When in pain, we often curl up. Shut others out. Protect ourselves. Needing time to think or feel or rest. Isolating too long however works against us. We cease to cry out. We cease to connect.
The writer of this psalm laments, words reaching out of isolation.
“Hear my prayer, Lord; listen to my cry for mercy. When I am in distress, I call to you…” Psalm 86: 6-7a (NIV)
We can practice reaching out. Even if we do not want to now. We can prepare for the time when isolation becomes harmful. Like the psalmist we can cry out to God or others in our suffering. With a loud voice. With shaking hands or clenched fists. Asking God or the universe to hear our cries. Witness our distress. Answer our calls.
You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased. Luke 3:22
A few years back I began repeating this biblical text to my sons. Words spilling out when I was at the very end of my patience or beyond tired. Often accompanied by placing my hand on their heads of tangled hair in an unofficial gesture of blessing.
These words calmed me. Diffused any situation. Whatever it was. Reminded me that no matter what I loved them with every connected molecule of my being. Later, I would laugh at my audacity. Knowing it would take some time for them to realize I was quoting scripture.
My eldest son asked me on the day of his dad’s one year memorial mass, “How can you be proud of me when I haven’t done anything with my life yet?”
Through tears, I babbled some sort of response. Praying it was enough for my hurting son on that raw and painful day. Later, I thought of what I could have said, still wanted to say. So, I wrote this letter and found it among my many drafts not so long ago, still unsent.
After the 13th of August, 2017
To my beloved sons,
Did you know the root of the word “believe” finds its way back to the word “beloved?” What a wild play on words! To say we believe in something or someone is to acknowledge our love for them.
After all that has happened, I still believe in us, in our family, and in our love for one another. We loved, Dad and I, by believing in one another and in you.
Right now you may not believe in anything. Yet you love. You have loved more in the past twelve months than ever before. Loved Dad in loss and grief. Loved me at my absolute worst. Loved one another in the midst of chaos. And most importantly loved your selves–your grieving, traumatized, messy, lost selves. You may not feel you are loving right now. But here’s what I believe (and therefore love): We cannot face adversity without courage. And true courage is born of love.
I am and remain proud of you both. Not just of who you are right now but of who you will become in life. Not that I know or can see or predict the you that you will be. But I believe in you both.
Last Spring my younger son spent a few days at the Disney theme parks with his marching band. Picking him up from the trip and between the grunts attributed to adolescence and mouths full of food, I understood he spent a lot of time on roller coasters while in Florida. Because…he was fifteen. And not sleeping very much because…he was fifteen. And coming home sick because…he was fifteen.
I spend my days on roller coasters as well. It’s called grief. Sudden grief may be exactly like being strapped in. Climbing up at a laborious speed. Plummeting straight down at the tune of 150 miles per hour. Then there are the times in which the ride seems quiet, even pleasant. Like the calm before the really scary parts in a movie lulling us into a false sense of peace.
My older son and I stopped by the cemetery not long after this trip. It was an impromptu visit. We just happened to be in the neighborhood. While my son danced around the adjacent graves planning what to plant around Tony’s stone, I descended down a steep emotional roller coaster ride because someone, not me, had lain a flower at his grave. “I feel like I’m falling down on my job,” I said.
Back home I felt a sense of true peace. Maybe it was spending a few hours with my son. Making plans for the summer. Running errands. Sharing some time at the cemetery. Maybe it was also my moment of courage in which I shared with my son the verities close to my heart. “You and your brother will heal and live good lives. I will also heal and live a good life. Dad wants this, demands it.”
The truth also being that the beach and water we were on the day of Tony’s death was not adequately marked as dangerous. The universal signs of water safety posted in red, white, and black found on so many beaches across the United States were not there. The swimming buoys or lifeguard were not there. Another person died the same day close to the spot which took Tony. Another man died just a few weeks after. A young woman a few weeks before. My son saying the other man was probably a tourist, an unknowing tourist. Me agreeing. “I need to speak out. Children die in the Wisconsin River.”
“Young children can’t survive that river,” my son replying. Knowing this truth because he too had been caught in its grasp along with his brother. “You might just have to do that Mom,”
“…What you sow does not come to life unless it dies.” 1 Corinthians 15:36
Keep a list today. On a small piece of paper. One you can fold up. Fit in your pocket. Carry with you wherever you go. Unfold and flatten for remembering moments, even fleeting ones, scribbled down perhaps with a stubby pencil.
Collect the glimmers. The moments when hope settles on your heart for a passing second. Delivered in a realization, discovery, or an opening into what’s possible. Name each of these bits of unexpected joys and mercies in an act of gathering and sowing for your future. Continue this act of prayer for as long as it feels good to do so.
God, witness in me this day what I cannot see. Witness the tiny seeds of healing and hope I sow in my own fallowness. Witness in me my life-force still living. Witness in me my surprise in discovering unexpected joys. Receive my thanks for what I do not know will bless me today and tomorrow and in this wintered season of my own healing. Amen.
“Do not fear, for I am with you, do not be afraid, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you…” Isaiah 41:10
“And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.” Matthew 28:20
Reflection
God said, “I am with you.”
Jesus said, “I am with you always.”
Statements opposing our abandonment. God gone. God disappearing. Leaving us alone. All alone in living hell. All alone suffering. All alone sitting in despair. Words telling us God stays with us. Is present with us. We, never alone. Always together with God.
How? How is God with us always?
I don’t know. I just know sometimes things shift. Something opens up within me unlocking breath’s captivity. Or something I once thought an impossible goodness becomes reality. Or someone shows up with life-giving words. Are these moments of God being with me embedding in my body? Surrounding my soul? Being the breath that I breathe?
Who knows? What I know is that these small shifts keep hope alive in me one moment at a time.
Healing Practice: Holding Possible Truth
It’s hard to fully hold this possible truth of God being with us always. But others can hold this possibility for us. Some already do without us even knowing about it. Today ask someone you trust to hold this thought for you. Maybe pick three people. Who cares if they believe in God or not. That’s not their job right now. Their job is to hold this possibility for you.
Prayer
God, are you always with us? Even when we cannot feel your presence. Even when we cannot trust your presence. Even when we cannot believe in your presence. Hold us God in your seemingly absent presence as we attempt this possibility of hope. Amen.
Jennifer Ohman-Rodriguez 