The beginning of Lent 2023, I met with my spiritual director/companion. She suggested, after our several years journeying together, that I write a personal lament. Grief has been a very large component of my personal and professional journey over the last decade. I began to engage this thought and process with openness, vulnerability and a mix of excitement and fear. Shortly into Lent my grandmother, 97, became increasingly ill and hospice was telling us her death was imminent. I internally chuckled that my strong-willed grandmother had tried to die twice in the last year and half, so half heartedly, I thought third times a charm. As I sat at her bedside the night before she died, she recognized me for the first time in many months (due to her ongoing battle with Alzheimer’s). She told me she loved me and I her. As she slipped into unconsciousness, never to regain, I played hymns I knew she loved. I selfishly refused to play “In The Garden.” My mother had told me that was her favorite, suggested I play it and I chose not to. My fear was if I played it she would die.
My work as a chaplain has had me walk with many as they transition from this life to the next. As I pray them peace, some pass slowly, some quickly, some peacefully, and some with great agitation (which is painful to experience and watch). I have on many occasion felt myself to be a death doula or a bridge builder from this life to the next. I treasure each journey, whether welcomed or tragic, as they are all sacred. I feel honored and humbled to be invited into that sacred, intimate space and time. This Lent, I not only walked with my grandmother as she transitioned to her eternal home, but with many families mourning the loss of their babies. The month of March was an unusually high volume of second trimester miscarriages, still births, and neonatal losses. The families were not the only ones feeling the losses, the nursing staff and providers were also. I worked with each of these families, the siblings, making memories, taking pictures, creating molds, and trying to make meaning out of something that didn’t make sense. My spirit felt the heaviness of this work, and I actively grieved with all of these families. I lamented their tiny lives cut so short. I lamented the dreams and hopes these families grieved, not only the physical loss. There are times I have questioned whether I can do this work anymore. However, I am reminded of the sacredness, the calling and the passion I have to continue this work. I have carried each family I have journeyed alongside with me in my heart. I lament for them, with them, and alongside them.
During this Lenten season, my husband and I have faced some great challenges with our daughter’s heightened anxiety and fear of choking and continuous struggle with food. She has begun to refuse to eat any solid foods rendering us to liquids, Pediasure, and her consistent diet of yogurt and applesauce. I have sat in my bathroom, my head in my hands, and wept for this beautiful, innocent soul that struggles so greatly with fear that is out of her control. This struggle has been a constant in our lives since she was born and had trouble latching, so I pumped until I could no longer sustain my milk or her appetite. Her struggles have escalated dramatically over the last month and we are now seeing several specialists (psychotherapy, ENT, OT, speech, and the list grows). I have felt helpless, hopeless, angry, scared and emotionally drained. It has been terrifying. It has been incredibly frustrating. It has been heart-breaking.
I was sitting with my own lament at the beginning of this Lenten season, only to sit with so much more outside of myself. I reflected on Holy Saturday and thought back to the questions through my journey with ACPE before I left the CEC process. I was asked on multiple occasions why I moved so quickly from Good Friday, the death of Jesus, to Resurrection Sunday, the hope and promise of new life and celebration. What about what happened on Saturday? In my consistent reflection over the years, Holy Saturday was a day that was messy, didn’t make sense, and full of doubt, longing and waiting. It was a day of silence and still. I’m my own faith work, I began to realize how important Holy Saturday was. I don’t know that I’d say it is the most important because I know fellow Christians that would debate me on that. Jesus’ death and resurrection are the cornerstone of the Christian faith. For me though Holy Saturday has come to be the most impactful. It is a day of deep lament and a day that God was silent. A day of deep longing, for a life that is lost and a life that once was. It is a day of deep grief and sadness for a friend, mentor, leader, confidant, family member, and companion. It is a day of doubting, feeling helpless, hopeless, and confused. It is a day of waiting and hoping that good will come. I sat in Saturday. I let the feelings of the day wash over me like a black cloud and processed the Holy Saturday in me that is taking place right now. It is a hard and painful place and yet as I sit, I hope and I wait.
The Journey Home 