Healing meditation, Revised Common Lectionary Text, Trauma, Trauma recovery

BR O KEN

“Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am in distress;  my eye wastes away from grief,
 my soul and body also. For my life is spent with sorrow, and my years with sighing; my strength fails because of my misery,  and my bones waste away. I am the scorn of all my adversaries,  a horror to my neighbors, an object of dread to my acquaintances; those who see me in the street flee from me;  I have passed out of mind like one who is dead; I have become like a broken vessel.”
Psalm 31:9-12 NRSV

Reflection

Words from my own journey through trauma recovery: I want to lose myself in movie after movie. Curl up in bed, eyes staring at the blank wall. Drink the leftover wine in the fridge until I no longer feel anything. Buy another dress online. Only to send it back again. Move to an island far away from all who know my story. Numb myself in anything taking a layer of pain away. Not even asking for it all to cease. Just shed the top portion of what I endure. Maybe just for an hour. Giving me a break from my broken body. From trauma’s relentless monotony.

Today I decide instead to bake. Satiate my craving for spice cookies. Or maybe just the sugar as temporary antidepressant. But also need some sort of small movement. Like smashing butter, cracking eggs, measuring vanilla, mixing it all together. Watching the separate parts form a whole. Liquid acting like glue. Bringing it all together.  

Movement grows a young child’s brain. Neurons reaching out into strings of pathways. Maybe movement can grow my brain back? My stuck, middle-aged, traumatized brain. Showing it a path out of this muck. By molding ingredients together. Making sticky cookie dough. Mending what is broken.

Healing Practice: Collecting Ideas

Buy a pack of recipe cards. Or note cards. Any size.

Write down one idea for healthy movement or action per card, thoughts nudging you in some way.

One card may say, “jump rope. Another may say, “go dig in the dirt,” or “remember to sketch the big oak tree in the park,” or “paint the office wall marine blue.” Collect these ideas for times when you want to run away from the broken pain playing havoc in your soul.

When next you want to escape, take a deep breath instead. Let it out slowly while you pick out a card. And then try it. Just try it. For five minutes. Maybe longer. Give yourself permission to only make the dough but not bake the bread. Or dig a hole without planting something in it. The point is to move just a little bit toward healing. Toward reconstructing our broken vessels.

Prayer

Send me ideas, God. For healing me. For healing those I love. For my brokenness to slowly fill in with life again. Amen.

© Jennifer Ohman-RodriguezJennifer Ohman-Rodriguez and Jenniferohmanrodriguez.com, 2021. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jennifer Ohman-Rodriguez and Jenniferohmanrodriguez.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Image by SEBASTIEN MARTY from Pixabay

Healing meditation, Trauma, Trauma recovery

Goodness

“The earth brought forth vegetation: plants yielding seed of every kind, and trees of every kind bearing fruit with the seed in it. And God saw that it was good…God saw everything that [God] had made, and indeed, it was very good…” Genesis 1:12; 31 NRSV

Reflection

Healing, a form of creation. Re-covering of our torn parts. Re-solving our mysteries, maladies, aches, behaviors related to trauma’s initial wounding. Re-generating our minds, bodies. Freeing us from cyclical thoughts, emotional triggers, felt sensations, and ongoing replays. Re-newing our hopes and dreams. Re-viving our souls. Re-storing us into life itself through re-juvenation of our inner human fullness. God’s creation re-creating us. Moment by moment. Minute by minute. Healing action by healing action. Re-storing us with goodness.

Healing Practice

List what is good. Name six like the six days God created. Name more if you get on a roll. Or use the ones written here. Speak these small goodness’s aloud.

Today I cried and felt that it is good.

Today I watched the sunrise and saw that it is good.

Today I baked bread and tasted that it is good.

Today I opened the window and smelled that it is good.

Today I called a friend and heard that it is good.

Today I smiled and felt that it is good.

Prayer

God of creative goodness, help me see goodness through my eyes. Help me feel goodness through my skin. Help me hear goodness through my ears. Help me taste goodness through my food. Help me smell goodness through my nose. Amen. 

Image by David Mark from Pixabay

Advent, Healing meditation, Trauma, Trauma recovery

Advent Mirror

And excerpt from my recent blog post for Faith + Lead.

A young woman hurries. Looks ahead, behind. Scans the surrounding hills. Startles as birds squawk overhead. Tightens her cloak. Covers herself with her arms. 

Something in her body propels her forward. Away from the unknown. Away from the incomprehensible. Away from what feels like possible death. 

In a town she finds the door. She knocks but cannot wait. She enters. Calls out to make sure. Latches the door behind her. Breathes. Someone within the house stirs. Calls out. Approaches. Greeting her with warm words like a loving mother. “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb,” Elizabeth exclaims (Luke 1:42 NRSV).

See the full post by clicking the title below.

Image by Lucian Aeris from Pixabay

Grief, Healing meditation, Trauma, Trauma recovery

Impatient

“What is my strength, that I should wait? And what is my end that I should be patient? Is my strength the strength of stones, or is my flesh bronze? In truth I have no help in me, and any resource is driven from me.” Job 6: 11-13 NRSV

Reflection

Eyes stare. Mouth droops. Limbs sit in supposed silence. Only sores speak. Erupting into puss pools.

Life evaporating like tiny raindrops on desert wind. Leftovers buried with each child. Leaving Job with no vision of future.

Job needs others to hold future for him. To be strength for him. But Job learns people’s consistency and appropriateness in tragedy and trauma varies. Many are unreliable, questionable, hurtful, and harmful. Job says,

“Those who withhold kindness from a friend forsake the fear of the Almighty. My companions are treacherous like a torrent-bed…in time of heat they disappear: when it is hot, they vanish from their place.” Job 6:14, 17

Job’s friends posture in trauma’s heat. Find quick answers to suffering’s sorrow. Offer support in limp gestures. Cover their cluelessness with words worn as thin cloaks.

In his pit, Job sees truth. Recognizes their moralism as yet another lathering of pain. Adding putrid frosting on top of bitter cake. Each taste full of shaming shapes. Requiring sufferer’s scarce amount of patience to be used on help’s imposters claiming compassion.

“Compassion means ministry.” writes theologian Andrew Purves. Ministry “for healing or wholeness.”

Compassion does not say, “your head should not feel heavy.” Because compassion does not expand pain’s cutting edge. With knives of judgement and misconstrued power.Compassion sees face-to-face. Hears truth. Believes. Feels. Provides. Compassion says, “My head feels your heaviness. Here are some soft pillows.”

Healing Practice: Do No-Thing

Today we offer ourselves compassion. Not judgement.

Self-compassion allows us to do nothing. Only asks us to sit. Stare.

Until sitting leads to noticing. Noticing the sounds around us. Naming them one by one.  

Noticing more sounds. Coming from within. Breath breathing. Fast, slow, deep, shallow, labored, stilted, heavy.

Breath bringing us inside our bodies. Awakening realizations of sensations. Feelings living in muscles, organs, limbs. Some achy, hard, tingly. Some heavy or warm. Forming shapes. Circle, oval, brick, or plane.

Breath leading us back. To what surrounds us. The drawing on the wall. Ceiling fan above. Lamp across the room. Breathing in silence. Breathing out stillness. Breathing in staring. Breathing out seeing.

Prayer

Insistent God, persist in loving me. Persist in caring for me. Persist in healing me. Sprinkle silent kindnesses on my ashes. Infuse quiet kindnesses into my soul. Fill me with just enough determination to persevere another minute, another hour, another day. Send people courageous enough to sit with me in my pit as it echoes with nothing but muffled torment. Amen.


[i] Purves, Andrew. (1989) The Search for Compassion: Spirituality and Ministry. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press. Page 17.

Image by PublicDomainPictures from Pixabay

Grief, Healing, Healing meditation, Trauma, Trauma recovery

One Small Seed

“It (the kingdom of God) is like a mustard seed, which, when sown upon the ground, is the smallest of all the seeds on earth; yet when it is sown it grows up and becomes the greatest of all shrubs, and puts forth large branches, so that the birds of the air can make nests in its shade.”  Mark 4:30-32 NRSV

Image by DJnyanko from Pixabay

Reflection

A card stock square. Maybe an inch and half in width. Cream colored. A shaded black square drawn within. Containing an open space in the middle. Open space not empty. One mustard seed, centered and hot-glued on. Just one. With words surrounding the seed. Making a phrase. Corny, like so many faith sayings.

Found in bathroom drawer. Leftover from some worship service. Somewhere. Tossed away. Hiding under makeup, face cream, dental floss. Until now. Finding new life wedged between bathroom wall and electrical outlet.

“Faith as a grain of mustard seed!”

Small card with tiny seed. Just a seed. Not a plant. Not a condiment. Just an increment of something possible. Like faith. Like hope. Like love. Like healing.

Image by GOKALP ISCAN from Pixabay

Healing Practice

Comb the cupboard for mustard seeds. Or borrow a few. Buy some. Allowing your eyes to feast on the varied shades of red, brown, and gold.

Drop a mustard seed, just one, into an empty glass jar. Place the jar on the counter where you will see it several times a day.

That’s it. That’s the practice. The rest is up to your mustard seed. To remind you daily that this speck is all you need of hope or faith or both.

Prayer

God of what can be,

Send us a seed a hope,

Plant in us this one, small seed,

Tend this seed with water, light, and food,

Watch as seed sprouts into seedling,

Grows into young stem, shoots off branches,

Becomes strong,

Until birds build nests in its arms,

Creating new life out of tiny hope.

Amen.

Grief, Healing meditation, Trauma, Trauma recovery

Clinging

“My soul clings to the dust; revive me according to your word…My soul melts away for sorrow; strengthen me according to your word.” Psalm 119: 25; 28

Reflection

Dust. Tiny particles streak air. On sunny, still afternoons. Light reflecting off silvery wisps of nothingness.

Dust. Swirls on dry, windy days. Masking sight. Adding brown to blue sky. Causing itchy eyes, parched throats, and protesting noses.

Dust. Accumulating. Blanketing surfaces. Scattered if moved. Slipping through grasping hands. Landing again. Only gathered in on soft cloths.

Soul unable to cling.

Healing Practice: Dusting

Open your arms wide and to your sides.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Breathe in gathering seen and unseen dust particles floating around you.

Breathe out into a hug.

Repeat gathering dust. As long as needed.

Prayer

God,

I cling to the ground. Lift me up.

I cling to the ground. Revive me.

I cling to the ground. Strengthen me.

I cling melted to the ground. Re-form me.

I cling for safety to the ground. Be my security.

I cling frozen to the ground. Move me.

I cling to the ground in pain. Show me healing’s way.

Amen.

Biblical Text: NRSV

Photo courtesy of http://www.pixabay.com

Healing, Healing meditation, Trauma, Trauma recovery

Afflicted

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“My soul is bereft of peace; I have forgotten what happiness is; so I say, “Gone is my glory, and all that I had hoped for from the LORD.” The thought of my affliction and my homelessness is wormwood and gall! My soul continually thinks of it and is bowed down within me. But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases…”   Lamentations 3:17-22

 

Meditation

Bitter thoughts. Stewing from down below. Gurgling with stomach acids. Bubbling up. Burning the esophagus. Causing throat and breath to sour.

The writer of Lamentations uses strong metaphors. Wormwood, a plant smelling and tasting bitter. Gall, another name for bile. Words filling the air and us with pain’s felt presence in and out of our bodies.

But in the midst of severe affliction this writer dares to hope? What is it that this writer “call(s) to mind?” In the midst of smells so intense, so permeating that the writer curls. Caves in. What glimmers enough amidst affliction to speak of “steadfast love”?

 

Healing Practice: Glimmers

What gives you even a small glimmer of hope? A pin head of possibility? A fleeting thought of future?

What or who steadies you right now? Your therapist? The mail carrier showing up every day at the same time? The noon time factory whistle or downtown church bells?

Name these. Write them down. Even the smallest of the small.

The writer of Lamentations puts hope in God. Maybe you do too. Maybe you don’t. Or maybe God is a glimmer of what can be.

 

Prayer

God of what can be, bring breezes filled with fresh air. Blow away bitterness’ smell. Settle my stomach. Give relief to my soured throat. Spark my imagination. Fill my thoughts with hope’s tiny glimmers. Amen.

 

~~~

Biblical translation: NRSV

Image by Evgeni Tcherkasski from Pixabay. 

Faith, Healing meditation, Trauma recovery

Gathering Stars

 

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“He (The LORD) brought him (Abram) outside and said, “Look toward heaven and count the stars, if you are able to count them.” Then he said to him, “So shall your descendants be.”  (Genesis 15:5 NRSV)

 

There once was a man named Abram who felt God abandoned him. God had promised him something, a son with his wife Sarai.  A son, ensuring life continuing after Abram was gone. Now Abram and Sarai were too old to have a child.

But God asked Abram to go outside and look up into the night sky. “Look toward heaven and count the stars, if you are able to count them,” God said.

Abram looked up. Not down. Or straight ahead. Or behind. Or to the side. But up. Up! Discovering sky covering him like a gigantic tent. Stars hanging from its roof. Some bright. Some faded. Some painting the night sky with streaks of light. Stars everywhere! So many stars Abram could not count them.

And God said, “So, shall your descendant be.”

 

Abram’s time and place is not our time and place. Yet the sky still exists. It fills nightly with clouds, stars, planets, and a moon. A sky full. Reminding us of God’s presence among us. Now. Today. Tonight. Next week. Month. Year. God remains. God always remains. God remains promising tomorrow.

 

Healing Activity

 

Imagine in your mind you are standing or sitting outside under a night sky. On a patio or deck or balcony. In a large field, out in the desert, on top of a hill. Anywhere your mind takes you.

Fill your lungs with air. Feel the cool night air on your limbs. Listen to the night’s noises. Feel your feet on the ground. Or your hips in a chair.

Now look up. Into the sky. Notice the night. Notice if the night is clear or cloudy. Notice if the moon is waxing, waning, or full.

Still looking up, take a deep breath in and exhale slowly out.

Breathe in again, with gentleness. Breathe out with relief.

Breathe in with gentleness. Out with relief.

This time breathe in opening your arms wide and out to the side. Exhale lifting your arms up into the sky. And look up.

Breathe in again reaching as far as you can into the sky. Gathering the night’s stars or clouds or air in your arms. Exhale, bringing your arms toward your chest. Placing your hands on your heart. Like a heart hug.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Breathe in again. This time reaching your arms into the night sky. Gathering stars or clouds or air. Exhale bringing your arms down. Placing your hands on your heart.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Breathe in again. Reach. Gathering the night.  Exhale. Placing gifts on your heart.

Breathe in. Leaving your hands on your heart. Breathe out.

Breathe in all the promises sitting on your heart now with gentleness. Out with relief.

Breathe in with gentleness. Out with relief.

Breathe in with gentleness. Out with relief.

Prayer

God who created vastness in night’s sky, clouds moving on wind, moon in muted light, and all seen and unseen stars. Remind us each night you are always with us. Guide us with night time wonders.  Move us toward healing salve, beloved community, and further into your work on earth.

Go in peace, holding God’s promise in your heart. Amen.

~~~

Find a video of this meditation at https://community.contemplativelife.org/forum/gathering-stars 

Top photo courtesy of Pixabay at https://pixabay.com/photos/starry-night-starry-sky-silhouette-1149815/

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Faith, Healing meditation, Trauma, Trauma recovery

Sitting Lonely

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How lonely sits the city that once was full of people!
How like a widow she has become, she that was great among the nations!
She that was a princess among the provinces has become a vassal.

Lamentations 1:1

Walking my normal route. On a Sunday afternoon in early spring. Temperature in the fifties. Slightly overcast with sun flitting in and out. Air smelling of trees swelling into resurrected life. And soil. Soil pining to be planted. So much so I must breathe in its scent as breezes brush against my face.

I see no one. No people. No one out. No children playing on the playground.  No families strolling by pushing baby carriages. No runners. No other walkers.

Cars roll by slowly. No longer in a hurry. But not many cars. Cars resting. Found parked in driveways, garages, and along the streets of my neighborhood. As if it is Thanksgiving or Christmas day. Everyone home on forced holiday.

Back home my son reports the store shelves are bare. He returning from stocking up on a few items—toothbrushes, acetaminophen, milk. Tells me this news as we make a list for my grocery run the next day. Writing down what we really need. What we can do without. Thinking ahead for a future we do not understand and cannot predict.

Like most of my friends, I spend time on the phone with loved ones scattered in other places. Feel a need to connect daily now. Check in. But also to help convince or plan. For my oldest to leave Mexico amidst flight cancellations and possible border closings. For my mother to stay south as long as possible instead of coming home to community spread.

When not on the phone or email or text, check the maps. The ones telling me the latest reports. The ones showing the growing numbers. In between checks trying to study, answer emails, read the latest update from seminary, reschedule my life as meetings, events, and deadlines change hourly. All part of my new job as home manager of crisis’ constant change.

The writer of Lamentations imagines or looks out over an empty Jerusalem. After war’s sieges took lives. Captured prisoners. Enemy conquering, creating new reality. Forcing residents to move far away. Emptying a city. Leaving smoldering bits of a recent past. Only seen by those remaining. A desecrated temple. A destroyed way of life.

The prophet looks out over what once was and is no longer. Allows the scene to enter his body. For woe to fill his heart.With scene in mind, heart, and body, calls it like it is. Words allowing the sharing of sorrow with other mourners. “How lonely sits the city…!”

We live in a new form of exile. Not exile like those escaping war or political persecution or famine. Even a pandemic does not compare to these atrocities. Yet there remains a flavor here of exile now. Of being refugees. Even if our camp is in our own home. We are torn away from loved ones, work, friends, activities, faith communities, and school. Separated from routines, predictability, and calm.

So I sit at my kitchen table. Stare out the window. Watch a dog and its person walk across the field. Track their progress. Become aware of my held breath.

Begin to breathe. First in, then out. Again. Again. Deeper. Fuller. Breath reaching behind tired eyes. Loosening jaws. Unfurling forehead. Finding shoulders through collar bones. Down arms into fingers. Belly filling up. Hips letting go. Breath running down silent legs. Into ankles, toes. Eyes closing. Mind blanking. Body breathing into prayer spilling out.

Be present, God. Here. Everywhere. Make your presence known to all. Heal us with holy breath for this day. And tomorrow. And the days already on their way. Strengthen us. For the work to be done. The decisions to be made. The sacrifices we must make for neighbor and stranger and self. Fuel and refuel us with your Spirit each hour, day, week, month. Grow Spirit’s compassion in us. For each other. Amen.

~~~

Scripture quotation from the New Revised Standard Version (NRSV)

Image Credit:  Image by <a href=”https://pixabay.com/users/gregroose-2823595/?utm_source=link-attribution&amp;utm_medium=referral&amp;utm_campaign=image&amp;utm_content=3091078″>Grégory ROOSE</a> from <a href=”https://pixabay.com/?utm_source=link-attribution&amp;utm_medium=referral&amp;utm_campaign=image&amp;utm_content=3091078″>Pixabay</a&gt;

Healing, Healing meditation, Trauma, Trauma recovery

Trauma Meditation: Bargaining

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“The words of Job are ended.” (31:40)

 

Life amiss, off-kilter, teetering. Very much so. So much so. Tragically so. Even with Job’s best intentions for a righteous, safe life. Crossing all his T’s. Dotting each one of his I’s. Smoothing life’s sharp edges. The ones ready to cut, maim, and hurt. Job asks “Does not calamity befall the unrighteous, and disaster the workers of iniquity?” (31: 3)

More questions. To God. Friends. Again and again. Searching. Queries unrelenting like pain’s throbs. Entreating others sixteen times. Each time willing to bear possible repercussions if found unjust.

“If I walked with falsehood…” (31:5)

“If my heart has been enticed…” (31:9)

“If I have withheld anything that the poor desired…” (31:16)

“If I have raised my hand against the orphan…” (31:21)

“If I have rejoiced because my wealth was great…” (31:25)

“If I have rejoiced at the ruin of those who hate me…” (31:29)

“If my land has cried out against me, and its furrows have wept together…let thorns grow instead of wheat, and foul weeds instead of barley.” (31:38,40)

Resolve mounts with each oath. Pulsing through Job’s veins. Others’ theories almost capturing innocent soul into falsehood’s net. Job’s inner goodness never leaving. Integrity present, whole, complete, intact. Pledge to God, made long ago, endures. Job remains the “blameless and upright man who…turns away from evil.” (1:8b)

Air falls silent. Friends’ babbling halts. What can they say? “…These three men ceased to answer Job, because he was righteous in his own eyes.” (32:1)

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Healing Activity: Litany’s List

Writing a list of things we wished we did differently before, during, after our traumas pulls. Guilt’s evils perpetuating skewed thinking. Like Job’s friends. As if we hold exhaustive liability for our traumas. Full accountability laid at entrance of inner ashes. Onus cloaking us when we are blameless like Job.

Some traumas catch us in dysfunction’s sticky web. Hold us in continuous, adhesive loop of confusion. Despite who we once were before brought low by others’ unhealed crap. We thrash at both solid and invisible walls until something within rends, allowing escape.

But evil haunts. Tailing us in continuous coil of spinning thoughts. Cemented words releasing others’ involvement. Demanding we take entire burden on like a caught perpetrator.

There’s another litany worth writing. List asking what we did and do well. Each petition beginning with the small yet powerful word “I.” Not if you could have, should have done something differently. But what you did well. From my own trauma recovery litany I share,

I listened to my gut.

I walked toward.

I called out for help.

I didn’t always answer the doorbell.

I listened to Pastor Peter’s advice.

I went to therapy every week, sometimes twice.

I made home a safe space.

I kept trying to love.

I unpacked my own strength from deep within, like Job.

I forgave myself.

 

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Prayer

God, your creation is wild. Remind me I cannot control every minute of my world. Keeping vigil over life, wasted energy. Guarding my every move and moves of others, little use. God, magnify your hearing. Listen to my woes. Answer my questionings with calm and alleviating actions. Restore my trust in you and in myself. Turn me toward healing instead of commanding myself, others, and your creation. Amen.

 

~This healing meditation is created to accompany trauma recovery along side working with a state licensed, certified trauma mental health professional and should not take the place of clinical healing. 

~~Please form this healing activity to fit your needs. And please share with me your creative ways of refining the experience for yourself.

~~~Scriptural quotes, NRSV

~~~~First photo by JR Korpa on Unsplash. Suffering man sculpture was in Tony’s, office. My late husband kept a small collection of similar pieces as reminders of trauma’s pain he bore witness to daily. Tree of Life image by Michael Gaida from Pixabay.