.

But come remembering his admonition that what will be done for you is also to be done by you to others, for “a servant is not greater than his master, nor is one who is sent greater than the one who sent him. If you know these things, blessed are you if you do them.

No, this year I won't be standing behind the altar or kneeling in front of a basin of water, but I am definitely not missing Maundy Thursday--and this may be the hardest one yet.

Life's Obstacles-and that Stupid White Truck

Monday I sat in the living room in front of the beautiful picture window (one of the main reasons I wanted this house--it certainly wasn't the size of the kitchen) gazing out at the bright blue sky and the dogwood newly blooming in the front yard. 

That sounds poetic doesn't it? Well, it wasn't...

The truth is on Monday I sat in a recliner that doesn't match the living room, borrowed from a friend with my knee iced and elevated and tears running down my face. I was doing nothing except feeling sad, overwhelmed, impatient, weak, like a failure and feeling guilty for feeling all those things. I was lecturing--read berating-- myself. I told myself I was the worst because others have it so much worse--this shall pass and some people live with chronic pain. I told myself I was being a baby, I needed to get over it and get on with it. I was rehashing all the "words of advice" people had given me prior to the knee replacement and measuring myself against what everyone told me their experience was--or the experience of people they knew--I was failing miserably. I told myself I clearly wasn't a good person but instead someone who pretended to be.

I was ignoring every call, email and text that came in choosing to withdraw from the world instead of mustering the energy to be the positive, strong, determined, sometimes funny, always kooky person I think I'm supposed to be. I looked out the window noticing every smudge (read pretty much the entire window) and knowing although it looked beautiful it was actually only in the high 40's.

I took a picture--there was a teensy tinsey part of me that recognized the beauty and wanted to capture it. I thought about the beauty of the tree against the blue sky and thought, "Someday I might want to write about that." And I hated the image.

I tried to crop it. I didn't like the shadows. The bushes were too high. I didn't want the houses in the background or that great big white stupid truck. (I have no idea why I said stupid truck...); I didn't want the wooden slits in the window. I called them something other than stupid going on another tangent about how it would be so much easier to keep the window clean if they weren't there (as though I spend every day trying to keep the window clean....).

I began to cry angry tears trying to crop the picture to look the way I wanted it to look. I got angrier as I castigated myself, telling myself over and over everything would be fine if I could move around and get a better angle, if I was younger I would probably understand technology better and be able to use this stupid photo shop program my son had just downloaded on my computer, that I paid for, to make the picture look the way I wanted for the purpose I wanted-- all I wanted was the dog wood and the blue sky. All I wanted was the beauty.

But what I got was what I got and there was nothing I could do about it. Well actually I could. I could delete the picture hoping there would be another time I could get a picture when I could move better. Granted that movement would have to be such that I could move furniture, climb and angle and contort my body into completely unnatural ways to avoid what I considered the rif raf of the picture. 

I could crop the picture so small the houses, the shadows and the stupid white truck couldn't be seen. I tried that; it diminished the beauty.  The picture no longer took my breath away when I could only see a small part of the tree. It was still beautiful, but it was obviously contrived. Or, I could wait until said son, who supposedly was becoming a photo shop pro in his graphic arts class (a class I'm paying for may I add), came home and got him to work magic on the picture. I would also have to listen to him tell me how old I was and whatever else he wanted to tease me about---I didn't have the energy for that (see above).

My finger hovered over delete. I looked again. There were parts of the picture that were indeed beautiful, there were shadows, there were smudges, there were parts I considered obstacles to the beauty (that stupid white truck), but this was what I saw out the window at this time. This was life right here and now and there was some beauty even if it was marred.

I looked down at my phone with 27 unanswered texts, 5 voicemails, and multiple emails realizing I didn't want to respond until all those shadows, smudges and obstacles were gone. I only wanted to respond when I could be the glorious tree--when I could be what I believe others want and expect me to be. When I was in a place where others would only see the beauty.

Wouldn't it be great if I could end this blog writing, "But instead I picked up that phone and started responding. I answered every texts, returned every phone call and read every email basking in the knowledge that people's love for me transcends just the beauty--basking in the knowledge the love of God and of others exceeds all shadows, smudges, and obstacles?" Yep, that would be great. But it didn't happen...

This surface is full--cards taking over another soon.

Instead I spent the rest of the day still sulking but sulking with a little bit of softness and a little more understanding. I was also deeply touched by the number of cards that continue to come in the mail. And yesterday I began reaching out again--a long overdue call with my sister, a national championship t-shirt arriving
and a long phone call with a dear friend catapulted the emotional rebound--I even admitted to some I had been
struggling and feeling sorry for myself.

I still don't have a nice bow to tie around this experience. I'm still going to cry later when I have to watch my son (not the photo shop one) run on the field being announced as the starting goalie for the Randolph Wildcats--his first ever collegiate start. I'm sad that it's Wonderful Wednesday and I'm not taking Charlotte to school or to Lou Lou's later for cheese sticks (well maybe we could make that happen....).  I still hurt; I still want to be at work and preparing for all the liturgies of Holy Week; I still want to be positive and funny and available; I still want to run a marathon one day...

But I have something to think about---life is beautiful even with it's shadows and smudges and obstacles. Life is beautiful and messy and I guess so am I (I added that part so I could maybe start believing it....)

Now I'm going to ice my knee, take my pain meds because the executioner, aka physical therapist is coming in an hour, and binge read my sister-in-law's blog because she has known and lived far longer than I have the reality that In the Messy is where life happens. Maybe later there will be a beautiful messy bow to tie around this post.