It has been forty-one days since my last blog post. Thirty-nine days since I tore my abdominal wall during a fit of coughing. Surgery was thirty-six days ago, was complicated, and lasted for over four hours. I stayed in the hospital for nine days, coming home twenty-eight days ago. I was so depleted that I could barely remember my name. I came home to a not unexpected family transition, and ten days later (eighteen days ago) my personal life changed dramatically. I have large gaps in my memory about many of the events of the past thirty-nine days. But as my brain processes in narrative, I have been living it through metaphors.
Soon after waking up from surgery, I remember feeling as if I had been in some type of explosion - some kind of concussive shock. I couldn't move - it hurt to breathe - it hurt to be - it felt surreal - I was sure I could smell the smoke. I was lying face down and twisted some place just outside the blast zone. I could not scream for help, and did not know if anyone would come to help me. I could pray (help!) and use the Buddhist technique of tonglen to send energy to all persons who were living through a literal or figurative bomb blast. My brain was too scrambled for eloquent verse - help and peace was all that would come to mind. I would pray, and accept every moment of kindness and compassion that was offered to me.
A few days later I was moving and much more aware of being in my body (thank you, pain). When the morphine would help me to relax and close my eyes, I found myself transported to that valley filled with dry bones that Ezekiel observed. But this time I was not surveying the scene - I was face down in the valley. Dry. Parched. Dismembered. Feeling lifeless. "The hand of The Lord came upon me, and he brought me out by the spirit of the Lord and set me down in the middle of a valley; it was full of bones. He led me all around them; there were very many lying in the valley; and they were very dry. He said to me, 'Mortal, can these bones live?' I answered, 'O Lord God, you know.'"(Ezekiel 37:1-3). Each time I would close my eyes I would be back in that valley, wondering if these bones could live, and thankful for the ministering angels who would visit and reassure me that there was life on the other side of this experience. These bones would live, even if they felt lifeless.
By the time I came home I was in that awkward place of not really being well enough to be home, but having stayed in the hospital as long as my insurance would permit. I felt horribly overwhelmed and inadequate for the tasks at hand, even the simplest of tasks. I kept reminding myself that in the story of the dry bones it was God who pulled them back together and gave them life, and that my job was to trust and follow my care plan. But progress was so slow and I wanted things to move more quickly - and there was no way for me to make that happen.
So I left the valley of dry bones and instead found myself in a deep pit with steep walls - arriving there after being dropped from a great height without the benefit of a parachute - or anything else to break my fall. For awhile I just laid face down in the dirt, but eventually managed to sit up and survey my circumstances. Steep walls - no ladder - no exit - and when I looked up, I could just see the night sky in the distance with a few shimmering stars. It felt hopeless, and I again felt helpless. And I understood that I could give up in this place - it was just too hard to keep going. I felt there was no hope for climbing out. In my moment of despair, a friend reminded me that she, too, had been to that pit, and that the way out was not by the sheer force of climbing up the walls - instead, in time, the pit will open and I will be able to walk out. "God makes the way," she said. I was skeptical (and kept looking for a ladder).
But in time, the pit opened and I walked out onto level ground. I was in a valley - not of dry bones, but of green fields and trees. I still had a long way to go, but I was surrounded by life. And I was beginning to feel alive again.
It has been four days since the pit opened up and I walked out into the valley. Life is still difficult, with many challenges to face. But when I stop and rest, and reflect back on this journey, my heart fills with gratitude for the way in which I was sustained and encouraged - especially in those moments when it felt too difficult to even go on. When the only prayer I could pray was "help" and I felt completely helpless and hopeless, an angel in the guise of a friend, colleague, or family member would be there to speak a word of hope and bring a moment of grace - just enough - to get me through that moment.
Just enough. All along, there has been just enough. Sufficient for the moment, and for the day. Not enough for the next week or month, but just what was needed. Daily bread. Water from the rock.
Enough.
Months ago I realized that part of this phase of my spiritual journey involved deepening my ability to trust God - to know in my bones that God is trustworthy. The past thirty-nine days have given my first-hand experience to test whether or not God can be trusted. And what I know to be true in the depths of my soul is what my Sunday School teachers taught me long ago: God does not spare us from the pain and difficulty of life, but God journeys with us to the very depths of pain and despair and never turns away. And, when we are ready, God leads us forward into life transformed.
Margaret Silf and her wise book "The Other Side of Chaos: Breaking Through When Life is Breaking Down" has been a companion on this journey. In her chapter "Mind the Gap," she invites the reader to ponder a metaphor that was very important to Henri Nouwen:
"Henri Nouwen, inspired by his encounter with the trapeze artists the flying Rodleighs, captures this tension perfectly in the image of the trapeze artist, who has to let go of one bar and risk the flight through the air before coming within reach of the other bar. But the point of the exercise is really about how the trapezist handles the gap. What takes the crowd's breath away is the grace and confidence with which he flies through the air and that open question, every time: once he has let go of one bar, will he really reach the second bar safely? A lesson to be learned from this image, to help us in our life transitions, is this: the space between the no longer and the not yet is an uncomfortable and risky space. We might not reach that second bar safely, especially since we feel as though we don't even know where it is and how stable it will prove to be. But there is no shortcut to the not yet. We can arrive there only via the now. The 'now' is the flight between the two bars. The now is where we really are, with all our doubts and fears. It is the only place in which we can experience and actualize the growth that is inherent in all transition and waiting for us to embrace it. It is our now that is shaping our future, whether personal or global. The now is the only place where we are really empowered to choose our path."
So my wilderness journey has taken me from the explosion to the valley of dry bones to the pit to the green valley and now to mid air (as I have let go of one bar and fly towards the next). I clutched the first bar so tightly that I know I left finger marks on it, and I sure wish I could see the next bar (or the net). But I know God can be trusted, so I will enjoy the flight - and see what awaits me. I hope this journey has made me a more compassionate person, and hopefully a wiser pastor. It has certainly deepened my sense of gratitude, especially for all the ministering angels who helped to sustain me during the darkest moments of the past thirty-nine days. Thank you.
Minding the gap - and grateful to be emerging from the wilderness (one day shy of forty days)!
Kim
