For Lent, I'm writing here about significant moments from my life in faith.
I was wondering this morning... what was the worst Lent I ever had? By which I mean, when did I feel the most in the wilderness, alone, afraid?
I quickly remembered the Lent in question: 2004, when Ash Wednesday fell two weeks after my husband moved out.
[I don’t want to say much about the demise of the marriage. Only this: time, age, a good therapist, and the joy of the road I found later have all taught me both about my own responsibility in it, and about the truth that God heals the broken-hearted, and binds up our wounds.]
I was shell-shocked. I was in agony. I burst the blood vessels in my eyes from weeping.Even though it never literally happened, the image I have of myself is curled up on the floor crying, scratching at the linoleum. That was me. Metaphorically speaking.
And... I had things to do. I was in my first position as an ordained minister of Word and Sacrament. I was mother to two hurting kids, 11 and 16, who did not see this coming, and who were also worried about me.
Briefly, I wanted to die. But in truth, I just wanted the pain to stop.
My children and my work saved me.
Each day as I went about the routine of being a mom—breakfast, school, play practice, dinner, homework, tests— I was driven by my absolute certainty that how I handled this, that the extent to which I was there for my kids and also supported their dad being there for them, would determine their futures. I believed it would determine whether they could come to adulthood with some sense that they could find good in the world, or not. How we weathered this divorce as a family, how much my kids were given permission to experience their own pain but also to have fun, be kids, let it go, love both their parents... was everything.
I was also tended to each day by two highly sensitive kids who knew exactly how badly I was hurting. “How are you doing, mom?” they asked every once in a while. And we hugged one another extra hard and we found opportunities to laugh our heads off, too.
As for the church, I’d sent a low-key letter to the congregation, telling them about the separation, asking for prayers, and also for privacy. But I was also going about my job, in a rotation for preaching about every 6 weeks, leading bible studies, doing pastoral visiting.
I led a small group committed to working through the Companions in Christ curriculum (Upper Room). With this group, perhaps as it had never done before, scripture spoke to me, came alive for me. We studied together the story of Jesus healing a paralyzed man in Mark 2... do you remember it? It's the one in which people were crowding around a house, and the friends of the paralyzed man, who were carrying him, ended up opening a hole in the roof and lowering him into the space, into Jesus’ presence.
The curriculum suggested an exercise in which each person in turn sat in a chair, around which the others gathered. The one in the chair shared something for which they wanted to be healed. The ones around the chair prayed for that healing. They were the friends, carrying them (spiritually speaking) into Jesus’ presence.
I will never forget being in that chair. I will never forget the love I felt surrounding me, not only the love of those women, but God's love. There are no words for how powerful, and devastating, and beautiful, and hopeful that was for me.
Around this time-- a few weeks later, deep in the heart of Lent-- I had an experience I’ve only had one other time in my life. I heard God’s voice. Well, I didn’t exactly hear it. But I experienced it. I was driving home from the church. I’d had an upsetting call from my ex, and had to leave, just-- get out of there. I had to leave because I couldn’t stop crying.
I got in my car and started the drive home, and a sentence formed in my head. I say that, because it truly did not feel like it was from me. I was as close to despair as I've ever been in my life. I saw no light at the end of the tunnel, only blackness. So, the sentence couldn't have come from me. I'm very clear about that. The sentence was this:
“The story of your life will not be that your husband left you, and you never got over it; I have a better plan for you than that.”
It is said that when Jesus was in the wilderness that angels came and ministered to him.
My angels in the wilderness were two hurting kids and 3 women who stood around me while I wept, seated in a chair.
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