Posts

Faith, Healing, Hope, Prayer

Numbered Days

Jennifer Ohman-Rodriguez

In recent weeks a small snippet of scripture swirls in my mind. Words repeating themselves for days. Demanding acknowledgement. Forcing me to ask if this repetition gets its fuel from my anxiety or if Spirit speaks. The words are from Psalms:

“So, teach us to count our days…”[1]

Gentle words suggesting I wake to each day. Acknowledge my place in it. Plant myself in each hour’s time and space. Even in the too busy days of being a pastor, the chaos of moving and home repair, and the ongoing work of caring for family.

“So, teach us to count our days…”

A thought reflected on first while sitting in the quiet of an inn far away from our unpacked boxes and new unknowns. Vacation morning pulsing with no agenda. A day to rest in, hear the rhythm of. Once home, reflection continues in dawn’s daily quiet.

“So, teach us to count our days…”

Phrase reminding me to offer gratitude for the experiences contained in each day. Yet in my own situation—survivor of deep tragedy, pastor, son with chronic illnesses, new empty nester, partner again—I forget these offered moments of acknowledgement. Do not see them or push them away. And in doing so miss gratitude’s slow reveal of what loosens with change.

“So, teach us to count our days…”

I think in my own insecurities, anxiety, and unhealed wounds I hold tightly to my sons, having done so since conception. Even more since my first husband, Tony, died. Now as they move away from me in distance, I am brought back to the time before they existed on this plane. The stage before I knew and loved their father. An earthly space I occupied holding hope for them along with the despair that they might never exist.

“So, teach us to count our days…”

My sons, now six feet tall, are hope made real. And what connected me to something bigger than myself each day when raising them remains. Joined by the absorbing vocational work of writer and pastor. Past despair turning toward wondering: What comes next in this new iteration of our family’s “we?” Each of us counting our days separately yet with the others’ love and support. Life transforming from one time to the next.

“So, teach us to count our days that we may gain a wise heart,” the psalmist writes. Action words infusing my prayers.

God, you remain in every time and space. Teach us to live each day traversing change with grace and in doing so growing “the enlightened eyes of our hearts.” [2] Hearts seeing the truths of life together and apart. Truth building wisdom so that sight, gratitude, and compassion teach us to live well within ourselves, live well with others, live in healing, and live in you. Amen.

[1]  Psalm 90:12 NRSVUE

[2]  Ephesians 1:18 NRSVUE

Image by Aleksandra from Pixabay

Antiracism, Liturgy, Racial Justice, Trauma, worship

Proclaiming Who We Want To Be

Jennifer Ohman-Rodriguez

The congregation I serve, St. John’s Lutheran Church in Rock Island, Illinois, begins almost every worship gathering with some words. Part wording from Reconciling Works of which we are a Reconciled in Christ (RIC) congregation. Part stand against centuries of racism. Part land acknowledgement. These words continue to evolve over time with additions and refinements as we grow in awareness and understanding.

We call these words our centering statement. They differ from the beliefs we chant in our Christian creeds, the abridged origin story of the birth of Christianity. Words we sometimes question, embrace the mystery of, wonder about, balk at the embedded patriarchy of. The words of our centering statement that we gather with each week are who we want to be, who we intend to be. In a sense, an ideal. The best version of ourselves as individuals and a community following Jesus that we work toward and grow into word by word.

So, we assemble each week. Hear a few announcements (sometimes it seems like too many). Then sound stills and air shifts while in body and voice, one or all of us says:

Here at St. John’s, we create this place for all people by being a Reconciling in Christ (RIC) community which means we consciously work to publicly see, name, celebrate, advocate, and welcome people of all sexual orientations, gender identities, and gender expressions. We also publicly support and work toward dismantling all minimizing and wounding isms including racism. In this ongoing work of full belonging for all people we acknowledge that the land we worship on this day was once the home to the first peoples of this area including the Sauk, Meskwaki, and Illini peoples. We acknowledge that their way of life was tragically altered and continues to be diminished.

Something then swirls in Spirit’s air. Surrounds us. Holds us. Sinks into our bodies as we begin breathing together. Inhaling in all we just said aloud and in our hearts. Exhaling out our daily sorrows. Three times before hearing music, the prelude. The part of our worship life that we (like so many congregations) tend to chat through. What we have just done though through word and breath allows us the space to absorb sound while we continue breathing, with our hands placed on our hearts or holding our shoulders in a hug.

This practice of saying, breathing, and listening connects us to ourselves, God, and one another. Reattached and restored, we enter our ancient, familiar, liturgical practices for the next hour. Concluding with being sent out into our human constructed communities. Hanging on to all of our words like anchors.

Trauma, Trauma recovery

Anxiety Answers

Jennifer Ohman-Rodriguez 
Heat swells, radiating out, 
I flush, 
Not in a flash, 
(I am past that) 
But in a spike without illness. 

Sudden warmth startles me, 
Colliding with night’s coolness,
Before slithering away, 
Never intending to stay.

Twice, this occurs, 
First when I ask my mind, 
“Do I suffer from anxiety?” 
Second, when I ask my heart the same question. 

Relieved, 
(somewhat)
When asked,
My gut has nothing to say. 



The body practice described in my poem above is based on the work of Suzanne Rivers. I learned about the practice in Susan Raffo's book, Liberated to the Bone: HIstories, Bodies, Future published by AK Press. This practice begins on page 150. 

Image by Martina Bulkova for pixabay.
Healing meditation, Self-Care

Holding Heart: A Self-Care Minute

Jennifer Ohman-Rodriguez

Cup your hand. Place a small photo of you at any age in your hand. Place your other hand over the photo. Close your eyes. Begin breathing.

With each breath send love to the you in the photo. Love for the child you, the young adult you, the mature you. Fill your cupped hands with love’s breath.

Now bring your cupped hands as close to your heart as you can.

Imagine sending the photo of you into your heart. Allow this image of you to rest there, held by your heart.

Breathe. And when you sense that your heart will take good care of you, open your eyes, lower your hands, and return to your day.

Practice Note: In this self-care minute, we hold ourselves by holding a photo. Please read “hands” as a metaphor for all the ways our bodies can hold something. Please practice in the ways best for you.

This practice is influenced by author and retreat leader Joyce Rupp in her book Boundless Compassion: Creating a Way of Life.

Image by Robin Higgins from Pixabay

Healing meditation, Self-Care, Trauma, Trauma recovery

Breathing Bones: A Self-Care Minute

Jennifer Ohman-Rodriguez
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Take a moment to notice where your body is in your space, in your environment.

Notice your feet against the soles of your shoes or your bare feet on the flooring or your heels and legs against the couch. Notice the heat of this meeting between your feet and what they wear and perch upon. Or the coolness. And, notice the gentleness or roughness of the carpet, upholstery, socks, air. Notice.

Notice where your arms are. On the table. Or against your body. What does that feel like? This meeting between your arms and something else?

If sitting, notice your derriere in your seat. Is your seat soft, hard, warm, cool?

These noticing are through your skin, your largest organ, interacting with the external environment. Now, let’s move our attention inward. I invite you to travel inside your body. To the middle of you, to your bones.

Sense your bones.

Sense the bones in your feet traveling into the bones in your legs.

Sense your hip bones.

Sense your rib cage.

Sense your spine.

Sense the bones in your arms, shoulders, neck, and jaw.

Sensing your bones, I invite you to travel inside your bones. For now, just pick one bone, like your jaw bone or a bone that seems to want your attention. Travel into the living essence of this bone. Into the marrow. Into where blood cells are made.

Describe to yourself what being inside your bones feels like. What looking at your body from inside out is like.

Is there anything you would like to ask your bones? If so, ask.

Listen for a response. A response can be nothing or it can appear in images, felt senses, or words. As you listen, be gentle with yourself. Take note.

And breathe asking the universe or God to remain curious with you about your bones.

Now, slowly move back toward the outside of yourself, out to your skin. To get there, travel through the rest of your body—your organs, tissue, bodily fluids. And when you are back in your skin, so to speak, I invite you to open your eyes and return to the room.

Based on a practice originally written for Wartburg Seminary’s Trauma-Informed Worship class, September 18, 2023.

Please shift this practice to meet the needs of your body.