Posts

Grief, Trauma

Heavy Day

Jennifer Ohman-Rodriguez

Each year on this day, August 13th, I honor all those who lost their lives in the Wisconsin River. I also honor their beloveds. Those left to make sense of life after death. In doing so I honor myself, my sons, and our large extended family. Yet I do so with heaviness. Ever wondering if this practice of mine is helpful. To me. To anyone.

This year, I scramble to find those who have died in the past year. The list seems small and nameless.

In March, a woman.

June 29th, a 63-year-old man.

Not listing their names seems like an added cruelty layered onto to unexpected death, shock, grief, sorrow. This year leading me to a realization. Of why I do this painful pattern each year, now numbering eight. Yes, to be truthful about the dangers of that river. Yes, to find a sense of community in common experience. Yet also as a pleading prayer to have just five more minutes with the husband/partner/friend/lover/co-parent I lost without warning. Just five minutes to say, “I love you!”

And “Any last words of wisdom as I live on without you?”

And then, “Goodbye!”

My list each year, what cannot ever find full closure. Just a holding while living.

Image by Anna from Pixabay

Healing meditation, Hope, Trauma, Trauma recovery

Affliction

Jennifer Ohman-Rodriguez

“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 God.” 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 God never ceases…” Lamentations 3:17-22

Reflection

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?” Surrounded by smells so intense, so permeating 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.

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

Healing meditation, Liturgy, Trauma, Trauma recovery

Distress

Jennifer Ohman-Rodriguez

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.

Today, use your own words or the prayer below.

God, I call you. Hear me.

God, I call you. See me.

God, I call you. Listen to me.

God, I call you. Give mercy to my distress,

My cries,

My prayers.

God, I call you.

Amen. 

Image by Satyaban Sahoo from Pixabay

Healing, Liturgy, Prayer

Prayers for Pastors & Deacons

Jennifer Ohman-Rodriguez

I wrote these prayers for pastors, deacons, and others who work for the Church. These petitions found communal life at the 2024 ELCA Northern Illinois Synod Assembly.

God of seed and soil, wind and rain, earth and all creatures,

We see ourselves in the seeds scattered on the path. Instead of birds, the work we do eats us up. Holy Wind blow us off this path and into soil that feeds us. God of good soil, hear our prayer.

We feel like we too fell on rocky ground. We quickly spring from task to task rooted only in our to-do lists with no protection from our own and others’ pain.  Holy energy help us find deep soil to grow extensive roots in your being. God of good soil, hear our prayer.

We seek to be surrounded by support and rest. Instead, life prickles with thorns of complaint, gossip, and demands. We cannot catch our breath. We choke. Holy weeder, release us from these tangles. Help us to breathe well again. God of good soil, hear our prayer.

We know we are not alone in our laments and pain. Holy Gospel, open our mouths to tell the truth. Keep us working for justice for all people. God of good soil, hear our prayer.

We send these prayers out into your full creation O, God through your anointed one and with Holy Breath. Amen.

Image by onehundredseventyfive from Pixabay

Grief, Healing, Love, Trauma, Trauma recovery

Unsent Letter

Jennifer Ohman-Rodriguez

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. 

Love, 

Mom