Untroubled hearts

Some days feel heavier than others

This morning I will officiate a memorial service for a dearly loved woman whose age was the same as my wife’s at her death. Her world centered around her family and the children she welcomed into her home as a day care provider for more than thirty years. All told, she knew more than one hundred thirty children over the years, and it was only this past Fall she left work she loved because a life-robbing diagnosis reared its ugly head. She leaves behind the most important evidence of a well-lived life: a committed husband, three well-educated contributing-to-the-world-in-big-ways young adult children, and a first grandchild yet to be born. In the mystery that is life and death, I will trust Love’s kindness to carry this husband and his family, even as She has carried my family and me during our own arduous trek over the past eleven months.

Along with this confident trust, though, the day feels a bit heavy.

I awakened to news that the United States is now actively engaged in military action in Iran. As though the world does not have enough grave issues to contend with, conflict has been initiated by my native-born country. I know that others — perhaps more knowledgeable than I — will contend that this conflict was created years ago by the country in question, and that my country’s military action is simply responding to what is already there in an effort to liberate the oppressed and secure the global community.

I am an ardent supporter of democracy and justice, but the day feels a bit heavy.

My geographic area is currently under a Winter Weather Warning, with the forecast calling for two to four (or more) inches of new snow today. Because I am naturally inclined to observe and experience the natural world around me, I can feel the shift of atmospheric pressure: my joints are stiffer, my head a bit more congested, my eyes adjusting to the overcast, grey-mottled sky just beginning to dawn.

Living in a place where the weather changes dramatically on a regular basis, and where there are distinctly four seasons is an adventure, but the day feels a bit heavy.

Even if I were not living with my own long-term bereavement, this would feel like a heavy day. I have been learning that part of the heaviness I experience is associated with my lack of ability to change these kinds of circumstances. Growing up in a culture that inspired me toward self-actualization and receiving the continual message throughout my life that we humans have the capacity to “be the change you want to see,” I did not learn very much about how to contend with those life mysteries that one can do nothing about.

I cannot bring the dead back to life, but if I could I would. I cannot keep the world safe from tyranny, but if I could I would. I cannot alter the course of meteorological reality, but if I could I would.

I can’t do any of those — or many other — things. If I am not intentional, this heaviness can turn to helplessness, and that’s never a good option. The logical next step, then, is to decide how I will respond in the midst of a heavy day. And before I can respond, I have to know who I am. This identity includes several factors, including understanding my particular role, my capabilities and my larger sense of self.

I know, for example, what my pastoral role is. I have invested my life in this vocational path, and I can competently do what I need to do in the face of a family’s time of existential crisis. When my anxieties arise, I simply tell myself: “remember why you’re here.”

I have learned in life what are my capabilities and what are my deficits. Instead of spending most of my time trying to correct my deficits, I continue to learn what it means to lean into my strengths. I am always aware of my frailties and faults, but I can’t live there. I will address them as I am able, but I will be true to myself and live in my strengths.

By my “larger sense of self,” I mean to maintain the awareness of how and by whom I am held in this world. When I take the time to rest in the assurance of those who support me and accompany me, the heaviness begins to dissipate. The concerns are still there, of course, but they become bearable because others are holding me, even as I hold others in my love and care. This dance of inter-dependence is a life-saving reality, and it is demonstrated for me so beautifully in the life of the Jesus I follow, because he has trailed me longer than I have pursued him.

This sense of community is initiated and sustained by Love’s continuously woven presence in the fabric of life, and lived day by day in connection with others in our lives. Somehow, this mysterious intertwining of divine and human lifts my soul, buoys my flagging spirit, calls me forward.

This lovely sense of beloved community — always percolating and growing and shifting — is what lifts us in times of heaviness, beckoning us with hopeful words promising peace: “You are never alone, you never have been, and you never will be.”

Or, as Jesus would say to his disciples: “My peace I give to you.”

On this day that feels heavier than most, Love’s tide rolls in and leaves peace in her wake.

Just like She always does.