Ruth Strackany
When I first read the lectionary passages for
this day, I felt admittedly uninspired. I could relate to Israel’s wandering away from God. I
understood God’s
dismay for Israel’s
unfaithfulness and welcomed his mercy upon those who return to him. I believe
he deserves our commitment, celebration, and gratitude for all of the wonderful
gifts he has given us. I believe all of those things. But somehow, as I was
reading these passages, I could not connect with them. I did not feel moved in
the easy way I had hoped I would.
Yet there were a few verses that stuck with me
and kept coming back to mind, that moved me in light of recent events in my
life.
“Hear my cry, O God;
Give heed to my prayer. From the end of the earth I call to You when my heart
is faint; Lead me to the rock that is higher than I. […]
Let me dwell in your tent forever; Let me take refuge in the shelter of your
wings.” (Psalms 61: 1-2, 4)
“My soul waits in
silence for God only; From Him is my salvation. He only is my rock and my
salvation, my stronghold; I shall not be greatly shaken. […]
Trust in Him at all times, O people; Pour out your heart before Him; God is a
refuge for us.” (Psalm 62, 1-2,8)
This is where my heart is today. I have felt
loss. I know pain. And by know I mean I REALLY KNOW pain. And yet, I am stumped
as a dear friend of mine is currently facing the greatest pain I can imagine – the
loss of her child. I keep thinking “I
cannot imagine her pain”, but when I am honest
with myself I can. It really is as dark and horrible and life-draining as I
imagine it to be. And it is hers. It is all she can see right now. It is all
encompassing. A darkness that has set over her life, with just one thought
repeating in her mind. “How could this happen?”
What can I say in the face of this pain?
I have asked myself this question countless times. What can I offer? Even
prayers seem futile in some way. What are we praying for? Healing? Peace?
Comfort?
Certainly those. But what about right now? What
can I offer in THIS moment, where healing has not occurred, peace is not
present, and comfort has not been received?
I can offer presence. I can offer communion – to
commune with her in her pain. To be fully present without trying to move her
along in this journey she is now on, without trying to remove her from her
pain; instead to offer myself fully IN her pain, to be at her side in the midst
of it. Not flinching, not eager to leave. I can commune with her in the
presence of her pain and pray that God will be our refuge. Our rock, that holds
us together, when we fear we may fall apart. Our safe place, where we may be
unable to undo harm, but where we can be vulnerable and face the woundedness that
is within this moment, as it is at some point along the path for each of us.
I have come to find this is what Lent is to me
this season. This year the journey is not so much solely mine, but it is a
journey of community.
A journey or a season of presence.
Of communing with others, and in that presence
realizing we are communing with God.
He is already there, he is our refuge.
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