JOURNAL, Sunday Feb. 24th

Spirituality is like a medicine.
To heal the illness, it is not sufficient to
look at the medicine and talk about it:
you have to ingest it.
(The Dalai Lama)

I don’t quite know how to write about my experience this weekend but I want to record it anyway, to confirm this new awareness in my life.

For a while now I’ve been feeling that my role as spectator at church wasn’t enough. I had an idea that faith and spirituality were somehow connected with the struggle that I’ve been working through with Jean. I’ve been looking for a way to learn more about faith, and was curious about how deeply it seems to touch some people. I spoke to Jean of a Lenten retreat that I’d heard announced at church a few weeks ago, and she thought that it might be good idea for me to go.

-I am He who comforts you; why then are you afraid? (Isaiah 51:12)

The theme and title of the retreat were “Words of Comfort”. I liked the idea of exploring my questions and feelings in an environment that set out, from its very premise, to be safe and comforting. I had no idea what to expect; I was both surprised and pleased by my boldness.

We arrived at the retreat centre on Friday evening and were given a Bible and a resource booklet of references that marked out a route of biblical verses of consolation, reassurance and trust in God’s love that we would use throughout the retreat.

In the director’s introduction she spoke of our time together as being a gift – a gift that we’ve been given, and have actively accepted. She said that it was an opportunity to learn more about relationships: with ourselves, with others and with God. The room, with its comfortable chairs and candlelight, was warm and soothing while the wind from the storm outside shook the windows and spoke of that part of me that is so desperately seeking refuge.

-I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you. (Isaiah 41:10)
-Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. (Mt 7:7)

Later that evening, we met individually with a spiritual director. She asked me what I was seeking from this time away from the world. I suppose that I could have said many things…I finally answered that I thought I was looking for some peace. As I sat in the chapel after our conversation I began reading the Bible passages identified in the booklet, and I realized that in fact what I was seeking, and what had brought me here from my stormy world, was an answer to that most essential question: “Who am I?” I’ve come so far in the past few months working with Jean, and now I dare to hope that I might find the strength to identify who I want to be: with Danny, with myself and with the work that I’m doing.

Saturday morning dawned bright but the sun had to fight its way through the filter of snow mounds banked in front of the windows high above us as we were gathered in the basement of the retreat center. The powerful wind hadn’t left with the storm; it continued to shake the windows and whistled through their frames. In leading the group discussion, the director spoke of how often the wind is used in Bible imagery to identify the presence of God. She said that it sounded like God was working very hard to come in and join the group. We laughed.

-Then you shall call, and the Lord will answer; you shall cry for help and he will say: I am here. (Isaiah 58:9)

In a group session, people talked about their personal relationship with God and how their image of God has changed over the years. Some spoke of childhood visions of the grandfatherly man with flowing robes and a beard being replaced by a friend and companion in Jesus. Others had a feeling of presence and guidance without any human representation. I didn’t contribute much; listening to the discussion made me realize that the most I had known of a loving God was that such a Being had given the community a reason to build a magnificent cathedral long ago that I cherish today, and where I go regularly to observe others in their faith.

-I have called you by name, you are mine… because you are precious in my sight, and honored and I love you. (Isaiah 43:1)

I don’t know why God would have called me there, to meet on this winter weekend, but as the day went on I knew that the time had come for me to stop observing others in their faith, their relationship with what the world calls God. I knew I was in the presence of something warm and embracing that did make me feel precious and honoured and loved.

-Can a woman forget her nursing child, or show no compassion for the child of her womb? Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you. See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands. (Isaiah 49: 15-16)

-I am lonely and afflicted. Relieve the troubles of my heart and bring me out my distress.
(Psalm 25: 15)

I spent most of the afternoon alone, and although I’ve lived a rather solitary existence for most of my life, I was amazed that I’d never experienced such deep silence: a quiet that was full of intention and purpose, a peace that demanded awareness of its value.

I sat for a long time in my room with a lit candle on the desk, the Bible and resource booklet open before me. I read many excerpts and passages; the language, at times beautiful and exotic, was often disturbing in its directness. These two lines kept drawing me back and binding themselves, one to the other: “Can a woman forget her nursing child”… "I am lonely and afflicted.”

I was haunted by images of the “mothers” on Saltspring and how they had indeed forgotten their children. And I understood that I was, I am, a nursing child, forgotten, left needy and open mouthed, alone in a tortured silence.

-Then he put his arms around them, laid his hands on them and gave them his blessing.
( Mk 10:16)

And I wept. I cried for all that I’ve missed from a mother who wasn’t capable of loving me. I was overwhelmed by the abandonment that has haunted me all of my life, and in the exhaustion that follows such weeping, I heard a voice, soft and gentle in its familiarity, yet shocking in its irony: “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

I was incredulous. I railed at the injustice of such a demand. Why must I forgive to receive comfort? I wouldn’t have believed that my mother meant enough to me to require my forgiveness. How do I forgive actions that, by virtue of her inattention, were unintentional? They were sins of omission, the actions of a woman whose touch with reality was flawed and wounded by her own torment.

What is this challenge to forgive? I’ve tried so hard to forget; isn’t that enough?

-Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy. ( Mt 5:7)

And in the winter light of my tiny room, I thought of Danny, good, patient and kind, and of the other people in my life who have reached out to me. I could feel myself accepting their arms around me, and the loving blessings that they’ve bestowed on me throughout my life. The acceptance of their love came from a place deep inside, and I could only imagine that this was how it felt to be touched by the hand of God.

-This poor soul cried, and was heard by the Lord and was saved from every trouble.
(Psalm 34:4)

Even now, just a little more than twenty-four hours since this took place, I feel self conscious in writing about my experience. It sounds too simple, too “Praise the Lord”-ish in its telling. It would be nice to think that life was that easy: pose a question, get an answer, problem solved…”saved from every trouble”.

But it truly was an important experience for me, one that I’ll treasure, no matter what comes of it in the long term. I know that I still have much internal work to do (as Jean calls it), but I came away from the retreat with a comforting sense of peace and awareness that I treasure.

I know now that mom has played a much greater role in my life than I had ever wanted to admit. My resentment of her illness and subsequent behaviour, as well as the fear of eventually being like her, have formed so much of who I am and how I’ve protected myself – sometimes from the very experiences of life that could have given me such comfort.

But those experiences and relationships have found me anyway, haven’t they? Danny’s resiliency, determination, patience and love have survived long enough for me to recognize how much I need and want him. I accept that I must deal with mom and all the corners of my life that her influence has tainted, in order to move on in my life with Danny,

As an exercise this morning, we were invited to write our own psalm, reflecting our weekend experience or any other aspect of our lives. This is my psalm:

My soul turns its face to your light and your peace
And delights in their warmth.
You embrace me with serenity and courage
And lead me to places of wonder.
You protect me from fear and darkness
And sustain me in all ways.

As I wrote these words, I wasn’t exactly sure who the “you” was in the verse. Perhaps it was God; perhaps it was Danny. I don’t think that it matters too much. Not that I think of Danny as being God but it has more to do with trust. I’ve come to accept the faith that I have, such as it is: to believe that I can trust something or someone outside of my own sphere of control. Whether it’s my belief in Danny’s love for me, or my belief in a divine spirit, I think that they are born of the same essence and that they depend on my willingness to give them the life that they deserve.

Meanwhile, I believe that I’ve achieved a lot this weekend. I now know that somehow, my feelings about mom need to be looked at. Am I capable of forgiving her? I don’t know; forgiveness is an ongoing process and once bestowed, is not over and done with. But I have a new courage to continue my work with Jean and to look more deeply at the events that I’ve tried so hard to minimize.

-Peace, peace to the far and the near, says the Lord; and I will heal them. ( Isaiah 57:18 )


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